#i had the sketches sitting there from september so. i thought i should color them

[welcometogrouchland]

I CAN FINALLY POST THIS!! Introducing the "Sasha lives but it's not a fix-it au" >:)

(please please click for quality, rb>likes, etc)

Image ID by @jadeandquartzes

[ID: A five-page comic. The first page is filled with white text against a black background. Along the top and bottom of the background are two rows of doors, sketched out in yellow lines. A face drawn entirely in pink lines grins eerily upwards from the bottom left corner of the background, while in the top right corner, an oval mirror is drawn in blue. The text of the first panel reads:

SASHA: I couldn’t see it, but I could...feel it. I could feel it coming for me. I thought I was dead. But, in my desperation, I started clawing at the walls, looking for...I don’t know what. Something that felt real under my fingernails. But, when I started to scrape, the wallpaper began to...peel off, is the best word for it, I think, but it peeled...more like skin than paper. Underneath the wallpaper...was a door. Old and rickety, partly sealed into the wall. I didn’t think, I just found the handle and pulled as hard as I could. It wouldn’t budge at first, and I thought for sure whatever was chasing me was going to catch me, a-and...but then, with one last burst of strength, I wrenched the door open and flung myself out of those hallways.

I hit the floor, and lay there for a moment...until I saw the floorboards and recognized a tea stain from a mug I’d dropped once when Tim had me doubled over in laughter from a joke he’d told. I could have cried. I was in the archives, I thought I was finally safe… Of course, then Michael showed up and...well you know the rest, don’t you? Statement ends, I suppose.

The second page shows Jon and Sasha sitting across from each other at a desk.

JON: ….right.

SASHA: I know things have probably changed a lot since I’ve been gone. But Jon…

[A close-up on Jon’s eyes]

SASHA: You do believe me, don’t you?

[Jon reaches across the desk and takes Sasha’s hand, and there is a closeup on their hands

together.]

JON: Sasha - more than anything, I’m glad you’re back. And I believe you.

[A cutaway panel shows Jon glancing to the side, sadly and apprehensively]

SASHA: Thank you, Jon.

The third page shows the door of Jon’s office, with pink swirls indicating motion and onomatopoeia indicating that someone is knocking on the door. Tim peeks his head around the door and then Tim and Martin enter together.

TIM: Hey! Um, Martin and I just wanted to see if Sasha wanted some tea?

MARTIN: Hey, Sash.

TIM: Um, if you’re all done here, that is.

[Sasha stands up to leave, before glancing back at Jon]

SASHA: Coming! …..see you soon.

[A separate panel shows the three of them in outline leaving through the doorway, with a closeup on Jon’s face as he watches sadly].

The fourth page shows a closeup of a tape recorder with white buttons and one red button as it is clicked on. Two panels show Jon speaking into the tape recorder with focus. In the first panel, a purple spiderweb is briefly visible behind him, and in the second, a collection of yellow eyes.

JON: Supplemental: I...it sounds awful but I’m not sure how to feel. I should be happy. I am happy. But something doesn’t sit right...at least Tim and Martin seem happy. Sasha’s account does line up date-wise. She first disappeared sometime in late September, roughly a week after my return to the archives and was...and showed up to the archives again on October 2nd, shortly after Helen Richardson gave her statement...and subsequently disappear-was taken by Michael herself. Sasha describes being trapped for a week. Sasha’s description of the hallways seemingly matches with that of Helen Richardson’s but….I...it’s just too easy. I don’t understand why Michael would let her go. Does he want her in the archives? And if so...why? He said...he said “don’t trust the hunter,” but I have no idea what he means by that. I want to accept this at face value, I want to be glad that my coworker, my friend, is back here safe, but I’m not stupid, and I know that’s the most unlikely-...nobody escapes from a monster twice.

The fifth and final page has a background made up of many colorful spirals swirling behind the comic panels, partially forming the hair and face of a person. A panel shows Jon continuing to record, with yellow eyes against the dark blue background.

JON: I don’t want to be paranoid. I want to be grateful...but in Sasha’s statement, when she talked about peeling back the wallpaper and finding the door. Helen’s statement didn’t mention anything like that.

Three more panels show Jon finishing his sentences, then staring off into the distance, lost in thought. The backgrounds are now pink, with eyes and cobwebs still persisting.

JON: It’s almost like Sasha...I don’t know, had more control? Power? But that doesn’t make any sense.

The final two panels are split diagonally, with the left half showing part of Jon’s face against a blue background with yellow eyes, and the right half showing Sasha’s face against a pink background filled with spirals. Jon’s dialogue starts on the left half and concludes on the right.

JON: I’m not going to antagonize Sasha. She doesn’t deserve that. But I will exercise caution. Until I find proof otherwise, I can’t trust -

JON: - that she is not Sasha. END ID]

[ddarker-dreams]

Affliction II. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

warnings: general yan stuff, mentions of previous abusive relationships, isolation and self deprecation. word count: 3k. link to the previous part.

There aren’t many places left where you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. 

Not an identity that was painstakingly crafted for the sake of self preservation, but your genuine self. Here in the midst of Giorno’s grandiose flower gardens, you’re given the scant opportunity. Whether it be paranoia, or if it holds some ground in reality, there’s a possibility that guards are watching over you from afar. Lost in the thickets of nature, even if you’re being fenced in against your will, is preferable to the suffocating walls of the mansion. There isn’t a lot you’re willing to praise Giorno about, but his taste in flora is breathtaking. Palettes of complementing colors mesh together in a wide array of nature, stepping into it like entering a new world.

This particular section is your favorite. Azaleas are in full bloom around you, the sweet scent wafting to your nose. Stone garden benches, slightly aged by weather and covered in moss, make for a nice spot to collect yourself. This time of day, a sizable tree provides shade from the oppressive Neapolitan sun. Taking in a deep breath, you consider what to do for the reminder of the day. There isn’t much in the ways of entertainment, not in the sense you’d grown used to. No using the internet, or interacting with anyone that isn’t Giorno, aside from rare exceptions when you need food. Some of your hobbies are provided for, but the inspiration to partake in them when in captivity is dwindling at best, nonexistent at worst. 

You’ve had plenty of time to mope around the long, seemingly abandoned halls that make up your prison. After nights of incessant tears and sighing, you’ve made up your mind to make the most of the dreadful situation. Biding your time for a possibility of escape is all that can be done. Walking around the gardens almost felt like a form of reconnaissance at first, scoping the foreign territory in hopes of locating a weakness. Frustrating hour after hour would pass, no convenient cracks in the wall or fencing making itself known. Of course he wouldn’t make it that easy, not after all the apparent effort that went into kidnapping you.

The sun is beginning to set in the sky, the lengthier days of summer beginning a downwards trend as September soon approaches. You frown at the sight of clouds bathed in rays of golden light, knowing what unique horrors night time brings with it. During the day you get to be on your lonesome, making as much space between you and Giorno as possible. While there are some fortunate nights where he’s too engrossed with work matters to seek you out, Lady Luck hasn’t been on your side lately. He’s been woefully insistent on spending dinner with you, wanting to form a bond that you hold no interest in. You’d sooner seek out the company of a snail than Giorno Giovanna. 

When the crickets begin their anthems, the moon hanging high overhead, your freedom is restricted even more. The heavy weight of this realization pushes against your chest, a fresh wave of chills running through you. Anxiety is a finicky creature, making itself known at the worst times. Having a choke hold on you at its own leisure, preventing you from making any meaningful progress. It’s been somewhere around a few months now, you believe, since the encounter that changed your life for the worst. 

Shaking your low hanging head at the thought, you occupy yourself with the parchment sitting on your lap. It’s coarse against your skin, a much needed anchor to keep yourself from drifting away from this world. That’s right, you’ve come here for a reason. You’ve had this blank piece of paper, that has beckoned you to fill it for some time now. The problem being, the lack of proper equipment to use on it. Some pieces of charcoal that you found earlier after lunch sprang hope anew, the tool familiar in the best of ways. Holding with it fond memories, a desirable distraction from your bleak outlook on life. 

The guards that take care in shadowing you didn’t protest when you took it, so you assume it must be allowed. Bringing the dark instrument down to the parchment, you begin a rough sketch of an azalea plant in front of you. As you make the various shapes that define the flower, time almost seems to speed up around you. Before you register it, the sun has almost finished its descent into the sky, your hands fully covered in residue from handling the charcoal. Too absorbed in perfecting your work, you fail to notice approaching footsteps from behind. 

“--[First].” 

A surprised gasp leaves your lips at the unexpected greeting, your head whipping around to identify the source of the intrusive noise. Panic bubbles within at the sight of Giorno, who is taking a keen interest in what you are working on. From how at ease he looks, it’s difficult to gauge his thoughts. His visage never offers insight to his mind, always schooled and taciturn. He must be awaiting a response from you, but your mind is a state of panic. This activity isn’t something that’ll get you in trouble, is it? Subconsciously, you move the canvas to the side, your fingers wrapping around the edges uncomfortably. 

You need to say something, but the words die in your mouth before coming to life. Pushing through your storm of dread, you offer a response. “I… I’m sorry, if I wasn’t supposed to.”

Turquoise eyes regard you in kind, taking a seat next to you on the bench. He’s generous enough to leave a respectable gap, but is still too close for comfort. From how his lips are turned into a soft smile, you want nothing more than to believe you won’t be chastised for this innocent indulgence. Spending time in Giorno’s presence is akin to navigating through a minefield, never certain what step may end up being your last. All of the promises he offers feel unfounded, the sickly sweet assurances of never harming a hair on your head. Why should you believe him? He’s given you no reason to take his word as concrete, and you can’t see that ever changing.

