#but imperfections in my printing means a little cleaning up was still needed

[myothertardisisonthemun]

I have 3d printed some very special dice

It's a D1. It only has one possibility.

For when things are certain.

Although, thinking about it, usually 1 is the number people don't want to get, what they want is a 20.

So I also made this

(Also here are a bunch of earlier prototypes)

[burnedbyshoto]

sensei

— Being a Pro Hero means having a will of steel, too bad for Shinsou that will of steel has one major kryptonite: a schoolgirls skirt. —

pairing: pro hero!shinsou hitoshi x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, smut, dom!shinsou, bondage (capturing weapon), blindfold, orgasm denial, cursing, praising, mindcontrol, degradation, roleplay

word count: 6,789

a/n: this was a commission!!! omggg!!!! also i used the name mindjack for his pro hero name and neutralizer is your hero name! okay, so like, don’t come for me until you read the entire thing. if I get a single message about what I think ya’ll might come at me for imma spit on your butter. if you cant eat butter then your oat milk or whateva.

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Shinsou stood in the kitchen, his Pro-Hero costume on, and his hands pressed onto the countertop. Today was the day that his hero work student was coming in for a small dinner of celebration. After months of conducting some late-night hours and intensive fighting, they had finally taken down an underground crime ring that had been resurfacing in Japan. 

His fingers ran through his hair, the soft locks parting with his calloused fingers. Years of having to strengthen himself to keep up with physically powerful quirk holders had left his body sharp, hard, and rugged. There wasn’t a part of his body that hadn’t been bruised; that wasn’t without its imperfections.

It was almost hilarious to think of where he used to be, a child in high school who was no stronger than the average person in Japan, and where he was now. 

Placing his cup to his lip, Shinsou was about to take a drink of water when a knock was heard. A small grin quipped on his face knowing precisely who it was, placing the cup on the table and shoving his hands into his pocket, Shinsou walked over to the front door and opened it.

Opening the wooden door, his violet gaze locked onto a bright and eager set of eyes.

Outside his door stood a young woman who had just recently eighteen with your hair fluttering in the wind. You wore the well-recognized U.A. uniform, your backpack resting on your shoulders. A smile soon grew on your face at the sight of him, and you tilted your head with a small smile in greeting. 

“Neutralizer,” he greeted with a coy smile, and his body leaned onto the doorway. His eyes drank you in, the swell of your chest against the button up white shirt, the striking red tie, the jacket that remained unbuttoned on your body, the dark socks that reached your knees, and that stupidly short skirt.

“Hi, Mindjack-sensei,” you greeted with a bright smile, unfazed by the coyness of his energy and ignorant to his straying eyes. “You wanted to meet here today?”

He wet his lips and nodded his head, his eyes closing, “Well, I had to celebrate this joyful win with my favorite student, didn’t I?”

“I’m your only student,” you snorted, pushing past him and entering his house.

You didn’t seem to notice the way his eyes zeroed in on your ass when you passed him, nor did you see how he was nearly drunk off your figure when you bent down to exchange your shoes for his guest slippers. 

“I think that speaks volumes on how highly I perceive you,” Shinsou lazily grinned, taking your jacket and backpack and went to put them in his closet. “You’re so great that I don’t need to look for another helping hand.”

“What will you do when I graduate in these next months?” you asked teasingly, your focus back on Shinsou, and you both held each other’s gaze while standing in the hallway. 

“You’re trying to tell me that you won’t accept my offer to be my sidekick before you go pro?”

His gaze was dangerous, practically begging you in this subdued cat and mouse game to contradict his theory.

“Maybe I am.”

His eyes narrowed; to anyone else, they would’ve been daunting, menacing, threatening, but to you who had known him for years, you could see right past the playful glare.

“Watch it, punk.”

With that, you walked further into the household and having never been to his house before, you couldn’t help but point out the different pictures you saw. There was no stopping you on asserting how weird it was that he went to school with so many well-known heroes. U.A. sure was something else.

The conversation between the two of you flowed like water. There was no dull moment while you stood by the counter, mindlessly eating fruit while exchanging lively words. You had since reaching the bar rolled your sleeves up to your elbows while attempting to catch the fruit that Shinsou was now throwing at you, but most often, they continued to bounce off your nose and go flying onto the floor. 

“You’re horrible at this,” Shinsou snorts when you reappear from the floor with the slightly dirty fruit.

“Get a better aim,” you retorted with a snicker, eating the fruit.

But then Shinsou focused in the wrong area. His eyes focused on the way your lips gleamed under the fluorescent lights, coated with what was definitely your saliva and tinted with berry juices. Your lips stunned him with how delicate and soft they looked. How full and sinful they would feel pressed against his lips, wrapped around his—

“Mindjack-sensei?”

His eyes snapped up to meet your eyes that looked curious, naive to his thoughts, and with the slightest hint of embarrassment.

Recomposing himself, Shinsou cleared his throat and leaned against the counter again, the cold marble digging into his hip. “Y/l/n?”

“I was asking why you’re wearing your costume inside your house, it’s a bit dorkish.”

It seemed the embarrassment wasn’t from his drinking of your lips, but instead because of your question. Shinsou’s fingers fisted into the capturing weapon that rested around his neck. Honestly, he had no idea why he did; his costume was definitely a very comfortable piece, and well, he didn’t exactly go out on the field today, so it was clean.

But when he went to answer your question, his eyes saw the way your teeth gnawed on your bottom lip, and the way that you leaned in closer. Such a flustered school girl. How was he supposed to be professional when you did that? The only thing he could see — the only thing he wanted to see — was you gnawing at your lips when he was fucking you to the heavens, your embarrassment keeping you from being as loud as you could be.

“Come here,” Shinsou commanded, his head gesturing to you to move over to his side of the counter.

Obediently, you followed and stepped before him.

Fuck, you were tiny compared to him. Shinsou looked down at you, your eyes stared up at him curiously, unsure of what he was going to say or do.

“What do you think about me?”

Your eyes widened, your tongue coming out to lick your lips nervously. What was that kind of question? You thought he knew exactly what you thought about him? “Well, um, I think you’re an excellent Pro Hero! You’ve taught me a lot in my work-study, and I’ll forever be grateful for you!”

It seemed like an appropriate response, not too harsh, and it wouldn’t be enough to inflate his ego. But it seemed that he wasn’t in agreement with your thoughts, his hand came to rub his stubbled cheeks, and his eyes darkened.

“What else?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine at those words. There was so much intention behind what that could mean. What was he trying to insinuate here?

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

Shinsou took a drink of his water, his eyes still focused on you. His gaze as calculating, as if he was studying a bug under a microscope. Your locked stares were unbreakable and soul searching, and as you were now just growing used to while on the field, a sense of an upcoming battle was flaring on your instincts. Placing the cup down, he took a step forward, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“What do you think of me?”

“I-I already told you,” you stammered, taking the smallest step back, but your didn’t retreat when he took another step closer. “You’re a very good—.”

“Not like that,” he growled lowly, his eyes dropping down to your breasts, to the swell of your hips.

It was becoming increasingly harder to breathe, his musky scent was overwhelming your nose, sending shivers down your spine, and there was nothing you could do but gasp for air.

“I don’t think I understand…”

Shinsou was now entirely parallel to you, your chest nearly touching his while he leaned down, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. You could no longer breathe, unable to focus or think of anything but the fact that your boss — your mentor — was seemingly admitting that he was attracted to you.

“How do I make you feel?” he nearly panted in your ear. “All I know is that you drive me fucking insane with how beautiful you are, you’re so fucking pure, yet I know you know what you’ve been doing.”

“Mindjack-sensei—!” you squeak, your face radiated heat. You tried to stumble back, to deny his accusations, but his hands were on your waist, keeping you cemented in place.

“Do you want me the way I want you? The way I want to fuck you until your body is forever printed into the mattress of my bed? To have you begging until my bed frame breaks?”

Shinsou grin turned sly at the way you trembled against his hold.

“Don’t you think about fucking me, kitten? Because I can only think about your pretty lips and pussy around my cock. I bet you have such a pretty fucking pussy too.” An audible moan left your lips, and Shinsou’s fingers tightened around your waist to the point he was most likely leaving bruises. He was enjoying the way you were obviously enjoying this too. “You like this? Mm, of course, you would. Such a dirty little kitten, I bet you’re already fucking wet, wanting nothing more than my cock to fuck you into oblivion.”

“Mindjack-sensei,” you gasped in horror of his words despite your body pressing flush against his. His words hadn’t been false, by god did you want him to fuck you into oblivion, but you always pressed those feelings aside because he was a respected authority. He could have just about anyone as a top hero, so why would he want a high school student who worked for him? Shinsou let out a sharp stream of air at the feeling of your thigh rubbing against his growing boner. “We can’t do this! If we’re caught, we’ll—”

“We can’t do this? On the contrary, I think we can fucking do this. No one has to know, but if you don’t want me the way I want you, that’s okay. Tell me to stop then,” he interrupted you, his fingers pulling at the waistband of your skirt, his teeth nibbling at your ear. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way about me, and I’ll stop.”

Your chest heaved, your body screaming at you to let him fuck you. You’ve wanted him for so long, to have him buried balls deep within you, calling him yours and no one else’s. But your brain — your anxieties — screamed at you that this was wrong because he is your teacher. What if something terrible were to happen because of this?

“Nothing bad will happen,” Shinsou murmured, and you stopped breathing at the way his warm breath fanned against your neck. “I promise.”

You pushed away, your eyes wide while looking up at his violet gaze that seemed to grow impossibly darker. You had been under his mind control before, countless days being spent to see who could use their quirk faster, him or you. Each and every time so far, you had bitterly lost, you knew what it was like to be under control. To have your ability to choose what you wanted to do or not taken away. You knew what it was like to not have free will, but this was not it. 

You could choose.

You would choose.

Gulping, your fingers rose to his soft purple hair, raking through the short purple locks that were ever present in your fantasies and dreams.

“Fuck me then.”

His lips pressed against yours immediately, and your breathing nearly stopped at the immediate contact. The scruff on his cheeks, chin, and jaw tickled the softness of your own skin, and only continued to scratch against your skin when the kiss increased in intensity. His mouth drank you in quickly, the heat of his mouth making you overwhelmingly woozy. The kiss alone was sending throbbing heat to your core, your cunt already feeling slick with your essence just from this kiss that you’ve wanted for so long.

Shinsou then took a step forward, and you took a step back, a dance between these new lovers until your back was slammed against a wall. With the feeling of the cold wall pressing into your back, the knowledge of where this was going shot through you.

“How do you want me to fuck you, kitten?” Shinsou growled against your mouth, pulling away afterward so that his nearly black with lust irises burned into your own. “Tell me your deepest fantasy.”

You wheezed when he lifted you up, the height difference between the two of you was too grand for him to grind his hardened cock into you while merely standing. The growing slick in your panties grazed against his hardness, and you pressed your hands onto his shoulders. Your head lolled backward; the shuddering pleasure from the harsh graze was already overstimulating you. His mouth latched onto your exposed neck, pressing spicy-sweet kisses onto the soft skin, his hips pressing hardened circles into your growing heat. 

“I want you to,” you swallowed, your mouth running dry from his actions, mind unable to keep up with his pleasure gaining effects. 

“What do you want, kitten?” he growled against your growing slick neck. His fingers were kneading and pulling at your covered breasts, someone how managed to press onto your nipples despite not knowing your naked body. Fisting your hands into his hair, you tugged hard at the roots, the pleasure shooting through your body unignorable. 

“I want you to use your capturing weapon on me,” you plead, your hips jerking against his in frantic attempt to get this going. “I want you to blindfold me — fuck, I want you to use your quirk on me, deny me, overstimulate me, I don’t care. I just want your cock in my pussy.”

“My, my, you’ve been thinking about this for a while now, haven’t you?” Shinsou grinned with a burst of barking laughter at your embarrassment of being caught. “How many times have you thought about me bending you over in the middle of an alleyway, right after a successful mission, fucking you as congratulations?”

“S-Shinsou—!” you whimpered at the way his hips were now embedding into you as if you two weren’t fully clothed, but already fucking like savage animals.

“I want to hear you call me sensei when I’m fucking you,” he grunts against your throat.

“Not daddy?” you squeak when he pulls away from the wall, and your arms wrap around his neck in precaution. His hard cock now presses deliciously against your heated core, the movement of his walking legs adding to the slow and imbued sensations running their course through your body.

“Maybe another day,” he chuckled deep within his throat.

You felt a chill run through your spine at the way he possessively grabbed onto your waist, his body leaning down to press your back against the soft mattress of his bed. His lips were so ardent against your skin. The body heat expelling from his person, making you sweat when his lips dominated you again.

Your lips glided over each other, your fingers fisting into his shirt with undeniable electricity pouring down your spine. Powerful and sharp pulses slamming through your body when he ground his hips down onto you. 

“Sensei,” you whimpered when his needy lips pressed once more against your cold neck. The contradicting temperatures quickly spun your head, and your eyes clenched closed, trying to focus in on these exhilarating sensations. “Please, sensei do— oh my god.”

Shinsou’s hips were grinding insistently into your, his fingers now pressing into your clit above your panties, expertly rubbing figure eights into your puffy bundle of nerves. Your legs trembled around his waist, your head flying backward with the beating of your heart heavy between your thighs.

“Do what, kitten?” he asked, his teeth marking purple ringed bruises onto your collarbone, enjoying the angry warm colors appearing on your skin. “Is your sensei making you feel good? What do you want from me right now, use your words? Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

The last bit is no louder than a mere whisper, but it’s loud in your ears. You hadn’t even stripped yet, and he had these opinions on you! The intensity of that piece of knowledge made your knees weak with the thought of how intense his own emotions were — for how long has he wanted you in the same way you wanted him? Your mouth opened with a chill running down your spine, your hips grinding down onto his circling fingers.

“Now, I don’t like being disrespected,” he warned, his finger stilling against your clit. You, however, were already consumed by the pleasure that throbbed deep in your core over his nimble fingers teasingly touching where you wanted him most. Your hips still roll against his stiff appendages, and he chuckles at the almost needy and pathetic whimpers that expel from your lips. Your eyes are again shut, mouth opened, and body begging for more.

“Stop grinding,” he commands, his left hand pressing onto your hip, stilling any and all actions from you. You groaned loudly, disappointment and disapproval profoundly evident on your face when you finally opened your eyes.

“Sensei—” you whined, but your hips stopped nonetheless, a pout on your lips. 

“I want you right now,” he says quietly, but his words are firm, unwavering, and genuine. His fingers trace the inside of your thighs, making you jerk with horny anticipation until you felt like taking in charge of him. “Can I fuck you right now, kitten?”

The words almost knock the wind out of you, the innocent yet well-knowing tone on his tongue enough to make you bite down on your lip harshly while you nodded. “Fuck me right now.”

Shinsou lips stretched into a cunning smirk, his teeth capturing his mouth while he nodded, “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Sitting up, your eyes took in his body that was hidden under his baggy clothes, much like his own mentor. You did nothing to conceal the way your teeth tugged at your lower lip in lustful need, and your hand pressed down onto the restrained bulge in his pants, grinning when he twitched under your hot hand. 

“I want sensei to fuck me, to fill me with his cock and cum until no one can deny that I’m yours, sensei,” you mewled in his ear.

Without a second thought or a moment to realize what was happening, your shirt was ripped off your person, the buttons scattering loudly against the wooden floor. You shouted in complete shock when Shinsou tugged the red tie off your neck and tossed it on the corner of the bed, and your skirt was thrown to the floor. You lay on the bed exposed in just your undergarments, but they were more than only your regular garments. Shinsou’s eyebrow quirked up upon recognizing that the piece you were wearing was lingerie — expensive lingerie at that.

His eyes met yours, and your eyes swam with confidence that made him stop.

“Were you expecting this?” he asked softly, his fingers grabbing onto the bridge of your bra. His touch so gentle, so soft, it was almost as if he touched it for too long he would destroy the lace fabric of your lingerie.

“It’s hard not to be extra prepared when celebrating with sensei,” you fluttered your eyelashes as you shifted so that you were now straddling his hips. Your body was pressed firmly against his, your mouth ghosting the shell of his ear, “Especially when I want my sensei to fuck me until I’m only his.”

The small victory you gained from being able to distract the Pro Hero was soon snuffed out when cold, and steel-like cloth wrapped all over your legs and arms and slipped between your teeth. The world spun when your face and chest was then shoved into the mattress.

“See what you make me do to you, kitten?”

You whimpered loudly at the arched position you were contorted into. Despite your discomfort, your core ached in need, flaring with this dominative aura that burned to life within him. This is what you had been craving since the beginning, you wanted nothing more than for the purple-haired hero to bend you to his will, to make you no better than some damn puppet while he fucked you deep into his bed.

“Look at you, you’re fucking soaked, and I haven’t done so much as grazing your clit!” Shinsou chuckles, leaning closer to you until you could feel his warm breath fanning against your clenching wet hole. “You’re such a dirty kitten, wanting your sensei’s cock. I guess your sensei is going to have to teach you a few things about mannerisms and make sure you’re fucked to completion.”

You chocked against the cloth in your mouth; it was pressing harshly against your tongue, riling your gag reflexes until saliva poured from your mouth. You weakly looked at Shinsou, your cheeks feeling like they were on fire, your pussy clenching in its attempt to draw him nearer. This was so dirty though, he was older than you, he was your mentor — your sensei. You shouldn’t be letting him talk to you this way, letting him tease your soaked folds, but you wanted his cock — you needed your sensei’s cock to ruin you for anyone ever again. 

Shinsou looked at you, his eyes glinting dangerously as if he could read your filthy thoughts while his fingers slid off the black panties until they bunched at your angled knees. Your arch deepens at the feeling of the cold air now reaching your blazing core, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head while you wantonly whine. The restraints on your wrists and ankles were tight, sending just the minutest bit of discomfort through your nerves to send you wiggling your ass impatiently.

But as you stared up at Shinsou, and the way his coarse fingers dug into your hips. His heated fingers dragged against your smooth skin until he caught you staring. “You don’t need to be looking at this, kitten.”

The binding left your mouth and wrapped around your eyes. The cold and wet with your saliva metal binding to your face caused a sensation to course through you that was foreign. It disgusted you on a shallow level but fueled the gagging moan that pressed in your throat.

“Sensei!” you squeaked, not expecting this to happen so soon. Especially with the fact that your body was ultimately under his domination. 

Your lack of sight immediately sent all your other senses to one hundred, and you were acutely aware of the fact that he was no longer touching you. You knew he was in the room, but you couldn’t sense him. You only knew that your ass was perked into the air, your arms shot before you in a position that you never knew you could achieve without weight to shove your chest further down.

Shinsou, however, was behind you, his eyes focused on your shining heated slick cunt. A groan emits slowly from his mouth, and he almost relishes in the way that you twitch towards him, the blindfold doing precisely what he had hoped for. Rumbling lowly in his chest, Shinsou inserted two nimble fingers into your wet cunt, moaning at the way that your walls are tight against him. It was so lewdish in the way that your walls were already milking his fingers, begging for more despite the initial entrance.

Your legs trembled, and your mouth fell at the feeling of his foreign fingers entering your spasming cunt. It’s a feeling you immediately burn into your skin. You want this; you crave this. His fingers reach knuckle deep against your heated walls, and they clench around him whenever he attempts to move.

“Your pussy is so pretty and so fucking tight, and all I have in you is my fingers,” Shinsou groans, his fingers curling smoothly within you. Your hips snap backward, trying to fuck yourself against his appendages, desperate the elevated pleasure felt as his fingers moved against you. Desire soaks your body, and you thrust your hips against his fingers, uncaring about how needy this looked.

His fingers were buried in your cunt, and you whined loudly at the feeling of his fingers pushing and pressing against your velvet walls. The feeling of his fingers stroking your walls, sending your body thrusting forward and backward. They continue this pace, not slow enough to be teasing, but not quick enough to satisfy your needs.

“Don’t tease me, sensei,” you pant, your ass moving and wiggling in the air while he manipulated your body under his ministrations. “I want you to — please, fuck my pussy so good!”

There was no response to your pleading, only action. His fingers then hooked within you, scissoring, and even pressing against your walls until nothing was coming out of you except the squelching noises of his fingers digging deeper into your cunt. His hero name a mantra on your lips. 

“Such a pretty little kitten, taking my fingers so well. I can’t wait to see how you’ll react against my cock. I bet your cries will be fucking cute to hear,” he chuckled, his thighs hugging against yours, and you moaned at the feeling of his hard cock pressing against your lower belly. You whimpered loudly at the sensation, craving nothing more than to have his cock buried deep within you instead of his fingers.

“Sensei, please!” you begged, the feeling of him all over you. Yet the denial of both seeing him and having his cock buried deep within you was too much. “I don’t want sensei’s fingers, I want sensei’s cock — fuck, please!”

Shinsou chuckled, his fingers left your cunt, and you whimpered at the way your body felt so cold and empty without him buried within you.

“You’ve been good so far, I think you deserve my cock,” he grinned, his breathing heavy and hot against your spine. Your back arched and your body trembled with excitement and nerves as he guided his cock against your wet slit.

Then his hips pressed forward, only the tip of his head pushing through your folds. Teasing you, tormenting you with this half fullness when you knew his cock was much bigger.

“Stop playing unfairly, sensei!” you squawk, your hips trying to slam back to take him more in, but he predicts it and moves back with you. More of his cock leaves you, and you cry in blatant need and horrid horniness. 

“Don’t you have any embarrassment?” he chuckles, his hands finally removing the bra on your chest, and his fingers grip and pull at your nipples. You shudder against his hold, curse that he was so much bigger than you. You needed more of his cock, but he didn’t seem willing to give it to you. “A schoolgirl asking her sensei to fuck her silly, do you know what you’re doing to me, kitten? So fucking dirty, so fucking needy. You want my goddamn dick, you better admit that you’re a stupid little girl who wants her sensei for the rest of her fucking life.”

There was nothing but pure electric shivers that poured through your body at those words, and still, you needed him. Your mouth let out a strained whimper; the slightly circling of his fat cock buried an inch into your cunt, a reminder that you needed to get him fully within you.

“I’m a dirty stupid fucking little girl who wants my sensei and his fucking cock for the rest of my fucking life,” you parrot with no shame, your hips bouncing in hopes of engaging him. “I only want my sensei!”

“Such a good kitten, saying such pretty things,” he sighs, but still, he doesn’t penetrate you fully. 

But he does begin to move.

It’s teasing and by every means maddening feeling the first three inches of his swollen dick push into you and exit. The feeling of the veins on his cock dragging against your sensitive walls made you stammer his name. But that wasn’t good enough, no Shinsou wanted you to howl his name to the heavens, to make sure that everyone knew what a good sensei he was.

His hips move in faster to meet the back of your thighs. With the slowly deepening penetration, your eyes lull to the back of your head, your tongue pooling from your mouth.

“Say more pretty things, or I’ll take my fucking cock away,” he growled, his fingers digging impossibly deeper into your waist.

“Sensei!” you squirm, your back arching like a cat the second the tip of his cock drags against your particular spot.

“What did I say about not following what I command!”

You splutter, your body thrashing against his stilling hips, “But sensei’s cock! It makes me so dumb!” you whine, your fingers digging into the mattress when he slowly starts again. “It’s so big, so thick in my tight pussy! Sensei, please defile me, please make me cum! Cum in my pussy, please! I need you, sensei!”

Those must have been some magic words because Shinsou snarled, and his hips hammered into you. Sending your arms sprawling, your scream of pleasure and glee dripping from your throat. The way that his cock is now brushing over your g-spot again and again was too much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Your pussy is so fucking tight,” he gasped, his hands slamming your ass back against him. The slapping of your skin on his pelvis sends your eyes fluttering behind the blindfold. He was contorting your body to his will. “After today, I’ll make sure you’ll always be able to take me, all of me, no matter how wet you are.”

Your voluptuous moans are untamable, your thighs trembling with the upcoming orgasm that you can feel throbbing from your toes.

“I needa cum!” you sob, hoping that with how he was drilling against your g-spot, it would be soon.

“You don’t get to cum yet.”

You cried when he pulled out of you completely, and the capturing weapon wrapped around your waist, and you were suddenly pulled to your knees. You heard a familiar sound of a body dropping to the bed, and his hands replaced the fabric around your waist.

“You’re going to ride your sensei’s cock,” he instructed, pulling you down towards him so that your dripping wet cunt was once against grinding against the tip of his dick. “Show sensei what a good kitten you’ve been, what a great hero you’ve become because of me.”

You swallow thickly, your mind swimming with lust and need while his swollen cock twitches at your entrance, “I’m going to show sensei that he’s taught me well.”

“Damn right, you will.”

And with that, he lowered you.

While the blindfold around your eyes obstructed your vision, your sight was wholly taken away from you by his actions. When Shinsou guided you onto his cock, the feeling of his thick veiny length reentering your cunt that begged for his return nearly took your sight away. He wasn’t even within you yet, only the tip of his cock penetrating your slit once more, teasing your walls that clenched in desperation for him. “Don’t tease me, sensei,” you pant, the capturing weapon preventing you from lowering yourself fully onto him, but surprisingly, he does as you hope for. 

Then, what you’ve wanted this entire time. His hips thrust forward at the same moment that you’re dropped onto his cock, and your jaw splits into a soundless scream.

“SHINSOU!” you scream, and his fingers that have your dried slick are placed into your mouth.

“Suck.”

Without arguing, your mouth clamps around his fingers and sucks your essence clean from his fingers. He holds you from behind, his free hand meshing and tweaking at your breasts, making sure to tease and pull at your sensitive nipples until your legs were shaking underneath you. 

His hand rips from your mouth, a trail of saliva following after his mouth. You can only cry louder, more wantonly of how the cold saliva dribbles onto your overheating body. Your head slams back against him, and his hot breath fans against your collarbone while the capturing weapon still proceeds to make you bounce against his cock. Every bounce sends his cock deeper within your clamping cunt, stretching you out in unimaginable ways until your walls spasming around his length because you need more.

You whine into his ear, your mouth pressing blind and sloppy kisses against his slick with sweat neck.

It’s when both his hands bring your hips down to him, his cock finally bottoming out entirely within you, does the most primal moan rip through your mouth. You convulse on his lap, trying to move as the head of his cock buries against your cervix, and you swear behind the blackness of your vision, you can see the entire galaxy. You tremble on top of him, wordless cries pittering from your mouth while he nibbles onto your earlobe.

