#I have so many ideas but only ten percent make in into my sketchbook

[bayuutober]

Ok so True Colors had huge Castle in the Sky vibes right???? Saw that ep and was like :0000000 so we’re making ANOTHER ghibli au

Amphibia x Castle in the Sky

Based off this scene:

And when Marcy shares her coat with Anne in the second temple.

[undercoveravenger]

The Boy with the Pac-Man Tattoo

Original request: "Could i request a micheal x reader where Michael thinks the reader hates him because the reader is always glaring or staring at him but in actuality the readers just looking at him so he can draw Michael. One Day by accident the reader submits the drawing and it gets shown to a whole school and the reader gets embarrassed and runs off then Michael goes to comfort him."

A/N: To the anon who requested this: you are my absolute favorite! I love this boy so much, you have no idea. I don't care if my blog ever says requests are closed, I will always accept writing for him ❤

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"He's doing it again," Michael groused, keeping his head down as he pretended to work on an English assignment. 

"I'm sure it's not that bad-" His best friend started as he perked up beside Michael, looking around less-than-subtly to catch the supposed culprit. "Yeah, no, he's definitely staring at you like he wants you dead," Jeremy amended unhelpfully.

Michael groaned quietly, glancing toward the right side of the room again to see if he was still being watched.

Yep, same (h/c) hair, same red leather-bound notebook, same (e/c) eyes narrowed at him intensely. Their eye contact broke when you looked back down at your notebook, scribbling away at it in the same way you always did.

"What do you think he's writing?" Jeremy's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Michael shrugged, beginning to pack up his things as the bell rang. "Probably different ways to murder me and make it look like an accident," he replied, waiting for his friend before heading for the door. "You and I both know he's hated me since we met."

The brunet winced as he collided with someone just before he could leave the room, the force knocking both he and his attacker to the ground. "Shit, I'm so sorry man-" he started, eyes widening when they met those belonging to the boy who'd been glaring at him all year.

"Watch where you're going," you growled, leaning forward to snatch up your journal from where it'd fallen before scrambling to your feet and disappearing into the crowded hallway.

Michael sighed, picking up his spilled things (and his what was left of his dignity) and standing back up. "Told you he hated me," he said simply, looking back at Jeremy.

Jeremy shrugged, shifting his backpack straps higher up on his shoulders. "Yeah, can't argue with that, I guess."

He shook it off, leading the way toward his beat-up PT Cruiser, knowing that both of them really needed a weekend of video games to take their minds off of the hell that is Middle Borough High School.

---------

"I really don't see why you won't just tell him you like him," Jake called, not even looking up from his phone as he spoke. He didn't really need to, after all, the three of you had had this conversation a million times.

"Yeah!" Rich chimed in from his place next to Jake, "It's not like he'd reject you! I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure that Mell's into the artsy type anyway."

You rolled your eyes, putting the last couple of touches on your latest drawing. "Not everyone has perfect track records of not getting rejected like you two do."

Rich rolled his eyes, setting aside the xBox controller and making his way over to you. "You see this?" He asked, pointing at your drawing, "For one thing, this is fucking amazing, for two, it's kind of pathetic."

"Hey!" you protested weakly.

Rich rolled his eyes, "You know I'm right; you can't talk to the guy, so instead you draw pictures of him."

You ducked your head, unable to argue.

"You do realize that if you actually talked to him-" Jake started, sitting up and twisting around to face you. 

"You guys could be fucking by now!" Rich interrupted, waving his hands in the air over dramatically.

Jake blinked, staring at Rich for a second like he couldn't believe he'd just said that aloud. "I was going to say that maybe you could date him instead of just staring at him from a distance."

"Whatever," was all you could muster, visibly perking up when you heard the doorbell ring downstairs. "Would you look at that, an excuse to stop talking about this," you said sarcastically, turning on your heel and making your escape.

Rich waited until he heard your footsteps on the main floor before launching himself at your desk. He was methodical, pawing through drawers until he found what he was looking for.

"Rich, bro-" Jake was understandably confused, "What the hell are you doing?"

Rich turned around, your red leather-bound sketchbook in his hands. "I thought it was about time that they get their asses in gear."

"You know he doesn't like people touching that," Jake's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "What are you planning?"

The shorter male grinned, flipping through the book until he found one of his favorite portraits that you'd done of Michael before carefully extracting it from the binding. "Figured my buddy's art was good enough to be on display at the art show, don't you think?"

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The Middle Borough High School Art Show was one of the highlights of the school year for many students. It wasn't necessarily that they liked the art, but it was hard to dislike an event that resulted in classes getting postponed. Most of your peers ended up trying to sneak away with someone to hook up or sneak in a quick smoke behind the bleachers. 

Normally you enjoyed the art show just as much as the next guy, but this year you were a little preoccupied. First a few of your drawings had gone missing, then Rich and Jake started acting strange. Hell, one of them had latched onto each of your arms and were steering you down the school hallways purposefully.

They finally began to slow down when the three of you approached the end of the hall near the auditorium where a large crowd was gathered around one of the art pieces. Your heart stopped in your chest when Rich shouldered his way closer to the front, dragging you with him, until you could actually see what everyone was looking at.

Michael couldn't believe his eyes. Sure, the artwork had been blown up to about ten times the original size, thus losing some of the details, but it was all there. The shading of the leaves and placement of the tree branches perfectly matched those of his memories, the sunny sky paling in comparison to the glow surrounding the focus point of the piece.

The massive drawing focused on a young man as he stood under a looming maple tree. He faced away from the viewer with one hand holding a phone, head tipped down toward it, and the other arm hanging casually at his side. Even he was turned the other way, he was still drawn in such a familiar way that it felt like it didn't matter if you couldn't see his face.

Somehow, the artist had managed to make him blend into his surroundings and stand apart from them at the same time. Worn red fabric came across looking well-loved and warm and individual pen strokes made the polar bear on the back of his hoodie look soft enough to touch, while the mountain range at the base still looked jagged and harsh.

His hair looked wind-tousled and his headphones looked like they actually held weight where they were tucked over his ears. His skin was exactly the shade it was in real life, down to the way the light brushed over the Pac-Man tattoo on the subject's forearm, perfectly mirroring the one on Michael's own.

Really, it was undeniable that the drawing had been based off of Michael. Hell, if he'd had a photo of him standing and waiting for Jeremy after school, he was half-convinced that the artwork would be more accurate.

Michael was further surprised when his gaze drifted lower and he noticed the artist's name printed on a sheet of paper hung below the art. He twisted, turning to look at the faces around him. He paused as his eyes locked onto you. 

You looked… sick. It seemed like the very existence of your artwork on that wall made you feel like you wanted to vanish, and the expression only worsened as your gaze locked with his.

As Michael watched, you tore yourself away from Rich and Jake, ducking your head and curling in on yourself as you turned tail and disappeared into the crowd.

Michael didn't even have to stop and think before he took off after you.

---------

When Michael finally found you, it was under the same tree as the one in your drawing and he was struck by the irony for a moment. Eventually he forced himself to move, settling himself on the ground beside you as he tried to think of what to say.

It was you that finally broke the oppressive silence. "I'm sorry," you said.

It was then that Michael noticed how small you seemed in that moment. As one of the three most popular guys in school, you'd always seemed to emanate confidence- you were untouchable. But now, as you sat there with your head down and your shoulders hunched, he was struck by the fact that you were just as human as anyone else. "Why would you need to be sorry?"

"Isn't it a little, I dunno, creepy?" You laughed humorlessly, "For me to have been drawing you without your permission?"

Michael thought for a minute, trying to come up with an appropriate reply. He ended up shrugging, "I mean, it's better than thinking you were out to murder me."

That got a real laugh out of you and Michael couldn't help but grin in response. "No," you said once your laughter had subsided, "That's not something you'll need to worry about." Your grin faded a little, "Neither is the drawing thing," you amended, picking up the little red notebook that Michael had always seen you with and turning it over in your hands for a moment before holding it out to him. "I- uh, I won't draw you anymore and I figured that since you're in them, they technically belong to you."

Michael took the book from you slowly, fingers lingering on the worn leather and thumb brushing absently at a tear along the side. He lifted the cover slowly, gaze taking reverently at every drawing he uncovered, each one seeming to rewrite a little of what he'd thought he known about you. Each drawing unearthed something you treasured, whether it was a portrait of him (he couldn't help but blush at the sheer number of them, let alone the quality) or a quick sketch of a bird you'd seen and thought pretty.

He closed it after a few moments, nudging it against your thigh to get your attention. You turned back to him with a raised brow, clearly confused. "You aren't keeping it?"

"No," Michael replied, shaking his head slowly. "Who am I to keep an artist from his sketchbook, after all."

You still looked puzzled, "Really? I thought you'd be a lot less cool about this."

Michael shrugged, looking away with a flush on his cheeks, "It's kind of, I don't know, flattering, I guess? That you thought I was worth drawing."

"Worth drawing?" You mocked with a roll of your eyes, "If you were just worth drawing I would have done one and left it at that." You lifted the book pointedly, "I think you and I both know I've done a lot more than that."

The brunet chuckled, biting his lip as he tried to think of what to say. "You can, um, you can still draw me, if you want?"

You twisted around to look at him again, clearly shocked.

Michael raced to explain himself before you could say anything. "I mean, with me knowing about it this time, of course, but I thought- y'know, they're really good and with some better posing and me knowing not to move or make weird faces or something, then they could be really great and-" he cut himself off, face burning, and his hand twitched up to mess with the cord of his headphones the way he always did when he was nervous. 

You couldn't help but laugh, grinning fondly at the action you'd noticed in your time admiring him. You brought a hand up to catch Michael's, gently tugging his hand free of the cord and setting it back on his leg with a light squeeze. "You're in it for shared custody then, huh?" you teased, tapping a finger against the cover of the sketchbook. "You realize that means you'll have to deal with me more often, right?"

Michael's blush darkened and you ducked your head, "I… wouldn't be opposed?"

"Shared custody it is then." You grinned, laying back in the grass to look up at the clouds, content with enjoying the way your rocky day had turned out. Maybe this wasn't you asking him out, but it was a start.