You remember the scent of blood. The nauseating sound of bones crunching, how flesh sounds when thrown against a wall. How when approaching death, the eyes grew bloodshot, lips trembling as they took on a haunting shade of blue. It’s the stuff of nightmares, watching a life snuffed out right before you. Matteo, someone who had been your companion, was gone before you could even process it. The strain on your relationship with him is unforgettable, but having to see his body tossed aside by a ghostly force? Witnessing how limp his limbs were, the same arms that once sought refuge in long ago? 

You’ll never forget the devil Giorno is, no matter how much he paints himself as a saint. 

“I had no idea you were interested in art,” he chooses to ignore your previous comment, wanting to redirect onto more positive things. “You have a real talent for it. Had I known, I would’ve prepared a wider array of art supplies for you.” 

The compliment has the opposite effect as intended on your person. Instead of filling you with validation at the wholehearted praise, the words ooze down your skin like droplets of corrosive venom. A sudden disconnect between your creation is torn, and you can no longer stomach to look at it. How an object of beauty can turn into a reminder of your captor in a few measly seconds is a peculiar thing. When he leaves for work the next morning, you consider the possibility of destroying it all together. A last ditch effort to rid yourself of this revolting feeling that creeps down your spine. 

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” 

There are multiple ways of interpreting your words, ranging from a dismissal of Giorno’s presence to humility. He spins it in his favor, as he’s showcased his brilliance in doing so. Your lack of straightforward animosity towards him serves to backfire every time. 

“It’d be no trouble. Truth be told, I’m lacking an in-depth knowledge of the arts. What kind of equipment would suit you best?” Giorno inquires with a tilt of his head, his eyes leaving the impression that he can see the full dimensions of your soul. Ignoring him isn’t going to be of benefit, so you provide the bare minimum to satisfy his quest. 

“It’s… more of a personal preference, what an artist chooses to use.” 

He’s not letting you off the hook just yet. “What do you prefer to use?” 

“The basics. Pencils, watercolors, the like. Nothing too fancy.”

Giorno looks fascinated at anything you offer him. Even if you only speak when spoken to, it’s a good place to start. Your muscles tense as he leans closer, to get a better look at the drawing of flowers. His eyes scan every stroke, seeing how it all culminates into a grander picture. You move your legs over, internally pleading that he’ll leave you alone soon. Speaking for him with any amount of time, no matter how small, is exhausting. 

“Azaleas, correct?” 

At this guess, you nod in confirmation. 

“Please, should you ever need a reference for flowers, let me know. I’d be more than happy to provide it for you.” 

The chance to refuse this offer is fleeting, curiosity taking over at how he reaches for a rock on the ground. Taking it into his hand, he puts it in full view. You blink at the uncanny series of events, wondering why Giorno is putting a simple rock on display. Any semblance of understanding is stolen from you, as the colors twist into a different assortment. The spherical shape shifts into a stem, the bud on top growing light pink petals. He watches with amusement at how you look at it closer, mouth agape.

“W-what?” It’s a weak whisper, betraying the full extent of your awe. How did he pull this off? It isn’t like a cheesy magic trick, where the rock would slide somewhere, only to be replaced by a flower. No, you witnessed the full life cycle of the flower. He chuckles lowly at your childlike wonder, preparing a palpable explanation. 

“It’s an ability of mine,” he elaborates, placing the newly former azalea on your lap. “I can make any living thing.” 

Is this a dream? To test the theory, you rub your eyes, uncaring of the smudges likely left against your skin. When your eyelids flutter open once more, you’re still in reality. Wanting to inspect the flower closer, you lift it up, close to your eyes. Studying every aspect of it, from how soft the petals are to the firmness of the stem. While not a professional botanist by any means, there’s no denying that this is a real flower. 

“Any living thing…” 

The words dance on your tongue, parroting his words back to him to make sense of it all. “Does that include animals?” 

“Naturally. Is there anything you’d like to see, [First]?” He tempts you with promises of spectacle, fully aware of how bewitching Gold Experience’s ability is. Numerous ideas flood through your mind, possibilities infinite. Thoughts ranging from your own favorite animals, to cute creatures that might improve your mood. While creating bouquets of any flower might be an intriguing prospect, you’re more drawn to seeing animals. The only animals you’ve had contact with in the longest time are occasional frogs that congregate near the running foundations at night. Everything else is reduced to sounds, from owls to cicadas. 

It’s when you see Giorno’s knowing smile that something deep inside you stirs. 

He’s basking in the lightheartedness you’re exuding. This… this ultimately doesn’t change a thing. Giorno is a terrible man, who has taken so much from you. The hedges surrounding you both suddenly feel suffocating, a merciless reminder of who it is you’re dealing with. Beauty pales in comparison to real freedom. Every day has been the same as the last, an infinite loop of going through the motions, destined to never make progress. All of this has been thrusted onto you by Giorno Giovanna, a man in relentless pursuit of your heart. 

None of this is right. Being near him is enough to too much to take.

You hold your tongue, eyebrows furrowing at Giorno bringing out all this conversation from you. It’s humiliating how all your efforts to deny him the desires of his flesh never work as intended, this one of the many times he’s bested you. Now that you’ve spotted his game, you clamp shut like a clam, intent on hiding the pearl of yourself from him. You’re intentional in looking away, the luxury of him maintaining eye contact with you a memory of the past. Sensing the barriers you’re putting up against him, Giorno stands, dusting off his expensive pants. He offers you a nod of acknowledgement, pivoting on his heel and calling out to you over his shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” 

Too absorbed in your self deprecating thoughts and misery, you offer up no response. Footsteps crunching against the vegetation on the ground fade away, your heart pounding violently against your chest. Something wet caresses your face, teardrops falling and smudging your art. Your sniffling grows in volume, becoming a full set of sobs. Hands shaking by your side, you hang your head low, biting your lower lip to the point of drawing blood. 

Feeling like a man possessed, you wildly rip away at the canvas that taunts you so. The sound of paper ripping pales in comparison to the natural ambiance of the summer night, and you pay it no mind. All you want is an outlet for this surge of emotion. Any guilt over littering the ground with remnants of your work dissipates when you remember how servants will scurry like insects to clean up after you. For extra measure, you pick up the former rock, glowering at it. Breaking the stem with your hands, you throw it as far as you can manage, not able to stand the sight of all it stands for. None of this even begins to remedy the abhorrence that clogs your heart for Giorno, but it’s a start.

Exhaustion seeps into every pore of your being, and you retire to your room. 

- - -

He notices a lot of things about you when you’re asleep.

There’s clear serenity on your countenance, far away from the world of unfortunate reality. Giorno catches every rise and fall of your chest, how delicate your breaths are, the way your long eyelashes flutter against the soft cheeks of your face. When you’re lifted from the depths of deep sleep with a dream, frustration overtakes you, eyelids twitching. He’s inquisitive on the nature of your dreams, that must take the form of nightmares. What is it that haunts you? There’s a twinge in his heart at the possibility of it being him. 

The first time you reached out to him in your sleep, he thought it a trick of the lights. A fine delicacy he doesn’t deserve to gratify himself with, as a reminder of his own sins. You’re too good to him when you’re like this, arms subconsciously reaching out for something to grasp on. A few times, you found a pillow, content with it in your arms. In moments like this one, your hands touch the bare flesh of Giorno’s chest, drawing yourself against him. He stays perfectly still, recognizing the humiliation you’d face should you wake. No, this is just fine with him, enough to satisfy a dormant hunger. 

He can’t help himself, ghosting his fingertips up and down your bare arms. Goosebumps dot your skin from the motions. It’s a selfish wish, that you’d always be like this around him. Giorno would be a fool to think of himself as anything but self-serving after all he’s taken from you. Your future, freedom, your life. What is possibly an attempt to justify some of the extreme measures arises, Giorno incapable of hiding the scowl of your former situation. Such a kindhearted person, diluted by scum of society, churns his stomach in repulsion. The original plan didn’t include offing your former partner, but righteous fury overtook him. It isn’t often Giorno’s composure can crack, but seeing you belittled was all it took.

All the damage inflicted on you left gaping wounds, too great for Giorno to heal. 

He witnessed how radiant you’re capable of being, how your face glowed the first time you met. It’s a fond memory now, a way to placate him. Anything less than honoring the memory of you treating his wounds is a disservice to your person, Giorno incapable of offering nothing but high praises for you. This highlight of humanity, a pinnacle of what people are like at their best, is what motivates his goals further. To see Italy become a better version of itself, eradicating the nefarious plots that fester in the shadows. 

You rub your head against his chest, murmuring incoherent words in your sleep. His heart leaps at the endearing sight, wishing he could stay like this with you for eternity. In the midst of his musings, his own Stand materializes into existence, unblinking eyes considering every curve and dip of your body. Gold Experience Requiem wishes you were capable of acknowledging it, having to be content with observing you from afar. It’s a double edged sword. There’s an opportunity to wrap phantom-like appendages around your waist, you only believe it to be a gust of wind. Touch starved as Giorno is, he’s willing to accept any scraps of your touch he has access to.

Tiny pieces are better than nothing. 

Tomorrow will bring troubles of its own, yet he can’t find it in himself to complain. Your scrutiny is wholly deserved, and all that he can offer in meager attempts to reconcile is effort. To be better for your sake, and his own.

[starswouldtell]

For She Who Fills the World With Color

Happy Birthday, @cyclone-rachel! I tried to post this as an answer and it kinda got borked with the read more cut, so I’m posting it like this! I hope you enjoy this little birthday celebration– because I read the thoughts you sent about Querl and birthdays, had an idea and kinda ran with it. The complete Hogwarts AU in roughly chronological order is here. Check out the tumblr tag for more thoughts as well. _________________________________________________

Though he has considered Winn a friend for coming up on a year, it  still comes as a bit of a surprise when the other boy sits down next to  him in Transfiguration the first class of their sixth year.

