#this was mostly to figure out how to draw him + rendering practice | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fishyourbellyout · 2 months ago

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A Short Modelling Gig

Mitsumi finds herself grappling with a discomfort so profound, it borders on catastrophic as she prepares to ask Sousuke an impossibly awkward favor.

No—scratch that. She feels positively combustible with awkwardness. If “considerably” meant “seconds away from spontaneous human combustion via embarrassment,” then yes, considerably is the word.

She keeps telling herself this isn’t that kind of request. Not remotely. Absolutely not. Still, that doesn’t do much to brace her for what she’s about to ask.

Her artistic journey has been flourishing lately, much to her quiet delight. Raised in a family that held “aesthetic diversions and exposures” in rather high esteem, Mitsumi was steeped in the arts from a young age. Practice makes perfect, as they always said—and lately, her practice has been paying off. The school has noticed too, offering her high praise that she modestly accepts, though with no small amount of pride.

Her portfolio mostly comprises landscapes, still lifes—things comfortably familiar and easily rendered. But people? People are harder. Capturing a likeness is easy; breathing soul into pigment and canvas, that is the challenge.

And so, she concludes she needs a model. A real, physical subject. And not just any model—a nude one. A male nude, specifically. The anatomical studies she’s tried online feel flat and insufficient. She needs something real. Tangible. Present.

Unfortunately for her, that means asking someone. And the thought of asking him? It feels almost... traumatic.

But after days of silent, internal screaming and emotional spirals, she comes to a decision. There’s only one person it can be. And—she reminds herself fiercely—it has nothing to do with how inhumanly good-looking he is. Nothing at all, thank you very much.

So here she is, clutching her phone like a lifeline, standing just outside the door of his final class of the day, hoping—praying—to be swallowed by the floor before she’s forced to go through with it. But she’s made her choice. It has to be today.

She almost misses him as he strolls out into the hallway, effortlessly radiant, oblivious to the nervous wreck in his peripheral. Mitsumi springs forward—perhaps a bit too quickly—and seizes the sleeve of his uniform to stop him.

“S-Shima-san!” she blurts, immediately chastising herself for the stutter. “Um... Shima-san, I... I need to...”

Her voice falters under the weight of his gaze—dark eyes, slightly parted lips, expression unreadably calm yet somehow devastating. How does he always do this to her? Melt her thoughts into a useless puddle, reduce her voice to vapor?

She knows why. She just refuses to admit it.

“Mitsumi-san,” he says at last, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in that unnerving, vaguely seductive way of his.

“I…” she tries again, barely managing to force her tongue into cooperation. “...How are you?”

It’s a complete derailment and she knows it. He pauses, perhaps bemused, before replying evenly, “I’m fine, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“W-wait! Please wait!”

She grabs his arm again, more desperate this time. He turns back, now watching her more intently, and her entire body feels like it’s short-circuiting. But she manages to choke it out: “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

His interest piques, brow raising just enough to show it. His gaze trails down, then back up again with leisurely curiosity. “What kind of favor?”

Everything inside her is screaming abort mission, but she grits her teeth, clings to her nerves, and pushes forward. “I-it’s for art class. I’m working on a figure study. I need practice drawing the human body... and I thought maybe, just maybe... you’d be willing to model for me?”

She says it all in one breath, then stands there, breathless, trembling, and absolutely mortified.

The moment he understands, a glint of mischief lights his eyes. “You mean... like, you want to draw me... naked?”

Her blush could power a city. She nearly squeaks. “N-not necessarily naked! I mean, underclothes are fine, I just—clothing covers the lines and shapes I need to study and—”

But Sousuke isn’t listening. He’s grinning now—smirking—his expression bordering on scandalous. “Nude modeling, huh. Didn’t think you painted those kinds of pictures, Mitsumi-san.”

“I don’t paint those kinds of pictures!” she hisses, appalled, but he only laughs.

Well. At least someone is enjoying this.

“So, where’s this happening?” he asks with an alarming amount of ease. “Art room? Studio? Closet?”

“Y-you mean... you’ll do it? Now?”

He shrugs. “Why not? You’ve got your supplies, don’t you?”

She does. Of course she does. But she hadn’t expected him to agree so readily. If it were her, she’d need a full week of mental preparation and a written will.

Still, she can’t afford for him to change his mind now. So she leads him through the school’s quiet, nearly-abandoned art wing. Their footsteps echo along the corridor, the after-hours silence pressing in like a held breath.

Sousuke breaks it. “Why me?”

She flinches. “E-excuse me?”

He snorts. “You could’ve asked anyone. There’s a whole school full of guys. So... why me?”

She glances up and sees the teasing glimmer in his eye. He knows. And he’s enjoying every second of it.

“Because...” she starts, hesitating just long enough for him to lean in slightly. “I knew you’d say yes.”

He chuckles at that—low and knowing. It’s not a denial, and it doesn’t need to be.

And Mitsumi, ever the convincing liar to herself, repeats one final time in her head:

This has absolutely nothing to do with how attractive he is. Absolutely. Nothing.

In due course, Mitsumi arrives at the final classroom nestled in the quietest, most forgotten corner of the school—the general arts room reserved for upper-level students. The door creaks as she unlocks it, and she steps into a space that feels both intimate and echoingly vast, made so by its minimal furniture and the soft spill of fading afternoon light through the tall windows.

A few paint-streaked cabinets hug one wall, and a battered, metal sink crouches in the corner like a sentinel from countless messy projects past. Easels stand in a scattered semi-circle, accompanied by mismatched stools—more ghosts of productivity than furniture now. The room is largely empty, save for the scent of turpentine and sun-warmed dust that lingers in the air.

Mitsumi sets her bag beside her favored easel, hyper-aware of Sousuke’s presence as he steps in behind her, his gaze sweeping the room like he’s entering a studio on a movie set.

“So,” he says, lips curled in amusement, “this is where the magic happens, huh?”

She places her sketchpad on the easel, lifting her chin just enough to peer over the top of it with forced composure. “If you could stand over there, please,” she says, gesturing to the cleared space beneath the window, where the light strikes at a flattering angle.

Sousuke obliges, swaggering into place with an enthusiasm that makes her want to both roll her eyes and melt into the floor. His smugness is palpable, his smile a little too knowing.

Then comes the moment she’s been dreading.

“You can... um...” Mitsumi begins, then falters, waving her hand in a vague, fluttery gesture somewhere in the direction of his torso. Her voice thins out. “Well... your clothes, I suppose...?”

Thankfully—or perhaps dangerously—Sousuke seems to understand her immediately. Whether it's intuition or practiced experience, she doesn’t know, but the glint in his eye is downright lethal.

With a low chuckle, he begins to undo the buttons on his vest, each one clicking softly in the quiet room. “You know,” he murmurs, “if you ever want me to strip, you can just ask. No need to be shy.”

Mitsumi ducks her head, the heat in her face spreading down her neck like wildfire. She wishes she could disappear behind her sketchpad entirely. Sousuke, meanwhile, meets her gaze with maddening casualness as he shrugs off the vest and drapes it over the nearest easel like he owns the space.

“No shame in it,” he continues smoothly. “It’s just the two of us here, after all.”

She knows. God, she knows. And it’s that knowledge—the intimacy of the setting, the thick silence between his words—that sends her scrambling for her bag, pretending to dig for pencils as an excuse not to stare. Not to notice the slow reveal of his skin, the definition of his shoulders, the careless grace with which he disrobes.

But despite herself, her eyes stray.

Sousuke doesn’t just wear confidence—he radiates it. Every movement of his is effortless, unbothered, magnetic. Mitsumi half-wishes she could borrow just a fraction of that self-assuredness. That she could face this moment with the same brazen ease instead of feeling like her very bones are vibrating with nerves.

Still, she forces her gaze back to the blank page. Pencil in hand. Steady fingers. Deep breath.

It’s just an art study, she tells herself.

And definitely, definitely not a situation spiraling out of her emotional control.

Sousuke’s lips curl into a self-satisfied grin, perfectly aware of Mitsumi’s awkward, surreptitious glances as he methodically unbuttons his shirt. There’s something immensely entertaining about her attempt at discretion—the quick peeks, the sudden aversions of her gaze, the way her knuckles whiten around her pencil.

She’s adorable, he muses, half amused, half curious, as he pulls the fabric from his shoulders. A shiver prickles his skin where the cool air touches bare flesh, but he ignores it, lowering himself to unlace his boots with unhurried nonchalance. The heavy thuds as they hit the ground echo slightly in the sparse room, drawing her eyes up—just for a moment—before she hastily ducks behind her easel again.

Sousuke chuckles. “Y'know, if you can't even look at me now,” he calls, voice sing-song and wickedly amused, “I don’t see how you're planning to draw me later.”

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

With theatrical flair, he slides out of his pants, kicking them off with ease, a flicker of mischief still dancing in his eyes. It’s only then, as he stands in the center of the studio in nothing but the last of his layers, that a faint pause stills him.

He hesitates.

For someone as unabashed and sensually confident as Sousuke—who’s long since discarded the notion of shame in matters of the body—this is unusual. He isn’t prudish, and he certainly isn’t shy. But something about this moment, this audience, gives him pause.

His fingers hover just shy of his waistband.

It’s not embarrassment. No, not quite. It's something quieter, stranger. A reluctance born not from self-consciousness, but from a subtle awareness that, despite their banter, this isn’t just a joke to her. That perhaps her eyes—so wide, so easily flustered—see more than just muscle and skin.

And for reasons he hasn’t entirely named yet, that unnerves him.

Still, he won’t give her a reason to worry. His smirk returns, more restrained now. “Well,” he says with a shrug, brushing past his hesitation, “this should be good enough for you, shouldn’t it? Not like I wasn’t already halfway there.”

Across the room, Mitsumi is practically incandescent with blush, though she’s clearly trying her best to suppress it. Professionalism. Focus. She’s trying. And for that, he grants her a little mercy by not teasing her further—yet.

“Please move a little to the right,” she says, voice steadier than she feels. “No—my right. Perfect. If you could just turn your torso slightly... yes, and put that foot forward—good.”

Sousuke shifts obligingly, mildly ridiculous in his near-nakedness yet somehow enjoying the novelty of it. The way she instructs him, despite her fluster, adds a curious edge of authority to the scene.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, flipping open her sketchbook with newfound resolve. Her pencil hovers, poised to commit him to paper. “Now... please try not to move until I tell you to.”

He gives a lazy salute, eyes gleaming. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he stills, holding the pose, while Mitsumi—face still tinged with color—finally allows herself to see him fully, not as a source of embarrassment, but as a subject. A figure. A form.

Her pencil touches the page.

The real work begins.

Though Sousuke’s life has been one of luxury—untouched by hardship, his every need effortlessly met—his body bears surprisingly little evidence of idleness. Recently, his days have been filled with commercial shoots and modeling gigs. Acting may not demand much physically, but his commitment to presentation keeps him in enviable form. Combined with a frankly unfair genetic inheritance, this light maintenance is more than enough to balance out his indulgent tendencies.

His physique is not overly muscular, but it is lean, refined, and gracefully composed. There’s strength in his posture, symmetry in his proportions—a natural elegance that seems designed rather than inherited. His face, boyishly charming yet undeniably handsome, carries both softness and definition, his features striking from every angle.

And though she would rather swallow glass than admit it aloud, Mitsumi cannot deny—in every measurable regard—Sousuke Shima is absurdly, almost offensively good-looking.

Her pencil moves with purpose, sketching the gradual swell of his biceps, the subtle breadth of his shoulders. She shades in the delicate shadows that carve along his ribcage, traces the smooth lines of his abdomen, and follows the gentle inward curve of his hips as they disappear under—

She swallows hard.

A few vague strokes gesture suggestively toward his groin—no need for detail there. Not for now. Certainly not when her insides feel like they’re quietly fluttering to pieces.

“Now, turn toward me slightly—yes, a bit more. And tilt your head... there. Hold that.”

And so the session continues—quiet, almost oppressively so, filled only by the faint, rhythmic scratch of pencil against paper and the ambient hum of their shared breath. The air feels heavy with unspoken tension, though Mitsumi keeps her expression carefully composed.

“Please try not to move,” she says, frowning as he shifts his stance. “I can’t finish the pose if your hand keeps migrating.”

Sousuke groans in mild protest, clearly fidgeting after too long on his feet. “I’ve been standing here for half an hour, you know. Some of us weren’t born to be statues.”

“You’ll get a break in a minute,” Mitsumi replies evenly, barely glancing up. Her pencil hovers momentarily before sweeping down to capture the furrow of his brow, the faint irritation curling at the corner of his mouth. “I just need a few different angles. That’s all.”

She tells herself it’s all about the study of form, the observation of light and anatomy. And it is. Mostly.

Though she may have—once or twice—caught herself zoning out, pencil stilled mid-line, eyes tracing lines that had little to do with composition and everything to do with the quiet allure standing barely clothed in front of her.

Not that she’ll ever admit it.

