#did those artists pass THEIR anatomy class?

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

North Dakota lawmakers are considering legislation to ban books containing “sexually explicit” content from public libraries. Under the proposed law, librarians who refuse to remove books containing such content, which includes depictions of “sexual identity” and “gender identity” as well as “sexual preference,” “sexual intercourse,” and “sexual perversion,” would face 30 days in prison and a $1,500 fine.

The state’s Republican-dominated House Judiciary Committee heard arguments over the bill, introduced by House Majority Leader Mike Lefor (R), on Tuesday but did not take a vote.

Lefor claimed that public libraries contain books featuring "disturbing and disgusting" content and argued that a child's exposure to such content has been associated with addiction, poor self-esteem, devalued intimacy, increasing divorce rates, unprotected sex among young people, and poor well-being without offering any evidence to support those claims, NBC News reports.

The North Dakota bill is just the latest move by Republican lawmakers across the country to ban books dealing with sexual and gender identity, which they characterize as “sexually explicit,” from libraries. As has been repeatedly noted by opponents of this type of legislation, although all people have sexual and gender identities, these bans often specifically target content dealing with LGBTQ+ characters and issues.

Lefor cited the graphic novel Let’s Talk About It: The Teen’s Guide to Sex, Relationships, and Being a Human as the reason he introduced the bill.

“I think the content of it is disgusting, that at the very least public libraries should put it in a restricted area where [children] need to get permission from their parents to take a book out like this, but they’re offering it to junior high school kids… and when we grew up, we didn’t need things like this,” he told The Bismarck Tribune. “This is not a way to raise our kids, and we have to do everything we can to make sure that this doesn’t get into the hands of children, especially without their parents’ knowledge.”

The bill reportedly would not apply to “works of art that, when taken as a whole, have serious artistic significance, or works of anthropological significance, or materials used in science courses, including materials used in biology, anatomy, physiology, or sexual education classes.”

Bismarck Veterans Memorial Public Library Director Christine Kujawa said that Lefor’s bill and a similar one introduced by state Sen. Todd Beard (R) promote censorship. The bills, she said, have “been drafted with vague and open-ended language, which leaves the door open for unintended consequences and room for interpretation.”

She said that the bill would even ban a book about two male hamsters that get married in the end. “It’s a cute book,” she said, noting that it would be considered pornography if Lefor’s bill passes.

“Citizens should have the freedom to choose the information they want to access,” she continued, adding that it unreasonable for libraries to monitor their extensive collections for objectionable content. “In the case of minors, parents are responsible for this, not the government. Not in North Dakota, in the United States, a state and country so rightfully proud of a representative democracy.”

The American Civil Liberties Union of North Dakota called Lefor’s bill “a blatant attempt at censorship, pure and simple.”

“We stand opposed to censorship and any effort to coerce belief, suppress opinion, or punish those whose expression does not conform to what is deemed to be orthodox in history, politics, or belief,” The North Dakota Library Association said in a statement. “The unfettered exchange of ideas is essential to the preservation of a free and democratic society.”

[demonicsoulmates-art]

Art Class - Some thoughts and notes

So, yesterday (17 April 2023) I had my very first official art class.

I've always been self-taught, and I find my art extremely lacking in some areas. After growing unhappy with my latest sketch, I contacted a colleague who I knew has a degree in Art, asking her if she knew of any classes. She offered to teach me (before you say anything: yes, I'm paying her), and yesterday evening we had our first lesson.

More under the "read more" because this is going to be really long.

She asked me to bring my most recent drawings and, between the digital drawings I printed and the pencil ones, I had I think 16 drawings. This also prompted me to get a folder where I can actually store it and keep it organized, so... Great.

I won't show the drawings I brought, but looking at them, my teacher said we need to work on anatomy and volumes (the depths).

She showed me some of her anatomy drawings and a book on anatomy. I'll either borrow it next time, or find a similar one at the library.

She proceeded to show me mannequins - you know, those very common ones you see artists use. She explained how normally, a human is actually 7 heads and a bit or an half, not 8, which is the "heroic" proportion used in comics. And then we looked at the mannequin, and she asked me to draw him.

So, as you can see, we started from the very basics.

First of all, though, she asked me "where do we start?"

The answer is "composition". She made me check the paper sheet and asked me to decide where I wanted to put it, and to find the highest and lowest point. Then, she asked me to divide that in half, divide those two parts in half, and again.

We didn't focus on the deeper anatomy, BUT we did focus on the proportions of the human body, and where the various parts of the mannequin/human body had to go if we looked at the various divisions I made.

The one of the left is the first drawing I made - she taught me where all the parts went, and how I could check proportions if the model/mannequin/whatever wasn't in a still position. She made me see that the hand takes from chin to forehead, the foot is the same length as the forearm, and how arms are way longer than I thought (they reach the halfway point of your thighs). Also how the bigger chest part ends where the last rib ends. It may seem really stupid, okay, but the realization stuck for me only when I saw my teacher point it out on her own body...

The second sketch I did in class is the mannequin walking, seen in side view. I fucking hate side view. Again, though, we looked at the proportion of the body parts and where they should go. My teacher made some corrections as I went, and I had to delete it and re-do it a few times.

Then, shit became harder by a ton. My teacher brought in a horse doll (the ones children use) and put the mannequin on it.

Again, we found the highest point and the lower point, but from my drawing you can see I didn't get it right. But the horse part for the composition was hard. She asked me how I could divide the paper, and I proposed in three parts and I did, but again, you can clearly see I screwed up because I thought the horse would be bigger.

We checked how the mannequin and horse related to the three parts, and we saw the back of the mannequin meeting the back of the horse was right at the end of the second part. Again, we divided the mannequin and then tried to see where it's body parts needed to go in relation to the horse. With some trial and error, we managed to do it, which makes me really happy. I also pointed out some horse anatomy to the teacher which she didn't notice herself that made the drawing better (I used to do horse riding, and my teacher then also gave us a lesson on horse anatomy fjdkdldl).

Somehow, an hour passed. My teacher gave me two sheets with drawings of mannequin figures doing things.

She asked me to do sketches of mannequins in various positions and to understand where the body parts go - or even not do the full mannequin but a skeleton like in the picture (so, I really need to get that anatomy book lmao)

The second sheet focuses on movement instead, particularly from the side.

I asked her if I could send her my homework sketches before the next class to see if what i was doing was correct, and she was really happy because she said she usually has to beg students to do it lol.

Since I want to improve and I want to use this blog more, as it deservers, I'll show y'all my future homework and stuff too

[aurosoulart]

If you don't mind me asking, do you have any general tips for drawing and coloring? I understand that's a pretty vague request to ask for and that you're probably busy but thank you anyway! ❤️ The variety in your art always amazes me :)

I'm going to give the answers that everyone gives (do studies from life, learn from 'anatomy for artists' books/videos), but I'm also going to try and explain the WHY behind those answers because, honestly? I remember taking my very first art class in middle school, being sat in front of a bowl of fruit, and going 'how tf is this supposed to make me better at drawing anything besides fruit?'

the thing is... it's not about the fruit

(above: Still Life with Oysters and Grapes, Jan Davidsz)

it's about gaining an understanding of light, color, texture, and how all of these combine to form all that we love about the natural world. the above painting, dated 1653, is a perfect example of what studying from life can teach you. it's undeniably beautiful, but blasé at first glance; we've all seen oil paintings of fruit before. BUT... you have to imagine you're seeing something like this for the first time to appreciate it for what it is.

the light and shadow in the folds of the tablecloth that capture its silky texture, the sunlight passing through the grapes and illuminating them from within, the painstaking attention to detail in the variations of leaf texture, the accurate reflections within the metal, glass, and liquid... all of this is possible through practice and observation, through looking past the commonplace nature of everyday objects and by realizing that even a grape can teach us about how to capture the beauty of this world.

AND, you by no means have to take your still life skills to this level to see benefits from them! (I've done relatively few studies compared to some artists) some of the most common questions I see people ask artists are:

how do you know where to put the folds in clothes?

how do you know where the shadows go?

how do you know what color to make the highlights?

how do you KNOW how to do any of this stuff?!

and, well... taking a little time to learn from the natural world is the answer!! every time I paint a metal texture I am remembering when I did a charcoal drawing of a metal pitcher during high school. when I shade the folds in a pair of jeans I'm remembering the handful of times I've done graphite sketches of crumpled up cloth. every time I draw the human body I'm remembering the figure drawing sessions I've done in the past.

I've done studies of skeletons, human and animal musculature, architecture, random objects, copies of famous artists' works, copies of anime artworks, furry artworks, just... anything and everything under the sun, to learn everything I can. because this is what I love, and it doesn't feel like work.

you really just have to get out there and fall in love with the world enough to want to recreate it with your own hands. this is the secret behind every master class painter, everyone who's ever dedicated their life to art and who has spent countless hours creating something... it opens you up to a deeper appreciation of everything around you and makes your art better as a result.

and, again, it doesn't take much. you don't have to go to renaissance oil painter level to see results. grab some charcoal, some newsprint paper, sit yourself down in front of something you personally find beautiful... and draw what you see. if you don't rush it, and remember to be patient with yourself, you might be surprised by what you can create.

[sehunniepotwrites]

sakura kiss | n.yt

PART III OF FOR YOU IN FULL BLOOM: THE HANAHAKI COLLECTION

🌸 synopsis—the four times you noticed yuta’s love for flowers and the one time you realized it was not the flowers he was in love with

🌸 genre—  would you be so kind? universe ; hanahaki!au, university!au, flower shop!au, angst, romance, slight fluff, mutual pining, strangers to lovers!au 🌸 pairing— art student/florist!yuta x art student!reader (f) 🌸 word count— 9000+

🌸 warnings — cursing; mentions of coughing, vomiting, hospital visits, death (no one dies!!), two idiots in love

🌸 author’s note—so i finished a fic with my favorite trope in time for my birthday today (dec 11th) and i’m posting to celebrate! it all started with this tweet that said yuta used to work at a flower shop and enjoyed drawing the plants during his free time! 

this was a fun write and it takes place in the same verse as wybsk, which is linked above! you can read sakura kiss as a stand alone or after wybsk to get a better understanding of two scenes! to those you came from my mark fic, i gave yn a name (kira)!

but here she is! enjoy and be sure to tell me what you think!! i love feedback uwu

Nakamoto Yuta, you noticed, was an unusual fellow. He was your senior in the art department, a fourth-year preparing for his graduation while you were a couple of semesters behind him. Other than his small circle of friends, the foreign exchange student kept to himself, burying his handsome face in his sketchbook. You had classes together before but those were large lectures with over fifty students in the room— this was the first time you shared a small studio lab with him.

Barely interacting with him in the past, you were determined to change that no matter how intimidating Yuta was.

Were you intimidated by his extremely good looks or his unmatched talents in the fine arts? Both. Definitely both. He turned heads without fail and when he smiled, oh my god, you thought he was the sun. Yuta was pretty, beyond pretty even, with his striking face, brown eyes, and perfect body proportions. 

To add on top of his perfection, his art style was immaculate. The artist never failed to steal your breath away with a couple of strokes and a swipe of his blessed hand. Anything he touched turned to gold. Never sharing those thoughts with him in the past, you made a firm decision to tell your senior this coming semester.

Yuta sat at the easel next to you, barely two feet away from your station. His sketchbook and drawing utensils were already splayed out on the holder. He was fiddling with his phone to pass the time, his painted nails rapidly hitting his touchscreen. How did Yuta make something so mundane as checking his phone look so ethereal? The inner most thoughts in your head cursed whatever beings lived in the beyond for not endowing you with such looks. 

You gulped, gathering up the courage to talk to him. “Hey,” you greeted shyly. 

Hey? That was the best you could do?

Yuta turned towards you, gaze shifting away from his phone. “Hey,” he said back with a slight curve of the lip. 

“I don’t know if you remember me but we had a couple of classes together last semester,” you forced yourself to say with an awkward smile.

He grinned and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, almost like he was holding back a laugh. “Yeah, no, of course, I remember you.” Your name slips from his mouth, causing your awkward smile to turn into a genuine one. His tone is kind and his voice is low, sending shivers down your spine.

You tried your best to keep the conversation going, wanting to finally compliment him on his work but your professor entered the room and called for everyone’s attention. He handed out the syllabus to a student upfront and around the papers went, signifying the start of your first class. Yuta shot you an apologetic look, conveying that you could always continue the conversation later. 

The overview of the course’s syllabus was always the boring part of the first days. Your eyes glazed over, still not fully awake from rising early, and you tried to shake the sleepiness away. Stealing a glance at Yuta, you almost laughed at how his easel was angled in a way to hide that he wasn’t paying any attention. His syllabus outline was discarded off to the side and Yuta’s hands were moving rapidly, sketching out a large tree in full bloom in a page of his notebook.

It looked like flower petals raining from the branches and a person leaning against the tree trunk, hiding underneath the shade. His sketching speed and quality amazed you— how exactly did he sketch that fast and that beautifully?

You made sure your professor wasn’t looking in your direction before nudging Yuta’s side to grab his attention. He snapped out of his drawing daze and turned to you with widened eyes. A red seeped into his ears and pale cheeks, but you missed it completely, eyes zoned in on his quick draw.

“Hm?”

“That’s really good,” you whispered.

He rubbed the back of his neck at your compliment. “It’s just a quick sketch,” Yuta tried to play it off. He was never one to take compliments so well.

You leaned over to get a closer look. Noticing you almost falling off your stool, Yuta shifted his easel slightly closer to yours. “Is that a cherry blossom tree?”

He nodded, “Yeah, they’ve been on my mind a lot.”

“Do they remind you of home?” you asked. You couldn’t imagine being an exchange student in a foreign country— you would miss home too much.

“Yeah but that’s not really the reason why I’m drawing them,” he replied. His eyes shifted to a look of pain or discomfort as if he was reminded of a scarring memory. You watched him closely to make sure he was okay. He cleared his throat before letting out a couple of concealed coughs, face digging into his shoulder. 

“You alright, Nakamoto?” You were too embarrassed to call him by his first name.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a little cough.” Yuta gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “And you can just call me Yuta, you know?”

“Right, noted,” the name felt so foreign on your tongue. 

“I have cough drops in my bag if you want some,” you offered, already reaching down to grab your backpack. He quickly dismissed you, telling you it wasn’t necessary. 

Continuing to watch him sketch, you admired the way Yuta fussed over the smallest details— the lining, the shading, etc. It was nothing more than a simple sketch but if it was gifted to you, it would be framed and hung for the world to see. 

He really was an artistic genius. 

“Cherry blossoms are my favorite flowers,” you said.

You were too absorbed in his drawing to hear him mutter, “I know.”

“You say something?” 

Yuta cleared his throat again with a pained expression. His hand held his neck for a second before shaking his head. “I said, they used to be mine too.”

Huh, you never really picked him as the flower loving type. 

—🌸—

This was the third time Nakamoto Yuta had flowers growing in his chest and he hated it. 

It was less painful the first two times around, probably because they were nothing more than fleeting crushes. He was in high school then, wholly infatuated with two different students during those years. Yuta followed them around like a lovesick puppy, all smiles and waiting on their hands and feet. He coughed a couple of petals out and it caused some uneasiness, but after being rejected harshly, Yuta pushed himself to move on. 

The pain of high school rejection could never compare to the dull ache he was feeling as he looked at you. There you were, the person he secretly admired for the past two semesters, merely two feet away at your own easel. 

You looked so in your element, eyebrows knitted and pencil in hand as you sketched away. A sight so captivating, Yuta almost forgot to breathe. Being an artist himself, he wanted to preserve that image on a canvas but he didn’t think his hand could do you justice. No pencil sketch, no painted canvas, no marble or clay sculpture could even compare to you. 

This was more than puppy love. More than infatuation. Yuta was sure of it but how was he to let you know? You barely knew each other and a confession out of nowhere wouldn’t be the best way to get acquainted. 

Perhaps another time, he thought to himself, before turning back to his sketch. 

You would’ve never guessed that Yuta Nakamoto had a thing for flowers but he did.

Then again, you didn’t really know what he had a thing for to begin with— your friendship just started to bloom. It was like a bud barely opening under the sunlight; with each interaction, there was something new you learned about the quiet yet charismatic art major. 

You knew he was a Japanese exchange student that majored in art, that was a given. You recently learned he loved cherry blossoms and that watercolor was his favorite art medium yet you still wanted to learn more. 

The first time you ran into him outside of class was in the university library. Yuta sat at one of the tables, his space surrounded by books on flowers. There were books on the language, arrangements, and gardening tips. His face was deep into his sketchbook once again, back bent over the desk but his focused eyes darted back and forth between his drawing and his page of reference. 

Yuta didn’t even notice as you hovered over him, debating on whether you should say hi. Even with your shadow casting over his body, his deep concentration never faltered. 

His page was filled with various plants and flowers, little notes in a messy scrawl right under their pictures. He was currently drawing cherry blossoms, the page he was referring to showcasing the anatomy of the famous flower.

“Cherry blossoms again, Yuta?” you broke the silence.

Your voice startled him, causing his pencil to slip from the artist’s grip. It made an accidental mark and you whispered an apology as he clicked his tongue. 

“Don’t worry about it, nothing an eraser can’t fix,” Yuta reassured you as he rid his paper of the unwanted mark. He blew the eraser bits of his page, hand sweeping his surface clean. He offered you the seat next to him and you gladly took it.

“So, why are you always sketching flowers?” you posed as your hand gestured to all the books he had on his person. 

“They’re beautiful, don’t you think?” he answered with another question. He gave you a cheeky little grin, his lips widening to show off his beautiful pearly whites.

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s a shame they die so easily,” Yuta said, fingers running over his sketches. “Beautiful but fleeting.”

“But that’s life, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

You hummed at his answer. “You’re really passionate about flowers, aren’t you?” 

“Something like that. I actually work at a flower shop nearby, maybe you’ve seen it?” Yuta fiddled with the front pocket of his backpack to pull out a business card. “I like learning about the meanings to help the customers in the shop, amongst other things.”

You took the card from his grip, examining it. For You in Full Bloom was printed largely on the thin piece of cardboard. Staring at the name, you wondered why it sounded so familiar until it hit you.

“Oh, I pass by it everyday while walking to campus! I live two blocks away from the shop.” Your smile grew wider and he smiled back for a second before his face contorted into one that conveyed pain.

Yuta turned away from you to cough into his hand, his free one hastily digging into his pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to cough into that. Shocked by his sudden sick fit, you quickly patted him on the back, hoping it would help him hack out whatever was lodged in his throat.

You saw him peek into the small square of fabric and wince at whatever it caught. He cleared his throat before turning back to you. “Sorry,” Yuta muttered, rubbing the front of his neck to soothe it. Placing a cough drop in his hand, he took it without complaint and popped it in his mouth. The relieved sigh he let out made you feel slightly less worried. 

“You’re still sick?” you frowned. “You should really get that checked out, you know?”

He waved you off, “It’s nothing serious, I swear. What were we talking about again?”

“Cherry blossoms?”

“Your favorite flower.”

“And yours,” you added.

He hummed, “And mine.” There was a solemn tone behind his words but before you could press on the subject, he coughed again.

“Did you know that they’re also a symbol of renewal?”

Shaking your head, you urged your classmate to continue.

“Cherry blossoms hold the bittersweet meaning of life and death but they also bring the message of new beginnings.”

—🌸—

Yuta just wished when it came to you and him, the flowers meant the start of something new but no— instead, they just reminded him of the ache in his chest. 

They reminded Yuta of how alive he was but also how he was one step closer to his grave. 

Yes, you were merely classmates but he felt like he knew you solely from all the stories that were shared by your mutual friends in the art department. Ten and Taeyong sang praises on how thoughtful you were, always helping professors clean their studios after hours. Sicheng brought up how passionate you were about your major— Yuta himself bore witness to this many times during lectures and he wanted to know more about you. 

A lot of charm filled your figure and it was enchanting, it really wasn’t that hard for him to fall. 

Yuta fell for you much like the blossoms from the cherry trees. 

And just like the blossoms, his time was fleeting but you were so completely unaware.

You left the library first, having forgotten that you had office hours with a professor. He watched you leave, eyes fixed onto your back.

Someone once said that you become miserable if you love someone too much. Yuta believed that to be true. There was a pang in his chest, heart racing against his rib cage as a stronger nausea attack hit him. 

He gasped for air as his weakened stomach turned with sickness. Something was rising, working its way up his body. Yuta quickly slapped his hand over his lips as he hurled. Instead of bile, cherry blossom petals rained out of his mouth and into his palm.

He chuckled under his breath. Was it sad that he found beauty in his suffering? 

Yuta thought himself to be crazy as he quickly shoved away the pain to begin sketching the petals in his hand.

For You in Full Bloom— what a nice name, you thought to yourself as you entered the shop with your friend Sicheng right behind you. The light ringing of the bell attached to the front entrance alerted the people at the counter of your presence. You picked up on harsh whispers before the tall male worker rushed to the back, forcing the young girl to assist you.

“Hi, welcome in!” the girl smiled brightly at you. “How can I help you today?”

Before you could reply, Sicheng stepped forward to answer, “Kira, we’re looking for Yuta— is he here?”

“Oh, Sicheng, hey! I didn’t even see you,” Kira exclaimed. “He’s, uh, not here right now.” Kira shot Sicheng a frustrated look, eyes darting to the back. Your companion sighed, done with his friend’s stupidity. You missed the quiet interaction, being too preoccupied with your surroundings. 

“We’ll catch him another time then,” you answered her.

The small and quaint store was filled to the brim with flowers and your hands ghosted against the magnificent displays in the front window. The petals felt soft and the pleasing smells overwhelmed your senses in a good way. There was beauty all around you— there was no wonder why people loved visiting flower shops.

Various watercolor pieces were framed on the wall and you examined every artwork displayed. They were simple paintings of the plants that found a temporary home in the store. Some pieces were the flowers by themselves and others were of the many arrangements offered. They were vibrant, bright, and so incredibly detailed.

“I’ll tell him you stopped by,” she paused to ask for your name. You replied with a smile before turning back to take in the art. 

“The paintings are a nice touch,” you commented, finally turning to look at her. 