“You look confused.” Winn says astutely. “Ya know, I would have come to sit by you last year, but we’d picked seats already.”

“Ah,” Querl manages, then wants to kick himself. Eloquent.

Winn snorts lightly. “Ya know, we have planning to do.”

“Yes, I have started preparing for the NEWTS next year-”

“Oh good lord, not the NEWTS! Kara’s birthday!”

“Oh, yes… right.”

“It’s-”

“September, the twenty-second, I’m aware.”

“Well  usually Alex plans birthday fun for her, but she’s gone, so it’s up to  us.” Winn says dutifully and grins. Querl looks back somewhat dubiously,  causing that grin to falter. “Do you not want to?”

“I would love  to celebrate Kara…” Querl says softly. “I- uh- I’ve never really  celebrated birthdays. They were acknowledged, but… My mother’s   standards for what constitutes an achievement worth celebrating are   higher than growing a year older.”

Something flickers in Winn’s eyes and Querl hopes it isn’t pity.

“Do you have ideas?” Querl asks tentatively, not wanting to dwell there. “For what we could do?”

“I’ve got a few.” That grin that is all Winn  comes back full force as Querl grows thoughtful. It’s good that the   first class is mostly review, because Querl is mostly distracted.

He thinks of Kara and all she’s done for him, and wants, more than anything, to give her joy for  her birthday. He thinks of foods, decorations, gifts- he thinks, for a  moment, of music and dancing with her. He thinks of her smile…

When class ends, he looks to Winn and says with assurance “The Room of Requirement.”

“What about it?”

“The three of us could celebrate there.”

“Yes!” He claps Querl on the shoulder and shakes him lightly. “I like this plan. This is a good plan.”

“All of my plans are good.” Querl answers matter-of-factly, and Winn rolls his eyes.

“So humble.”

Querl slings his bag over his shoulder, speaking seriously. “She’ll be coming of age. It should be perfect. Special.”

“It will be.” Winn nods. “We’ve got this.”

So  they plan. Winn works some magic in the kitchens and gets heaping   plates of all Kara’s favorites, plus a cake topped with an ornamental   Pegasus that rears up with flapping wings. He wraps up a couple new games for  game nights in bright colored papers…

Querl uses some of the  money he earned over the summer as an apothecary apprentice and orders a  kit of art supplies for Kara. He’s caught her doodling and sketching  enough times; idly scratching images in the margins of her notes with  her quill. He hopes an array of pencils in every hue he can think of,  and a blank book to fill with whatever she can imagine, will make her  happy… in the front of the book he pens the words For she who fills the world with color and makes all things brighter. Happy Birthday, Kara. Then he transfigures flowers into finery; a sparkling pendant on a slim  chain from him, then a little fine tuning on a bracelet with petal   colors created by Winn.

The night comes, and instead of going to   dinner, they ask her to come to the Room of Requirement. The way her   face lights up when she opens the door is a gift in itself; she takes in  the colored banners, the flowers; Winn and Querl smiling back as the   wireless plays… then she runs to them, pulling both into a hug.

“Happy Birthday!” Winn shouts, gleefully.

“Happy Birthday, Kara.” Querl’s voice comes quieter, but with no less heart.

“This is amazing!” She laughs, squeezing them tight. “Thank you so much!”

“Oh, the fun is just beginning.” Winn promises. “You’re officially of age, it’s gotta be a night to remember, right?”

As it turns out, it’s a night to remember for them all.

[melonkooky]

the art of love [kim taehyung]

not requested

word count: 3576

genre: art school/college!au, taehyung x female reader (mainly 3rd person), fluff

warnings: no warnings 😊😊

author’s note: decided to enter into @btsboulangerie‘s september prompt contest. i’ve been working on this the past few weeks since september started. i know it’s early and there’s still a few weeks before the deadline but i just thought i’d put it out there (mainly because i might forget to post it). also, i’m apologizing in advance for any grammar or spelling mistakes that i didn’t catch!! 

please do not copy my work. but please like and reblog it. thank you!!!!

taehyung raised a soft, half-asleep hand up to his face in order to rub the sleep from his eyes. he yawned in the process, soft sigh falling past his pink lips. he was exhausted to say the least, but that was because he had stayed up majority of his night finishing his most recent project.

it was a painting. he was attempting to mimic vincent van gogh’s style of art and integrating it with his own style. it was a simple painting of some buildings that he took a picture of while he was vacationing with his family a year ago in the united kingdom.

the painting was being held in his other hand as it was due today. taehyung walked onto the school campus, not expecting a lot to happen. but he noticed a small crowd of his fellow art students. it was hard to see as they were forming an uneven semi-circle directly in front of a brick wall. it was near the entrance.

quite intrigued by the matter, the tired look in his eyes vanished and his curiosity was peaked. being extra cautious of his painting, taehyung maneuvered through the crowd of students, mumbling tiny “excuse me”s every so often. finally, he reached the front and got a good view of what every was gawking at.

taehyung had to crane his neck back in order to get the full picture of what he was looking at, literally. he was close to the wall. at first, he noticed the shade of purple that was used. obviously it was graffiti, judging by the unique style of letters. it was a statement, a quote, that had been spray painted onto the brick wall. it read: “be the change you want to see in the world.” taehyung shyly smiled. he believed strongly in that quote.

after admiring the artwork on the wall, one that he knew would for sure anger the professors, he was about to turn around when his ears caught wind of some conversations.

“i wonder who did this…”

“it’s so pretty.”

“imagine mr. khan’s face when he sees this.”

taehyung also wondered who had done this. he was intrigued, drawn to the unique style of art, and the choice of canvas. still, he had to get to class.

taehyung forced himself through the crowd once more, checking to make sure that his piece of art hadn’t been ruined or contaminated in any way. once he was sure that it was fine, he hurried into the building, excited to get to class. taehyung had always admired art, it was a passion of his. for as long as he could remember, he would use whatever writing utensil he could find and draw on whatever was in front of him. his mom would always get mad at him when it happened to be a black pen and a placemat at the dining table. sometimes it would even be crayon on the walls. but with all the practice, taehyung’s art majorly improved. he loved how beautiful art was, and he always admired the deep, hidden meaning that some of the pieces had.

taehyung walked into the classroom, the life-changing quote still in his mind. that’s how to start a good day, he thought.

upon walking to his seat, he noticed that the classroom was completely empty. he was a bit early, he noticed when he pulled out his phone to look at the time. but, as he glanced around the vacant classroom, he noticed that there was a girl over in the corner. a section of her hair fell onto the side of her face while she used a pencil to seemingly shade something in. her eyes were trained onto the paper, not even leaving her sketchbook as her free hand came up to brush the section of hair behind her ear. she looked beautiful.

suddenly, she glanced upward, nearly giving taehyung a heart attack. he gasped. strange noises left his mouth as his cheeks changed from their typical sunkissed, golden color to a deep, cherry red. the girl remained staring at him, looking at innocent as ever. “h-hey.” taehyung finally managed to say, hesitantly moving around a few tables to get closer to her table.

“hi.” she replied, eyebrows raised slightly.

taehyung’s hand moved to the back of his neck. “sorry for staring.”

she blushed, a shy smile coming to her face. “it’s okay. you probably were just surprised to find someone else in here.”

or because you were absolutely beautiful…

taehyung cleared his throat. “yeah.”

suddenly, she glanced downward. “is that your project?”

taehyung’s eyes widened, cheeks red once more. he smiled proudly and help up his painting to her. “yeah. my reference was a picture i took when i was in england.”

her eyes were wide with amazement. taehyung noticed a particular sparkle in her eye, and he couldn’t help but feel even prouder. she seemed genuinely amazed at his piece of artwork. “wow!” she said quietly while running the tips of her fingers along each stroke. “it’s beautiful. so unique.”

taehyung grinned. “thank you!” then he glanced around. “do you have your final project?”

she looked down at her sketchbook before gasping suddenly. before taehyung could even blink, she was flipping her sketchbook over, causing her pencil to fling off of the table and onto the floor. when taehyung looked at the pencil, then her sketchbook, and then back at her face, she was bright red in color. taehyung’s eyes widened. “are you okay?”

“uh… yeah.”

she flashed taehyung an unconvincing smile, but taehyung didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. then, he bent down, picking up the stray pencil, and then handed it back to her, a smile on his face as he did so. “well, then.” he laughed shyly. “i’ll see you around i guess.”

she was still blushing, and seemed extremely flustered, but she still managed to say, “see ya.”

----

you sighed in relief as you watched his back while he walked away from you. your heart was still pounding against your ribcage, and your face still felt hot. once he was sitting down in his seat and became distracted by his phone, you flipped over sketchbook and found that you had accidentally creased a corner of the paper. it wasn’t too bad, but it still made your pout slightly. after one glance at your fellow art student, you picked up your pencil and continued sketching.