“Fuck, kitten, I can feel your cervix against my cock,” Shinsou grunts, and you rise and falls against his throbbing cock. 

“You’re filling me out, sensei,” you cry, your hips bouncing up and down, the feeling of his cock pressing up against your cervix, making you dizzier by the second. “Sensei’s cock is so fucking big, he’s filling and stretching me out so much! My pussy can’t — fuck — I can’t take it, sensei!”

“You can take it,” Shinsou growls into your neck, his hands rising you up and down against his cock. The soft slapping of your ass meeting his thighs a drum in your ear. “You’re taking my cock so fucking well, I taught you — I’m teaching you better, I know you can do this kitten.”

You soon readjust to the numbing pleasure, the bruising pleasure, and pain that comes with his cock slamming against your cervix. The way that he thrusts up into you, stretching out your walls far more than you was ever used to.

“I can’t fuck you correctly like this,” he growled, and the restraints yanked you forward once more.

You yelped loudly when you were now on your back, your ankles by your wrists, and your cunt exposed to him completely. In seconds flat, he was buried back into you, but the angle of being on your back aided to the curve of his cock, and your spine nearly snapped in the way you reacted to the pleasure spasming in your toes. This was what you wanted. “Sensei, your cock! SHIT! Oh my god, oh my god, this angle—!”

Your voice lessened to a senseless babble, your sentences blurring together, and your cheek pressed into the mattress and drool pooled from your lips. You feel his hot and robust shoulder touch against the backside of your thighs. With your thighs to support him, he begins to drill his hips into you.

His pace is completely irreplicable, every maddening powerful thrust of his hips shoves you closer to the headboard. The wet slapping echoing throughout the room when he pierces into you almost drowned out both of your senseless cries. His fingers dig into your skin, leaving purple fingerprints on your soft skin, and it amplified your howls of pleasure. 

Fire erupts in your cunt, an overwhelming heat that throbs right in your core, and with every slam of his hips, it grows only more. 

Intensifying. 

Deepening. 

The temperature of your body sizzles off you in large heat, and you swear that your sweat evaporates with every slam of his hips. His lips press against yours, a maddening escape of lust and need exchanging between your parted lips. Your salvia is everywhere, covering both of their faces with the sticky coldness. But that didn’t stop him; it only fueled him to kiss you entirely, engulfing you with his mouth, daring you with his tongue.

You were barely keeping up with his snapping hips, your mouth begging for more when he suckled on your tongue.

Her walls fluttered and clamped around him, a constant reminder of the impending orgasm that you could no longer warn him about.

“Do you need to cum?” he huffs against the corner of your mouth, his hips continuing to drill dangerously fast and deep into you.

“Y-Yes, sensei, I needa come so badly! Let me come against sensei big cock, please!” you sobbed, your body trying to press even closer to him. It was at that moment, the revelation that you were close that his quirk washes over you. 

It’s a weird feeling, your body continues to feel disgustingly on fire, like an illness burning you from the inside out. But you’re no longer in control, your mind fuzzy and muggy, but he continues to fuck you as if you weren’t there. The coil that had wound so tightly in the core of your uterus seemed frozen. No longer tightening to the point of snapping, but so tight that it pained you that he now denied you a release.

“Well, I’m not ready,” he pants, “you don’t cum until I do.”

His hips now work against you with untapped vigor he had not been using before. One hand holding your leg over his shoulder, the other keeping your hips in place as he continued to push his cock deep within you. Your body was by all terms relaxed, not a single muscle was tense while he drilled into you, his fingers massaging your clit and nipples. But your mind was alert, thoroughly overworked, over thrilled, and feeling like you were moments from exploding with no choice but to keep it in. 

His sweat dripped onto your body, and your drool slowly slipped from your lips. 

It pained you not to moan, the inability to move your hips against his rutting ones nearly driving you insane until he was snarling like a savage beast, and with his teeth buried into your neck, you only heard one thing before your vision turned white.

“Cum.”

You weren’t sure whether you broke free from his quirk because he let you go or because the orgasm that crashed through you sent your body snapping up and rolling them over so that Shinsou was on his back. But the orgasm was still ripping through you. Powerful waves of insane pleasure drumming deep within you until there was nothing left but that hollowness that came after an orgasm.

Your breathing was erratic, your heartbeat on your tongue while you looked down at him with a frazzled expression.

“Holy fuck, ‘toshi,” you gasped, your hands pulling away at the tie from your eyes, and now you held onto your breasts. Your brain must have short-circuited because nothing was running through your mind, no matter what you tried to think about. 

“Look at that,” he mused, looking down at his lower abdomen. You followed his eyes, and a blush brightened your face at the clear liquid that coated his abs. 

You had squirted.

“Well, that was fucking hot, I don’t blame ya,” he chuckles, bringing you in. “How are you feeling? I know I was pretty deep in you, sorry.”

You sighed, nestling into his chest, finally relaxed. It took a bit of willpower to ignore the slick wetness that came with your mixed cum sprayed out onto his lower stomach. His lips pressed against your temple, and you sighed wistfully, tiredly.

“I’m fine, ‘toshi,” you affirm, grinning at him. “I might have problems walking tomorrow, so you’ll just needa help me.” 

He chuckles but nods in agreement. Tapping you on your waist, he rolls you over so that you’re relaxing on the bed, and he pulls out, and you groan at the lack of his dick in you. Waving off your protests, he leaves and reappears with a damp washcloth. Without speaking, he begins to gently clean you up, placing tender and scratchy kisses against your body.

You grin when your husband finally collapses back onto the bed and pulls you in close, his nose rubbing against your bruised collarbones, eliciting a sharp squeal from you.

“Maybe I’ll pull out my old schoolgirl skirt more often,” you giggle, and he hummed in agreement. “It was fun.”

“I think that would be perfect.”

“Happy anniversary, sensei.”

“Happy anniversary, kitten.”

[liujinhee]

[ Kyuhyun/Reader ]

plotting an us (working title)

Word Count: 2,622

Summary: Art student y/n, theatre student Kyuhyun one shot

Uh, so this was supposed to be a y/n fic, but I think I gave the character so much personality that they qualify better as an OC? Haha... im sorry guys :')

-

There was little use in trying to reason with yourself why you travel two hours every weekend to the Penguin Ice cafe. Cafe menus were unreasonably expensive, and Penguin Ice was located in the heart of the city, where the population was far too saturated for your liking.

Then you hear the familiar voice saying the words Welcome to Penguin Ice cafe, and you know you'll be coming back next weekend regardless.

You walk straight up to the counter—even if you had a crush on one of the part timers, it didn't mean your judgement was clouded enough that you'd drop by during rush hour just to see him. At 4pm, the cafe was quiet, a few patrons scattered in different corners.

When Kyuhyun's gaze falls on you, his professional smile softens into one you now recognize as warm. “Single scoop of matcha and vanilla with sprinkled topping, having here?”

“Got it in one.” You return the smile, hoping it isn't too wide. The way your feelings tend to write themselves on your facial features has never done more good than harm thus far. Digging into your pocket, you hand him the bill; never the exact amount, if only for the selfish reason of wanting him to drop the change onto your open palm.

And he does. “Here's your change,” Kyuhyun sings in that merry tune you know by heart.

“Someone's in a good mood.”

He makes a show of scanning the bar, which currently only has him manning it, before leaning forward. He's not close enough that you feel his breath, but still close enough that your heart rate picks up as he tells you in a hushed whisper that fails to contain his glee, “It's payday.”

You snort at that, even though you already had your suspicions. Kyuhyun simply gives you a cheeky grin and wags his brows, seemingly pleased to have shared that little tidbit. Your hand twitches with the instinct to reach out and ruffle his hair, something you're not quite able to do to someone you can barely call an acquaintance. So you settle for a Congratulations, to which he bows dramatically, My heartfelt thanks, before twirling away to prepare your order.

He may be majoring in theatre, you think. Or at the very least, hold an interest in it. It's not the first time the two of you have exchanged words in such a manner, nor do you believe it'd be the last. As you watch him drop a generous scoop of ice cream into a cup, you wonder if you should ask him today. Something like, What school are you from? What's your favorite ice cream flavor? Do you want to catch the next musical that comes?

But they all feel like questions that'd make your existing dynamic awkward. In a way, you already consider Kyuhyun a friend, despite not knowing anything about him other than his name, which you got from his name tag, and that he only works on weekends, which is written on their blackboard under the Shifts section. 

Once again, you spend too much time overthinking, and your order is ready before you come to a decision, Kyuhyun extending the cup to you with a gentle hum. Your mumble of thanks matches the tone of his hum, and your feet bring you to your usual seat, empty as it always is. Customers aren't the biggest fans of seats by the entrance, after all; the constant opening and closing of the door can get annoying. It doesn't bother you, however. As much as you dislike crowds, you find comfort in the buzzing of human activity.

And, well, if the seat provides you a good view of the bar where Kyuhyun busies himself with cleaning up, that's just a really big bonus. Once you're satisfied with the angle of your chair, you bring out your pencil and sketchbook, flip to a fresh page, and begin sketching.

It's not always Kyuhyun. Scenery fascinates you, and you've long since lost count of the cityscape, the parks, the rivers that you've drawn from memory and imagination. But it's always when the imagination starts that Kyuhyun joins, somehow making his way into the scenery.

This time, you’ve sketched him barefoot by the beach, laughing as he splashes seawater up a silhouette with his foot. It’s an imagery that comes easily to you; Kyuhyun with his friends out having fun together. He seems like the type of person who is able to get along with everyone, and you're near certain he is.

You scribble down the date and your signature like you do on every piece of art, leaving out your name. The ripping of the page is quiet, barely audible over the music; the edges of the paper imperfect, but they always are. 

As you rest the paper under the now empty cup, you can't help but imagine how Kyuhyun would react to the sketch this week. He hasn't shared his thoughts on your sketches since that first time nearly three months ago, when you'd come to Penguin Ice with your friends for a birthday celebration.

I like the way you sketch, Kyuhyun had told you as he served the tray of sundaes ordered by your table. Art student?

Yeah, you'd answered after a moment of shock, watching how the man's eye was trained on the lines of your sketch. Understanding that it was genuine praise. Your eyes had fallen to his askewed name tag, committing his name to memory. And, um, thanks. He'd tipped his head in acknowledgement, set down your orders, and returned to his post.

Looking back, it might've seemed like nothing. But to the you back then who had been dealing with self doubt, the words of a stranger had been everything you needed to hear and more. While your friends chit chatted and ate, you'd done up a quick sketch of the cafe, and left it on the table with a short thank you note addressed to Cho Kyuhyun.

The next time you'd come, it had been because another friend was curious after seeing your post about the cafe before. Even then it had been Kyuhyun who took one look at you and went, Ah, the art student! Right? The memory of that moment still makes you chuckle now. It's in his recognition that Kyuhyun started becoming more than a part timer at a cafe in the city for you.

Now, as you wait for Kyuhyun to turn away and busy himself with cleaning before sneaking out of the cafe like a protagonist in a cliche romance drama, you wonder if this plot will ever advance, or if this is but a draft that will not live to see a happy ending.

It doesn't really serve as a surprise when you come across Kyuhyun at a local arts festival you are a participant of. You've thought about it, the what if. What does surprise you, is how you come across him.

There's an event pamphlet, of course, but you're also not the type of person who focuses on details like the musical cast names. It's not like any of them would ring a bell, since they're students. Except one of them does. You don't connect the dots at first, too tired from hours of live sketch after live sketch for customers. Then you hear it, his My heartfelt thanks, and the thought is formed.

Can it be? You reach into your back pocket for the pamphlet and flip to the musical lineup for today. Sure enough, printed in bold is the name Cho Kyuhyun along with a photo of him. Gods, does he look cute in casual wear. You're staring hard at his photo when he rips your attention back to him with his vocals.

While you wouldn't go as far as to call yourself a theatre enthusiast, it's not like you haven't been to musicals. You have, and you enjoy them when you do. Paid hundreds of bucks for a good three straight hour sitting of a show that'd live in your memories for decades to come. And when Kyuhyun sings, goosebumps rising along your arm midway through the first line, you know that's the kind of level he'd belong on in the near future. That's how good he is.

You're in awe, then you're in wonder, and then maybe, just maybe, you're falling in love with the theatre student and part time ice cream man Cho Kyuhyun. The sudden realisation startles you, but you accept it just as quickly. Little as you may know, it's enough for you to have developed feelings for him, and you feel it growing stronger every passing second in your mind. Your fingers itch with the need to capture this moment forever in the form of a painting.

Then the musical comes to an end, the cast coming together, hands joined as they bow their thanks while the audience reciprocates with thundering applause. Your eyes are still on Kyuhyun as the curtain falls, but you're certain he hasn't seen you in the dark. Nor would he know or have reason to be looking out for you.

You're out the moment you're able, zigzagging through the night crowd back to your post in a rush. It's not that you're late to return, nor will your neighbor mind even if you were. You simply need to pick up a pencil right now and bring to life the visuals buzzing in your head. It's been a while since you've felt this adrenaline rush under your skin. 

This is going to be a masterpiece.

-

You drown yourself in the canvas, skipping your weekly visit to the Penguin Ice cafe for the first time. There's only one reason for it: you don't want to override the memory of seeing Kyuhyun on the stage. A side you've never seen before, a temporary skin he wears so well one may be fooled into thinking it is his own.

There's a moment when you wonder if you'll ever finish the painting—each time you think you're quite about done, the paint setting for the last time, there's something new to add or to revise. You want to make it perfect, but in art, nothing ever is. Still, it is through willpower that you drop the brush for good, stepping back to take a good look at your painting.

It's… well, there’s no other way to say it: it's the man you saw on stage that night. It’s as close to what you wanted to express as you think it can get. The desire, the urge to convey your admiration for Kyuhyun grows overwhelming, and you rush to hold down on the power button of your phone. It’s 7:12pm on a Sunday. Which means there’s a good chance Kyuhyun will be there. They close at 10pm on weekends… can you make it?

It's worth the risk, you decide. You've got to be stupid at least once in your life (or many, but that's not how the saying goes, see). You wrap up the canvas carefully, yelling to your parents that they don't need to buy your share for dinner later, and rush out the second you feel presentable enough for public appearances.

Kyuhyun stares at you unblinking, and you do the same. It's easy to get lost in the reflection you see in them—and he blinks, light returning to his eyes.

“Hey,” he greets, but behind it you sense the question.

“Hey,” you return between pants.

“We're closing,” he says slowly, as if you can't tell from the flipped chairs and cluttering of washed utensils, “But if you're okay with on the go, I can bring out the tubs.”

You shake your head wildly before Kyuhyun can go grab said tubs. “That's not why I'm here.”

When you don't elaborate, he nods once and prompts, “Okay… So you're here to…”

“Pass you something. I can wait till you're off work. If you don't mind, I mean.” You're babbling, and you just know your face is a deep shade of red from nerves and embarrassment. To his credit, Kyuhyun doesn't judge despite his wrinkled brows, and gestures in the direction of your usual seat. So that's where you head. And you wait, your mind too crowded and thoughts so jumbled that you blank out until someone taps you on the shoulder.

“I'm done here,” he says, but now your brain short-circuits for a different reason. Kyuhyun in a plain t-shirt and shorts with a bag slinging across one shoulder shouldn't be anything worth ogling over, but it is. Even more so than the photo you'd seen on the pamphlet. You struggle to remember how to string words together and give him an answer, digging into your backpack for the thing you're here to hand him but can't quite remember what.

Then your fingers brush against the cloth holding your canvas, and you're reminded of your purpose. Right. With your heart slamming against your chest, you carefully pull out the painting you spent a week on, all while watching for any changes in Kyuhyun's expression. He has that cute frown that suggests he's confused, and you bite back a smile as you extend the canvas in an offering.

“For me?” 

The laugh breaks free from you as he accepts it with a cautiousness you've never seen. “

“Is there… something here?” He wonders aloud, gesturing between the two of you. His question is innocent enough, but then you see the way he's nibbling on his lower lip, the way he's peeking at you from under his long lashes—why are they so long anyway, you briefly wonder.

“An empty space,” you quirk, still somewhat afraid to take the leap, but unwilling to leave his question hanging in the air. 

Kyuhyun is instantly right by your side, the sleeves of your t-shirts brushing against each other, his body heat radiating off him this close. You feel yourself stiffen before you relax, easily growing used to this new lack of distance.

“So that's fixed,” Kyuhyun says after four beats of silence. “Anything else?”

“Hmm,” you hum to stall time as you think of other quirky answers to give, but it seems that isn't something Kyuhyun is willing to take a second time. His steps grow wider as he makes to stand in your way, forcing you to look up at him. He isn't exactly tall per say, perhaps a 1.8, but you're simply leaning toward the other end of the spectrum. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He smiles, small and shy and hopeful. “It'd be really embarrassing if I'm reading this wrong, but are you interested in me the same way I'm interested in you?”

And now it's you who's worrying your lower lip, question after question clogging up your mind about all the things you can say that will ruin any possibility of the two of you—Then you look at Kyuhyun again, and realise the man’s likely feeling the same, to some extent.

Licking your dry lips, you decide to go for it. “If by that you mean—” you swallow before you're sent into a coughing fit because of your salivary glands, “—The I want to hold your hand on a date kind of interested… then yes.”

“Who said anything about dating?” he teases, and before your brain even registers the words for you to feel disappointed, he continues, “I think we should start with self introductions first, shouldn't we? After all, I still don't know your name.”

“Okay then.” Kyuhyun clears his throat, his posture tall and grand before he gives a graceful bow, hand extended. “Would you do me the honor of exploring the potentials in this budding relationship?”

It seems like the plot is moving forward, after all.

[elvendara]

Mysme Fictober/Jumin Week Oct 5

For @mysme-fictober 2020 prompt list

and

@juminweek2019 Day 1: Birthday/Cats vs. Berries

5: Jack-O-Lantern

“Am I doing this correctly?” Jumin, the sleeves of his striped dress shirt rolled up over his elbows, his hair continuously falling over his eyes as he bent over the pumpkin on the kitchen table. MC laughed and got up from her seat quickly heading into the bedroom then back.

“Here, this might help.” She pushed a round silk headband over Jumin’s head then pushed it back to secure his hair away from his eyes. The lavender color looked good on him.

Jumin looked up at his wife and gave her a loving smile. Only she could do these things to him and he allow it. The look in her eyes gave him life, so he denied her nothing. It was to his great fortune that she in turn did not ask for the world, but only for him.

“Yes, I have at times wondered about the efficiency of Yoosung’s hair clips, however, it would not fit the aesthetic of a director of a large and affluent company.”

MC giggled at the image of Jumin wearing Yoosung’s hair clips. “No, I suppose nobody would take you seriously. Why not cut your hair shorter then?” she asked as she sat back down to attempt to carve out her own pumpkin. There was a table cloth on the table to catch all the pumpkin innards. When she had suggested they carve their own pumpkins Jumin had researched and researched before agreeing.

“I have often thought of it, but, I like this length most of the time, it suits me.” He scooped out the seeds of the pumpkin and scraped the inside until it was as smooth as the photo in the instructions he had printed out. The pumpkin was medium sized and almost perfectly round, there was a slight imperfection to the color but Jumin figured he would simply carve his design on the opposite side and no one need know. He had bought the best pumpkin carving tools he was able to find and now set about tracing the image he wanted onto the surface of the pumpkin.

Glancing towards his wife he noted how she furrowed her brow in concentration and thinned out her lips. Her cute little nose wrinkled quite pleasantly, he had to resist an urge to lean over and kiss the tip. He marveled at just how much his life hand changed in such a short period of time. Any other year and he would not have given this holiday a single thought. At this time he would surely have been in the office working on one thing or another. Now, he was elbow deep into the insides of a large squash and loving every minute of it.

Forcing himself to focus on his design and not on his lovely wife was difficult, but he did it. Once the outline was drawn onto the pumpkin, he held it out to look at it and make sure he had missed nothing. Perfection! Now came the difficult part. He picked up the small sawing tool and began to cut away what needed to be discarded. He regularly consulted the instructions so as not to make a mistake. In fact, he double checked he was about to make a correct cut before proceeding.

“How’s it going?” MC asked. Jumin looked up and couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his throat. “What?” MC’s eyes were large and confused.

“Here.” Jumin set his pumpkin down and grabbed one of the clean towels on the table. He gently wiped away some pumpkin guts from his wife’s cheek. He leaned over and kissed the same area. She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back down when he tried to move away, capturing his lips. He sighed and lingered on her lips, the soft feel like a balm on his entire life.

“I see what you are doing, trying to distract me. It will not work, I am almost finished.” He sat back down on his seat and MC pouted.

“Fine, I’m almost finished too.” She turned back to her work and Jumin grinned. She made him feel more alive than ever. Before her, he had been floating through life in a fog, and he might have continued that way, never knowing what life really meant, had she not pushed him out of it. He enjoyed his work, the company, loved his father and still gained much pride in what he did, but he was much more fulfilled than he had ever been. His heart was full like never before.

He hummed as he finished up his design, the sound coming naturally. He had often been told his singing voice was beautiful, yet he had never taken much enjoyment out of it. Now, he would sing for MC, or sing when he was alone and at peace, a sign of his happiness and contentment. Even Jaehee had commented that he often hummed under his breath while reading through his documents. He chuckled and MC gave him a soft knowing glance.

“Done.” He stated, setting his finished jack-o-lantern down and placing the cap on top. Perfect.

“Wait! You have to put the candle inside.” MC reminded him as she did the same to hers. They had purchased electric ones that didn’t need to be lit, as the building did not allow for real candles to be used.

“Right.” Jumin reached for the LED candle on his side, turned it on and placed it inside. “Ready?” he asked MC. Their respective newly carved jack-o-lanterns facing themselves ready to be revealed.

“Ready.” She answered.

“One…two…” they intoned together, “THREE.” They each turned their creations to each other, and MC gasped while Jumin tried unsuccessfully not to laugh. MC’s monstrosity was anything but perfect. The two almost triangular eyes were lopsided, one vastly larger than the other. There was a single gash in the center he could only assume was supposed to be a nose, and the too large mouth had dangling teeth that appeared to be one strong breath away from completely falling off. Not to mention she had done an abysmal job of clearing out the inside as there were orange strings visible inside.

“Well, it is certainly ghastly enough for Halloween.” Jumin chided his wife. MC rolled her eyes, her jaw tight.

“Is there anything that you’re bad at?” she asked, exasperated. Jumin had precisely recreated a photo of Elizabeth 3rd.

“I had to make sure my precious, I mean, OUR precious Elizabeth 3rd was accurately portrayed, anything less would have been an affront to her.” MC could only shake her head.

“Well, you did her justice my love.” She laughed and sat on her husband’s lap. “She would be proud to sit outside our door for all to see.” She kissed him, removing the headband and running her fingers through his thick dark hair. “Now, why don’t we go take a shower and clean up.” She suggested. He readily agreed.

[sylleboi]

𝕽𝖔𝖙𝖔𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 | 14/10/19

The task we were given was summarised as follows:

Choose from a selection of Muybridge’s motion studies to use as a reference.

Create a tonal trace (not silhouette) using a fine liner.

Number all of the drawings working from left to right.

Make textures and tonal value through referencing.

The challenge:

The challenge is to produce your own set of roto-scoped sequences that capture physical movement or motion. The aim is to create a series of looping animations each of which must be at least 12 frames long. 

Why are we doing this? Well from this, we are going to develop a better fundamental understanding of how different kinds of animation is created, and how each process works. At the same time, we also get an understanding of all the terms used when talking about animation as an artist and observer.

With all of this listed, it was time to begin testing it out for ourselves, following each step of the task list. 

So first, we chose from a selection of different printed out motion studies done bt Eadward Muybridge to reference from. I chose a study of a draft horse walking because I already have a good understanding of the anatomy of horses from working with them in the past and drawing them for years. I wanted to go a little easy with myself since it’s my first attempt to ever try out the process of working.

With the reference selected and printed out on a piece of A3 paper, it was time to start the drawing part. So I taped a piece of A3 tracing paper on top of the reference image and began lining out the basic shape and form of the animal as such:

At this point, I wasn't yet sure how I was going to tackle shading, tonal value and adding texture to each frame, but I decided to keep focusing on the most important part of the general exercise; getting the shape right and keeping it as consistent as possible to hopefully avoid chattering.

Once I had finished all of this, it was time to add some depth to it with the use of shadows. At this point, I had decided that I wanted to keep it relatively simple and clean, meaning I scratched the idea of using cross-hatching which I initially was going to do. Instead, I chose to use a method of creating small vertical lines throughout each frame, careful not to change the direction of these lines. I was very happy with how it began to turn out from the very beginning, but I quickly ran into the problem I predicted that I would have to deal with. The images are from over a hundred years ago, meaning that they aren’t very clear to read. But like I mentioned earlier, I have a decent understanding of the anatomy of the horse, so I was able to guess where most the shading and lines had to go to read correctly when played back.

Eventually, I found myself relieved to finally reach the last frame of shading as my hand was slowly giving out on me with cramps. (I’m not the biggest fan or line art, and that surely shows through my low stamina when doing it. This told me that I definitely need to work on it more, which was another good thing that I learned by doing this practice.)

Now with the inking finished, it was time to scan it. I proceeded by scanning it and printing it out to be A4, then scanning the A4 version in and hereby proceeding to the next step; clean up.

As you might be able to see on this scan, even though I have adjusted the layers, there are a lot of little smudges from the ink in each frame, so I took the eraser tool in Photoshop and removed all of that carefully. When this was done, I could finally begin the animation part of the process.

Using the tools on Photoshop I started copying a selection of each frame in order and on separate layers onto a separate canvas. After that was done, I began lining each frame up as best as I could to best avoid chattering in the animation. With each frame put together in numbered order in the timeline tool, this is the final product:

I think I was quite successful in creating a smooth and mostly seamless sequence of frames. The final amount of frames are 24. Looking at it for a while, I can definitely point out a few things I could change to improve it (such as fixing the ears of the horse), but despite that, I’m still very happy with my first attempt.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓:

05/11/19

So I decided to ask a friend and classmate of mine to send me his gif from the same workshop, simply because he used the same reference as I did that day for his rotoscope.