“Oh those? Yuta painted them,” Kira grinned, her body straightening up with pride. “He paints a lot when the shop is slow and my mom, the owner, loves to hang them up.”

“I should’ve known.” You took a closer look and spotted Yuta’s signature at the bottom of every picture.

“He’s very talented, isn’t he?” Kira hummed. Sicheng snorted for some unknown reason and you slapped his shoulder in response. There was nothing funny about Yuta’s skills and he knew that.

“Yeah, his skill is unmatched. I admire him for that.” 

“Have you ever told him that?”

“God, no!”

“Why not?” Kira pressed. Sicheng joined in on the pressing and you moaned, an embarrassing heat creeping up your face,

“I don’t know. We talk but I find him to be a little intimidating,” you leaned against Sicheng’s shoulder and looped your arm through his. “I can’t just go up to him and fangirl over his work, can I?”

“But you want to,” he groaned. “And I’m tired of hearing you go on about it. Just tell him.” 

A whine left your lips and you pinched your friend’s arm at the comment. He yelped and Kira just watched as the bickering continued. 

“Yuta looks intimidating, yeah, but it’s just his resting bitch face, I promise. He’s just a softie,” Kira laughed and Sicheng agreed. “You should definitely tell him. He would love hearing it, especially from you.”

There was this knowing smile on both of their lips and it just seemed like they knew something you didn’t. You tugged on Sicheng’s arm as an attempt to ask him the florist meant by the last bit of her sentence and he tried to shrug you away.  You just clung on tighter to your friend with a playful smile with Kira keeping a close eye on you.

You heard a cough come from the back of the store, causing both Sicheng and Kira to look up with concern. The coughing fit grew louder and louder, leaving Kira to excuse herself for a bit. 

“If the other florist is sick, they should be at home resting,” you tutted with a frown. 

“Some people are stubborn,” Sicheng threw back with a bit of distaste. Picking up on your friend’s bitterness, you wondered why he felt so strongly about it. You waved it off when a small display of sunflowers and red roses together captured your attention. Holding it in your hands, you admired how the two vibrant colors compliment each other.

Kira swung her way around the counter, “You like that bouquet?”

“It would be really pretty to paint,” you say, still spinning it around in awe. 

“Yuta put it together himself yesterday, he’s pretty good at arrangements,” the florist beamed.

“What can’t he do?” you scoffed.

“Apparently, open his mouth and say what he needs to say,” Sicheng muttered beside you. Kira elbowed his stomach and he lurched over in pain. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Kira laughed nervously. She worked her way to you and gestured towards the flowers, “It’s yours, on the house.”

You rejected the offer right away. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” is what you reply, attempting to shove the arrangement into her hands. With a kind grin, she persisted for you to take it and just asked you to buy from them the next time you visited. “I’m sure Yuta would love it if you took this one off our hands.”

With a promise, you hesitantly accepted the bouquet. Sicheng was snickering in the background and you had to hold yourself back from whacking him with the flowers. Thinking you’d taken too much of the florist’s time, you quickly said your thanks and headed out the door with a coy Sicheng trailing behind you.

—🌸—

“They’re gone,” Kira yelled towards the back of the shop. Yuta made his way back to his spot at the cash register while wiping at his mouth with his uniform sleeve. He quickly pulled out his art supplies from underneath the counter, setting everything up to resume his painting. Taking a seat on the stool, his body was slumped over his makeshift desk as he messed with his pencils. 

His coworker rolled her eyes at him as she began to work on a bouquet of blue cornflowers and daisies— good fortune and new beginnings. Her nimble hands hastily worked their magic with ease as if she’s done it a million times before. Yuta observed her, quickly sketching her hands at work. 

“You’re ridiculous, I don’t get why you had to hide.” 

“I didn’t want her to see me like this,” Yuta said, his pained eyes covered by the long bangs that drooped down over his sketchbook. 

“Like what?” Her hands went to her hips. “Sick and hopelessly in love?”

“Yeah, let’s put it that way.”

“There’s a solution to this, you know,” Kira pressed with furrowed brows. “You don’t have to keep suffering.”

This. Hanahaki is what she meant— the disease of unrequited love.

“I’m fine, Kira,” Yuta hissed with a bit more annoyance than he intended to. She flinched at the tone but still pushed on when he coughed again. He felt the discomfort of something being lodged in his throat and his body had the urge to hack it out. Suddenly, he was leaning over the counter with cherry blossom petals littering the cash register. 

Yuta practically hacked up a storm, body curling in pain. One hand was clutching his stomach while the other had a death grip on the edge of the counter. The dizziness returned and he felt lightheaded as the retching subsided. A weakness took over his athletic body and Kira rushed to assist him back onto the stool. There was a bottle of soothing eucalyptus oil sitting right on the counter and she scrambled to open it before shoving it under his nose. 

“You’re obviously not fine. You need to go to the hospital to get checked,” she said as Yuta took the small bottle from her grip. He dabbed a couple of drops onto his hands and rubbed it on his nose and throat. “Why won’t you accept any help that’s offered to you at the hospital?”

“I’ve gone through this before, Kira. Don’t worry about me.”

“Sometimes you forget I’ve gone through this, too!” she yelled. “I don’t want you to end up on your deathbed like I was at one point.” 

Yuta couldn’t argue with that. He was hired back when she was in the hospital recovering from the final stage of the dreaded disease. 

“We’re all worried about you here. Mom, Jongin, Mark? And your friends— Sicheng, Ten, and Taeyong? We all hate seeing you like this!” her voice grew louder and louder with each word, causing him to flinch at the shrill tone. Deafening noises plus nausea and headaches never meshed well with him.

“You don’t see how much it hurts seeing someone you care about suffer like this, Yuta. It hurts even more when we can’t do anything to help you go through this.”

Silence filled the room.

“Have you seen Dr. Kim lately?” Dr. Junmyeon Kim was the Hanahaki specialist that Kira recommended. He eased her back into normalcy after her scare.

“I will soon, I promise,” he said through haggard breaths. She guided him through a couple of breathing exercises and it calmed his racing heart down. 

Kira sighed. With a quieter tone, she said, “It’s a shame the world made us experience heartbreak this way, isn’t it?”

Yuta smiled sadly at her— it was a shame.

The front door of the shop opened and the bell rang. They both turned to see Kira’s boyfriend Mark walk in with a cute grin. He clumsily hopped over the counter to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek. “Well, at least you got your happy ending,” he muttered too low for his coworker to hear. 

Yuta knew there was a chance of having it too, he was just too afraid to speak. 

If one were to look at him at that moment, his features hid nothing. Nakamoto Yuta was slowly ripping at the seams with the sakura branches poking their way out of his built figure and although multiple options were given to him, he still felt so unbelievably helpless.

It was the middle of the semester when you caught Yuta wandering the halls of the main art building. A grin found its way to your lips as you saw him with his messenger bag and a tubed container slung over his shoulder. Running to catch up with him, you slipped your arm into his free one. Your classmate yelped at the sudden contact and you let out a loud giggled that echoed in the empty hallway.

You finally felt close enough to initiate contact after sharing supplies with him during one studio session. That being said, it didn’t mean you were comfortable with revealing the feelings you harbored towards him— you wanted to keep that a secret for a little bit longer. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t have classes in here today,” you asked.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Yuta sighed. You felt your heart drop at his words but you played it off with a scrunch of the nose and a teasing tone. 

“Were you expecting someone else, Nakamoto?” you nudged his stomach and he avoided it, already predicting your actions. Yuta held back another series of coughs, quick turning away from you to cough into the handkerchief always kept on hand. He looked in pain as he continued to hack into the small piece of cloth and you brought a comforting hand to rub at his back.

“Every time I see you, you’re coughing,” you frowned. “You really need to get yourself checked, it’s been months.”

“No, no, I promise you I’m fine,” he replied with the shake of the head, his dark hair moving along with him. Even when ruffled and out of sorts, he looked good. He attempted to clear his throat by downing some water. 

Your lips pursed at his words, not satisfied with his dismissive answer. “If you say so. Promise me you’ll see someone if it gets worse though.”

He agreed but you suspected it was to stop you from nagging. “To answer your question before you went all mom on me, I was here to talk to the department about my senior project.”

“Have you decided on your theme for your exhibit yet?” 

Yuta smiled wistfully, “Flowers.” 

“Should’ve known— it’s always flowers with you. It’s like you’re in love with them or something.” 

He let out a scoff at your words. When you shot him a questioning look, he dismissed the act completely. 

Time spent with Yuta always passed so quickly; one moment you were on the top floor of the building and the next, you were already at the bottom of the staircase. Ever the gentleman, he held the front door open for you and you thanked him with a smile. His brown eyes shrunk into little slits and whiskers appeared at the corners as he grinned back with a little chuckle.

How you longed to sketch that image.

A strong breeze blew through, causing a couple of leaves and fallen petals to fly around your figures. You crossed your arms around your front to keep the cold from seeping in and shut your eyes to keep debris out. Peeking at Yuta, you saw him cover his eyes with a calloused hand and he gently pushed you behind him to use his body as a makeshift shield. As soon as the breeze stopped, his grip on your arm loosened but the grip he had on your heart was still as strong as ever.

He whirled around to make sure you were alright and next thing you knew, his hand was lingering above your head. “You have something in your hair, do you want me to take it out?” 

Yuta looked down at you with cautious eyes and you just noticed how close you were. Heat radiated off his body and your cheeks as you nod in approval. One dry hand moved to delicately clutch the side of your head as the other plucked a leaf out of your hair. 

Your breath hitched as his fingers ran against your skin and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. There was a sudden pounding in your ears that matched the drumming rhythm of your heart.

“There,” he whispered as he let you go. With a smile, Yuta added, “good as new and pretty as a picture.” 

“Pretty enough to paint?” you fired back with sarcasm.

“Definitely worthy of being displayed for the world to see,” he winked.

Was he flirting? It seemed like he was. 

Maybe, Sicheng was right— Yuta could have feelings for you. But it could also just be wishful thinking.

Were you flirting? Is this how flirting works? 

“Speaking of displays,” Yuta started nervously as he walked you to your car. He slowed down his walking pace and you easily matched it, your steps moving in time with his. The main walkway on campus was devoid of people, seeing how it was later in the school day. The path from the art building to the lot you parked in was short and you wished there was some way to extend it so you could spend more time with him.

“Will you, uh, come to my show?” he asked, his hand scratching the back of his head. His hair flopped with the wind and his unsure grin made him look so incredibly endearing. “I know it’s still too early to give you a set date but I’d love to see you there.”

“What? Of course I’ll come!” you said, stopping to slap his arm. 

He winced at the contact. “Ow?”

“I would’ve gone even if you didn’t ask me,” you proceeded on the path with a smile. “I have to go and support my friends.”

There was a coughing fit coming from behind you and you whirled around to see Yuta hacking into his handkerchief again. It looked more painful than the last attack he had a few minutes ago. His breathing was shallow and he clutched his chest as the coughs continued. 

“Oh my god, Yuta!” You were pretty sure you heard him gag as you rubbed his back. “Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re clearly not alright.”

He lifted a hand to tell you to stop. “No, no. I’m fine. I just—I gotta go,” was all he said with his hoarse voice before jolting away.

Staring at his strong back as grew smaller and smaller, you almost missed the fallen piece of cloth on the ground. Keyword: almost.

“Wait, Yuta!” you shouted, bending down to pick it up. “You dropped your hanke—” As soon as you lifted the handkerchief, perfectly preserved cherry blossom petals fell out of its hold. They rained towards the ground, decorating the sidewalk with the prettiest shade of pink.

Yuta was long forgotten. You were too lost in your confusion of the flowers. 

“Cherry blossoms?” you asked yourself. “They’re not in season yet.”

—🌸—

Yuta heard you calling for him but he refused to turn around. He pushed himself to keep running despite the tight pain in his chest. Pulling out his phone, he sent quick text messages to Sicheng and Kira with his location, asking them to stop by and help him. The disorientation hit faster this time, causing him to tumble into a bench. He gripped the iron lining as he hurled and for the first time, it was so painful that it brought tears to his eyes. His mouth trembled as he let out a cry.

Yuta tasted the bit of blood that poured out of his lips. 

Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Yuta ignored how the crimson stained the fabric. A butter chuckle escaped him. 

“Pink goes good with red,” he whispered to himself as another stinging pain made its way up his body. 

He felt the branches slowly poking his lungs, climbing a path up his chest. It was just as Kira described— it was piercing like a sharp arrow to the heart. The arrow pressed and pressed and pressed until he was exploding with petals, blood, sweat, and tears.  It was aimed to kill. He thought arrows to the heart were supposed to fill him with love, not a heart-wrenching pain that tempted him to rip the beating organ out of his chest.

This was all too much to bear.

The full flowers and the scratching of wood tickling his throat. 

The lack of oxygen and struggle for air.

He felt it all. He wished he didn’t. 

Yuta wished he was one of the people that found their soulmate with that ridiculous red string of fate tied to the end of his pinky. They were blessed with a lifetime of happiness while he was cursed with what felt like an eternity of agony that his weakening body could no longer withstand. 

Yuta knew you didn’t love him but he adored you anyway. 

This wasn’t a shoujo manga, Yuta knew that. This was real life. No one was going to kiss, kiss, fall in love with the blink of an eye.

Picking petals off of flowers wouldn’t solve his problem. He wished it did, though.

If only it was that easy.

The rest of the semester flew by quickly with midterms and mid-semester projects keeping you at bay. You barely saw Yuta, yet alone the rest of your friends, if not for your classes. All of you shared the same appearance: dark circles, eye bags, sunken cheeks, hunched backs, and glazed over eyes. Your group survived the weeks with a crazy amount of caffeine and not enough food.

 With the school year finally over and graduation season starting, that meant one thing for the college of fine arts at your university— exhibitions. The music and dance departments already had their concerts and showcases. Final showings of the theatre department’s newest production just wrapped up yesterday; the only thing left were the senior art exhibits.

Dressed to the nines and not at all like a struggling artist, you paced back and forth at the entrance of the student art gallery with a bouquet of irises in your hand. Sicheng, your emotional support for the day, stood as you walked the same path with annoyance. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why you felt nervous— it wasn’t even your exhibit, it was Yuta’s. 

Ten and Taeyong wrapped up their exhibits the week prior; Yuta’s was the last one.

“Are you done freaking out? Can we go in now?” Sicheng cocked a brow at you with his phone in hand. “The others are already inside.”

Wringing your hands together, you took in a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this.” 

Sicheng rolled his eyes before opening the doors to the gallery. Stepping inside, you were immediately welcomed by paper flowers of all sorts hanging from the ceiling and the quiet chatter of the gallery’s visitors. To the right, you saw a sign displaying the exhibit’s name: Efflorescence. A brief description of the exhibit was placed below it and you took the time to read it before stepping further in.

Snapshots of his life told through the appearance and language of flowers.

Ten and Taeyong, your seniors and close friends, were waiting for you off to the side. 

“Sorry for the wait, you guys.”

Sicheng grumbled, “Took her long enough to calm down.”

Ten laughed, “Were you nervous for him? You weren’t like this for our final exhibits.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Taeyong hushed the other two. Wrapping an arm around you, he pulled you close, “She’s nervous because this is her crush we’re talking about.”

“For heaven’s sake, say that any louder and he’ll hear you!” you screeched. The boys chuckled at your embarrassed state as you went ahead of them, ready to walk your way through the large room. From the corner of your eye, you saw Yuta smiling by the exit, surrounded by people singing praises about his work.

You weren’t in a rush— you wanted to take the time to appreciate every piece before talking to him about why he chose to display each work. Talking to the object of your affection could wait.

The first few paintings were of his childhood and the flowers that accompanied each scene all had similar meanings— innocence, purity, etc. You noticed that most of his paintings were done with watercolor, which made complete sense. 

It seemed like he was always prepared to paint something, brush and paint always at the ready. The genius basically carried his foldable watercolor palette and pad everywhere he went, not wanting to miss an opportunity to paint a beautiful picture if he were to pass by one. That was another thing you admire about him— Nakamoto Yuta saw beauty in everything.

Deeper into the gallery, you found more familiar scenes and faces. There was a landscape of the fine arts department, with daffodil petals scattered across the canvas and it was titled New Beginnings. You passed various portraits of your friends, their beauty rivaling that of their birth flowers that shared the same space. Marveling at how realistic his paintings looked, you made a note in your brain to relay that thought to the artist later. He captured the essence of each person perfectly in a painting, breathing life into it, and you honestly couldn’t understand how one could do that. 

Spotting Kira’s familiar face admiring a painting up ahead, you quickened your pace to catch up to her. Feeling the light tap you placed on her shoulder, she turned around with a surprised look that turned into a genuine smile upon seeing your face. She released her hold on her companion, a cute boy with doe eyes and bright smile, before giving you a hug. 

“You’re here!” she squealed. Taking notice of the flowers in your hand, she winked, “Irises, huh? Nice touch.” 

“I stopped by your shop beforehand looking for you and an older guy wrapped them up for me,” you smiled sheepishly. “Should’ve known you would be here and not working.”

“My brother, Jongin,” Kira said. “And of course, I wouldn't miss Yuta’s exhibit for the world. He’s done a lot for me and my family.” She shared a fond look with the boy next to her and he squeezed her hand in return.

“This is my boyfriend, Mark, by the way,” Kira gestured to the boy next to her. 

“Yo, nice to meet you, dude,” Mark extended his arm out towards you and you gladly took in your hands to give it a shake. You laughed at his casual greeting; it was charming. 

“Back at you, dude,” you giggled back. 

Turning to take a peek at the picture they were admiring, you couldn’t help but break out into a wide grin. It was the two of them with the flower shop as their background. Yuta had painted Kira seated on top on the counter, eyes closed with glee and hands clutching a small bouquet of blue flowers. Mark, on the other hand, leaned towards her with fingers gripping the table top and looking at her with a loving smile. 

You could feel the love pouring out of it and it warmed your lonely heart. “Wow,” you whispered.

Kira leaned her head on Mark’s shoulder and he placed a tiny kiss to her temple. “I’m buying it from him once this is all over,” she said.

Knowing each flower played a part in Yuta’s paintings, you tried to distinguish what flowers she clutched in her hand. “They’re cornflowers,” Mark answered the question that lingered in your head.

“Why cornflowers?”

“Oh those things put us through a lot— a little pain sprinkled in with their beauty,” Kira smiled, leaving Mark to chuckle lovingly at her comment. It felt like a secret between the two of them and you were invading in their space. “They were what got us together in the first place.”

Her  sentence made you cock a brow. How could flowers be painful? That was awfully cryptic, even a little unsettling but it sounded a little familiar to you; it was on the tip of your tongue. 

“Yeah, they’re pretty special,” the boy grinned, gaze still glued to the person wrapped under his arm. “Cornflowers are my favorite.”

“They’re starting to become one of mine, too,” she returned the look. 

Mark’s bright brown eyes were shining with the love you wish someone had for you. It was a sweet sight, to see such a young couple in love. A part of you was jealous that they found a love like that so early in their lives while you pined after an artist that was so infatuated with flowers and their meanings. 

Wanting to leave them in their moment, you excused yourself with a smile. There were only four paintings left to see.

The first was a design you recognized. It was a more detailed painting of the sketch you had seen Yuta draw on the first day of the semester. A girl was seated on the grass, leaning her back on a trunk of a cherry blossom tree. Her hands were outstretched to the sky, trying to catch the falling petals in her hand. Stealing a glance at the title, Yuta titled the piece, Wishful Thinking. 

Moving to the next piece, it was a close up of Yuta’s hands. His palms were pressed together, cupping cherry blossoms in his hand. Petals and full flowers were scattered around the canvas, filling out all the empty spaces. The bright pink stood out against the color of his skin. You admired the amount of detail this piece had— the wrinkles on his skin, the gradient found on the petals. It held your interest, leaving you to wonder what this piece titled Inside meant to him. 

Yuta’s self-portrait was showstopping. He borrowed the flower shop’s name, calling this piece For You in Full Bloom. The painting brilliantly depicted him in all white, his eyes closed with pain and hands clutching at his throat. The blossoms were spilling out of his mouth, the petals tainted with a blood red. You could feel the sadness and the suffering emitting from the picture and it pained you to see such a vulnerable depiction of him. 

Putting two and two together, you figured it out. 

Hanahaki. You had read about the disease before, one of the artists you admired had it. They created art as a way to tell their story. It was their escape from the suffering, a way to ease their pain, and the one course of action they took to be remembered after their death.

The only piece of information you lacked was who made him tolerate such pain.

Skipping the last painting of the exhibit, you made your way through the crowd to find Yuta. He stood at the end with a polite smile, thanking everyone who attended his exhibit. Onlookers were showering him with compliments, leaving you to wait until the small crowd cleared out.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” you breathed out with a concerned look. You couldn’t even spit out the name of the disease.

His smile widened into a genuine one, eyes gone soft at the sight of you. “You made it.”

Spotting the irises in your hand, he gestured towards the bouquet. “Are those for me?”

Still in shock that the person you were in love with was suffering all this time, you handed them to him without a word.

“Irises mean ‘congratulations,’ nice choice,” he laughed, trying to steer the topic away from his illness.

“Who?” you asked. “Who is it?”

Cocking his head, he answered you with another question. “You didn’t see the last one, did you?”

Shaking your head negatively, Yuta took you by the hand and the feeling made fireworks explode in your chest. Your heart was beating rapidly as he led you a few steps away. Nodding his head towards the last frame, he whispered, “Take a look.” 

You felt his hand break out into a sweat and you wondered why this last one made him so nervous. Glancing at the title, you read the words Love Me Now. 

Taking a deep breath, you mentally prepared yourself to see the person who had a hold on Yuta’s heart. Unlike him, you thought yourself strong enough to take the heartbreak— after all, you weren’t the one with flowers blooming inside you. Shifting your eyes over, you gasped as soon as you spotted whose face was framed on the wall. 

Staring back at you was the most beautiful painting of yourself. It was a you that you had never seen before. He painted you in flourishing pastels to match the happy look on your face. He captured your smile lines, the curve of your eyes, and the scrunch of your nose in such detail; it amazed you beyond belief. 

There was movement in your hair, the strands swaying in the wind along with the petals behind you. Your hands held a branch of your favorite flowers, half of them covering part of your face.