----

taehyung was proud that the teacher liked his painting. every time he looked at it, he remembered the countless amount of minutes he had spent on it, how he painstakingly painted each stroke. careful not to make any mistakes. his hard work paid off, he got a 100%.

after class, taehyung was ready to go back to his dorm. he planned on calling his parents and asking them if he could visit on the weekend and give them his painting.

while standing up from his seat, just after the bell rang, taehyung glanced behind his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the girl he had met earlier. for a split second, he wondered why he had never seen her before. but his question was quickly answered. she sat in the very back corner of the classroom, an entire desk - that could fit four people total - all to herself. she was also extremely quiet and mainly kept to herself.

taehyung felt like he was very similar to her. he did have friends that attended this college, but they had completely different majors, therefore, he didn’t have any friends in his art class.

the young art student glanced back over in her direction, only he caught her looking at him. surprised by that, taehyung looked away, feeling all of his blood rush to his cheeks. his hands froze, being in the middle of packing his sketchbook into his backpack. he wanted to look at her again, to see if she was still looking. so he did, only she wasn’t there anymore. she disappeared, as if nobody was there to begin with.

his shoulders relaxed, but his heart sunk. a strange feeling.

----

the next day, taehyung showed up at the same time. he wondered if she would be there already, just like yesterday. he was actually really looking forward to seeing her again, and he was wondering if he should try talking to her again. as he walked towards the building, he noticed that a few janitors of the school were working on cleaning the purple graffitied wall, although they had hardly made any progress. he felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards as he walked by, just as he slipped into the building.

the door to the art classroom soon came into view. as he approached the entry to the classroom, taehyung grew nervous. there was nothing stopping him, he had no reason to turn away and come back later. and yet, here was was actually considering it. why was he so nervous? he loved meeting new people, he loved making friends. taehyung found it easy and enjoyable.

taehyung shook his head, as if to shake away all his anxiety. with a deep, calming inhale, he grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. he looked around, finding the classroom empty once again, with the exception of the quiet, artistic girl sitting in the corner.

taehyung stopped, time seemingly to follow his en suite. the morning sun coming in through the tall windows was enough light for the classroom, and while it enveloped everything in a golden ray of light, taehyung easily took in the scene of her in front of him. how the sun gave her skin a mesmerizing golden hue, how he allowed him to see all of her. taehyung was falling in love.

the girl looked up, her beautiful eyes meeting his own. when she recognized who it was, she quickly turned a page in her sketchbook, attempting to hide her sketch. taehyung didn’t necessarily notice, his mind was far too occupied to think.

taehyung came out of his trance, his cheeks burning. he swallowed hard. “h-hi.” he spoke nervously.

the girl blushed as well, although it was hardly noticeable underneath the sun’s glow. “h-hey.” she replied.

taehyung walked closer to her desk. he kept his gaze away from her eyes, her face. he was too worried about how he had basically stared at her for a solid minute. “i noticed that you sit here by yourself.”

she nodded, a shy smile on her face. “yeah. i don’t have any friends in this class.”

taehyung felt himself smile. “yeah, me too.”

a silence fell between them, and it pained taehyung. what else should he say?

“um, do you mind if i sit with you? that way you won’t be alone.”

her eyes widened, her blush coming back. “yeah, yeah, go ahead.” she gestured to the seat across from her.

taehyung felt his heart skip a beat. she was so nice, and kind. it was hurting taehyung. he smiled as he pulled out the seat across from her, placing his backpack in the empty chair next to him. “so,” he said, pulling his sketchbook out of his backpack. “did you see the graffiti outside, by the entrance?”

she looked up, having started to doodle variations of flowers on the corner of the blank piece of paper. “o-oh, that. yeah, i did.”

“i wonder who did it.” he paused. “i liked the message, a lot actually. it’s always been my favorite quote.”

she smiled, “me too.”

“do you have an idea of who did it?”

the girl seemed to avoid his gaze. her eyes were trained on something outside the window now. taehyung stared at her, waiting patiently for an answer. she cleared her throat, “about that… that graffiti was actually me.”

taehyung’s eyes widened. “wait, that was you?”

she nodded.

a wide grin showed on taehyung’s face. “wow! you’re just good at all forms of art, aren’t you? graffiti, painting, sketching-”

she blushed as taehyung complimented her. “although, i wouldn’t say i can watercolor.”

taehyung laughed. “yeah, i have problems with watercolors too. it’s either too dry or too watery and then i can’t really blend or overlap or get the right color, so in the end, it’s just a mess.”

“exactly!” she agreed loudly.

“you know,” taehyung began, still laughing slightly, “i don’t know your name.”

“it’s y/n.”

taehyung smiled and reached his hand out. she gently took it, another blush coming to her cheeks. “taehyung.”

until the art professor arrived, taehyung and y/n talked about many other things, finding that they had a lot of things in common. and on the things that they didn’t agree with, they would playfully argue, and it only brought them closer together.

after class, before y/n could leave, taehyung called out to her. he quickly swung his around, reaching for her arm in order to stop her from walking away any further. she gasped in surprise, cheeks turning a bright red. taehyung himself was surprised. his cheeks gradually began to match hers. he coughed into his fist, releasing her arm. “sorry, i just had a question.”

she smiled at him. “yeah?”

“do you want to get lunch right now?”

she grinned widely. “that sounds nice. where do you want to go?”

“that’s a good question.” he replied, a shy laugh following after.

“how about…”

taehyung watched as her gaze moved around the room. she was thinking, trying to think of a place to eat at. the aspiring artist seemed to space out as he studied her, wondering how she managed to look so cute, because suddenly, she was waving her hand in front of his face. “taehyung?” the way she said his name caused his heart to skip a beat.

“sorry.”

“i said what about [restaurant name]?”

“yeah, that sounds wonderful.”

----

“i have another question.” taehyung spoke, swallowing his bite of noodles.

y/n looked up at him, attempting to slurp her noodles faster so that she could give him her full attention. “hm?” she managed to say.

“why did you flip your sketchbook over so fast? you were so flustered by it.”

y/n almost choked on her noodles. she hurriedly swallowed her bite, sitting up straighter. she prayed silently that her cheeks weren’t as red as the booth they were currently sitting in. “why do you ask?”

taehyung shrugged. “i don’t mean to pry. i’m just curious.”

“are you sure you want to know?” she asked him.

a weird, fuzzy anticipating feeling erupted in taehyung’s stomach. “yeah.”

she seemed hesitant, and taehyung wondered if he was making her feel uncomfortable. he surely didn’t want that.

y/n reached next to her and opened her backpack. she pulled out the sketchbook that taehyung was talking about. after she pushed aside her half-empty bull of ramen and made room to set down her sketchbook, she looked at taehyung. “please don’t feel weirded out by my drawings.”

taehyung’s eyebrows furrowed. he started to picture what he was going to see, both appropriate and inappropriate. he felt his cheeks heat up at the thought of inappropriate sketches.

slowly, she turned over the cover, allowing taehyung to see the first page. the first page was not what he was imagining. instead of nude drawings, there were sketches of birds, ones that he’s seen many times on campus. “wow.” he whispered, a smile on his face.

she continued. the next page was of a few realistic faces, some of the students he’s also seen in classes and on campus. a few pages later, he saw the rough draft of the graffiti on the wall. he spotted the written note in the top corner, reminding y/n to use the color purple.

“this is where it gets weird.” she warned.

taehyung didn’t understand. why was she being so shy? she drew amazing sketches and pictures, so realistic that it almost looked like they were just simply black and white photos.

y/n turned over the page, revealing a sketch that shocked taehyung. it was a picture of him, talking to one of his friends from another class. he was surprised how much detail she drew; the box-shaped smile, squinted eyes as he grinned, the shading on his face, everything about it wasn’t able to be described in words.

another page was turned and he recognized himself again, this time sitting in his chair in the classroom, drawing in his sketchbook. taehyung was in awe.

he glanced up at y/n, finding that she wouldn’t meet his eyes. her cheeks were still red, now matching the red used on the booths. taehyung’s jaw was hanging open and his eyes were wide. he definitely was in love.

seeing his reaction, y/n felt shy. she felt the need to slam her sketchbook closed and run out of the restaurant, away from taehyung. but she also felt a burst of confidence in her work. he didn’t seem disgusted or weirded out from her drawings of him. she often times felt like a stalker, convinced that he would never notice her.

but taehyung, he was in love. “wow, these are amazing.” he managed to say.

she smiled, “really?”

he nodded. “i could never match this skill.”

“you’re not, like, disgusted by me watching you and drawing you in my sketchbook?”

taehyung blushed. “not at all. i’m just surprised, and amazed.”

“taehyung,” she spoke quietly, “i don’t know when it began, perhaps it started on the first day of school when you first walked into the classroom, but, i like you. a lot.”

taehyung’s jaw dropped again. his cheeks were bright red, looking like someone has attached two giant apples to his face.

she giggled in response, afterwards biting her lower lip.

“i must be dreaming.” taehyung whispered. “i like you too.”

y/n smiled happily. “that’s a relief.”

“can i have your number?” taehyung asked shyly.

y/n nodded. she grabbed her phone from her backpack and handed it to taehyung, who put his own number into his phone. “you should probably text me, so that i know it’s you.”

taehyung grabbed his phone, just as the screen lit up. it was a message from an unknown number, but he easily recognized who it was from. it was obvious given the moment. it was a simple heart emoji, and taehyung swore he stopped breathing when he looked at her again.

----

months later

y/n cursed to herself as she glared at the painting in front of her. she had managed to mix the wrong color and in return, it ruined part of her painting. she needed to fix it. the only issue was, she had mixed that color in the first place because the white acrylic paint bottle had gone missing. she thought that she wouldn’t need it, but boy did she thought wrong.

with a sigh, y/n stood up from her stool. taehyung glanced over from y/n’s bed, attention pulled away from his phone. he had a small, mischievous grin on his face. y/n hadn’t noticed.