As you can see, they are indeed the same, but they have completely different feels to them. Where mine performs well in the sense of it being compact, clean and simple; as well as consistent, my friends’ has minor chattering, dirt or little “particles” floating about, inconsistent shading; it still works really well. I feel like his has way more personality to it compared to my own, which is definitely something I as an artist lean towards when looking at art. It’s imperfections make it perfect in some individual way. When you look at it, you don’t doubt for a second that it’s handmade. Because of the imperfections, it almost seems to represent the original reference even more. It has that vintage feel to it; it chatters and has dust particles and little imperfections just like video from the old cameras from the late 1800s and early 1900s.

Credit goes to: Matt

[natsspammityspamspamham]

Something that I wrote a while back

Synopsis: It’s about a guy who is kinda like a grim reaper. Yeah. He helps souls transfer into the afterlife.  Trigger Warning: Death Word: ~1900

Life and death.

The beginning and the end.

Anything that happens between those two points is up to the person living it. We can’t control what we are born into. Sometimes, a person can try as hard as they want and still receive nothing from their efforts. Sometimes, luck can grace a person with its presence and give them something that they didn’t deserve. Luck is a coin whose faces are one and the same. Luck isn’t a coin you necessarily flip.

But even if where we start is different, can we end up in a place we want to by the time our mortal lives end?

Within human beings, there are different nationalities, ethnicities, beliefs, morals, and levels of capabilities. We vary in size, face, hair, shape, and even aspirations. But even when you are born into something, it’s okay to believe you want to do something else… right?

Differences make us unique and adaptable, yet we hurt each other for it. It scares me to think that I’m different from you. I’m different from everyone else. We are alike in so many ways yet not the same.

Most of us have secrets. I am no exception. I have many secrets that I conceal within me, but through one of my secrets, I have met many people. I have seen many lives come before me, and I’ve lent a hand to those who were in the dark for I shed a light that guided them to new beginnings. But by no means am I a god; I am a normal mortal human being who is imperfect. I have sinned, made mistakes, and cleaned the pieces from the messes I’ve made. I simply guide souls with regrets into the afterlife for reincarnation. A part of their soul and character remains, but it is regained with every new life. I make sure people are at peace before a part of them says goodbye.

I knocked on her door. I had only received her name. We haven’t even met. She opened the door.

“You’re here to pick me up?” she asked. I nodded. “Well, I’m going to need to get something. You can come in if you like.”

She walked back inside. I invited myself into the quaint house. The stained hardwood floors paved down the hallway. I could hear shuffling in the back where her room was located. There was a living room with an old flower-print couch on the side. There were pictures on the mantle of a girl growing up through the years. She was riding her bike in one then catching fish in another. As she grew older, she began to wear more makeup and began to smile a little less. The fine china dishes were untouched in the cabinets collecting dust. It was a fine home. I walked down the hall with my steps echoing with every touch of the dark hardwood. Pictures lined the walls.

“Did you draw these?” I pointed to the images boxed by frames in the hallway by her room. She didn’t respond. It started with juvenile portraits of her mom, dad, and her. She began drawing simple flowers then ballgowns and dresses. Her final portrait was of a solemn crying face that seemed to belong to her. I turned and entered her room. It was a little cold, but it was mostly neat besides a few pieces of clothing on top of the dresser. “I’m not done yet. Can you please wait outside?” Her voice was shaking. I may have only caught a glimpse, but it was all I needed. She stood over her desk with teardrops cascading down her face. Her hands trembled subtly as it held a picture frame in her hand. She took a minute to recuperate then met me outside.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

We began walking down the cracked pavement. There was no one around. The world seemed quiet and untouched.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Lucy Hadfield.” She grew stiff.

“How old are you?”

“I’m… 18.” She was uncomfortable.

“May I ask—”

The wind blew a gust. Her flowing blonde hair glistened in the setting sun. She still had tears in her crystal blue eyes. “May I ask how you died?” Her body let go. A few more tears streamed down her face. She tried to smile. She scoffed with a shaking voice, “Shouldn’t you already know?” The clearest and most honest tears streamed from her face.

She sighed, “I had already gotten everything out of the way too. My soul was put at peace the moment I died. There was nothing left unsaid.” She tried to laugh and gasp for air. “I think my parents knew it was only a matter of time. I hung out with the wrong people, did stupid things, and wanted to be rebellious. I was a teenager. I… I wanted to fit in. I wanted to feel okay. I wanted to be alright. I didn’t want to fit into the norm, and I knew I wasn’t going to be accepted.”

She looked into the mirror and began to sob. “But I didn’t want to die! I didn’t want to leave everyone and everything behind. I tried so hard.” She gasped for air as tears were streaming down her face. She was kneeling collapsed on the floor.

“March 27th. Opioids. I died of an overdose! I couldn’t do anything! I was powerless! I was filled with regret. The paramedics tried their best to save me. They injected me. They performed CPR. I was too far in. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Why did this happen? I felt trapped. No one listened! Why does no one listen?! I cried for help! Why did they leave me alone?! My anxiety was a monster. It got out of hand, and my parents didn’t want to do anything about it! It was just recreational pot at first. Then it went to pain killers, cocaine, but nothing stopped it. I felt so lost. I tried to kill myself, and my parents still didn’t know what to do. They almost lost their daughter once, but they couldn’t save her! They had a name to upkeep. My dad was a reputable municipal politician. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. I was tortured by the circumstances I was born in; can’t you see? I just wanted someone to look out for me, someone to help, and when I thought I found the right people, it just got worse. I understand now that they didn’t know what do to. I get it.”

She tearfully smiled, “My soul is at peace knowing that my parents now accept what happened. They know their faults. My father now advocates for mental health. I couldn’t be happier, so why… why am I still so upset. Why am I still crying?”

“I do not know. I sincerely apologize.” I bowed again. I was lying. She had a right to still be in pain. One of the hardest parts of my job was putting a straight face. Almost everyone I meet who has died may be at peace, but many of them do wish to live again to see their loved ones. It is not that they are not at peace, but they simply desire something that has been taken away from them. You truly don’t know what you have until it’s gone. “I can assure you that—”

“Why am I still in pain?” she asked. “It hurts so much…” she clutched her chest. “How can my heart hurt if it’s not even beating?”

“Even though the pain from the mortal world is lifted upon death, some pain transcends beyond while some new feelings may emerge.” She rose from the ground and slapped me. She raised her fist angrily before setting it back down.

“What am I doing? I’m just delaying the inevitable.” Her arms slung by her sides. “Please, let me say goodbye to them. I was a terrible daughter. A terrible human being. It’s not their fault they didn’t know what to do. Please, I want to share some time with them.”

The tears slowed but never stopped. I stayed outside the room. A thought lingered in my mind. There was a letter addressed to her that was written post-mortem.

“To my beautiful daughter Lucy, Your father and I miss you very much. He’s fighting hard every day in your place. Sometimes I find him asleep on his desk with drool on his paperwork. We think of you every day. Your life never leaves our minds. We’re sorry for how we handled your grief. We should’ve been there when you needed us. I’m now giving speeches and seminars to parents everywhere. As much as we miss you every day, we don’t want your efforts to go to waste. We’ve got it from here! Thank you for being our daughter. We are so proud of you, - Mom”

It was in a frame covered with tears.

She walked into the kitchen where both her parents were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying dinner. A certain glimmer was missing from their eyes. Their smiles were pained, and their movements were strained. She embraced them hard. She didn’t want to let go. Not yet. Her parents paused it was as if something had come over them. Tears filled their eyes, but they did not know the cause.

“Mom, Dad, I love you. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She began walking out of the house and gave her final goodbyes. I managed to read the piece of paper that was beside the picture frame scattered with tears.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asked.

“Your spirit will remain here, but your life will be passed on for reincarnation. In essence, your spirit in this lifetime will never die and will always remain, but your life force will be reborn.”

She stepped through the doors of the afterlife. It’s an experience few can describe, but I have seen it countless times. You may feel like you are alone in death, but you never are. Loved ones and other’s spirits will guide you through the unknown. Everyone experiences it differently, but nobody is ever forgotten or alone. Even in life, you may feel isolated, you may feel like you are forgotten or alone, but that is never the case. Someone, whether it’d be through spirit or guidance, is always there. She waved goodbye as she faded with the doorway. She had a smile on her face, but unlike before, it was one that was pure and true. Her soul was truly at peace, her spirit was released, and she was free to move on to her next life without being burdened by her past. Lucy Hadfield will never be truly dead like some in life believe; she will simply be beyond the mortal’s view watching over those she loves and cares about.

This section ends here, and even though this story takes a more dramatic and sullen tone, I was originally intending for this story to be a bit lighter? It all changes when someone stumbles in. She completely changes everything. A bit more of the reaper’s background (won’t say backstory) is revealed. The two meeting turns into more confusion (for me because I don’t know how to write it).

[spectre-writes]

They come and they go...

Hank was never quite sure when Connor became a permanent fixture of the household. It just kind of... happened. Wasn't like he'd really set out with it in mind, but what was he supposed to say when they embraced the morning after the revolution, and Connor told him he didn't know where to go next? Tell him to fuck off back to Markus? Nah, not on his life...

A roof to stay under was the least he owed the android. So he'd told him he was welcome to stay as long as he needed, and Connor had eventually taken him up on just that. Hank didn't think either of them really expected it to be forever.

For the first few days Connor was forever apologizing and promising to be out of his hair as soon as possible, a flurry of activity as he tried to clean or cook or do whatever he could to repay Hank, seemingly desperate to please. But as Hank repeatedly reassured him, or just flat out told him to 'relax for fuck's sake', he appeared to get the message.

He spent less time fussing over chores and more time lavishing attention on Sumo. More time walking outside in the crisp winter air, or questioning Hank on the finer points of emotions and human behavior. Or sharing whatever obscure facts he'd dug up most recently – mostly about fish, and Hank couldn't understand it but he guessed it was good the kid had an interest in something.

And the longer he stayed, the more normal it felt. The house just didn't seem as empty with him there, and it was... good, Hank supposed. He'd honestly forgotten how hollow the place was without someone else in it. The silence had become too familiar, sinking somewhere into his bones in a way he never had the strength to fight. On some levels he'd probably thought he deserved it.

But Connor filled the void in a manner a dog never could. There was something comforting about coming home and having something other than his own thoughts for company.

It was having someone to sit with on the couch and watch late night TV with. It was waking up in the morning and finding coffee waiting for him because someone actually cared. It was the way Connor shook him from his own troubled mind with a question, or a new piece of information he was eager to share, eager because somehow what Hank thought mattered. It was the curious expression that overtook him when Hank played his old Jazz records that he hadn't touched in years. It was watching him and Sumo play fetch in the yard. It was... the warm feeling that ran through him at the sight...

And as time passed, Connor mentioned leaving less and less, and Hank mentioned it not at all. One way or another, he couldn't imagine home without him, and more importantly he didn't want to.

And he supposed... he supposed, in the same way, he was never sure when RK900 became more than an inconvenient guest.

He'd never wanted the thing. But Connor had those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes, and one imploring look and Hank was putty in his hands. Damn android probably knew it – part of his original function was as a negotiator after all.

It didn't matter that they owed the other android nothing, that it was simply another awakened machine like the ones Connor had lead in the uprising not so long ago. It had Connor's face, and for whatever stupid reason Connor seemed to consider the grounds for some kind of attachment.

Android models typically had thousands of others with their exact same face though, a perfect copy – and that was a trip and a half – but it was with a kind of resignation that Hank decided it just wasn't worth arguing about.

Maybe Connor felt differently because he was supposed to be a unique model, had never expected to find another with his own likeness. Maybe it was part of being a deviant, in seeing a brother when he would have previously only seen a replacement. How was Hank supposed to tell him he shouldn't care? That those feelings were invalid?

So as little sense as it made, he'd ended up bringing two android home that day, with the promise that RK900 could stick around until he figured out what the hell he wanted to do.

At least they weren't perfectly identical, Hank would have found that a nightmare. The RK900 had piercing grey-blue eyes in place of Connor's soft brown ones, and a resting face that seemed just a little more stern, a little colder, as if they'd tried to sharpen the edges of him into something more fearsome. He was a scant inch or two taller as well – something only noticeable when the two of them stood side by side – but the tiny differences were reassuring, even if they had the exact same freckles and other carefully designed imperfections on their synthetic skin. Didn't mean it still wasn't unsettling.

Of course, the very first thing RK900 said as they walked through the front door and Sumo came bounding up to greet them was, “I like dogs.”

Hank was struck immediately by the familiarity of it, and how stupid the whole thing was. Connor had told him exactly the same thing. Thinking about it, Connor had probably never even met a dog at the time he'd told him.

Why the fuck did Cyberlife decide that was an important response to program? Maybe it made them seem more human, more relatable. But whatever Connor had been pre-programmed to say, he knew for a fact the way the kid fussed over the St. Bernard was not an act, and there was no way Cyberlife would have bothered to program such affection for a creature that was completely unrelated to his original function. Maybe Connor had only told him he liked dogs because that was what his coding said, but he sure as hell liked them now.

So Hank had just shrugged. “Yeah, I'm sure he likes you too.”

With two androids fawning over him Sumo would be having the time of his life.

Hank reheated leftovers for a quick dinner while RK900 explored his new surroundings with Connor at his heels, no doubt scanning every bit of junk Hank had left lying around and stitching together a very thorough file on what kind of a man he was. Whatever his discoveries, Hank had no interest in finding out. He ate methodically, and went to bed early for once in his life, too tired to deal with any this shit.

When he dragged himself up the next day, the two of them were sitting on the couch. They turned in perfect synchrony as he paced into the kitchen, following his movements.

“I swear if you two start speaking at the same time you can both leave,” he muttered, stuffing bread in the toaster and grabbing the coffee jar down from the cupboard since Connor evidently hadn't made any.

“He's not serious, that's just the lieutenants equivalent of humor,” Connor reassured his doppelganger, and Hank snorted. It filled him with a small amount of pride that the android could recognize such things these days, but he wasn't about to admit it.

“RK900 decided on a name last night,” Connor informed him.

Hank turned, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he inspected the pair of them. “Oh, is that so? Let’s hear it then.”

Connor looked across at the RK900 encouragingly. The other android looked strangely uncertain. It glanced down at the ground for a moment before it lifted its gaze to meet Hank's own.

“My name is Ethan.”

Hank nodded. “Alright then. Ethan it is.”

His approval seemed to gain the right response, a tension he hadn't even noticed before left the androids shoulders, and Connor smiled. Cautiously, Ethan attempted to mimic the expression, but it didn't quite sit right on his face. Probably needed some practice, god knew Connor's smiles had been creepy when they'd first met.

If Connor was only a few months old, his brother could only be a few days... shit, android ages were impossible to get his head around.

They stepped out of production fully formed and programmed with all the knowledge and skills necessary for their intended task, supercomputers with humanoid bodies, but for all their processing power they lacked one of the most important pieces of development – experience.

Watching Connor grow in the time they'd spent together had been fascinating, and Hank supposed he shouldn't be too harsh on Ethan if the kid was still stiff as a broom.

“You'll be wanting some new clothes, right? Get rid of that Cyberlife uniform?” he asked, grabbing a plate for his toast.

“It would be preferable,” Ethan agreed.

Naturally he picked out a plain button up shirt and a pair of dark trousers, androids had no imagination... even Connor had let him down on that front, but Hank supposed it took time to develop any kind of fashion sense. People would probably tell Hank he still hadn't developed any fashion sense despite his own years.

It was better than the stark white uniform Cyberlife had dressed him in though. Ethan looked a little more human without the high collar or the serial number emblazoned on his chest, a little more like a person and less like a product.

If someone had told him he'd be spending his spare time clothes shopping with a pair of android twins he'd have laughed them off, yet here he was... fate was funny sometimes.

Hank considered his duty done. Ethan could have his dignity as a person and not have to go waltzing around bearing Cyberlife's name printed across his jacket, and he had a roof to stay under until he figured things out, and that was all Hank could be expected to offer.

Ethan was Connor's problem. Connor's problem because he looked at the other android with a protectiveness that made no damn sense, because he saw a connection between them because Cyberlife had printed them the same dorky looking face, because he felt a loyalty... but Hank couldn't be expected to feel the same.

Connor had earned his place in Hank's heart. Ethan was just another android. Just another person. He could stay because Hank couldn't tell Connor it was silly and kick the other android to the curb, but he was just a guest. A guest with a weirdly familiar face, but he wasn't Connor. Hank tried his hardest to remind himself of that.

As the days and weeks bled into one another, a new rhythm slowly began to settle. It was strange, having another body in the house, but the longer it had been the more normal it began to feel.

Ethan began to develop his own mannerisms.

He liked the snow, while Connor found it brought him unpleasant memories. He had no coin to fiddle with, but he often tapped his fingers against his leg in a beat only he could follow, as if the habit was soothing. His expressions were never as soft or openly inquisitive as Connor's could be. His fascination with the world seemed far more analytical despite his deviancy, but thankfully he asked far less 'personal questions'. After considerable research he decided he quite liked synth wave music, though he claimed that the irregular tempo of Hank's jazz could be stimulating. He preferred to walk Sumo in the evenings rather than the mornings.

It became easier to think of him as his own individual, not simply Connor's duplicate. It became harder to remember he wasn't meant to stay.

Something about him just slipped into place like another jigsaw piece he hadn't known was missing.

He began finding post-it notes left for him because Ethan had discovered the ones Hank stuck on the bathroom mirror and seemed to consider it the perfect way to be passive aggressive, or on rare occasions, surprisingly thoughtful. His record stash was slowly expanded, because apparently he was 'missing' specific albums. It became common place now to see Connor talking over case files with his double, the pair of them thoroughly engrossed.

Hank didn't bother telling Connor that case files were supposed to be confidential, he was sure the kid knew. Why kick up a fuss? With two supercomputers on the job, cases practically solved themselves...

And now, when he watched the yard, it wasn't just Connor tossing a ball, it was him and Ethan throwing it between them and Sumo running madly from one to the other, barking with excitement. It felt... more complete somehow.

When he got up in the night for a glass of water, he'd sometimes find the two of them on the couch in stasis.

They didn't need to do it sitting down. In fact, Connor had first done it standing up, but Hank had kindly informed him that finding him lurking in a dark corner with the lights off was likely to give him a heart attack.

Hank wasn't sure what stasis was like. Connor had told him it gave them a chance to log data from the previous day, and file and discard as necessary, as well as checking their programing for errors or anomalies and performing basic maintenance. That was just a bunch of tech nonsense though. Didn't explain what it was like.

They didn't dream. It wasn't sleep. But, Connor eventually conceded, it was... peaceful. Their awareness of the outside world was tuned down, just enough to pick up on important cues in the event they needed to be brought back online before they were finished.

They were no longer hyper aware of every detail in their surroundings, no longer calculating probabilities or cross-referencing data, simply free to tidy up their systems at their leisure without outside complications to divert their processing power to. It wasn't sleep, but maybe for a computer it was close enough.

Hank never said it, but he thought that seeing the two of them sitting side by side seemed a little less lonely than just Connor, a solitary figure in the dark. Maybe that was just a human thing. Maybe that was just him projecting. Damned if he was going to ask them.

One lazy Sunday afternoon, Hank decided it was time to clean out the garage. It had probably been time to do that for a long while. There was a lot of stuff in there he hadn't wanted to look at, hadn't wanted touch, but he was feeling pragmatic and for once the idea didn't seem quite so painful. So he rolled up his sleeves and got to work, sorting out piles of things to toss and other pieces he carefully boxed up again, not yet ready to part with.

In the process he came across a stack of dusty board games. He brought them out into the lounge and set them on the table, arms folded as he tried to figure out what on earth he was thinking.

When Ethan wandered in minutes later, his attention immediately fixed itself upon the pile of board games. His gaze lifted to Hank's, inquiringly.

“Go get Connor, I've got something to show you two,” he said.

So when the pair of them were present Hank sat them down, and introduced them to the joys of Cluedo, Guess Who, Monopoly and Trivial pursuit. As far as Hank remembered that was what you did on lazy Sunday afternoons with your family... not that family was really the right word for what he had going here, but it was something. And those two deserved to spend time sitting down and playing pointless games at the table while the world outside was grey, and rain pattered against the windows in a steady drone. That was an experience everyone deserved.

They thrashed him, of course.

“How are you doing this? You cheating?” Hank asked after his fifth defeat. “You sure you've never played this shit before?”

“It's simply a matter of calculating probabilities and selecting the decision with the highest likelihood of success,” Connor told him, almost sounding offended.

“Ah, so you are cheating,” Hank said. “Using those big robo brains of yours. Can't you like, turn them off for a minute, give an old man a chance?”

“You want us to intentionally inhibit our processing power so we are incapable of normal functions? To increase your chance of winning a game?” Ethan asked, raising one eyebrow.

Yeah, sounded kind of fucked up when he put it like that. Hank sighed, scratching at his beard.

“Would it kill you to go easy on me?”

“I believe you are being what my database would refer to as a 'sore loser',” Ethan informed him pleasantly, and Hank swore he caught a faint smug twitch to the androids lips. No way in hell he wasn't enjoying this.

“Right, that does it,” Hank said, standing up and pushing the remnants of their game of Monopoly aside. He rummaged through the pile he'd brought in from the garage, eventually finding what he was looking for and slapping it down on the table.

“Snakes and ladders,” he said with satisfaction, “no way either of you are pulling any supercomputer bullshit on that.”

The androids’ LED's flickered yellow momentarily before returning to blue, no doubt them downloading the rules.

Ethan was frowning. “This is based entirely on dice roles, pure chance, there is no way to actively affect one’s chances of victory. I don't understand the purpose of the game.”

“The purpose is it's fucking fun. Now shut up and get ready to taste defeat.”

Hank ended up losing again. Why fate had decided to pull the middle finger to him he didn't know, but he could tell Connor was trying not to laugh and Ethan looked very pleased with himself, and screw it... maybe he should be worried about his dignity, but he was sitting down and playing snakes and ladders on a Sunday afternoon and he'd never thought he'd be doing that again...

It wasn't all smooth sailing of course. Even from the beginning Ethan carried with him a restlessness that Connor didn't share.

Maybe that was to be expected. Both of them were state of the art prototypes, designed with a ludicrous amount of processing power and abilities far beyond the standard home models, but while Connor had been reinstated as a full member of the DPD, Ethan had no such affiliation.

While Hank and his partner drove off to work, Ethan stayed at home to entertain himself. At first it didn't seem to be a problem, he had Sumo for company and sometimes he went out for a walk, but eventually that just didn't seem to be enough.

Sometimes he'd disappear for long periods of time, and Hank would say nothing of course because it wasn't like he cared, but as the hours dragged by he couldn't help but glance at Connor. The android would pick up on what he wanted to ask somehow, and his LED would flicker, before Connor would assure him that Ethan was fine, and sometimes even give an estimation of how long until he returned. And he was always fine. He always was. But Hank couldn't help the doubt that stirred somewhere deep inside him every time.

Worse though were those occasions when he came home to find the place in a disarray, things strewn around Ethan in a circle as he tried to solve some pointless problem for the sake of it – like what the perfect cup of coffee actually was, or the model ingredients for the best popular television drama, or how much hair Sumo shed in an average day, or the likelihood of magazine horoscopes having any truth to them based upon massive statistical data...

Hank could only conclude it was the android equivalent of going stir crazy. What exactly he could do about it he didn't know. Hobbies were the obvious solution, but convincing Ethan to take up knitting or yoga seemed unlikely.

“Ever thought about reading?” he asked, picking the only sane thing that came to mind.

Ethan looked perplexed. “Reading?”

“Yeah, you know, books. Surely your big computer brain knows what they are.”

“I know what they are.”

So Hank collected some of the old paperbacks he had lying around the house, offering them up. Whether they were his taste or not Hank couldn't say, but it had to be better than whatever nonsense the android would come up with by himself.

“Here,” Hank said gruffly, “should give you something to do.”

Ethan accepted the pile, then his LED flickered yellow for a few moments. Then he handed them back. “I've read them.”

Hank stared at him. “Did you just... download the fucking books?”

“I found digital copies of all the texts you provided and downloaded them into my memory, yes,” Ethan supplied. “Is there something wrong?”

“I didn't... christ, I wanted you to read them, not download, that was the whole point!”

Irritation was nipping at his heels. It was hard, though, hard when despite Hank's raised voice Ethan only looked troubled.

“I fail to see the difference.”

“It's... alright, look,” Hank tried again, taking a calming breath. “Reading is a kind of... experience, I guess. You read the words and you let it take you somewhere else, let yourself become a part of the story. You read a book to escape your own shitty life and you feel it...”

“I still fail to-”

Hank lifted a hand, cutting him off. “I'm pretty sure I've got another book or two lying around, so I'm gonna go find them, and this time you're gonna read them properly. No downloads or any other android crap. Just reading. At a human speed.”

Ethan still looked troubled. But after a brief pause he nodded. “Understood.”

It took him several hours to finish the books. When he was done, he came and presented them back to Hank, like a child who had finished their homework.

Hank tore his eyes away from the game on TV. “Well? What'd you think?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, Hank,” Ethan said, “I still cannot see the difference.”

Hank sighed, and maybe it was the disappointment on his face the spurred Ethan to speak again.

“I think perhaps you misunderstand how information works for us,” he said, his fingers tapping idly at his leg, “we have a far greater processing power than the human mind. When I download a text file I do read it. I am able to analyze the information, and draw my own conclusions from it, in a matter of seconds. Reading at a human pace just feels... slow. Pointless.”

Ethan was still standing there, as if anxious for a response.

Hank glanced across at Connor for help. “Is that really how it works for you?”

Connor smiled back sheepishly. “How did you think I was able to read through case files so quickly?”

“Shit,” Hank muttered, “no wonder you're good at paperwork.”

He turned his attention back to Ethan, trying his best to look apologetic. “Sorry I made you waste your time. Guess I thought you were missing out on something, but maybe I just don't understand all this android stuff. If books aren't your thing that's fine, but you should think about getting a hobby some time, maybe try talking to Connor's Jericho buddies or something.”

Ethan tried. Hank was pretty damn sure he tried. All the evidence was there, the remnants of whatever interest the android had tried out most recently left abandoned or tidied away into the trash with clinical distaste. Nothing seemed to stick.

And Hank would be lying if he said it wasn't a little frustrating. Maybe he snapped a bit when he was in a foul mood already and he came home to the latest disaster and wondered what was so damn difficult about just finding something to occupy one’s self like a normal person.

He soon discovered that Ethan could be incredibly petty if he pleased. Connor was perfectly capable of pettiness of course, but Ethan excelled at it in a way that far outshone his predecessor.