Captivated by seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, you couldn’t tear your gaze away.

“Your smile makes flowers grow in my chest,” Yuta’s voice came from your side. You turned to see him wear a strained smile. Yuta’s huge eyes that were usually filled with kindness were taken over by something else— pain. 

There was pain in his words and you hear the ache in his voice. His tone is hoarse, like his throat is unbelievably dry or irritated. 

“I— I don’t know what to say.” 

Everything was extremely overwhelming. 

He shook his head to tell you that it was okay; he just needed to get the words off his chest. “It’s so beautiful and enchanting and it makes my heart clench and flowers take over my lungs.”

“Cherry blossoms,” you found yourself saying. You couldn’t believe this was happening. There were words you wanted to say but you were struggling to find them.

“Sakura,” he repeated in his native language.

“My favorite flowers.”

“Your favorite flowers.” 

“You were never in love with flowers,” you stated, still in a state of shock. 

Yuta released this low, almost bitter sounding chuckle that comes from deep within his chest. “Never.”

“Then, you’re in love with—”

“You.”

“—me.”

Just like the artist you admired, Yuta painted his way through his pain of loving you. 

Nakamoto Yuta felt like he had been in love with you for the longest time. He had loved you before he could even muster the guts to let you know it, to invite you to this exhibit that displayed art dedicated to you.

He really hoped that you would show so he could take the chance to confess. Sure, you had promised but sometimes, people never intended to keep them. If he didn’t get it off his chest, he would never be able to breathe and Yuta desperately wanted to.

Yuta wanted to fill his lungs with breaths of fresh air and just breathe you in. That was all he longed for. 

“Oh,” was all you could breathe out.

“It’s okay that you don’t feel the same,” Yuta tried to comfort you, getting the wrong idea from your lack of words. “I just needed to let you know.”

The sharpening ache that became so familiar to him was building up in his chest again, preparing him for the worst. Yuta swallowed thickly, already feeling the petals working their way to his mouth. His airways began restricting, his breaths growing more haggard by the second. He had so many things to say and he was determined to let it out before the petals escaped. The words spilled out his mouth, his lips running like a motor, “I used to be afraid of being in love and being happy with a person that I loved because it hurts.”

“Yuta—”

He stopped you with a lifted palm. 

“Happiness never lasted with me, the flowers always ripped it away,” he explained, his trembling eyes focusing on your portrait and not the real person beside him. 

“But then I met you and felt things I have never experienced before. So, I pushed my way through the pain just to be with you because I felt like I reached for the stars and touched the sky when we were together.”

His words brought tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe someone would sit through the pain just to spend time with you nor thought you were worth it but here Yuta was, proving you wrong.

“There were times I wanted to beg you to love me, just so the hurting and the bleeding—just everything— could stop but I was too much of a coward and it led me to this.”

Here he was, pouring his heart out to you with his images and words, and you couldn’t let out a single noise. You forced yourself to move forward, to slip your hand into his. The sensation of your fingers intertwining with his brought Yuta out of his daze to look at you.

“Yuta,” you said with trembling lips. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied with a sullen tone. You squeezed his palm and he gave you a light one in return. “If I don’t get this off my chest now, I’ll never be able to breathe and I really want to.”

“There’s no reason for you to lose your breath over me.” A sniffle escaped you and Yuta turned to see you crying. He bent down to wipe your tears away, his finger swiping against your skin ever so gently. 

“Why are you crying?” 

“Because you suffered because of me and you didn’t have to,” you shot back with a whimper.

“You couldn’t have known, it’s okay,” he tried to reassure you.

“No, no,” you interrupted him to his confusion. “It’s not that.”

Your voice was so soft under your quivers, he could barely hear you over the loud chattering of the other guests in the room. Yuta guided you just outside his exhibit to a bench and dried your eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. 

“What’s wrong?”

Yuta’s question made you laugh through your tears and at all the time wasted. He had been in pain for so long because he was yearning for you just as you were for him. The mutual yet silent pining took you down this route and it could have been avoided if you had just stopped being a coward and spoken up like Sicheng pushed you to.

“There’s nothing wrong,” you said with the dismissing wave. You willed yourself to look him in the eyes and bring a hand to his cheek. “It’s just that I think I’ve been in love with you as long as you have been in love with me.”

Your confession caused him to freeze in his seat. His brown eyes were blown out wide and mouth dropping in shock. Giggling as more tears fell, you quickly slide the hand cupping his cheek down to his jaw to shut his mouth closed. Running a thumb against his lips, you felt his pulse quickening at your touch. 

“You’re in love with me?” he asked, voice as gentle as the breeze. There was uncertainty and disbelief behind it. Yuta wanted to hear you say it again.

—🌸—

“I’ve been in love with you for a while now.” Your earnest words were music to his ears. 

He felt this comforting rush take over this body and it sent tingles down his spine, traveling all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Your confession worked like magic, spelling him with this high that made him soar to the skies. 

Yuta thought you were a witch, entrancing him with a love charm so strong that it brought instant relief to his pain. His heart was trying to fight its way out of his chest and the ache of his airways dulled. The muscle was pounding so loudly against his ribcage, he could hear it in his ears, and he swore you could hear it too. 

His lips upturned into the biggest grin, he felt like his cheeks were about to burst. 

Was this how a requited love felt? If it was, he never wanted to go without it again. 

Yuta rushed to pull you in his arms and sighed when you nuzzled your head into his neck. He shivered when he felt them whisper the three words he longed to hear into his skin. His body shook with laughter as he placed a lingering kiss at the crown of your head, reveling at the feeling of you encased in his hold. 

You tried to fight your way out of his grip but he only tightened his arms, not wanting to let you go. The action left you giggling into his neck, causing him to squirm until his hold loosened. Your hands trailed their way from his waist up to cup his face and suddenly, his eyes were locked onto yours. Just as you were getting lost in the deep sea of brown, his gaze flickered to your lips before looking back at you. His lips quirked up as you did the same. 

He felt your breath hitch as he leaned in to slot his lips against yours and the overwhelming rush returned. It seemed like his heart was racing against time, beating erratically as you kissed him so tenderly. Your lips were so soft and they tasted like the vanilla flavoring of your color, leaving him to chase after you every time you pulled away for a breath. 

Yuta fought the strain in his airways as he pursued your lips again and again, loving the way you felt and tasted. He picked up the smell of your cherry blossom shampoo and laughed into the kiss. The feeling of having you was so addicting— your love was his drug and he was forever hooked on you. He would devote himself to nothing else but you.

The sensation of Yuta kissing you and smiling against your lips sent you into overdrive. There were butterflies in your stomach, fireworks going off in your head, tingles down your spine and you loved it all. 

In the past, you only noticed Nakamoto Yuta’s undying love and admiration for flowers but this was the first time you finally noticed his love for you and it was nothing short of wonderful. 

It was the start of something new. 

🌸 author’s note— that’s it! it came out a bit more angst than i intended, definitely lacked the fluff i was expecting but i’m still satisfied with the ending uwu  i loved writing my little markie and kira in the fic, i’ve missed them! but yes!! that’s the end of my little bday present to myself! i hope y’all loved it! please leave some feedback; i would love to hear what you thought of it!! i think i literally fell in love with yuta while writing this.

🌸 taglist— @danishmiilk​ @hyunjins--laugh​ @littleflowercrown13​ @orange-nimon-cross​ @radiorenjun​ @ncteaxhoe​ @chancrispy​

[mythicamagic]

Please write the second-to-last prompt!

*cough* I’ll put this one under a ‘read more’ because it’s a tad too long. And involves nakedness- and we all know how tumblr feels about that. M rated with no actual naughty business.

“it’s because i’m so attractive isn’t it?” “i say this. and i cannot stress this enough. i find you completely repulsive.” 

---

Sesshoumaru arched a brow, torn between amusement, befuddlement, indignation, flattery and satisfaction. 

It was a confusing mix. 

Kagome stared up at him, cheeks stained crimson and hands planted on her hips. It was not the appropriate expression for one asking another for a favour. 

Thin lips parted, before his mouth clicked shut. He blinked once, tipping his head to the side. 

“You wish to…”

“Draw you,” she confirmed stiffly. 

“Naked.”

“It’s called ‘Life Drawing’ and I need it for my college class. You’d...really be helping me out, okay?”

Sesshoumaru hummed, gaze sweeping over her critically. He’d never seen one of her pictures, and wondered if her skills could do him justice. “And you chose this one to be your subject?” he arched a brow, confidence radiating off him in waves. “It is because I am so attractive, is it not?”

Kagome made a noise, bursting into a laugh and waving this off. “I say this, and I cannot stress this enough; I find you completely repulsive.” 

The teasing dance of her eyes told him she was joking. He huffed, finding the mere idea ludicious. None could find him repulsive. 

“Look the reason I’m asking you is because it would be awkward with anyone else. I’m not dating anyone- and Inuyasha is out on account of him being my ex. Miroku is married. You’re the only available person who is kinda, sorta my friend. My last resort is asking a random villager if they’ll strip for me,” she sighed. “I’ve sat in on classes, I’ve tried using books for reference poses- but nothing works! My teacher always says they come off as stiff looking and the uh...the…”

Sesshoumaru watched her steadily turn redder, unblinking.

Kagome glanced around the empty hillside with paranoia, whispering the next part; “the penis…” she blushed, seeming to die inside, “always looks...uh...inaccurate, apparently.”

Mirth coloured his blank, guarded expression. He glanced at her waiting bag beside the tree. “Show me.”

“What?! No! No one will ever see those sketches! Ever! I’m gonna burn them!”

The Daiyoukai glanced away, arranging his features into something haughty and disinterested. “Then you will not sketch my body.”

Kagome gaped, groaning and burying her crimson face in her hands. “Urgh!” 

To be fair to her skills; the men in her sketches held fairly accurate physiques. Nice bone structure; and a softness about their faces and dark shading that portrayed a moody tone, longing for something he couldn’t name. She’d even captured hands and feet remarkably well, something he knew most artists struggled with. 

But then, inevitably, golden eyes strayed downward from their torsos. 

“A-are they bad?” Kagome peered over his shoulder as Sesshoumaru sat, perusing her sketchbook. 

He closed the book with a sharp noise of finality. “This is grave indeed.”

“I knew it,” she whined, wallowing in sadness. 

Sesshoumaru’s nose twitched as he stood, passing the sketchbook back to her. “...You may capture my likeness.”

Her breath hitched, and relief immediately swamped her features. “I- thank you,” Kagome breathed, easing closer to him. “Thank you so much!”

“Hn,” inwardly preening and thinking that all beings should thank him for the generous sight of his naked form, Sesshoumaru set the date for their ‘meeting,’ inviting her to the Western Stronghold in two days' time. 

---

They greeted each other easily enough on the actual day, Kagome being let into his private chambers with many a raised brow from his servants. 

Sesshoumaru slid the door shut to conceal their ‘activity’ away from prying eyes, though he had no shame in his bare form. Merely, he sensed the miko’s nervousness and did not wish her concentration to be broken. 

After stripping easily enough, shedding the finery of his clothes, Sesshoumaru stopped before her seated position at a respectable distance. 

“Where do you want me?”

Kagome made a strangled noise, having looked up from her sketchbook. Blue eyes immediately locked onto the area between his thighs. 

“Uh-! I um-” she stammered, attention flitting around the room like she were following a game of ping pong. “Standing is fine!” Kagome squeaked, turning scarlet as she motioned with her hand, “m-maybe just b-backup a little.”

Nodding primly, Sesshoumaru concealed his smirk, stepping away and waiting as her embarrassment slowly abated. Her bright gaze running over lithe, pale muscles couldn’t quite hide her curiosity; her hunger. Kagome pursed full lips and sketched a standing pose, before instructing him to instead sit down upon his bed of furs and busy himself with something. Sesshoumaru decided to read. 

Keen, pointed ears caught every glide and sharp drag of lead on paper- every indrawn breath and hiss through clenched teeth.

After a little while, she sighed. 

“You keep avoiding it,” Sesshoumaru hazarded a guess. 

“I totally do,” Kagome groaned, staring miserably at the sketches, “right now you’re sexless. There’s a blank space where genitals are supposed to go.” 

Golden eyes flitted up to her. “You are too tense. Come here.”

“W-what?”

“The bed is comfortable,” he clarified, tone becoming flat and business-like as he minded some silver hair back over one broad shoulder. “I refuse to be drawn inaccurately.”

Nodding, she swallowed and gathered her things, awkwardly padding over. A plume of repressed desire followed her like a cloud of smog. Clearly she was trying to remain professional and judging by the guilt mingling with it; felt ashamed by any natural reaction to his person. 

Naked bodies were not inherently sexual things. They were just...bodies. But he felt no annoyance with Kagome for her attraction. Quite the contrary. She’d been acting like this for months with a cycle of repression. This ‘study’ had been a golden opportunity. 

Kagome sat before him and took a long breath, forcing herself to look at his lap. 

His cock twitched. 

Making a thin noise, she blushed and directed her gaze firmly to the paper, scribbling away furiously. 

Sesshoumaru’s fangs caressed his bottom lip in a sensual brush, sighing. A spike of his own arousal had more obvious effects on his person. He couldn’t conceal it like her- and Kagome’s intense attention only had him hardening quicker. 

“Ah-” Kagome gaped, losing her voice. She cleared her throat, staring. Unbidden, she wet her lips, blue eyes flitting up to meet dark, golden hues steadily dyeing passionate red. “We- we can stop...until it goes back to normal?” she suggested thinly.

“Did you not require extensive research on this particular part of me, miko?” he purred silkily. “Perhaps sketching it in various states would be to your advantage.”

“I-I guess that’s true,” Kagome swallowed, shyly glancing at it and then meeting his gaze again. “Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“I could…”

Sesshoumaru leaned closer, the cool air feeling too keen on his heated skin. Her breathy voice made goosebumps rise over pale flesh. “Yes?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Kagome looked at him again, silently seeking consent. Barely imagining it was possible he could reciprocate. But she did not know; had not come to learn the patience that wild, predatory beasts possessed. He’d bided his time so long his waiting looked like indifference on the outside.

Taking a short, quick drawn breath, Kagome bridged the distance between them. She learned the full scope of Sesshoumaru’s anatomy intimately well that night- and continued her studies for many nights after.

---

The feedback Kagome gained back from her life drawing was ‘good use of shading and muscle definition, an impressive level of detail. Improvement on discussed anatomy - but a tad too unrealistic in size.’

[wreckofawriter]

Sweater

Pairing: Lily Evans x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Deals with heavy topics such as coming out and homophobia. also swearing (the f-slur is used once). a shit ton of angst

Summary: You are in love with Lily and finally get the courage to do something about it

A/n: this is purely a rant for me. I wrote this on a whim out of anger and sadness. I recently had multiple friends cut me off when I came out to them and I need somewhere to put those emotions. sorry if it is garbage writing and everything is ooc

    When asking what made humans human you would receive thousands of answers. Some would probably go on about anatomy and evolution, others would consider philosophy and psychology. Although there would never be one correct answer there would always be one thought that would drift through conversations consistently. It would even be pushed next to the definition of humanity itself by some. That thing was love. 

    It was cliche but as a child, you had believed the same. Love has defined the human race in your mind for years. Love was what you were taught through books of princes and princesses and by your mother and father. Love was represented by beautiful flowers and sunny days. It was sung about by artists and written about by authors. It surrounded you, separated the good from the bad in clean lines. But time caused those lines to blur. 

    It didn’t take you long to realize that love wasn’t as forgiving as everyone said it to be. Love for some was a box, a small, neat box. A box that only some could fit. The edges were sharp and when you couldn’t fit you got cut. And each time you stepped from that little box the cuts would only get deeper. 

    Love was something you had grown to hate yourself for. Something you tore yourself apart because of. It had contorted into some type of sick monster in your mind. One which manipulated you with strings, keeping thoughts you knew you shouldn’t be having locked away only to be exposed in late hours when you could only shame yourself. 

    You watched as she laughed next to you, her hair shining in the flames which floated above your table. She turned to you, lips still spread in a wide beam and your breath caught.

    “You can still go to Hogsmeade with me today right?” Lily asked before taking a bite of the apple she was holding.

    You nodded gaze locked on the mesmerizing green of her eyes. 

    She let out a small sigh, “Thank Godric, Malreen ditched us and I thought the plans were ruined.”

    “Ya’know you could always come with us Lils.” 

    You held back a groan at the sound of James’s voice. Your glare focused on him but he didn’t notice, only concerned with Lily’s existence. 

    She scoffed, “Yeah right, that sounds like a nightmare.”

    James tsked his tongue, “So feisty.” his voice was sultry.

    Your hands tightened to fists and you tucked them under your thighs. James Potter had never done anything to you before. He was actually very nice to you, never once letting you become victim to one of their pranks or harassing you the way he did some. He was nothing but polite and kind to you. But he wasn’t that way because of his kind heart. Instead, it was because of the love he held for your best friend. Love which you shared, but couldn’t be shared for very much longer. 

    “Whatever,” Lily mumbled, returning her attention to you, “We should go to Dervish and Banges. I want to pick up a few books.” 

    “Sounds good.” You spoke back forcing a grin as you watched her eyes flirt back to James. 

   

    By the time you left that morning, it had begun to snow. The flakes were light and danced to the ground in delicate patterns. You and Lily walked side by side, feet leaving prints in the thin layer of white as your lazily intertwined hands swung between you. Your dark thoughts had been pushed away by her touch even though your skin was separated by mittens. The Three Broomsticks was full of laughter and warmth as you sat across from each other talking of stupid things that didn’t matter all that much. Part of your mind let you pretend it was a date, the thought making wings erupt in your stomach.

    When you exited the pub you shivered, the air had sharpened cutting through your thin coat. 

    Lily sighed as you clutched your arms closer to your body, “I told you to bring warmer clothes.” 

    “I know.” You huffed, “I should have listened.” 

    With a roll of her eyes, she began to remove the heavy sweater she was wearing passing it to you with a softening smile.

    “But you’ll be cold.” You mumbled guilt setting in quickly.

    “I’ll be fine.” She insisted, “Just take it.” 

    You started at her, searching for any hint of hesitation. When you found none you took the sweater from her hands and tugged it over your head. The warmth accompanied by the scent of cinnamon and vanilla made your heart pound with buried feelings. 

    “Thank you.” You murmured, tucking your nose under the collar and letting her perfume surround you.

    Lily giggled, “You look cute, better than I did in it anyway.” 

    You hoped she would blame the roses of your cheeks on the cold.

   

    You sat in front of the gates of the shrieking shack still wrapped in her sweater, a chocolate frog in hand, “Do you actually think there’s anything in there?” you asked through a full mouth. 

    Lily shrugged, “Probably not. Dumbledore wouldn’t let anything dangerous that close to the school.” 

    You snorted, “The school is like ten feet from something called the Forbidden Forest and the Whomping Willow.” 

    “I suppose you’re right.” She snickered.

    The two of you fell quiet, snowflakes doing lazy loops above you. The smell of fresh snow was pleasant in your nose. You felt an itch and turned to see Lily staring at you, her gaze causing a fresh blush to paint your cheeks. You tilted your head in question.

    “You are really cute, you know.” She spoke, her breath warm on your face.

    “Really?” you asked.

    She nodded.

    A sudden rush of confidence overwhelmed you. You felt your heart race, her sweater suddenly feeling light on your shoulders, “I think I’m in love with you.” the words slipped seamlessly from your lips, echoing in your mind as the damage you just caused hit. 

    Lily’s eyes widened, mouth dropping slightly.

    Your head spun, you tried to open your mouth to cover the words you had just spoken but you felt like you had been frozen in place. 

    Suddenly Lily was leaning forward, hand cupping your jaw until your lips met and it dropped. She tasted of sugar and butterbeer, her lips soft and cold against your own, your hands moved to her waist and suddenly she was pulling away. 

    Panic struck her green eyes and she was standing in seconds. 

    “I shouldn’t have done that.” She spoke rushing from the clearing.

    You scrambled to your feet. You called after her running in her footprints. Just as you were about to make it out of the woods you were knocked backward, hitting the light layer of snow with a groan. You looked up to see Marleen. Mary and Angelica at her sides. 

    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The former hissed with an emotion that could only be described as disgust. 

    “Marleen?” You asked, voice shaking as tears brimmed in your vision. 

    “Don’t go near Lily or any of us ever again you fucking faggot.” she sneered, turning away from you.

    The last word she spoke sent a blade through your heart. You felt like you were choking on it.

    “I can’t believe she slept in the same room as us,” You heard Mary whisper as they left. 

    You weren’t sure how long you sat there, tears freezing to your eyelashes and snow soaking through your pants. Suddenly her sweater couldn’t protect you from the harsh wind that blew through the woods. You began to shiver again.

    The news spread like wildfire and you were suddenly locked out of your dorm room and glared at in hallways. Only a few of your friends would still talk to you and many of them seemed uneasy to do so. You didn’t say a word to whispers around you, slurs and mocking names pushing the knife deeper into your heart with every word. 

    Lily didn’t even look your way after that day. She hid behind Marleen and others when you walked past, refusing to meet your eye in the common room or great hall. 

   

James and her started dating not but a week after she kissed you. Your heart throbbed as she wore his sweater around the common room, each step she took seeming to take her further from you. 

You felt sick to your stomach most of the time now. Days seemed to blur together a fog covering everything you did. Classes and assignments were a distant dream as you moved through life on autopilot. James’s arm around her shoulder making your want to nose dive into the ground. 

A month passed. People had moved on. Some Ravenclaw cheating on her boyfriend taking the schools spotlight off you. A few still muttered insults and your dorm room remained locked but the room of requirement had more comfortable beds anyway. 

You were making your way to that very place when Lily appeared before you. Her head was hung, red hair falling in front of her face like a curtain. Neither of you spoke, the flicker of torches casting shadows of broken hearts and confused feelings. 

Unshed tears made your eyes sting as you stared at her, “Why did you kiss me?” your voice was hollow.

She didn’t respond for a moment, her head finally turning to look up at you, “I wasn’t sure how to respond when you…” Her voice trailed off and fragile silence once again filled the corridor.

“That's not fair.” You choked. “It’s not fair.” 

“I’m sorry.” She spoke, “I am so sorry.” 