Maybe by this time next year you'd be able to talk him into doing some nude modeling...

[universallywriting]

Drive Home

Steven's breath puffed in the air as he came to sit beside her, feet crunching in the frost and pine needles. He was glad they'd planned it the way they did, just cold enough so the Rocky Mountains were dusted with snow. Specks of brown and green covered the mounds that swallowed up the horizon, towering and beautiful, almost touchably close and endlessly far at the same time. Pine trees circled close around them, boulders jutting up from the earth, and he came to sit down on one beside Connie with a smile.

It was odd up in the mountains. Occasionally hikers would pass them by, or a family of tourists, but off the more well-worn trails that was rare. It was still odd for Steven, who so rarely traveled, to see so many people pass him by that he didn’t know the names of. So often he felt like he should see Buck’s familiar deadpan face, or hear Jenny’s laugh from one of the people that passed him by.

But the only familiar face was Connie’s. The thermos of tea he had brought her was hot in the metal flask. When they drove lower, he would switch back to her favorite black teas, carefully measured with swirls of honey and just the right kind of milk to make her smile. But high up in the mountains, the water didn’t boil hot enough.

Just thinking of her face the first morning she’d tried to make them both tea at 10,000 feet was enough to make him smile. The weak brew had made her nose wrinkle up in confusion, baffled at her perfectly measured cup failing, before she burst into giggles and explained the correlation between how water boiled and the altitude.

She was so brilliant. He handed it to her, enjoying the feel of being stupidly in love and out in the world alone with her before murmuring, “How do you feel?”

"Small. But in a good way. You?" She took a deep breath of mountain air, looking over the landscape. He wondered if she felt the same as him, or if we-moved-a-lot Connie never felt that same warm loneliness.

"Same." He smiled and looked back out. Questions about wanting to see familiar faces could be saved for the road home when they were barefoot and bored. “Wish I had come to places like this more often. Oceans are beautiful but... Nothing makes you feel more like a speck than a mountain. It's comforting."

"Just another little person, running across a big marble." She nudged him softly with her free hand. "Gets a little too much when you really see the marble though. I think going out in space can make Earth feel a little too small."

Steven nodded. "Yeah. This is a good middle ground. Earth feels big. I feel small. I like it this way.”

“Why don’t we stay?” Connie asked lightly. “Drive around forever.”

“I could be happy getting lost in these woods,” he agreed, but there was no weight to it. There was no weight to her words either. They swept away in the breeze, tumbling down stone and needles and babbling brooks to the world beneath.

"Me too." Her fingers wrapped tight around the sketchbook in her lap, the cover digging into her skin just at the brink of hurting. "I'm, um... I'm done with it, by the way. With my portfolio. I’ll submit it in the morning."

"That's great!" Steven said, throwing his arm around her shoulders with an eager squeeze. His lips found her temple in a reassuring kiss, seeing the nerves in the stiff lines of her body. "I'm so proud of you. Did the landscapes turn out the way you wanted?"

She opened her sketchbook and Steven eagerly looked over her shoulder, never tiring of the contents. It started with the temple. The morning they left Steven had found her on the beach, wrapped up in a hoodie in the early dawn chill, sketching his home and occasionally sipping at a coffee that had gone cold, and though she had insisted it wasn’t important, he had happily delayed their start until she finished.

Connie flipped to fields of grain. Traveling the midwest had been much less exciting than he expected. Keystone had rolled by and their eyes had glazed over as everything seemed to be the same three trees and two rocks. They had burst into Buckeye and passed through Kansas and had mumbled incoherently about corn while the radio tried to keep them alive and driving. That night they had stared at Connie’s grain drawing with a ghostly horror, neither of them remembering when she had drawn the stuff.

She moved past a drawing of rolling grassy hills. In Nebraska, he had floated to the top of the RV with her. While she drew, he had read about the Great Plains on his phone. They had taken a moment, in warm breeze and isolation, to let tears hit their eyes and cries choke their lungs as they read about what happened to buffalo who had roamed there once. They had whispered about colonies of all kinds, and there was no one around to reassure them, so they took the time to mourn things that might have been.

They had done the same in sand dunes, or close to it. The sketch she passed held more memory than a picture, the grays of her pencil capturing more than just the desert, but him breaking down over Kindergartens sucking life from the earth. Another sketch just after, with a lovely pink flower blossoming on top of a cactus, and he could hear her voice reassuring, “Nothing’s as lifeless as you’d think.”

Connie paused on his favorite, the polar bear she had sketched from the San Diego Zoo. They had spent such a long day there, but when they got to the polar bears she had stopped and gushed about them. The Spirit Morph saga had inspired her to do research, and she rambled facts. Polar bears had terrible success rates, with only two percent of their hunts being successful, did he know? 

He really liked that idea. The largest bear of all, living in such a harsh environment, failed almost all the time. It fumbled and watched as victory slipped away, but it came back to try another day. It survived.

She finished on a sweeping mountain landscape, not too different from the one they sat in now. Connie set her phone next to it, a copy of her finished project next to the rougher draft. "That's the last one," she said quietly, pointing to the screen. "I think it turned out okay."

"It makes Earth look beautiful. I’d put it in a gem brochure," he reassured. “You chose a lot of amazing stuff.”

She bit her lower lip. “I hope so. I tried to choose what a school would think is best, not just the stuff I think is great. The stuff that shows skill, you know?

He kissed her cheek this time, saying, "Any school is going to be lucky to have you. You're amazing, Connie."

"I'm okay," she said, voice very practical about her own skills. Connie looked at him with a little laugh. "I don't know what's scarier - getting rejected or getting in. Mom was mad enough about the world US road trip gap year."

"She got over it! You know, after the meltdown." Steven said, wincing a little at the memory. He had sat behind her, trying to support her as quietly as possible while Priyanka and Connie growled and snapped at one another, each insisting on how the next year should be spent. And, at the end, the tearful apologies, the confessions of fear over the future… He had to admit that it was a relatable feeling, even if no one had fought with him.

"She'll get over this too. Come on. This is what you've always wanted. You're going to be an animator, Connie,” he said, and just saying the word made her eyes go a little wide with hope. 

He remembered her earliest drawings with him, rougher but already so much nicer than his own. He remembered her working through how to draw anime books, silly cat-eared characters with huge eyes. Steven remembered her fumbling beyond that, hours of Tubetube tutorials, crying at the tablet he got her for her birthday, the countless gifts of fanart for his favorite shows. He remembered trembling hands the first time she showed him a comic, with characters he had never seen, because she had snatched them from the air the way he grabbed music.

Steven knew he was tearing up again like he did every time he told her, but he could never hold it back. “It’s what you live for, Connie. It’s what makes you happy. You're going to tell stories."

Connie breathed again, taking in pine and chill and rocks older than even the Crystal Gems by orders of magnitude. The world was big and wide and old, the universe even more so, and usually that made her problems feel small. But nothing could swallow up the fear and doubt today. She took his hand tight in her own.

"This has been amazing. Driving across the country, seeing all these different parts of the world, pitstops to warps so we can see everything Earth has to offer. Steven, I..."  She looked up at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "These past ten months have been the best months of my life. Everyone said we were going to get sick of each other. Your dad gave us that speech about how it was okay to bail. Everyone thought we were going to mess this up but... I'd do this for another year if it wasn't for college."

He was careful not to jostle her phone or sketchbook from her lap as he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. "I loved this. I love you. No expectations. No scary future. No responsibilities. Just a big journey together.”

“I’m glad you loved it as much as I did,” she said with a smile.

“More than that. I needed it.” He laughed and shook his head. “Connie, I never could have asked for anything better than this. Everything at home was a mess. I’m so tired of all the work and responsibility and wondering what I’m going to do with my life. But this past year I just got to be with you and not be afraid."

"But now we have to go home," she whispered looking at the RV parked behind them. The place where they slept and ate. The place where they made stupid jokes and listened to terrible radio and podcasts. The place where they’d cried and kissed and worked through things they never thought they’d work through. But that was over now, and it loomed like a hearse. “We have to get in there and drive all the way back to Beach City. And then I... I have to wait to see if I get accepted.”

She laughed, cold and bitter, and took a hand to wipe at her eyes. He couldn’t see any tears falling, but Connie felt them stinging. “I’ve messed up on a lot of stuff, Steven. I know I seem smart, but most of it is from studying so hard. I’m not… special. I’m not talented. The odds are good they’re not gonna want me. And if they don't, I guess I'll go be a doctor or something. And, if they do, I..."

I’m screwed either way.

Steven shook his head hard. "You'll be an animator," he insisted. He took the thermos and set it aside, untouched, just so he could take both her hands in his. "You'll do exactly what you've been doing ever since I met you - telling stories. You'll finally get to be who you've always wanted to be."

She winced. "But my mom-"

"Who cares?" Steven said, barely holding back his temper. "We spent a year, just the two of us! You don’t need her to agree."

"Ten months," she corrected softly. "But, you're right. We did."

Steven didn’t like his temper. He didn’t like how angry he got. He didn’t like how easily he could drag Connie into it, drown her in it when they fused. He felt guilty about that. He worried about that a lot, that maybe his anger meant he wasn’t as good of a person as he liked to try to be. He loved Dr. and Mr. Maheswaran, didn’t he? His anger shouldn’t be so burning and flaring when all they wanted was for Connie to be safe.

But his feelings for her parents got tangled in his own, and when he started down that path he felt that little voice hissing that they should leave them alone, and that they could do things on their own, and for once they wanted to live their own lives and forge their own paths, and was it really so much to ask for unconditional support in that?

Steven took a steady breath to calm himself. "She should be in your life. The gems should be in my life. But nobody... Nobody gets to tell you what to do with it. It took me so long to figure that out. I didn't get that making other people happy and hurting yourself to meet their expectations aren't the same thing. I spent my whole life trying to be my mom. I didn't know what to do when I wasn't."

Connie nodded weakly. "I know."

He took her face in his hands, pressing her forehead to hers. "You're not your mom. You never have been. You don’t love rules and coloring inside the lines. You sneak candy into movies and find loopholes in the law and climb giant robots and... And you love books. And comics. And television. You love survival." 