His favorite response if Hank had been particularly gruff with him was to wait until Hank was settled on the couch to catch the Detroit Gears on television, and then as soon as the game got particularly tense to remotely change channels.

Hank would swivel to fix the android with a glare and Ethan would just blink back at him innocently. Didn't work quite as well with his steely grey-blue eyes, he couldn't pull off the puppy dog look, but he could look like a blank machine that didn't understand the accusation in Hank's expression. Hank wasn't stupid though.

The other trick he often pulled was mimicking notification sounds to get him to check his phone, or occasionally the doorbell (the way androids could do that was freaky on so many levels). Hank soon grew wise to this though and it lost its effectiveness.

Then Connor figured out they could also mimic cat noises and send Sumo into a frenzy of excitement, charging round the house in search of the intruding feline. They both seemed to find this a very fun game.

How anyone had thought the RK series was the height of advanced technology Hank didn't know, the pair of them were completely hopeless.

Whatever their squabbled though, both of them would always apologize.

Connor liked to do it in person because that was just the way he was, and him and Hank had a long history that the android never seemed to fear his response.

Ethan never liked to say anything directly, but he apologized in other ways. Sometimes a carefully placed post-it note, or a cooked breakfast. And Hank would give him a nod to let him know they were alright, and Ethan would nod back, and when Hank watched the TV again the channel would stay put.

Half way through the summer Connor brought home a fishtank. He set it up with perfect efficiency, and the thing was soon populated with a variety of brightly coloured tropical fish swimming about or pecking at the gravel, and Connor named every one of them. He loved to watch them. He also loved to talk about them, explaining the different species and their origins as if everyone were so fascinated by the creatures.

Hank didn't give a shit about them but he faked a passing interest for Connor's sake, cos there was something so endearing about the way his expression lit up.

He couldn't help but spare a sidelong glance at Ethan though.

He asked the android, later, if he was jealous, if he wanted something of his own. Ethan told him he was not. However, two days later a pot plant materialized on the kitchen windowsill. Hank didn't say anything. Ethan didn't either. But it was there.

Hank wished he could see what was going on in the android's head. Sometimes he seemed content, happy in their little house, another piece of the picture that just inexplicably belonged. Other times he was compelled by a restlessness none of them knew how to fix. Connor tried to help of course but sometimes Connor only appeared to make things worse.

He knew both RK units were fond of each other – Connor often referred to Ethan as his brother, and the other android seemed to return the sentiment, even if he never said it aloud. Love betweens siblings was a complex thing though. There were insecurities, envy, loyalty, admiration, affection and irritation, bitterness paired the warmth of kinship.

It was so very human, and so very painful to watch.

“Are you happy here?” Hank asked him one day, watching Ethan's face carefully.

The android took longer than usual to reply. “I don't know.”

That wasn't really what he'd wanted to hear.

Hank stuffed his hands into his pockets, wondering what the right approach was. He cleared his throat.

“Listen, uh... if you ever want to talk about stuff, you know you can talk to me, yeah?” he said. “Not saying I'm the best when it comes to emotional shit, probably the worst human for that kind of thing actually, but sometimes it's good to get stuff off your chest and I've always got time. Just food for thought.”

Ethan cocked his head to the side, a very faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Hank. I appreciate the gesture.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

But he never took him up on the offer.

Ethan's long disappearances became more frequent, and when Hank bothered to ask him he remained evasive. He didn't push the matter. Didn't want to find out what would happen if he did, and he supposed... he supposed it wasn't any of his business anyway. Ethan was a free man... android... person, and he could do whatever the fuck he liked.

The situation seemed stable enough until one morning when Hank, swearing up a storm when he realized the time, pulled on his clothes and sculled his coffee before yelling for Connor as he made his way to the door, only to find the android in question standing in the lounge with Ethan.

Hank could see the LEDs on their temples flickering in synchrony which was enough to tell him they were having a conversation. At android speed, of course. They could share an hours worth of gossip about him in the time it took him to put his shoes on. He would have liked to tell them there was no way they were allowed to do it in the house, but it felt too much like telling a kid they couldn't use their native language cos he couldn't understand it, even if that language was binary or whatever the hell they used. Hank could be an asshole, but there was some things he didn't want to mess with.

“Connor, what are you doing? We're late, we need to go,” he snapped, jerking his thumb toward the door.

Connor blinked, turning to face Hank. “I remember not so long ago the precinct would be luck to see you before noon.”

“Yeah well, things change. Now get a move on, you can carry on whatever this is later.”

Still, the android hesitated. “We are... having a disagreement.”

An argument. Hank felt like rolling his eyes. They were arguing. Sometimes they really were like brothers.

“Alright, well, we still don't have time,” Hank told him, a little softer. “If you need to clear anything up, make it snappy.”

Connor nodded. “Got it,” he said, before turning back to Ethan. Carefully he extended his hand, the synthetic skin flowing away to reveal the white plastic beneath. The other android mirrored the gesture.

“Woah woah woah, what's this now?” Hank demanded.

Ethan glanced over at him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if he were explaining things to a simpleton. “While we can exchange and process data wirelessly at a rate that far exceeds human speech, the chances of us coming to an agreement in the next minute through this method is low. If we synch, we will be able to exchange a more detailed perspective and assess the problem together.”

“It won't take long,” Connor assured him.

Hank sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just get it over with.”

The two of them clasped hands, freezing for a moment as they stared unseeingly. Then they snapped into motion again as if broken from a spell, releasing each other and letting their skin smooth back over their hands.

“Is that it?” Hank asked incredulously, looking from one to the other.

“Yes,” Connor said, softly, “we have reached an understanding.”

“Well, alright then.”

He looked back at Ethan again, scrutinizing the android for a moment. He couldn't spot anything off about him, he didn't seem particularly distressed, but Ethan was always a little less open with his emotions.

“You all good, kid?” he asked, watching his face for any tell tale signs.

Ethan nodded, adjusting his cuffs. “I'm fine. I'm glad Connor and I could resolve this.”

Hank gave up. What the android didn't want to tell him was his own business, and so long as he wasn't in any danger of heightened stress of upset, then there was no point being nosey.

“Right, we're heading off then. Take Sumo for a walk if you can.”

Ethan seemed to find this agreeable, but as he shut the door behind him Hank couldn't help but feel as if maybe he should be doing more. Connor was silent on the walk to the car.

“You really sort an argument by holding hands?” Hank asked him. “You two agree now?”

“Yes,” Connor said, though he didn't sound entirely happy about it.

“Androids are weird,” Hank muttered, pulling the drivers side open and sinking into the seat.

Connor was still for a moment. “I think humans are pretty weird,” he said with a smile, and Hank snorted.

Android humor. Yeah, humans were an odd bunch, he wasn't about to deny it.

Two days later... two days later things reach their conclusion. Ethan was standing by the door waiting for him and Hank knew something was different.

There was a resolve to the way the android squared his shoulders, even if his eyes betrayed a hint of doubt, it was clear he had reached a decision.

Hank didn't say anything though. Didn't ask. He didn't want to be the first one to speak, to start this, so he let Ethan hover by the door until he finally realized Hank wasn't about to say a word.

“I've acquired a job and an apartment,” he said, plainly, stating facts. He paused for a moment, as if leaving room for Hank to comment. “I think I will be leaving.”

“Oh,” said Hank, cos he couldn't think of anything better.

They stood there for a moment, assessing one another.

“Does Connor know?” Hank asked.

“Yes, he's aware,” Ethan said. “He was... against the idea at first, but I think we were able to understand one another.”

So that was what they'd been arguing about. Should have been obvious it wasn't something small, he'd never known the pair of them to have such a disagreement before. Minor squabbles over who got to walk Sumo maybe, but nothing they had to synch - or mind meld, or whatever the fuck it was – just to move passed.

“You don't have to leave, you know,” Hank tried, “if you don't want to. You're welcome here. Maybe I'm not the most welcoming kind of guy but there's always a place for you, and I don't want you leaving cos I never... cos I haven't-”

Ethan smiled. It was a small smile, but it wasn't creepy like the ones he'd used when he'd first joined them, his smiles these days always carried a faint whisper of warmth. They grew up so quick.

“It's alright,” the android assured him. “This is what I want. I'm grateful for your hospitality Hank, truly, and I think that overall I have enjoyed my time here... but it's not where I'm meant to be. I've given the topic much thought and I think, for myself, that my independence is an important part of my development.”

He waited again, and Hank knew he had to speak.

“If you're sure, kid. You'll always have a home here if you want it though. And you better damn well visit, I don't care how busy your new job keeps you, Connor's gonna mope like a child if he thinks you've forgotten him.”

“Of course.”

There was something caught in Hank's throat, something more he wanted to say. “Sumo will miss you.”

I'll miss you.

He thought he caught a glint of understanding in the androids eyes. He hoped he it was there.

“And I'll miss him too,” Ethan said.

And so he was gone, taking with him all he owned – a collection of spare clothes and a pot plant – and Hank was left to contemplate the inexplicable way it stung.

Maybe he should have done things different... maybe if he'd been better at this sort of thing, known how to give Ethan whatever it was he felt he was missing...

Shit, he was supposed to be Connor's problem. This wasn't supposed to matter to Hank.

He felt like having a strong drink, a craving that hadn't hit him in a long time. He didn't keep a steady supply of alcohol in the house anymore and driving out to Jimmy's bar to drown in his sorrows just seemed wrong.

He settled for a coffee, and tried to numb himself with the drone of the TV.

Nothing was forever. Humans left home all the time, it was normal. If Connor decided to leave he'd have to let him go too. Heck, he'd have had to wave Cole off to university one day if he hadn't... if...

He sighed, the desire for a shot of whiskey growing.

“You happy here?” he asked Connor later that day. “Ever think about moving out of this dump?”

Connor frowned, expression contemplative. It didn't seem he was pondering the question though, rather Hank himself, studying him in a way that made Hank acutely aware of the androids abilities to scan him. To read his heartbeat, to automatically detect signs of stress, to pull him apart in a way people never did. It made a lot of people nervous. It just ticked Hank off. Wasn't fair that Connor could read him like that and Hank was left trying to decipher exactly how the android felt given how hesitant he could be when it came to expressing himself.

But maybe it was fair. Connor still had trouble understanding the intricacies of human emotion, he'd had less than a years experience after all. Giving him a program to lend a hand wasn't such a bad idea.

“I see no reason to leave,” Connor said eventually, “I'm quite happy here with you and Sumo. I... can't promise that nothing will ever change, but I don't see how it could. This place is home for me.”

“That right?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Hank said, settling further down into his chair. “Guess I did something right.”

The mood the next day was different. Hank didn't mention Ethan, and nor did Connor. It almost felt as if they were both pretending he'd never existed, as if there wasn't a strange quiet hanging over their morning routine.

There were no new post-it notes waiting for Hank on the bathroom mirror. The little plant that had sat in the window was gone. Silly that things that weren't even there acted as reminders.

He pulled on his coat and skulled his coffee while it was still hot enough to scorch his throat, and watched as Connor filled up Sumo's bowl.

They had work, and maybe that was a good thing. Took his mind off other worries.

Connor was inspecting him again as they got into the car. He could practically see the androids mind ticking, and he knew, just knew, that Connor was going to bring Ethan up and Hank didn't want to talk about it.

He knew Connor wouldn't blame him for the other androids departure, but Hank couldn't help a small guilty part of himself wonder if he would. Connor had seen Ethan as a brother, and Hank had started off just seeing him as a problem, and maybe if he hadn't he'd still have him here...

Connor opened his mouth to speak, and Hank reached for the radio, turning the volume all the way up. The car was filled with the blast of heavy metal screams and thrashing drum beats.

Connor's brows dipped slightly, a faint irritation visible that he made no attempt to hide. He did not reach to readjust the volume however.

By the time they reached the precinct Hank's ears were ringing, not that he'd ever admit it.

He gave a vague wave to the secretary and she let them through.

It was the human one today.

There was still an android one that worked some days. As far as Hank understood it, it was a part time thing for her now, and the rest of the android workers had found better things to do. Why she in particular had chosen to return he didn't know. Had to be something keeping her. Maybe he should ask sometimes, ask what she saw in this crappy job when she was suddenly free to do whatever she wanted, but Hank was never one to invest himself deeply in the lives of others.

He wandered toward his desk with a general lack of enthusiasm, a brewing headache, and the desire for something a little stronger than coffee, barely paying attention to his surroundings. It was with some shock then that he finally forced himself to focus, and found someone lingering by his desk.

Ethan was lingering by his desk.

Hank stared at him.

The android seemed cautious, his hands clasped behind his back and remaining where he stood, waiting for Hank to react.

Was something wrong? Had Ethan changed his mind, did he need help? Was he embarrassed to go back on his decision? Did he need advice?

There were a lot of questions Hank wanted to ask, but they just got muddled up and he didn't know where to start.

Shaking himself, Hank finally managed to speak. “The fuck are you doing here?”

It sounded more accusing than he’d meant it too.

Ethan offered an almost sheepish smile. “I told you I got a job.”

Oh... Oh.

Hank was dumbfound. “Yeah, but... but...”

But he hadn't expected to walk in here and just find him at the station. Had felt like that goodbye the day before had a more permanent note to it, something that had sat wrong with him all the hours up till now. And he was fucking relieved, and angry, and pleased, and still pissed, and he didn't know how to begin to express that. Ethan was still waiting.

Giving up, he turned to Connor. “You knew about this?”

The other android paused, but nodded. “Yes.”

“And neither of you fuckers bothered to tell me?”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Ethan said. His hands were still clasped behind his back, and his head was held high, but Hank had known him long enough to read the uncertainty in his stance. That, and the yellow LED at his temple.

Hank sighed, and let his anger drain away. Ethan didn't need that now. He was worried he'd messed up, worried this had been a mistake, worried he wasn't wanted, and there was no way Hank was going to let him go on thinking that. He fucked up a lot, but he wouldn’t fuck this up.

“Of course it's good to have you here,” he said, closing the remaining distance between them and pulling the android into a hug. “But you should have just told me. Though we wouldn't be seeing you for a while.”

Ethan faltered, not quite sure how to return the gesture, but Hank let him go quickly. The android appeared to collect himself. He straightened his shirt. “Noted. I always did intend to visit though, even if I had not been able to secure a job here.”

“I should hope so!”

“If he did not, I would have tracked him down,” Connor said in a matter-of-fact way, and Hank didn't know if it was supposed to be a subtle threat or if he was just reading too much into it. Connor was smiling though, and so was his twin, so he guessed it was okay.

The two of them seemed comfortable with one another, any remaining tension from their earlier argument dissipated.

A sudden thought struck him, and Hank laughed. The pair of them looked at him in confusion. Their expressions were perfect mirrors of each other, and Hank only laughed harder.

“Christ!” he said, unable to stop his grin. “Reed's gonna have a heart attack when he realizes there's two of you!”

[namjoonchronicles]

Love, Diligently - [BTS] Husband!Yoongi Au

[A/N] Moodswing can be tiring and is a given in all marriage. The ups and down of marriage can be emotionally taxing, but Yoongi is definitely a creature of intense and smouldering emotion...but can he handle them?

He took the keys. He took the keys you threw on the bed, and exited the room.

You hang your head down and, silently consoled yourself. Your lips quiver in a helpless attempt to calm yourself. "This mouth..."

Yoongi lunged through the hallway in haste steps, gripping the car keys tighter in one hand and he wore a frown on his face, unable to shake away the burning fire in his heart but thankfully, his brain took control. He stopped in front of the kitchen and hung the car key on the key holder there, chewing his lips. His severed skin around the thumb from anxiety he had been suffering, are finally healing after awhile. He ruffled his own hair and sat in the living room in his shorts and tees. He sat there in silence, elbows on knees, the blank TV screen reflecting himself. The wedding picture hanging on the wall was tilted a little to the right and Yoongi gave it a burning stare. An unforgiving death stare. He was hungry. But he wants to sit here and overthink stuff until he decides to do something with his body. He doesn't want to work, he's not happy enough to do that. He doesn't want to do the laundry, and the trash isn't full to throw. He lifts his butt from the sofa to travel down the guest's bathroom, and,

...cleaned.

Scrubbing the tiles, the sink, the mirror. He cleaned. Spraying everything with disinfectant, more scrubbing, cleaning the tub, the shower curtain, the window, the areas around the faucet's neck, rinse, and repeat. He took out all his frustrations to the scrubbing until his muscles felt the ache from the aggressive manoeuvre. This was a more promising workout than his $300 a month gym membership. Maybe you two should fight more.

"We've been through this many times..." Yoongi thought. We've been through this, many times. He chanted. How is this any different from the ones before?

Yoongi would fight the world for your hand. He is and has done it before. He would walk through storm and back, for you. If you call out for him, he will definitely run to you, no second thoughts. And he knows you'd do the same. During this straining moments, flashes of happy times would come through his mind. Drilling through, cascading in multiple screens in his mind where he lived life at the fullest. His salvation is the sound of your heartbeat in his ear. His manuscripts contains your name and his rendition of addictive love would be your lullabies.

Stay, his heart whispers. When his head is screaming, leave.

How can those whispers be louder than the screams? It was unfathomable. Maybe it was in the way you cradle his head in your hands when he is close to breaking apart--that makes it so hard to leave. Maybe it was in the way you stared into his orbs, with so much intensity and belief that everything would work out in the end. Maybe it was how you fueled his dreams and create a world only you two understood, and everything else cease to exist, disappear into thin air, the storms and hellfire around him dissipates when you're around. Maybe, just maybe.

He was foolish. But I'd walk through hellfire for that hands and those eyes, and hell, those beautiful soul.

Loving Yoongi is like tiptoeing on a thin sheath of ice. But it is also like walking in the garden in Spring, filled with blue hydrangea. It's like being in a small unsteady boat underneath a clear sky where the sun shines the brightest but the warmth comforts instead of burning your skin. It was through Yoongi, you understood what divine was and what it could bring. Nights of fathomless blackness seemed to console his soul and his mysterious allure gave you excitement. And when he revealed his selfless heart for you to see, you knew he was made for you. You have entrusted this man with your whole-being and the worst thing was, you didn't know how it happened. His fervour kisses, and the intensity in his gaze, the sweetness in his smile and the way his eyes crinkle, everything about Yoongi; was and is breathtaking. The way your hands fit in his like a lock and key, how he held so tight and yet so loose; Yoongi doesn't lie when he says he needs you. That twilight by the beach in the morning of a summer, when he wore that white shirt, and a Hawaiian flower casual over, black shorts and a straw hat in one hand, another was lacing fingers with yours; and how his bony feet left prints in the sand--you remembered the words he said, word by word.

The ocean washes the shore, as he led the way. You stopped in your step and he turns around to see you. "Why, what's wrong sweetie?"

"...I'm tired, I want to go home." Yoongi frowned at you. The naggings come before he could breathe a word. You wanted him to get angry at you, you want to push him over the edge, you want to push him away and see if he comes back. You want some kind of proof that he was the one. You will find his fault and you will press on until he breaks under pressure. But Yoongi halted and brushed your hair away, towering over you. "But we just got here," he smiled, kept his eyes contact short, and "...you said you wanted to walk along the coast. I know what I heard." He turns his back to you and knelt, he held his hand to you for you to take and carried you on his back to walk along the coast. With your face so close to his ear, you stared into his porcelain imperfect skin. The sound of the waves overpowered you, and you traced his features with your index finger, in silent awe. You ran them down his helixes, and his pierces. "Why did you take them off?" You whispered that he surprisingly heard.

Yoongi shot his eyes to the sand, your legs on each side of him as he coasted the shores with his bare feet, the seaside wind brushing his hair back once in awhile. His straw hat is on you right now. "It was starting to hurt, and I usually forgot to take them off before I sleep," you heard him say. He lied.

Moments like these you began to wonder, if it was all worth it.

Being with you, hurts him. He had to change his appearance, be silent most of the time when he could be loud, rendered his beliefs so he could fit into your families' expectation. This was why you deemed it was unnecessary for him to come home to his in-laws. You haven't told them that you married someone. Their words are ruthless, and insensitive. They didn't want him here, they made it clear. With their body language and their eyes. Welcoming with their mouth, but didn't share the warmthness Yoongi deserved. In the kitchen alone, while you watch your mother wash the dishes, you heard her say to you, "...he has piercings. That's why I don't like him. He talks about dreams, music and possibilities. He doesn't even have a real job..." With each words she chose, a dagger strike through your heart. How can someone you lived with for so long, felt like a stranger? 

"Musicians make money too, mom."

"Tell me the truth, darling. Have you been spending money on him?" She wipes her hand. "Mom, I'm not stupid..." You darted in hushes, after scanning the whole room to make sure Yoongi isn't there. "I'm just asking," she stresses, "There's no need for you to be so worked up by it. I'm just curious, because he doesn't look like he has...a lot." You bit your tongue and shot your glances elsewhere. "Let's be honest, he's just a fling, isn't he? Does he has tattoo, is it nice?"

And then you disappeared to the living room and grabbed your handbag to take out a file.

"I didn't mean to reveal it this way, it was suppose to be tomorrow during the family dinner, but you're making it hard for me to stay civilized," you revealed a degree certification on the dinner table. The degree you've been wanting to do. "Wow...when?" Mom puts away the table cloth and took a closer look. "He's not a fling, he doesn't have a tattoo and I'm marrying him. I've married him. He paid my tuition fees. With his 'non-existent' money. The tuition fees our family can't afford and has been with me through thick and thin..." you exhaled sharp. "Now wait a minute, young lady, are you throwing your family away for this boy?" Mom raised her voice a little.

"If they prove to be otherwise, I don't see why not..." You shot. 

And earned a slap across your cheek.

The stinging was still there and you hung your head low before pushing your hair back to scoff and smile.

"All these years of raising me, you have no idea that I self-harm, had suicidal thoughts and told me to 'suck it up' because 'it's all in my head'. Push me, push me further over the edge, making me question my worth, telling me that no one cares about me but my family, I remember every single thing you did to me, mom," you grinded your jaws.

Every slap, every yank, every push. Everything.

"You push my face into a bowl of rice when I was 8 because I said I was hungry when you're meeting your friends. You locked me in my room, I have scratch marks on the door, that's why we moved, remember? And you push me down the floor, for asking about my dad, that's why I have this scar under my chin. And we moved again. Remember that mom? How you blame me over everything, did you ever think that I didn't ask to be born?!" You readied your face for another blow but before her palm could reach you, Yoongi stepped in between and held her wrist from you.

You ran upstairs before your tears could fall.

Yoongi stared into her iris, and breathed, "Please forgive her. She's a good daughter. She holds grudges, but she's a good daughter." Yoongi begged in your place, he set his knees to touch the floor and he begged. "You don't have to hit her anymore, I'm here in her place," he said, and lowered his head. Your mother leaned her back to the counter and cried. "...I was trying to be a good wife for a horrible husband that I forgot that I am also a mother..." She sobbed.

Upstairs.

Brushing your teeth, you sniffed. Your eyes are red and half of your face were swollen. Even though the things that she did were many years ago, the incidents are still vivid in your mind. The memories replays precisely where it happen, how she looked like. Because no one really forget pain. You always sleep with your fist clenched tight, and on your side, holding on to whatever invincible strength there is. The only person who was supposed to protect you, is making you run away from them.

So all you ever had was yourself.

"It's useless, holding on to these memories," you'd scold yourself, "...but pretending that it didn't happen, will not change the fact that it did. Someone out there must hear my stories. It didn't matter who, or when, someone must know that I went through this."

You heard the knob twisted open and then closed, gently. Yoongi's footstep circled the bed and to the bathroom door, opposed to the wall you're facing. He set his foot into the bathroom and shut the door. And in there, he stared into his own reflection. His double-helix, his multiple piercings he got when he was younger, and slowly, he lifted his hand and unfastened the earrings. Some of them clink against the counter when they fell out of his hand. He quickly presses his palm over them so it will stop making noises.

You watched his shadow from the door gaps and let nothingness consume you. Your mind is blank, you felt no remorse, no hurt, no happiness--nothing.

And true what they say: People who don't feel pain anymore, are the most damaged. 

Yoongi opened the door to your glassy eyes, sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, right in front of the bathroom door. The rest of the room is dark, only the light from the bathroom came through. You were hugging your knees and looked up at Yoongi. His face darkened by the shadow of light behind his head that it looked like halo. You struggled to swallow your spit, looking intently at him with a gaze that he understood as a cry for help from the way his soul whispered. "Yoongi," his name spill out like a prayer through your tantalizing petal of lips, taking in shaky breaths and out in a tiny squeak, 

"...I can't feel anything." 

And you fell into the paroxysm of grief and despair, submerging beneath the surface of the water, drowning. Yoongi drop to his knees and collected your shoulders into his powerful healing embrace. And it was as if he was the arm that came out from above to rescue you. The way the fingers spread far and wide, trying to reach you, as you fell further and further deeper into the sea.

Just when your feet touches the seabed, Yoongi grabs you.

When he held you tight, you couldn't breathe, you felt every bone constrict, every fibre in your body screaming out for him, your arms were limp on each side, your gaze are empty, darting straight to the wall's skirtings. The wind blew softly sending the curtain to sway helplessly. Your shoulders are burdened by the weights and expectations of having to be strong when she couldn't. With every cuts and bruises, you hardened up. Outweighing years of sorrow and bitterness have shed you of all the emotions you should feel. And all that's left was numbness beneath the pretense of an exterior you claimed to be, the inaccessible heart that concealed a divinity no human could have possessed. Yoongi penetrated beneath the surface to the core, from the familiarity of the path of your heartlines.

When the heart beats the same way, they'll find their way through and that was something that your parents couldn't understand.

How can they understand something they never had?

Yoongi didn't let you go for the whole night. People of the night like you two, finds sleep was unimportant. You both yearned for the moonlight, star-studded night skies,  and Yoongi led you out the front door when the rest of the house was asleep.

He took you to the beach where peace brooded over your entire being and the sound of the sea filled your head instead of the misery your family had brought upon you and for that, you were thankful. Perpetual gloom and seclusion of life begins to wane away with every step you take away from the house. "This is why isn't it?" He suddenly say, breaking the silence with lingering hold on your fingers. You looked at the never-ending shore before you, waiting for him to explain what he meant. "...This is why you told me to leave you," he glances at you and then the shores. You squinted your eyes, your hair flew at every strike of soft, subtle wind, as if to console.

"You'd think any sane guy would marry me knowing I have such an incomprehensible family?" You chuckled dryly. "You think I'm sane?" He challenged you.