You wanted to break her the way she broke you, take something she had hidden away, and expose it to the world as she had to you. You yearned for her to feel pain the way you had felt it. But all you could do was sob as she stood in front of you until she walked away. 

Taglist:

@accio-rogers @roslea @k3nz-doodl3 @theseuscmander @sleepingalaska @chloe-geoghegan1 @obsessedwithrandomthings @coldlilheart

Masterlist

[pikapeppa]

Professor Solas/Lavellan: Dreams

Chapter 15 of Inadvisable (professor Solas modern AU) is posted! Note: I didn’t post Chap 14 here on Tumblr because formatting/I’m lazy, so if you’re following from Tumblr, make sure you don’t miss that chapter!

In which Solas and Nare have a very productive supervisor meeting. UST ahoy. 😂 ~7000 words; read on AO3 instead. 

***********************

- SOLAS -

Nare leaned away from Solas’s computer screen with a sigh. “... so after I tried for the fifth time to layer the colours and ended up with just a bunch of muddy-looking landscapes, I got fed up. That’s when I texted you.” She shot him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. Bothering you on a Sunday night like that.”

He gave her a gently chiding look over his reading glasses. “I told you, you are never a bother. But this is what I mentioned on Sunday. Layering is not as useful in oil painting as it is with watercolours.” He leaned back in his chair. “What could be helpful, however, is to carry over your gouache techniques instead of the watercolour techniques. Gouache is more opaque — closer in opacity to oils than watercolours, in any case, though the opacity is not nearly as…”

He trailed off in amusement. Nare’s face had fallen into an expression that was very reminiscent of a lightbulb turning on over a cartoon character’s head. 

He smiled at her. “You see what I’m suggesting, don’t you?”

“I’ll just create the highlights after the fact,” she exclaimed. “I’ll add them at the end instead of working around the canvas to get the whites.”

“Yes, exactly,” Solas said. 

She laughed and ran a hand over her ponytail. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that on my own. I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t insult yourself, Nare,” he said firmly. “It serves no purpose.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Sorry. It’s — it’s automatic. I don’t really mean it.”

He relaxed slightly, then tilted his head. “It is not often that a piece frustrates you to this degree, is it?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I don’t usually start over this many times. Even if I’m not happy with a study, I always just finish it so I can start fresh on the next one.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You always finish your studies?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even if I don’t like them, I… it’s hard for me to leave them unfinished.” She sighed and leaned back against his desk, and he studied her pensively for a moment. This was something he hadn’t known about her process, and it was certainly enlightening. 

In truth, everything he had learned about Nare over the past two weeks was enlightening. In the space of a mere two weeks, Solas already felt like he was becoming well-versed in who she was. With every passing day, he learned more about what excited her and what made her nervous, the things she was most passionate about and the things that made her laugh. 

And with every new thing he learned about her, he felt more…  aligned with her than he had any right to feel, considering that they had known each other for less than a month. And it wasn’t just their increasingly lengthy supervisor-student meetings that were giving him these fascinating insights into who Nare was. 

It was the texts. The insidious, unwise, inadvisable conversations by text message that Solas was incapable of cutting off, no matter that he ought to. 

He was still trying to maintain a modicum of professional distance by not being the one to initiate the texts, but that didn’t change the fact that he was checking his phone more eagerly these days than he ever had in his life. In some small and admittedly deluded part of his mind, he had convinced himself that if he kept a small amount of distance, letting Nare be the one to initiate contact, he could maintain a veneer of innocence in this, despite his obvious culpability. 

You are the only one who believes me to be a sweet talker. Should I insist on you having a little more discipline? Are you talking back to your supervisor?

His overly candid texts, his inappropriate innuendo-laced remarks, and worse yet, the voice memos...

He was making a mistake, and he knew it. But with every passing day, he found himself caring less and less. He had never texted anyone as often or in the same capacity as he texted with Nare. His texts with Abelas and Dorian were entirely professional, and his texts with Felassan were a bit more frequent and casual with occasional bouts of banter, but he’d never engaged in anything like the texted conversations he had with Nare. And their exchanges really felt like actual conversations. Solas had never realized that it was possible to have such in-depth conversations via text.  

He had never realized how quickly the intimacy of a bond could be fostered by the simple medium of typed-out messages on his screen. 

Solas forced his mind away from the idea of intimacy and bonds and removed his reading glasses. “Do you recall how in your portfolio submission for this program, I asked you not only to submit your best works, but the ones you consider to be your worst?”

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded. “Your weakest works still displayed good technical skills, and what you remarked on were the technical errors, which told me what you already know: you have a strong technical foundation — a very good handle on perspective, anatomy, colour theory and so on.” He set his glasses on the desk. “What I found interesting is what you didn’t point out in your own weakest pieces.”

Her expression became wary, as though she was afraid of what he would say. “What do you mean?”

“Your weakest pieces all had a stiffness to them,” he said. “A rushed but almost static feel, as though you were stuck on them in some way but forced yourself to finish them just for the sake of being able to say they were finished.”

Her face slackened with surprise. “You could tell that from looking at them?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” She trailed off and stared at him. Her expression was shifting from surprise to an odd sort of melancholy, almost as though he’d exposed her in some way that she hadn’t expected to be exposed, and he watched her changing expression with some concern.

“Did I offend you?” he said softly.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m just…” She licked her lips nervously. “None of my art professors before ever… remarked on that.”

He frowned slightly at this. “It appears quite obvious to me.”

She shot him a tiny smile, then took a deep breath and folded her arms as though she was cold. “So you could see from those bad pieces that I was struggling just to finish them?”

“Yes, I could,” he said. “Now, having become more familiar with your work and the way you think while you’re painting, I believe that those pieces are the result of you getting trapped in a certain mindset. It is almost like you fall into a groove with them, and you become too focused on finishing them rather than stepping back to re-evaluate their quality.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I get what you’re saying, but I just… I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”

“Studies are never meant to be finished,” he reminded her. “The entire point of a study is essentially to play. To figure out the bones of your piece and to problem-solve.” He frowned. “Your undergraduate art professors allowed you to finish your studies?”

She shrugged again. “They seemed to like it when I did. They thought the finished studies were good.”

“But you didn’t,” he said. It wasn’t a question; he knew she didn’t care for her own finished studies, which was why she had submitted them as her weakest pieces.

“No,” she said. 

He frowned more deeply. “You should have trusted your own judgment in this matter.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’re saying I should have ignored the opinions of my professors?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Some professors have better opinions than others.”

She laughed. “I wonder where I can find a professor with a good opinion, then,” she said playfully.

Solas smiled in return, but he didn’t reply. Nare was half-sitting on his desk with her head tilted coquettishly, and he was visited by a heated — and very inappropriate — urge to seat her more firmly on the surface of his desk and to discipline her for her cheeky remark.

Ah yes, he would discipline her slowly. He’d strip off her pants and push her legs apart, and he’d run his tongue slowly and very teasingly along the insides of her thighs until she promised not to talk back to her supervisor anymore.

His cock stirred in his trousers, but he shunted the lustful thoughts away just as he had done every time they’d met in person for the past two weeks. His meetings and his seminar class with Nare were becoming a true test of his self-control. On the one hand, they were satisfyingly productive and intellectually stimulating; every time Solas saw Nare, she had read or watched at least one of his recommended resources, be it an article or a book chapter or a tutorial video, and the ensuing discussions they had were as satisfying as any that he had with any other scholar or artist at the university. 

On the other hand, his treacherous lust-fuelled body was so attuned to her that he had to physically force himself not to reach for her whenever she was near. 

Solas was torn: torn between his dual urges to discuss everything with her and to devour her. His only saving grace was the fact that he’d finally given in and allowed himself to fantasize about her when he touched himself — which he had being doing almost every night for the past two weeks, to his own mild disgruntlement.

He was sleeping very well, however, so he supposed he couldn’t complain.

“For what it is worth, my opinion is this,” he said. “It appears that you have gotten into a habit of making the completion of a piece your goal, and that you’ll drive toward completing a piece even if you are unsatisfied with it, or if you know something about the piece is off. But finishing a painting should not be your ultimate goal. What you should be striving for is to create something expressive — something that captures the feeling or the message that you intend to convey, whether the form of that creation is a completed painting or a half-finished study or a simple sketch.” He gave her a knowing look. “You should be striving to make something that brings you joy and satisfaction, Nare. Something you can take pride in. It is not enough to finish the piece if you did not derive any satisfaction from it.”

She smiled weakly. “I don’t know that concept artists or other professional artists would agree with you about that.”

He huffed in amusement. “You’re right. Felassan and I have had to agree to disagree about this matter. But to my understanding, you are not aiming to be a concept artist.”

“That’s true,” she said softly. She took a deep breath, then released it. “So instead of trying to always finish the piece, I should just… ask myself if I’m happy with it.”

“Exactly,” he said.

She nodded, then gave him a pleading look. “But I want the art to be good, though.”

“That’s what studies are for,” he reminded her. “Your other professors seem to have forgotten that, but the purpose of a study is to practice. To hone your technical skills as well as your ideas.”

“And what if I find myself grinding away at a piece even though I don’t like it?” she asked. “I should just… what, throw it away?”

He shook his head. “Don’t throw away unfinished pieces. Set them aside and come back to them. When inspiration leaves you dry, the best approach can often be to come back with a fresh perspective. Set the piece aside, focus on something else, let it live at the back of your mind. Then return to it when you are refreshed, even if returning to it means leaving it alone for years.”

“Years!” she exclaimed. “Have you ever left a piece to sit for years before coming back to it?”

“I have, in fact,” he said dryly. “So I believe my opinion about this matter is a valid one.”

She chuckled. “All right. I’m sorry, professor.”

His heart jolted at her playful — and provocative — use of the term. She smiled broadly at him, then exhaled and nodded. “Okay. I’ll work on just… putting things aside and coming back to them.” She smiled wryly. “I’m so impatient, though.”

“I’ll help to coach you in this,” he assured her. “I am very patient.”

“I hope that rubs off on me,” she said.

His belly flipped at the innuendo in her tone. His eyes locked onto hers, her brilliant oceanic eyes, and for a moment they just stood there, frozen in the forbidden but heated thrill that was building between them. 

She was still leaning against his desk while he sat in his chair. In this pose, this tense and heated tableau they were locked into, Nare’s knee was nearly brushing his, and he wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm to touch her. He could place his hand on her waist, brush his thumb over her hip, trail his fingers toward the fly of her pants and peel them open button-by-button until she was panting — all with barely having to try… 

He abruptly stood up, then clasped his hands behind his back as he made his way around his desk. “As I mentioned on Sunday, I am happy to provide more hands-on instruction in oil painting techniques. Even one or two sessions could help to build your confidence with this medium.”

“I would love that,” she said. “When can we start? Where should we do the lessons?”

“I will have to check my schedule to determine the best time,” he said. “As for where: the university’s graduate studio would be most convenient. We can easily book a space.” Secretly, however, he was imagining her in his studio at his apartment. The thought of having Nare in his home, standing barefoot in front of an easel while he provided gentle guidance for her slender hands: the fantasy made him feel aroused and protective at the same time, as though he wanted to guard her from others while keeping her selfishly for his own, and he was grateful for the span of space between them as he wandered idly toward his bookshelves. 

“The grad studio space sounds good,” she said. She started edging around to the front of his desk as well. “Or, um. I… Tamaris and I have a studio space at our apartment.”

He looked at her. Her expression was shy but hopeful, and when he met her eye, she ducked her head in that bashful way that always made him want to bend her over his desk. 

She tucked a russet strand of hair over her ear and let out a little laugh. “That probably wouldn’t work, though. Tamaris uses that space most of the day for her tattoo clients and I don’t want to get in her way. But she, um, she also doesn’t work every day, she always picks a day of the week where she sees no clients, so we could always — I mean, you could come and — all my paints and supplies are already there…” 

She was babbling. She looked up and met his eye again, then let out another self-deprecating laugh and rubbed her arms as though she was cold. “Never mind. It’s a dumb idea. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Solas didn’t reply. Truly, in this moment, he was forcing himself not to speak or to move. The way her manner shifted so seamlessly from bold and flirtatious to bashful and demure was so… fenedhis, it was a perfect dichotomy, like two glimmering facets that melded so perfectly in this one beautiful young woman, and each side of her seemed to call to something different and complementary in the depths of his soul. 

He wanted to teach her and to watch her bloom. He wanted to pin her down and make her beg. He wanted to protect her from any clumsy lovers who would fail her, and he wanted to imprint himself on her body so thoroughly that she would forget any other lovers who had come before. 

Solas wanted Nare so badly that it was a physical ache, and with every passing beat of his heart, he had to remind himself of the ugly truth: he absolutely could not have her. He could banter with her and text her and savour the undeniable electricity between them, but at all costs, he needed to remember: Nare was not his to have.

He inhaled slowly through his nose to master himself. “Let us stick to the plan of booking a student space for this,” he said. “Teaching you at your home studio would be unwise.”

He regretted his word choice the moment it left his mouth: Nare straightened with interest. “Unwise? Why?”

Because I would be far too tempted to ravish you if we were alone, he thought. “Not unwise,” he amended quickly. “Inappropriate.”

Her hopeful expression became playful. “What, you’ve never taught any other students at their studios at home?”

He gave her a chiding look, even as his heart swelled with a heated sort of amusement. Shy one moment and cheeky the next… she was such an irreverent little vixen. 

“I haven’t,” he said calmly. “But you are the first fine arts graduate student I have had since I began working at the University of Orlais.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding! Why? There must have been tons of students who wanted to work with you.”

“None that met my standards,” he said. “Felassan says my standards are frighteningly high. And that is not sweet talking, as you would say,” he added wryly. “That is the simple truth.” He paced slowly in front of his bookshelf as he went on. “You are already a very good artist, Nare. With some tutelage and guidance, I have no doubt that you will be exceptional.”

She smiled shyly and sat on the couch. “How can you have such faith in me when I don’t have  that kind of faith in myself?”

“Many of the finest artists are shackled by self-doubt and uncertainty,” he replied. “The artists who succeed are the ones who channel that uncertainty into a drive to improve their work.”

“So do you think it’s good that I’m always criticizing myself?”

“Your self-criticism can go one of two ways,” he explained. “It can become a weight that prevents you from progressing, or it can become an objective lens that will drive you to improve for the rest of your life. As objective a lens as there can be when it comes to art, at least,” he added with a small smile.

“You won’t let me get weighed down by my doubts, will you?” she asked.

He paused in his pacing and faced her. “I will not let that happen, Nare,” he said seriously. “Do not worry about that.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. “I trust you.”

I trust you. Her words were simple and guileless, but for some reason, they hit him like a bolt of emotion straight to the gut. For her to say that to him so easily and so quickly, with such perfect sincerity, even though they had known each other for less than a month… 

She let out another breathy little laugh and nervously adjusted her bracelets. “Honestly, I… I trust your judgment more than… more than any other professor I’ve ever had.”

He swallowed hard. “I am honoured by your trust,” he said quietly.

Her answering smile was sweet, and Solas admired her with a mixture of lust and regret and inexplicable tenderness — tenderness that he absolutely should not be feeling for his student, but which had burst upon him nevertheless, like a sunshower that he had been both unable and unwilling to avoid. 

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke. And in this tense and electric moment, Solas swore to himself that he would never betray Nare’s trust, no matter what happened.

Nare was the one to break the silence. “We spend so much time talking about my work,” she said. “I’d love to hear about yours. Are you working on any paintings right now?”

He relaxed, grateful for the innocuous change of subject. “I’m afraid to admit that I’m not.”

“You aren’t?” she said.

He smirked. “There’s no need to look at me like that. I realize the irony.”

She chuckled. “As long as you realize it. What have you been sketching or drawing, then?”

He smiled at her. In one of their meetings, he had told her that he drew or sketched every day even when he wasn’t actively painting, and he was flattered that she had remembered that little detail of his routine. 

He shrugged and resumed his slow pacing. “I haven’t drawn anything worth showing lately,” he said — a near-lie, unfortunately. In truth, he’d been refining the sketch of the eager hands in the hopes of turning it into a fully-finished drawing. It would be the first realistic anatomical drawing he had done in several years. But he was keeping this particular piece to himself for now. 

Nare gave him a skeptical look. “Oh come on, I don’t believe that. Your sketchbook must be full of amazing work.”

“I don’t use a sketchbook,” he replied.

Her eyes widened. “Wait, really? What do you sketch on, then?”

“I draw on loose cardstock,” he said. “I dislike being constrained by the binding of a sketchbook or the height of a stack of pages. It interferes with the positioning of my hand.”

She beamed at him, and the warmth in her expression lifted an answering warmth in his belly. “What amuses you?” he said softly.

“It’s just such a specific preference,” she said. “Like a special quirk.” She tilted her head. “I like knowing special little things about you.”

He huffed and rubbed his chin. “Then perhaps you’ll be entertained to hear about the shelf of haphazardly stacked cardstock sketches in my studio at home.”

“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed. “What, just piled on a shelf?”

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “It’s quite a mess.”

She giggled and eyed his less-than-organized desktop. “That actually doesn't surprise me.”

He playfully lifted one eyebrow. “That’s disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” she said, equally playfully. “Are your loose sketches dated, at least?”

He winced, and Nare laughed again. “No! That’s really terrible!”

He chuckled. “Athera would be horrified if ever she saw my shelf of sketches.”

“She would!” Nare agreed. “It would be a nightmare for her. I wouldn’t mind helping you to organize your shelves, though.”

Solas carefully maintained his pleasantly neutral expression. This was not the first time Nare had hinted at wanting to see his apartment, and every time she did, he got a thrill at the thought — and immediately changed the subject to stop himself from inviting her over like he so desperately wanted to do.

“That’s a kind thought,” he said. “At any rate, to answer your original question: no, I’m not working on any serious painted pieces at the moment.”

“How come?” she said. “Haven’t you been having interesting dreams?”

“My dreams have been a bit light on inspiration as of late,” he said. “Luckily, I keep a journal to jot down my more interesting dreams so I can come back to them when I am lacking in new ideas.”

Her eyes widened in wonder. “You have a dream diary?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’d love to see it,” she said eagerly.

He hesitated. “Well, it’s… rather private,” he hedged. Few people knew about his dream journal — only Felassan and Abelas and a couple of others — and none had ever asked to see it before. But the thought of showing something so private to Nare was dangerously tempting.

She pulled a little face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I’m honoured by your interest. It’s… uncommon to receive this much interest in my process.”

“That makes sense, if you haven’t had an art student in so long,” she said knowingly. “I bet any fine art student would be really interested in your process.”

“Your interest is what pleases me,” he said without thinking.

A flush lit her cheeks, and the flare of hope in her eyes was so obvious and so beautiful that it made him feel like he was falling off of a cliff. 

He hastily changed the subject. “I would be happy to share some of my more interesting dreams. The ones that I can recall, at least.”

She straightened. “Really? I’d love that!”

“All right,” he said. He leaned against the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “There was one dream I had of late: a figure so striking that I was forced to rise from my bed to sketch it out.” He tilted his head. “The Dalish tell tales of spirits, yes?”

“Yes, we do,” she said. She gestured at her face. “In Dalish traditions, our vallaslin was meant to help us connect with the spirit world.”

He nodded slowly. “The spirit world of which you speak is likely different from our Arlathani lore, but I suspect that our stories share their bones. In any case, the striking figure from my dream was a spirit that I call the Shadow Goddess.” He narrowed his eyes and tried to remember the details of the elusive dream. “Hidden by a cloak of the deepest black, she walked the Fade along the southern tundra — weeping, lonely, and forgotten. More than that, I couldn’t tell; I woke before her story could unveil itself to me. But the essence of her tale still lingers in my mind: a loneliness so dark and deep that even light was chased away by her endless solitude.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Nare spoke. “Solas, that’s… so sad.”

Her voice was small and slightly breathless. When Solas met her eye, it was to find her looking very serious, but also somehow… on edge. Not nervous, not afraid, but still on edge somehow. 

“It was a very sad dream, yes,” he said softly. “You can see why I haven’t been able to bring myself to paint it yet.”

She nodded. “I can’t decide if I’d want to see it painted or not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked.

A tiny frown creased her brow. “If it meant you had to be that sad to paint it? I would never want you to be that sad.”

He smiled faintly. “I suppose you have a point. I should be grateful that I have not yet had the heart to paint the lonely Shadow Goddess.”

She nodded, then leaned forward a little bit. “Can you tell me another dream?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Let me try and recall another.” He stepped away from his desk and sat on the other end of the couch. “There was one dream I had — a dream inspired, in fact, by an article I read in an Elvhen history journal.”

“An article? Really?”

He nodded. “The article was about the ruins of ancient Arlathan. When finally I went to sleep, my sleeping mind was mired among the burning ruins of the ancient city.” He crossed his ankle over his knee. “Marble towers and arches stretched above my head, higher than the eye could see, but all of it grew black with ash: the burnt remains of a once-grand home, unable to stop its own demise.”

She nodded and let out a slow and slightly shaky exhale, and Solas frowned. “Nare, are you all right?” he said. Her expression was still serious, but she looked even more tense than before. Her knees were pressed together, and her fingers were clenched in the leather seat of his couch.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I, um… your dreams are always so sad.”

He studied her carefully as he replied. “This dream wasn’t sad, in fact. It was filled with rage.”

“Rage? Why?”

“It is commonly believed that ancient Arlathan was burned during the old wars between Arlathan and Tevinter,” he said. “But the article I read revealed the truth: the city had been burnt before those wars had even reached their heights — burnt from within by its own people.”

Her eyes widened with surprise, but Solas couldn't help but notice that the tips of her ears were pink, almost as though she was getting flushed. 

Curious now, he went on. “Rage was what defined my dream. The blackened ash that stained the stones and hid the beauty of old Arlathan: marks of rage, brought upon the city by its own forgotten people.” 

She inhaled slowly through her parted lips, and Solas’s own breath stalled in his chest as he watched her. She was shifting subtly on the couch, arching her spine and brushing her knees together in a distinctly restless way…

He suddenly realized what was going on.

Her tense posture on his couch. Her request to hear more of his dreams, and her shameless texted requests for voice memos. Her precious confession, saved in his phone, that ‘I really like your voice’... 