“what’s wrong, babe?”

y/n glanced at her boyfriend. she gestured vaguely to her painting as she walked over to the shelf across the room where all her art supplies were located at. she wondered if she had left the white paint bottle there by accident. “i messed up.”

taehyung watched eagerly. you wandered over to your art shelf and began moving things around, taking a random box off the shelf, searching through it, and then putting it back with a huff. you would check the same spots again and again, until your gaze gradually traveled up the rather tall shelf. and there, as the only item on that shelf because you couldn’t reach it, was the white acrylic paint bottle.

you heard a stifled laugh from the opposite corner of the room. you didn’t even need that sound to tell you who had done this. you turned around, an angry glare on your face. “kim taehyung.”

he finally released his cackle. he definitely was not holding back, and he was clearly enjoying this. “what’s wrong?” he asked while feigning innocence.

“you know what’s wrong.”

taehyung hopped off the bed, doing a slight skip afterwards, and then walked over to your side. he glanced up, a grin still seen on his face. “did i do that?”

you rolled your eyes. you shifted all of your weight on one leg before crossing both of your arms over your chest. “can you please get that down?”

taehyung reached up, easily grabbing the bottle, only he didn’t give it to you. instead, he opted to hold it up on the air. you groaned, “taehyung!”

“i need a reward.” he suggested.

you blushed slightly. “for grabbing the bottle that you put up there…”

taehyung wrapped his free arm around your waist, pulling you closer into his side. his lips were puckered out, and you were feeling yourself slipping. why did he have to be so damn cute?

finally, you pressed your lips to his. immediately taehyung deepened the kiss, clearly wanting more. you obliged, only while he was distracted, his arm came down. in the blink of an eye, you grabbed the bottle and pulled away from taehyung, a loud smack resonating after the two pairs of lips parted. taehyung stood there, surprised, as he watched you skip towards your canvas, pretending as if nothing had happened.

he sighed in defeat, shoulders evidently relaxing. “gotta love her.”

[wackpainterkid]

a burst of bright color (1/1)

a/n: I love noliv because they’re two artsy fuckers who are also giant children when they’re together so here’s a Manon’s Mondays fic that’s just that :) Also why am I such a procrastinator lol, made Monday with six minutes to spare, please forgive any mistakes.

rating: T (things get dirty but not in that way)

2400 words

also on ao3

Liv: Are you home, because I’ll be there in five minutes :) 

 Maybe she should have given Noah slightly more notice before dropping by, but Engel wanted to meet in a café close to his house and eventually had to cancel last minute because she wasn’t feeling so great, so Liv was suddenly left with an unexpected free moment and what better way to spend it than by annoying her boyfriend for a bit.

She’s sure he won’t mind.

Well, she’d know that if he would answer his phone of course.

 Four minutes pass and she locks her bicycle close by, walking the final minute to his house. She rings the doorbell before taking a step backward, peering up to see if she can spot any movement in his room. 

 The doorbell goes off for a second time, but still no answer. Liv purses her lips.

 Noah might be with Micha or Gijs, he might even be at the grocery store.

 Obviously, she doesn’t need to know his whereabouts 24/7 and obviously, she’s a strong and independent woman that doesn’t need a man but on her way here, she had kind of anticipated to see him and going home without seeing him would be disappointing. 

 A thought emerges in her head. 

 Liv thinks about a place she hasn’t been in quite some time, a place she hadn’t even thought of in a long time. There is no real reason for her to suspect he will be there, no real reason except for something he told her six months ago. That he used to go there to find some peace. And she doesn’t even know whether that is the case right now, whether she isn’t overthinking his absence, but still, she decides to just take the leap. To just go there and see if she is right. And if she isn’t, if he isn’t there, well then she’ll simply go home.

It’s a calm September evening, with a light breeze moving through the warm air, with the sun lingering in the sky, undeterred by clouds. At least the walk there and back will do her good.

 The church comes into view and there seems to be light coming from inside; it is difficult to be sure when the sun hasn’t truly set yet, but it still evokes a hopeful smile on Liv’s face. 

 She walks towards the entrance– or what she believes to be the entrance as the one time she has been here before, Noah had brought her inside the building through here. With some of Liv’s force behind it, the door creaks open.

 Her eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the church and see him standing there. She has to control the smile that tries to creep on her lips, has to keep it from being too ecstatic at the sight of him. Noah, however, has a wary look on his face as he is alarmed by the door’s sounds and attempts to determine who has come to infiltrate his quiet place. 

 Liv struggles to shut the door again but when it’s finally closed, she walks over to him. Out of nowhere, a seed of fear settles in her body as she comes closer and closer; what if wanting peace means not having to be around her?

 “What are you doing here?” she asks him, taking in the paintbrush in his hand and the large canvas he’s standing in front. His distrust instantly morphs into something happier, something more joyful when he hears and sees her. He definitely doesn’t mind that she’s here, Liv’s chest deflates in relief.

 “I could ask the same of you,” he teases with a broad smile.

 “I went by your place and you weren’t picking up your phone.” Noah’s eyes shoot to his jacket lying in a corner, his jacket which Liv presumes contains his phone as well. “I had an inkling you might be here,’ she continues while minimizing her words with a tiny shrug.

 “Good instincts.”

 He lays down his brush on the easel and wipes his hands on a cloth to get rid of the excess pigment. His paint-stained hands cradle her cheeks before he goes to kiss her hello, she rises on her toes to meet him halfway.

 “Hope I’m not intruding,” Liv says once their greeting is over.

 “Of course not,” he reassures, his head shaking.

 “What’re you painting?” Her gaze travels to the pedestal and her body follows. She stands next to him, her hip almost glued to his as she watches the almost empty canvas. 

 The little color the painting has, Liv doesn’t really consider color; they’re greys and blacks and dark blues, and she doesn’t like how suffocated they make her feel. By now, however, she’s learned to be patient and just wait to see the finished product. She knows better than to second guess Noah’s art. He’s the artist. He’s the one who creates these pieces of art. He isn’t about to tell her how to write a chorus out of the blue, nor should she give unsolicited advice and criticism on how to paint.

 “I have no idea,” he replies, scratching the back of his head as he considers the painting too. “I got stuck so I thought a change of scenery might help.” He motions to the church they’re standing in. So that’s what he’s doing here. Trying to get inspiration.

 “And is it?”

 “Nope.” His lips plop around the word before he lets out a sigh that makes his shoulders drop. “Very frustrating.”

 Her eyes leave the canvas and fall on him. He didn’t need to tell her it’s frustrating because, as she watches him, she can see it influence his expression and his movements.

 This isn’t the first time something similar has happened. Occasionally, Noah just gets worked up in finding the right colors and composition, and sometimes it’s to such an extent that it completely blocks him, that that search for perfection keeps him from finishing the piece altogether.

 Luckily, she knows something that could help distract him.

 Liv hugs him from behind, laying her cheek against his back and she feels his hand cover hers.

 “You wanna make out?” she mumbles against the fabric of his shirt.

 “What?” Noah looks at her over his shoulder.

 Liv teasingly wiggles her eyebrows and he chuckles as his hand rubs over her arm.

 “Given the place we’re currently standing in, that seems slightly blasphemous, don’t you think?”

 She frowns as she tries to figure out where exactly this is coming from. Noah is just about the least religious person she knows and usually, she’s the one who has to say no to a make-out session because if he would have his way, they would randomly make out in the freezer section of an Albert Heijn supermarket.

 “I mean, you’re the one who brought me here on a date and started this whole thing. But your loss, I guess.” Her hands unlock from around his waist and she steps away from him. She sits down on the closest pew instead, giving him the room to focus on his painting again.

 Her eyes travel around the church, they rise to the ceiling and descend to the floor, they oscillate along the walls.

 She forgot about the beauty of this place, of its simplicity. Forgot about the dim lighting and the colored windows. It makes her want to sketch. She opens the little notebook she always carries with her and fishes a pen out of her bag. A line appears on the blank page and then another one until the shape of a cross appears, until the shape of a painter named Noah appears underneath.

 Liv can sense his eyes spending more time trained on her than on the painting in front of him. He grabs a new brush and dabs it in color, bringing it close before laying it down again, mixing yet another shade or picking another color altogether. He doesn’t actually brush them on the canvas, though.

 Eventually, he gives up pretending.

 “What’re you drawing?” he asks as he approaches the pew she’s sitting on, one of the paintbrushes still in his hands. He hovers over her and tries to take a peek at the page she’s working on.

 She clicks her tongue and quickly closes her notebook. 

 “No no no focus on your painting, Mr. Boom,” she instructs.

 “You’re too distracting, Ms. Reijners.” His hand travels up her arm but before he can reach her hair or shoulder, Liv inches away from him.

 “Well.” An eyebrow goes up. “You should’ve grabbed the opportunity when it presented itself.”

 At this point, she is teasing him and both of them are very much aware.

 He could’ve had a full-blown make-out session if he wanted but he said no. So, he should live with the consequences now.

 “Being spry, are we?”

 Her other eyebrow joins the already raised one in response and a sly smile curls her lips.

 He flicks his paintbrush at her and three tiny droplets of yellow end up on her wrist. Liv stares at them before looking back up, a stunned question in her eyes. “Did you just–” she begins to ask but is interrupted by Noah repeating his previous action. A splatter ends up on her leg.

 “No,” she sternly commands with a warning finger pointed at him. “Noah Boom, I swear to you, don’t you dare.” 

 A boyish grin appears on his face and Liv knows it’s too late; there’s no stopping him now. Her notebook ends up on the stone floor as she gets up in a rushed manner to flee from him. Noah manages to paint a yellow streak on her calf as she leaves the pew. 

 Liv isn’t just running away, however. She has a mission and heads for the canvas and the pedestal. As Noah chases her, time is of the essence and after snatching a brush, she turns around in a surprise attack, her own weapon being a brush with orange paint.