You threw him a wondering glance before a smile crept up your lips and you shot your head away, perplexed at his smart mouth. He bit his lips and stared down at your reaction, he stops in his lunge of steps and waited for you to turn. He cups your face, linking your forehead to his, whispering, "I'd die for you..." ghosting your lips with his own, he clenches his eyes shut, "...today, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, and the years after that, even when you don't want me, anymore," he locked his jaws together, holding himself back from a kiss he wanted so much, "...I love you, and I will always protect you." You tipped his chin up, a smile disappears from your lips and kneaded your petals on him so he could be saved. When Yoongi promised, Yoongi delivered. The power to assuage the thirst of his soul has always been in your delicate hands. In a split second, you are no longer quivering in a restrained grief. And he walked with you, to the ends of the shore, like you said you wanted to. Until your thought changes and said,

"I'm tired, I want to go home." You want some kind of proof that he was the one. You will find his fault and you will press on until he breaks under pressure. In Yoongi's mind, your words from years back tangled in his wires, "...my mood swings. They're relentless to everyone around me. They all left because of it. I would leave me." But I won’t do that to you.

Fast forward to the night at the beach. To which he responded eloquently, "But we just got here," he smiled, kept his eyes contact short, and "...you said you wanted to walk along the coast. I know what I heard." He turns his back to you and knelt.

"Why did you take them off?" "It was starting to hurt, and I usually forgot to take them off before I sleep." "Don't lie to me." You overheard what my mother said, didn't you, Yoongi?

Yoongi opened the guest's bathroom after cleaning, and saw you standing in front of it. You buried your face in his chest and hung your arms low on his waist. "I'm sweaty right now..." he wriggled out of your arms but you refused to let go so he gives up, "You feel better now?"

"I thought you left me." You nuzzled your face in his chest and looked up with doe eyes. "I thought about it, seriously considering it, thought I should clean the bathroom first," he slurred the words out, mumbling with his eyes shooting everywhere but on you. "And then I thought who's gonna change your light bulb and unclog the toilet? Or bring the car to the mechanic? Or help you carry groceries? Or cook for you because you're lazy and won't do that and rather starve than having to grab a meal?" He nagged. "...How many times do I have to tell you that the white belongs to the blue basket and the coloured are in the white basket? And why are there socks in the winter glove area?" He complaint. You gave him a cross-eye and stuck out your tongue at him. "Are you serious right now? I am being serious right now, I'm not playing your little games," he stared at you and you ran off like a child. And Yoongi's heart whispered, "...Every little thing about you is gold. Is gold."

Someone whom he shared his heart beats with. Someone he could fool around with, be foolish, be a child. How you both shared the shower head and you'd spray his face with water, laughing because of how he surrenders to every little thing you do. "You look like a fish right now..." You giggled. "Well, you look like a crab." He passed.

With Yoongi, it felt like he understood everything. 

With Yoongi, crying comes naturally. 

With Yoongi, complaining is easy because it felt like he knew what the situation was like even when he wasn't there to witness it all.

Even when you were struggling to get the words out when you were sobbing, wiping the tears with the back of your hands, sitting there on the floor next to the bed, knees touching your chest, your hair in a mess, and your eyes glassy, pointed against the dry wall--even then; Yoongi understood. You poured your heart out, shattered in pieces, laid out on the concrete floor for him to see, and it's like he existed for that task. When the tears overflowed, Yoongi would place himself next to you, put his arm around your  frame, and link his forehead to your temple, and cried with you. "I just felt that the world was being unfair on me, Yoongi... Will things change if I become something I'm not? What if I become mean, will things change? Because I'm sick of being nice. I'm sick of having this heart...I'm sick of everything."

Family is an important element to you and it was the same thing for him. You feel him squeezing you, planting a soft but firm kiss on your hair and placed your head under his chin. He tipped his eyes up at the ceiling, bit his lips, the tears fell on each side that he wiped away before you could notice. He hasn't spoken a word for someone who had his own take about everything in the universe. And for that you were thankful. He circled his arms around your neck now until you stopped sobbing, pull you closer than you already are and stayed in complete silence.

"We're one messed up couple aren't we?" Yoongi sighed. "A good kind of messed up...it's like we spoke the same language and go through the same thing despite being raised in different location," Yoongi's voice was in soft whisper, fitting the pitch darkness that consumed the room. Through days that are brief and shadowed, Yoongi was at every start and every end. The first thing you see and the last one you saw. 

You've woken up to him watching you sleep more than once, with that strange look in his face.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" "...just."

How he pulls you closer in the middle of the night so you feel his heartbeat against the skin underneath your shoulder blade. How his soft and shallow breathing became your favourite thing to listen to. Yoongi took care of you better than he takes care of himself. Leave you little notes when he's gone, precisely telling you when he'll come home. Then he would surprise you by coming home earlier than expected, in apron, cooking in the kitchen when you returned from work. Sandalwood candle lit nearby to set the mood, with some classical piano music in the background. You walked in with wide smile, as he fetched your work bag with a chuckle kiss on the cheek while you take off your socks looking at the dining area lit with a warm lightings. "What's all these Yoongi? You said you're coming home tomorrow..." You smiled widely at him and cupped his face, pulling him down for a proper kiss on the lips. "Go shower, and have dinner with me..." He turned you around and slap your butt to get you going already. Another stalling will cost him, his precious time. He is a little impatient.

"Hurry..." he sang and he heard you say, "Okay, okay...chill, my dude."

Did she just call me, dude. He shook his head and proceed to chop mushrooms.

"I should have lit the candle after I do the cooking..." He thought and tilt his head to one side. He heard the bathroom door open and closed, and then smiled to himself. You came out with a pink pyjama with Sailormoon's print. Hair tied in a high bun and glasses sliding down the tip of your nose, waddling down the hallway and Yoongi had never seen a cuter sight in his life except that one time he caught you dancing while putting on your toner.

He reacted the same way he did now--he melted into a puddle of nonsense. The best thing was, when you got caught, instead of squealing and hiding behind the closest curtain like you did in the first two years of marriage, you turned to him and sing to him with your fist-microphone, and made him twirl in a dance, belting Leona Lewis's 'I Got You.' What five years of marriage does to a person: character development.

"...go ahead and say goodbye, I'll be alright...go ahead and make me cry, I'll be alright." You feigned a sad-funny face while he grins ear to ear at your silliness. "Have you been getting vocal lessons with Jungkook?" He asked, pursing his lips, twirling because you motioned your hands above him, and began dancing out of context as you shook your head and kept singing. "...Why do you always sing this song when I caught you?" He held your waist, "Because. You can break my heart and I will hate you to guts and still run to you if you need my help. For better for worse, I got you." Yoongi scoffed at your answer.

But yes, Yoongi had never seen a cuter sight in awhile.

Yoongi kept his lingering eyes on you and when you realised that, you jutted your chin out, "What." He just smiles. He wipes his hand with a kitchen cloth and sat down at the same time you did. "...how is it?" He asked, anticipation builds as you took the first bite of the meal he prepared. His eyes twinkles at you and you clenched your eyes shut, threw your head back, placed your hand on his thigh, grip them hard with your nails briefly before you lay your head on his shoulder and he understood what you meant with that satisfied muffled moan as you relished your taste. "Don't overreact," he placed the fish meat into your plate and earned an electric gaze from you. Yoongi avoided eye contact, "...you have to eat fish. The last time you ate fish was last year, I picked the bones out for you...see," he showed you with his chopstick, "Say ah." You pouted, and he impatiently shot, "...hurry. My arms hurt, come on." You had no choice but to oblige. Munching, you asked him about his work and he blew a spoonful of soup before turning them to you for you to take.

"Nothing to worry about," he said while he watch you chew with your mouth full. You push your glasses up. "Are you going to work with female artists again?" You shot out of a sudden and he darted, "...yes." To which you choke on.

Yoongi kept a straight face when he poured out a drink for you, I knew this was going to happen. "...not in the near future, but it's in the plans," Yoongi avoided your eyes. "Ha." You threw a mocking scoff at him, digging your tongue against your cheek, staring down on him.

He busied himself by refilling your glass of water and took a sip as well, clearing his throat. "...It's work, I can't do anything about it," he shrugged and dropped his gaze to his bowl of rice and fetching himself an egg roll and fried tofu, still hanging his head, low. "You can say no..." you lift one shoulder, shaking your head a little, still looking at him with judging eyes, chewing. "Is it her?" You asked accusatively.

Yoongi didn't answer. "So it is her..." You concluded on your own. And then it was silence for the longest two minutes of his life. "I hope you win another award..." You spoke to your spoonful of rice, and swallow half of the spoon just to show your anger before sliding them back out again.

Yoongi is now deathly silent. But he hooked his feet around one peg of your stool and pulled you close. "I cooked for you, waited for you, and this is how you repay me? This is my home, you're the one I come home to and still, she's your concern?" He lowered his voice and you slipped your glasses up again as he tipped his eyes up at you, running his tongue along his top lip. His stare burning into you, and you murmured, "Of course she's my concern."

"She's a friend and a co-worker." "That's how we started out as. Friends." . . . Yoongi nodded a bit and you felt obliged to lay your next card and, "Fine. Who am I to say anything about your work. You promised to never let things go behind me, but it happened again, I mean...what's new. You do whatever you want." You cocked an eyebrow at your eggroll and shove them into your mouth. You both emptied your plates in painstaking silence and you did the dishes because you were grateful for Yoongi cooking it all. Instead of leaving you to your task, Yoongi leaned his back on the counter, palms rested on the marble finish, next to his hip, staring at the back of your head. "What's the real problem here, honestly."

"The problem is, you decided to work with female artists and failing to tell me about it, again..." "No, that's not the problem. You told me you understood the situation. This is something else entirely. What are you not telling me?"

Last plate to rinse and set on the dish rack. You turn around to see Yoongi, still in that same position, and this time he whispered at you, "What is it?"

You shrugged, and thinned your lips at him, fixing your glasses. Your hair bopping with each movement you make. Yoongi said, "Come here." To which you responded with a small stride, closing the distance between you and him.

"Who's wife are you?" "Min Yoongi's." "Who am I?" "Min Yoongi."

Yoongi looked intently into your eyes, "I'm still here. All those shit we went through? I'm still here. I still love you. I'm still with you. Min Yoongi is going nowhere but here."

----

Turbulence, chaos and storms--loving someone is to have all the reasons to leave, but holding onto one, to stay. "I gave you a chance because I thought you'd be different!" Yoongi felt chills travel down his spine and he shuddered when he heard you say those words. How could you? What else was not enough? Where is he missing the point? We are no longer in the position to have this conversation. It's all or nothing for Yoongi. 

"Just leave me Yoongi. Just go!" You cried and threw the keys on the bed and he took it, and exited the room.

It began with the exchanges of texts Yoongi had in his phone and he overruled your accusations by laying out his arguments that you were not as faithful as he thought you were too. And it just went back and forth, about the thing that you do and he did too, and it got to a point where you felt obliged to say that you are disappointed. And it didn't take long for you two to realise that you were having this fight because you two were insecure about your placements in each other's life. It wouldn't have been a huge debate if this relationship wasn't important to you. So you stood by the guest's bathroom door and waited for him to finish venting out his frustrations with the things you say by cleaning. Because honestly, no one else is going to love you like Yoongi does.

"Why did you take them off?" "It was starting to hurt, and I usually forgot to take them off before I sleep." "Don't lie to me." You overheard what my mother said, didn't you, Yoongi?

I did. But it was a small sacrifice compared to what you have to go through without me.

And when you're in bed, he made sure to kiss every inch of you. "Why are you kissing me so much..." you giggled. "To make up for all the time I was away from you, every cuts and bruises that wounded you. In hopes that through these love-making sessions, it will begin to properly heal." Maybe from this moment onwards, you can begin to breathe. 

You met Yoongi, and everything felt like it’s going to be okay. Because he loves, diligently.

[burnslind66]

The 5 Most Costly Gucci Belts That Money Can Buy

This Gucci belt doesn’t function the GG monograms, and its inside is both suede or leather-based. https://calsmedia.nl/replica-designer-belts/fake-gucci-belt.html The ‘Interlocking G’ buckle of this belt must also be devoid of any screws and shouldn’t be detachable from the belt. A piece of leather-based should maintain the buckle in place and never aluminium. The serial number of an authentic Gucci belt usually begins with “114” or “223”, but never with “1212”, and is normally 21 digits lengthy. It might have occurred as a result of they have not been made belts correctly or have been treated poorly after manufacture. The real gucci belt does not have any robust or obvious smell when worn. Before investing in your subsequent designer belt, it's value discovering the little history of Gucci belts. In this viral video, a desi mom may be seen reacting to her daughter's latest purchase, a belt from Gucci which is a luxury fashion model. Most fake Gucci belts have small imperfections – whether or not it’s fraying materials, a missing serial number stamp, or less-than-perfect stitching. Check the packaging that the belt arrives in, after which have a look at the hand-crafted particulars to determine in case your Gucci belt is pretend or not. The widest width 1.5″ belt comes in clean and textured leather, crocodile in addition to the classic Gucci canvas print. The buckle comes in palladium, brass and glossy brass – newly introduced for 2020. In terms of colors, it is available in black, pink, white, brown and a brand new tan colour – which I love. He revived Gucci classics like the double-G logo, the Jackie O. If you need assistance with the authentication of your Gucci “GG” belt, we’ve received you coated. The next few steps are still reliable signs of authenticity, however are for non-top-versions of replicas obtainable for this merchandise. We suggest sticking to the steps we’ve explained above to make sure you’re not drawing the incorrect conclusions. Read more about studying the means to authenticate various items. Most of your questions, answered Reviews & Wall of Love Check out what individuals have to say about us! You ought to then be able to wear the pin of the buckle in the third hole. The belt’s tail dimension will then be routinely in the proper proportion. When shopping for a belt on-line, you probably can choose the right dimension by using proper ‘Size Guides’. Emphasized by emblematic GG buckles, the selection of Gucci belts for ladies features a variety of up to date Web belts and leather belts. Breaking information, relationship updates, hairstyle inspo, trend tendencies, and more direct to your inbox! The lady rocked a very sheer costume and not using a bra — and later remarked that her solely remorse was not wearing a bedazzled thong to match. Then, there was the year 2015, when the Met Gala saw not one nor two but three bare dresses on the purple carpet, all worn by Hollywood’s hottest A-listers. Jennifer Lopez, above, bared her well-known curves in a customized Atelier Versace illusion robe. And Kim Kardashian West almost seemed modest in comparison in her sheer Roberto Cavalli dress, because no one’s getting naked without KKW becoming a member of in. Click by way of to see one of the best naked dresses of all time. The outcomes may also come with a report on why we imagine your Gucci Belt is faux or authentic. The faux belts are usually too shiny, as they’re made utilizing a different materials. That is why we have compiled this fast 60 seconds answer to authenticating your Gucci belt. Below are the highest 7 indicators that can help you decide in case you have a pretend Gucci belt or original manufactured Gucci belt. This time my denims have been longer and pretty skinny at the ankles, so I just pulled them over the complete boot opening together with the loop. Its mother or father company, Kering, reported that Gucci’s income surged by over 60 percent in the primary half of 2018 alone. In 2017, the Gucci belt was at place #3, placing it behind the ubiquitous Balenciaga sock sneaker at #2, and Gucci blooms slides, at #1. This yr, the Gucci belt can’t be beat, rising to the highest position whereas the opposite two objects slid off of the highest 10 totally. Products on this story are independently selected and featured editorially. If you make a purchase using these links we might earn commission. "'Ae Ram DPS ka belt lag raha hai'. She's not wrong although,” said Deepshikha Verma, quoting the lady's first reaction in the video. Scolding her daughter, the woman tells her that she is simply too liberal with her expenses and largely spends money on buying unnecessary things. 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[fire-emblem-heroes-supports]

Subaki/Henry C-S Support

Written by  drizzled-wind

C SUPPORT

Henry: Nya ha! Thanks, little birdie!

Subaki: Henry, what on earth are you doing? That crow is leaving muddy prints all over your robes and the desk!

Henry: Hm? Oh, I didn’t notice!

Subaki: Honestly, Henry. Why was the bird even here?

Henry: We were just talking! The little crow had some special secrets about the enemies, so now I can kill them better. Crows like me lots, so they don’t mind telling me.

Subaki: Right… Anyway, please don’t let it happen again. If you must talk to animals, do it outside.

Henry: Aww, Subaki, don’t be such a party pooper! We weren’t doing anything wrong.

Subaki: Maybe so, but I cannot tolerate the mess you’re leaving. This is the third time I’ve seen you leave with the room filthy like this.

Henry: Lighten up, Subaki! Here, I’ll help you. A quick hex should have this mess vanished in no time!

Subaki: Wait, a hex? That sounds dangerous-

Henry: Nonsense! Mumble mumble…

Subaki: Henry, what have you done?! I didn’t ask you to fling it out the window on top of everyone!

Henry: But look, the desk is clear! Isn’t that what you were worried about?

Subaki: I don’t understand how you can stand to be so sloppy with everything you do.

Henry: It’s not about being neat! It’s about getting the job done.

Subaki: I must say I disagree, Henry. Listen, how about you meet me in the castle grounds tomorrow? I want to have a chat with you there. Far away from a clean surface.

Henry: Alright, Subaki! Haha!

[Subaki and Henry have reached support rank C.]

B SUPPORT

Subaki: Henry?! What are you doing with that fearsome beast?

Henry: Oh, hey Subaki! You said last time that I should talk to my friends outside now.

Subaki: Why, pray tell, are you conversing with a wolf? Do you know how dangerous those are?

Henry: Pfft, she’d never hurt me. We’re friends!

Subaki: How can you be friends with a savage creature like that?

Henry: Hey, you’ll hurt her feelings.

Subaki: Ugh, never mind. Could we have that chat now? Preferably without the wolf present.

Henry: Haha! Alright, friend, you can go now. Thanks for everything!

Subaki: May I ask why you are constantly speaking with woodland animals?

Henry: They remind me of home! My parents didn’t really care about me, so my best friends were the wolves I hung out with.

Subaki: Er…that sounds very tragic, yet you still have a huge grin on your face.

Henry: ‘Cause I’m a happy guy! Duh!

Subaki: Alright… Well, the reason I wanted to speak to you was I wanted to offer to give you lessons in neatness. I cannot stand here and watch you behave like an animal in good conscience, though I now realise why.

Henry: Ha! That sure sounds unnecessary, Subaki. I’m here to kill people, not tidy rooms! Especially if there’s blood involved.

Subaki: It may seem unnecessary to you, but it is of great importance to me. I have vowed to myself to fix you up, whatever it may take. My reputation depends on it.

Henry: What a strange idea! But if you want, I’ll play along. I can even make it final with a curse!

Subaki: A curse?

Henry: Yup! If I cast this curse, your vow becomes unbreakable, and if you fail, we both die horribly! There’d be a lot of blood, so I’m totally okay with it.

Subaki: What? No! I don’t think I’ll fail, but I can’t take that chance. I don’t want to risk your life if you prove inadequate.

Henry: You’re so weird, Subaki. I said that I was okay with dying, preferably painfully. But whatever you want! I’ll join your for your sessions.

Subaki: Good. And remember, no curses. True perfection requires effort.

Henry: Nya ha! Will do!

[Subaki and Henry have reached support rank B.]

A SUPPORT

Henry: Wow! I’m a hex of a lot better at cleaning rooms now!

Subaki: Excellent, Henry! And in record time, too. I think our sessions have been going wonderfully, thanks to my expertise, of course.

Henry: I never thought I’d be cleaning when I was summoned here. But it’s fun!

Subaki: I’m glad you think so, but after today, I don’t think you’ll be needing anymore lessons.

Henry: Aww! Isn’t there something I can do for you? I love helping people with my curses, and I gotta pay you back, since you helped me! Is there anything you want to have? Anyone you want dead? I could kill Alfonse or someone. There’d be blood. Mmm…

Subaki: No! That’s a terrible idea. Would you really kill the prince?

Henry: Probably not. But I could! So whaddya want? You’re always saying something about perfection, right? Don’t really know why, but it seems important to you for some reason.

Subaki: Well, yes. It is my life’s goal to be the very epitome of perfection.

Henry: Ooh, I have a handy curse for that! It removes all flaws of a living being for 24 hours. Thing is, you need to use someone’s life force to power it. So it might kill me, but you’d be perfect!

Subaki: Gods, Henry. I can’t ask you to make a sacrifice like that for me.

Henry: Are you suuuure?

Subaki: …Yes. Besides, I want to achieve greatness through my own merits. That includes constantly conditioning myself to remove all the imperfections.

Henry: Gee, I never thought of it like that. Seems like a lot of effort.

Subaki: I can tell. You never seem bothered about flaws, Henry. In fact, you’re always happy. Most unlikely for a dark mage.

Henry: Yep, that’s me! I’ve been told I’m a weird guy. But I’m totally alright with that. I like being me! I can do things I like!

Subaki: I must admit I don’t understand your train of thought. But if it’s good enough for you, then I’m content with your explanation.

Henry: Coolio! So, what am I gonna do for you in return?

Subaki: I think you’ve already helped me, Henry. Consider the debt paid.

Henry: If you say so!

[Subaki and Henry have reached support rank A.]

S SUPPORT

Subaki: Henry! There you are. I’ve been worried sick about you.

Henry: Me? Pfft, why are you worried about me?

Subaki: The Summoner said you hadn’t been seen in days. I was fearing that you’d died by the hands of some Embla soldier.

Henry: Nah, not yet! I’m gonna die in a huge battle, and it’ll be really gory. So no worries for now! But you look so sad. Do you need a hug?

Subaki: N-no! Please don’t speak like that. What were you doing away from the army?

Henry: Nya ha! It’s a secret!

Subaki: Sigh…fine. Anyway, I have something I want to tell you.

Henry: I’m all ears! Well, not literally, but that’d look pretty cool.

Subaki: Heh.

Henry: Yay, you’re smiling too! Looks like I turned that frown upside down.

Subaki: I suppose you did. Henry… I have to say, you’ve always impressed me. You’re not perfect, yet you keep that smile on your face. It doesn’t faze you at all.

Henry: Ha! You don’t need to be perfect to be happy. Didn’t you know that?

Subaki: The thing is, I’m not sure I do. I spent every waking moment in my world training to make myself as perfect as I could possibly be. But when I’m around you, I feel…less pressured. I feel like I don’t have to be flawless anymore.

Henry: I think you’re pretty darn great just the way you are!

Subaki: See, that’s what I mean. You accept people for who they are. Imperfections don’t bother you.

Henry: Of course they don’t! I learnt that alllll the way back in my childhood. You just gotta be who you are, or you’ll be miserable. And what’s the use of being miserable? Death won’t be any fun that way.

Subaki: I suppose that makes sense, in some twisted kind of way. But Henry, it is this that draws me to you. I find myself always thinking about you, worrying about you, and…loving you.

Henry: Aw, Subaki! I love you too! Hug time!

Subaki: Ah!

Henry: Did a hug make it better? Lemme tell you, I like you ‘cause you’re you! Plus you helped me lots, and you’re the only one who likes talking to me all the time. Here!

Subaki: A ring?

Henry: I went all the way to town to pick it out! Sorry I scared you so much.

Subaki: Oh, Henry. You’re the one who makes me feel truly perfect. I love you so much.

Henry: Hehe! This is a cawse for celebration!

[Subaki and Henry have reached support rank S.]

[amiiboob-blog]

How To Properly Care For Your New Car

Purchasing another auto can be extreme; there are such a significant number of decisions and you need to ensure you get the most ideal arrangement. At that point, there is the majority of that printed material before you can get the keys and drive it home. At that point what?

Many individuals surmise that in light of the fact that their auto is new they don't have to do anything yet. Off-base! You simply paid a ton of cash for that auto and in the event that you need to keep it looking new, much the same as whatever else, you need to deal with it! Another auto isn't safe to the unforgiving natural components and the unmistakable coat isn't the shield that ensures your auto, it's recently evident paint and it should be secured.

For me, I didn't give the dealership a chance to wash my new auto before I drove it home because of a paranoid fear of scratching my dark paint. It even had the white cement plastic still on the auto from the vehicle from the industrial facility to the dealership. The auto was still in the back and had not hit the part yet and my words to the salesperson were "Don't wash it!". He stated, "However it's filthy, don't you need us to detail it for you?". I at that point considerately reacted "Forget about it, I will wash it when I return home".

Legitimate Car Care From The Beginning

An opportunity to begin legitimate auto mind is the point at which you commute home and maneuver into the carport. When I returned home with my new Camaro I stopped appropriate alongside the hose and went and got my wash cans, auto wash cleanser, wash glove and microfiber drying towels before I even maneuvered into the carport. - Click here - https://itsjahlilbaby.tumblr.com

FIVE STEP CAR CARE

WASH - CLEAN - PERFECT - PROTECT - MAINTAIN

The appropriate auto mind is imperative whether your auto is fresh out of the box new or ten years of age. The means are the same, in spite of the fact that you may need to invest somewhat more energy in a more established auto that requires expulsion of deformities like oxidation, twirl or scratches.

Many feel that every one of the means is a bit much on another auto but rather your long haul insurance relies upon legitimately getting ready and ensuring your auto. You wouldn't have any desire to put your paint sealant over reinforced sullying or get a not as much as immaculate sparkle OK?

This article will enable you to comprehend the significance of each progression in the five-stage procedure to administer to your auto, regardless of the possibility that it isn't so new any longer.

Stage 1 - Washing Your New Car

Wash - Thoroughly wash your auto to expel free soil and grime.

The primary thing you have to know is that the auto washing method is the main source of whirl marks! Try not to stress, this can be kept away from by utilizing high a quality auto wash cleanser, wash glove and microfiber drying towels. Utilizing two pails - one for your auto wash arrangement and the other for flushing your glove is likewise extremely accommodating with regards to maintaining a strategic distance from twirl.

With excellent items and a little training your auto wash methodology won't just be more secure, it will be less demanding and you will accomplish much better outcomes.

For more data on the most proficient method to legitimately wash your auto read our Detailing 101 – How To Wash Your Car Article.

Stage 2 - Claying Your New Car

Clean – Clean your paint with enumerating mud to evacuate fortified surface sullying that is adhered to the paint and isn't expelled with ordinary washing.