Sousuke’s mind drifts, a captive in his own rigid posture. Every muscle aches with the strain of stillness, cramped into a pose that defies comfort or reason. For someone who fancies himself athletic, modeling proves unexpectedly grueling—less a display of form, more a quiet war of endurance. The silence gnaws at him, makes him twitchy, and he forces himself to focus on a painting across the room—a flower in bloom, bold against a pale backdrop.

The moment Mitsumi murmurs that he can relax, he exhales as though surfacing from underwater, his arms sagging, limbs stretching with desperate gratitude.

She doesn’t look up—still hunched over her sketchbook, pen whispering across paper—and he hesitates before asking, voice almost boyishly uncertain, “Can I see?”

There’s a pause. She glances up, startled, then nods. “O-okay.”

He rises with a quick hop and a nervous energy that doesn’t quite belong to him. She hands over the sketchbook, and he takes it with uncharacteristic care, fingers grazing the textured edge of the page as if it were something sacred.

And for a moment—he doesn’t recognize himself.

The figure on the page is carved in precise strokes, each line deliberate and reverent. It’s him, yet not. The subject is lean, strong, composed—a figure of quiet elegance. Idealized. Beautiful, even. Sousuke feels a flutter of shame, a strange sense of guilt, as if he’s unworthy of this version of himself.

The hair, the brooding eyes—they're his. But there’s a gulf between what she sees and what he feels, a soft fracture he can’t quite reconcile.

I guess that’s art, he muses, dryly. Seeing what isn’t there until it is.

And her—well, he thinks with a sideways glance, maybe she's art, too.

Mitsumi’s skill stuns him. There’s clarity in her expression when she draws, a sincerity that peels past surface things. He’s quietly envious—awed by her ability to translate emotion into form with such tender precision.

“They’re… really good,” he tells her, voice a little husky.

She beams, glowing. “Thanks! We’re almost there. Just need a few more poses. If you could grab that stool…”

He obeys without protest this time, arranging himself as she instructs: one leg propped, the other angled, his body cast in a sort of effortless masculinity. And this time, he doesn’t resist. He lets his mind slip again—only now it wanders toward her.

Mitsumi is... cute. But not in the obvious way. She doesn’t call attention to herself. There’s something quieter about her, something honest. Not naive, but clear.

He doesn’t know how innocent she truly is—probably quite, he imagines—but what captivates him isn’t that. It’s something deeper. A purity of intent, a clarity of thought. She isn't like the others—loud, polished, demanding. Mitsumi is thoughtful. Precise. Still.

And not bad-looking, either. Especially now, focused and absorbed, brows drawn, tongue tucked between her lips, short hair brushing her cheek.

He finds himself watching her more closely than he expected.

Then, a clatter—her pencil hits the floor.

Mitsumi startles, flinching slightly. She hopes Sousuke didn’t notice. But he always notices her now.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, rising, turning, kneeling to retrieve it. The fabric of her skirt hugs her form just enough, and Sousuke blinks, then swallows hard. Guilt prickles under his skin, but arousal stirs with maddening force.

She resumes sketching, oblivious—or pretending to be—as his gaze burns holes into her.

He feels her watching him again, sketching with an intensity that almost feels like touch. Her pencil flows across the page as if dancing along his skin, and a slow, dangerous heat coils in his stomach.

He swallows. Again.

Oh, hell.

The traitorous stiffness beneath his waistband presses uncomfortably against his pants. He angles a leg, hoping to mask the rising tension, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Come on. Focus. Gross things. Sad movie. Clowns. That glitchy horror game on his phone. Anything.

He breathes—slowly, evenly—until it passes. Or so he hopes.

Then—

“Can you put your legs down now, please? And arms to the side—”

Her voice cuts through him like silk against skin, and his composure collapses in an instant.

“Um... don’t you think I’m fine the way I am?” he stammers. “It’s... not really necessary, right?”

“I know you’re tired, but I need to try a few different angles,” she replies gently but firmly. “So if you could please just—”

“I don’t—”

She sighs, steps toward him, her patience slipping. “Shima-san, stop being so difficult. It’s not even a hard pose.”

Her hands settle on his thighs, light but insistent. His breath hitches. He can’t meet her eyes. Just stares at her fingers—pale, slender, warm.

She parts his legs gently. He’s frozen.

“Hmm. You’re far too tense,” she murmurs. “You need to be more… like this—”

She guides his hands behind him, makes him grip the stool’s edge. His knuckles whiten against the wood. His mind empties.

“And your shoulders…” Her fingers skim up his arms, brushing over muscle, collarbone, lingering as if learning his form.

His heart is thudding.

“And your face,” she breathes, tracing up his neck, along his jaw.

Then—without warning—her lips meet his.

It’s not hesitant. It’s not shy.

It’s intentional.

Her kiss is firm, parted lips pulling at his lower one, coaxing a response he’s too stunned to give. He sits frozen, blindsided by her boldness, thrown off by the reversal—he didn’t expect her to take.

When he stirs, trying to kiss her back, she pulls away and pushes his hands down again.

“No,” she whispers, eyes gleaming. “You need to stay still.”

He shivers as she tilts his face up, brushing her lips along his jawline, teeth grazing skin, tongue teasing a trail that sparks down his spine.

Mitsumi, he thinks, dazed, what the hell are you doing to me?

Her touch follows the contours of his chest, ghosting down his abdomen with maddening restraint—like her pencil had done earlier, only now it’s skin and heat, not graphite and page.

And then she goes lower, fingertips resting on his hipbones, teasing the edge where waistband meets flesh.

She tilts her head, sighing with faux critique. “No,” she says again, this time almost to herself. “That won’t do at all.”

He's trying to make sense of it—trying to decipher what exactly Mitsumi is thinking, what possesses her to touch him like this, to break every quiet, distant boundary they’ve maintained until now. But his thoughts are melting, slipping into something formless and hot as her fingers move with delicate precision—

Sousuke didn’t even know she could move so quickly. In a blink, her hand is beneath the waistband of his underwear, brushing against the rigid heat of him, her touch maddeningly gentle. His breath catches in his throat—and then escapes, sharp and strangled, before he clamps his teeth shut.

Her gaze doesn’t falter. She’s watching him, studying him like she’s trying to memorize every flicker of reaction on his face. Embarrassed, Sousuke shifts his eyes away—to a stupid motivational poster on the wall, something about “hanging in there” with a cat clinging to a tree branch. It doesn’t help. Not when her fingers are trailing slowly up the length of his cock, each stroke making him harder than he thought physically possible.

“Sit up,” she murmurs, the command soft but absolute. He obeys instinctively, and a moment later, his underwear is tugged down in one swift, shameless motion—along with whatever dignity he thought he had left. He opens his mouth, half-formed protest rising, but it evaporates as her thumb traces the underside of his shaft in one long, deliberate motion.

Her face is close now—too close—and every breath she exhales hits his cock like a pulse of heat. Her fingers curl around him, confident now, purposeful. She looks up briefly, her eyebrows drawn in focus, lips parted—and before he can even process it, her tongue flicks out to lap at the very tip of him.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, hips jerking before she presses them back with a firm hand.

“I said stay still,” Mitsumi reminds him, voice level but tinged with something darker now—something playful, and maybe a little wicked.

Then she drags her tongue along the entire length of him—slowly, almost lazily—and his mind fragments. His breath is ragged, eyes swimming, heart galloping in his chest. This isn’t how things go for him. This isn’t rough, isn’t hurried. It’s focused. Controlled. Intimate.

“I-Iwakura-san,” he stammers, panting, “Iwakura... you don’t have to—this isn’t—”

She lifts her gaze, and her voice is as calm as ever, but her words land like a slap. “Sousuke?” There’s a faint edge of exasperation. “I know how much you love hearing yourself talk, but for once… try shutting up.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name like that. And it stuns him into silence.

And, well... if that wasn’t permission, he doesn’t know what is. So he leans into it—lets her take the lead, lets himself feel it, even if it’s unraveling him.

Her hands rest on his hips now, holding him still with unyielding pressure, nails grazing his skin hard enough to make him shiver. Her mouth works over him slowly, lips and tongue tracing him in maddening, measured passes. He’s swallowing down every sound he doesn’t want her to hear—high, breathy noises that would give away just how out of control he feels. He wants to grab her, bury his hands in her hair, fuck her mouth until he forgets his name—but she’s made it clear: he doesn’t get to move.

He’s not used to teasing. Not used to this kind of slow, deliberate torture. Everything in his body wants to react, to fight against the stillness she’s demanded—but he stays frozen, panting, his skin damp with sweat, eyes clenched shut—

“Open them,” she says.

He does.

He opens his eyes, and what he sees steals the last bit of breath he had left. She looks serene. Confident. As if this is her element, and she’s just been waiting for him to catch up.

Her green eyes are impossibly steady, scanning his face like she’s reading a language written only in his blushes and trembles.

“Sorry,” he mutters, not even sure what he’s apologizing for.

She smiles, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, her expression somewhere between affectionate and devious.

“Just watch.”

And then—without breaking eye contact—she lowers her head again and runs her tongue slowly, sinfully along his cock. He trembles violently, vision blurring, a low, involuntary moan slipping past his lips.

Everything else ceases to exist. There’s only her—her warm mouth, her determined hands, the way she looks at him while he falls apart.

He’s gone. Completely and utterly gone.

Mitsumi doesn’t fully understand what drove her to this moment—but she doesn't stop to question it either. Her thoughts are narrowed down to one simple, overwhelming focus: Sousuke.

Maybe it’s a desire to see him undone for once—no longer composed, no longer the cool, untouchable figure he so effortlessly plays. She wants to watch him unravel, to see him flustered and speechless, as off-balance as she so often feels around him.

And, gods above, it certainly helps that he’s obscenely attractive.

She shifts on her knees, wincing slightly as she adjusts to relieve the growing cramp in her legs. If someone had told her this afternoon would end with her on the floor attempting her first-ever blowjob, she might have laughed—or fainted. Yet here she is, mouth hovering over him, with the kind of resolve she didn’t know she had.

Well, she reasons, if Sousuke Shima gets hard for you, it’d be a damn shame not to do something about it.

From this angle, he seems so far above her, flushed and panting, staring down with a mix of apprehension and disbelief. Nervous? That surprises her. He’s probably been in this position more times than she can count—probably had girls (or boys) on their knees before. But the hesitance in his expression makes her wonder if this is more novel than he lets on.

Her gaze drops to the obvious center of attention. She isn’t sure how to gauge size in any technical way, and frankly, she doesn’t care. It looks big enough to be daunting… but not unpleasantly so. Her curiosity gets the better of her when she notices the small bead of moisture at the tip. Tentatively, she leans in and licks it away.

Not bad.

Still, she wants more than just a taste. With a quiet breath, she lowers her mouth over him, taking in as much as she can. Her lips wrap around the warm, velvety length, her hand curling around what she can’t reach. Her other hand rests beneath, fingertips gently cradling him.

The flavor is musky, faintly familiar—reminiscent of a girl’s, oddly enough, though heavier. She laps at him with growing confidence, swirling her tongue, sucking gently, and is rewarded with a low groan from above. His thighs twitch, his breath stutters. She feels his restraint in every tight muscle, every held breath—like he’s desperate not to move, not to thrust into her mouth.

And that, she thinks smugly, is exactly how she wants him.

Her pace is deliberate, unhurried. She’s not trying to be perfect. She’s trying to feel this—to watch him fall apart for her. She looks up through her lashes, and there he is: gripping the stool like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth, his eyes locked on her with a mix of awe and disbelief.

She hums softly, letting the vibration ripple through him, and he shudders so violently she almost pulls back—but instead goes deeper, tighter, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks. Another moan escapes him, guttural, desperate.

“I-Iwakura,” he breathes out, his voice rough and cracking. “I—I’m gonna...”

She already knows. She feels it in every tremble of his body, every shaky breath.

But a flicker of hesitation rises in her. She’s never done this before—not with a guy, not like this—and she isn’t entirely sure what she’s ready for.

So she slows, mouth retreating with a final, languid lick beneath the head, savoring the way he jerks at the sensation. Her hand takes over, stroking him in smooth, practiced motions as she watches his face. He’s a mess—sweaty, breathless, absolutely wrecked—and the sight sends a thrill through her.

She brushes her thumbs along his length once, then twice more—firm, teasing—and he loses it.

His head tilts back, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. A choked groan rips from his throat as he finally comes—hot, thick ribbons streaking across her face. The first catches her cheek; another hits the bridge of her nose, her lips, her chin. Even her bangs aren’t spared.

She flinches instinctively, blinking against the warmth that splashes too close to her eye—but her hand keeps moving, stroking him through it, coaxing every last drop. She feels him twitching in her palm, hips jerking involuntarily, until he’s spent and sagging, breath rattling.

Her grip loosens, but she doesn’t move away just yet. There's something satisfying, something intimate, about watching him like this: trembling, flushed, and completely at her mercy.

Mitsumi wipes a drop from her lip with the back of her hand, breathing hard but steady, her gaze still fixed on him.

And just like that—it’s over.