Steven flipped back to the polar bear, gently tapping the page. "You drew this because of the warrior bears in the Spirit Morph Saga, because those books meant everything to you, and you want to make something like that for other people. That’s who you are. You want to inspire people like people who have inspired you."

She closed her eyes, trying not to cry. “I know. But I’m… I don’t know if I…”

“I’ve seen you capture Pearl on a page, and I can see all her determination and all her fear at the same time,” he whispered. “I’ve seen you draw your dad as a superhero, with a goofy flashlight and a big smile, because that’s who he was when you were small. You… You drew me, Connie.”

His thumbs smoothed over her cheeks as he took a shuddering breath. “You drew me the way you love me. It was just me, sleepy in our RV, and I looked peaceful and happy and I was looking outside and… and I could feel the way I love our stupid little rock. I was human and not human and I loved it, Connie. You made me feel so much.”

“I know, Steven. I know you feel the things I make but…” She whimpered, the tears he hadn’t seen before finally rolling. “What if I'm not good enough? What if I reach for Kansas and burn out halfway there?"

Steven hugged her tight, and let her bury her face in his shoulder. They were all alone up there, softly rustling trees holing them up from the terrifying landscape ahead. But there were such beautiful things below, pressed into the pages of Connie’s sketchbook, and it was time to face them all.

“I’ll pick you up.” His face buried in her hair, thoughts of their families fresh in his mind, and there was only one thing to promise, "I'll drive you home. And we'll all love you anyway."

[anika-ann]

Think Again (When You Stop Freaking Out) - Pt.1

Good Morning... Me?

Pairing: None                   Word count: 1586

Warnings: language,  hella lot confusion, vomiting, blindness, sensory overload, ... irony and sass? ;)

Summary: Matt doesn’t feel like Matt. Steve doesn’t feel like Steve. How did that happen?

Story Masterlist

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Matt Murdock woke up with a startle and found out he was blind.

Now that wasn’t a strange occurrence. Unfortunately, Matt had been waking up unable to see for the past two decades, ever since he had been in an accident involving messed up chemicals and an act of spontaneous heroism on his side. In return, he had gained extremely enhanced senses and with time, he had learned to use them to see.

Which was exactly what was wrong at the moment.

Matt woke up… feeling blind.

The room he was in was strangely silent, no intrusive smells attacking his nostrils, no distinctive taste on his tongue, no extremely smooth sensation on his skin– gripping the sheets, he was very sure these weren’t his silk ones, this was not how silk felt and yet, the sheets weren’t scratching his skin so hard it would make him cry. Matt would think they were simple cotton, but this was not how it supposed to feel.

And he fucking couldn’t map the room as he couldn’t pinpoint his radar sense; his world of fire lacked fire.

He snapped his eyes open, his breathing raged, sitting up with a jolt.

He was not ready for the picture in front of him.

After all, this kind of picture only existed in his memories. This kind of picture had colours. Sharp edges, painfully so, as if every freaking atom had its place. Then again, Matt wouldn’t be a good judge of the state of his eye-sight, he couldn’t tell if it was 20/20, because he couldn’t remember what it felt like.

What could tell and was hundred percent sure of, was that… yeah, he could definitely see.

It freaked the shit out of him.

Feeling the bile rising to his mouth, his body jumped up on instinct, taking a bee line to the bathroom. It was only after he emptied his stomach that he realized that he had no clue which bathroom it was and how he had known where to go.

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Several blocks over, a man jolted awake, snapping his eyes open, only to be met with darkness.

He gasped, blinking, but there was nothing. His heart started hammering in his chest, a strange sensation vibrating through his ribcage, warmth spreading into his body with each thumb-thumb. A fraction of second later, the noise of the city assaulted his ears and hit him like a train – a train passing him by inches. He jumped back, hitting the wall behind him, quickly rolling over, falling off bed and shooting to his feet, his arms raised and fists curled up.

The noise didn’t fade out, making him raise his hands to his ears.

There was a weak taste of mint toothpaste in his mouth, barely covering other strange tastes he couldn’t quite place. His nose was itching with at least twenty different smells, mingling together and overwhelming his brain, easily causing him a headache. Not to mention his whole body was aching and he felt like every freaking cell of his body was alerting him on pain.

He thought the sweatpants he wore felt soft, yet there was an itch against his skin, as if they were made of the roughest fabric he ever felt. His balance was complete shit – the room around him pounded, the floor shaking with what he was sure was a subway train riding right under his feet and on top of all that, he was still in darkness, a strange darkness that felt somehow vibrant, flashes calling out for him.

What the hell was happening?

Calm down, soldier. You know better than to freak out. Deep breaths- oh god, so many smells, breathing in deeply was so not a good idea-- focus. Think of it as of a recon mission. In a very loud environment that resembles a battlefield, but those you know too.

Yeah, but going in this blind is a bit unusual.

Three quick knocks – and he would swear he felt them echoing in his bones, his ears pretty much bleeding with that sound – snapped his mind from racing.

“Matthew, I swear to God, if you don’t open the door, I’ll—… use my own key,” somewhat familiar voice threatened, apparently changing his mind in mid-sentence and offering a less violent solution.

It didn’t matter. Because he was in some serious trouble. The voice was too loud, joined by cacophony of tens others whispering or yelling in his head, everything felt wrong, his head hurt and apparently, he was in some Matt’s home.

He couldn’t remember drinking last night, but he made himself a promise. Steve Rogers swore that he would not get within a ten feet distance to Thor’s Asgardian liquor ever again.

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Exiting the bathroom after a very long shower – and about an hour spend on the floor, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the tiles didn’t feel as hard as they should against his knees, his body feeling overall wrong, definitely not his, and oh yeah, he could fucking see –, brushing his teeth for at least three times (why did the toothpaste taste so faintly again…?), and examining himself in the mirror – blond? He was blond now? – he went to examine the space he had woken up in.

The apartment was rather plain, but definitely belonged to a well-situated person, only if judging by the fact Matt found himself in at least thirtieth floor. During his freak-out, he had come to a bit unorthodox and, let’s be honest, totally insane conclusion, that he had been in a body of someone else. A steroid-freak, by the way, because what the hell, Matt was sure this amount of muscle tissue could not be natural, what was the guy doing apart from drugs? So yeah, that was a thing.

The thing was, there wasn’t much else to go on. He discovered an impressive closet, ranging from work-out clothes (wow, so many work-out outfits), comfortable homey sweats and t-shirts  and hoodies (Matt’s clothing of choice for now), to shirts and suits (not too many, which was strange, because again, rich guy, clearly).

In the nightstand, there were two sketchbooks (one extremely well worn) and Matt was no expert, but the drawings in it – mostly pretty random – were quite good. Huh. Rich. Freaky-ripped. Most likely on steroids. Handsome though. Artistic. Matt was surprised he didn’t find a woman’s (or man’s, whatever) underwear lying around at least, because this guy could to be a playboy for sure.

This guy. In whose body Matt was now, waking up, just like that.

He ran his hand down his face.

“Good morning to me,” he murmured, not even startled by the stranger’s voice which was – naturally – not his own.

“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” a female voice with thick Irish accent sounded above him and Matt jumped back, immediately raising his fists to protect himself (not himself) from the intruder (who might actually live here, unlike him). He saw no one.

Saw no one. Hilarious, Murdock.

He squinted, looking around, which was something he was not used to goddammit, he was supposed to sense the person coming, but while he guessed his hearing was alright for an average person, he was definitely not fine.

“May I be of any assistance?” the woman asked and Matt tilted his head in attempt to locate her better, which was perfectly useless.

What, was she invisible? Because that would be so fucking ironic he might even laugh. Able to see after two decades and the first person I meet is invisible. Congratulation, Universe, you managed to fuck it up again.

“N-no,” Matt tried out, hoping the weird… thing? Person? Would disappear and leave him alone to his inspection.

“Apologies, Sir. You seemed confused.” You have no idea. “And you were sick. Shall I inform anyone about your-“

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself,” he blurted out, not even caring it probably didn’t sound very convincing.

“Understand, Sir.”

Matt slightly shook his head, easing his fighting stance and allowing himself to breathe in. He didn’t even know how he would fight. The self-awareness of his body, his ability to control the incredible mass was way too low, but hell, he would not have had a choice. And who knew, he might be able to pull out few moves, this body clearly remember something..

Because apparently, he was a captain. Captain Rogers. He thanked God he had a name now, at least. Now, if he would meet someone, he would at least know to turn around if someone addressed him.

It actually made sense, this guy being military. Retired maybe? Then again, he seemed fast and agile, which he would expect from an active soldier, but he wasn’t exactly an expert.

He wondered for a brief moment if he should call Foggy, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Firstly, he only found a locked phone, which sucked, secondly, he still had no idea where he was, thirdly, he didn’t want to put his friend in danger, and finally, he was aware that if someone called Foggy, claiming he was his best friend and business partner, but had woken up in the wrong body, Foggy would probably hang up anyway.

With a deep breath, he walked through the room, gathering courage to exit the relatively safe space. Gripping the handle – which cried under his determined hold, the material curving, what the hell, steroids, seriously - he opened the door, feeling like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

“Alright, Captain Rogers. Let’s do some recon.”

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Part 2

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Tags: @mermaidxatxheart​ 

If anyone wishes to be tagged as well (to this story, to my fics in general) by any chance, just lemme know.

[gansey-just-gansey]

Under the Needle part Six

The alarm went off at eleven, but Ronan had been awake for most of the night. He had difficulty sleeping even when he didn't have something to look forward to the next day. And he definitely had something to look forward to.

He had made it through his first week of classes, not having skipped a single one, despite the fact that most nights he was up with Gansey making a scale model of the William and Mary campus out of cereal boxes and glue. It took up a large portion of the floor in their dorm room, but it made Gansey happy and gave Ronan something to do when he couldn't sleep.

Now it was finally Saturday, the second Saturday after his last tattoo appointment. He hadn't gone to Cabeswater since the day of the fight, and he felt like he was going through withdrawal. The tattoo looked like it had mostly healed even after the fight ripped off his scabs. He hoped this meant Adam would tattoo the next part of it today instead of waiting another week. He didn't think he could wait that long.