The realization hit him like a thunderclap — an incredible, terrible, maddening thunderclap. 

She was getting aroused.

She nibbled her lower lip — fenedhis, it wasn’t fair, he wanted to be the one to nibble that lip — then she looked him in the eye. “Can you tell me another?” 

He stared at her, stunned with wonder. Nare was turned on by the sound of his voice. And by requesting more stories, she was shamelessly asking him to arouse her even more.

This was bad. He should say no. He ought to say no. He knew exactly how dangerous this was for them both, and it was his responsibility to say no. 

But that smug and foolish sense of pride was unfurling through his limbs again, taking control of his body and making him shift slightly closer to her on the couch. 

He lowered his voice. “I will tell you one last dream,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes please,” she breathed.

Yes, please. Ah, to hear her say this in a much more intimate context — and with considerably fewer clothes between them…

He leaned back and draped his arm along the back of the couch. “This final dream I’ll share with you was about a garden,” he said quietly. “Flowers bloomed across a vast expanse, stretching far into the haze of a horizon that my eyes could not perceive. But these flowers were unlike any I have ever seen. And this, I admit, is why my hand has never given shape to this particular dream: the flowers in this garden were so strange and foreign that I couldn’t hope to replicate their likeness.”

He paused for a moment to study her. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips slightly parted, and a rush of nearly-vicious desire fanned through his body. The look on her face right now, this look of languorous and shameless desire: how many times had he imagined such a beautiful expression on her face? How many times had he imagined seeing her look like this while he stretched her arms above her head, while he dipped his fingers between her legs, while he whispered soft and heated words into her ear — not unlike what he was nearly doing now?

Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment, then lifted as she turned her head to look at him. “Please,” she said. “Can you tell me more?”

Please. Such a simple and innocent word, but in Nare’s husky voice, it sounded anything but innocent.

He hesitated before speaking, however. There was, in fact, more to this particular dream that he could tell her, but he knew he shouldn't. 

And for that reason, his contrary and lustful lips opened to tell her anyway. “At first, the garden was like any other: rich in colour and pleasing to the eye,” he said. “But as I waited in that garden, I discovered that those blooms were not just simple static flowers. With every breath that filled my lungs, the flowers seemed to pulse and sway. Their pulsing was… familiar somehow, like a song I had once known and had forgotten: the heartbeat of a foreign place, made familiar again by the whims of my sleeping mind.” He leaned toward her slightly and lowered his voice a little more. “I felt myself begin to wake, but I wasn’t ready to rise yet from that strange and familiar dream. I remained in that garden, feeling the pleasing floral beat as it swelled inside my chest, and when finally I woke…” He trailed off. This whole suggestive story was leading toward one conclusion, and it was a conclusion that he didn’t dare verbalize to her, not even with this misplaced cocky pride that had taken control of his tongue.

She gazed at him, her expression avid with curiosity and desire. “What happened when you woke up?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows, and her eyes went very wide. “You — did you, um…” Her eyes darted to the bulge at his crotch, and Solas felt himself throbbing as though his cock was summoned by the heat of her gaze. 

Her eyes returned to his face, and she swallowed hard before speaking again. “Did you have to take a shower when you woke up?” she whispered.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, very quietly.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh gods. Um, that’s…” She clenched her fingers on her thighs, then pressed her knuckles to her mouth, and Solas studied her very obvious reaction with all the ravenous hunger of a wolf studying its mouth-watering prey. 

Nare closed her eyes, and for a long, delicious, endless minute, Solas stared at her while she dragged in a series of deep and tremulous breaths. Her knuckles were pressed to her lips as though to muffle herself, and her other hand was clenched on her thigh, and Solas wished that he could push her hand away and replace it with his own. 

But he didn’t reach for her. He didn’t shift any closer to her on the couch. He stayed exactly where he was, still and unmoving with one arm draped casually along the back of the couch. For all that he craved her, for all the lust that was howling in his blood as he studied Nare’s arched spine and her fiery red hair that he longed to wrap his hands in, he couldn’t bring himself to touch her first. 

If she touched him, however… 

Fenedhis, he didn’t know what he would do. At this particular moment, he was fairly sure that the mere brush of her finger on his knee would be enough to make him pounce.

I can’t, he thought desperately. With an enormous effort of will, he forced himself to stand. “Well, I hope that this meeting gives you enough guidance to try again with your study,” he said briskly. “And I will certainly email you about a time for us to meet at the studio for a lesson.”

She lowered her hand from her lips and looked at him, and he very nearly quailed. The look in her eyes, the sheer uninhibited lust and pleading in her beautiful face: her expression was exactly as he’d always imagined — no, it was better than he’d imagined. Both better and worse, if he was honest. The naked desire in her face was better than he’d imagined, because it was real: it was real and true, tangible and visible proof that the way he felt for her was mutual and shared.

And it was worse than he’d imagined, because this incredible feeling was completely forbidden. 

She tilted her head pleadingly. “Solas, please…” 

Please. He couldn’t bear to hear this word from her, because it was exactly what he wanted to hear. 

He shook his head slightly — both for his own sake and hers. “That’s enough for now, Nare,” he said. “Come.” He made his way over to his office door and waited for her to rise. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled heavily and stood up from the couch. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder as she joined him at the door, and when she reached for the doorknob, he was torn between relief and a very visceral sense of loss. 

She paused and looked up at him. “So I’ll… I’ll see you on Thursday morning, then?” she said breathlessly. “For our usual meeting?”

He smiled, genuinely amused despite his horrible desire. “You’re forgetting about our seminar this afternoon.”

Her jaw dropped, and she burst into laughter. “Oh no, I did!” she exclaimed. “We really are fated to keep forgetting about the seminar!”

He grinned and clasped his hands behind his back. “To date, you have forgotten more often than I.”

“It’s not my fault!” she protested.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I’m to blame for your poor memory?”

She laughed again, then gave him a sly smile. “Not for my poor memory, no,” she said quietly. “For your sweet talking.”

He huffed, but her words gave him a little pang of guilt. Now that the worst of his prideful lust was starting to abate, the reasonable part of his mind was growing louder and clamouring at him for his extremely irresponsible behaviour just now.

He bowed his head. “You are probably right. I should curb my tendency to talk at such length.”

To his delight and his deep dismay, she took a little step closer to him. “Or maybe I should try some sweet talking of my own,” she murmured.

His semi-calm cock instantly hardened once more, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked.

He gazed into her eyes: her bold and beautiful cerulean eyes, bright with laughter and mischief — provocative eyes to go along with her provocative smile… 

Provoked by Nare’s taunting, his barely-leashed sense of lustful pride reared its head once more. He took a step closer to her, and her eyes widened. 

Then he took another step closer to her still, and another, and then she was backed against the office door while Solas loomed over her. 

He placed one palm carefully on the door beside her head. “You know exactly why,” he said, very quietly.

She didn’t reply. Her eyes were huge and feverishly hot, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. Beautiful, he thought dizzily. Nare was beautiful and lustful and brilliant, and most strange and unfathomable of all, she wanted him. But… fenedhis, this was utterly and completely inadvisable, and they both knew it. 

She nervously licked her lips, and Solas’s gaze helplessly dropped to her mouth. She lifted her chin—  

Someone knocked on the door.

They both jumped, and Solas hastily stepped away from her. “Just a moment,” he called. “I’m finishing a meeting.”

“All right,” Abelas replied through the door. 

Solas exhaled through his pounding heart and looked at Nare. She was covering her mouth with both hands, and her eyes were huge. 

He gave her a reassuring look. “Be calm, Nare,” he whispered. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

She nodded and took a few slow breaths, and Solas carefully backed away from her. A tense moment later, she lowered her hands and gave him a sheepish but beautiful smile. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered. 

He nodded, then smoothed a hand over his scalp before gesturing politely at the door. Nare opened the door and smiled at Abelas as she stepped out of the office.

“Hi, Professor Abelas,” she said politely, and Solas felt a completely unreasonable rush of possessiveness. He was feeling jealous about Nare calling Abelas by his own title? He must be going mad. 

Abelas nodded to her. “Nare,” he greeted. He stepped into Solas’s office and held out an envelope. “Tamlen gave this to me by mistake.” 

“Ah,” Solas said. He took the envelope and carefully did not watch Nare as she walked away. “Is that all?”

Abelas nodded briskly. “I’ll be leaving the office for an early lunch. I’ll go straight to my one o’clock meeting when I am finished.”

Solas raised his eyebrows, actually distracted by this surprising news. “You’re leaving the office for lunch? Is there a lecture happening somewhere?”

“No,” he said. “It is a working lunch. A last-minute arrangement.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “My condolences.” He was well aware of Abelas’s distaste for last-minute plans. “You couldn’t turn it down?”

“Apparently not,” Abelas said ruefully. “I will see you later.” He turned away to return to his office, and Solas closed his office door. 

He made his way over to his desk, then plopped down in his chair with a sigh and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He really must be going mad. Allowing himself to be provoked by Nare’s subtly arched spine and her soft little murmurs of please, telling her tales about his dreams even though he knew that his voice was riling her up, pinning her against the door and staring at her lips like a mindless lustful fool…  

He rubbed his face, then straightened in his chair and clicked his mouse. He opened his documents and forced himself to concentrate on the article he’d been translating from Elvhen to common, but even as he worked on his translation, part of his mind was greedily running through his meeting with Nare, picking out the most deliciously suggestive things she’d said and done and storing them away for later when he was alone.

Her coquettish smile… Solas, please.. The arch in her spine as she sat on his couch… Maybe I should try some sweet talking of my own… The heated, feverish, pleading look in her eyes as he pinned her back against the door… 

He cock throbbed insistently in his pants. He sighed and ignored it, then went back to tapping away at his keyboard. 

Nare’s degree was going to be a very long two years. 

[datheetjoella]

Fantober 2020, Day 26: Art Class

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free! Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: T Part: 26/31 (read the full collection here) Word count: 1,947 Tags: Canonverse, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nudity Read at: AO3, FFn, or right here!

                                              ------------------------------------ When Haruka asked him if he wanted to model for a drawing he had to make for his art elective, Makoto agreed immediately. He was happy to help Haruka out wherever he could and he felt honoured that Haruka wanted to draw him for an assignment. Although he imagined it would be difficult to sit still for an extensive amount of time, he was pretty excited about trying something new with Haruka. If he got cramps from holding the same position for too long, Haruka would surely give him a break.

But when Haruka laid out all his supplies and set out a chair for him, that excitement quickly diminished.

"Take off your clothes."

"Why?" Makoto asked with a frown.

"It's an anatomy assignment," Haruka explained, "I have to draw your body and I can't see your muscles and bone structure through your sweater and jeans."

That did make sense so Makoto stripped down to his underwear without any protests, though he did feel a bit self-conscious. Being in his leg skins at the pool was so much different from being in his underwear on an assignment Haruka's professor would grade. But he told himself they'd view it with a professional eye and not a scrutinising one, and they probably had to look at hundreds of other drawings so he hopefully wouldn't stand out too much.

"Okay, how do you want me to sit?"

"Makoto," Haruka said with a deadpan expression. "Take off all your clothes."

The blood vessels in Makoto's cheeks nearly burst at that. "What?"

"You have to be nude in this image, it's in the criteria."

"Why didn't you tell me that sooner? Being in my underwear is already embarrassing enough, but being naked is just impossible!"

"Because you'd immediately say no."

"Of course I would! Don't they provide nude models in your class?"

"They do, but you were sick that day and I stayed home to take care of you, remember?" Haruka said, "All the other classes already had their sessions too and it's not like they will hire another nude model for me alone, so I have to do this assignment at home."

Damn. It was his fault Haruka missed this class so it was his responsibility to help him catch up. But no matter how guilty Makoto felt, he wasn't sure if he could do this. "Isn't there anyone else you can ask?"

"Sure, let me call Asahi and ask him if I can stare at his naked body for hours while I sketch the outline of his di-"

"Okay, I get it!" Makoto interrupted before he could pass out from heatstroke. "This is completely professional, right?"

"Of course, it's artistic nude. The only person who'll get to see this beside us is my prof, I promise."

In the end, Makoto could never refuse Haruka when he needed him. With a sigh of defeat, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged his boxer-briefs down. "How should I sit?"

"Facing me. Put your left foot on the seat and lean your right elbow on the backrest, hand on your knee. Put your other foot on the floor and let your other arm hang limply beside you."

Those were some specific instructions. Haruka probably put a lot of thought into this, so Makoto couldn't disappoint him no matter how shy he felt. "Like this?" he asked when he assumed the right position.

"Hmm." Haruka ran his eyes over his form critically. "Actually, instead of putting your hand on your knee, raise it to support your head. Tilt your head to the side a bit so I can see your neck."

"Alright," Makoto said and he did as Haruka told him. "How's this?"

"Better. I'll start drawing now, so don't move."

"I don't know how long I'll be able to sit like this, though."

"I figured, so let me know when you need a break."

"I will."

With that, Haruka flipped open his sketchbook and began to draw.

Makoto's gaze wandered from the lamp on the ceiling to the draped curtains, trying to divert his attention from the situation he found himself in. If he'd been told a few days ago that he would be a nude model for an art assignment, he would've laughed and brushed it off as something beyond his capabilities. While he did maintain that viewpoint, the subject was a whole lot less hilarious now.

The only sound in the room was the scratching of graphite onto paper, which made Makoto even more aware of his frantic heartbeat. Every nook and cranny of his body was not just being studied closely, but also eternalised in the sketchbook like an exhibit of all his flaws and imperfections. Each weird mole and bump and pocket of misplaced fat displayed for the whole world to see - actually, for Haruka and his professor solely, but it sure felt like the whole world.

The more time passed, the more Haruka's eyes burned on his skin and the more awkward Makoto felt. He couldn't back down anymore, so he had to repress the itching discomfort or else he'd disturb Haruka. Unconsciously, he bit his bottom lip and scrunched up his nose.

Haruka's pencil halted on the page. "I'm still drawing your general shape so it's fine for now, but once I get to your face you need to relax your expression. My professor will think I held you at gunpoint otherwise."

"Sorry," Makoto said, resisting the urge to scratch at his cheek, "It's just so embarrassing."

"But why? I see you naked all the time and you don't seem to have any issues with it then."

"But then you're also naked."

"Do you want me to take my clothes off, too?"

"That's not what I mean," Makoto said, "I don't feel embarrassed in the heat of the moment, and not even if you just see me nude either but this is different. You're completely staring me down and that makes me self-conscious."

"You didn't feel self-conscious when you sent me that picture when I was at the training camp a few weeks ago. And believe me, I stared at that every night until I got back."

"That was different too, then I couldn't see you staring," Makoto said and somehow, the temperature inside his cheeks rose even higher at the mere thought of the picture. "And I'll have you know, I was self-conscious. My finger hovered over the button for twenty minutes before I sent it and I felt so embarrassed the second I did that I almost regretted it."

"I was happy to receive it," Haruka said, putting down his sketchbook on his lap. "Do you know why?"

"Because you were, you know, excited?"

"That too, but that's not what I meant," Haruka said as he stood up and walked over to Makoto, taking a hold of his hands. "Because you're beautiful and I love your body so much. Whether it's touching or just watching, I love every part of you."

The look in Haruka's eyes was dead serious and his voice conveyed unwavering sincerity. It was rare for Haruka to state his thoughts so openly and it simultaneously made Makoto's heart skip a beat and his head avert as bashfulness flooded him.

"I'll love your body no matter how it ends up looking because it's yours and I love you," Haruka continued, cupping his jaw to make him meet his gaze. "But objectively speaking, you are incredibly good-looking. Not only your body, but your face too. You are so attractive, handsome, gorgeous, hot, sexy-"

"Haru!" Makoto interrupted, laughter bubbling up from his stomach. Haruka didn't compliment him this blatantly often, so knowing this was how Haruka truly felt about him boosted his self-esteem.

"Don't you ever be ashamed of your body, or of any part that is you, because there is nothing to be ashamed of. You're absolutely beautiful both inside and out."

"Thank you, Haru," Makoto murmured, leaning up to capture Haruka's lips in a kiss of gratitude. "You are, too."

They kissed each other again, brief but immensely loving. When Haruka pulled back, he said, "If you really don't feel comfortable with me drawing you naked, then that's okay. I'll try to find someone else."

Makoto shook his head. "It's alright. It's just you and me anyway."

"And my professor."

"And your professor," he said with a chuckle, "But your professor won't get to see me naked, but a drawing of me, so it's different. As long as I never run into them."

Haruka smiled too and with a final kiss, he went back to his cushion at the table. "If you get back into position, I'll resume drawing. I'll draw the most beautiful nude artwork she's ever seen."

Makoto nodded and moved his limbs to their assigned position.

One break and nearly two hours later, Haruka put his last pencil down. "It's finished. Want to come take a look?"

"Of course!" Makoto leapt off the chair and crouched down next to Haruka. His mouth fell agape when he saw the image he had created. "This is amazing, Haru!"

The man on the paper was very attractive, with sharp yet soft features and a toned body, but it was undeniably him. Admittedly, Makoto never stood in front of the mirror for longer than necessary, but he would if this was the body he always saw. Knowing Haruka viewed him this way was already touching, but the fact that he merely drew what was tangible almost took Makoto's breath away. Haruka had been a skilled artist since they were kids, but with each stroke and every line, he got even better.

"You truly outdid yourself, Haru. It's like you improve whenever I blink."

"Thanks," Haruka said with a small smile. "I had a great model."

"You'll definitely get a high grade on this assignment. Maybe even the highest grade in your year."

Haruka shook his head. "I'm not turning this drawing in for the assignment."

Makoto couldn't believe his ears. Had he suffered through all that embarrassment for nothing? "What, why?"

"Look at it," Haruka said, turning away his head as an adorable blush lit up his ears. "I don't want anyone else to see you like this, not even my professor."

At that, Makoto almost choked with laughter. "Are you serious? What happened to it being artistic nude?"

"It is artistic nude, but this is too private."

"What now then? Are you not going to hand anything in or are you going to try to find another model?"

"I'd like to draw you again, if that's okay with you."

"Sure, but won't you have the same issue then?"

"I'll draw you from a different angle, one that doesn't show your face or at least isn't recognisable," Haruka said, "I'll have to think of a new pose. Do you have time tomorrow evening?"

"Yeah, I don't have to work, so I'll try to finish up my homework in the afternoon," Makoto said as he shimmied his clothes back on. "You know, it was a bit scary at first, but I had a lot of fun."

"Me too," Haruka said, "Does that mean I can draw you more often?"

"Is that with or without clothes?"

"Both."

Makoto giggled again. "Alright, because you asked so nicely."

"Thanks," Haruka said, wrapping his arms around Makoto's shoulders. "You really are a great model. Very… inspiring."

Although Makoto would probably never possess the unwavering confidence some others were blessed with, Haruka always knew how to make him feel better about himself. And perhaps, through portraits and images Haruka drew of him, Makoto could learn to love himself the way Haruka loved him: wholeheartedly, all imperfections included.

[softboywriting]

Welcome To The Pack | Mendes Triplets Series | Part Five

Summary: You’re a human who has moved in with the Mendes triplets as their newest housemate. You’ll have to learn to navigate life with werewolves, college classes, and your feelings for each guy. [fluff]

Word Count: 2k

|Masterlist In Bio|

It's early on a Sunday morning when Shawn invites you to go out with them. He says they go on a hike once a week, and you know they go out, but you're pretty sure their idea of a hike and yours is quite different. The four of you head out into the woods down the street from your house, they’re pretty thick and have a creek that runs through the trees. Its nice, even though it’s cold.

Once you get just inside the trees Shawn gives you his zip up jacket and they run off into the woods. You barely get a word out in protest before you’re surrounded by three huge wolves. It’s obviously the boys, but you have no idea which one is which, they all look incredibly similar.

The biggest one of the three bumps against you, pressing his side into your back. He noses under your hand and you pet his head. You would guess it's Shawn since he's the biggest of three as a human.

The one with slightly darker fur circles you, head down as he growls lowly. You watch him, eyes narrowed as he jumps away from your outstretched hand. It's Raul. The slight distrust and standoffishness is apparent.

Then there is the second biggest wolf, nearly identical to the biggest wolf, who is sitting patiently, waiting for you to approach. You think it must be Peter, since he is the only one left, but something about him isn't quite right. He nudges into your hand and you rub his ears. "I'm not sure which one is which."

Raul lets out a sharp bark and you turn to look at him.

"I am well aware which one you are, Raul." You say impatiently and he sits down, looking proud of himself. What a show off, even as a wolf.

The biggest wolf joins the other in front of you. They're so similar, right down to the fur color and markings, but one is clearly larger It must be Shawn, has to be. "Shawn?" You ask, pointing to the biggest one.

The big one lowers his head and whimpers. Obviously not.

"Peter? You're so big though. I thought for sure Shawn would be the biggest." The big one rolls over and you drop to your knees, rubbing his side. "You're such a big boy, how’d you get so big?"

Shawn nudges your back and you hold his head.

"Jealous baby." You laugh and Raul jumps on you, pushing you into Peter and Shawn. "Hey! Jerk, you're squishing me!"

Shawn tackles Raul and you lay down in the leaves watching the two wolves tangle a few feet away. Peter lays his head on your lap and you scratch it. They're just the same as wolves as they are as humans. Go figure.

____________________

Raul walks into your room late one night and looks around. You look up from your laptop. You've been slogging away on an English paper that you don't want to write. It’s the most boring thing on the planet and you would rather pull out your own hair one by one. "Can I help you?"

"I need you."

"Okay? For what?"

Raul crosses his arms. "School work."

"Like...tutoring or?"

"No. Just come with me."

You get up and set aside your laptop. Your English paper can wait until later, it's almost done anyway and you need a break. Raul leads you upstairs to his bedroom and you peek around the doorway into the forbidden territory. You’ve never dared set foot in any of the guys’ rooms without being invited. Though they always seem to invite themselves into your room. You suppose your sense of personal space and theirs is probably pretty different considering your upbringings and cultures. "Should I come in?"

"Yeah, door is open isn’t it?"