Sousuke sits trembling, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, knuckles pale from gripping the edges of the stool. His head is tilted back, mouth parted slightly, eyes unfocused—as if he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He looks dazed, undone, like someone who’s just touched the edge of something too vast to name.

Mitsumi stands slowly, legs stiff from kneeling too long. She wobbles slightly, but composes herself with a quiet breath and walks—measured and composed—to the sink in the corner of the room. Without a word, she begins to clean herself, wiping away the remnants of what just transpired. The water runs soft and steady, a soothing counterpoint to the ragged cadence of Sousuke’s breathing behind her.

She hears him shift, the faint scrape of skin on wood.

“I didn’t say you could move,” she calls without looking back, her tone calm but edged in steel.

Where this commanding voice came from, she has no idea—but it resonates inside her like a truth she hadn’t yet discovered. It unsettles her, a little. But she also... likes it. That sense of authority, of control. The way her words tethered him. The way he listened.

When she finishes, she returns to her easel without ceremony, sliding back onto her stool and picking up her pencil again. There's one more sketch she needs to capture—not for the assignment, not even for practice—but for herself. A study in contrast. A portrait of what it looks like when someone as composed as Sousuke Shima is completely, devastatingly unmade.

She casts a glance his way. He’s watching her, his expression inscrutable—brows drawn, lips slightly parted. He looks... conflicted. Maybe still processing. Maybe searching for something in her face. Guilt, maybe. Or awe. Or confusion.

To his credit, he hasn’t moved an inch.

Mitsumi doesn't speak again. Instead, she lets the graphite speak for her—sketching loose, instinctive strokes, letting the memory of the moment flow freely through her hand. A clenched fist. The curve of a tense shoulder. The outline of tousled hair damp with sweat. His mouth, parted and gasping. The fragile line of his throat.

She draws him as he is now—in that strange afterglow, half-wrecked and utterly human.

More than a few cocks end up in the margins. She doesn’t dwell on it.

Boys, she thinks idly, not unkindly. They're... okay.

Not exactly her preference. But today was interesting. Worthwhile. She learned more than she expected.

With a quiet finality, she closes her sketchbook. The soft snap of the cover echoes through the stillness, and she exhales, feeling a strange and quiet satisfaction settle in her chest.

"You can move now," Mitsumi says softly.

The shift in her tone—quiet, demure—catches Sousuke off guard. It's so different from the commanding confidence she held only moments ago. He blinks, disoriented, as though waking from a trance.

“You did a great job,” she adds, almost sweetly.

“Um.” It's the only sound he manages at first. His head is still fogged with post-orgasm haze, his limbs sluggish and his mind embarrassingly slow to reboot. Nothing in his day had prepared him for this.

This afternoon has been... bizarre.

He fumbles for his undergarments, catching her watching—openly this time—and tries not to trip over himself as he redresses. His hands feel clumsy, too big for the task, and yet her gaze only makes him more self-conscious. Once he's clothed again, he hesitates, then walks over to where she's packing her things, pretending not to notice the way his heart is hammering in his chest.

She glances up at him, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips.

“I just, um,” he stammers. “Wanted to say thank you. I learned a lot. About... art. And stuff.”

She snorts softly, amused. “I'm glad it was educational.”

He exhales, feeling reckless in his nervousness. “It was more than that. Honestly, it was... inspiring. Watching you work. If you’d ever be interested...” He clears his throat. “I’d like to have you model for me sometime. Just to return the favor.”

Mitsumi pauses, then turns to face him fully, smirking—though there's the faintest pink blush coloring her cheeks. “Just to clarify... are you talking about art or sex?”

“Shit. Both. Or either. Or neither,” he blurts. “I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I get that. I’ve felt obligated before and... yeah.”

For a second, she says nothing. Then her expression shifts—something a little more serious creeping into her eyes. “Shima-san,” she says thoughtfully, “can you... bend down for a sec?”

He blinks. “Uh, okay?”

He leans down slightly, puzzled, and before he can ask why, Mitsumi leans in and kisses him.

It’s brief, but soft. Deliberate. Her lips warm against his, just enough pressure to set off another chain reaction in his chest.

When she pulls back, she smiles—genuinely, this time. “I’d love to.”

Sousuke's face is now blazing. But oddly, it doesn’t feel mortifying—it feels... good.

“Wow. God. Thanks. Um.” He exhales shakily. “You give a really damn good blowjob, by the way. Holy shit.”

Mitsumi bursts into laughter, her cheeks flushing deeper. “I’d prefer if you kept that little review between us.”

“Oh—yeah. Definitely. What happens in the art room stays in the art room.”

“Exactly,” she says, patting his hand with mock-solemn approval. “You really are a great model. Most of them don’t get it.”

“Wait—most of them?” he echoes, confused, trailing her as she walks toward the door.

She tosses him a look over her shoulder, grinning. “What? You think you were my first?” A wink. “I’ve modeled for people too. Maybe next time I’ll show you some real pointers.”

Sousuke stares as she slips out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She turns once, flashes a quick wave. “See ya!”

Then she’s gone.

He stands there a moment, dumbfounded and pink-faced, a storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. He has no idea what just happened, what she really meant, or what’s going to happen next.

But whatever it was...

Mitsumi Iwakura is definitely not the kind of girl he thought she was.

...Or is she?

#skip to loafer #skip and loafer #smut #iwakura mitsumi #mitsumi iwakura #shima x mitsumi

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rainbow-nerdss · 2 years ago

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on that you can rely

Written for @augustwritingchallenge day 13: Behind the Mirror Stucky, 3.3k Read on AO3

It took months for Bucky to find a place, and when he did, it was a dump. The interior looked like it hadn't been decorated since the seventies, and as for the structural elements…

Well, it was intact. It was mostly mold-free. And best of all, he could afford it.

The owners were renovating the building, and they didn’t have the overhead to pay a decent contractor, so they gave him the apartment at a steep discount in exchange for his services.

It was shady as fuck, and definitely illegal, but it was a place to live.

He started with his own apartment, the plumbing needing the most work. Room by room, then unit by unit, Bucky started tearing out broken fixtures, repairing original features, and working with the plumbing and electrical teams whose qualifications Bucky didn’t ask to see.

There was a mirror over the blocked-up, broken old fireplace in his own unit, cracked and damaged by age. Bucky took it down from the wall and set it aside. If he could, he'd try to get it repaired, but there was no way he could keep it in its current condition. Under the mirror, the wall was old, exposed brick — original to the building, not even plastered over.

When Bucky examined the bricks, he found one was loose. He wriggled it, grabbing the corners with his fingertips, and finally pulled it free. Bucky shone the light from his phone into the space, and saw a small bundle of paper wedged in behind.

He grinned.

It was why he loved working in old buildings like this, finding little treasures — whether it was an old doorknob, painted over time and again which he could clean and reveal gleaming bronze or silver, or something like this, usually useless receipts and grocery lists lost under floorboards, a little glimpse into somebody's life from decades before.

He reached in and pulled out the papers, realizing as he did that this was something more. It wasn't a receipt, or some old lists. It was bound, a journal or sketchbook probably, and it was old.

Frayed, yellowed pages with a well-worn leather cover, tied shut with what looked like butcher's twine.

Bucky sat on the floor and slowly, carefully, untied the knot holding it all together.

The book was full of sketches, drawings in pencil of people, places and things Bucky only half recognised, snapshots of someone's life drawn in stunning detail.

The front page, on the top right corner, bore a note:

To Steve, Happy birthday, my wonderful boy. Love Mom July, 1935

1935. Wow.

Bucky pored over the pages, the delicate lines, how the artist captured the expressions in the faces of the people he drew.

Whoever Steve had been, he was talented. Each sketch was dated and signed with a cursive S, and Bucky could see he used this paper sparingly. Some sheets of cheaper paper held rougher sketches, and those were folded and pressed between pages, but they had mostly faded over the years.

The early pages held a lot of sketches of the same people, including a woman Bucky assumed must be Steve's mother, slim and straight-backed but always smiling. Alongside her, were a few Bucky thought must be self-portraits, though Steve never gave his own face the same level of detail as his mother's.

There were some children, some strangers —neighbors, maybe, or family Steve didn't see as much.

In late 1936, Steve stopped drawing for almost three months, and from that point on there were fewer and fewer pictures of his mother, growing fainter and less detailed each time.

More new people made their way to the page as Steve's talent grew—figure studies that might have been practiced for an art class, and other, more intimate sketches.

Bucky's breath caught in his chest as he looked through them, as he fully comprehended what he had just uncovered.

Here in his hands were stunning, carefully rendered drawings of men in varying states of undress, one rolling a pair of stockings up his leg, a pair of women kissing, drag queens and queer couples and then snapshots, an eye here, a hand there, a pair of lips, each sketch full of desire, of love.

Steve, whoever he was, had devoted at least half of the pages in this book, this precious, scarce paper, to queerness in every form.

This here, rescued from the brick of Bucky's apartment, was history.

The last sketch was a self-portrait—Bucky could tell, though Steve had only drawn himself from the jaw down. He recognised the curve of the spine, the freckles on Steve's arm, and the way he tended to use more hard lines when drawing himself than he did with others.

In this portrait, Steve was naked, save for what looked like a sheet draped over his lap. The focus was on his chest, a series of what Bucky thought might be love bites covering his skin. The small piece of his face which was visible looked to be smiling.

It was dated April of 1943.

Bucky couldn't help but wonder what had happened, why the book was never drawn in again.

He pictured Steve, the morning after a night of pleasure, sitting in front of the mirror, drawing this. Had his partner still been there, or was he alone?

He pictured Steve receiving a letter — had he volunteered, or had he been drafted? Bucky pictured him standing here, in this apartment, in his uniform, ready to ship out with those bruises fading underneath. Bucky imagined Steve taking down the mirror and pulling out the loose brick. Was it a hiding place Steve used often?

Bucky saw Steve replace the mirror, and walk away.

Had he known he'd never return to retrieve it?

Had Steve made it back from the war at all, or had he simply never made it back here, to this apartment?

Bucky went online, searching the building's records for some record of someone called Steve, but they were poorly kept. The owner at the time either operated off the books, or the records had been lost in the intervening years.

Bucky didn't know if Steve had lived there the entire time, or if this was somewhere he'd been less than a week before shipping out.

With no sign of who Steve might have been — beyond a first name, a July birthday, and an enlistment date sometime after April of 1943— Bucky resigned himself to never learning more about the man. That didn't mean it wasn't important, though.

He began to share snippets of it on social media. He kept the address private, and only referred to Steve by that first initial he used to sign the drawings, just S.

There was always a chance that Steve had made it back from the war, that he had lived a long and happy life, that he had even left this behind on purpose. Maybe he'd married a woman, had a family — maybe a grandchild of his might recognise the art style, connect these pictures with their grandfather.

Bucky didn't know if he was comfortable with that possibility, so he did what he could to protect Steve's privacy online.

All the same, Bucky kept up the search. He looked up census records for the years in the journal, and found no fewer than six Stevens, Stephens and Stefanos in the building in 1940. He immediately dismissed the two children under the age of ten, and the man in his late fifties.

One of the remaining men had a wife and an infant daughter in 1940, and Bucky wanted to rule him out, too.

Of the remaining two, Stefano Rossi had marked himself as a dock laborer, and Bucky might have been wrong, but Steve didn't strike him as the type.

Steve also didn't seem the type to be a soldier, though.

The final name on the list, though, there was something about it that drew Bucky towards it, made him dismiss the other options. It almost seemed… familiar.

Steven Grant Rogers.

Steve Rogers.

A common enough name, sure, but Bucky's search results were impaired by the name being shared by Captain America, forcing him to dig through search results for anything on his Steve — past articles about the battle of New York and terrible B movies and comic books and trading card eBay listings.

Until one day, Bucky gave up, and clicked on one of those articles about Captain America out of sheer boredom.

There was a photograph, a rare one, of Cap before he became Cap. Of Steve Rogers, the day he joined the army, an enlistment photograph of him standing in front of a plain white wall. He was all sharp angles, pale skin, freckles on his arm, and… the last lingering trace of bruising down his chest.

It was him.

It was Steve.

Steve, most likely less than a week after that final portrait.

The portrait Bucky had scanned and uploaded the night before.

Steve, who was queer, or at the very least immersed in queer culture.

Steve, who lost his mother in 1936.

Steve, who enlisted despite being turned away again and again.

Steve, who was very much alive, and very much well known.

Bucky deleted his account. He wasn't an expert, but he did what he could to scrape the pictures from the internet. The account had gained popularity, though, and his sudden disappearance caused a stir.

First it was one article. Then another. People had screenshots of his posts, and those were included in the articles.

Bucky tried making a post on a new account, asking people to stop, making up some story about the family of S reaching out, asking for the pictures to be taken down.

People accused him of faking the whole thing. Others claimed the new account was the fake one, while others still were up in arms that the "family" would dare ask for control over their grandfather's private information.

Bucky was putting the finishing touches on the apartment and trying to forget the internet existed when there was a knock on his door.

He figured it must be the landlord, or one of the few tenants who had been able to return to the building, asking about repairs or progress on his work.

It wasn't.