 He clearly isn’t expecting it because Liv manages to place a dab of orange right on his nose. He jumps back, shock on his face as his hand wipes off the color. 

 “Oh, that’s how you want to play it, huh?” he asks, and she only lifts her shoulders in response, the movement clearly meant as a challenge, as a dare he accepts in mere seconds as he, his brush at the ready, bolts towards her.

 She expects him to strike again, expects that she’ll be able to run away again but instead, he picks her up, lifts her body from the ground and nuzzles his orange nose in her hair. He carries her to the easel, places his hand on the palette covered with paint and wipes it against her face. A shriek escapes her mouth.

  “Noah!” He only laughs in response.

 Liv wiggles and wiggles, trying to free herself from his grip. She colors everything her brush manages to reach, leaving orange streaks in its wake, in his hair, on his hands.

 After some more squirming, her feet end back on the floor but if Noah thinks it would mean the end of this war, he doesn’t know her yet. Liv goes straight for the palette too and plans to take her revenge.

 Their laughs echo through the church.

 “And this isn’t blasphemous?” Liv asks once a truce has been agreed upon, her chest heaving due to all of the running and chasing they did.

 “As far as I know the church does not have anything against this kind of dirty.” He winks.

 He actually dares to wink.

 “You know what,” Noah says, “I take my words back. You don’t look like Monet’s Waterlilies, you’ve got more of a Pollock vibe.”

 “Oh my god, Noah, stop talking.”

 And he does listen, but the silent chuckle that bubbles out of him is somehow worse.

 At the moment, Liv isn’t sure if she wants to kiss him or just smear him with even more paint.

 Their relationship has existed for months now and the combination of mostly love and a considerable amount of frustration that makes itself known every time she spends time with him has still not worn off.

 Liv hopes it never does.

 “How on earth can we go outside looking like this?” Her hands attempt to untangle some paint-slathered curls but end up giving up. There’s no use when the paint acts as a colorful glue in her hair.

 “It’ll be dark by now.”

 “You’re not helping.” She pushes him lightly.

 “At least there is some good news,” he says, and Liv looks at him with a curious look in her eyes.

 “And that is?”

 “I know what the painting needs.” And the places where she could previously see Noah’s frustration – in his face and in his behavior– she can now see contentment, inspiration. He isn’t stuck any longer and the spark in his blue eyes makes a happy expression appear on Liv’s face. 

 “It just needs an uncontrolled burst of bright color.”

 And it sounds so unbelievably cheesy that Liv can’t help but roll her eyes. She doesn’t really understand either how that random notion is magically going to fix his painting but if he says it’s the solution, the only choice she has is to believe him. Like she said before, Noah is the artist.

 “Great. I’m expecting my share as soon as you sell it. Thanks.”

 An orange middle finger flips her off and she laughs before leaning in to kiss him.

 She can feel the paint drying on her skin, crackling with every breath she takes, chipping off with every move she makes.

 “Okay, we need to go home,” she concludes. “I desperately need a shower.”

 “Mind if I join?” Noah’s question comes out low and husky.

 Liv gasps and puts a stained hand on her collarbone, a consternated expression appearing on her face. “Noah, how dare you? We’re in a church.”

 You know, blasphemy and all that.

[ozlemozcrafting]

What I’ve done

(Last Year)

Around September, I was so excited that I will have the luxury to make my crafting dreams come true. But I realized that I’ve forgot to even how to use the brush, so I decided to remind myself how to paint inside the lines, easy as that. I started to draw folk art flowers, so the exercises would not be boring for me. I have drawn as many flowers as I can, then I’ve painted them.

Then I’ve painted more.

I’ve made some repeated patterns of the flowers.

I always wanted to make illustrated calendars, but I never managed to before. This time I decided to make it happen. I created 12 flower characters, designed the pages, and there, I had my calendar. It was just the beginning of 2018, so I decided to take it as a trial and to release it for 2019.

I’ve bought a cheap sketchbook although I’ve got so many at home, so I decided to make a 100 days 100 drawings challenge for myself, but it lasted 6 days. The paper was not suitable for watercolor, so I didn’t like the result.

The page with lemons is not crumbled cause I used colored pencils there, but I’m a girl for watercolor. This has been a short attempt, but it has opened new doors for me.

One of my friends have seen my stories and asked me if I can paint big vegetables for their restaurant. I’ve always painted small sized watercolors, so this was definitely a challenge for me.

As I started working, I didn’t want to waste my precious watercolor papers for the sketches, so I found myself sketching in random papers, which I never thought I could paint on before.

I’ve worked for that project a long time and put all the other self-projects aside. I’m gonna share the details of it in another post. In summary, it was just the motivation I needed to gain the self-discipline I was trying so hard to get.

Meanwhile I was looking for other projects - other than my looong list of projects waiting aside. I’ve heard of Sketchbook Skool in an episode of Your Creative Push (Which is my best friend, and that’s another story.) I’ve read the free book “Start Making Art” there and I got inspired to make a sketchbook of ordinary objects as a daily challenge. That went better, I’ve tried different mediums and different styles. The main point was gaining the habit of drawing every day, even if it’s a little ordinary object. 

It sure helped, but the “every day” part faded fast.

Just around that time, I’ve seen a post about Sketchbook Revival. I needed something fun after working on the same painting for hours, so I followed all the workshop and played along.

I’m so happy that I caught it at the time, cause it was a temporarily free online workshop and just what I was looking for. It helped me revive my childish creativity. I have a lot to tell about it, maybe I will write a detailed post later.

I’ve learned how to bind the sketchbooks I’ll use during the event.

These are the pages from the sketchbook dedicated to the workshop.

Also, while I’m listening the introduction parts, I wanted to start sketching right away so I drew the tutors in an accordion sketchbook that I’ve made.

After it was over, I kept the spirit and went on filling the blank pages of the sketchbook.

I painted some random pages, and some other time I was drawing over them. One day I’ve drawn flowers with white pen on a dark background, and I loved it. So it became a thing.

When Sketchbook Revival was finished, someone in the group posted about 30x30 Direct watercolor challenge. I decided to give it a go. It was suggesting to do all the opposites of what I’m used to do. Don’t mix the colors in the palette, do not draw lines. It was really hard for me and I didn’t fall in love with the results. Whatever, I always liked to expand my comfort zone. I’m pleased that I’m reminded about this style.

I was wondering if there was a drawing group in Istanbul, just in that time I came across Urban Sketchers Istanbul and I joined some of the gatherings. Meeting with people for drawing together is a good idea.

Meanwhile I tried different mediums.

There were many bottles of old fabric paint in our home, left by the puppet artist lived there before, so I tried them on a tank-top, that I love to wear now.

One day I got sick and I didn’t have the energy to sit at my desk, so I laid on the sofa and painted this wood panel while watching movies from my laptop.

I like the feeling of painting on wood. Found this one on the street; for a while I’ve become looking for things to paint everywhere.

Like these plates I painted the same day.

I found out about the porcelain pens by coincidence. There was a workshop while I was looking around my favorite art supply store, they gave me a porcelain cup and I started drawing right away. 

I bought all three pen sets and told everyone that I’m looking for their old ceramic stuff.

I was gonna visit my family for the new year and was in search of a present for everyone. Then I thought something handmade could be nice. Here are some of the presents.

I loved the idea of recycling, so I painted on packages. Empty jars, used shampoo bottles, wine bottles.

Branded cups, stones.

I’m a fan of anything fabric related so I had to get my hands on some embroidery.

Played with air-dry clay.

I love playing with clay, so I tried a DIY recipe I found on Pinterest.

I painted on the dried dough with watercolor or acrylic.

Made a ring holder, photo stand, magnets for my mum, a little ship, and I’m so proud of my little brush rests.

Another DIY material I wanted to try for a long time was papier-mâché, and I couldn’t wait any longer, so I tried it in between my holiday. I’m sure gonna use more of this technique this year.

This summer I noticed the tile pieces tumbled in the waves, hiding beneath the sand and stones on the beach. I couldn’t do it every day because I killed my brand new Artline pen for drawing these, but still it’s a good memory.

Ceramics have always been my secret love. I can’t even get near it because I know I’ll want to give up everything and fall right deep into it. But I came across a chance to try and it was as beautiful as I assumed. These are my first ceramics.

I formed the cups, the plates were gifted by my tutor, then I painted my favorite flowers and my life motto “Create Beauty” on them.

Tried Tilt Brush, painting in 3D with virtual reality. It was an amazing experience, I was happy like a child when I tried it, but then I couldn’t think of anything I can draw properly, cause it’s hard when you are not used to. I should try it again with more persistence.

I tried shrink paper but not satisfied yet. This year I’m gonna work on it.

And of course there are other random drawings and paintings in a habit I already had, if you want to see them you can take a look at ozlemoz.tumblr.com or instagram.com/ozlemoz.art

Sure I’ve done many paintings but I think I could have done better. So this year is gonna be all about it.

I’m gonna do as much as I can!

[whereintheworldisdani]

Monday September 25th - Sunday October 1st, 2017

As far as adventures go, we had one main one this week, and then the weekend brought me home to Chicago. However, this week at work has certainly been something else.

By now I would think many of you know I am a graphic designer. However, I’m not certain most of you know what that precisely means. I’ll start by telling you what graphic design is not. Graphic design is not just making art on the computer. Graphic design is not photography. Graphic design is not just a hobby. And, graphic design is not something you can watch a tutorial on how to do.

Graphic design is a comprehensive field that requires the designer to use both problem solving/analytical skills as well as creativity. Graphic design, at its core, is visual and creative problem solving. Every single graphic design piece is well thought out and intentional. There isn’t a single part that is there just because someone said they wanted it. Every designer should be able to tell you what they are trying to say with their piece and how they are trying to say it.