You walk in and his room smells like vanilla and sandalwood, soft but rich and heady. It’s so very much like Raul. Honestly you didn't know what to expect. A mess? Stinky boy smell? Everything painted black? What you get is none of those things. In fact, Raul's room is more like a mini art studio with a bed and a dresser in the corner. There is a huge canvas drop cloth on the floor and covering two walls. Somehow in the time you have lived with these guys, you never found out Raul painted.

"What are you doing?" You ask, walking around paint spots on the covered floor. "Why do you need me?"

"I need your picture."

"For what?"

"To paint." He says matter of factly as he grabs a camera off his bed. "I want to use the color of your eyes for something because it’s the perfect color and unless you want to stand here while I color match for who knows how long, I just want a photo."

You shake your head. "I think you're missing something here."

"What?"

"The fact that I had no idea you were an artist?" You laugh, gesturing to his work station. "How come you never said anything?"

Raul shrugs.  "It wasn't important? Besides...it's not like my major or something. I just take a few classes to help with my art skills for architecture."

“You’re majoring as an architect?”

“Yeah.” He lifts his camera and then lowers it, changing some sort of setting on it you assume.

You walk around and look at the canvases, some half finished, propped against the wall. “Art could be your major.”

“No.”

"Why not? These are good." You grab a canvas with pink roses on it, they’re very detailed and vibrant, almost like looking at a photograph. "I love this."

"Take it."

"But...you don't want it?"

Raul shrugs again. "It's just stupid flowers. Can I take your photo now?"

You tuck the painting up under your arm. "Fine. But only if you show me the finished product you need my eye color for."

"Okay, but only if you don't keep telling me how good my shit is."

"Fine."

Raul lifts the camera and moves in close for a good picture. He changes angles a few times and then pulls back. He looks at the screen and smiles a little bit. "Wow." He mutters under his breath.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing. Thanks, you can go now I guess."

You roll your eyes. "Good talk," you say sarcastically and leave his room with your new painting in hand. You don't understand Raul. One minute he's a sweetheart, taking you to lunch, holding hands, and the next he acts tough and indifferent. He's hard to read, and even harder to unpack.

_____________________

Something has been bothering you since the night of Shawn’s hockey game. It’s not anything anyone has done per say but more of something that they haven’t done. Since you moved in, now almost three months ago, you’ve never seen any of the guys with a significant other. To your knowledge all three boys are in to girls, but you can’t be sure since you’ve never actually asked. Either way, you’ve never heard them talk about going on a date or talk about being with anyone. What really got you thinking about it was how Shawn turned down the three girls after his game in favor of going home for dinner. Why not go to a party, meet someone, get some action? It’s not a big deal, and it’s really none of your business, but you can’t help but think about it.

Peter stands at the stove, stirring some rice in a pot for dinner. It’s his turn to make it and he’s making baked chicken with rice and broccoli. Sounds pretty plain, but Peter makes it taste really good.

“Can I ask you something?” You say, taking a seat at the dining table at the edge of the kitchen.

“Sure?”

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend, or boyfriend, whatever.”

Peter lets out a little laugh. “No lead up, just bam, why are you single? Damn.” He turns off the stove and moves the pot of rice to a cool burner. “If you must know, I’m single because it’s hard for me to connect with someone.”

“But you’re so sweet and smart.”

“Thank you, but it’s not just that.” He takes a seat opposite you and leans his head on his chin. “We wolves tend to try to find people who are committed. We don’t like to play games when it comes to relationships. I also have to find someone who understands and accepts me as a werewolf, and that’s not always as easy as it may seem.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so...”

“You like me though right? We connect?”

Peter flushes, cheeks turning scarlet as he clears his throat. “Of course I like you. As a pack member and my friend. It’s not like...I don’t...not like...y’know. Unless you want that then-”

“Peter.” You start and he freezes, eyes panicked behind his glasses. “I meant as a friend and a pack mate.”

“Y-yes. I like you.”

“Okay, good.” You smile, warmth on your own cheeks. “You should probably check the chicken. The timer has been going off for a minute or so.”

“Shit!” Peter jumps up and you laugh as he scrambles to the oven with a pair of mitts over his hands. He saves the chicken and as soon as its out of the oven, Shawn and Raul appear to get dinner. You laugh to yourself as you watch the three guys argue over whether or not they can start dishing up food. It’s always something in this house.

_____________________

Shawn knocks on your open bedroom door and you look up from your phone. It’s after nine in the evening and you’re about to go to bed. It’s not like Shawn to be up much later than this either. He gets so exhausted from going to class and then hockey practice nearly every day, he just passes out when he gets home.

“What's up?” you ask, muting the tv.

“My tv is broken. Well, my remote is broken. I sort of stepped on it this morning in a hurry to leave.”

“Okay?”

Shawn looks over to your muted TV and then back to you. “Could I...watch my show in here?”

“Why not ask Raul or Peter? Or did they already turn you away?”

“Raul told me to shove it and Peter’s door is locked.” He sighs and hangs his head. “I can just catch it next week. I’ll pick up a remote tomorrow.”

“No, come in.” You pull back the corner of your bedspread and he wastes no time crawling into the bed next to you. You decide to take pity on him. You know what it’s like to miss your favorite show for a week and then not know what anyone is talking about on your social media. “What channel?”

“Thirty six. It’s grey’s anatomy. “

“Ah, gotcha.” You change the channel and Shawn scoots closer, propped against your bed head. “If I fall asleep don’t worry about waking me up okay?

“Mmmhmm.” Shawn grabs the remote and turns up the volume as the opening credits for the show starts to play. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and you owe me.”

He leans over and kisses your temple. “You have my undying love and gratitude.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that get me? What’s the exchange rate on undying love and gratitude?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That seems like a loaded offer for something as simple as letting you watch a TV show.”

Shawn looks away from the tv and you raise your eyebrows. He lowers his voice, talking soft and sincerely. “I’d give you anything. You should know that.”

“Y-yeah. I’ll have to raincheck you on that.” You feel your stomach clench. That was way more loaded then the offer was. The way he’s looking at you...it’s insane. No. You cannot be feeling some kind of way for Shawn. You live together. Its...no. But what if? You bite your lip thinking about a scenario where you do become more than friends with Shawn. You’d let him do just about anything, and he- no. stop. You have to stop. No more.

———–

End Part Five

———-

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed this and reblog to support and encourage myself and fellow writers. Next part coming soon! - A

Custom header per part made by the incredible delicateshawn

*****Note: none of my works should be posted anywhere outside of my linked accounts. I do not give permission to repost with or without credit to my accounts. Please notify me of any reposted fics.*****

[phoenixtakaramono]

Finders Keepers

Ch6 Preview: _cynosure

“Hey, hey!” Jack demanded. Coffee nearly splashed out of the mug when he slammed it down on the aluminum surface of the folding table which’d served as his workstation, the mug nearly avoiding his pocketwatch. “How come it’s front and center—next to me?”

The sigh that answered Jack through the comm sounded weary. And it hadn’t been the first, nor the last, time it’d been heard.

The days after the assassination attempt had passed by like a whirlwind. Each time Jack rose with the morning sun, he’d woken up to a hunger gnawing within him. It was a bloodthirst that demanded to be satiated and an all-consuming compulsion to piece together the new puzzle set in front of him. Security had been tightened. Rhys and the loaders had been seen following him doggedly. Even past acquaintances Jack had met intergalactically had actually commed or ECHOed him.

While he basked in the sudden attention, the cynical part of him understood that the demonstrations were ultimately superficial and self-serving. He’d find memos around the Hyperion offices of Opportunity advising him to take insurance against further security risks, and he’d crumble the paper into tight, little balls. Robots that were sent as human proxies ended up being riddled with bullet holes once Jack got tired of their constant nagging.

It was just unfortunate that there had been no survivors to interrogate. Everyone who’d been in that room had been either too skilled or lucky, shooting down the terrorists. Even so, it’d been interesting when he had the bloody corpses examined. They might have been disguised in Hyperion yellow, but he’d thought the make and model of their combat gear resembled the disgraced Crimson Lance soldiers and assassins. That theory only fell to the wayside when the coroner showed him the mess of organic tissues and inorganic parts soldered together in an amalgamation of bioware that made up their anatomies.

To Jack’s recollection, he didn’t remember any surviving Lance units being anything but human. Cybernetics was controversial across the galaxy, with few brave enough to undergo the augmentations. All sorts of laws and restrictions existed to restrict the installation and use of it. Few were willing to amputate their limbs or have cyberware technology implanted into their muscle and nervous system—even with sensory performance improvements and advantages. The only exception to that he could think of was his enforcer, Wilhelm, who wanted to be more cyborg than man.

All and all, the failed assassination attempt had been spun into publicity story—of how it was only due to the presence of the great and mighty hero who had saved his cohorts. Handsome Jack was the hero who overcame all odds to fight for his people. Terrorism was no match for their hero.

Maintaining such notoriety, however, wasn’t without its downsides. He’d been met with begrudging respect and disdain as he spun his web to ensnare the wealthy or the influential and to keep them from taking the next shuttle out. He’d even contributed his own credits—Hyperion’s finances—to the emergency relief funds generated to aid any victims and to rebuild the corporate offices. Of the brave cynics who’d questioned how truly safe their developing utopia could be if such an attack occurred on their soil, Jack made sure to silence and have examples be made out of them, whether it have been through arrests, blackmail, bribery, hefty fines, or even their deaths. The rallying cry of his supporters, with the underbelly of Hyperion propaganda blaring constantly and the societal pressure of its loyal citizens and classism, served to help drown out the majority of his dissenters. It was clear to most that the Hyperion CEO was running Opportunity as a modern totalitarian dictatorship, but Jack thrived in the knowledge of his absolute authority—a far cry from his past. This city would be his magnum opus—one of his three surviving legacies.

While Jack was happy to have things back to a semblance of normalcy since the incident, he was helpless to resist the lure of the stars. Being back on land was appreciated, but it never felt real to Jack. His trips seldomly lasted long; relearning to walk again in the force of the planet’s gravity, regaining his balance and getting his motion sickness under control—they were all great initial adjustments to his routine that he disliked undergoing regardless of whichever homeworld he was visiting. Catching up on current events, pop culture, and life in the time he’d been away made him feel like he was an alien—surreal as it was. Days could have him questioning his sanity: if he could’ve been the only one on this godforsaken, crummy planet with the self-awareness that they could be living in a simulation and everyone around him had been replaced by robots. Those startling moments of sobriety felt like being doused headfirst in cold water, popping up in the most inconvenient of times such as board meetings or over his favorite mealtime, instantly souring his mood.

Those were the times he got trigger-happy. It was a clear indication, when even the return of his taste buds couldn’t keep him satiated any longer, that a trip to the docking bay was long overdue.

He’d even find himself taking comfort in the company of actual machines than with his fellow humans. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back in that world of the transcendently magical and deeply prosaic, with its familiar smell of outer space—vaguely resembling rusted metal—cocooning him. Space was a symbol of liberation from earthly concerns, from petty squabbles and from flapping lips. Pandora was full of bandits and the impoverished, all of whom loathed him just as much as he despised them. The uneducated words that came out of their mouths made him want to bash his head against the wall. The closest sanctuary he could make on this planet that was similar to the floating moonbase Helios, where the wealthy gathered and ambition reigned strong, was Opportunity.

The narrow pale features of his Vice President, Jeffery Blake, was peering back at him through the floating projection. A healthy dose of caution had always tempered the businessman’s mannerisms—an epitome of professionalism—but even he seemed visibly aghast by Jack’s disapproval in this conference call. “Sir…,” Jeffery said slowly, “as I’ve said, we’ve run it by our focus groups. This one was especially well-received—”

So even you’re walking on eggshells? That was the thought that flitted across Jack’s mind.

Jack groaned, slapping his hands on the table. “Pal, you’re not listening to me!” He jabbed his finger at the projection, making it fizzle slightly before Blake’s face reformed over his index finger. He exclaimed, “Look. What do you see? Why am I being overshadowed by my own tinman?”

Like every other propaganda poster displayed at the Living Legend Plaza, on billboards, and even back at Helios, Jack had a team of artists who knew the emphasis of every design was to memorialize the Hyperion CEO in the moment of a heroic exploit. Whether the stories were true or not, no one dared to question the legitimacy—especially not after the examples Jack had made out of his doubters in the past.

Sensing the eyes on him, he finally deigned to glance over his shoulder. The plastic covering of the seat squeaked under him in his readjustment.

If looks could kill, then Jack would be buried twelve feet under with the glower Rhys had been directing at him for the last few hours. Plugged into the charging port, Rhys was currently sitting motionlessly in the back with its arms crossed, strapped into place as all of Jack’s other knickknacks to avoid having his belongings float around. The brown synthetic hair was in disarray, still windswept from the small pandemonium Jack’s arrival had caused at the private spaceport on Pandora. While Jack wouldn’t say what the android had exhibited at the spaceport had been signs of anxiety, it certainly hadn’t seemed pleased with the amount of camera flashes and the throng of bodies that had crowded around them since their arrival. It especially hadn’t liked being ordered out on an errand to retrieve a case of imported alien cigars for Jack and his new buddies to smoke in the first class space lounge.

To Jack, Rhys was becoming more and more capable day by day—even if it did exhibit a lingering attitude problem sometimes, coded into its systems. Despite the personality package of the android’s mysterious predecessor that he had Rhys install into its own noggin, Atlas’ resentment of him seemed to have endured despite the megacorporation having long since been disbanded.

“No, sir, it is merely sharing the spotlight—with you. Everyone knows that you are the hero. After all, how could they not? A mere machine standing next to the rakish, devilish Handsome Jack? You’re the protector; not that robot.”

Jack grunted, removing his gaze from his android.

One thing Jack did like about that stoic man, besides being a damn good salesman, was that the man somehow knew what to say—or what not to say—to get the best results. He somehow intuitively knew how to transverse the landmine that was Handsome Jack, offering fawning words and publicly putting on a show of respecting the Hyperion CEO. Even now Jack could sense the calculating air behind that crafty expression of his.

“It’s unfathomable that you’d be in any way overshadowed anyhow.” There was an evenness to that deep, calm cadence which soothed wounded pride. The man didn’t even give the impression that he knew he was walking on tightrope. With a slight smile, Blake continued, “We are selling an image to the people of Opportunity. What planets need is heroes of today. A fresh face doesn’t hurt your image; in fact, it strengthens it. Besides, the added benefit is that now everyone knows Rhys belongs to you, sir.”

The more Jack listened to his parasitic compliments, to the words drifting into his ears like silk, he could feel a taut smile beginning to split his mask from ear to ear. He’d wanted to reach through that projection and smash Blake’s face into the table. Even though he knew he was being manipulated with honeyed words, Blake’s logic and attempt to appeal to his ego did make Jack subside a bit.

The recliner creaked as Jack sank back into his seat, his arms folded over his chest. His scowl remained on the metallic gold constellations on the blue ceramic mug, with its Dads Need Space Too seemingly mocking him. He could see his own mask reflected upside-down in the black coffee, the rehydrated beverage still full to the brim. No matter how many years had passed, no matter the innovations and technological advancements, the cheap, universally standard freeze-dried coffee still sucked in comparison against the freshly brewed cups that could only be acquired planet-side or at select space stations. Grumbling under his breath, he flicked the plastic straw, sending it careening to the other side.

Safety was priority. Similar to the dehydrated meals of somewhat liquid consistency and the soluble drinks that the Hyperion dietitians had vacuum-sealed into the standard-issued pouches for his flight, the lighter items that Jack had brought had velcro in the back to adhere them to the walls. He didn’t have to look to see his storage locker was full of Pandoran snacks and souvenirs.

By the time that the call with Blake ended, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling through the mouth of his mask. His foot was tapping a jittery tune against the floor, clattering loudly in the hollow shuttle as the hologram displayed comms he’d made that had gone unanswered.

In the silence that followed the absence of voice, the whirr of machinery permeated the enclosed space, along with the crackle of the comm system as the shuttle cruised among the stars. It was times like these that punctuated how infinitesimal they were in the vast emptiness that consumed them.

The shuttle they were flying in was privately owned by Handsome Jack himself, estimated to be between the cost of the massive space station that was Helios and the cost of at least a quarter of the emergency escape pods that lined that station. Designers and engineers alike, in the dawn of Hyperion’s startup, had tried their best to include enough terrestrial comforts to inspire even the weariest of souls to want to stare into the void that was outer space. Given the weight restrictions and limited space on any interplanetary vehicles, designs had to be lightweight and flexible, serving multiple purposes in low-gravity. But unlike those compact spherical pods, an optional artificial gravitational field had been installed inside the computer modules and ventilation systems—which’d meant squishy human CEOs like Jack didn’t need to tether or strap themselves down to something in order to avoid floating under zero-gravity conditions. It hummed in the background, a constant companion and white noise.

Jack could hear the crack of bones shifting as he flexed stiff fingers. It was a painful sort of awareness; his joints ached and he could get tired so much faster. However much he liked to joke that he was born for the stars, reaching for once unreachable heights, traveling in space reminded him of how he wasn’t as young and sprightly anymore. He’d gotten used to it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

It was also only in a private moment like this that he could admit to himself, that as much as he loved hogging the spotlight, isolation could sometimes be a blessing in disguise for him. Yet despite the serenity, Jack’s foot was still restless.

“Shit….” Jack knew himself very well. His eyes shot to the monitor, fixating on the photo hovering on the side. His eyes traced the face of a dusky-skinned woman with piercing eyes and the curve of that sable dark hair which curled up entrancingly against sharp cheekbones. It was one of the few photos he’d captured where she hadn’t been wearing her smirk like her prized cowboy hat, like an accessory. After several more minutes, he declared, “Fuck it.”

And he jabbed his thumb on her name.

The familiar beep, beep, beep of the outgoing call rang hollow in his ears. His thoughts were brewing into a black storm, cresting in the restless energy that threatened to spill over as he laced his fingers tightly under the metal clasp over his chin. “C’mon. Pick up. Pick up.”

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeep. Click. “Howdy there; Lawbringer and Sheriff of Lynchwood here.” A strong voice bled into his ears like smoke, making his nails dig grooves into his knuckles. “Nisha if I know you; Ms. Kadam if you’ve got nasty business with me. Only leave a message if you’ve got something important to say—”

Crack. The table clattered under the fist that slammed down onto it. “Shit,” he said, bowing his head. “Nisha.” His features contorted. Anguish coated his voice. “Why are you ignoring me now? I just...fuck, I just want to talk….”

His hand was throbbing in pain. His resentment flagging, he lifted his fist to inspect why he felt a little wetness. And another curse slipped out once he saw what it was that he’d hit. It was his pocketwatch.

He snatched it, bringing it up closer to eye level. The metal prongs which’d protected the dome couldn’t withstand the impact, the glass having splintered into pieces. The once phosphorus blue glow in the center, which contained his bio-data, granting him full security clearance, had dimmed into black. The DNA inside was contaminated; there was no way he could salvage this.

A voice drifted into his awareness. “...Jack?”

Jack could merely stare down at his broken watch in silence. He felt like a disembodied spectator that couldn’t speak; he could only listen. It was as if his brain was suffering a massive short circuit and struggled to compute. Plip plip plip plip. The liquid seeped between the cracks of his fingers.

Click. Jack heard a strap being unfastened. Footsteps soon clanged on the floor, advancing toward him. He felt a deft touch on his shoulder. “Oh, your watch….” It was phrased as a casual observation, non-judgemental and nonchalant. “Yikes. Give that here. Lemme see.” A pale hand reached down and Jack watched long fingers close over the broken watch.

It was only instinctual; as Rhys’ arm retreated, Jack’s head followed the movement like a gravitational pull, stopping only when he caught sight of the frown on the android’s features as it saw Nisha’s image on the screen. Heterochromatic optics darted from the projected image and refocused on his owner’s possession on his palm. As Handsome Jack’s android, it’d known the timepiece’s functions. Jack had let it analyze its properties before.

“...It may have been an accident, but I’m glad I don’t need to break out the emergency first aid kit.”

Jack nearly jerked back when Rhys reached for his hands, fearless and unafraid.

Rhys’ gaze had transferred over to him, and he watched the awkward tilt of his lips as he squeezed Jack’s fingers. In a charitable tone, he was entreated, “You don’t have to tell me what’s been on your mind, if you don’t want to. But I’d like to help you repair this. It’ll take some time, but may I?”

Staring wasn’t quite the word he’d use to describe what was going on in the moment. Jack’s eyes rested, not unblinking but slowed, locking onto the strange human gesture. Rhys held his gaze but instead of the expected icy hostility, the android almost radiated sincerity.

At a loss for words, Jack pulled his hands back, slipping free from the discomfort of the moment.

“Jack?”

He propped his right fist slowly up against his jaw, and soon the left fist joined. For a moment, he remained silent, ruminating on Rhys’ features. Up close, even he could freely admit to himself that the person Rhys had been modeled after had been somewhat photogenic. Jack wouldn’t say the man had cut a dashing figure—he certainly didn’t look like a model even in the renders, nor was he a pretty boy like the financial advisor Jack had stationed at the VIP Tower of the Handsome Jackpot casino—but Rhys was passable by most societal standards. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones, tall and lean. (Although his looks were maybe somewhat average in comparison against the ruggedness of Handsome Jack himself, he couldn’t fault the man for being born inadequate.)

While Jack suspected the original Rhys might’ve been prone to bouts of fretting and insecurity from how he’d sounded in the audio logs, Jack saw none of that in the confident way he’d held himself and even now being simulated by this android. In a way, Jack had seen a little bit of his past self in the man that he was learning Rhys might have been, struggling to air respectability to his peers and to be recognized.

“...Y'know,” Jack remarked, “you’re really not that bad of a guy.”

“Uhh.”

He waved his hand cavalierly in the air. “Yeah. If you think you can do me a kindness, go for it. Send it to the best watchmaker I have in my contacts.”

“Got it.”

Putting the computer on sleep mode, Nisha’s picture fizzled out as he gestured for Rhys to take a step back. With a quizzical look, it did as it was told and merely watched as Jack straightened up, wiping the liquid off on his jeans. He ignored the pinched expression it formed upon seeing the small dark stain.

He snapped his fingers twice above his thigh. “Eyes up here, tinman.”

Brown and gold optics leapt up to meet blue and green.

In feigned arrogance, Jack advanced forward toward it. The little rise in the corner of his mouth was a familiar smirk that he’d heard others lament as appearing sinister. “Stand up straighter. I wanna check something.”