It was him. Steve.

“Are you Bucky?” he asked. All Bucky could do was nod.

"Can I… would it be alright if I came in?"

Bucky stepped aside, speechless, letting him in.

Bucky may have worked with his hands, but he’d always enjoyed history. The small things, though. Personal letters, everyday people and things. Wars had never been an area he was interested in reading about — he’d had enough war to last a lifetime, thanks. After putting the pieces together, though, he’d started looking further into the story of Captain America — during the war, and since he’d come back.

It was difficult to reconcile the image of Steve he’d built up in his head since finding the book with the figure in the history books, but here, seeing him walk in the door, look around at the place he’d once called home, Bucky could see it. He could see the artist he’d gotten to know through sketches, the man who had sat in this room, drawing his mother, drawing his friends, his lovers, himself.

Though he was taller, broader, and more muscular than the man in those drawings, though he was dressed in modern clothes, this man was, as far as Bucky could see, much more Steve than Captain America.

Neither of them spoke for almost a full minute.

“I— I should apologize,” Bucky said, breaking the silence and finding his tongue at last. Steve tore his eyes from the bare wall in front of him to look at Bucky.

“Apologize?”

Bucky crossed the room to pull the book out of the cabinet he kept it in, and Steve’s eyes zeroed onto it.

“If I’d known it was yours,” Bucky began. “Or even that it was by anyone still alive, still out there — I shouldn’t have posted them.”

Steve had tears in his eyes as he took the book from Bucky’s hand, running his fingers over the cover reverently.

“It’s… I’m glad you posted it.”

Bucky frowned. Steve was still staring at the book, so Bucky offered him a seat and a drink. “Water’s fine, if that’s… if that’s alright.”

Bucky fetched the water, then sat next to Steve on the couch. The place was a mess — renovations just finishing, furniture all either tossed or dirty, waiting to be repaired or replaced, but Steve didn’t seem to mind or even notice.

Steve sipped his water and then set it aside to open the book up. His eyes landed on the inscription, and Bucky saw one of the tears in his eyes fall. Neither of them acknowledged it.

“If you hadn’t posted the drawings, I’d never have known this was still out there.You didn’t share anything people could use to trace it back to me, but even if you had… Thank you.”

Bucky didn’t know what to do with that, so he just watched, as Steve slowly turned the pages of the book.

“She was a nurse,” Steve said, pausing on a portrait of the woman Bucky had assumed to be his mother. The words felt rehearsed, like Steve had said them hundreds of times already, until they lost meaning. “Worked on a TB ward. Got hit, couldn’t shake it.”

“Shit, that’s… I’m sorry, man.”

Steve turned the page, and he smiled at the image. “I remember this day.” It was another portrait of her. Steve spoke about it, about the day out they took together, how he’d taken the book along and drawn her sitting on the grass where they ate a picnic lunch.

“Tell me about the rest?” Bucky asked. “If… If you want to.”

Steve sniffed. “I haven’t spoken about these people in so long,” he admitted.

He flicks through the pages, telling Bucky about the people held within these pages. His mom, his neighbors and friends, and the others. As he spoke, the carefully controlled speech pattern slipped, replaced with a looser Brooklyn accent.

“I started going after Ma died. This little bar, hidden away. I only found it because I’d been walking along and I heard —” Steve snorted. “Well, I thought it was a fight, some poor guy getting beaten up.”

“It wasn’t?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. They looked scared when I walked in, but I guess they musta seen somethin’ in my face, because next thing I knew, I was downstairs, and all these people around me, they were… They were like me, you know?”

Bucky remembered his first time in a gay bar, the sense of belonging he’d felt, nineteen years old with a fake ID. He imagined that feeling, multiplied by about a hundred for Steve.

Steve continued through, telling Bucky story after story from the club, the people he’d known there.

“Did you ever—” Bucky started to ask, then stopped himself, thinking it was probably too personal a question.

Steve shrugged. “Nobody special. One or two I thought, maybe, but…” He shrugged. Turned the page. “That’s Bill. Got called up in ‘41. Johnny signed up right after, followed him out.”

One by one, Steve told Bucky about the people he lost, the ones who went off to fight and never came home, the ones who came home but didn’t live long enough for Steve to see again..

“And you?” Bucky asked. Steve turned to the last page.

“This one… My buddy, he was… well. Maybe, if the war hadn’t happened, we could've made something of it. I… I could’ve loved him. This was the night before he shipped out, we just wanted… something. Something to remember, out there. It was a good night. Next day, I stashed the book behind the mirror, went out, and I met Erskine.”

“And here we are,” Bucky finished for him.

“Here we are.”

Steve closed the book, held it up, and pressed his lips to the cover, eyes squeezed shut.

"I looked him up, after they showed me the internet."

Bucky didn't ask, afraid of the answer. Steve's face said it all, though —whatever happened to Steve's friend, it wasn't good. Bucky saw the shadows in his eyes, and decided to change the subject slightly, to pull him out of that space.

"I grew up in a shitty little town in Indiana," he said. "It was… rough, honestly. The kids liked to throw around a lot of names, and I never really knew anyone else who was… well, I was going to say gay, but really I didn't know anyone queer growing up. My family is great, but it wasn't until I moved here for college that I found people I could really be myself with."

Steve put the book down on his lap and turned to listen to Bucky, resting his arm on the back of the couch. Bucky couldn't decide whether it was surprising how easy Steve Rogers was to talk to, to confide in.

"Although, looking back… there were these two women who lived in my neighborhood, they were both in their seventies, at least. Everyone called them sisters, but I never really saw a resemblance."

Slowly, Bucky saw Steve's expression turn lighter, almost a smile. "Well, I was reading up on local history, once, and I got my hands on a bunch of old yearbooks from the local high school."

"You've always been into history, then?" Steve asked.

"Personal histories. Social stuff. Things with real people, yeah."

"And the yearbook?"

"They were in one of them. Class of '46, I think?”

“Not much younger than me, then,” Steve said with a wry sort of smile.

“I guess not,” Bucky agreed. “But there they were, both of them. Smiling on opposite pages.”

“Different surnames,” Steve deduced, and Bucky nodded.

“Yeah. I never asked them about it, of course, but you’re not the first person who I’ve looked up in census records. They were never sisters, they just let people go with whatever assumptions were made. Sisters, friends, whatever was easier. They lived together in that house since the 50’s. They had a life together. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for them, but…”

“But they did it,” Steve finished. “Are they—”

“Julia passed about five years back, but Betty’s still there, in that same house.”

Steve was quiet for a while, thinking. “I know there's still a long way to go, but… It’s easier now, right?”

He looked at Bucky, and their eyes met with a new sort of intensity. Bucky could tell Steve was searching for something in his face, but he didn’t know what it could be.

“Yeah, it’s easier now.”

Steve was still looking at him, and Bucky couldn’t look away. He’d imagined Steve’s face so often based on his self portraits, beyond the lines of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze. That intensity was there, in the real thing, but it was all… more. Bucky didn’t know if it was the serum, or simply the difference between the drawing and reality.

His eyes dropped to Steve’s lips, and those… Steve had never done his own mouth justice in his sketches, Bucky decided. Soft, pink, beautiful. Bucky swallowed, and Steve released a breath, like he’d found what he was looking for.

He leaned forward, hand reaching out to rest just above Bucky’s waist. Bucky wondered, absently, when they’d come to sit so close together, but the thought was quickly replaced by far more urgent ones as Steve crossed that small distance, slowly, giving Bucky every chance to pull away.

He didn’t pull away. He met Steve in the middle, until their lips brushed, just a shadow of a kiss, really. They paused there, in the almost-but-not-quite.

“My life is really fucking complicated,” Steve whispered against his lips. “If you don’t want that, I get it.”

Bucky answered by sliding his fingers into Steve’s hair, holding the back of his head, and kissing him.

#my fic #stucky #stucky fic #au gust fills #au gust 2023 #steve rogers/bucky barnes #steve rogers #bucky barnes #shrunkyclunks

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tricobicoart · 1 year ago

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Tf2 Rothena!! Original & redesign!! She became my tf2 si after(under the cut):

I made a whole au where she was on a warp pad & some enemy activated it or destroyed it when she was trying to activate it to help, and she got transported to the tf2 universe (more game and non-story-comics-based one) and gradually gave less shits until she gave up(once she realized there was no way back home) on way more morals than dan vs or tf2 mae, and after busting out of jail one too many times, she accepts a job from the Administrator's corporation for protection of her & some one-sided(on her side)friends, and her fate is cemented there. Also she has the same default scars as tf2 & danvs Mae but i didn't draw them in bc i was focused on getting the new damn 'render' done. Less scars in general tho bc of her unique half-gem-full-human nature, it was easier to incorporate her into the respawn system.

Their team role is officially The Understudy, but she calls herself Cannon Fodder, Expendable, other self-deprecating terms that the team members she didn't gel with went along with(Soldier, Spy, Scout occasionally, Medic bc he thinks it's as funny as she does, same for Sniper) at the beginning. She usually picks or is assigned to(read: the rest of the team draw straws or fight w rock-paper-scissors to determine) one team member throughout the match, assisting them in their job as backup or cannon fodder/actual scouting (its okay bc she respawns & is gets good at not dying eventually). okay discord copy pasting abt her under th ecut

Rothena joins red team starting out being completely herself: adhd, gen z suicide jokes, talking abt how much she loves women, etc, unlike how she usually acts when meeting new people. She figures "it's the 1960s, if i'm gonna get like hate crimed i better do it before i get attached, put all my quirks out in the open" & being so open abt herself actually endears some of the mercs to her (& makes others think she's nuts/has to self-preservation which. true lol) However this makes soldier her worst enemy bc she keeps talking abt how much she hates america. Despite being american rothena: i want free healthcare soldier: you want handouts!? rothena: no, i just don't want to pay 10,000 dollars bc some rando got me sick & i needed to be hospitalized

eventually they settle the fighting with "america could be improved but it's our home & we should stand for it & support it to improvement" but before then, HOO boy they're like in the "can i PLEASE get a waffle" vine: rothena & soldier: *fighting abt america* engineer: can you stand on the point?? rothena & soldier: *get more violent* engineer: can you PLEASE stand on the point?!?

Rothena does godawful at her first day on the field--she's only worked with sitting-duck or inexperienced targets w miss pauling, & the team dismisses her as a liability, so she does her best to stay out of the way bc she thinks so too (and tbh she kind of is, it's like if a casual/beginner jumped into a competitive match in tf2). But heavy takes pity on her and takes her under his wing, having her practice when he has free time he's willing to sacrifice, and having her shadow him during battles!! And the team sees her become more useful and eventually more of them start asking her to shadow them, earning her first positive class-based nickname, (Little) Shadow! Maybe medic sees her potential to learn and observe when she picks up a stray medigun and uses it on him without ever being taught how to!! And from there the trust builds!!

how tf2 rothena started: "blue hair" by tv girl (sad/melancholy) how tf2 rothena is going(canon): "using you" by margo (bittersweet but mostly happy) how tf2 rothena will end up(post-canon): "lifetime achievement award" by lemon demon or smth w similar resurrection themes (driven mad from love and care, unwilling to let go of mortal friends, medic is in on this)

#tf2 #tf2 si #tf2 self insert #tf2 rothena #my drawings #my self inserts #i'll paste more stuff abt her from discord later #and edit this to add timeline stuff bc the gravel war here lasts a bit longer than it does in canon #also in every tf2 universe i write/put characters in the tf2 team/team fortress is FRIENDS whether overtly or subtly there is no #'secretly ACTUALLY hating each others gut' here!!!! no offebse to those who write that btw it's always anywhere from hilariou to gutwrenchi #to watch (/pos both)

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florshedworf · 1 year ago

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i promise you that is 100% the process of drawing a mech. mechs aren’t organic, meaninf that their shapes are more uniform which can be so frustrating!!!!

but under the cut is my step my step process of getting comfortable with drawing these guys 👀

FIRSTLY, try to break the character down into simple shapes. here’s a link (MAJOR spoilers for ep 10) to some concept art that have flat renders of these two boys!!

lets start with shiny. he’s super easy, he’s just circles and sticks (technically cylinders but were trying to keep it simple)

thunder is a bit harder. his design can’t really be easily be simplified into 2d (and even if i do you really cant draw thunder w/o imagining him in a 3d space)

but don’t worry too much!!! we’ll still try to do simple shapes.

the arms and legs really can just be simplified into rectangles and trapezoids.

next,, gather screenshots!!! get these boys from all kinds of angles!!

and then. well. i’m gonna be honest i traced them.

MOSTLY to get proportions right. it helps you to visualize how certain shapes work (works esp well on mechs bc the shape is so consistent)

and then screenshot redraws!!! referencing (not tracing this time) directly from the show is a GREAT way to practice drawing characters ur unfamiliar with

specifically with thunders face, squares really helped me out in figuring out how to position his head

hope any of this was helpful 🙏🙏 feel free to ask questions, i left out a bunch as not to overcomplicate but again lmk if you need to know something else!!!