You see graphic design in the logos on storefronts and in commercials. You see graphic design in the patterns on your tissue boxes. You see it on the giant billboards in Times Square, right down to the pamphlets you’re given at the doctor’s office that teach you about a new medication. These are by no means the only places you see graphic design, but you come across the work of a graphic designer far more often than you think in your everyday life.

Why am I bothering to explain this to you? Well for one, I’ve had one too many people tell me “oh so you do art on the computer,” and I’m a little tired of other people explaining my career as “digital computer art.” The work I do takes research, thought, time, and patience.

So this week, I was given a problem at work, and it was my job to solve this problem visually. I needed to create a piece that would be representative of a learning topic, however, the piece itself couldn’t take away from the importance of the topic at hand. I understand this is a vague description, but bear with me. I researched the topic, took notes of what it was and the emotions, colors, and visuals associated with it. I spent days going through sketching and mock up phases. But nothing really stuck. I spent about four days trying to work through this problem, and I came out with nothing worth showing. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent 32 hours staring at a computer and notepad wracking your brain for the right connections and symbolic visuals to convey an idea, but let me be the first to tell you it is NOT a great feeling.

The one thing I’ve always loved and struggled with in graphic design is how the end product is always a perfect representation of how your thought process works and what you are capable of artistically. I love this concept because it means I am using every part of my mind, drawing upon life experiences and artistic inspiration alike. I struggle with this concept, however, because if I fail or come up short it feels like a direct representation of my intelligence and competency as a designer and human being.

I would love to tell you I came up with the perfect solution, but I didn’t. I am still working through it. But I will say the best advice I could possibly ever give anyone dealing with any sort of mental block is to ask for help. Gaining a new perspective on a problem you have been sitting with for hours on end is such a refreshing glass of water for the mind. It might not part the clouds and shed unending light on the problem, but it will certainly blow away a cloud or two.

So yeah, I think that sums up what I have been dealing with at work this past week. I like the challenge, and I have no doubts I will rise to meet it.

As far as fun things outside of work goes, the gang got together on Thursday to celebrate an Unbirthday Party. “What is an Unbirthday Party?” you may find yourself asking. Well, in Alice in Wonderland, Alice stumbles upon the Mad Hatter and the March Hare celebrating their Unbirthdays. Essentially, you have one day a year which is your birthday, but the other 364 days of the year are your Unbirthdays. Basically, everyday is a day to celebrate yourself and your friends. And that is exactly what we did.

Each person was responsible for bringing a food to share. We had brownies, mac n cheese, pigs in a blanket, pasta salad, chips and queso, and so much more. I made Mickey shaped pancakes which seemed to be a hit. I realize pancakes are a weird thing to bring to a potluck, but in my defense, pancakes are the only thing I can cook in bulk with confidence I won’t screw it up.

We spent the evening talking and eating and watching YouTube videos. It was a great night, and I am truly thankful to have found such an upstanding group of people. Each one of them has a unique story to share, and an unending passion for the work they do.

And the weekend brought me home to Chicago. I went home to see my cousin Phil get married to the love of his life, Giana. The wedding was beautiful and the reception was crazy amounts of fun. My family is loads of fun, I don’t know how I got so lucky. It was great being home, I definitely missed it. It was also great to feel the autumn air, because goodness knows I won’t feel it in Florida. I even got to go out to breakfast with my lovely and wonderful friend Carlie! I missed her very much, and I was so happy I got to see her. I also got to give Scott his birthday present (or as I called it, his Unbirthday present because it wasn’t his birthday and he said he didn’t want any presents). Featured above is him wearing his presents (a shirt from his favorite ride, and a set of Stitch themed Mickey Mouse ears). Not two minutes after this photo was taken, he proclaimed “no more presents. I am a grown-a** man!”

Yeah, I’m not convinced of that, Scotty.

All in all, things are going swimmingly. I’m being challenged in my work, I have a crowd of fantastic friends, and I have endless love and support from my family. What more could a girl ask for?

[sending-the-message]

Furfur by Ilunibi

Going to college was hard on both me and Dead Coyote. Of course he was proud of me--he’d watched me juggle exorcisms and calculus the entire time I was in high school--but we’d grown comfortable with one another’s presence. Dependent, I guess is a less nice way to put it in my case. He could take care of himself a bit more than I could take care of me, and I didn’t realize it until I was standing in my dorm with my scant few belongings that I honestly had no idea what the hell I was going to do with myself.

Eighteen. Free. Lucky enough to get a room to myself. Yet, there I was, standing dead in the center of a bare-bones room staring at the full-length mirror on the back of the door, confused and scared and honestly wishing that I could just throw my acceptance letter in the face of the dean and go back home. Home, of course, being Dead Coyote’s couch. I know it smelled like skunk and Camel cigarettes, but it was also warm and cozy and familiar.

And welcoming. I didn’t exactly feel wanted in college.

Most people who practice my particular craft don’t advertise it because it’s a pretty isolating way of living, even with other believers. I found out after trying to join the pagan alliance on campus that the little Wiccan do-gooders who preached about white magic and crystals didn’t fancy the idea of including a newcomer whose entire magical history revolved around the Ars Goetia and necromancy. They heard “left-hand path” and assumed that I was some misguided, edgy freshman or some poor, lost soul who was destined to live a dark and miserable life brought upon me by vengeful demons and restless raccoon ghosts. I told myself they were just intimidated by the fact that I had nearly a decade of experience and actually got results, that they were all fad-witches who’d give it up once it stopped making them feel like manic pixie dream girls, though I knew honestly that I was just bitter and lonely.

I talked pretty frequently to Dead Coyote, though, and that was my respite. Where most college kids would call their mom to ask how to do their laundry or cook a meal that wasn’t ramen and Kraft dinner, I’d call and ask about whether candle color mattered for casual non-Goetic invocations, how to get wax out of carpeting, and how to keep a smoke alarm from going off. The latter he had a few different answers to for several different reasons, and I appreciated his expertise. It probably saved me a fine or two.

One week became two weeks became a month, and I really hadn’t made any friends or done anything beyond my basic, nightly rituals and piles upon piles of homework. Fortunately, by the time August ended and September began, I found that I was perfectly capable of operating like an adult and even found a couple of casual acquaintances who’d wave at me in public. It still wasn’t the same, though. Going back to an empty dorm was a blessing and a curse because, while I didn’t have to worry about somebody asking me why I had satchels of grass drying in my window and candles stockpiled in my closet like I was preparing for Armageddon, I also didn’t have anyone to sit around and shoot the shit with. And honestly, years of being part of a team made magic on my own feel painfully lonely and much less powerful.

“Princess, you are just forty-five minutes away,” Dead Coyote groaned into the phone when I called him, crying.

“I don’t have a car, DC.”

“Yeah, but you know who does? Me. Do you wanna hang this weekend or what?”

I told him that it would be a waste of gas to drive me back and forth. He told me it would be worth the trip. While he’d enjoyed the calm in my absence for the first few days, the quiet was starting to grate on his nerves. And, if I felt so strongly about him spending his cash on gas, he’d just stop by and visit me to cut down on fuel. If I wanted him to stay the whole weekend, hell, he’d just sleep in his car. He’d slept in worse places, he said, though I told him I’d rather him not elaborate. I didn’t want to know what was more disgusting than the backseat of his Grand Prix.

When he arrived, my RA--who just so happened to be one of the leaders of the pagan alliance--eyeballed him suspiciously in the lobby as she tapped her pen against the clipboard with the visitor registry. I can still remember the look of disbelief on her face, tucking her chin down and glaring up at me over her glasses. All she would have needed was a wad of gum smacking in her mouth and she’d look like an extra in an ‘80s movie.

“So, is he your--?”

I told her that he was my older brother which, in retrospect, was a dumb idea. I’m pretty sure that if somebody was asked to draw the polar opposite of me in every way, they would have had a quick sketch of Dead Coyote. She shifted her gaze between us and offered us the tightest, most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen a person manage.

“I’ll just put down he’s your… uh, boyfriend.”

Dead Coyote laughed a little harder than he should have.

If he felt awkward stomping around a crowded building full of awkward college girls, he didn’t show it. They definitely felt that he was out of place, though, gawking and whispering as I just kept chirping at the side of his head about local gossip while he listed off my neighbors and classmates who’d gotten knocked up, arrested, and knocked up then arrested. It was satisfying to hear that, after I was off to college to make something of myself, Jessica Schneider had found her final form as a white-trash party girl who had been locked up after being found with cocaine in her possession. I shouldn’t have laughed, but I was petty enough to still hate her.

While we chatted, I noticed Dead Coyote growing more and more distracted the further we went down the hall. My room was situated at the very end next to a dead light but his eyes kept drifting around like he was looking for something--or someone--in particular. By the time we were at the middle of the corridor, he was casting worried glances over his shoulder, and at the end, he was walking completely backwards. The girl who lived across from me cursed at him when he nearly mowed her down, but he didn’t seem to notice she existed. His brows were furrowed, his lip raised in a mix of disgust and bewilderment, but try as I might I could not figure out what he was looking at.

Residents? A chip in the wall? A bug? Somebody’s gaudy door decoration? Given who it was, he honestly could have been distracted by anything. Even after getting clean-ish, his attention span was as bad as his memory.

When I opened the door, he gently bumped me inside with his hip and ducked in after me like getting to my room was a stealth operation. It shut with a bang that echoed like a gunshot and I realized that I hadn’t even had a chance to get my key out of the lock. I stared at him, he stared at me. After a moment of me drawling like an idiot while I tried to decide whether to ask him what his problem was or if I could get my key, he plopped down on my bed and nodded his head toward the door.