Ronan threw off the blankets and got dressed, nearly tripping over the mini campus as he pulled on his jeans. Gansey woke up when Ronan swore and grabbed at the closet door for balance. “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“Eleven,” Ronan said, pulling a tank top over his head.

Gansey sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Your appointment is in an hour, right?”

“Yeah. You coming with?”

“Yes, but I need something to eat first.”

“We can hit up the dining hall and get something to go.” Ronan was already pulling on his shoes.

Gansey scrambled to get his own clothes on. “We have an hour, there's no need to rush. It's ten minutes away walking.”

“It's impolite to be late,” Ronan said. In reality, he couldn't wait to get to see Adam, but he wouldn't admit that. In the many years he and Gansey had known each other, Ronan had never shown the slightest inclination to get anywhere on a schedule that wasn't his own.  Which was further proved by Ronan's need to get to the shop as soon as was socially acceptable when you had an appointment.

They walked to the dining hall after Gansey finished getting dressed, Gansey grabbing a muffin and Ronan a single black coffee.

“You're getting tattooed today, you have to eat something,” Gansey protested. Ronan grabbed the muffin out of Gansey's hand and took a large bite. He handed it back to Gansey.

“Thanks,” Ronan said around a mouthful of muffin.

“Ronan,” Gansey sighed. He shoved the muffin back into Ronan's hands and went to get himself another one.

They made it to the shop half an hour before the appointment. Blue was in Noah's chair this time, one arm over her eyes and the other stretched out to give Noah access to her wrist. Noah leaned over her, totally engrossed in what he was doing. When Ronan and Gansey stepped through the door, she lifted her arm just enough to look at them before covering her eyes again. “He's in the back,” she said. Gansey to go watch her get tattooed as if he just naturally gravitated toward her at all times.

Ronan went to Adam's station to wait. On the desk that held all his tattoo supplies laid his sketchbook. Ronan picked it up and flicked through it. It became abundantly clear that Adam was behind most of the flash on the wall. Many of the designs were there in between what must have been specifically for clients. Ronan found the original drawing of his own tattoo and studied it. It would take another four sessions at minimum to finish all of it, they had only done half of the outlining so far. Ronan flipped to the next page after his tattoo. There was a drawing of two boys in an alley way, one slouching against a wall and another walking by.  Ronan brought it closer to his face to see the details better when Adam came back from the back room.

“You're early,” Adam said, stepping back into the front room. He stopped suddenly. “What are you doing?”

“Just looking at some of your other designs,” Ronan said, flipping back to the page that had Ronan's tattoo on it. “They're really good.”

“Thanks,” Adam said, taking the notebook back, “but I don't allow clients to see other clients' tattoos unless I've been given permission.”

“Oh.” Ronan felt no shame at having looked through Adam's drawings, but he didn't want Adam to be upset with him. “I'm sorry.”

“What did you see?” Adam asked, starting to set up the supplies for Ronan's tattoo without looking at him.

“A lot of the flash you have up. A couple random designs. I was mostly looking at the finished version of my tattoo.” Ronan didn't mention the last drawing he had seen.

“I could've shown you the finished product,” Adam said, giving him a sideways glance.

“Can I see it then?”

“I thought that's what you were looking at already,” Adam raised an eyebrow at him.

“It was, but I didn't get to finish looking at it,” Ronan said glibly. Adam looked suspicious of him, but handed the book back. “It really looks...,” Ronan struggled for a word. “Perfect,” he said, looking back up at Adam.

The tips of Adam's ears turned pink. Ronan caught himself wishing he could whisper dirty things into his ears while they were that pink. He shook it off.

“Thanks,” Adam said. He took the book and went back to taking the supplies out of the cupboards.

Ronan rocked back on his heels, unsure of what to do. Eventually he just sat down in the tattoo chair to wait for Adam. Gansey left Blue's side to come see Ronan.  “Your girlfriend done with her tattoo?” Ronan asked.

“She's not my girlfriend,” Gansey said, but he was blushing again. “But yes, she's done. They're wrapping it now.”

“You should just ask her out,” Ronan said.

“Shhhh shut up,” Gansey whisper-yelled. Ronan raised his eyebrows. “I'm going to okay? I just have to figure out how.”

“Just ask her to dinner.”

“It's not that simple.”

“It really is.” Ronan was quickly getting bored of this conversation. His eyes wandered back to Adam.

“If it's so easy then why don't you just ask Adam out?” Gansey was still whispering. Ronan whipped his around. Gansey looked self-satisfied.

“I will if you do,” Ronan issued the challenge. Gansey's smug look dropped. “That's what I thought.”

“No, I will. I'll ask her out,” he said. Then he marched over to where Blue was admiring her new tattoo. Shit. He hadn't thought Gansey would take the bait. Blue looked up at him and smiled. After some murmured words Ronan couldn't hear, her smile grew bigger. She nodded and pulled her phone from her back pocket to put Gansey's number in. Gansey turned slightly towards Ronan and gave him a thumbs up behind his side.

“Fuck,” Ronan muttered.

“What?” Adam brought over the ink and was starting to set up the gun.

“Nothing.” He thought about the picture of the boys in the alleyway that Adam had in his sketchbook. Maybe Adam was just as obsessed with Ronan as Ronan was with him. He decided to would ask Adam out after today's session so he could leave if Adam said no.

“You ready?” Adam asked, distracting him from his fantasy of Adam saying yes to more than dinner tomorrow night.

“Yeah.” Ronan took his shirt off and let Adam look at it before he placed the stencil.

“It looks like it healed quite nicely, even after the fight with the dickhead,” Adam said, poking at different parts of his back as if to test how well the skin had absorbed the ink. Shivers ran through Ronan's body. “Are you cold? We can turn down the AC if you need.”

“No, I'm fine,” Ronan said. He sat backwards in the chair again so Adam would have access to his back. Adam placed the stencil on the bottom half of Ronan's back.

“Do you want to check it in the mirror?”

“No, I trust you to get it straight.”

“The only thing I can get straight,” Adam said under his breath.

Ronan about had a heart attack. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Adam turned the tattoo machine on. “All right, let's get started then.”

Four hours later Ronan stood up again and stretched his arms and legs, working out the kinks in his joints. He had gone another session without asking for a break. His back was screaming, but he honestly hadn't wanted a break from Adam's hands.

“How much do I owe you this time?” Ronan asked, reaching in his pocket for his wallet.

“Eight,” Adam said, a little stiffer than he probably meant it to come out. Ronan knew it was most likely because what he had pulled the last time.

“Here,” he handed him a black card this time. Adam ran it and tilted the reader toward him so he could tip and sign. He tipped him another twenty five percent and took his card back. When do you want me back?”

“What days work for you?”

“It needs to be a weekend because I have a full class schedule this semester.”

“Let's say same time two weeks from now?” Adam started flipping through the agenda to mark Ronan down.

“Actually, I was thinking maybe tomorrow night at seven?” Ronan drummed his fingers on the front desk.

Adam sighed. “I thought I was clear that you need time to heal in between sessions.”

“I didn't mean for the tattoo,” Ronan said. “I was thinking that Italian place over down the block.”

“Oh.” Adam's eyes were wide. Then his mouth and eyebrows turned down. “Oh. I'm sorry. I can't.”

Ronan's heart sank. Of course this beautiful, delicate boy wouldn't be interested in someone as hard and difficult as Ronan. “No problem. I'll see you in two weeks.” He turned and beckoned Gansey to leave with him.

“Wait, Ronan.” Ronan stopped and pivoted back to Adam. “It's not like that. I mean, that is I just can't. It's just a bad idea.”

“I got it, Parrish, we're good.”

“No, I don't mean because of you. It's just a rule at the shop that we don't date clients,” Adam finally articulated.

“Oh, okay. Well maybe Noah can finish the tat instead-”

“Absolutely not, I'm your artist,” Adam said firmly. Ronan raised his eyebrows and Adam's sudden outburst seem to surprise even him. The confidence wilted away back to uncertain self-consciousness. “I just mean that I started it, I should finish it. But you could always try asking me again after we're done with your tattoo.”

“That's at least six weeks,” Ronan complained.

“You'll just have to wait.” Adam.

“Will you say yes?”

“I guess you'll know in six weeks.”

[merigreenleaf]

Short Story: “This For That (Re)Quest”

(This is the “Adair’s This for That Quest” story I’ve been working on for over a month and I had a ton of fun with it, so I hope you guys like it! It’s funny and cute and hopefully a little sweet, too. :) For this I used two prompts from @shortficchallenge - this one and this one. This would take place a few months after book 3 [Iconoclasm]. You can find the masterpost with links to read all of the short stories in this series here.)

————————————— 

“Hey, buddy? Can you get me a book? Like a really thick one?”

Adair stopped chewing and stared at Sol with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. Sol didn’t read. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, not exactly, but it certainly wasn’t something he went out of his way to do. When he did the book was more likely to have pictures in it of monkeys wearing hats than it was to contain actual words, so this request was odd. Then again, when was anything about Sol not odd?

“Whhmph dho-” Adair gave up trying to ask and worked on chewing the largest bite in the history of mankind. Luckily Sol was the kind of person to wait patiently when his best friend was being a greedy moron. Adair swallowed and tried again. “Why do you need a book?”

“Oh! I was wondering what ‘whhmph’ meant! I thought you were making up words. Hey, we should make our own language and not tell the others how to speak it! How smarfy would that be? I bet we could make up loads of words! Then we could talk and they’d never know what we were saying!”

Adair leaned against Sol’s worktable and brushed crumbs from his shirt as he waited for Sol to get to the point. At least the two of them had mutual patience going for them. 

“I don’t think they ever really do.” Between Sol’s tendency to get distracted and Adair talking about paint colors and recipes, they tended to get a lot of blank stares from the others. “We can try if you want, though. But I was wondering why you wanted a book.”

“Oh! Right! Sorry.” Sol gestured at the pile of wood and carpet on the table with one hand. His other hand was busy pressing down on a smaller piece of carpet. “The glue needs to set and my arm’s getting tired. Something heavy can sit on it so I don’t have to.”