Most new autos proprietors imagine that another auto does not should be played. This isn't really valid! Sullying couldn't care less if your auto is old or new. Despite the fact that your auto is new it has been subjected to many sorts conditions. Your auto began at the manufacturing plant, sat on a considerable measure sitting tight for transport by means of the ship, prepare or truck or a blend of transports, at that point it might have sat on the parcel sitting tight to be purchased for who knows to what extent. Amid this time, who knows what was drifting around the air on the long voyage between the plant and your carport?

Claying your auto with a detail dirt or utilizing the Ultima Elastrofoam Cleaning System isn't a substitute for cleaning your paint, it is a procedure to be done preceding the cleaning procedure to evacuate surface contaminants that influence your paint to unpleasant. At the point when your paint is harsh, earth and grime tend to stick and develop making considerably more issues. The basic undertaking of claying will expel the tainting and set up your auto for the cleaning and securing steps.

For more data on legitimately claying or how to utilize a Clay Mitt, read our Detailing 101 – How To Detail Clay Your Car Article.

Stage 3 - Polishing Your New Car

Clean – Remove deserts in your paint, recoloring and improve general sparkle.

More than likely if your auto is new you won't have to evacuate surrenders unless your auto has been on the parcel for some time and been hit with that feared twirl from poor washing systems by the dealership. This can likewise be made by dealership detailers who utilize machine polishers inaccurately.

On the off chance that your paint is free of imperfections you will at present need to utilize a pre-wax cleaner like Pinnacle Paintwork Cleansing Lotion to improve the sparkle and set up your paint for paint protectant. This item can be securely and effectively connected by either hand or machine.

For more data on legitimately clean your auto read our How To Polish Your Car Article.

Stage 4 - Protecting Your New Car

Secure – Protect the paint surface from cruel natural components and forestall untimely maturing with an auto wax, paint protectant or paint sealant.

Numerous new auto proprietors take a gander at the clearcoat as a defensive layer that shields their auto against hurt. This is basically not genuine. The clearcoat is an intense clear paint that is there to secure your shading coat and include profundity in sparkle. It isn't a super cutting edge protectant, it is quite recently clear paint and should be ensured quite recently like the more established single stage paints.

Auto waxes, paint protectants, and paint sealants all fall into the same "paint insurance classification". Albeit some make a superior showing with regards to than others, they all secure against and help avoid untimely crumbling caused by the beginning of oxidation. With present-day innovation, an auto wax would be "old-fashioned" and be less defensive than the further developed paint sealants.

For more data on legitimately secure your auto's paint perused our How To Wax Your Car to Perfection Article.

Stage 5 - Maintaining Your New Car

Keep up – Maintain your paint with ordinary washing and brisk specifying in the middle of washing.

Brisk detailers are otherwise called waterless wash and are ordinarily utilized by detailers and auto lovers to put the completing touch on a crisply nitty gritty vehicle. Fast detailers rapidly and effectively expel new water spots, streaks, tidy and other light sullying. It is likewise a smart thought to keep one with you for those feared feathered creature bombs for a brisk cleanup to maintain a strategic distance from perpetual harm.

Speedy Detail Sprays are an exceptional plan that dissipates rapidly to forestall additionally spotting, grease up to avoid scratching and contain sparkle enhancers to invigorate your simply waxed sparkle. For the auto fan, a fast detailer is something other than an advantageous help, it is a need with regards to keeping your complete the process of looking awesome.

[kaninneko]

Cruentus (Ch.2)

The incredibly strong man was sprawled out in his futon, when he heard a low beeping sound. Raising his lips into a snarl, he reached out to stop the sound and in doing so felt his palm come into contact with something larger than a mere alarm clock. In confusion, Saitama opened one eye to peek at where he had landed. The beeping noise still occurred but was now muffled. His open eye traveled along his arm, slowly losing interest, until it reached his hand. There laid Genos, steam huffing out with embarrassment, with an apologetic look on his face.

"Forgive me for disturbing your sleep, master!" He belted out, as the young adult slowly began steaming up even more in increasing embarrassment and shame. "Yeah, okay. What's that beeping noise?" Saitama asked, as he dared to gently lift his hand from Genos's chest. Whilst doing so, he noticed that indeed he had left a hand-print indented into the left of his upper torso. "Shit, sorry man." "Do not worry master, it was indeed an error caused by myself. You see, I was being careless and undoubtedly curious about a new system in my body that Dr. Kuseno has put into my body lately and-" He got cut off by Saitama shushing him with a finger in front of his lips. "Twenty words or less, remember." He grunted, feeling regret for the hand-indent on his 'disciple's chest but that did not mean his rules would fluctuate. Genos has a very bad habit of waffling on and Saitama did not have the patience nor the attention-span at the moment to listen.

"Yes, master. ... I was investigating a new feature I spotted, and accidentally pulled on a wire I didn't realise was there. It seems to be a security alarm of some sort." "Like a car alarm?" The other asked, disregarding the fact that Genos was nine words over the limit. Instead he pictured the scenario of a car beeping when accidentally hit, a very small smile on his face in amusement. "Y-yes, it seems so." Genos fumbled to set the wire back in place, hushing the alarm.

Saitama looked away and sat up, thinking of what to do today. Leading an average life was boring. He reached over to the table and got Genos's phone, looking in his contacts. "Do you think I should invite King over today?" He asked himself more than anyone else, but Genos replied with a grunt in his voice as he tried to get the hand-shaped dent out of his chest armour. "Yes, that might be good. Will he bring his consoles over again?" "Probably, but we have to try to not break his controllers again, okay?" "Yes, master."

The bald man sighed, standing up. He looked back to the cyborg, a mild twang of guilt burning in him as he looked at the dents. "Sorry, man." "Do not worry master, it was not your fault. I chose an inappropriate time to investigate my upgrades." "Alright, well I'm going to get changed. Shall I cook breakfast?" Genos looked up at Saitama, and replied hastily with enthusiasm. "Master, please let me cook! I have caused you enough trouble already." The standing man itched his nose, thinking. "Fine, but don't use the toaster, since it's broken." "Okay!"

Saitama nodded and headed over to his clothes, changing into his daywear. It was quite warm today so he figured he would just wear a vest whilst indoors with blue shorts. "This look alright?" He asked the blonde, though he didn't really need to. Genos would see any stains faster than him however, which was quite handy. Said blonde quickly turned around, his apron lifting a little as he spun, and analysed the other man's clothes. "Yes, I see no imperfections. You 'look good', master." Saitama's brows furrowed at the younger man's choice of phrasing. "Er, thanks. You too." He decided to brush it off however and sat down at the table. However he did wonder why Genos always wore that apron. He had bought it as a sort of housewarming gift as the cyborg was very keen on keeping the house tidy, however the boy seemed to see something in it as he always wore it when he was cleaning. He told the blonde several times before that he didn't need to wear it to clean the place all the time, but Genos simply replied, 'This was a gift from Master, and so I must respect it by using it for its purpose.'

"Master, I have made our breakfast." Genos broke the older man's train of thoughts as he sat down as well, and served the food. He also reached for the remote and turned the TV onto the news, to watch as they always did.

¬And in today's news there are reports of city Y already starting the repairs of their high-rise flats thanks to the 'Metal Knight', however citisens are being forced to temporarily relocate in the meantime. Over to Kagame for the weather.¬

Saitama thought right. The people living there may still be alive and healthy now, but for how long? All of the temporary shelters for living in were full, and so those people would have to squat in an old, possibly disease-ridden, building or even worse, out on the porches of buildings in the street.

He suddenly didn't feel like such a 'good guy' anymore. Was he really helping them? Probably not. Did people want his help? Most likely, 'no'. Saitama was still willing to fight the monsters, but would the public he was protecting want him to? But what else was he to do?

Genos must've seen his darkening mood, and called out to him. "Master, are you okay?" He spoke in a softer, concerned voice. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just wondering if the public really needs someone like me, you know?" The cyborg almost sprung out of his seat to place the back of his hand onto the older man's forehead. Said man flinched in surprise, before asking him what he was doing. "Your temperature is fine... you don't seem sick either." The blonde analysed. "However you seem off lately, master." Saitama thought in a moment of silence, before releasing a slight sigh. "Yeah, I suppose I have. I think it's just how the public always portrays me, it makes me wonder if I really am the kind of hero they want." "I disagree with your statement, if you forgive me, but I think that you are the hero they need, rather than want. We all need you, Master."

"... Thanks, dude. But I don't know, maybe I've just been too idle lately." He pondered that maybe now would be a good time to call King and ask him if he wanted to come over to play a few games. "Hey, where's your phone?" He asked the adolescent. "Oh, I have it here." The cyborg replied, pulling it out of his pocket. He handed the mobile over to him, and the other man took it in hand, flipping it open and going through the contacts. "I'm going to ring King now." He declared nonchalantly, standing up to speak in the corridor. He might not be the perfect gentleman, but he had manners. "Hey.. Yeah are you free?.. Cool, do you want to come over and play some games?.. Y-Oh, really? Sure, that would be good. Alright then, bye."

Saitama hung up and handed the phone back to Genos. "Yeah, he's going to come over around lunch. He said he got a new multiplayer game we can try out." "I see. Should I prepare food for him too?" The blonde queried, changing his mental plans on what to make for lunch and the proportions of ingredients required. "Yeah, sometimes he brings over snacks but they aren't really that meal-worthy." he replied, sitting at the table again and observing the people talking on TV. It seemed to be a comedy, which was good. Saitama found that soaps were unnecessary, though every once in a while he'd catch his housemate watching one with strong interest. "Understood, Master."

A few hours later, the sound of knuckles hitting wood rattled from the front door. Once upon a time, the superhero-for-fun used to have a doorbell. It didn't last long though, as his neighbours weren't very friendly and found a way to take it off and smashed it. He was glad that he had no neighbours now, though it meant that the old lady on the ground floor wouldn't say hello to him anymore. She was the only decent person in the block of flats, and she always made cupcakes too. He never got to ask why. Genos went to answer the door instead, even though he was still wearing his apron. "Hello, Master is inside waiting for you. Please come in." He spoke formally to the taller man, stepping to the side, hearing a quiet banging of the 'king engine'. Genos assumed he was just 'pumped' to play fighting games.

The bigger-built man walked into the living room, and sat down by the TV. "Dude", he whispered, "why is he wearing that apron? isn't that what t-th" "You need to stop reading so much ecchi, man. It's just a household apron. He liked it because it had an egg on it and now he won't stop unless he's finished his cleaning routine." "Alright. Anyways, I bought the new 'Legend of Helda' today, since I had enough money after bills." "Man, you S-class guys get paid too much. I have to deal with buying only cheap stuff," "-but isn't that out of habit, master?" Genos interjected, setting the plates down on the table. "I have made a small assortment of rice balls, as we have not eaten them lately."

Saitama picked up a riceball the moment the plate landed on the table. He munched it down, before commenting that it was a good idea. "'Kay, let me set the console up whilst you get the disc out." He spoke, before taking another one to nibble on during his feud with the dreaded cables. To him, these things terrorised him more than monsters. They were up there with mosquitoes, a maze of wires that could lead to the wrong thing getting unplugged.

"Sure", King replied. By the time they had eaten their food, the console was functioning and the game had been inserted. "Agh, these adventures are far better than the one I go on. I can't remember the last time I had a damsel in distress asking me to help them." Saitama sighed, as he read the text box. "I have too many fans, it gets annoying as I can't do my shopping without getting noticed unless I put some kind of disguise on." The other gamer replied, in a voice just as disgruntled as his. "Oh, sucks to be you. I know the press's story of how you joined the HA, but what's your own personal reason?"

King grunted, unsure as to whether the monotone-voiced man was being sarcastic or not. "I didn't really have a reason, they had just told me it was compulsory for me to meet them. After that, they said I was a S-Class hero and gave me my certificate." "So, you're saying you were forced? What the hell, dude. Did they tell you what would happen if you refused?" "I suppose I was. I didn't want to ask but since that big guy crushed a city, I'm pretty sure they could've held me responsible and locked me away."

The bald man broke his eye-contact from the television screen to look at the hooded man with a serious look on his face. "That's not okay. I know the Heroes association is unfair when it comes to treatment of people and pay, but I didn't realise they forced people in too. Whoever gave the green-light on that idea is an asshole." "I dunno, I needed a better job anyways so it's not all bad." The other man shrugged, not really thinking that deep into it before. "You know, for a bored guy, you definitely give some interesting insights."

When the sun was approaching the horizon King decided to go home, triumphant after beating Saitama in a few fighting games again. The controller was yet again broken but it could get replaced easily. "You know, I'm still kinda hung up on what King said earlier." The householder laid on the couch, legs bent so that Genos could sit if he wanted to. "What do you think, Genos?" 

Said person opened his mouth, before analysing his response and realising it was far too long. He closed his again for a moment, and reopened it, replying, "I agree that it was unfair, not only on King but on the people who worked hard to get in. Like you, Master." "Using me is a bad example, but I get what you mean. I never realised the HA were so biased." "Though as biased as they are, they're the reason you don't need to work anymore." "I guess you're right. Though I don't pay for much now anyways, as we split the money on groceries and rent is afforable enough." "Master, I still believe you should not have to pay rent anymore. I insist you confront them sometime to withdraw your monthly bill." "Nah, just let them be." Saitama rolled onto his side, yawning. "As long as they aren't asking me for blood, I can put up with it."

-Chap 2 END-

(Notes: Okay so This is supposed to be a serious story, but come on, OPM is a comedy manga so I can't really resist; along with seeing the 'Naked' drawing of Genos having a car-lock for his 'you-know-where'... I thought it would be funny to play on that idea and say he has a 'Car Alarm' to scare off anyone trying to take his core, but Genos didn't ask Dr. Kuseno until when he visited him after that incident there. It was a new Idea from the doctor and got installed when Genos visited him last, which was the day before (hence why he wasn't with Saitama at the fight).)

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[runfront3-blog]

linguine and clams

It’s only the first day of summer and I’m already weeks deep into our unofficial dish of it, linguine alle vongole, preferably hastily prepared about 10 to 15 minutes before we dive in, eaten outside with a current favorite rosé, caprese salad and a massive bowl of kale caesar (from SKED). It’s infinitely summery. It’s pasta, but I don’t feel like I need a nap after I eat it. And hey, there’s even a t-shirt to go with it (hat tip).

You do not need one fancy thing to make it, save the freshest clams you can find. You can pick them up on the way home from the beach or sprinkler park or wherever you’re going to spend your summer day now that cooking will be the easiest part of it. I prefer manila clams, as they’re smaller and, I’m convinced, sweeter, but littleneck or cherrystone are fine as well. From there, a glug of oil, red pepper flakes, a lot of garlic, a cup of wine, a bag of dried pasta, a lump of butter, a squeeze of lemon, and a pile of chopped parsley, and boom, so easy let’s do it again every week.

The only thing I’m extremely bad at when I make it is measuring, which I’m sure fills you with confidence right now. If you were interviewing me as I was cooking it and said “how much garlic did you just chop?” I’d be like an impenetrable grandmother and say “some” but I mean “a lot” and possibly even “all of it” (it = a head of garlic) when I double this. We’ll call it 7 cloves. Whaaat, you say, did you invite vampires over? But it settles in so well with the other ingredients, it will still not be the first thing you taste. If you ask me how much olive oil I put in the pan to heat the garlic, I’d say, “a glug” or “just coat the pan.” Parsley? A big handful. Butter? A lump. (Note: Every cook who has ever told you they added only a “pat” of butter lies.) Pepper flakes? As much as your crew can handle. Salt? Go for it. Pasta? Eh, about a pound, but what I really mean is, if you guys are a 7 to 8 servings to a pound bag people, do that here; if you’re 3 or 4 to a pound, do that instead. Clams? Well, are clams-as-centerpiece or clams-as-accent people? Depending on where you fall, you might want a scant 1/2 to a generous 3/4 pound per person. Shown here is the latter, and it’s doubled, and this isn’t even all of them, and we still only had pasta left at the end of the meal, and this was just a normal Sunday for my husband’s family, which is why I love them. Know your audience. Written below are more middle-of-the-road amounts that will make most people happy.

A few other things I hope to head off before anyone asks: – Deb, I don’t eat clams: Try this with mussels! Or shrimp, although I’d sauté or grill them instead of steaming them. – Deb, I don’t eat fish at all: Ah! I really want to make this with either chickpeas or artichokes, but be ready to tweak flavors as needed, as clams provide their own flavorful broth in a way that these ingredients will not. In both cases, you are now allowed to finish it with parmesan. If you wish to finish the seafood version with parmesan, just warn me before you tell me so I can cover my ears. – Deb, I don’t want to eat pasta: My favorite pasta swap is actually white beans, either giant (like we do here) or smaller ones more readily available in cans. Maybe you cook dried beans like these chickpeas and pour the warm clams and their juices over them? – Deb, I really only care about the clams: On it! Try these garlic, wine, and butter steamed clams with grilled bread, Portuguese-style. – Deb, I only want to make the caprese salad: (How did you know what my lunch was!) I take two approaches to caprese salad when I’m using grocery store (and not recently-picked, peak-season tomatoes, still a couple weeks off here): 1. Find the best ones you can get and season them well. 2. Find the best ones you can get and slow-roast half of them. This combination of some tart/chewy tomatoes and fresh ones is addictive, and hides a multitude of tomato imperfections. In both cases, add mozzarella or burrata, a few leaves of fresh basil, olive oil, and coarse salt to taste. Balsamic vinegar is not traditional on authentic caprese, but you should make food the way you like it. I add a few drops when the tomatoes are mediocre.

Previously

One year ago: Stovetop Americanos, Easy Drop Berry Shortcakes and Zucchini Grilled Cheese Two years ago: Strawberry Milk, Corn and Black Bean Weeknight Nachos, and Funnel Cake Three years ago: Saltine Crack Ice Cream Sandwiches, Strawberry Cornmeal Griddle Cakes, Strawberry Cheesecake Ice Cream Pie Four years ago: Valerie’s French Chocolate Cake and Limonada de Coco Five years ago: Espresso Granita with Whipped Cream Six years ago: Broccoli Parmesan Fritters and Cold Rice Noodles with Peanut-Lime Chicken Seven years ago: Rich Homemade Ricotta and Linguine with Pea Pesto Eight years ago: Shaved Asparagus Pizza, Root Beer Float Cupcakes and Lamb Chops with Pistachio Tapenade Nine years ago: Lemon Mint Granita, Pickled Sugar Snap Peas, and Springy Fluffy Marshmallows Ten years ago: Dead Simple Slaw + 6 Heat Wave Reprieves, 10 Paths to Painless Pizza-Making, and Pistachio Petit Four Cake Eleven years ago: Gateau de Crepes

And for the other side of the world: Six Months Ago: Dutch Apple Pie 1.5 Years Ago: Union Square Cafe’s Bar Nuts and Homemade Irish Cream 2.5 Years Ago: Potato Kugel, Pull-Apart Rugelach, Tres Leches Cake and a Taco Party 3.5 Years Ago: Decadent Hot Chocolate Mix and Gingerbread Biscotti 4.5 Years Ago: Sweet Potato Cake with Marshmallow Frosting, Cigarettes Russes Cookies, and Sugared Pretzel Cookies

Linguine with Clams

Servings: 5 to 6

Time: 20 to 25 minutes

Print

The photos in this post show the staggering portions I used for 8 people (5 pounds clams and 2 pounds pasta; we had a lot of pasta leftover and no clams so I’ve adjusted accordingly). Please take note of what I said above, re: typical portions in your crew when estimating, and adjust as needed for most or less pasta or clams.

Kosher salt

1 pound dried linguine

2 tablespoons olive oil

About 7 cloves garlic, minced

Red pepper flakes, to taste

1 cup crisp, dry white wine, doesn’t have to be fancy

3 1/2 to 4 pounds manila (my first choice), cherrystone, or little neck clams

3 tablespoons salted or unsalted butter

1 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 lemon

If you think your clams may not be clean, wash them first: Fill a large bowl with cool tap water and place the clams in it. Let them soak for 20 minutes during which they’ll expel any sand and grit.

Cook linguine: Bring a large pot of very well-salted water to a boil and cook linguine until it is tender but still with a good bite left to it, about 1 minute less than the final doneness you’d prefer. Carefully ladle out (about) 1 cup of pasta water into a glass or bowl, set aside. Drain pasta, discarding remaining cooking water.

Cook the clams: In your empty pasta pot or a large sauté pan with a lid, drizzle oil in empty pot and add garlic, a couple pinches of pepper flakes (up to a teaspoon is great here for people who like more heat), and kosher salt, I use about a teaspoon here but use less if you’re nervous. Turn heat to medium, stirring the garlic and pepper flakes until the garlic begins to sizzle and just barely begins turning golden brown. Add wine and half of reserved pasta water and turn heat up so that it boils. Add clams (discarding the water they were soaking in) and cover pot to steam them open. Manila clams take 3 or so minutes to steam open; cherrystone and/or little neck can take up to 5 to 7 minutes. Peeking under the lid is fine.

[If you’re really obsessive like me, after a minute or two, you might open the lid and start removing, with tongs, the ones that have opened. It’s basically like playing one of those fishing games at a beach carnival, where the fish mouths open wide with a prize inside, except these you can actually catch and eat.]

Finish the dish: Scoop cooked clams into a large bowl with a slotted spoon, discarding any that don’t haven’t opened, and leaving the cooking liquid behind. Simmer the cooking liquid in the pot until it has reduced slightly; you want a little less than cup. Taste for seasoning; adjust as needed. Add butter and, once it has melted, add drained linguine and half of parsley; cook them together for 1 minute, tossing frequently, until linguine is well-coated and only a little liquid remains at the bottom. If needed, use some or all of remaining pasta water to keep pasta loose. Add clams (and any liquid that has collected in the bowl) to the pot and toss to combine, once or twice, then tip whole mixture into serving bowl.

Finish with lemon juice, to taste, and remaining parsley. Eat right this very second.

Source: https://smittenkitchen.com/2018/06/linguine-and-clams/

[midlifes]