How do you draw thunder and shiny??ive been trying but they end up looking horrible…literally every time people draw shiny and thunder they always look rlly good but mine are like horrible..I’ll keep trying tho..

#worf opens their big mouth #super giant robot brothers #sgrb #why did i never tag this

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valentine-writes · 2 years ago

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y/n who does a funny little thing where they keep taking a little nap in the strangest places while they're supposed to be actively working.

it's not a huge deal since they mostly work after hours in the late night, but... like. why? they never seem tired and the napping spots are... weird. and they're innocent really– but most can't help but notice how the locations become increasingly odd.

it starts somewhere tame and unexpected– there they are, sitting asleep in an out of service go kart at roxy's raceway. roxanne wolf barely even thinks about how uncomfortable the position is, slumped in the seat, head at an angle which almost guarantees a sore neck. roxy just wakes y/n up. y/n laughs it off, apologizes, and goes on with work.

in the kitchen, where the pizzas are made, chica sneaks in to grab discarded trash and other food items that may have been deemed unsafe or unfit for human consumption by now. and there's y/n, sleeping while sitting upright, back leaned against a fridge. chica tries to tip toe around them– but they snap awake. alarmed, chica tries to explain herself– but they only apologize for napping on the job, as per usual, and returns back to their duties.

after hours in the green room are usually reserved for the animatronics to get some alone time. practice for their next show, give themselves pep talks in the mirror, rip everything and anything in the room to shreds if you're monty, or just reorganize, decorating with the bits of fan creations received that day. freddy does this last task very often, considering constantly he received many gifts from his adoring fans. today, his ears pick up a faint noise... something unfamiliar. he sets down a letter on his vanity, looking around. no one. he slowly reads through, hangs some drawings of him up made by enthusiastic children– and heard the noise again. although he's sure of what it is now.

there's a soft snoring, coming from the vents above. lo and behold, from the panel of the vent he can spot their familiar resting figure. how'd they get in there?

by now, everyone's aware of y/n's weird napping habits. it's just a race see who finds them next.

...

curled atop a pile of discarded staff bots, limbs torn from their non-operational bodies, decapitated, and some too dismantled up to even identify as staff bots– is y/n. their eyes are shut, their body completely still.

a certain gator's gaze fixes on them– too scared to scan their vitals, but much too concerned not to move any closer. maybe, this time they weren't sleeping. there was a real possibility someone harmed you– something had knocked you unconscious, leaving you splayed across the pieces and remnants of much more unfortunate staff bots.

if this montgomery could breathe, his breath would be baited.

approaching carefully, slowly, as if too horrified to even figure out their current state–

he watches a small yawn escapes their lips, eyes slowly fluttering open.

"oh... hi." y/n rubs the sleep out of their eyes, as if there's nothing wrong with this current situation or location. they smile up at monty, who wears an expression that is unfamiliar on his face. concern.

"...i just had the weirdest dream." thinking very little about the entire situation, they simply chuckle and shrug their shoulders, apologizing about their strange little nap mishap.

monty only stares a moment. there's a glint in their eyes of something unfamiliar. before he can even speak, they stand up and stretch, walking off briskly.

y/n's good at acting like nothing is out of place. they're casual, nonchalant– as if this was just another nap in the go kart or kitchen.

the truth was, resistance to the afton virus wasn't effortless. it was draining– living hell, as they fought for the right of autonomy, while the stranger within their body grasped for the controls to their mind.

fighting it back took a lot of control. like draining energy from a battery. when that battery ran out, rendering them unconscious as the virus took control? well. y/n didn't quite know what took place once they snapped out of it.

good thing the afton virus dulled their feelings of regret too. maybe the indifference towards their actions was somewhat of a secret blessing.

y/n didn't even worry about being suspected. they didn't wonder whether any of the animatronics picked up on the subtle violet tint in their eyes. being the one sitting in the passenger's seat of their own brain, while someone else took the wheel–

it wasn't their job to worry about it.

#afton virus yn au #ty vurelly for the inspo i am sorry that i have taken it for granted #fnaf security breach #glamrock freddy #glamrock chica #montgomery gator #roxanne wolf #fnaf sb #THIS WAS THE DRABBLE. the little funny thought. sitting in my drafts 4evez.#i don't actually like how it's written too much but whatever!! it is. here.#also i'll let u in on a secret.... ;).... i dont like. using y/n when writing.#i could have worked around writing Your Name a million times but itz ok we ball

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studioboner · 2 years ago

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Hi! I actually am wondering about trying watercolors for the first time but feel a little anxious haha.. how you go about drawing on the paper with confidence? Like, watercolor paper isn’t exactly cheap. I think I got the cheapest one avaible from Canson but still the anxiety is real… do you pick very light pencils like 2B so you can sketch veryyy lightly, or before sketching on the paper itself you do a planning sketch in another paper?

Im asking this cos I really love your art and it’s so cool that it’s mostly traditional! And the way you draw Tails is too adorable and consistent while being in your style, it always feels like you have confidence when you draw him.

oh i think this is gonna be a long one

all in all?i have the same anxiety as you. but i've confidense that i can make something good sometimes, but not that i will get it right every time. So i keep trying, but heres some stuff that helped

a warning though, i keep going on and on in this reply and can get pretty negative at times

my watercolor paper i use costs 2 dollars and has 20 sheets so that's 10 cents per sheet. which i feel helps with my anxiety... it's the canson multimedia block too, 140 msg .....

watercolor sketchbooks i'd find online were around 80 or more BRL, and then 20 BRL shipping.... that's 20 USD in total...

but a block of this plus getting it binded costs me 4 USD.....so i think that one [price] helps alot lol.....

as for the confidence.....

i've had enough time to do quite a bit of trad art, specifically ink and watercolors so im USED to the material and now quite as scared to "mess up" as when i first started it.... [hint, i still am] this is one example of a sketch page, they vary in size, and how "done" they are... i dont really worry too much about maintaining a rule of "everything in this sketchbook must be fully rendered " bc it ended up stunting my creativity

i did try the "sketch it onto a sketchbook and then pass it to watercolor paper" approach and tbh...? not really my thing... i've found that to me the first sketch always end up being looser than when i pass it on... i'm always more focused on getting the flow, composition and pose there than i am getting the right details or right lines or colors etc....

like this one, im more happy with the sketch, it's mroe dynamic, mroe fun

i DO sketch stuff on cheaper paper first when it's for trad art commissions though, just bc there i HAVE to make sure the client is getting what they asked

and i do use 2b pencils AND a "soft lead" mechanical pencil, btu tbh it's mroe bc of the feeling of it on paper than for the look of it...

here for example you can see the circle i used to have a basis on where tails would be.. i didnt erase it as i continued painting bc tbh it was just the sketch. i ended up liking it tho

i actually got quite MAD and angry at myself recently bc i noticed how much my sketches were looser in the sketchbooks when i did try the passing onto watercolors thing and i had a full on discussion with a fellow artist about daring myself to be bolder in the future, it has been working well

I sadly have to say though, that figuring out how to build confidense is more of a personal journey, and i cant claim that what worked for me [trusting my first sketch] would work for you.....

It's time, practice, trial and error....

OH, one thing though that DID help me. is:

-There's no art wasted, even if it doesnt turn out how you wanted it, you still learned something.

-Makins these personal art/fanarts isn't some school paper you have to hand it to be graded and then not get it back. You can re-do a piece as many times as you want until you get it right! I have quite a queue of pieces i plan on re-doing in the future bc i didnt like the first ones i did. im not perfect on confidence and i get scared of fully committing to drawings alot, many of them are pale not for choice bc bc i got scared of making my art too saturated and overworking it

i am about to get negative now so stop reading if you dont want to see that.

HERE NOW i's a alot of pieces i made that im unsatisfied with and plan on re-doing one day: too dull, simply way too watered

which led me to make THIS piece and do better colors

i hATE the way i did the lineart here. it's boring, the anatomies are wonky. it's a good concept but i didnt excecuted it as well as i wanted. but this piece has made me just go and try inking MORE so i could make up for it

which lead to this piece here eventually

This one here.... the colors look so muddy it just makes me SAD, bc i had been so scared to use high saturation that i went with the muddier colors by choice, if i had allowed myself to experiment i wonder how happier i'd be about it

which led me to make THIS piece with softer in value and more saturated colors

The colors and blending of this one are too soft and not bold enough for what i had envisioned it, i made it as fanart of a friends fic and it made me feel like i failed my friend and insulted her fic when i finished this. I dont think the piece looks bAD, mind you. i know it looks cute. and good even. But i had such high hopes for it.

which led me to make this one

THIS ONE OH MY GOD HOW I HATE IT. sonics expression is SO creepy hes like a horror movie weirdo , honestly not my best work when it comes to anatomy

so i've been doodlin sonic now and then as practice so that i could make this one eventually

The perspective on knuckles could be better and the characters look out of place on this scene, the background is ok

but in this piece here i was able to get a better harmony between colors, background and whatever sparse linework i threw in

Theres so many more haha but i'll stop for now....

Dont get me wrong i dont ACTUALLY think those pieces are HORRIBLE horrible,,,, i see the flaws in them yes, but theres always something i like too, and i know people like them, and that people wont throw away a whole piece over one small detail that in the end doesnt even affect the overall thing....

i've just been getting into the headspace of "ok. at least this one is done, onto the next"

plus the whole thing i told you of realising my first sketches are looser....

sorry im not too good at talking about this and my points arent very clear, i dont think this is going to be quite the help you expected it to be because the truth is that the struggle with your art is soemthign that doesnt go away no matter what skill you have...

at times to me it feels more like a mentality practice than skill, reasurring myself that it's ok to get it wrong and try again, etc etc....

i used to go to therapy and one of the things we talked about was my perfectionism, how i used to be so scared to mess up a piece. that i wouldnt even start, and wouldnt draw for months. this has been going for years now and hey i've gotten better.

but..... yeah im in the same boat as you.... except mine is no longer just about the paper quality!

Sorry this got so personal now, i hope that this hasnt killed your hopes on getting better at the anxiety. it does get way better haha... trying to force your brain to not judge yourself so harshly is half the battle in my opinion, the practice of drawing is the other half....

good luck i hope you have fun painting, i know i do, i love the process even when i dont like the result, good night and thank you for the question

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beltransadie · 2 years ago

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A Chat Under the Haitang Tree

Happy New Year! I've been practicing on my samsung tab for the whole past week and I wanted to show the culmination of what I've made with this new years art. This is based off of chapter 58 from 2HA where ranwan spent the entire night chatting under the haitang tree for the new years. I'm still not as good on this tab compared to how I am with the Huion, but I think this is pretty satisfactory. The approach is more painterlike in comparison. I do not have the patience for lineart (I've tried) on this, so it's mostly draw loose then clear it up.

The Journey to This Illustration

What else have I done while practicing? Honestly, most of them are ranwan art. Animatic making had made me proficient in drawing Chu Wanning and Mo Ran gahahaha and they're both fun to draw anyway.

At first, I wasn't used to drawing on a samsung tablet, so most of what I've done are doodles. I also spent majority of my time traveling (like since I got home which was an 8 hour bus ride, I had to go travel again for Christmas and back again, and then the day after I had to accompany my mom for another outing).

Day 1 (12/22)

Here, I slept for 4 or so hours, and find myself having to leave at 5AM. I managed to catch a bus ride home (where, unfortunately, one of my friends weren't able to ride because they waited at the wrong stop), and overall the ride was pretty chill. I spent most of my time chatting with my cousin, sleeping, and drawing. Here's some of what I did during the time. Most of it are Chu Wanning because I feel really comfortable drawing him.

Day 2 (12/23)

I didn't have any place I have to travel to yet, so I went out of the house to draw at a cafe. I still didn't feel comfortable coloring so there's none yet >_<

Day 3 (12/24)

Most of Day 3 was spent outside too coz I had to travel again to visit my grandparents. It was also when I started Yuwu (it has been chill so far, and I'm leisurely enjoying it). I didn't draw anything on the tablet.

Day 4 (12/25)

Back to the drawing grind here. I figured it was about time I try out coloring and I did two! While I had to commute again early morning, the whole of my afternoon was spent chilling at home. The notable stuff I did on the tab is this cute animation of Wanning finding a tiny Mo Ran in his gift, and two colored pieces.

The one on the top right I think was a failed attempt. The colors didn't turn out as well as I wanted, and concluded that it was probably because of the background (which was pure white). I changed it to gray and colored like I usually did, and I think it turned out really well.

Day 5 (12/26)

I had to go out and travel again. Most of the stuff I did during this day were doodles.

Day 6, 7, and 8 (12/27-29)

Gonna compile coz I think most of what I did were at cafes and it all blurs together.

Here's where I actually start getting into coloring. The first thing I colored was the bottom left one. I really like how curly the lineart of Mo Ran's hair is, and the individual groups of hair on Wanning's ponytail flow together. Next is the middle left one, which was just me thinking about how ranwan had 8+ years together idk lol. I drew Mo Ran as a midget there, I didn't know he was actually almost the same height as Wanning by book 1 (179 vs 181) so that was uhh lol.