“Please don’t roost on the desk.” Adair could only imagine this thing getting glued to Sol’s pants. At least he hoped Sol wore pants. He wasn’t about to check and there was a sixty-forty chance Sol forgot again. 

“I’m not feathery enough to be a chicken,” Sol said, as though this was what Adair implied. 

“I know where to find a book. I’ll be back in a sec. Don’t move!” Adair headed for the door, nonchalantly grabbing the pot of glue as he walked past and hoping Sol didn’t have another one stashed away somewhere. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could make sure Sol didn’t end up glued to something-- or for that matter, so the cat didn't end up glued to anything. This morning Sol had been struck by the idea to build what he called a “cat palace” to reconcile with Willow after their last argument. Frankly Adair didn't want to know what a cat could argue about. Maybe Sol ate her canned fish or played with one of her catnip mice. 

He stepped out the door and into afternoon sunlight a good deal dimmer than the weaving-lights Sol had hovering and bobbing around inside his wagon. Adair placed the glue pot onto the stair of the wagon and called out, “Hey, Etch!”

It came as no surprise when Etri’s head appeared over the roof of the wagon he shared with Adair and Blythe. Even expecting this, Adair's heart pounded at the thought of being so close to the edge of a fifteen foot drop. He said more to his feet than to his sentinel, “I need a book.”

“You wish to read? I will be right down.”

He wasn't exaggerating. Etri’s black boots appeared in Adair's vision far too quickly for Etri to have used the ladder to climb down. Adair wasn't sure if Etri using his weaving made the height thing better or worse. Better, he supposed. Etri couldn't fall when he had no body to be pulled down by gravity.

With Etri firmly on the ground and back to normal, Adair smiled sheepishly up at him. He hated getting Etri’s hopes up about the book. While he liked hearing Etri read aloud, he could think of about ten or a hundred things he’d rather do than read on his own. Unless it was a cookbook. Those he would devour before devouring the good things he made from the recipes. “Nah. Not really. Sol needs it."

“I know Sol does not wish to read.” Etri crossed his arms in a disbelieving stance more often used by Blythe. All he needed was the raised eyebrow to complete the look... or maybe he was doing that and Adair just couldn't see it behind the dark hair that always fell in Etri's face in alluring waves. 

Adair fought the urge to brush the hair aside in case any glue had stuck to his hands. “He says he needs a book to hold down the thing he’s making. Can I borrow one of your really heavy ones? If you don’t, Sol might glue his butt to it instead.”

What Adair thought would be a good argument didn't sway Etri. “Usually Solei is gluing his rear to objects. I fail to see how it could be my problem if the same could happen to one of my books.”

Etri did have a point, but that was okay. Adair and Sol could come up with another way of holding the carpet down that didn’t require anyone’s butts or books or books about butts. Adair was pretty sure Etri didn’t own any of those in his collection of dry tomes about the history of lumber production or whatever. Buttresses, though, were a possibility because he did own books about architecture. Etri had started researching art almost obsessively after becoming Adair’s sentinel and Adair knew it was because Etri was determined to be the best sentinel possible despite his lack of any standard training. It was a little like how Etri insisted on growing his hair out for the sentinel braid. It wasn't required for him to wear this, only tradition, but Etri had this drive to prove himself worthy of his status. No matter how many times Adair told him he was already perfect, it never seemed to stick.

With his thoughts now fully on the man he loved, Adair found his attention returning to the original subject. His head snapped up when Etri cleared his throat. Right. He could sort out buttresses belonging to his sentinel later. He had a task to do. “I’ll tell Sol and we’ll get something else.”

Etri caught his hand as he began to walk away. “There is no need. I simply require a contract.”

Adair blinked. This made no sense. What was his was Etri’s was Blythe’s. They’d never needed a contract before. “But we’re already bonded. Do contracts work between people who are linked?”

Etri laced their fingers together and squeezed his hand. “Never for you. For Sol. Before Blade and I lend him what he wishes, he must sign a contract. This way he takes care and is less likely to lose or break what we lend.”

That, on the other hand, made a lot of sense. Adair kind of wished he’d known about this sooner. It would have saved Sol from using up all of his orange paint, for one thing. "Good point. Where can I find it?"

Etri nodded towards their wagon-home he so recently sat atop. “Blade has them filed away. She should have blank ones prepared, as well.”

Of course she would. If Blythe was anything it was organized. Organized and entirely unlikely to put up with Sol losing or breaking anything of hers. Adair tugged on Etri’s arm, his signal for wanting his tall love to come down to his level, and was granted a kiss. With an extra kiss to Etri’s nose that always left him adorably flustered, Adair headed up the stairs with a grin on his face.

His good mood vanished as soon as he noticed Blythe laying herbs across every one of the kitchen counters. He’d planned to start dinner once he got the book for Sol and now this changed his plans. There was nothing he could do about it, though. He had to share the kitchen with her since it was where she prepped her healing stuff and they’d probably need it if Sol’s invention backfired again.

He walked over to his other sentinel and wrapped his arms around her waist. She sighed at the interruption but didn’t move away. “I’m busy here. What did you need?”

Adair nuzzled against her back. She smelled good, like whatever herbs she’d been cutting. These weren’t the ones he used for cooking, so the closest description he could give would be “kind of spicy and a little minty.” “Besides a hug? A contract. Etch says you have some blank ones?”

“Of course I do. You’ll have to wait, though.” She rapped her knuckles against the counter top. “They’re under here and I can’t get to them until these are done drying.”

Wait, the counter top lifted? Adair spent at least eighty percent of his day in the kitchen and he never knew that. Blythe must have guessed his thoughts because she chuckled. “You never found them? We figured you'd realize they were there. We keep them where Sol can’t find them because he kept using them for scrap paper.” 

Sol had a habit of tearing pages out of Adair’s sketchbooks to do exactly this. Once the herbs were out of the way, this was another reason to make him sign a contract. “Good idea. I’ll go let Sol know he can’t have the book.”

“Sol doesn’t read.” Adair covered a laugh behind his hand and a cough when Blythe gave him the same look Etri had with the expected raised eyebrow. 

Adair had never learned how to do the raised eyebrow thing despite months of being around her. One time he thought he’d had it until Sol noticed and rushed him to Blythe to make sure he wasn’t coming down with some deadly illness that made his face twitch. “Yeah, I know. He wants it to hold down glue.”

“Of course he does, and I bet Etch wants the contract so our dopey inventor doesn’t ruin the book.” She lowered her voice and glanced around. They were alone except for the cat who was snoozing in a patch of sunlight. “Between you and me, I sometimes wonder if Etch loves those books more than he loves us.”

Etri never needed a contract signed to keep Adair safe, but apparently the safety of his books was a more important worry. Maybe Blythe was right. Or maybe Adair was a little irked that no one deemed it important enough to tell him about said contracts. An entire tube of apricot-orange paint, and that color wasn’t cheap. 

Too late he realized Blythe was talking again and only caught the end of it. “-but I could dry these faster if I had some heat. Can you ask-”

“Dray! Yeah, I’ll go do that.” The sooner they got the herbs out of the way the sooner Adair could start dinner and the sooner he could claim one or two of those blank contracts for himself.

“I was going to suggest Sol since he needs the book anyway.”

Adair pushed himself up on his toes to kiss her, then headed for the door. “No good, he’s got his hands glued to a table. Well, not literally. I hope. I’ll be back in a sec!”

After enough searching that seconds turned into minutes and were creeping towards a quarter hour, Adair finally spotted Dray in a field not far from where the wagons were parked. Dray was practicing with their swords… knives… daggers... whatever they were, they were on fire, which was perfect. Adair jogged over and immediately regretted that decision. As he bent over and tried to catch his breath, he wheezed out, “I need to borrow some heat.”

Dray stopped spinning and lowered their swords. Yeah, swords. That had to be the word. Those were too long to be knives. “Excuse me?”

Adair straightened up, realizing now how stupid the request sounded. “Your heat? Blythe wants it so she can dry her herbs faster. I know this sounds dumb and she’s probably just setting me up, so I’ll be leaving.”

Dray scoffed, but not for the reason Adair expected. “Is that all I ever am to anyone? A stove?”

“Umm… I’m pretty sure that’s usually Sol.” One of the benefits to having a Lightweaver as a friend was that Adair could use him as his own personal stove. It came in handy when he got so wrapped up in a drawing that his food went cold. All he had to do was hand a bowl to Sol and it would be reheated in seconds. The trick was getting Sol to not balance the bowl on his head because he took his role as a stove quite seriously and assumed that a stovetop was the same as his top.

“Hmph. I’m twice the stove he could ever be. I’ll give her enough heat that those herbs will be dry in seconds.” Okay, so this was turning into some sort of spitting contest. Whatever, as long as someone gave Adair the heat Blythe wanted. “I shall need something to put the flame into. Solei keeps borrowing all my vessels and conveniently forgetting to return them.”

“Yeah, Sol likes to borrow a lot of things,” Adair muttered under his breath.

“Precisely. He should have a few left, if he hasn’t smashed them all to bits by now.” When Adair turned to leave, Dray called to him, “Wait. We all know I can do this better, but why didn’t you ask Sol first? You two are always attached at the hip. I would have thought he’d be your first choice.”

Once again Adair was hit with a twinge of guilt. Dray had become like a sibling to him and he hated to think they felt neglected. After this fetch-quest was over Adair would have to spend more time with Dray. Then read more books for Etri. Then get Sol to sign a bunch of contracts so he’d stop stealing his art supplies. Adair maneuvered past the blades and wrapped his arms around Dray in a tight but careful hug. When Dray kissed his cheek, he knew he was forgiven. Still, he should do something to make up for being a terrible brother. Maybe they could go to a concert together. Dray loved music.

Adair gave Dray a squeeze and stepped back a safe distance from the flames. Even knowing Dray could-- and would-- prevent the flame from hurting him, fire still scared him a little. “I was already with Sol, yeah, but by now he's probably entirely glued to a table. Also he needs a book.”

“The glue I can understand, but a book? Sol doesn’t read.”

Adair shrugged as he began the trek up the hill. “So I’ve heard.” 