<p>He opens his blinds.<br /></p><p>The string is tough and stiff between his parched fingers, and skin tears away slightly with the pulling pressure, red marks welling up like bloody handprints. A crystalline light floods in, seeps into the details of the floor and throws open closed shadows, revealing sprinkles of dust and dries flooding shadows swamping the corners of his stagnant room. For a moment, his room is still, black stains on the covers glinting as if still fresh and clothes piled next to his mirror curled in a disturbing imitation of a body.  </p><p>His tomb now appears as merely a room.</p><p>He lowers himself down onto the bed covers, stares hard at the sheets picturing nights spent here fingering at his bones, feeling that ache in his eye sockets that called to him something of lost sleep.  It doesn’t feel good, like a relief – not anymore. It appears as wasted opportunities, frustration, a waking moment from a long dream. </p><p>When he raises his hands to his face, appendages alight with the bright morning blaze and the slight smell of Derek’s shower gel gently emanating from his skin, he doesn’t count his fingers.</p><p>Instead, Stiles rubs the sleep from his eyes.</p><p>+++</p><p>Time is available to him now in amounts he cannot fill.</p><p>Everything once foggy and heavy is strangely clear, no longer can he be lost in the feel of ribs and the acrid smoke of the bonfire site to the side of his spaced out neighbourhood. He watches from fatigued eyes, sees a horrible clarity to a situation he had previously acknowledged but was content to leave.  He doesn’t know where to start fixing this, feeling the fragments of his life splintered off and sunk deep in his flesh. </p><p>It could be too late.</p><p>Scott’s number is alike to a brick in his pocket. Its mere existence is a constant presence in his mind, fingers twitching at half composed texts floating in his mind that he will never send – “I’m sorry.” “I know it was my fault,” “I can never replace her. I want to take it all back.” </p><p>(I’m better off dead, you didn’t deserve this, I need you right now, buddy)</p><p>He sends nothing. By now, Scott will know about his wings. About the imperfections that haunted him from the beginning, the lies Stiles has been shielding away under layers and layers of cotton and polyester. It must seem an awful lot like betrayal. Selfishness would be to hound him further about it, to dig the sword entwined in his guts deeper still.</p><p>Scott doesn’t deserve that. None of them deserve the reminder. He knows now by shadowing them as he did, trailing along like the mockery of Allison’s ghost did nothing but prolong their grief, their pain.  Drag it out into an endless tedium.</p><p>Without the threat of death, the steady knowledge of his decaying being, a knowledge he now recognizes as something of a past comfort, it seems he is oddly adrift, a boat without a anchor. He pulls his sheets from his bed, screws them up and fantasies of tearing them, burning them, throwing their scattered remains out to a foreign ocean; but finds that instead he lies on the stripped naked mattress and listens to the small sounds of his father below.</p><p>Beneath his hands the mattress is scratchy, and this is a sensation he concentrates on as he mulls over the twisted strings of his relationship with his father - <i>Dad</i> - and how far away yet impossibly easier it appeared to cry in his arms, covered in disease ridden blood. There was a simpleness to dying that he missed, to knowing that it didn’t particular matter what his actions were as he was unlikely to see the consequences, or that any consequences would possibly be minor in the face of no longer being alive. </p><p>Below, Stiles heard the rustle of a plastic bag. </p><p>The sky outside is a peculiar gold, the aged kind staining old photos of young boys with bowlcuts on unicycles; it is the colour of sentiment, uselessness, nostalgia. Trees reach towards it, twisted arms branching as if to embrace it and falling short, mourning in fallen leaves and broken branches. It is at odd with the boyish twist of the curtains that frame this window-bound scene, a binary blue thats furiously male neutral and uncharacteristic. It isn’t the perfect moment. The discord is painfully dull.</p><p>He presses his face further into the covers, closes his eyes to the mounting hindsight and dusty sheen to the air. His back prickles with a slight chill incited by the thorough spread of paste over the struggling expanse of his wings. They are limp and sodden, oozing a trickle of antiseptic into the dips of his back as it drips from the downturn of remaining fatigued feathers. He should pull them out – promote growth, clasp his hands together in mock prayer, fingernails digging harshly into his skin, and hope they grow back in boring greys.</p><p>Bland. Conventional. </p><p>Fading.</p><p>A door slams, his father clears his throat and dust filters into his breathing air.</p><p>+++++++++++++++++++</p><p>It’s not a thing people talk about a lot.</p><p>He’d noticed. The focus kept its glassy gaze locked down on The Event, the reason for this chain of emotions and events. All the brochures and websites and quaint little get togethers say they promote healing, moving forward, looking to the future – but the inbetween?</p><p>There is a disconnect between now and the future, a bridge laden with broken boards and frayed ropes, one that stretches out over something dark and cold and steep. Stiles leans over the edge again and again, each aborted text a hand upon the bridges shaky sides, but as the chasm gapes out in front of him the gaps between each step seem wider and wider. </p><p>Stiles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be mourning, now. Things were clearer when he was younger, but there are unreadable emotions which manifest themselves in ways he must second guess, interpret as if they are not his to own. To feel.  It makes his hands curl into tight fists, symbols of anger, if it were not for the nails that gorge small pools of blood into wrinkled life lines, cutting them short in mocking imitations of an action he cannot bring himself to. </p><p>He fears existing. Fears going downstairs and greeting his dad, making food, eating food, sleeping, doing work, having friends and responsibilities – leaving behind questions, responsibilities, promises. Concreting where he is now, though that is all the he can think to do.</p><p>So, he gets out of bed. The wardrobe is closed, still mockingly clean, and the clothes lined up inside appear alien. Bright shirts with comic book print, hoodies sporting Hoard symbols and crumpled formal wear; Stiles cannot imagine buying another comic, logging onto WoW or some other game and making up excuses of where he’s been, raiding with his guild and laughing over TeamSpeak. They wouldn’t have to know the truth.  It would be easy.</p><p>It all seems trivial in the face of the sheer amount of everything that has happened since he last sat down and did something he enjoyed. Something fun to pass the time. He can’t bring himself to care if his guild might have kicked him for inactivity when he’s died, murdered and almost killed himself in the time inbetween. It doesn’t matter he hasn’t caught up with any comics for months, he can’t bring himself to feel excited the book he’s been waiting on for three years has finally come back and it just fills him with an empty, grappling despair to consider going to the cinema alone to see the new Marvel movie.</p><p>Stiles finds he just wants to lie down. Just for a moment - but there never seems to be one long enough.</p><p>All it means it that he’s tired. All the time. Too tired to overthink wardrobe choices. He sighs to himself, and tangles his hand into the hanger of a blessedly plain t-shirt. Automatically, he pulls it on over and blindly grabs at a pair of trousers. They’re an off-grey while the polo is black, and where both were once well fitting they hang hauntingly from his body. He tries not to look in the mirror as he lifts a plaid t-shirt from over the cupboard doors top, ignores the flash of bone white arms and straining tendons as he slides his arms into the garment. It reaches mid-thigh, loose, and he wonders blithely where all of him went.</p><p>When he’s coming back.</p><p>His dad isn’t home, and Stiles moves slowly, joints pushing against water rather than air.  His bones are condensed matter, impossible to shift and digging into his internal organs, puncturing his lungs and filling them with coppery blood as he tries to breathe, ravaging his muscles and scraping at the inside of pale epidermis. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, and he’s not out of breath but he’s horribly worn out in a way that can’t be fixed by sleep or rest. When he tries to recall the journey down the stairs, his mind comes up with nothing and he pushes away the sickening dread as he reaches for the door.</p><p>Just tired. Just tired. Just tired. Just -</p><p>Derek is standing at his doorstep, hand extended. The Alpha looks just as surprised to see Stiles as Stiles as to see him, despite intuition informing him that Derek should have been able to at least hear him approach. He’s dressed as usual - jeans, a shirt that doesn’t seem to quite fit right and the same leather jacket as always. If he looked closer, which he doesn’t, he would notice the wrinkles in the shirt, the tail end of the belt hanging just short of a loop and what appears to be a receipt trapped in the zipper of one of the jackets many pockets. Indicators of tiredness, disorganization.</p><p>He does not look.</p><p>Stiles eyes flick back up to Derek’s face, and his hand falls from the space where the door once was. Derek’s own eyes are still discretely not at Stiles’s eye level, and if Stiles weren’t so utterly disconnected from the whole situation he might have been embarrassed. Or surprised. He’s vaguely aware he should say something stupid like a joke or a one-liner to greet Derek, scold him for being a creeper or over dramatize being shocked by Derek’s appearance; but he’s still floating like he’s in his own little self contained world where everything hurts and external stimulus is nothing but a passing current.</p><p>“I came to see-” Derek breaks off, pauses, “Check on you. Deaton said he hadn’t heard back…” More silence. There wasn’t a question, so there isn’t an answer. It all seems to take more effort than it should.<br /></p><p>“Stiles?” His eyes refocus on a concerned looking Derek, reading worry in slight lines and down turned lips, “Where were you going just now?”<br /></p><p>He stares back.</p><p>Where was he going?</p><p>“… Out.” His voice cracks over the word, accumulated dust in his throat breaking up and choking his words. He coughs once. Twice. Razor blades slide up the ridges of his throat, and tears that are not emotion prickle at his eyes. He was going out, and he can’t remember why, but he needed to leave. He pictures himself, sitting on that bed, the one he lies in so often - he’s sitting there, and he waves at a camera in the corner. Someone is laughing, laughing, it’s far away and it isn’t him. </p><p>“I could - give you a lift?” The offer is unusually timid, and Derek is fidgeting with his key in one hand, but his face determinedly still face Stiles, his eyes meeting his when he raises them. It’s <br /></p><p>“I-”<br /></p><p>“Let’s go eat somewhere.” Derek interrupts him, doesn’t touch him, but the ghost of a warm hand presses against his arm. It would usually be there, urging him, but now Derek just turns around and starts towards his car. It feels like a loss, a cold current, but Stiles finds he is relieved. As if physical contact is another hurdle to be scaled. <br /></p><p>He follows, because he was going to go out, and his dad has the keys to his jeep and his bike has long since rusted into the backporch. He wasn’t going anywhere, not really, and that may have been the point.</p><p>On his own, he cannot make progress. </p><p>Stiles sits down on the spongy car seat, feeling the cool leather where his hand brush against it to adjust his seatbelt. He stares down at his legs, fabric falling to the sides of their outline to reveal the true proportions of his legs. It’s sickly, haunting, and his skeletal hands stretch out on and on in bumpy bones and marked skin. He pulls down the sleeves of his shirt, covers his hands, and it’s here he remembers he has done nothing to disguise his wings. </p><p>They lurk behind him, unbound and weighty, pressing into the material of the car seat. He presses the hands he cannot bear to witness to his face, feels feathers shift against skin, and breathes in so deep the air scorches his lungs. There’s a shift deep in his chest; the arrangement of something vital, no unraveling, no biting realizations. There’s less room for his lungs to expand, and his mind fills with solutions, problems. </p><p>He could leave the car, go inside (oh god, he forgot to lock the door) and put on his binder, then come back out. He doesn’t want to talk to Derek, explain this, and what if he follows him and catches him undressing? Sees his wings? What if he’s forgotten and Stiles leaving, turning his back to him, will remind him? And if he does put on his binder, his wings could get bad again. Black liquid could cause his clothes to stick to him. If he stays - </p><p>Someone is counting down from ten softly, slowly, but firmly. </p><p>This time, it doesn’t take as long to emerge from the panic attack. This time, there is no warm, heavy weight to remind him of his physicality; only the slight cold of the cars AC and the methodical count down from ten. His cheeks are flushed, and as the hammer stops knocking on his heart a creeping sense of reality drags itself up his spine in cold, laboring sweat.</p><p>“Better?” Derek asks, softly.<br /></p><p>If there wasn’t a low, harsh buzz right behind his eardrums, Stiles might wonder how Derek could sound so sweet. </p><p>He nods, instead, and the bees in his brain shake around a little. He takes a deep breath, fixes his eyes on the buttons on the dashboard and lazily tracks the endless text on the radio screen. 07 CHEERS DARLIN - DAMIEN RICE 07 CHEERS DARLIN - DAMIEN RICE 07 CHEERS DARLIN -</p><p>Derek places his keys in the emission, Stiles clicks in his seatbelt, the music begins to play and Stiles can’t hear himself think. </p><p>++++++++++++++++</p><p>On the outskirts of town, there’s a diner Stiles can’t remember the name of. It’s connected to a petrol station, and the decoration isn’t charmingly old fashioned nor does the server have an inexplicable sweet southern slang like all waitresses at petrol stations do in the movies, regardless of origin state. He’s a teenager with acne and looks unbelievably nervous to be taking their order - it’s intrusive, note worthy. If Stiles had come here any other time in his life with any other person, they’d be joking about how the menu side sign is broken and only spells ‘me’, or about the cheap art on the walls of strange, feathered homunculi.</p><p>But he’s here, and it’s now.</p><p>The gnarled face of one of the creatures fixes him with a long dead glare from where it hangs on the wall across from him. It’s painted in greens and blacks, is pictured curled into itself in a twisted imitation of a leap with its mutated wing-like limbs almost dripping their dark feathers down in front of unsheathed claws, copper shades suggestively reflecting off the surface. A phantom prickle skims down his covered spine, the heavy weight of a secret pressing down on his expanding ribs as he watches the caricature of himself lie still in the frame.</p><p>Derek slides into the other side of the booth, cutting off the monsters glare.</p><p>“Cold?” He asks, pushing the salt and pepper pots to the side of the booth. They squeak across the plastic surface, and the coffee menu propped up against them drops on its side. A smiling pack of fries grins manically at him from its fallen position, announcing a recent price reduction in a spritzy font.<br /></p><p>He tears his gaze away, looks down, and says - “No.” Stiles feels like he’s been here a hundred times before in books and films, has been sat here at this booth everyday of his life waiting for the side character, the love interest, the bestfriend to say something that will make it all better. Something people can doddle on their pencil cases and write in their blog titles, a quotable phrase that summarizes what he’s feeling and simultaneously insinuates an opportunity to move forward, to progress. </p><p>But it’s not a film, as detached as he feels, and he doesn’t owe Derek an explanation for a single thing. The moment slides on, a truck parks outside and a deep voice calls something out in the kitchen. </p><p>By the time their food arrives Stiles can’t clearly recall anything since they arrived. Derek has a wrinkle between his eyes but Stiles doesn’t say anything, watches the cheese cool over his curly fries and drip down onto the container. There is quietness between them as neither of them eat, food acting as barrier of causality before them. Stiles wants to go home, craves the silent non-judgement of his bed sheets.</p><p>“Stiles, I… “ He’s floaty, in his placement - and is it just him, or is the cook looking at him from the kitchen? Whispering? Does he know? </p><p>“… said they should be better. But, are you?”</p><p>He flexes his hands and stares down at his order again.</p><p>“The w- … they’re better. They don’t, uh,” pause, breathe, “They don’t fall out anymore.” He glances over to the counter. The chef is gone. His skin crawls.<br /></p><p>That’s - that’s not exactly what Derek asked. And both of them know it. Derek finally bites into his burger, and Stiles tries to focus on the sound of the lettuce crunching between his teeth, and not pay attention to how his heart is horribly weighted in every pounding beat against his chest. He fights the urge to turn around, to look again. The werewolf opposite him fixes him with dark eyes.</p><p>“They miss you, you should know that.” <br /></p><p>Stiles open his mouth, and nothing comes out. Instead he blinks heavily, shivering inexplicably as a strange heat climbs and spreads across his pale forearms. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he silently agreed to come out - not when he hasn’t in a week, not when he can barely stomach soup let alone curly fries. His wings are unbound, his vision is blurry and he hears a gasp he belatedly might be his own.</p><p><i>wake up wake up wake UP </i>-</p><p>++++</p><p>“Does this happen a lot?” Cars pass by the open carpark, segments of music drifting from their ajar windows in a strange, disjointed harmony that crashes against Stiles’s ears like the cold air on his tear stricken face. He doesn’t always cry when this happens; at least, he thinks so.<br /></p><p>“Yeah - it,” he coughs, throat blessedly wet for once but plagued by mucous, “I mean - just, uh. Yeah.” Not so much anymore. It’s not a cloying fear of death these days, it’s passed from the certainty of rotting into the ground to the paranoia of what the unknown could bring. <br /></p><p>Stepping off that crickety bridge, believing (wishing) there to be a stone one beneath you.6</p><p>“We made a mistake,” Derek is leaning full bodily on the open car door on Stiles’s side, looking out at the traffic like the tragic love story he is, “Leaving you as long as we did. We knew something was up, but Scott -” he pauses, left foot swinging back and forth where it props against his right calf, “… He’ll tell you that. It’s - you smelled like, like after the fire. All that sadness and,” <br /></p><p>Stiles doesn’t know what to do with his legs as Derek suddenly shifts downwards onto the balls of his feet, resting his warm palms on the knobbly angles of the younger boys knees. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Stiles. I know sorry will never make it right. I know saying it doesn’t change what happened, doesn’t change that we weren’t there. But you deserve to hear it.” He takes a deep breath, like he’d had it all rehearsed in his head, and leans his forehead against where his hands lay. <br /></p><p>In this position, his neck is unmistakably vulnerable.</p><p>His hot breath fans out against his leg, distinct despite the material barrier, and Stiles watches the neon lights reflect in the dark shine of the hair below him. The moment feels charged, meaningful in ways that escape him still. </p><p>“How many times did you repeat that in the mirror this morning?”<br /></p><p>Derek’s head shoots up, mildly disbelieving in yet another emotional show he never thought he was capable of, and Stiles cracks a grin he doesn’t quite mean.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>++++++++++++++++++++++++++</p><p>The drive back is comforting. The seat is warm beneath his thighs, the darkness outside pressed against the windows like the fur of a giant black beast, an illusion of privacy fracturing only at its furthest edges where headlights skim across slight cat eyes and over reaching trees. That harsh freshness from the roadside stays with him as he leans against the side of the car door, head resting on a crooked arm - in this snapshot, this pause, he holds himself still and drinks in his sense. Saves this memory.</p><p><i>i must fight this sickness</i></p><p><i>find a cure</i></p><p><i>i must fight this sickness</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>+===========================</p><p>For this recipe, he doesn’t need a book. Most of the ingredients are frozen - they never keep anything in the fridge anymore, John always eats out and Stiles never eats - and he makes quick work of the preparation, only making the white sauce from scratch. This isn’t therapeutic. He hasn’t got the time.</p><p>His hands still ache from the cold night as he slips the deep set tray into the oven. It’s miles away, that car park. It’s miles away and it’s so fresh, so distant. A wake up call. A lullaby.</p><p>Stiles goes upstairs, and he changes his shirt, the mirror covered by a bed sheet haphazardly ripped from the mattress. A black stain distorts across the material. It’s these bits of himself, the things he leaves behind, dry skin and diseased blood, salty tears and bitten nails. Shards of himself torn away, discarded, and their presence is more tolerable than a peaked reflection watching him. Someone who should be him. Someone who doesn’t always feel that way.</p><p>A timer beeps downstairs, a car pulls up outside. </p><p>He doesn’t pull the sheet from the mirror, stares at the black stain that seems to spread across his vision and unconsciously touches at the angle of his wings, abrupt like a broken bone. </p><p>These are parts of him, also. Parts of his mother - parts that are not yet lost, and parts that can still be revived.</p><p>He starts with his father.</p><p>++++<br /><br /></p><p>They sit down at the table in Stiles’s nightmare. In his mothers space is nothing but air. Stiles splits the lasagna into six careful servings, feeling every second tic by in the blinks of his fathers eyes, visible in his periphery. He lays the slices onto chipped ceramic plates, tacky blue pattern blooming across like burst veins. Claudia would have produced an array of vegetable dishes to compliment the heavy meal. </p><p>Stiles stares at the singular square on his plate. He used to do better than this.</p><p> He shifts his cutlery, wincing at the sharp reverberation. Slowly, trying to keep the metal from grinding against the plate, he cuts the edge off and pulls it away. In his head, he had created the perfect meal - his mothers to the dot, a testament to something inside himself that whispered to him that he is <i>nothing </i>like his mother. That everything she was died with her. </p><p>But, he’s here because he’s not in his head. Not anymore.</p><p>“Son,”<br /></p><p>“I-”</p><p>They both halt, interrupting each other. Stiles skins prickles again with warmth in the silence, he has to -</p><p>“What the hell is going on, Stiles? I knew it was hard after, after -” He breathes out, “After Allison, but I thought things would get better. But nightmares? Never leaving the house? Where’s Scott, Lydia?” He runs his hand through his hair, had reaching for a bottle that isn’t there, “I have been worried sick, thinking you would sort through this on your own, but it’s like stepping on egg shells. You never talk, you’re losing weight, avoiding -”</p><p>“Dad, dad!” Stiles cuts through, more force than he thought he had left in his body entering his voice, “Dad it’s okay. Please, please just. Eat. I’ll… I’ll explain.” Under the table, his thighs are shaking and he feels in his diaphragm an urge to flee, to end this situation here and watch everything waste away from the safety of his room. He grips his knife and fork tightly. <br /></p><p>Dad doesn’t eat.</p><p>“The Nogitsune, uh, he- it - left something in my…” Stiles gulps, forcing himself to continue “My wings. They were rotting, and for a long time I thought it mean that, you know, it meant I was gunna die.” He stares hard at the plate, watching his dads miniature movements in front of him.</p><p>“And I think that I was okay with that.” He doesn’t let the pause continue, “I thought Allison’s death was my fault. And everyone couldn’t - didn’t - I don’t know… things weren’t the same. I thought it would be better I just…” tears collected at the edges of his eyes and the tremble of his lips made its self known in his voice, straining and warping it. “Just wasn’t. It seems like an over-reaction I know but -”</p><p>“<i>Stiles</i>,”</p><p>“But - it’s okay now. I mean, it’s not okay but I talked to Deaton - he was mum’s friend, you know? - and, and he knew and gave me this medicine and they started to clean up but I still…” his voice breaks, cracking in his dry throat and withering away.<br /></p><p>John comes run round the side of the table in an instant, grasping Stiles’ shoulder tightly, “Son,” Stiles tears up further at the word, can’t quite see through the watery blur but too unsure if he has permission to touch back to act. Social nuances seem so utterly overwhelming to read, he doesn’t know what this means, what is trying to be said. It is quickly cleared for him as is he pulled up into an embrace, comforting and desperate all at once, the sheriff murmuring into his shoulder small comforts, how if he had known he would have helped, how it wasn’t his fault, there’s nothing wrong with him; things he hadn’t heard from another for months and months.</p><p>Hours later, or maybe minutes, when they sit down to eat dinner, the cold lasagna doesn’t turn to a sandy ash in his mouth.</p><p><br /></p><p>++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++</p><p>None of this is a world-changing shift.</p><p>The next morning, John is at work and Stiles can’t get out of bed. His gaze bores into the ceiling, and he is so very tired of watching it. Waiting. His eyes feel as if they are about to disconnect from his skull to escape the tiredness, to leave behind the bloody imprints of his vision. He knows he has to get up, clean his wings and change his bed and - and nothing else. But he has to clean his wings, or they won’t get better.</p><p><i>So what?</i></p><p>Stiles rubs at his forehead with the side of his hand, the skin rough and dry against his face. A hopeless breed of frustration is rooted deeply at the back of his mind, sinking his skull deeper into his pillow; this moment felt alike to an eternity compared to yesterday. The phoenixes, the blooming stems rising from his half-existence had faltered, shriveled back from whence they had come, sheltered beneath inactivity and a deep lethargy. Safe. </p><p>Whatever energy had filled him, cleared the fuzziness from his head was now nothing more than a daydream. He couldn’t comprehend hosting such wakefulness, motivation when he was once again weighed down to his bed, ready to fade out into yet another day underlined by the dazing buzz of nothing. </p><p>At his bed side, his phone beeps. It was supposed to run out of charge days ago.</p><p>He doesn’t reach for it. </p><p>+++++++++++++++</p><p>“Hey son,” <br /></p><p>John sits at the edge of his bed. He has takeaway - a milkshake and curly fries - as an extension of goodwill. Or as a hopeful attempt at lifting Stiles’ mood. He talks normally, going over his day while taking off his boots, and Stiles hates himself for unable to smile back, engage. He glassily takes in the small details, the irrelevant details - coffee stains on a t-shirt, mud on boots and the receipt sticking from his shirt pocket that tells Stiles of a burger downstairs (he wants to joke with his dad, wants to tell him off for eating red meat when he knows it’s not good for him; but it’s been so long. Too long. Stiles has lost his right to comment on that the moment he disconnected from reality. The moment he endangered everyone. It’s not his line to say. He’s been off script for a while now. ). </p><p>“…that it could help, kid. Only if you want to. It would help me sleep a lot easier, but I don’t think that’s the problem, hmm?” <br /></p><p>He phases back in, sensitive to the question hanging in the air. Once again, he finds his eyes have come to rest gazing at his hands.</p><p>He can’t stop checking.</p><p>“Sorry? I…uh.” John’s face breaks out into a gentle smile, wrinkles slotting into place around his features. He drops his shoes to the bedroom floor, the fall soft on the carpet, and lays a warm hand onto the stark cold of Stiles’ arm.<br /></p><p>“A therapist, councilor - anyone for you to talk to. Hell, may even be some supernatural ones around. We’ll find them if we need them. I just want - need - you to be okay,” The grip on his arm doesn’t change at all, neutral, careful, measured.<i> Stepping on eggs</i>. Stiles wonders what it looks like to other people. What <i>he</i> looks like to other people.<br /></p><p>Sad? Sick? Attention seeking? His chest tinges a little at the thought, something small and bitter curling up close to his arteries. He was always desperate for attention, as a kid; that Stilinksi who broke the crayons, threw a fit in class, kept pinning his pictures up on the teachers board and the kid who shouted ‘look at me, look at me!’ in the playground. Look at me has to be a little more subtle, when you get older, look at me has to be loud jokes and getting into trouble. Sneaking out and laughing hard, desperately clinging onto the people around you in the most non-invasive way possible. If you’re fun to be around, people won’t leave, right?</p><p>Until you murder someone close to them.</p><p>His phones burns with significance at his bed side table, and a deep hollowness echoes at the hole in his chest with the mere thought of picking it up.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah… sure.”<br /></p><p>He’s so tired.</p><p>+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++</p><p>Orbs clump together on the window pane, transparent and horribly miserably, devoid of any colour but a deafening storm grey framing them from the sky above. Droplets tap heavily and persistently against the roof and window sill, only hitting the window when gushes of cold wind direct them so. From his computer desk, Stiles watches the scene blankly as his hands hovers over his charging phone, USB wire trailing perilously close to his feet.</p><p>He’s seen this moment too. In movies. </p><p>Along his bare back his wings lie, heavy with water and slimy along his the receding ridges of his spine. Sticky and suffocating, the remains of his infected being leak from the follicles of his feathers, seeping plasma and red red red as tiny, healthy pieces of him are torn away with it to run down around his toes in the shower. Infected and bedraggled feathers malt and clog the drain each time, and he gets to his reddened knees, water running cold, and scoops up these precious corpses to saviour away. </p><p>Bleed out the infection. Bleed out what’s left.</p><p>Stiles can look at himself in the mirror, and count to three, and smile. He can murmur jokes to himself as he strips his bed clean, he can imagine responses to conversations he cannot fathom even beginning. But there’s suddenly nothing left - he doesn’t know what filled this space before the Nogitsune ripped it into existence, but it’s long gone and it’s remaining traces, if any, are far too subtle to pick up on. <br /></p><p>Who is he without this? </p><p>Pale fingers clench down on his phone, and he drags his gaze from the spiralling train of thought in his head to the glowing lock screen of his phone. 1:23pm. 1 missed call(s). SCOTT: Text message. DEREK: Text Message (2). <br /></p><p>Derek’s texts date from a few days ago, and Stiles cautiously swipes over them and types in his passcode. The messenger interface instantly springs up, a few lines of grey popping up on the right hand side.</p><p>YOU NEED TO GET OUT MORE</p><p>SCOTT WANTS TO TALK WITH YOU</p><p>Stiles’ brow scrunches up at the text, something deep settling down on his diaphragm. He tries not to consider the words too deeply and brings up Scott’s chat, pushing back the mounting emotional response to get away from the little lit up screen and cling to his bed sheets.</p><p>CAN I COME OVER?</p><p>He looks up at his computer display, eyes tracing over the words of an article on anti-wing campaigns rising in the west of the state. Business’s owned by wing folk being boycotted by locals, protests outside places of law and the growing pressure on officials to acknowledge “those abominations” as sub-human beings; genetically differential enough for human law and morality to exempt them.</p><p>Him.</p><p>SURE</p><p>+++++++++++++++++++++++++++</p><p>Siting here now, Stiles realises that in little bits and pieces he had been forgetting Scott. Foremost, he cannot recall what that crooked smile felt like when directed at him, how that warm laugh felt directed at you and only you, how comforting each small, frequent touch was in conversation, in passing, even in absence. He had been letting these details go, freeing them, making it hurt less to consider the perceived betrayal. </p><p>And it aches all over again, now.</p><p>Because Scott looks well. He doesn’t look like a Scott that has been fretting over anything, he doesn’t look overly tired or ill he even worn down. He looks healthy, happy - regretful, but determined. Stiles curls around that little rotting core of his, shelters the jealousy, the bitterness so close it couldn’t possibly escape.</p><p> People can move on, recover, accept. Except him.</p><p>“I’m glad you let me come,<br /></p><p>“I didn’t deserve to have this chance and I know - well, I think, it might have been hard for you to see me. And that’s understandable, it’s fine, I would get that.” Scott isn’t looking at him anymore, “A lot happened that we should have talked about, and at the time I wasn’t in a place where I felt I could do that. I was angry, I lost Allison… I blamed you - but I shouldn’t have, because you didn’t do it. But I did blame you then. I don’t anymore and I should have been able to see it back then that you weren’t in control, and how I felt is no excuse to how I acted. I know one apology can’t make that up to you – but I have never regretted anything more than I,” he rubs at his eyes, tears reflecting the warm orange of a nearby light.<br /></p><p>“Than I regret leaving you like that. I regret every single second I treated you as anything less than my bestfriend. You were never the nogistune. You were always Stiles and that never changed. I should have been there with you, I should have been able to support you. We could have supported each other. I still see you as my bestfriend, and I know that you might see me the same and I can understand that because in your position - after what I did, what I was still doing till now - I wouldn’t have even wanted to see me. And - And you’ve always meant to so much to me. I just need you to know that I was wrong to think what I thought, and that you owe me nothing and can kick me out of this house right now if you need to,” He smiles shakily, falteringly, and looks up to meet Stiles’s eyes.<br /></p><p>“But I want to make things right. If you’ll let me.”<br /></p><p>There’s an immediate mixing of emotions in the silence that pass that is difficult for Stiles to compact solely into one expression. Scott is wrong - Scott is wrong because it was Stiles’s fault, he did kill Allison and it’s not right that he apologizes for thinking that because Stiles needs to be held accountable. And - and it’s not right. None of it is. But a small portion of his mind is wonderfully satisfied that Scott acknowledged what he did, wants to kick Scott, never forgive him - when there is nothing to forgive. Not really.</p><p>“If you need to think I can go -”<br /></p><p>“No,” his voice sounds dry even to him. “No, stay - I,” he shakes his head, grips his hair with his hands. Everything had made perfect sense until now.<br /></p><p>“You don’t…you don’t think it’s my fault that Allison…” he can’t finish the sentence, can’t work his tongue over that heavy word. Allison died. Allison was murdered.</p><p>Scott looks mildly horrified “God, no. Of course not - you weren’t even in the same body as it, and even when you were that wasn’t you doing any of that. I - if anyone said otherwise it’s not true. I was an idiot. We were all idiots for the way we treated you. Allison was your friend too, we should have…” he lapses back into silence, eyes roaming far away. There was so much they should have done, Stiles thinks bitterly. The thought is strangely distant from his own beliefs. </p><p>“You deserved better,”<br /></p><p>Stiles almost laughs.</p><p>“I really, really don’t. I got exactly what I deserved. Well - not exactly,” He smiles grimly. He doesn’t try to wonder after where that thought had come from. What drove him to say it.<br /></p><p>“You don’t mean that. God - Derek was right,” he puts his hand to the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of self comfort. Scott sighs deeply.<br /></p><p>“We made a mistake, leaving you alone as long as we did.”<br /></p><p>Stiles twitched at the repetition.</p><p>“But I want to fix that. What do you - I mean, you haven’t said much. Is this okay, Stiles?”<br /></p><p>“I don’t know, Scott,” The name feels out of place on his tongue, “I think it’s my fault. I don’t want… I don’t know, fuck.” The cloudiness is painful, he realises, it is this way because he can’t put things together. Make a clear picture. <br /></p><p>“I’ll leave, if you want. I don’t want to… I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Stiles.”<br /></p><p>He hides his face in his hands, smells copper under his nails and listens to the front door close softly.</p><p>++++++++++++++</p><p>++++++++++++++</p><p>He thinks, the next few days, he thinks and he stares.</p><p>Sometimes he has the energy to get up, and sometimes he doesn’t, and in between those two states he drifts into a strange lack of consciousness. Here he plays out the neat little apology Scott has delivered to him - </p><p><i>You were never the nogitsune</i></p><p><i>We could have supported each other</i></p><p><i>We made a mistake, leaving you alone as long as we did</i></p><p>Spoken mechanically, an apology rehearsed again and again, checked over and replaced and rewritten. It tastes too <i>plastic</i>, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. He cared enough to script it, to lick at his teeth and squint at his word choice, to go over continuously an apology that could have well been an attempt at alleviating a guilty conscience. Something insincere. Something to excuse, not regret.</p><p>It’s confusing how he feels, it’s -</p><p>A lot of nothing. Sentiments borrowed from others. His father is happy Scott apologized, angry it took that long, resistant to the idea of Stiles forgiving him. <i>Friends don’t do that</i>. Stiles thinks that he should feel relief that Scott has forgiven him, that he should grasp this apology and leech his friends kindness til he’s finally full again. Saturated. Real.</p><p>He thinks, too, that he is allowed to be bitter.  That it isn’t selfishness that makes his throat go dry and eyes crinkle when he has to cradle in his hands the fact that all this time, <i>all this time</i> he spent curled up in bed, crying and starving and numb, feeling intensely and shortly at times inconvenient to him, Scott was holding out on him. Stringing his pain along, drawing it out like he believed Stiles really did deserve it under all those pretty, perfect words. </p><p>At the moments when he is out of bed, on the back porch or standing in the kitchen, avoiding and the fridge and the table and the dishes, he can connect the dots between these. He can feel mixed, there is no right answer, no wrong response, and he’s allowed both. All. He can be bitter, he can be guilty, he can feel worthless and undeserving and angry and betrayed. The existence of one does not cancel out the other, and he hates that it can be so obvious in one second, cloudy and comprehensible in the next.</p><p>Scott said, “You deserved better.” and looking out at the sky, he can believe that. He can also believe that holding himself to any value makes him a bad person, makes him greedy, arrogant. That, after all that has happened and all he has done, there is very little that could be better. He deserved worse. But he knows, somewhere very deep and shadowed, that if Scott truly believed it wasn’t his fault, then, in his eyes, he has done Stiles wrong.</p><p>It’s a compromise. </p><p>It would be easier, if he could die. </p><p>He texts Scott, asks him;</p><p><b>> DID YOU MEAN IT?</b></p><p><b>YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN IMPORTANT TO ME</b></p><p><b>I’M SORRY I EVER MADE YOU DOUBT THAT</b></p><p>+++++++++++++++</p><p>Fluoxetine, 20mg. </p><p>Prescribed before therapy was even suggested. The next time he unwraps himself from his covers to the soft voice of his dad, on the right side of noon and time enough for a separate breakfast and lunch, even, he types it in on google. Buries himself under walls of text, </p><p>He rubs his forehead with a dry hand, feeling vaguely frustrated. He was supposed to feel better, making things better with his dad. Having emotions, confiding, giving himself some support, thought he felt he didn’t entirely deserve or need it. The notions were something that felt automatic, selfish. And he didn’t feel better, different; the fresh hope from last night has dissipated with the moon. </p><p>Everything feels like square one again. Why get better? Why treat his wings? Why try and make things okay between him and his dad, Derek and others when he doesn’t have the motivation to act on anything they say? Instigating, engaging… all signs he’s trying. But he’s not. </p><p>He holds the side effects in his hands. Thin paper, folded too many times to slot in next to two foil trays. He started feeling sick, can’t eat if he wanted to - and that’s normal. It says right there, under common symptoms. He trails a finger down the more extreme, hesitates over brain bleeds and muscle seizures, narrows in on the point between them.</p><p><i>Suicidal thoughts.</i></p><p>Stiles doesn’t think he has the energy to carry anything elaborate out. He’s vaguely disappointed when google informs him he cannot, in fact, overdose on SSRIs. That might have been nice, slow, sleepy. Or maybe painful.</p><p>The screen is still open when his dad pushes open the door, plate in hand, cup in the other. He doesn’t see it straight away, sets them down on the desk, asks how Stiles is feeling, says he’s glad to see him out of bed. </p><p>(<i>Stiles, why are you looking at that?</i></p><p><i>You can’t </i>-)</p><p>Derek is sitting at his kitchen table.</p><p>He lost time, or maybe he didn’t. His head hurts, and he remembers his fathers hands on his shoulder, a shaking from somewhere outside of himself. Cologne, a cupboard locking. Wanting to cry but being too wrung out to do so, trying to explain something no parent should have to hear -</p><p>“She helped me, after Kate. A normal person…” he hesitates, “You’d have to lie a lot. That’s not what it’s about.”<br /></p><p>Stiles stares dully at his hands.</p><p>“It’s - hard. People will say that a lot. They don’t understand, they-” His voice breaks. Stiles tucks that away somewhere, pushes back empathy that edges at his eyes; it’s different. <br /></p><p>“… She helped me. When your dad called I thought -,” A sharp intake of breath, Derek doesn’t have any fidgets, any tells. He doesn’t make eye contact, “She can help you, too. Maybe. I gave her card to your dad. I’d like… I want you to go -”</p><p>“It’s okay, Derek. You don’t have to,”</p><p><i>1, 2, 3, 4-</i></p><p>“Stiles-”</p><p>“Don’t,” he requests, softly. He doesn’t want to hear more. Can’t fit it all together, right now, slot it into a timeline of events. </p><p>“I feel like I have too.” It’s painful. His headache spikes, and he thinks of his bed sheets - unmade, as they have been for months. Thinks of pixels forming into words, a buzzing anxiety that peaks at the thought of his father, his hands - on his shoulder, against his arm, holding. Careful. His breathe, and;</p><p><i>I can’t lose you, too.</i></p>