“What do you—?”

“Ah!” Jack slapped his hand over its mouth, stopping it from answering. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion now, did I? Now shut up and lemme do my thing.” Without asking for permission, he swept his hand from the top of his head to Rhys’. There was a couple millimeters of empty space between his palm and that coiffed synthetic hair, a negligible difference in reality but it was enough for Jack.

It didn’t matter that he was wearing his high-heeled boots instead of his go-to sneakers. He was taller.

SUMMARY: By some miraculous twist of fate, Jack stumbles across an Atlas android hidden smack dab in Hyperion headquarters. Obviously, what is he going to do with it? Keep it for himself, of course, because as the saying goes, "Finders keepers, losers weepers." What he didn't anticipate was the clusterfuck he'd find himself in, when he discovers the valuable model he'd been hoarding has a hidden backstory. There is more than meets the eye. (It's a sort-of tie-in to the Borderlands and Tales from the Borderlands universes. This is another attempt at an AU, although I hope to pay homage to elements from canon.)

Ship: Handsome Jack & (android) Rhys Strongfork

(A/N) - Ch 1-5 of Finders Keepers can be found on AO3, written by PhoenixTakaramono. For everyone that’s still following this story after my extended hiatus, thank you very much for your patience! If you feel like you’ve read this preview before, you’re not wrong. I’ve made a few revisions, but keep in mind that this preview may or may not reflect the final edits in the final draft of ch6 which’ll be uploaded to AO3 once it’s been complete. This has admittedly been one of my more troublesome chapters to write, but finally I can see the light on the horizon.

[ohhicas]

Hi hello I hope you're doing alright. I'm sorry if this has been asked before but I'm very curious how and when did you start drawing? I'm in my early 20s and I desperately want to start. But due to pandemic, I don't feel comfortable going out to take art classes, but I was thinking watching youtube videos to at least start from somewhere. Can you share any advice or tips? Thank you. 😊😳

No it’s fine!! I don’t think it’s been asked? and if it has, it’s been awhile. 

I started drawing uhhhh, pretty early. Like, 5th grade, I was tracing and sight-tracing Pikachu cause he was brand new to me. From there it just sorta spiraled/grew from wanting to draw fanart to trying to create my own stories. I took any art class school allowed cause I wanted to become a manga-ka, lol;;;; that full weeb dream.

But after highschool, I couldn’t use my AP credits in college until I had a particular amount of other-credits so I just sort of stopped taking art classes after that (about... uhm, not to date myself but was a good decade and some change ago.)

So as far as getting better over those 13+ years has all been self taught, hopping between wanting to draw like particular mangas/animes I liked, or other fanartists I liked (nabbing an eye style, or how they draw hands, or etc etc here and there) I don’t have any kind of ‘professional’ schooling! Honestly as long as you have a drive to get better, you don’t really need professional schooling. A good anatomy book and just looking at other artists in your particular field/desire does wonders.

Also like... I don’t think I stopped drawing ever. I don’t feel fulfilled unless I try to draw something weekly (if not more frequent than that)-- but I kinda run into ruts where all I wanna draw is just “shoulder up face left”. But even then, it’s usually cause I saw something I hated a lot in my first attempt so I wanna try and get better with each passing?

Honestly for how long I’ve been drawing it’s not a lot of progress, there are some people who go from 0 to Fantastic within a year cause they’re just constantly forcing themselves and are determined to try new things and make visible progress with each finished piece and I wish I had half the drive those people do, it’s honestly inspiring. sdlkfhwe

I guess my advice is just “keep at it!” You’ll probably dislike your stuff at first (I suffer this now, even, I can’t really look back at anything older than a week and feel proud anymore. I see so many faults, and if I take too long on something I start to secondguess it so I’ve taught myself to draw fast too), but disliking it cause it doesn’t look up to snuff isn’t a bad thing! It just shows that even in practice, you realize there is more to work on! And you’ll hopefully stick with it, and love something you make! 

[windmilltothestars]

Another (less) short piece for @mynameisremyiamadumbass - who suggested the other day be “Grantaire Appreciation Day” - right before I had to my tutoring job.  I thought of this idea WHILE I was tutoring, when I supposed to be thinking of eighth grade math!!  Anyway, it ended up being more of ensemble piece, and (of course) longer than planned, but Grantaire does get appreciated!  Enjoy a very ridiculous story, my friend!

-

Combeferre, Feuilly and Enjolras were all hunched over the table in the back room of the Café Musain, in serious consultation of the wording of their latest manifesto to be taken to the printers’.  Enjolras was grinning faintly – out all of his friends, these two were the least likely to let women or booze or even artistic excitement or personal problems interfere with their focus on the cause, and today’s progress had been swift and efficient.  

Suddenly, the thudding of urgent, ungainly footsteps approached, and they all tensed and raised their eyes to the door in anticipation.  The sound had been so loud and forceful that they were all surprised when it was Jehan who appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, clinging to the doorframe, and gasping for breath.

“Jehan?  What is it?” wondered Feuilly, approaching him in concern.

“I was – just – talking to –” Jehan panted, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees.

“Catch your breath first,” Combeferre advised, laying a calming hand on his shoulder.  Jehan nodded vaguely and held them all in suspense as he inhaled.

“To an inspector!” he said at last, straightening up.  “He seemed – suspicious – heard some rumor!  He was asking – questions – about our organization – ‘What is the aim and purpose of the Friends of the ABC?’  I told him – we teach poor children – teach them to read!  ABCs, you know!  Then he asked – where?  Where we met – and did our teaching!  And – I – I panicked, I thought – I’d better not say here – so I said – the Café Corinthe!  And he’s going there – now!  And I’m – I’m sorry,” his contrite eyes were more on Enjolras than the others, “I didn’t know what to say – I panicked.”

They all glanced at each other anxiously.

“Is anyone there now?” Combeferre wondered.

“It’s too late for breakfast –”

“They might all be in class –”

“Though it’s possible – Bahorel or Grantaire –”

“But if he questions the staff, poor old Mère Hucheloup – might not know what to say,” Feuilly concluded uneasily.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan repeated, ducking his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras told him firmly, “you did nothing wrong.  We’ve just got to go there now – and pray God we can get him off the scent.”

This was all the incentive they needed to be on their way.  They even sprung for a carriage ride just to get them there faster and stand a better chance of catching the inspector and minimizing the possible damage to their cause – not to mention their lives.

With terror hammering in each of their hearts to varying degrees, the four of them poured through the door and came upon a surprising sight.

Grantaire, fists raised in front of his face, was mock-sparring – the blows connecting but ever-so-lightly – with a scrawny, ragged young boy who sometimes delivered messages for them, whilst the inspector, tall, imposing, and in full uniform, stood to the side and watched the proceedings with a puzzled expression.  There was a faint blush to Grantaire’s cheeks that someone who didn’t know him might have taken for exertion or embarrassment, but he seemed, on the whole, but minimally impaired; he had the presence of mind to subtly roll his hastily-hidden wine bottle further behind the counter with his foot as he passed. He allowed the boy to get a good mock-hit on face, before tumbling dramatically to the floor in response as the boy cheered his victory, and then straightening up and smiling pleasantly to the inspector.

“So you see,” he panted, “how he’s improving in his self-defense lessons!  Now, I may be biased, Monsieur Inspector, but to my mind, self-defense is one of the most important skills for our students to learn!  Though the others –” his eyes turned upon his four friends at last, and his grin widened – “are sure to correct me!  Monsieur, might I introduce our afternoon teachers?”

The inspector turned to look at the four of them.  Combeferre faintly raised a hand in greeting, and Grantaire therefore honed in on him as the calmest and most ready to convincingly play his part.

“This is Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, indicating him.  “He teaches anatomy and other sciences.  Fantastically gruesome stuff! Talking for hours about blood and bones!”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Combeferre greeted the inspector, shaking his hand.  He turned pleasantly to the raggedy boy. “Can you tell the inspector what you call the bones in your fingers?”

“Knuckles!” the boy shot back.

“He prefers boxing to science,” Combeferre informed the inspector ruefully.  “We’re working on it.  Though it’s a testament to my honored colleague Monsieur Grantaire’s skill, I’m sure.  He also teaches art.”

“Art and science?” the inspector wondered, tilting his head.  “And self-defense?  I was given to believe you were teaching them to read!”

“We here of the Friends of ABC believe in a balanced education,” Feuilly put in.  He, too, held out his hand to shake the inspector’s. “In started with just literacy, but we’ve since expanded our aims.  I’m Monsieur Feuilly; I teach woodworking and handicrafts.  And here, you’ve met Monsieur Prouvaire.  He helps our advanced readers to reach a higher understanding of literature and poetry; sometimes they write their own!”

“And he teaches the Bible in Hebrew and Greek!  Quite a polymath, our Monsieur Prouvaire,” Grantaire added fondly, causing Jehan to hastily withdraw the hand he was extending to the inspector and use it to quickly hide his furiously-blushing face.

“And this,” Grantaire went on as his eyes fell with their regular glowing admiration on Enjolras, who had been standing like a statue watching the proceedings, “is the chief and foundation of our whole enterprise, Monsieur Enjolras!”

Enjolras gave him a slight nod and shook his hand mechanically, but said nothing.

“And – what do you teach, Monsieur Enjolras?” the inspector asked, his expression unreadable.

“History,” he replied swiftly.  “French history – especially of the last century – is my specialty, and quite enough to fill a whole course, I daresay, but Monsieur Feuilly has persuaded me to expand the area of study across centuries and continents – to have a more whole and complete picture of the world.”

“The way he tells those stories,” Jehan put in shyly, “why, he puts you there, in the shoes one living in that moment!  To listen to them is to be enthralled by some fey creature!  His is the magic to transport one across time and space!”

“I can see why he teaches poetry,” the inspector muttered.

“Monsieur Prouvaire is right,” the boy added suddenly, dashing over to Enjolras and clinging to his leg.  “Monsieur Enjolras’s stories are amazing!  His class is my favorite – after boxing, of course!”  Enjolras awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s true,” added Mère Hucheloup, ducking her head out of the kitchen, “Even I get distracted in my serving by dear Monsieur Enjolras’s history lessons!”

The boy faced down the inspector and continued. “I was one of the first students to learn with the Friends the ABC!  Back when it was just Monsiers Enjolras and Combeferre teaching reading!  Monsieur Enjolras taught me my ABCs – right at that table over there!”

There was a silence as they all gazed intently at the inspector’s impassive face – even Mère Hucheloup had paused in laying out oysters – and collectively willed him to believe their elaborate castle of lies and half-truths.  He gazed from face to face and seemed to be reading for nerves or lies in each of them.  They each internally trembled for Jehan’s exceptionally timid manners and propensity for blushing.  But his inner valor upheld him, and his face stayed pale, and he did not duck his eyes.

At last, the inspector completed his sweep, he gave a soft breath of satisfaction, and slightly smiled. Five pairs of tensed shoulders relaxed.

“Is there anything else, Inspector?” Combeferre said.  “Only our afternoon students will be arriving in twenty minutes, and we really must prepare!”

“And the sort of children we teach,” Feuilly made bold to add, “are sometimes afraid of the police! They might not show up today if they see you here!”

“Er – yes, alright,” the inspector agreed awkwardly.  “I’ll be going, and I’ll tell them at the precinct that we’ve nothing to fear from the Friends of the ABC, that they’re but a lot of harmless dreamers – who in my opinion,” he added, casting a dubious glance at the ragged boy now holding Enjolras’s hand, “are wasting considerable talent on this sort of riffraff!”

Enjolras’s outrage at this comment managed to confine itself to tightening his grip on the boy’s hand and clenching his fist; but Feuilly’s expression darkened dangerously.

“Now, see here, Inspector,” he said, stepping up two paces closer to the man. “To educate is to deliver a soul out of darkness, and to offer a chance at a life of use and light and joy and purpose!  Do you say we should condemn every poor man’s child to darkness?  Dismiss this whole class of people, as not worth consideration?”

“It is our philosophy,” Combeferre added, “that education – the illumination of all minds into greater truth and understanding – will bring light and progress to all the peoples of the world; thus, starting in childhood, and not excluding any class of child, is vital for the progress of the human race.”

The inspector gave a sort of snort, his mouth upturned in a somewhat derisive smile.  “What did I say?” he shrugged, “Dreamers!  Harmless dreamers!”  And without another word, he turned on his heel and left the café.

Jehan immediately sunk down into a chair.  The urchin ran to window and stuck his tongue out at the inspector’s departing back. Combeferre and Enjolras confined themselves to sighs of relief.  Grantaire, also sitting, said, “I need a drink.”

“You and me both, brother,” Feuilly said fervently, clapping him on the back and going to pick up his hidden wine bottle.  “I think perhaps we all do. Mère Hucheloup, some more cups, if you please!”

“Do you know,” Combeferre said softly to Enjolras as they watched Feuilly accepting the cups and pouring out the wine, “I rather liked the idea – all of us as teachers!  Molding young minds!  I had myself half-convinced!”

“In the new world – in the Republic,” Enjolras promised him, “that will be the way.  When that day comes, I freely pass my torch to you – in your hands, the light of illumination!”

Jehan, during this exchange, had risen to his feet and gone to the window to join the boy.  “You saved us,” he told him earnestly. “The Friends of the ABC will forever be in your debt!  Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket and handing the boy an entire five-franc coin, “get yourself something nice!”  The boy excitedly rushed to the counter to buy himself a pastry.

“And he’s not the only who saved us!” Feuilly added as he passed the cups into each of their hands. “Without Grantaire’s being here, his quick thinking and adaptability, we’d be lost!”

“Certainly, we would!” agreed Jehan, smiling warmly at him.

“Oh – oh, really,” Grantaire dismissed, ducking his own head and trying not to look too pleased by this praise, “it was nothing, my friends – nothing, really!”

“It was far from nothing,” Feuilly assured him heartily.  “Gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses – to Grantaire!”

“To Grantaire!” they all echoed, smiling at him.

Grantaire’s face was rather blank as he observed his friends – it was, like the inspector’s scanning over each one as if to ascertain this was real.  As they knew it would, it settled last of all on the fair countenance of Enjolras, a desperate question in his eyes.  To reassure him, Enjolras raised his glass a fraction of an inch again, widened his smile gave him a little nod. At last, Grantaire’s face relaxed and reflected his smile, and they all drank deep.

Next second, Bahorel burst into the shop, greeting them with a shout of, “Afternoon, my friends! ARE WE ALL READY TO SMASH THE GOVERNMENT?!?”

Jehan choked on his wine, and fell out of his chair.

[aluoka]

PHIL HALE

Phil Hale was born in 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts and has been based in London since 1985. Born into a family of artists, Hale became an apprentice to American painter Rick Berry at the age of sixteen. Much of his early professional work was as an illustrator for clients such as Stephen King, RayGun, Playboy and Spectrum. His fine art works have been exhibited throughout the United States and Europe and held in the collections of the National Portrait Gallery, the Houses of Westminster, Lords Cricket Ground, Sony and Warner Bros. In 2008, Hale was commissioned to paint the portrait of Tony Blair, the former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

Strive to cope with the already vague anxiety in your body like an ocean wave, and you don't even feel like going back to work when you criticize constantly. There's no downtime for yourself. That means wow. I saw this show, and now I have to start to come to my senses and more often than not agree with myself on the merits. This is Good. This is bad. It's not. I wouldn't say there are compelling arguments, and again, when I tend to quit painting it, it groans witty. So you pass that to her argument after you've discussed it, don't do it justice. Anyway, to paint, you must to remain to know the degree, and you want to get an award! There are many people around and many scientists who did not want it to look like this. Yeah.

An endless stream of ideas that I keep pondering, but for some reason, it seems too difficult to tackle - I don't have the time, finances, or focus to bring it all together. Perhaps decisiveness, vision. To create this work, it took me a whole year, since I was carrying this image in my head for a long time, I took a shot last year at one of the lessons on the basics of photography, totally by accident, but I liked her expression that was not played in front of the camera, but a living and vital, moment thinking about something important. Although the oil painting looks unfinished and it is not, I like to keep it as it is, because it gives me thoughts about time as Air perspective is an image of an object, taking into account the apparent light changes in the space. It is straightforward to see in this example. However, it also requires your imagination. In other words, everything that we see farther from us is less bright, clear, smaller in size, less visible details. This is because the time as air also has density, colour (impurities are present: dust, fog, smoke, rain). We see the distant plan as if in a "haze" through a layer of air or as l am suggesting time. The distant shot is always faded.

His work as a doctrine based on continuous development. It is important to break through to it through many obstacles of being, to comprehend the truth, for harmony and balance. I cannot look at the works of Lucien Freud, they set me on fire. A great master, stubborn and thoughtful in his gift of persuasion, who carefully studied in his work, castigated himself and his victims posing for him, now we are spectators, tormented by his questions, and the scripture is remembered; but the one who loves him from childhood punishes. “In his works, he appears as the father of humanity, punishing the body for the Path to Truth. It was only natural that the turn through creativity laid the foundation for deep knowledge. Painting as a doctrine based on continuous development. It is important to break through to him through many obstacles of being, to comprehend the truth, for harmony and balance

“Lucian Freud was born into an artistic middle-class Jewish family. His father Ernst was an architect, his mother Lucie Brasch studied art history, and his grandfather was the paradigm-shifting psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud. In 1933, Freud and his family left Berlin to escape Hitler and settled in London.”

was stubborn and believed in his gift of persuasion, a thoroughly studying Lucian in his work scourged himself and his victims posing for him now we are the viewer under the torture of his questions and the holy scripture is remembered; and he who loves, punishes him from childhood. "In his works, he appears as the father of mankind, punishing the body for the Path to Truth

“Lucian Freud, renowned for his unflinching observations of anatomy and psychology, made even the beautiful people (including Kate Moss) look ugly. One of the late twentieth-century's most celebrated portraitists, Freud painted only those closest to him: friends and family, wives and mistresses, and, last but not least, himself. His insightful series of self-portraits spanned over six decades. Unusual among artists with such long careers, his style remained remarkably consistent. Perhaps inevitably, the psychic intensity of his portraits, and his notoriously long sessions with sitters have been compared with the psychoanalytic practice of his famous grandfather, Sigmund Freud. Unapologetically self-absorbed, Freud embodied a notion that comes to us from the Renaissance, and which has been attributed to Leonardo da Vinci: "Every artist paints himself." Freud remained aloof from his sitters, a rapport that comes through in his work, referring to the work as "purely autobiographical" and the people he painted as merely the vehicle for figurative innovations: "I use the people to invent my pictures with, and I can work more freely when they are there."While life drawing classes had long included nude models, the expressive detail with which Freud paints genitals sets him apart from other artists in the history of portraiture. With the analytic scrutiny and detail a botanical illustrator might devote to a rare flower, Freud paints primary and secondary sex characteristics.Freud owes much to the early-20th-century Expressionists. His pronounced, expressive strokes recall Egon Schiele and Edvard Munch, and the tilted perspective and anthropomorphic depictions of chairs, shoes, and other inanimate objects bring to mind Vincent van Gogh.Freud was one of the great self-portraitists of the 20th century. He painted himself obsessively. While it may lack the range of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, or Schiele, Freud's self-portraits form one of the most complete visual autobiographies of any painter, yielding insight into the self-absorption and relentless drive that fueled the artist.”

“Biography of Lucien Freud (Lucian Michael Freud) is full of paradoxes. He was a rebel, breaking the rules at every opportunity, and managed to live to be 88 years. All his life he was reserved and secretive, but was wildly popular among the women and told them to reciprocate. His private life has become a byword, but he about it was never extended. Freud rarely gave interviews and were jealous of their personal space from the press and from strangers. His fame resounded around the world, but in the artist's life were not written any biographical book about him. https://artchive.ru/en/lucianfreud

[houseofvans]

ART SCHOOL | IN SESSION WITH ROB SATO

From vibrant rainbows to familiar yet alien landscapes occupied by strange beings, LA based artist Rob Sato’s works are filled with creative energy in a loose minimalistic style. From watercolor, digital medium to acrylics and oil, Rob’s artworks and illustrations have been shown in various galleries from Giant Robot 2 to the Oakland Asian Cultural Center, where recently his original paintings for a comic called 442 were exhibited. We’re excited to chat with Rob about his work, his various collaborations and what he’s got coming up for the rest of the year.  Take the Leap!

Photographs courtesy of the artist.

Introduce yourself Hello, my name is Rob Sato. I’m an artist, illustrator, and writer. Something people might not know about me is that I was a kid I was so fanatical about the Oakland A’s that when they lost in the World Series I threw a tantrum so big that I destroyed my bedroom and after that I felt so stupid I quit following baseball. Also, I’m told I have maybe one of the great poop stories of the world. It can only be related in person, so ask me about it sometime if we ever meet.

How would you describe your work and style? Eclectic? Kaleidoscopic? I’ve never had a concise answer to this question. I tend not to pin myself down because I think if I did, I’d stop making things. 

Art is my outlet for the cryptic and obscure as well as the gushing spillover of foolish idealism and wild fantasy. It’s the only place I’ve ever found where you can healthily play with unhealthy thoughts, where you can explore undefined emotions, things that lurk out in the corners of consciousness that may be embarrassing or uncontrollable.

I love to make entertainment and decorative work, things that tend to be obvious, that communicate very clearly and reveal all their cards, but I also love to make work that hides things, that actively resists easy understanding or recognition and risks being super personal or unrelatable and strange. This can make things difficult, especially in the ongoing deterioration of attention spans, but I can’t help but pursue things outside of a pop sensibility and logical thought. I have to be, much of the time, in mental wildernesses. It’s hard to get there, hard to be there, and hard to come back, but it keeps me going.

Tell us about how you really started getting into art, and how that turned into what you do now? Was it something you always intended to pursue? I’ve drawn every single day for as long as I can remember. I never really thought about it. It just seems to be what I do. It’s how I have fun, how I solve problems, how I think. I’ve wanted to pursue other things like make movies or write books, but I always find myself drawing. Before I know it, it’s time for bed again.