To his amazement Sol was where Adair left him. This could only mean the assumption about the glue was right, but Adair was too afraid to ask because he knew it would fall on him to find a way to unstick him. Maybe olive oil would do the trick... “Dray says you should have something for holding fire. Can I borrow it?”

Sol nodded his head to the left. “Yeah, it’s over by the window.” 

Adair prodded at the pile and found nothing in the mess that looked like it could hold anything. Except… he spotted a small wooden box and picked it up. He prodded at the stuck catch until it opened and was rewarded for his effort with a clump of pocket lint. Scrunching up his nose, he quickly set it back down. Something made of wood wouldn’t really work even if it wasn't gross inside. What he needed was a thing that could hold fire. What held fire? 

He nudged half a chess set out of the way. When a piece slipped off the board, he dove to catch it and rammed his knee against the trunk supporting the pile. He need not have bothered with the rescue; the poor knight was already missing its head. As he wondered when Sol learned how to play or if this was a thing Etri left behind when he moved out, Sol called over to him, “Oh, wait, no! I gave you my last jar. Right?”

Frit. Sol gave him a couple when he needed to can up a few things last week. Adair had only himself to blame for this one. He was limping out the door when Sol asked, “Hey, can you get me a jar of olives? You know the green ones with the things in the middle? I’m starving.”

“Olives with pimentos? Yeah, sure, fine.” At least Adair knew he had those. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was the contents of his own pantry even if Sol did occasionally like to commandeer it as his own personal hideout and probably knew what was in there better than Adair did.

By the time Adair returned to his wagon his knee was feeling a little better and giving Blythe another kiss on the way to the pantry helped distract him even more. The preserves were easy enough to grab-- they were on the bottom shelf, right where he’d left them. Right where… the jar felt suspiciously light. He unscrewed the lid to find it half empty. He knew it was almost full just this morning because he’d put a small amount on his toast. This meant a third contract for Sol to sign: no using all his paint, no ripping pages from his sketchbooks, and no stealing his preserves. His gaze traveled the shelves, seeking the olives Sol wanted, and he sighed. Considering how this day was going, of course it would be on the top shelf.

“Blade! Can you reach something for me?”

“There’s a step stool in there. That’s why it’s in there.”

Technically the stool was also for Dray since they were shorter than he was, but Adair wasn’t going to argue technicalities with a height looming in his near future. He eyed the stool with trepidation. He didn’t trust it not to suddenly rise five feet in the air as soon as he stepped on it. Considering how Sol spent so much time in here, it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility. “I know, but please? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

Blythe nudged him out of the way so she could get past. “Just this once, then I want you to do it next time. It isn’t as though I can do much until I have heat, which I seem to remember you were supposed to get. Why are you looking for food or is that a dumb question?”

“It’s not for me. Sol wants some olives.” 

Blythe rolled her eyes. “That would have been my second guess. Can’t he get it himself? He can at least reach rather than sending in Shrimpy McGee.”

Adair stuck his tongue out at her. This had the added bonus of proving it wasn't blue and he hadn’t been snacking on the jar of preserves he held. “No, he needs the book and-”

“Right, right, he’s glued himself to a table again.” Blythe reached up with barely a stretch and retrieved the jar. She handed it to him with a shake of her head and a comment under her breath about his brave heroics in the face of dangerous step stools. 

Now there were four things Adair needed to do when this was done: spend more time with Dray, read more of Etri’s books, get some contracts for Sol to sign, and work on his fear of heights so he could stop disappointing Blythe. All this because he innocently agreed to help a forgetful friend who wanted to snack on olives, of all things.

As he passed through the kitchen Adair grabbed a spoon from the drawer and stuck it into the preserves. There was no way he was going to let this go to waste and he was perfectly happy to let Sol have the olives. He began to wonder how Sol had been eating the preserves since no spoon had gone missing, but he probably didn’t want to know. He climbed into Sol’s wagon to hand him the olives, then scurried away before Sol could ask for something else. By the time he reached Dray he had acquired an empty jar and a stomach ache. This so wasn’t worth it. If he saw another blueberry again it would be too soon. 

Through the last mouthful he said, “Here’s your jar.” 

Well, he tried to. It probably sounded more like “Whhmph.” 

Dray snuffed out one sword and placed it in the grass so they could take the jar. With the tip of the other blade they transferred some of the flame into the glass. The first time Adair saw this done he thought it was a trick until Sol and Dray showed him that they both really could place fire anywhere they wanted without anything bursting into flame or melting. 

Dray sniffed. “Ah, the scent of burning blueberries. Blythe will surely appreciate this.”

They held the jar out to Adair who took it with some hesitation. It wasn’t nearly as hot as he’d expected and holding it was just on this side of bearable. In hindsight, though, he probably should have grabbed one of his potholders. “So how will this dry the herbs?”

All Adair could think of would be tipping the fire onto the counter. Despite the lack of history of Dray’s fire causing anything to combust, Adair wasn’t about to test this in his new kitchen. 

Dray picked up the sword and relit it by bringing it to the other. “Blythe will know what to do.”

So Blythe had done this before. Then why couldn’t she have retrieved the heat? Adair pondered this as he climbed the hill for the second time in ten minutes. His legs felt like jelly-- or possibly the preserves-- by the time he was back inside his kitchen. He handed the jar to Blythe and kept a careful eye in case she decided to dump the flames onto the counter. Her watering can was within reach and he could only hope it was full. When she squinted at the jar, the fire inside flared into a blinding white glow that made him scramble to cover his eyes. Belatedly he thought of grabbing the potholders for her, but her hands were probably fine since being a healer meant she didn’t injure easily.

Sure now that both his sentinel and his kitchen were safe, Adair slumped into one of the chairs at a table also covered in herbs and waited for her to finish waving the jar above the neat rows of leaves. He eyed the watering can again, this time hoping it might be empty. If his stomach kept rolling like this, it might gain a new purpose as a bucket for him to be sick in.

All too soon she finished and the herbs were in their respective bottles and jars. If she'd given him one of those to use, it would have been a lot more convenient than making him down what felt like ten pounds of blueberry while running a marathon crossed with a scavenger hunt. As he tried to keep his stomach under control, she lifted the counter and rummaged inside. Adair felt too sick to care about asking her for a contract for himself. “Here you go. Etch knows what to do.”

It seemed like everyone around here did except for him. All he knew how to do was to never say no and to eat so much his stomach felt like it was going to burst. He took the contract without a word and dragged himself back outside. Etri was already on the ground, which was good because there was no way his stomach could handle seeing him perched up high again. Adair handed over the contract along with a pencil he always kept in his pocket. After Etri signed it in his tiny cramped handwriting, he brushed Adair’s mouth with his sleeve. The look he gave was all too knowing and all too incorrect. 

Adair batted his hand away and took the contract and pencil back. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear. Dray needed a jar and Blade needed fire. Food was the only way to get it.”

It wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d said all day, but it was close. With a small, fond smile on his lips, Etri leaned down to kiss him, then pulled a book from somewhere inside his coat and handed it over. “And you need rest. You have run yourself ragged for this.”

Adair wondered for a moment how Etri was so aware of this when none of the others were until he recalled that Etri usually had a bird’s eye view of everything happening in their small camp. Adair fought back another wave of nausea at the thought and headed back into Sol’s wagon for the last time. He placed the book on Sol’s worktable, wanting to drop it but knowing to be careful, and then dropped the contract and pencil in front of Sol. It turned out Sol’s arm wasn’t glued down when he caught the pencil before it could roll off the desk and drew a sun with a happy face at the bottom of the paper.

Adair let out a long sigh of relief. Finally, this was all done, he could go rest, preferably somewhere far away from anyone who’d want anything from him. Maybe he could take up hiding in the pantry, although that was probably too close to the row of preserves. Certainly not the roof of the wagon, either. Under the wagon had some potential...

“Hey, can you get me-”

Adair took a step back and was holding his hands out to block the request before the words were even out of Sol's mouth. “Sol, you know you’re my best friend and that means I love you and want to help with whatever this thing is- Creators help me, why does it have arms?- but there's no way in the name of any of the nine Muses that I'm doing this ever again.”

————————————— 

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[eastofthemoon]

Mini Lions- Hidden Skills

Title: Mini Lions- Hidden Skills

Rating: G

Series: Voltron Legendary Defender

Summary: Someone has been stealing Pidge’s pen and Hunk is shocked to discover who the thief truly is.

“Okay, who keeps stealing my pens?!” Pidge declared as she entered the kitchen. Green leaped in the room growling as she carried Pidge’s backpack in her mouth.

Hunk and Yellow glanced up from bowl of batter he’d been stirring and Lance paused mid-chewing as Blue peeked over the table.

“Um...not me?” said Hunk with a raised eyebrow.

“And definitely not me,” Lance said as he leaned back. “Especially after the death glare you gave me for borrowing your hairbrush.”

“I’m serious,” Pidge said as she took her backpack from Green and unzipped it.

“When we left Earth, I had twenty pens.” She held up two plastic packages of black pens. “I’ve used six, but somehow I’m down to ten. So, who keeps taking them?”

Lance blinked and asked “I’m more curious on why you have twenty pens.”

“I write a lot of notes, okay?” Pidge snarled. “And since I have yet to find anything similar to a ballpoint pen in space, I’m milking the ones I have.”

“Maybe it was Shiro, or Keith?” Hunk offered.

“I bet it was Keith,” Lance announced with a raised hand and Blue raised her paw in agreement.

“Shiro wouldn’t take my supplies without asking,” Pidge replied with her arms folded, “and I can’t imagine Keith needing a pen for anything. He’s either spending time training, with us or meditating in his room.”

Hunk frowned. That part was true. Truthfully, there were times he worried about Keith a bit. He seemed so focussed on being a perfect paladin that he barely seemed to do anything else. That couldn’t be healthy.

“Then maybe Coran or Allura?” Lance asked with a shrug.

“Again, neither would take things without asking and why would they want my pens?” Pidge retorted.

“Well, that just leaves the space mice,” Hunk replied as he pushed Yellow away from poking her nose into the bowl. “And if they didn’t take them, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Maybe you just misplaced them somewhere,” Lance offered. “The castle is a big place, wouldn’t be hard to lose something as small as a pen.”