The sketches for the top left and the right image I did the same day, but the coloring for the right image I did last. Top left uses some rejected designs I had back when I was reading 2HA. I thought it'd be a fun creative exercise if I derive myself of official character designs, and create designs based on how I imagined them while reading the book. (That's something worth making a post about.) Specifically, the designs are post-story. That was also when I started rendering a bit.

It was at the right sketch when I thought I could try a rendering a bit more. Like clean up the lines a bit. Still the same process.

(This wasn't done on the Samsung tablet, but here's the height comparison). Mengmeng and 1.0 are a bit out of proportion i know lol.

Day 9 and 10

All of it leads up to the new years drawing at the top. It was tricky trying to render the two characters, because I had to tilt my pen a certain way so the lines made won't be too broad. I spent day 9 doing the sketch and the rough color, spending time on the background too and Day 10 on rendering the characters and polishing the background.

The app I use (Infinite painter) has a built-in playback function which is pretty neat because I always forget to record my drawing process. I ended up changing the background a couple times because I misread the actual scene lol. But yeah here's the process.

Overall, drawing on this tablet is more painterly compared to how I color on PC gahaha. So many brushes to choose from, and almost no keyboard input >_< it's a bit tedious coz I like having my brushes binded on keyboard, and here I have to move my hand around on screen and sometimes I end up pressing the shortcut for the undo button. But yeah, I think I can make more colored art outside now. Learning to get used on this is fun.

Happy new year, guys!!

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detectivejigsawpines · 4 years ago

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Just a Normal Day

A short drabble about sea grunks having an average adventure, written in honor of their birthday.

Even before they got attacked by the Cthulhu beast, it had been a pretty average morning on the sea for the Pines twins.

Wake up at the crack of dawn (Ford) or closer to late morning (Stan); eat breakfast; reset the spell to ward off the vengeful leprechauns who might still be after them for stealing their treasure in case they’d figured out they were chasing a decoy trail by now; do a little late morning fishing, while keeping an eye out for that golden fish Stan was sure he’d seen swimming under their boat last week, and which he was hoping laid golden fish eggs or something; finally notice what time it was (Stan) and head inside to make lunch.

Just another normal day.

Stan was examining their supplies, trying to decide if it was worth breaking out some of the canned hamburger meat and throwing together sloppy Joes instead of making them eat fish again, when he was knocked skiwampus by the boat being yanked to a halt; as he struggled to regain his balance by grabbing onto the table, a vicious, blood-curdling roar came rumbling through the air from outside.

Stan sighed, and wondered if the kraken was back. In one swift motion he grabbed the spare harpoon they had hanging over the door, and stepped out to see if Ford needed help dealing with it.

It wasn’t the kraken.

It still looked like some kinda big octopus monster, though, with a mass of writhing tentacles where its face should be, and a bulbous head in the back just like an octopus body. The rest of it, at least as far as the torso, was kinda like a human’s but a little bigger (about the size of a baby whale), with slimy-looking green-brown skin and a pair of big, wrinkled, wet wings sticking out of its back. Whatever this thing was, it had grabbed onto the back of their boat, and was looming menacingly over Ford as Stan stepped outside.

“...and you are now my prisoners!” he bellowed, as his piercing golden eyes landed on Stan. “Surrender your weapons now, puny mortals, and I might be merciful!!!!”

“Yeesh, did we trespass on his territory or something?” Stan asked, leaning on the harpoon.

Ford shrugged with one shoulder, since he was trying to write in his journal at the same time. “He didn’t really say; he just jumped onboard and started threatening me.”

“Huh.” Stan looked up at the beast. “You the lord of this part of the ocean or whatever?”

The beast blinked-which looked pretty weird, his eyelids went sideways instead of up and down like humans-before nodding vigorously. “Yes! I am the lord of this part of the ocean, and you must surrender to me now, or else suffer my wrath!!!!” He slammed a fist down against the side of the boat, making it rock up and down so hard he had to scrabble to keep his balance. Stan coughed into his fist to hold back a snicker.

Ford tilted his head. “I could have sworn this was still the primary territory of the Manatee-Merfolk Alliance. Are you sure you haven’t made some kind of mistake?”

“What part of prisoners did you not understand?!” the beast demanded, spreading out his wings and shaking them as his tentacles writhed angrily. “Give up your weapons, now-all of them!!!!”

“...You sure you want that? It’s kind of gonna take awhile-”

“NOW, or I crush your boat in my mighty fist!!!!”

Stan glanced at Ford, who rolled his eyes and nodded. With a small sigh, they began disarming themselves.

********

...A minute passed and they were still at it.

Ford’s pile of weapons was almost as tall as he was, mostly consisting of long-range weapons like guns, but with a few vials of poisons and some handcuffs thrown into the mix.

Stan’s pile was more proportionate, but the number of places that weapons were produced from (including a smoke bomb that he’d somehow managed to keep tucked under his beanie) was frighteningly impressive.

The monster watched their progress with increasingly wide eyes; finally, as Stan produced another set of brass knuckles out of a secret pocket sewn onto the inside of his coat, he spluttered, “...Where were you keeping those?”

Stan just grinned shamelessly. “Trust me, sunshine, you don’t wanna know.”

“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Ford said at last, indicating the pile of weaponry.

“Yeah, well, I’m still workin’, gimme a minute.” Stan produced a switchblade, and tossed it onto his pile. Then, in a brief sleight of hand, he snatched another one from the pile and pretended to draw it out of his coat to toss it on next. “Hey, tentacles-face-ya think you could bring us back by Wednesday? We got a Zoom appointment ta keep, and our niece and nephew hate it when we’re late.” Another sleight of hand allowed him to scoop up another weapon.

“That’s not how this-now see here!” The monster drew himself up to his full height, nearly falling backwards off the boat. “You guys-you puny mortals are my prisoners! And as such, you need to understand that this is not a joking matter! I could squash you both like sea slugs if I wished! I’m all-powerful, an eons-old abomination whose very name would send you into madness if spoken aloud! So you better start quaking in fear and begging for mercy like proper captives!!!!”

Stan looked at Ford. “Sounds like we’re his first.” He looked back at the monster. “You’re doin’ great, buddy-good job on the whole threatening schtick.” He offered a thumbs-up, while using the other hand to snag another weapon that he pretended to produce from another hiding spot.

Ford winked at him, and looked back at their ‘captor.’ “Is this some sort of coming-of-age ritual for your species?” He produced his journal again, pen poised. “Very clever move, by the way, threatening our boat to get us to disarm ourselves. In the future, though, I would suggest that you try taking one of us hostage first, in order to create maximum-”

“STOP IT!”

The monster abruptly started pounding his fists against the side of the boat, nearly tipping it over before instead pitching him all the way onto the deck. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO-I’M YOUR-IT’S NOT FAIR-!”

It took Stan a moment to realize that the angry noises leaving his mouth (?) were accompanied by the sound of frustrated sobs.

He hissed through his teeth, and shot Ford a guilty look.

“...Oh boy. Looks like we got a little one here.”

********

Stan crossed the boat and crouched down in front of the weeping monster, putting a hand on his back and rubbing the spot right between his wings.

“Deep breaths, in and out. You’re not gonna get anything done like this, so just take a bit ta calm down, okay?”

The monster hiccuped and coughed, shrinking in on himself in a way that was painfully familiar to both of them.

Ford knelt down at his other side. “Maybe if you tell us why this is so important to you, we can provide some assistance?”

The monster shook his head and buried his head in his arms. “I just wanted-hic-to show my friends I could catch the Pines twins all by myself,” he croaked.

The two old men looked at each other in a mixture of surprise and slight alarm. “...You know who we are?”

That was finally enough to get him to sit up, wiping his eyes with his tentacles. “You kidding? Every creature of the seas knows who you are! You’re the guys who beat up krakens and steal gold from leprechauns and then you and your boat vanish without a trace! You’re the coolest cryptids ever!”

It took both of them a moment to digest that. By the time they did, though, they were grinning in equal delight.

“We’re cryptids?!” Ford asked, eyes practically brimming over with overjoyed tears.

“Yeah! And people at school were sayin’ you’re just a myth, but I knew you were real cuz my uncle saw your ship up in the Arctic last winter, and I was gonna capture you and bring you to class to show everyone how wrong they were and then I’d be famous and they’d stop calling me a weird runt all the time!” After a second his wings drooped, and he stared miserably down at the deck. “...Guess it was pretty dumb of me to think I could catch you all by myself.”

Stan put a hand on his shoulder. “...Kid...as much as we wanna help, we can’t just be your prisoners. We got our own lives ta get back to.”

“Plus, neither of us is able to breathe underwater,” Ford added.

The monster sighed, and pulled a strip of kelp from around his neck, turning one of the leaves until it was facing him. He squirted a stream of black ink from one of his tentacles, and dipped the tip of another one into the ink and used it to trace something that looked like a bunch of gobbledygook to Stan onto the leaf. “Humans...don’t...breathe...underwater.”

Awww...he’s a super nerd, just like Ford and Dipper!

That gave Stan an idea.

“Hey.” He nudged the monster. “What about a picture of us instead? Along with genuine proof of a close encounter?”

The monster’s head jerked up. “A picture?! Like with one of those weird magic boxes you humans carry around sometimes?!”

“That’s the one.” Stan grinned. He looked at Ford and jerked his head towards the cabin; his brother took the hint and headed for it, returning with an antique Polaroid camera that Ford had been experimenting on, but still took good pictures.

The monster’s tentacles began writhing around his face like they’d come to life, and he let out a high-pitched squeal of excitement.

“This is the greatest day of my life!!!!”

********

It took a bit of staging and directing and trying out different angles, but eventually they produced a set of photos that appeared to be of an eldritch abomination in training being attacked by, and bravely fighting off, the ferocious monster hunter Pines twins (hopefully nobody would think to ask how and why the monster had managed to get these pictures taken).

Then, while Stan took them into the cabin and soaked them in a special substance Ford had invented that would render them waterproof, Ford sat on the prow next to the young cryptid enthusiast and offered tips on future hunting adventures, comparing notes with him on some of the creatures they’d both seen. He also (with permission) took a few samples from the monster, including a long strip of skin (“Make it look like a wound I got in the fight! Man, this is gonna be so cool, Yog-Sothoth is gonna eat his heart out! Possibly literally!”) and some of the ink from his tentacles.

When Stan came back with the photos, he also handed over one of his spare brass knuckles that had lost a corner. “Have another souvenir, kid.”

The monster’s tentacles lashed out and wrapped around their faces in what felt like a really weird version of a hug before pulling away, leaving them covered in some of the slimy stuff they were coated in.

“Thank you so much! I really really hope the leprechauns don’t catch you-if they come this way I’ll make sure to eat some of them so they won’t!” He waved at them joyfully as he dived back into the ocean and disappeared.

********

After a moment Stan wiped his face on his coat sleeve.

“...Well, that happened.”

He turned away and began gathering up his weapons.

“Such a strange mixture of childlike innocence and barbarity,” Ford mused as he pulled out a jar and gathered the slime into it for yet another sample. “His culture must be fascinating-I almost wish he would have taken us with him so I could have seen it.”

“You would’ve drowned before you could gather any data.”

“...You don’t know that.”

“He literally didn’t know that humans can’t breathe underwater, Sixer. Not gonna happen.”

He ignored Ford’s sulking and kept cleaning, while musing to himself over the possible monetary opportunities being a couple of cryptids could bring...

#gravity falls #sea grunks #stan pines #ford pines #cthulhu doesn't stand a chance #stan just adopting everyone #humor #and fluff (sort of)#drabble ish

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scarlet--wiccan · 4 years ago

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Just wanted to show off a little before-and-after bc people often have questions about my process, and I'm particularly proud of this transformation. I make these edits, primarily, for fun and as a practical exercise, but they are also a demonstration of my belief that the representation of Roma people in pop culture-- including mixed and Roma-extracted people such as Wanda's sons-- is lacking visible people of color. I aim to disrupt that, and present audiences with a more inclusive image of European and American Romani, including Jewish Romani such as Billy Kaplan.

As I've said, there is no correct way to design Roma characters, but I've settled on a particular look and color palette for the Maximoff family, and I try to stick to it. This was inspired partly by my own family, but mostly by various, more visibly brown Roma individuals--particularly folks from the same region as Wanda and Pietro. Achieving that look often requires more work than simply adjusting the skin tone-- it also means re-rendering certain facial features. Figuring out how to mimic brush-strokes and drawing styles is often the most challenging part of this process, especially when rendering soft details around the nose or mouth.

When you're starting out with a figure as pale as Billy is here, creating a deeper skin tone will require painting over the base image on several translucent layers. I'm always very careful to preserve the lighting of original image, which usually means that I will partially erase one of the translucent layers in order to let the light through, but sometimes I actually just pitch up the contrast of the base image until it looks right under the paint-over. I occasionally need to add more color or linework to the lips and eyes, because rendering which was originally performed for a fair skin tone can be harder to see under a deeper shade. For Billy, here, the process included redrawing the bridge of the nose; adding definition the the lip and eyelashes, filling in the brows, and adding red tones around the eye socket. I also filled and volumized his hair a bit, and gave him his little gay earring from YA v2.