When you are working on a new piece or upcoming exhibition or show? What’s your process like? What themes do you find yourself taking on? I explode. I used to plan things in a very directed way, but lately I’ve just let my brains spill out everywhere. I make a ton of drawings and paintings, and try my best to be fearless and open. Most of it produces failure after failure, but it shows me what might be worth building on, plus many exciting surprises reveal themselves in the process. As a show nears I start seeing what things fit together, what needs to be edited out, and how it all might form a cohesive exhibition. Sometimes the subject matter is the glue that makes everything stick, other times it’s the aesthetics. Alongside the explosion I usually have 2 or 3 pieces going at any given time that I’ve had long term plans for. These pieces can take take months or even years. 

Thematically I’m all over the place. War and peace, realism and surrealism, grim realities and escapism, sober observations and dumb jokes.

What are some of your go-to art making materials? Are there mediums you want to explore that you’ve yet to get your hands on? I feel pretty comfortable with anything you can use to make a mark on a piece of paper. I’ve mainly used watercolor and various drawing tools for the past several years. I’m been having fun with acrylics and oils again, and I’ve started to play around with photography a little. I’ve had ideas for sculpture and film for years that I’d really like to finally get to. What I really want to get my hands on is more time.

Where do you find inspiration? What kind of things or people inspire what you make? Watching someone pick their nose listening to headphones and singing softly to themselves in line at the grocery store. Just watching my cat live her weird life. Even though the final artwork may not really show it, these places are usually where my ideas originate. Art has also been a place where I can put memories that have some abstract need to be recorded.

I made this series of drawings called “Bad Hands”, which started out with me laughing at these dumb hands I was drawing with academically incorrect anatomy. Abandoning correctness felt so good. In the process it triggered a memory from High School. I had been forbidden from drawing in one of my classes, so I was contorting my hands into different shapes at my desk to amuse myself. There was a hysteria over gang activity in the school at the time and the teacher freaked out thinking I was throwing gang signs and I ended up getting sent to detention. 

At detention I was talking with a friend and made fun of the teacher for her mistake. A kid who was in a gang overheard and then HE misunderstood and thought I was making fun of gangs or something. On my way home from school he and a couple dudes punched and kicked me for a bit while I tried and failed to explain. I think it’s funny. 

So embedded in that piece is this tumbling series of misunderstandings, these multiple layers of hands being perceived as bad, speaking in an absurd language that communicates different things to different people. I know people aren’t going to see all those layers in the final piece, but that’s where it comes from and I hope it at least sparks some thoughts about talking with our hands, and where else can you follow this kind of train of thought except in art?

I get inspired by artists who seem to approach art as an intuitive discovery process rather than a  pursuit of mastery, that play is one of the more important aspects of making things. My wife, Ako, has been a huge influence on me in this respect. She’s continuously playing with various materials around her at any given time and finding out what she can do with them. Everywhere she goes she abandons a nest made of fresh creations she’s manifested out of mud, string, packaging, plants, uneaten rice, her used drinking straw, lint and whatever else was within her reach

You’ve done a lot of collaborations with companies, museums and art galleries. Do you have a favorite collaboration, and what about the collaboration do you enjoy the most? I’ve recently been collaborating with Tiny Splendor, an indie publisher and printer who have studios in LA and Oakland. It’s been really great working with them, Cynthia Navarro in LA on risographs, and with Max Stadnik, who runs the print shop in Oakland. 

Max has been returning to lithography, my favorite traditional printing medium, and he printed a piece of mine inspired by mushrooms called “Growerings". It’s a full 5 color print, which means it took five separate plates and each print had to go through the press 5 times. It turned out more beautifully than I could have hoped for. Litho is a super difficult but also very fun process and the results are so rich. 

I think I particularly love this collaboration because the image fits the medium so well, and the combination of the two elevates the final piece of work, When it works, the artwork and the print become more than just an image on a piece of paper. It’s more alive in some undefinable way.

Since we’re called Art School, we always ask the artists to give us their favorite art tip? Never force the thing you think you want, you’ll probably miss out on the really interesting thing that’s happening. Also, don’t drink too much coffee. I have trouble taking both of these pieces of my own advice every day.

What do you enjoy doing when you’re not making stuff? How do you chill out? I read and run. I love coffee and I love gossip and talking nonsense with friends. Also, I cannot stop watching Terrace House.

What is the last art show that you went to? What artists should folks keep an eye out for? I recently went to the Velveteria in LA’s Chinatown, which is one man’s collection of paintings on velvet. A very entertaining and very fucked up experience. I went to a life drawing session at Subliminal Projects and got to draw surrounded by Chad Kouri’s fun abstracts. I’m actually typing this interview inside an art show right now. 

I’m here at my wife, Ako Castuera’s, show “Soil” at the Weingart Gallery at Occidental College. We’re here feeding worms. She sculpted this beautiful ceramic vermiculture composter for the show. It’s a grand temple for worms. The show is an act of gratitude for the exchange we have with the soil which provides the clay for ceramics, and for the worms who turn decay into healthy earth to grow new life in. 

She sculpted a menagerie of creatures out of the worm poop that also populate the show. Super fun. Speaking of Ako and Subliminal, her show there with Hellen Jo and Kris Chau this past December was one of those once-in-a-lifetime powerhouse gathering of forces. That may have been the best show I’ve ever seen.

What advice would you give someone thinking about following in your footsteps? What’s something you learned that you want to pass along to art making newbies. Don’t listen to advice if it is extremely quotable. Pay no attention to it especially if it accompanies a photo of a famous artist and fits perfectly into an instagram post. If it’s easy to remember then it’s probably empty, crap inspiration. Those things are entertainments and not words to live by.

 If you’re interested in making art you’ll keep making it. It takes day in, day out patience and exploration and mutation to discover how you really work, not some idea of how an artist works. 

Sometimes it will be very hard, sometimes it will be so breathtakingly easy you think that your problems have been solved forever. Neither situation ever lasts, but cultivate and nurture your curiosity and what you love, and you’ll find ways to make it through the rough times and keep on making things one way or another.

Who are some of your favorite artists to follow and/or see in a show? Lately I’ve been really enjoying the work of Nathaniel Russell whose work makes this great space where funny, grounded matter-of-factness and sweet nothingness sit comfortably together. His drawing also reminds me of Ben Shahn, my all-time favorite drawer. 

I really like Amy Bennet’s oils, these intimate studies of isolation in suburbia where mundanity overlaps with quiet drama and melancholy. Her work obliquely reminds me of Edwin Ushiro’s work, though his stuff is the opposite of melancholic. He captures almost incidental but haunted moments from growing up in Hawaii and infuses them with warmth, and it’s in a style influenced in a super personal way by animation. It reminds me of Satoshi Kon’s movies in its well observed, slice-of-life elements. Edwin’s sketchbooks are a treasure too.  Esther Pearl Watson’s recent autobiographical paintings, Hellen Jo’s latest badass watercolors, Amber Wellman’s funny, playful oil paintings, and Matthew Palladino’s watercolors are also favorites. 

Megan Whitmarsh’s work is some of my favorite to see in person. Her installation with Jade Gordon at the Hammer’s “Made In LA “ show was maybe the funnest work I’ve ever seen and interacted with. I went to see the Ai Wei Wei show at the Marciano Foundation, which I thought was impressive in scale and execution but still somehow lame, but I stumbled on a Mike Kelley installation/ video piece I’d never seen before in the upstairs collection and loved it so much, but I can’t remember the name of it at the moment. 

It’s 2 videos shown side by side of the same guy wearing a cape singing almost the same song simultaneously, but each version has different words at different points. It’s a love song but one version is more bitter and mean and one is sickly sweet. Anyway, highly recommended!

What do you have coming up the rest of the year that you can share with us?  For just a few more days there’s a show up at the Oakland Asian Cultural Center with a bunch of my original paintings for a comic I illustrated about the 442, the Japanese American Army unit of World War II. Plus it has some personal work about Japanese American Incarceration and images from my family’s experience in the concentration camps. My grandfather was incarcerated in the Arkansas camps, and he was a soldier in the 442. 

Next up, I’m in a slew of group shows all happening within a few weeks of each other this month. Poor scheduling on my part as usual, but it’s nice to be invited to so many. I just sent off my piece to the “Seeing Red” show curated by Jeff Hamada of the BOOOOOOOM art and culture blog. That show will be at Thinkspace in LA. Giant Robot has been kind enough to host another solo show for me in September. 

I’ve been busy experimenting with some more 3d stuff that pushes the more narrative side of my work which I hope to show there. We’ll see how the experiments turn out. I’ve also been working on a ton of prints and ideas for books. This year I want to focus on working in print, making zines and comics, and writing a lot more. 

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[omega-deku]

So I would love to progress on my art and try comics any tips? ÙwÚ

Hi! I’m so sorry about the late reply. D: I hope you don’t mind if I take this opportunity to address all the anon messages about how we can improve as artists. 

I have a tough time answering this question because there is so much I need to learn. I’m super flattered that some of you feel that my art is good enough to ask me for tips, first of all!! So thank you, guys.

It’s a struggle because I only recently started taking up art again. So I’ve forgotten a lot of the things. So I’m probably not the best person to ask about this.

I used to draw all the time as a kid, but after high school, I stopped drawing. I stopped drawing for almost a decade, pretty much. I really regret it. I feel like I could have come such a long way if I did keep going. My parents really discouraged me from pursuing art, even just as a hobby, too. Even when I left home (I’m back now tho), my ex-spouse, greatly discouraged me from doing art too. I mean, “proper” art. They told me my art wasn’t “real art” because it’s not studio art, it’s “sellout” art, like anime/cartoons/fanart. I had even worse self-esteem as I do now, and I listened to them and gave up. I convinced myself I hated drawing. 

Please don’t deny yourself things that make you feel engaged and connected. If drawing makes you feel good, if it makes you not realize how much time has passed and makes you feel like you’re accomplishing things, even little by little, please don’t stop. Even if you suffer from depression and feel like things like this are pointless, remember that just doing things in general will help you. Drawing is an awesome way to get into the flow state. To me personally, it’s almost like a meditative state and I find it helpful in dealing with chronic pain and mental health issues. 

Anyways, I’ll try to compile some advice sort of things.

ART IN GENERAL

1. Draw what you enjoy! I think the most important thing is to draw what you like. It’s okay if it’s “dumb stuff”. Draw your favorite characters or pairings from your favorite tv shows if that tickles your fancy! You’re much more likely to be spending more time drawing if you’re drawing stuff you like. And as long as you’re drawing, you’re improving. (But still, challenge yourself and get out of your comfort zone!)

Especially for those of you who are planning to pursue art as a career, it’s essential that you don’t view practicing art as a chore. 

2. Draw from life. If you really want to take your art to the next level, drawing from life is vital! I think many of us have come across artists who are just amazing, but there are things that look a little “off”. For example, the anatomy doesn’t look quite right, or the perspective is a little wonky. Things like that can be a tell that they’ve learned to draw from other people’s art rather than from life. Or just haven’t practiced the basics enough. (My art isn’t amazing or anything close to that lmao, but it definitely suffers from this. I need lots of life drawing practice.)

There is nothing wrong with learning from your favorite artists, but to really train your “artist’s eye”, you need to strip away all the stylistic choices and go back to the basics. Training that Eye is one of the most crucial things you could do as an artist. 

Just take a piece of paper, a pencil and start drawing what you see. If you can, take figure drawing classes at your local community college, or draw the animals you see at the zoo. Sit on a bench and draw the scenery in front of you. Over time, you’ll start to recognize common patterns, simplify/think of things in terms of lines and shapes.

If you can’t afford a class or have the ability to go outside easily, drawing from photographs can be the next best thing. (See the Resources below for an online figure drawing tool.) I’m not experienced enough to definitively say why this isn’t the #1 idea, but from what I hear, there are things that you’ll miss out on, such as subtle shifts in shadows, colors, and other things that will happen from small movements in pose changes, a cloud moving, or whatever else. A different “feel”, if you will.

With the digital art boom, a lot of artists are learning how to do cool digital effects and fancy things, but forgoing basic anatomy, perspective, shading, etc. Which is all fine if you’re just having fun, but isn’t the best idea if you’re really serious about improving. Practice the fundamentals!

(If you have been dreaming about CalArts at one point like I did when I was in high school, one advice I came across from everyone who went there was to draw from life. All the time. It’s not an answer I expected from people who draw funny looking characters all day. You mean all these people who draw such simplified cartoon people and animals can actually draw like masters? Perfectly rendered bowls of fruit? I didn’t realize how much work goes into animating simple characters.)

3. Put in the time. 

It’s really easy to get suckered into just watching “how to improve” videos all day and thinking about improving. Watching how other artists work is an important learning tool, but you’ll never actually make progress if you aren’t practicing. 

Sometimes, the best thing to do is to not think about it. Just do it. 

It’s like when I’m spending a whole lotta time thinking about getting physically fit than just, you know.. just doing it. “Tomorrow for sure.” 

It may seem like it’s worthless, but doing those lame 5 push-ups a day instead of the 20-minute workout you wanted to put in, is better than nothing at all. You are making progress, no matter how small it may seem.  

Make it a habit to practice every day. That way, you don’t even hesitate. It’s as automatic as brushing your teeth.

All the artists you see who have fantastic, awe-inspiring art may seem like Unreachable Gods sometimes, but those artists didn’t just pull that out of their ass one day. They put in hours and hours and hours of work. Let’s not disrespect other artists by ignoring that and chalking it up to “talent”. No one is born with an innate ability to draw. WE can get there too if we practice!

I want to get good enough to draw the things I have in my head one day!

Some resources that may be helpful:

Draw a Box - This is a site for free lessons for absolute beginners. Look under “Lessons” to learn. The creator of the site is the mod for r/ArtFundamentals. You can post your work there to get critiqued.

Check out Proko’s videos on gesture drawing, art fundamentals, etc. Daily routines of successful artists.

Use this site to practice figure drawing, gesture drawing - Set aside some time to practice drawing people and animals every day. Start trying to see things as lines, shapes, and go big. Don’t get too caught up in the details, and tiny drawings. Learning to draw fast (not draw FAST as in speed, but as in capture the gesture in a post, the “feel” of the movement) will force you to do this more, and with more experience, make your figures less stiff looking. 

And it’s okay if you’re aren’t good at it. You’ll make loads and loads of shit drawings until you can get decent. 

I’m most definitely in this stage right now, trying to train my Artist’s Eye. As in, I can’t just draw a figure from memory. I don’t really know what goes where without a reference, or how they move, etc. You can tell by how stiff my drawings look.

Lulusketches How to Improve video - She has similar advice, but her point about looking at “Art of” books something I have come across from multiple professional artists; Her advice on worrying about finding your own “style” is really good too. Do challenges like she said!

Her playlist of art tutorials & advice is great. They’re short and sweet. Her beginner digital art tutorial got me started on digital art (the one with Ginny Weasley). 

Not free ($30 a month), but these online Schoolism classes look helpful. It’s run by Bobbie Chiu. I saw some great reviews and I want to try them someday. They’re taught by artists in the animation/film industry. But you gotta have a basic grasp on digital art/photoshop for many of the classes, I think? I’m not 100% sure. They’re pre-recorded video lessons. 

You can pay more for feedback from the teachers, but you can also just use it as a self-learning guide. 

This drawing faces from any angle video was pretty helpful for me. The artist has loads of other tutorials.

COMICS

I don’t feel qualified enough to give much advice on comics. I mean, I don’t even draw the lines for the boxes, haha.. However, these comic books are basically required reading for some courses:

Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics & Making Comics.

I can’t remember which one it is that I read, I think it was Making Comics? But wow, if I remember correctly, it was FULL of really useful things about how to make effective comics. I lost the book while moving years ago, but it was FANTASTIC learning material. I loved every panel of it. 

He talks about everything from perspective, placement of characters, speech bubbles, how big panels should be, etc. 

If you can afford it, get a used one and start reading! Even if you don’t want to make comics just yet, it’s super interesting. 

[cesarinthefreezer]

Through the Eyes of an Artist

Part 2

The next morning you wake up and get ready to go to the Morioh aquarium. You put on a comfortable outfit matched with a pair of pen tip earrings. Josuke mailed them to you for your birthday, he said he found them in a little shop in Morioh and thought you might like them since your an artist. After grabbing your bag with your sketch book and pencils you head to the aquarium.

You hadn’t been to the aquarium since you were in high school but now you figured it would be a great place to practice some drawing. As you wonder through the aquarium you make your way to you favorite exhibit. The sharks... you pull out your sketch book and start to sketch their forms out on the page as well as add some inner and outer anatomy with labels. As you’re sketching you can’t help but feel your being watched... a little too closely. When you look up you are met with a set of familiar green eyes.

It’s Rohan Kishibe. His lips part to speak

“I’m sorry to be staring at you but I was curious as to what you were drawing there Miss....uh?”

“Y/n” you say with a nervous smile. “I was just drawing the sharks and adding their anatomy, nothing special”

He gestures at your sketch book “May I?”

You hand him your sketch book and he looks over the page. As he observes your work you look him up and down. He has an interesting sense of style but you can’t help but admire it. You make your way to his face where something sparkly catches your eye, his earrings. They are the same as yours.

“Your name is Rohan Kishibe right?” You say as if you don’t already know.

He looks up at you “yes I am...your sketches are wonderful, what is it that you do y/n”

You smile “well I’m a biomedical illustrator, I’m like a medical student and an art student rolled into one” you laugh nervously

He gives you a small smile before noticing your earring just like you noticed his.

“Quite fashionable earrings you got there”

You push your hair behind you ear

“Thanks my friend got them for me from a little shop in town”

“Ah yes I believe it’s the little boutique on Main Street yes, it’s where I got mine”

You shrug

“I’d have to as Josuke if that’s the one but I assume so”

Rohan shutters internally at the thought of Josuke and how he annoys him so. In that moment Rohan hands your sketch book back to you.

“ well you seem to know quite a bit about the anatomy of these creatures why don’t you accompany me though the aquarium?”

He offers his arm to you, you take it nervously

“Umm sure I’d love you”

He smiles at you as you two begin your tour through the aquarium. Rohan soaks up every word that passes through your lips and admires how passionate you are about what you do. He thinks about how he’s finally met someone as passionate as you in the town.

You on the other can’t help but stare at those green eyes and his delicate lips that smile when you speak. He’s quite an attractive person ,you can’t help but start to fall for him a little. You love the way he takes interest in your work and can stomach the things you’ve said you’ve seen in your science classes. You know that your friends Josuke, Okuyasu and Koichi aren’t fond of Rohan, but you have become very very fond of him.

When you’ve finished exploring the aquarium for what seemed like hours Rohan walks with you outside. “Would you like to come over to my house for tea and some more chatting? my house is only a short walk from here”

Holy shit you think did he really just invite you over on the day you’ve meet for the first time

“Umm I’d love too sounds like fun”

Rohan smiles in delight at your response as he starts to lead the way. The walk is quiet, you try to keep your gaze at the ground but you can’t help to look up and Rohan with his green locks shining in the sun. His hair looks soft and all you want to do is run your fingers through it. With that thought you feel a blush form on your face and try extra hard to hide your gaze from him.

Meanwhile Rohan was doing the exact same thing, in the sunlight you looked stunning. He thought about all the things he’d like to do with you. He wanted to touch your soft skin and feel your warmth as he held you. He knows he just met you but he feels like he’s known you forever.

As the two of you reach his home he leads you inside and then grabs your hand.

“I’d like to show you something come with me”

He takes you upstairs into what you can only assume to be his studio.

“Feel free to look around or have a seat on the couch there, I’m going to go make some tea”

You nod as he turns to leave, you meander around the studio looking at the colored manga pages on the walls and all the books on his shelves before you decide to take a seat. Rohan returns with two cups of tea one of which he hands to you before taking a seat beside you.

“You’re quite an amazing woman y/n most people in this town are so boring and blind to the beautiful world around them. You see the world inside and out... quite literally. I know we’ve only just met but I feel like I’ve known you for years, ever since I saw you in the cafe yesterday I couldn’t get you out of my head”

You freeze having bears these word of praise from Rohan.

“I don’t know what to say Rohan.... thank you, but you are such an amazing person you’re self, you take interest in my work as well as having phenomenal talent yourself. Not to mention your unique sense of fashion and handsome features, you’d make an interesting subject for a drawing”

With these words hitting his ears Rohan begins to blush, no one has ever spoken to him in this manor before and he doesn’t know what to do. He stares into your eyes and begins to get lost in them leaning closer and closer to your face. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into but you sure as hell don’t want out.

Before you know it the two of you have locked lips in a breathless dance. He pulls away and takes your tea cup and his and sets them on the side table before resuming what he started. Before you know it your find yourself straddling his lap, arms locked around his neck. Rohan moves to lay you down on the couch so he is on top of you as he plants kisses on your jawline and neck before pulling on the hem of your shirt with his teeth. You run your fingers through his hair, it was soft just like you predicted. He pauses and looks up at you

“If I am moving too fast please tell me”

You shake your head “please don’t stop”

And Just like that you are topless and powerless on a couch in Rohan Kishibes studio. He takes his time admiring the gentle curves of your body and the softness of your skin. He pulls away from you to admire your form, before standing up and heading to his desk leaving you breathless on the couch.

“I simply must draw you like this before the image is lost to me”

He makes quick work sketching out your delicate body that is draped on the couch. You look to the window and realize it is now dark out side and it has started to rain. Between the sounds of Rohan’s pencil scratching the paper you hear thunder and sit up quickly. Raising his eyes form the paper Rohan looks at you and then to the window.

“You’re welcome to stay here tonight if you wish”

You nod your head yes “may I use your phone to call my dad?”

He gestures towards the door “the phone is downstairs in the kitchen “

Slipping your shirt back on not bothering to put your bra back on you head down to the kitchen. After a few rings your dad picks up and you inform him you will be staying at a friends house tonight.

~

Your dad hangs up the phone and heads to the living room to where Josuke, Okuyasu and Koichi are standing

“Sorry guys she staying at a friends house tonight but I’m sure she’ll be home early tomorrow”

All three boys look at each other with confusion, it wasn’t like you to miss movie night and if you weren’t with them which friend were you staying with

~

When you step back into Rohan’s studio he is sitting on the couch waiting for you.

“So what would you like to do tonight” he says to you with a wink

You sit on his lap

“I could give you an anatomy lesson?”