Pidge sighed with a huff as she took the seat next to Lance. “Yeah, I guess,” she grumbled. “But it’s just going to drive me crazy wondering what happened to them.”

Hunk was silent as he returned to stirring. It was rather weird. It wasn’t as if pens could get up and walk away.

However, as the rest of the day passed, he ended up almost forgetting about it entirely until right before bed.

He yawned as Yellow followed him through the halls into his bedroom. “Man, I’m beat,” he said to Yellow as he patted her. “I’m ready to crash as soon as my head hits the pillow-”

The door to Pidge’s room cut him off causing Hunk to jump slightly and then paused.

Wait, last I check, Pidge was still in the hangar, so who would be in her room?

He gulped as the thoughts of ghosts popped into his head. He was SO not ready to deal with that again after what happened last time and he froze as he heard footsteps.

Yellow jumped in front and growled to protect them as a figure appeared. Yellow ceased her growling and Hunk tilted his head in confusion. “Red?” he asked.

Red paused and tilted her head to the side as she looked at Hunk with something small hanging out of her mouth.

“Okay, what were you doing in Pidge’s room?” Hunk asked as he kneeled to take a closer look. “That’s her private space and you shouldn’t-” He trailed off as he recognized the object in her mouth. “Wait..IS THAT PIDGE’S PEN?!”

Red didn’t linger longer enough to confirm as she sharply turned and dashed down the hall.

“No, wait, RED GET BACK HERE!” Hunk said as he and Yellow gave chase.

Thankfully, he didn’t have far to run as Red made a sharp turn into Keith’s room. Hunk slowed his pace and gestured for Yellow to keep quiet. Maybe, if they were lucky, they could sneak up on Red. Hunk tiptoed and opened the door by a small creak.

Red was sitting up on the floor offering the pen from her mouth, and he spied a familiar gloved hand reach for it.

“Thanks, Red,” Keith’s replied as he took it. “I have no idea where you keep finding these-”

“Keith?!” Hunk exclaimed as he shoved the door opened and Yellow peek through his legs. You’re the pen thief?!”

Keith jumped as he shoved something small inside his jacket, but once he regained his composer. “What? Pen thief?”

Hunk groaned as he rubbed his eyes. “Man, Lance is not going to let this one go.”

“What are you talking about?” Keith said as he waved the pen around.

Hunk peeked through his fingers before letting his hand drop to his side.

“Pidge’s pens have been going missing and it’s been driving her crazy,” he stated. “She’s been paranoid and looking for clues everywhere...Well, more paranoid than usual. You remember last week with the baking sheet and the signal boost and Coran's moustache catching fire?"

Keith gave a slow nod.

"Worse than that." Hunk stated. “Anyway, point is, she thought someone was taking them, which didn’t make sense, but...well..you have them.”

Keith gave a thoughtful look as he studied the pen and then looked to Red. “Is that where you’ve been getting me the pens?” he asked. “From Pidge?”

Red nodded and growled as if she was saying “Of course! What’s the big deal?”

Keith moaned as he rubbed his eyes. “Should have known it was too good to be true,” he muttered and looked to Hunk as he handed over the pen. “Sorry, I swear I didn’t realize Red had been stealing from Pidge.”

“Pidge is the one you need to apologize to,” Hunk said as he took the pen, but then frowned. “Although...why did you need so many pens?” He gave a shrug. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you write anything down.”

And on that note, why did you keep going through them so fast? Hunk thought.

Keith froze, and suddenly seemed shy as he fiddled with his fingerless gloves.

Hunk winced. “Sorry, Dude, did I..ask something I shouldn’t?”

It really wasn’t Hunk’s business, and if Keith wished to keep it secret that was his right. “Look, I can just tell Pidge I found this on the floor-”

“No, no,” Keith said with a sigh as Red rubbed her head against Keith’s leg for comfort. “I owe an explanation, but…” He chewed his lip, “just promise me you won’t laugh.”

Hunk frowned and exchanged a confused expression with Yellow. “Alright, I promise.”

Keith seemed to relax a bit and Hunk noticed Red got rather excited as he reached inside his jacket. He brought out a small leather bound book, at least that’s what Hunk had thought until Keith handed it to him.

Keith was blushing like crazy as Hunk took it and realized from the feel of the paper that it was a sketchbook. Hunk suddenly felt uncertain if he should open it, but with an approving nod from both Keith, Red and Yellow, he did.

The first couple of pages were doodles. Some of animals, designs, and even some comic characters he recognized, however, the next few pages were rough sketches of landscapes and more detail drawings of wild animals.

Hunk studied the sketches, and then grinned slightly as he found various sketches on the space mice, Red and even random head shots of the others. There was a cartoony version of Coran twirly a mustache that made Hunk chuckle.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” Keith said with a pout.

Hunk stopped and realized what Keith meant. “Sorry, Dude,” he said as he held up the sketch. “But this is funny.”

Keith blinked and his frown tightened. “Oh..um..that is meant to be funny.”

Hunk’s eyes softened as he stepped closer. “Did you sketch these?” Hunk asked dumbfounded.

Keith nodded with the blush still on his cheeks.

“Dude! Where on earth did you get a sketchbook?!” Hunk asked.

“I’ve always had one,” Keith replied. “My jacket has a large inside pocket, so I’ve always kept a small sketchbook in there.” He fiddled with the tip of his hair.

“Doodling helps me relax when I’m feeling anxious.”

“Ah, okay, I get ya” Hunk said as he flipped through the pages. He could relate to that, it was why he enjoyed baking cookies so much. “Does Shiro know about this?”

“Shiro gave me that sketchbook,” Keith explained as Red growl, “but besides him, no one knows.”

“I see,” Hunk said quietly as he found a sketch of himself smiling and laughing. He even sketched me, Hunk thought in shock. I can’t think of ANYONE that ever tried to draw me.

Keith gave a sigh. “Look, you don’t have to pretend,” he said, “I know they’re bad.”

“Bad? What are you talking about?” Hunk said in amazement. “I’m not expert, but this is incredible to me.”

Keith was taken aback and looked to Red in shock. “Really?”

“I’ve only ever been able to draw stick people,” Hunk admitted, “but this is way better than anything I could have ever drawn.”

A thought then struck him and he closed the sketchbook. “So...you’ve been using Pidge’s pens to sketch?”

“Yyyeeaahhh,” Keith said with a deep sigh as he cast a glare in Red’s direction. “I lost the one pencil I had and Red had been bringing the pens.” He shook his head. “I swear I had no idea they were Pidge’s.”

“Pidge will probably forgive since you didn’t know,” Hunk said with a shrug, “but you should have just asked for a pen.” He raised an eyebrow. “Frankly, it’s a bit weird to see you so shy about this.”

“Why is it weird?” Keith said as he blushed a bit again. “I’m not allowed to be a bit uncomfortable with people seeing my drawings?”

“No,” Hunk said as he sat down on Keith’s bed. “I mean, you’re so confident in flying and sword fighting, it’s just a bit surprising to see you not be a hundred percent certain on something.”

Keith tapped his fingers against his elbow. “It’s just a private thing I’ve always done,” he said slowly. “I tried showing an art teacher when I was a kid once and she said they were just chicken scratches.”

“Seriously? That teacher had to be like crazy,” Hunk said as he flipped the pages of the sketches. “These are really great…” He trailed off as he reached a page that was full of random scribbles and dots.

Hunk blinked as he flipped. “What are these?” he said as he pointed to the page of scribbles. “Some kind of abstract art?

Keith glanced and sighed. “Those are Red’s drawings.”

Hunk blinked and glanced down to the small lion. “Red’s?”

“She saw me sketch and decided she wanted to draw too,” Keith said as he held out a pen to her.

Red gleefully snagged the pen by holding onto the tip and then pawed at Hunk’s leg to lower the sketchbook. Curious, Hunk complied and watched Red happily scribble all over the blank page and even added a few dots for good measure.

“Huh, I feel like I’m watching a scene from How To Train Your Dragon,” Hunk commented as Red continued.

“How to what?” Keith asked.

“A movie, think Pidge actually has that one on her laptop,” Hunk explained. “Will show you later.”

When she was done, Red dropped the pen from her mouth revealing the top part was now a bit crushed. Hunk frowned as he picked up the pen.

“Is this the other reason Red keeps stealing pens?” he asked.

“With both her and me sketching, we’ve been going through them a lot,” Keith explained as he took the notebook back.

Hunk went silent as he shut his eyes in thought. He glanced to Yellow who tilted her head and nodded as if she had been thinking of the same thing.

Hunk relaxed and patted Keith’s shoulders. “Alright, here’s what we’ll do,” he stated. “We’ll go tell Pidge what happened and as a result you’re going to tell everyone about your sketchbook.”

He shook a finger. “You don’t have to show them your drawings if you don’t want to, but you’re going to tell them.”

Keith looked ready to argue, but he gave a nod. “That’s..fair.”

“In exchange,” Hunk said, “I’m sure, Pidge and I can find something you could use for a makeshift pencil.” He grasped his chin. “For all we know, Coran might have something you can sketch with.”

Keith blinked surprised. “You guys would do that?”

“Course we would, you need a way to destress too,” Hunk said as Yellow nodded in agreement. “Cooking is my way of doing it, and clearly sketching is for you.”

Keith chewed his bottom lip. “You..don’t think Lance would tease me about it do you?”

“He’ll only tease that you felt the need to keep it a secret,” Hunk said. “He won’t mock your drawings themselves, and even if he did, I’m certain the others would tell him to knock it off, okay?”

Keith gave a half smile, looking more relaxed than he did before. “Alright, I trust you, Buddy.”

Hunk smiled, but jumped slightly as Red gave a growl. Keith sighed as he glance down. “Yes, I’m certain you can get your own pencil.”

“If not, we’ll make you one,” Hunk said in agreement. “And chewable proof one.”

Yellow growled as she pawed at his leg.

Keith snickered. “I’m thinking that means Yellow wants in on it too.”

Hunk sighed. At the rate they were going, the lions were just going to cover half the castle in art.

[snappedsky]

Berry Juice Shorts 12

Z takes a look at his abusive past. Previous! Next: Coming Soon!