He rubs his forehead with a dry hand, feeling vaguely frustrated. He was supposed to feel better, making things better with his dad. Having emotions, confiding, giving himself some support, thought he felt he didn’t entirely deserve or need it. The notions were something that felt automatic, selfish. And he didn’t feel better, different; the fresh hope from last night has dissipated with the moon. 

Everything feels like square one again. Why get better? Why treat his wings? Why try and make things okay between him and his dad, Derek and others when he doesn’t have the motivation to act on anything they say? Instigating, engaging… all signs he’s trying. But he’s not. 

+++

In between, anxiety worms its way beneath his skin, breaking out in cold sweats and goosebumps. 

makes dinner for him AND his dad. eats with him. lasagne doesnt rot in his moth. says wings are better - end “i have something to tell you” +is about werewolves+

—

scott knocks on door. talk - explains at the start he didnt want reminder from stiles, would rather forget how he felt about allison/everything with Kira and that it wasnt healthy. stiles says he doesnt forgive him yet, but can start by proving to his dad about werewolves.

—

have pack get together, is awkward and aware . lydia pulls himaside before and apolgies, says they’ll make up to him. isaac doesn’t trust him, but they did him wrong. stiles is still depressed, suddenly having a social life doesnt vastly improve it, reference to a prescription is made. 

(stiles starts to go uout. derek on his driveway. says he was going (…. somewhere). derek asks him to local restauarnt. stiles say no- doesn’t want to bump into anyone. derek takes him to a diner just out of town.)

(vivid detail at a diner - eating curly fries. too much vinegar. feels exposed with wings, sit into corner of booth. asks how wings are, why didnt want to eat anywhere in town. says pack misses him. 

[larabriddonart]

Art Resin

Art Resin were kind enough to ask me what I thought of their product, and if I wanted to share my opinion, and so this is my experience with art resin-

You can find Art Resin on their website (here)

Recently I started painting again, it was unexpected I will admit, my past works were usually hyper-realism digital paintings, which are usually printed and hung in galleries in utter perfection. I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to art, pieces usually takes months to complete, countless hours slaving away to achieve a flawless product. But when I started painting again, I began painting on canvases, fluid and free works that look like the ocean, a planet or rainbow ice-cream all at once. My new creations – high flow acrylic paintings, were a brilliant freedom and contrast to my other creations.

There was only one problem with these new works- mixing acrylic paint with a high flow medium and water, at different levels and consistencies means that parts of my paintings are glossy while others are chalky and matte, which I did not like.  I tried a few things along the way in attempt to find an all-round gloss look for my works, varnish, spray gloss, different mediums, but none of them gave my works anything special; none of them were a wow product.

Then I found Art Resin, and it was the perfect product for me.

I live in an apartment building, and a regular epoxy resin is just a no no, it is poisonous, you need a respiration and gloves, and using it in the kitchen of my apartment seemed bound for disaster. But when I researched Art Resin, it seemed like it fixed all of my previous concerns, it was nontoxic, not flammable, no fumes, no VOC’s, doesn’t require a respirator, and was easy to use.

So the process of using art resin was very simple for me, it worked first time with a flawless finish and the two works were far better than I could have imagined. I first purchased just the resin, which meant any air bubbles created needed to be removed by blowing on them with a straw. The art resin sits beautifully on top of my acrylic painting, and gives the work a wonderful depth. Those two works found their way to a new home within days of being resined, and they look brilliant on a wall. I was very impressed with the brand and the product.

I immediately repurchased more resin, this time with the full starter combo kit, including 947ml of resin/hardener, gloves, spreaders, stirrers and a small artist butane torch.

(Two bottles of art resin that come in the starter kit, and the plastic cup I use to mix it)

(Art Resin Butane Torch, and the packaged Starter combo kit)

The process of using the resin is easy, and the information provided from the Art Resin Company was very helpful during the process.

 First things first, buying the resin –

So Art Resin helpfully has an Australian website, and as an Australian buyer this was really a plus. The information on the website was very informative as to which product I needed, the usage calculator is a great start for buying. For example my paintings are 40cm in diameter, which calculates to needing 254ml of resin and hardener combined, (125ml of each) and so I opted for the starter kit.

(Screenshot of the Art Resin usage calculator from the Australian Website)

The starter kit that I bought came to a total of $98 with free shipping on my order, which at first glance seemed a little pricey for me. I knew the kit was going to cover about 5 paintings, and so the price seemed to break down nicely between the works. As for the postage, I made my order at about 9pm and the shipping confirmation was sent out at 7am the next morning, so they definitely work very quickly when it comes to getting resin to customers.

When I received the resin, it came in a plain brown box, packed securely with bagged air inside to keep the two bottles from being damaged. It also came with a helpful instruction card, and links to many tutorials online about how to use the product.

 Using art resin –

So a simple walkthrough of the process of using the Resin, it is best to try it out on a non-masterpiece first, just to make sure nothing goes wrong, and then to preparing the space. Even though Art Resin doesn’t produce harmful fumes, you may still want to use it in a ventilated area, the smell didn’t bother me at all but it doesn’t hurt to open some windows. I definitely recommend using gloves when working with the resin as it is annoying on hands, it’s sticky and difficult to wash off, so avoid that all together with gloves.

As for prepping the canvases, the edges are difficult to resin, so taping the edges avoids drips from creating an uneven surface on the edge of the canvas. So for this you can just take any paint-suitable tape and stick it to the edges of the canvas. If you don’t want to tape the sides, then drips can be filed with fine sandpaper after the full curing. I didn’t tape mine, but that was just personal preference. 

In my apartment I don’t have much desk space, so my flat surfaces are either the dining table or the kitchen counter, inconvenient I know, especially for something as messy as high flow acrylic and resin painting. So to prep my area I use drop sheets, simple plastic sheeting from a local discount store. I cover the benches with plenty of overlay, and for the table leave my plastic table cloth on and then add another drop sheet over the top. As I discovered the first time around, tiny droplets of resin on the tiles of my kitchen could be removed with firm scrubbing but I would thoroughly recommend NOT dropping it on your carpet because I have 0 idea how you would get that out.

So I lay the plastic sheeting down on the bench and flatten it out, next I put down plastic cups, these are used to prop up the painting. I do this so that any excess resin will drip off the painting and so it doesn’t get stuck to your bench (or your drop sheet). The cups need to sit evenly around the outside of the edge of the canvas to keep it even and flat. You really need to make sure the canvas (or whatever you are resining) is completely flat because the resin is self-levelling. This means the resin will naturally thin itself out and spread over the entire surface, if you don’t level it then you may end up with an uneven final coat of resin.  I use a spirit level for this bit, just to make sure everything is really flat.

(My bench setup for using Art Resin, a plastic drop sheet, plastic cups propping up my canvas, and a spirit level to check the surface of the painting)

For mixing the resin, you need exactly 50% of both the hardener and the resin, it is best to measure these into a measuring jug, and mix it thoroughly. The packaging on the resin recommends for three minutes, and scraping the sides and bottom as you go. I thoroughly recommend doing it for this amount of time, or even longer, as any unmixed sections will not cure and that would not be good on a painting. So make sure it is all mixed very thoroughly.

So once the resin is mixed you want to pour it onto the centre of the canvas, it will naturally spread around the canvas but you will need to spread it to the edges. This needs to be done with a thick strong flat implement, if you buy the starter combo kit from Art Resin you will get mixers and spreaders in your kit, and I would recommend it. The resin needs to be spread around to the edge of the work, and then left to even out gently. I would avoid poking at it too much, as when it does start to thicken slightly, you can accidentally cause imperfections of the surface which you don’t want.

(Items from the Art Resin Starter combo kit, including gloves, resin stirrer, resin spreader and butane torch)

Bubbles. If you have heard about Resin then you have heard about the bubbles. As a perfectionist I cannot think of anything more frustrating that seeing a bubble stuck in a painting. The first time I used the resin, I’ll admit I didn’t have the heat torch, and so I followed the instructions on what to do without one, a straw. Yes a straw worked to remove bubbles, however I found that bubbles appear after the 45 minute working time, and if you try to blow the bubbles out after that point you risk moving the resin and creating an uneven surface. The uneven surface theoretically isn’t much of an issue but because the resin is so glossy, it instantly catches light differently and is very obvious on the final product. So definitely BUY A HEAT TORCH! Seriously, it is a very important thing for making your resin as perfect as possible.

The heat melts the resin in a localised area, and this allows the bubble to essentially melt to the top of the resin, and lets it level again in a localised area, which is ultimately going to fix the tiny little bubbles without moving the surface in the same way that simply blowing them out with a straw does. Using a blow torch will also speed up the curing process of the resin. So as my main piece of advice, use a torch for a professional finish in your resin, if you don’t then you won’t be able to create a perfect glass finish.

(Painting drying with Resin coat)

As for the curing of the resin, it takes about 12 hours for a non-sticky surface, 24 hours for the surface to become hard, and 72 hours for the resin to cure entirely. If you intend to add a second coat then it is suggested that you wait the full three days, then gently file back the surface before adding a second coat.

(Detail of the resin surface, showing how smooth and flawless Art Resin is capable of creating)

Once the resin has cured for the full 3 days, it is scratch proof, and should be treated like glass in terms of cleaning. Wiping it gently with a cloth and mild glass cleaner will stop dust or dirt on the surface.

 Overall I really enjoy using Art Resin, and in my experience it is a great product to use. The resin itself adds depth to my paintings, while providing a glass like gloss layer which elevates them from simple paintings to intriguing deep works of art. The company that creates Art Resin is outstanding in the amount of resources available on their website, and any trouble shooting with the product can be easily researched in their FAQ’s. The only downside to the product is the price, but for a product that is non-toxic and safe to use within my apartment, it is not an issue at all.

Hopefully my information and opinion on Art Resin will help you understand the product and its uses. If you want to go check out their website, it is here-

www.artresin.com

[lilacmoon83]

Once Upon a Snowing

AN: A Guest asked for a one-shot of Emma spending the day with just Henry and baby Neal. So here you go! Hope I do it justice for you. This is post 6x17 and we'll pretend at the moment there's no imminent threats in town. Please consider leaving a review. Feedback is always much appreciated. Have a prompt? PM me or leave it in a review!

Once Upon a Snowing

Prized Possession

Emma smiled in amusement, as she watched her mother fuss over her baby brother. Her father was looking on with much the same look as she was wearing. "There should be plenty of bottles in the fridge," Snow said, as she kissed Neal's little head. She had convinced her parents to not only go on a date night, but have an overnight at Granny's to spend some time alone together. They both instantly loved the idea, but her mother still had trouble letting go of Neal sometimes. When he was first born, Emma remembered feeling a tad bit of envy for her baby brother, but seeing her parents dote on her baby brother only made her smile now. It would probably always make her a little sad too, but mostly happy since she knew this was how they would have been with her too. "And if you run out of diapers, there's a new package on the top shelf in the linen closet," Snow continued. "Mom...we'll be fine," Emma soothed and Snow smiled, relaxing a little and David put his arms around her. "I know...we should go. Just call if you need anything," Snow said. Emma nodded. "I will, but we'll be fine. You two need some alone time after that stupid sleeping curse, so go and be your gooey romantic selves and tell me none of the details," Emma said. David chuckled, as they were ushered out the door. "You still have an aversion to tacos?" he teased. "Haven't eaten one since. Goodbye Dad," she replied, as she closed the door on him. "Well my darling, shall we?" he asked, offering his arm. She hooked her hand on his elbow. "Lead the way, Charming," she replied, as they descended down the stairs.

~*~

"All right, baby bro. Time to have some fun," Emma said, as she held him and he patted her face with his little hand. "What do you have in mind?" Henry asked. "Did you bring the stuff I asked you to get?" Emma asked in return. Henry grinned and hurried upstairs, returning moments later with a large poster board and a kit of acrylic paints and brushes. "What are we going to do with this stuff?" Henry asked. Emma smirked at him and pointed to the fridge where a drawing Henry had done shortly after the curse had broken still hung with magnets. "I drew that like three years ago. I can't believe Grams and Gramps still have it," Henry said, slightly embarrassed by the childish drawing of his family members, but not the words he had written on it, her parents fairy tale names with Grams and Gramps written below each. And then a drawing of Emma and Henry next to them. And in the largest letters below everyone was the word Family.

At the time, this word hadn't really had much meaning for Emma. She had a family, but it hadn't truly sunken in yet. She remembered that Henry had been a bit disappointed that she had been so standoffish with her parents at first. She came to realize later that giving her up was the last thing they wanted to do. It didn't change the fact that she was alone for twenty-eight years, but it wasn't their fault. "Of course they still have it. Your Grams was just doting over it the other day, in fact. It's one of their most prized possessions so that gave me this idea," Emma said, as she laid the poster board out and set Neal beside her.

"Mom and Dad are going to have lots of pictures drawn by this little guy when he gets a bit older and if I know them, that fridge is going to be absolutely plastered with every bit of paper this one touches," Emma said.

"But they don't have anything I drew when I was little...hell, I don't even have anything. None of the foster families cared enough to keep anything I made, so it all go tossed or left behind," she said, a touch sadly. "So...we're going to all three draw something for them so they have something from both their kids and their grand kid?" Henry asked, catching on. She smiled. Smart as a whip, as usual. "That's the idea, kid," she replied. "You're gonna make Grams cry, you know that, right?" he warned. She smiled. "Probably your Gramps too," she added, as she picked up the brush and dipped it in purple paint. Henry took his brush and dipped it in the green. "Happy painting, kid," she said.

They were quiet and Neal watched, enthralled, as they painted with bright colors. Henry used the green to draw a baby sapling. Emma used the purple decorative stars along the edges of the board. Then Henry used white for some Snow drops and Emma crafted a pretty good looking sword. Henry added some arrows to their collage with a bow and even a rock, which made them laugh. Their true love family board wouldn't be complete without several red hearts, which Henry dealt with, while Emma scrawled the word FAMILY in big bold letters in the center. They had left the perfect spot above the word for a photo, which Emma placed there after using a glue stick on the back of it. The picture was the most recent one they had taken at Granny's. Her parents in center with Neal, her and Killian on the right of them, and Regina and Henry on the left. Then finally in the space below the word family, Emma and Henry painted their hands and imprinted their hand prints on the board, leaving a space between each. Neal watched in fascination, as his sister painted his hand and helped him press it onto the board. Neal squealed in excitement and smeared a couple more hand prints on the edges of the board, but Emma and Henry only laughed. They knew Snow and David would love it even more with the imperfections. As a final touch, Emma painted each of their names in the hand prints in small letters. Once they were done, they washed the paint off Neal and themselves, before giving him a bath and putting him in his pajamas. Emma fed him a bottle, while Henry put on a movie. Neal was asleep long before it was over and she quietly put Neal in his crib. Once the movie was over, Henry helped Emma hang the poster on the wall. "Yep...they're gonna cry," Henry said. "Mission accomplished," Emma replied, as they high-fived each other. "All right kid, brush your teeth and then bed," she said, as she checked on Neal, before getting ready for bed herself. "Goodnight Mom," Henry called. "Night kid," she called back. "Hey Mom?" he said. "Yeah?" she asked. "I liked this today, you know just us and Neal. Think Grams and Gramps will let us do it again?" Henry asked. Emma smiled. "I'm positive they will. I liked it too. Goodnight Henry," she said, the loft was soon quiet and dark.

~*~

The next morning

Emma made flying noises, as she fed Neal his baby cereal. "I think we're getting more of this on your chin than in your mouth, little man," she joked. Neal squealed in delight and pounded his hands on the highchair tray. "Oh we get so excited!" she cooed, as she fed him another bite, as Henry munched on his cereal. There was a knock and then Killian poked his head in. "Morning love, I come bearing gifts," Killian said, as he let himself in. "It better not be fish and grapefruit," Henry muttered. Emma tossed him a sideways glance and a smirk. She loved her pirate, but she had to agree with her son. Charming family breakfasts consisted of pancakes and bacon. And when Dad wasn't around, bear claws and pop-tarts. "You'll be happy to know, lad that there is nary a mackerel or grapefruit in this bag," he admonished, as Emma looked inside. "Bear claws..." she said giddily. Killian watched her in amusement, as she took a big bite and then picked off a tiny piece from the soft inside of the pastry, feeding it to Neal. The tiny Prince gummed the sweet confection in delight. "Thank you," she said, as she kissed his cheek. "You're welcome, love. It seems you two fared well with the wee Prince," he mentioned. "Yeah, we had fun and we made that," Emma said, pointing at their creation. "I hope you have some tissues on hand for your mother," he teased and Henry held up a box. They were already prepared and it was a good thing, because they heard giggling behind that door about that time.

"Charming...stop..." they heard Snow playfully protest and then nothing. Emma rolled her eyes, knowing that meant her parents were making out. They eventually stumbled in a few moments later, arms around each other, glowing with happiness. It made Emma's heart swell to see them still so in love. She usually complained about their frequent public displays of affection, but secretly she found it wonderful that her parents still wanted each other. She hadn't seen any examples of good relationships in her childhood so knowing that her parents were the pinnacle of true love meant a lot to her. They had helped Emma believe in love again. "Good morning," Snow greeted and then gasped, as Charming pinched her rear. She swatted him playfully, as he went to put their bags in the bedroom. "Morning Mom," Emma greeted with a hug. "Oh thank you for watching him. You were right, a night away was exactly what we needed," she gushed. Emma grinned. "I'm glad...we had fun too, didn't we buddy?" she asked her baby brother, as he cooed and reached for Snow. Emma cleaned him off and he fussed, before Snow lifted him into her arms and kissed his head. She turned and it was at that moment she noticed the poster on the wall. "What's that?" she asked curiously. "Last night's art project. We made it for you and Dad," Emma announced. Snow's mouth was ajar, as she felt David step beside her, also staring at the creation. "I know you guys don't have anything from my childhood that I made and I'm afraid I don't either...but now you have something all three of us made together," Emma said, watching her mother step closer to the painting. "Are these..." she started to say, as she touched the hand prints. "Yeah...don't worry, I gave Neal a bath after we had fun with the paint," Emma assured. "Emma...this is amazing..." Charming uttered. Snow sniffed. "Yeah, I thought you guys might like it," she said nonchalantly. "Like it?" Snow squeaked. "Oh honey...we love it," Snow cried, as she hugged her daughter tightly. David joined her and cradled Emma's head. "I'm glad," she replied, as she swiped a few of her own tears away. "We love you so much," David said. "I love you guys too," she said. "Okay...who wants pancakes?" David asked. There was a chorus of me's and David took to the kitchen to cook for his family. The next day when Emma stopped by her parents loft, she wasn't surprised to see that they had the poster put in a nice frame and displayed with pride as their most prized possession.