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danzinora-switch · 5 years ago

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Typing the Turtles (ROTTMNT) Part 2 - Donatello

This started out as an investigation into the turtles’ insecurities, because one thing the show does so well is demonstrate that they are still teenagers. And being a teenager is a confusing experience - there’s angst, drama, exploring one’s identity, a lot of growth, and overall figuring out who you are. That’s a messy process, too! And we see this mess in our turtles: they mess up, they’re learning, they self-doubt, they have fears and insecurities, but they’re also discovering their strengths and how to overcome their inner obstacles.

So after thinking about all this way too long, here’s my psychological breakdown of each turtle (I’ll be referencing MBTI and the Enneagram, but will include links for more general information on those if you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Donnie: INTJ, 5w6

The Architect, the Investigator, the Problem-Solver, the Observer

Firstly, getting into this analysis means that we have to step away from the stereotype that all INTJs are cold, aloof, and unemotional. INTJs, especially Turbulent ones, do express emotion, and we’ve all seen Donnie’s dramatic ‘theatre kid’ side. I’m not going to ignore that. He manages to be both thanks to the INTJ’s tertiary function Introverted Feeling (Fi). Extroverted Feeling (Fe) really allows one to connect and empathize with others’ emotions. Fi, however, is a more internal experience of feelings, and has trouble connecting with others without having been in their shoes. I happen to think Donnie is in a strong Ni-Fi loop, as well, which would make sense because fighting bad guys every day while trying to save the world after discovering a Mystic City which upbends everything you ever knew is pretty stressful. https://www.psychologyjunkie.com/2017/06/21/intjs-loop-understanding-ni-fi-loop/

And it’s super interesting that he often expresses his emotions by literally saying them. “Evil laugh! Relishing chuckle! Gasp!” (Mind Meld) and, one of my favorites, he literally says “Sad face emoji” in Many Unhappy Returns.

So while we DO see Donnie experience and display his own emotions, we also DON’T see him all that affected by other people’s emotions. He’s still pretty stoic in Mystic Mayhem after the delivery guy gets mutated, cracking a joke about imitation crab. He’s unaffected by Todd’s puppies in Repo Mantis, and the only one immune to Warren Stone’s sob story in Warren & Hypno Sitting in a Tree. Pizza Pit shows it best when he’s unaffected when Mikey’s favorite pizza place collapses until the same thing happens to him. Fi at work vs Fe.

As for Donnie being a 5w6, keep this core motivation in mind: “[Fives] Want to possess knowledge, to understand the environment, to have everything figured out as a way of defending the self from threats from the environment.” https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-5

Donnie at his Worst: Donnie vs. Witch Town gave us this gem of a line: “Because I’m the science guy! If mystic powers can do everything I can do, but better, then why would you guys even need me?” And while people have pointed out his need to be needed, I argue it’s a little more accurate to say he has a need to belong. His role in the group is the Brainiac, the Science Guy, the Smart One, and so his very identity is tied into fulfilling that role. A 5’s core fear is of being useless, helpless, or incapable. Mystic powers rendering his tech redundant, and thereby him useless, would be a pretty big threat to the security of his role in the group (that 6 wing kicking in). And remember a 5’s core motivation: to understand the environment as a defense. And he still doesn’t understand mystic energy. It’s pretty infuriating, so he’s pretty insufferable about it.

[Note: seeing mystic power as a threat probably didn’t kick in until their fight with Shredder in Many Unhappy Returns. Prior to that, his brothers were still learning how to use their magic weapons, but Donnie already understood his tech well enough to use it effectively (see their first fight against Baron Draxum in the pilot). But against the Shredder… all his tech was useless. Only the hanky, the hanky, was even marginally effective. His brothers’ weapons were now way more capable than anything he had to offer… core 5 fear. And to cope? Learn all you can about your fear/threat. Except he still hasn’t figured it out; we see even in Air Turtle that he calls Draxum for the mystic expertise instead of formulating his own hypothesis].

We’ve seen this insecurity about his place in the group before. In Mind Meld, as his brothers become more like him, his role is challenged. “Hey, you’re trying to get rid of me, that’s what I do to you!” “But, I thought purple was my... my thing.” When he first meets the Purple Dragon he immediately wants to join them because he sees them as tech peers. In Man vs Sewer even though he professes that it’s his day off, he doesn’t react well whenever Leo does ‘his thing’: analyzing the situation and drawing a conclusion. His self-worth seems to be tied to what he has to offer the group, and we hear that even in his song in The Mystic Library about proving himself.

Besides his insecurity, Donnie is practically allergic to blame. (Interestingly enough, he’s more okay with being wrong and others being right sometimes… sure he’ll deflect, but it doesn’t seem to get under his skin the way being at fault does). He will repeatedly deny fault and shift the blame to someone else when something goes wrong. He denies creating AlBearto in Al Be Back, says the incident with the Purple Dragons in The Purple Jacket is entirely April’s fault (she is not amused) and puts the blame for ditching Todd off on his brothers in Todd Scouts. The one time we see him own up his mistakes is in Mind Meld when no one (except Shelldon) is around to see it. “Yup. I beefed up.” This is definitely an area he needs to work on.

Average Donnie: Donnie cares for his brothers, but that doesn’t always get across in the best of ways. Take the episode Donnie’s Gifts, for example. Donnie never actually got a chance to explain how the gifts work, but we can see protective elements in each of them. Raph: please use your head and don’t just blindly rush in! Mikey: ohmygosh that is so dangerous, please be careful and don’t get hurt! Leo: stop poking the bear, Leo, it only makes him angrier! It makes sense that a 5 who has external fears of the world and has their own protective equipment (the Battle Shells) would extend that to his brothers. And Donnie was able to recognize that even though his brothers got the wrong message, he could move past that and call for a group hug. In the Purple Game he is super anxious to make sure his brothers are okay and not mostly hurt. Insane in the Mama Train also reveals the invention of the Panic Button… and who designed that?

Donnie also seeks a lot of validation. He takes pride in his work, and when his work is appreciated he gives that appreciation back tenfold [such as when he shows off the Turtle Tank to his brothers (Fast and Furriest), or when Splinter says he’s proud of him (Turtle-dega Nights: the Ballad of Rat Man)]. The flip side is that when he’s not getting the validation he needs from others he’ll create it himself, which comes off as arrogant and egocentric. See Smart Lair, when Sheldon 1.0 plays messages of Donnie’s self-worth all night, and is programmed to favor him. Or when he takes full credit for defeating a bad guy: the silverfish in Donnie’s Gifts, and scaring Draxum away with his disco ball in Shadow of Evil. When he gets the recognition for all his hard work from the right people, though, it inspires him to do great things. There is danger in getting validation from the wrong people, however, as we saw in Big Mama’s case in Bug Busters.

Donnie at his Best: Donnie’s at his best (and most relaxed) whenever he’s learning or building something. He gets super excited and happy attending April’s school (The Purple Jacket) or going to the library (The Mystic Library) and wants to attend college someday (The Mutant Menace). The INTJ/5 seeks to absorb information and he’s constantly energized by it.

He’s also energized when he can put that information to use, such as when building something. Did Albearto need a total tear-down in War and Pizza? No. But Donnie had fun making him ‘dazzle!’ How did Donnie cope being in the woods in Todd Scouts? By building an impressive tree fort. Donnie’s projects actually relax him, because he’s exercising his strength and capabilities.

This also works for his method of attacks and plans: Know Thine Enemy. He studies Warren Stone in Newsworthy when they meet him and is the only one who remembers he regenerates by Warren & Hypno Sitting in a Tree. Donnie and Mikey are able to successfully scam Repo Mantis in One Man’s Junk because they know how he thinks. Donnie thwarts everything the Purple Dragons do and can bring Shelldon home because he knows how they operate (The Purple Game, Breaking Purple). He can restore his brothers to their rightful minds in Mind Meld because he knows himself.

Also: music. The fact that one of his Battle Shells has a music mode (Mascot Melee), that he remembers things in song form (The Mystic Library, Donnie vs Witch Town), and that he likes to dance (Stuck on You) is so pure and adorable.

Donnie Relationships:

(while Donnie does see his brothers as dum-dums at times, he admits they’re fun and pretty great to have in Mind Meld)

Raph: We really need a Donnie and Raph episode, but even without one there’s some moments we can look at. I already discussed in Raph’s analysis their general similarities. Donnie doesn’t think Raph always has the brightest ideas, but still has soft moments with him such as giving him $20 at the end of Mind Meld, designing the ‘captain’s chair’ of the Turtle Tank to Raph’s lumbar settings, and appreciating Raph’s pirate accent in Snow Day. They are both protective of their brothers, Raph with his fists and Donnie with his tech. It’s interesting that (I believe) they’re the reverse of each other on the Enneagram: Raph is a 6w5, and Donnie a 5w6. So they both understand the risks involved in what they do (mostly: Donnie still ate poison and Raph still goes on ‘smashcapades’). I really want to see a team-up between them.

Leo: I’m all for the Disaster Twins trope, but to me an episode that epitomizes that isn’t one like Lair Games, where they’re at each other’s throats, but Operation Normal. They’ve apparently done the grandma-getup before. They wind up playing as good cop, bad cop in Fast and Furriest. Sure, one’s high-strung, and one’s laid-back, which can get on each others’ nerves, but there’s also a lot of making up. Brotherly betrayal passes back and forth between them, but never crosses a line. And the numerous times they unconsciously mirror each other can be found with a simple search of the Disaster Twins tag. I’m interested to see more episodes where they work together, even in the background, just because they can get up to wild shenanigans.

Mikey: Mikey’s probably the turtle Donnie most gets along with. They’ve had several episode team-ups: Repo Mantis, One Man’s Junk, Turtle-dega Nights: the Ballad of Rat Man, Breaking Purple, etc. Donnie may be the team academic, but Mikey has strong emotional intelligence. They get along pretty easily, making plans together (One Man’s Junk) and protecting each other (we see Donnie protect Mikey in Repo Mantis and Bug Busters, but we see Mikey protect Donnie by pulling him out of the way in Smart Lair). Donnie helps Mikey focus on the goal at hand, and Mikey helps Donnie communicate better with others. They’re a good team with a pretty solid foundation.

Ultimately, Donnie’s an inventive turtle who wants his brothers to be safe but is still wrestling with a lot of insecurities and unhealthy stress levels. I’m excited to see how he grows into real confidence and utilizes his strengths as an integral member of the team.

For more information on the INTJ and Enneagram 5 personality types, click here:

https://www.16personalities.com/intj-personality

https://www.crystalknows.com/enneagram/type-5-wing-6

https://thoughtcatalog.com/heidi-priebe/2016/01/mbti-and-the-enneagram-2/6/

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #donatello #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #tmnt 2k18 #essay #personality #mbti #myers briggs #enneagram #teenage mutant ninja turtles #INTJ #enneagram 5 #5w6 #i spent way too much time on this #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt donnie

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leam1983 · 4 years ago

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On Grief

This is a long one. You're under no obligation to push further if you don't want to. It's a personal post, so I'll more than understand if this isn't to your tastes. The normally-scheduled pedantry, commentary and memes will resume shortly.

One of my relatives was diagnosed with ALS. What started as an odd case of palsy in her left set of vocal cords that could've been far more benign was just confirmed by her referred physician. It's Lou Gherig's, and with her age and current condition, her prognosis is of three to five years, tops. Sure, Stephen Hawking blew his own prognosis out of the water, but a combination of notoriety and luck enabled him to eke out as much existence as medical tech could've possibly allowed.

We knew things were suspect when my aunt, a marathoner with a monthly sub to Runner's World, stopped running. Her food intake dropped like a stone, and she soon took to increasingly simple painting and drawing styles. At first we thought it was just her wanting to explore simpler rendering techniques, but then...

Then we noticed the twitching. How awkwardly her pens and brushes were set in her hands. She was in great shape and didn't mind living in the ass-end of Sutton, basically in the open country and with a path leading up to her front door that was all in rough cobblestones. She broke a hip against them, last year.

Her speech started to slur, lately. Her last bike trip also landed her in the ER. She doesn't bike anymore. She doesn't run, and being a gourmand by nature, feels obligated to restrain herself, for fear of gaining weight. She's aggressively vegan. Not towards others, but towards herself. No meat, no eggs, nothing. Most of us ovo-lactos and omnivores in the family know her constant snacking meant her seventy-plus body is desperate for energy.

From the look of things, it feels like the diagnosis broke through her bullshit reasoning for being vegan. She wasn't vegan for the sake of limiting her carbon footprint or making more responsible choices at the grocery store, but because she, as a lifelong anorexic, thought she was ugly and needed to lose weight. That's been a constant with her. Age catches up and skin sags? She mistakes it for a love handle, cuts out virtually all sources of protein and carbs safe for tofu, seitan and bean-based preps. Of course, like a lot of anorexics, she'd have bulemic episodes. I used to sleep over at her last bachelor pad, as a teen, and I remember her pantry was loaded up for bear with Danish cookie tins, Nutella jars and whipped cream. I remember she invited me over specifically when she intended to cheat. Then it was back to yoga, pot-smoking, meditation and shopping runs - and she probably kept her purging for when I was gone.