Forgive or Forget

              If I had to give any decent advice about how to quietly survive prison, I’d say: have a peaceful way of dealing with your frustration because you’re going to have a lot of it.

            That was my problem for my first three years. I didn’t have a good outlet for my anger so I took it out on whatever was closest, which was usually the face of the guy pissing me off. That never worked out well. But now, thanks to my therapist, I’m able to draw again.   

            It’s great. I’ve been in a better mood, been getting into less fights. It helps that I’ve been spending most of my time in my cell. Now I only go out into the yard during what the warden calls ‘mandatory playtime’. Even then I usually bring my sketchbook. I just got to make sure nobody steals it.

            My therapist is happy too since I’ve been getting angry less. But she’s always got to have something to complain about. She says she’s just trying to help me progress. I think she just enjoys whining.

            Dr. Furaha leafs through my sketchbook. Sometimes she smiles, impressed, and other times she cocks her eyebrow, concerned. When she’s finished, she closes it and rests it on the table. Then she leans back in her seat and takes a deep breath. I watch her expectantly.

            “Why are so many of your sketches violent?” she asks.

            “I don’t know,” I shrug, “it’s my speciality.”

            “All of the subjects bear a concerning albeit impressive likeness to other prisoners, guards, and the warden,” she states.

            “Should I put some sort of disclaimer in the beginning?” I suggest, “something like ‘any likeness to real people, dead or alive, is completely coincidental’?”

           “Mitchell, some of these are incredibly disturbing,” she says as she flips open my sketchbook. “Like this one for example. It appears to be the warden’s head exploding. And it’s very detailed.”

            “Yeah. I like adding lots of detail,” I shrug innocently.       

            “I just can’t help but feel like you’re holding a grudge against these people.”

            “Oh, come on. It’s not like I really want violent stuff to happen to them. Not all the time at least. They’re just harmless drawings.”

            “Hm,” Dr. Furaha grunts, unconvinced. “I want you to try drawing these people in more…peaceful settings.”

            “What? Why?” I scoff.

            “Consider it a challenge for your artistic skills and your forgiveness skills.”

            “Forgiveness?”

            “You need to get better at it,” Dr. Furaha concludes, “when we meet again I want to see some nice, peaceful drawings.”

            I groan as I gather my stuff and leave.

            On visiting day, I share Dr. Furaha’s thoughts with Yelp and Nava. Yelp is smiling as he looks through my sketchbook.

            “I like your violent drawings,” he says, “they’re always so well done and neatly detailed. You can clearly tell the difference between this chunk of grey matter, this piece of skull fragment, and this miscellaneous gore.”

“Still,” he adds, “it might not be a bad idea to try forgiveness.”  “Like you’re one to talk,” Nava snorts.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Yelp questions.

            “You hold a grudge worse than a chick on her period,” she laughs, “and you’re all about revenge.”

            “I am not,” he argues.

            “Oh, yeah? What about this morning when the neighbor kept revving his motorcycle? You started planning ways to disassemble his bike, mail the pieces to different parts of the country, and then give him a treasure map to each piece so he can hunt them down.”             Yelp stammers defensively and glances at me.

            “Y-yeah, well, he shouldn’t have been revving his bike at six in the morning,” he points out, “he woke up the whole neighborhood. Besides, they’re just harmless ideas. I would never go through with them. You’re ten times worse than I am.”

            “Am not,” she argues.

            “Ha! Remember the other day when that guy stole your parking spot at the grocery store? You yelled at him for like twenty minutes. You insulted his whole family, past, present, and future generations and said that people like him are the reason the one percent are ruining this country. Which is really hypocritical. You’re hardly part of the ninety-nine percent.”

            “I’m upper middle class at best,” Nava states.

            “You’ve got a gardener for one tree,” Yelp argues.

            I smile with amusement as they argue between each other. This happens a lot. I always find it entertaining. Some people might think of it as a bad thing but I see it as proof of how well they get along. They can challenge each other.

             A guard announces that visiting time is over. Yelp sighs with disappointment and turns to me. We give each other a quick hug before I leave.

            When I get back to my cell I immediately flip open my sketchbook to a fresh page and start drawing Yelp and Nava yelling at each other. It’s overly exaggerated and detailed with veins popping out of their foreheads and saliva flying from their mouths; and it makes me giggle.

            For the next couple weeks I try Dr. Furaha’s drawing challenge. Turns out it really is a challenge. I was never one for drawing peaceful things in the first place but the subjects being people I hate makes it even worse.

            I would much prefer to draw something violent but I said I wouldn’t. So whenever I get stuck I do a mini sketch of Yelp. It’s surprisingly relaxing.

            At my next anger management session, Dr. Furaha looks through my new drawings. She looks thoughtful as she does so. I wait patiently for her critiques.

            “I’m glad you didn’t draw anything violent this time around,” she says, “did you have a hard time?”

            “It wasn’t easy,” I reply.

            She lingers on a page covered in Yelp doodles. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

            “How come you never draw your parents?” she asks.

            I inhale so sharply I start choking on my own breath. I sit up as I cough up nothing and rub my throat.

            “W-why would I do that?” I question, flabbergasted.

            “You draw people you see every day and your brother, who’s a big part of your life,” she muses, “I was just wondering why you leave out your parents. Surely you think about them.”             I scoff with disbelief. “Absolutely not. I make it a point to keep them out of my head.”

            “Why?”

            “You may not know this, being my therapist and all,” I say sarcastically, “but my childhood was highly traumatic.”

            “So you figure the solution to that is forgetting about it entirely,” Dr. Furaha states.

            “No, not entirely. Yelp was a large part of my childhood too.”

            “I understand it’s hard to think about your trauma, but ignoring it won’t help. In fact it could actually make things worse,” she explains, “drawing seems to be a good way for you to process your grief. So for your next challenge I want you to draw your parents at least once. It can just be something simple, like a portrait. Just draw them how you remember them.”             I groan as she hands me my sketchbook. I grab my stuff and head back to my cell.

            Draw my parents? I’ve been very careful not to even think about them for the last three years. If something even slightly reminded me of them, I’d immediately repress it. I figure it’s been working. I haven’t had any nightmares about them.

            I wonder what Yelp would say. Should I even tell him about this? We haven’t talked about our parents since my trial. Granted we haven’t had a lot of time to talk. I wonder if he thinks about them.

            I lie down on my bed and tap my pencil on a clean page. I don’t even remember what they look like. But I do remember the things they said and did.

            I sigh and start drawing. I don’t really have anything solid in mind. I just let my imagination flow and my pencil go wild.

            The drawing takes quite a few days to finish. I haven’t spent so long on a single project since I was a professional cover artist. I try not to think too hard about what I’m drawing because when I do…I kind of freak myself out. I’m not sure what it is that’s scaring me: just the art itself or the inspiration I’m getting it from. I take lots of breaks and sometimes don’t draw for the rest of the day.

            In the end I choose not to tell Yelp about this challenge or show him the drawing. I’m not sure how he’d react to it. He’s always been more sensitive towards the subject of our parents.

            I finish the drawing in time for my next therapy session. I still don’t examine it too closely but I do tear it out of sketchbook.

            I meet Dr. Furaha in our usual room and I rest the page face down on the table. She looks at it then at me as I sit down.

            “This is your drawing then?” she asks.           

            “Yeah,” I grunt.

            “How did it feel working on it?”

            I groan and shift uncomfortably.

            “I see,” she says. She picks it up and looks at it.

            The surprise is evident on her face. She blinks a couple times before sighing and nodding.

            “Well done.”

            “What?” I question.

            “You drew your worst nightmare exactly as you remember it,” she says as she rests the drawing on the table face up. “I wasn’t sure what to expect from this challenge but I think this is probably the best outcome.”

            I’m slightly taken aback. I didn’t expect her to approve of what I drew.

            She leans back in her seat and nods at the paper. I glance down at it then immediately look away. She’s watching me closely, studying my reactions. I huff with annoyance before taking a deep breath and picking up the paper.

            I flip the drawing towards me and stare at it.

            It’s of two figures, neither of which can be described as human. The figure on the right is just a mass of scribbles slightly shaped like a person. Their eyes are large, round, and blank and their mouth is a large circle too big for their head, with scribbles inside of it.

            The figure on the left is a bit more detailed and put together. They’re much larger than the scribble beast, in height and width. They’re got a dozen eyes, all looking in different directions, and a large mouth filled with a variety of fangs. Their torso is made up mostly of arms of various width, each with large claws. Some of them are holding items like a bottle or lamp. Their legs are very thin and disproportionate to the rest of the body. They don’t have feet; instead their ankles extend into thin snake-like tails.

            I let out a shuddery breath as I stare at them. Mom and Dad, exactly as I remember them.

            I take a deep breath and place the paper back on the table. I lean back and rub my face.

            “How do you feel?” Dr. Furaha asks.

            “I-I don’t know,” I mutter.

            “Think hard. Tell me everything you’re feeling.”

            “I-I feel surprised and…disgusted…scared…lonely…”

            “Okay,” she nods, “why are you disgusted?”

            “Because that’s the first time I’ve looked at it closely and I drew it,” I reply, “it’s like…they’ve been dead for eight years and I’m still trying to hide from them.”

            “Why are you lonely?”

            “Because whenever I felt scared of them, I had Yelp.”             “That’s good,” Dr. Furaha nods, “it’s good that you understand these things.”

            I sigh and rub my forehead. “So what now?”

            “Well, you should try to come up with ways to not hide from them,” she replies, “you can do it however you see fit. Just remember they can’t hurt you anymore. You or your brother.”             I sigh again and nod as I stare at the drawing from the corner of my eye.

            I head back to my cell with the paper in hand. On my way, I ask a guard for a piece of tape. He begrudgingly gives me one.

            I tape the drawing up on the wall of my cell over my bed, right next to a school picture of Yelp. My cellmate, Nile, walks in as I’m doing so.

            “What the hell is that?” he asks with disgust.

            “A drawing,” I reply, “why? Does it freak you out?”

            “A little,” he admits as he sits on his bed.

            I look at it and say quietly, “me too.”