So yeah. I'm betting Belgian Asshole (see one of my previous posts) convinced her to break her vows and went looking for a "slice of authentic Tikka Masala", to quote his email. The entire family is made up of ethnic food diehards, so we spam-flooded his inbox with recommendations. Looks like she'll be eating meat again, soon. Her own email mentioned concerns of strength and stamina, so I get it.

Otherwise? We're gobsmacked. Imagine spending an entire weekday both at work and off work, aggressively goofing off because you're trying as hard as you can not to think of your favourite aunt's mention of assisted suicide as an option.

Three to five years. Maybe one, or two good Christmases. After that, her condition should probably have started to deteriorate quickly.

I'm not close with a ton of my own family. I love them all, but it's more a sense of polite respect than anything involving solid bonds. The only two folks I know I'll be devastated for when they'll die are her, and my youngest cousin on the other side of the family.

I'm mostly okay now. No doubts, no crisis of unbelief, no anger, no rage... But then I'll see her in a more diminished state, one of those days. How am I going to take to it?

Part of me keeps a tally of the deaths in the family. First, it was my uncle on my mother's side. Ruptured abdominal artery, with a leak small enough to pool into the gut's cavity for months. Decay settled in, guy got anesthetized for an intervention...

They didn't even bother sewing him back up.

Second one was my other paternal aunt's new husband. First one was great, but left the country in the seventies to go live in Stockholm with his medical assistant. Second one was a geologist and physicist at the same campus she taught as. French guy, the son of innkeepers four generations down. It showed, too. Our Christmas tables haven't been the same since he left us his recipie books, all his corny jokes on provincial eating habits, and his obstinate focus on turning every 25th of December into a Roman orgy probably befitting of the old Saturnalia traditions. I mean, when's the last time you've had an eight-course meal, outside of Thanksgiving?

Tumors in his mesenteric artery lined the blood vessel's inner walls, deposited virtually everywhere in his body. He was diagnosed in June and dead by August. He'd always been the lanky type, bone-thin even if he hoovered food like he'd never have enough. He looked even thinner in his hospital bed.

Then, my maternal grandpa bit it. Decades of casual alcoholism, cirrhosis more or less jumping on him around his seventy-sixth year. He looked a bit like John Keston, the actor who played Gehn in CyanWorlds' Riven. Same hairline, same hawkish nose, same eyes - just more Cajun and less New England-esque. I don't know if it was youth or stupidity or - anything, really, but I dropped by to see him, just two days before he died. I didn't realize he was tallying my life, asking me if I had everything in order, if things were planned.

Now, I understand.

Next one on the chopping block is Aunt Doris, still on Mom's side. She of the serial mooching, she of the concept of not needing much to get by if you were the cute one of the family. She was pretty enough in her prime, sure - if by pretty you meant "cigarette-butt blonde with a discount Farah Fawcett blow-up and an unfinished High School degree". First husband was an abusive ass who gave her an uncommonly sensitive son, second one figured she'd stick to the minimum-wage circuit while he tore out rotator cuffs or busted his C7 while on his outboard like clockwork. By the end, she roped my grandmother into living with her, spent her days sloppy-drunk and died on her ratty couch while falling asleep and choking on her own vomit.

Before them all, the youngest of my uncles died at age two. Cancer. Never knew which one, was told it didn't matter. You didn't survive much of anything cancerous, back in the late fifties.

Ping-pong this back to three years ago, and my oldest paternal uncle dies. Paul, who smoked like a chimney for most of his life and successfully stopped after discovering Champix. He got to live five great years as the high-IQ oddball he'd always been, smoke-free. Paul was the weird bird in the family, the type to remember a really engrossing story at two in the morning and making a note to call you up first thing in the morning to share it. He always had a project of some sort to work on, like a simulated investors' tank for young entrepreneurs looking to learn the ropes, or a Byzantine arrangement of coaxials allowing four of his lakeside neighbours to pirate his cable sub. He'd invite us over for dinner, gather all the ingredients we'd need for whatever it was he wanted to treat us to - and then he'd let us cook it - just sitting by the sidelines, chatting away.

He was also a bit of a narcoleptic, and looked a bit like William Howard Taft if you'd worked him out of these old sack suits and into modern shirts and suspenders. He fell asleep practically everywhere, with his more wakeful environments being his workshop and his property's dock. He took me out fishing, once, and knew what the entire family expected.

"Oars're here, Gremlin, fish're that way. Wake me up when you've got a bite."

At this point, it wasn't even a point of concern; it was just an Uncle Paul Thing, the exact thing you'd have expected out of this kind, eccentric blob of a man whose idea of fishing involved pushing his hat over his eyes and basically all but ensuring that his roaring snores would scare prey away. He'd been a supposedly high-IQ type, terminally bored with almost everything, only really getting agitated and interested back when I asked him for help for my Junior High Computer class's Javascript calculator. Once the syntax hit something familiar and he realized that JS has some similarities with FORTRAN, he was on a roll, acting like someone had snuck a Red Bull in his coffee.

Well, fibrosis caught up with him. His last hours were spent directing us on how to cook what would've been his last meal. I think he really just wanted to know we were alright, that we still could exchange laughs around the kitchen counter. He clocked out the way he always did, except he had an oxygen tube running under his nose. His head bobbed down, he snored loudly for a few minutes, then turned increasingly quiet...

And that was it.

And now there's Isabelle. The marathoner, my partner-in-crime when it comes to professing to have a healthy diet while occasionally cheating in glorious, weekend-defining means, my gateway to cannabis and also the first person who took my cringy self-insert fanfic fodder and went No, that's worth it! Push it, develop that universe of yours!

I wouldn't be almost two-thirds of the way through my first decent manuscript, if not for her, and I wouldn't be shopping for publishers with the same energy you'd reserve for weekend-grade Facebook putzing-about. I owe her part of my self-acceptance, and part of my discovery of what defines my routine to this day. Isabelle was my first meditation coach.

And in three to five years, she might be gone.

I just thought grief might be... noisier, is all. Louder. Right now, it's just germane to confusion, and it's sitting there. There's a pinch of fear in it, too. My parents are in their mid-sixties. How long do I have left with them?!

And the family and I just covered that up with jokes and, well, cooking. I've been told I'd make a half-decent therapist but - navigating your own emotions is hard work...

I don't know. I guess I needed to put this down somewhere.

#personal life #tw: cancer mention #tw: alcoholism mention #tw: death mentions #grief #coping

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currywaifu · 5 years ago

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𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: gloxinia 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: nanao taichi/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 1.2k words 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨: mullin, visibly cxnfused

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a cute surprise, and either reader is too observant or taichi isn’t as slick as he thinks 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: this work is a part of the flower shop event, a series of unconnected flower shop AU one-shots

You couldn’t have predicted that within the five or so minutes you were gone, a surprise in the form of a flower awaited you.

For a short time frame, you had gotten up to scour the wooden shelves for a particular reference book you needed for your essay. It was relatively easy to find— though your school’s library didn’t have the biggest assemblage, the title was sought-after enough to have a few copies provided by the faculty. With little to no detour you immediately went back to the table you, and only you, occupied, only to become momentarily stupefied.

It was a bit of a sight to behold, not by its size but instead how it misplaced it looked against its backdrop— a striking shade of purple against the white, lined papers your notes were hastily written on.

For quite some time, you inspected it as though it was a foreign entity; in truth, you recognised nearly every aspect of it. From the filler baby’s breath accenting the singular flower, to the white tissue papers wrapped the flower, to the dainty little ribbon with a flower shop’s name tying the whole thing up nicely.

Everything was familiar about it save for one thing— the addresser.

You pulled out what would surely be a hint to who sent it, a letter, maybe even a name that would designate the flower surely wasn’t for you.

Somehow, the sight of the pastel yellow paper made your cheeks flush more than the flower itself. Despite not having read anything yet, holding the heart-shaped origami envelope between your fingers made you realise that, yes, there was a pretty high chance that someone meant to give you these— that someone liked you enough to give you something with romantic intentions, albeit not in person.

As you unfolded the envelope, you couldn’t help the quiet giggle that left your system. Five words, as simple as they were, were enough to draw a smile upon your face as you found yourself rereading the slightly messy handwriting several times over.

I like you a lot!

Head shooting up, you scanned the room for anyone who could have possibly placed it there— if not him or her, at least an accomplice? To your disappointment, you doubted the people in the mostly vacant room had anything to do with it.

Doing your best to fold the paper back to its original design, you pondered what to do next— what would happen next. Was this just a one-time thing? Were they going to do something again? Would they actually confess to you?

Beyond giddiness over a potential admirer, it was hard not to feel curious over a guy who gifts you a flower from the very same flower shop you part-timed in.

…

As two weeks go by without a noise from them, you figured they had either planned that to be a one-time, doing this to move on thing, or perhaps that the whole thing was some elaborate, weird joke by someone in school.

It was pretty clear to you they didn’t want to be found, if you were to base it on the fact that they gave you no clues to their identity whatsoever, save for their handwriting and the fact that they knew some degree of origami. If they even made it themselves.

… well, technically you could just ask your boss about the appearance or anything of who bought that particular bouquet but that didn’t seem very moral of a choice.

Honestly, you didn’t think you’d ever find out who gave it at this rate,

until you did.

Undeniably, the way you put two and two together was incredibly anti-climatic and all around simple.

“Taichi-kun, do you want to split the work? Like, me doing odd and you doing the even numbers?” he seemed to tense up the moment you talked to him, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you had said something wrong. Maybe he wasn’t that good with this particular topic? You couldn’t say it was your favourite lesson either, so maybe it would be better to just help each other out?

“Actually, we can answer it together too! We have the time,” you added quickly, looking at him to gauge his reaction. Without any time spared for you to worry, he seemed to instantaneously beam like the sun, a warm glow accompanying him, cheeks dusted with red, a few shades lighter than his hair.

“Yeah! Let’s work on it together!” his exclamation caught you off-guard— it was unusual for someone to act like an excitable puppy over a 20 item math pair-work worksheet of all things, but all the same it was quite adorable!

You pushed your desks together so the both of you could answer the paper properly, barely any side by side distance between the two of you save for the wooden chairs which you two sat on.

The realisation wasn’t gradual. Actually, it was rather immediate— perhaps you’d spent too much time staring at the 5 words he wrote down, but the moment he started writing both of your names on the paper you already knew it was him.

You’d be lying if you said the initial appeal of this, whatever this was, wasn’t the idea of someone liking you; now that you were 99% sure it was Taichi, however, the feeling of delight and thrill didn’t go away whatsoever.

He hardly knew you, you were sure of that much! You definitely barely knew anything about him, too, save for a few instances where you’d work together as a group or through unintentionally eavesdropping here and there.

… but while you couldn’t (immediately) reciprocate, you couldn’t deny wanting to get to know the guy who gave you a flower with that kind of meaning, whether he knew it or not.

“Taichi-kun, you’re good at origami, right?” you mentioned suddenly, not failing to notice how your seat mate seemed to perk up like a puppy’s ears would. Cute? Was he always like this?

“W-wait, you noticed?!” as soon the words left his lips he began to fumble, trying and failing to take back his words before settling for just straight-up admitting to it. “Ehe, I think I am! If you request something, I can make it!”

His moment of confidence rendered a smile out of you, although… since he offered… perhaps you could take the chance to do one last verification? You momentarily wanted him to make the litter heart envelope you’d been cherishing quite recently, but perhaps that was too simple.

“Can you do flower origami?”

“Yep! Tulips, lotus flowers, lilies, you name it!”

“Wahh, that’s cool! How about—“ the moment the name of the flower left your lips, Taichi’s pen nearly fell from his fingers. His face had already gone as bright as his hair, but you couldn’t help but tease him, at least one last time.

“We had them at the flower shop I part-time in,” you could practically see the cogs in his head turning the more you talked, until he let out a noise with semblance of a whine and a gasp the moment the name of your workplace escaped your throat.

Though you weren’t the most confrontational or assertive of people, you really couldn’t help yourself— a little teasing side of you opened up from trying to match his vibes.

It was as though, despite the multiple sources of noise coming from all directions, your mind only focused on the two of you, and how else your relationship would continue from today.

“ thank you for your hard work today at the flower shop! here, feel free to take home this gloxinia with you~ ”

【 gloxinia 】 love at first sight

“ maybe you’d like some more flowers before heading home? ”

-ˋˏflower shop masterlistˎˊ- | -ˋˏfic masterlistˎˊ-

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i didn’t mention what flower was given by taichi because i’m a dummy and forgot gloxinias were more of potted/house plant flowers- as in, i don’t know if they can be in bouquets/sold per piece? oopsies~

#a3!#a3! act! addict! actors!#taichi nanao #nanao taichi #a3! x reader #cafe: dessert menu #nathya's flower shop #a3! taichi #a3! actor training game #a3! game

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