“Who’s in room 14B?”

I didn’t know. When I told him, his confusion turned to concern and he immediately began to ransack my desk. Ignoring anything scandalous he found, he dragged out a pad of yellow legal paper and the fattest marker he could find, scribbling a magic triangle dead in the center with a single word of wisdom bolded and underlined directly beneath it.

STOP.

And with that, he was out the door. I followed him through a smattering of freshman girls as he explained, a bit too loudly, that something was very, very wrong in room 14B. I flinched as a few of them tittered when he started into the metaphysics, preaching darkness and bad vibes and demonology. Yet, more than the embarrassment of being exposed to a few nonbelievers, I was intrigued because I couldn’t really wrap my mind around not being the only practitioner on campus who dabbled in anything heavier than aromatherapy and meditating under trees. Hell, I was almost hopeful.

The stuff he told me was admittedly pretty grim, though. There was power coming from that room, like electricity, and he had no idea how I hadn’t noticed before. He thought he’d taught me better than that. Whatever it was, he said he could feel that the air was so charged that it was nearly painful. The kind of static that makes your hair stand on end and your arms break out in goose skin and makes your head pulse and your teeth hurt.

“They’re up to something and they suck at it, and it’s gonna backfire like a sonuvabitch,,” he explained in front of me and a curious blonde clutching a bowl of Captain Crunch. He stopped in front of 14B, glowered at the tacky cork board hanging on the door, and unceremoniously unpinned a happy little note written in glittery purple pen. It was quickly replaced with his warning, a warning he then had to explain to Cereal Girl after she asked with a full mouth what the fancy triangle was for.

The rest of the day went pretty smoothly, thankfully. Dead Coyote taught me a few new invocations, he helped me with some spells I’d been tinkering with, we threw rocks at cars, and I got to eat actual food that wasn’t the prison-slop the dining hall shelled out. It’s hard to imagine that there was ever a day where an A&W burger would make anyone feel like they were sitting at a banquet in the halls of Valhalla, but you do not understand how special it felt to be eating food that wasn’t university pizza.

After he returned me to my humble abode and picked a parking lot to camp in, I found the RA office empty and the lobby strangely quiet. I tromped up to my floor and started down the hall, taking a quick glance at 14B to see if the message had been received. I half expected it to still be there, but it was gone, ripped off so violently that I could see a shred of lined paper still clinging to the cork board. It was concerning, but I decided I wasn’t the person to fight Dead Coyote’s battles for him.

“Miranda wasn’t happy.”

A voice stopped me and I turned, curious, to see the girl with the bowl of cereal from earlier. This time she had a Hot Pocket, munching as nonchalantly as she had been before. If Dead Coyote ever had a spirit animal, I’m pretty sure it would be Cereal Girl.

I asked who Miranda was and Cereal Girl looked back at room 14B and pursed her sauce-stained lips.

“Miranda? The RA? You really don’t know who she is?”

The RA? That was a shock. I remembered back to my very brief attempt at interacting with the pagan alliance and how she had been so fucking bitter when I told her what it was I did in my spare time. Her, with her pretty auburn curls and her button nose and bohemian earrings and weird, sepia-tinted Instagram selfies. She was the kind of person to shop at Whole Foods and refuse to wear a bra because they were against the will of Mother Gaia. She was not exactly the type of girl I pegged as being capable of setting off all of Dead Coyote’s alarms.

But, I didn’t tell Cereal Girl this. I just told her that, aside from some brief interactions here and there, I wasn’t really familiar with her. I didn’t even know that was her room. I hadn’t even known her name.

“Huh. Weird. ‘Cause she knew exactly who left her that note. I didn’t even have to tell her.”

She gestured at my room at the end of the hall and told me she’d returned the favor. A cold fear filled my stomach and it dropped like a rock straight through the rest of me. While I doubted that somebody on the fast road to fucking up basic ceremonial magic could do much to threaten me, she was still somebody who was on the fast road to fucking up basic ceremonial magic and that was dangerous in and of itself. And if she had it out for me? Hoo, boy, she may not hit me, but with how tedious and detail-oriented it all is, I could imagine what she could do to herself or somebody else.

When I reached my door, though, all that was taped to it was a flowery piece of stationery with a single crest on it: Glasyalabolas. No pentacles, no Sigillum Dei, nothing. Just the crest of Glasylabolas, drawn incorrectly in that same purple gel pen as the note Dead Coyote unpinned from her door. Honestly, it was kind of amusing, but I knew enough to take it as a threat. Even if she was horribly inept, she still had the audacity to try to summon the patron demon of manslaughter in my dorm room. I briefly wondered what she would think if she knew I’d danced with that dog before.

“Okay, what does that mean?” Cereal Girl asked. I untaped the paper, took a pencil out of my bag, and wrote Miss Miranda a note on the back. My new friend trailed me as I walked back to 14B but I never said a word. I just left my new nemesis a friendly little bit of advice for her to find the next morning.

That’s not how this works. Stop it.

As soon as I woke up the following day, I was out at Dead Coyote’s camping spot and climbing in the passenger’s seat of his car. I resolved that I would just spend a lazy Sunday outside of my dorm so I wouldn’t have to think too hard about Miranda and her hypocrisy. We wound up near some nature trail just outside of town and the entire day was spent talking about life and our ambitions and getting back to the basics of him teaching me Spanish profanity and me telling him about my days at school.

We only decided to head back to civilization when the sun started hanging low in the sky, Dead Coyote pitching his last cigarette and sighing, “Well, princess, let’s get you home.”

We only made it partway.

There’s a stretch of road just down the hill from my old dorm that was typically lit up like Vegas at night. I guess enough pedestrians complained that drivers nearly killed them and enough drivers complained about the people-shaped deer that the city council decided it was a good idea to make sure daytime never ended in that one spot. I didn’t immediately get worried when, for the first time in ever, we cruised up the street in pitch-black nothingness, but the closer we got to my final destination for the night I began to feel a prickling across my skin, like static. Side-eying Dead Coyote proved he wasn’t really reacting to it, but the tingle became a burn and that burn became a sharp prick of pain. I flinched in my seat, then smashed into the dashboard as Dead Coyote slammed the brakes.

I would have cussed, but when I looked up, Dead Coyote was staring dead ahead like an alien spacecraft had landed in front of his car. Nose bleeding, I peeked over the edge of the dashboard and struggled to focus my eyes. For a second, all I saw was color and movement: swaying and pale gray. It hurt to look at and the sharp prick of pain grew into a throbbing, stabbing warmth that roiled in my belly and tried to tear its way out of my skin.

“Oh. Shit.”

Dead Coyote’s voice was low, level, but his eyes were pure panic. I saw why when my double vision finally melded together and there, standing in the middle of the road, was a pallid deer with bright, blazing eyes. They were the same color as lightning, hot and white but, for whatever reason, my brain interpreted it as blue.

“Oh… shit,” I echoed, watching as the deer--with strangely human confidence--raised its antlered head high and sauntered across the road. Dead Coyote watched quietly, poked his head out of the car window, and mumbled under his breath as it vanished into the trees. Even outside of the glare of his headlights, it still seemed to give off its own ghastly glow.

He pulled over immediately, dug through the trash in his floorboard for his emergency cigarettes, then jumped across me to grab a flashlight from his glove box. And some chalk. And every leftover salt packet he had collected from every fast food restaurant he’d been to in the past twelve months, which he ripped open and dumped into the chest pocket on his flannel jacket.

“Get out of the car, princess. You know what that was.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. We both knew what and who had just traipsed past us and the fact that he was just wandering around freely like a stray dog did not bode well for anyone or anything in his path.

Furfur.

You can go ahead and giggle at the name--it’s kind of stupid--but if you ignore the name and look to the meat of the matter, Furfur is not the kind of demon you’d want to square off with. Grimoire entries about him are vague and make him seem non-threatening--a mischievous deer who compulsively lies and likes shiny rocks and playing Cupid--but the problem with those entries is that they’re so vague because controlling him is an absolute bitch that nobody wants to bother with. Only under very specific circumstances will he work with a conjurer and, even then, you have to have every failsafe in check to keep him honest. If he’s dishonest, he will waste no time in trying to talk you down the most self-destructive path he can manage.

Dead Coyote, in his younger days, found that out the hard way.

More concerning though was that he was physically there, skin, bones, antlers, and all. Now, even though a lot of these stories I’ve told you would make you think that ceremonial magic is flash, pizazz, and physical interaction, you have to remember that the stories I pick out are ones that are unique and interesting. Most people into ceremonial magic never see anything overtly odd in their entire lives, and even those of us who have experience intense feelings more than we actually get a gander at the big guys. Even if you do see them up-close and personal, they’re normally bound. They can’t really leave where they were summoned, at least if you’re doing it right.

But somebody wasn’t doing it right.

I don’t even think we checked to see if anyone was coming before we bolted across the road--Dead Coyote scrambling over the hood of the car in his panic--and we ran a pretty fair distance before either of us thought to turn on the flashlight. Stumbling, hissing, spitting, we tore through the underbrush even as it threatened to tear through us, blackberry briars and switch-worthy shrubs grabbing at our clothes and lashing across our faces. I felt blood dripping down my forehead and my arms and saw Dead Coyote with briar-covered vines wrapped around his jeans and twigs stuck in his hair. The entire time, he was grumbling and groaning like a teenager bitching about doing his chores.

“Stupid goddamn 14B bitch thinks she knows what she’s doin’ but she don’t know, princess, she has no goddamned idea what she’s doin’ and she’s lucky as fuck that I’m here because I actually read more than one goddamned motherfucking piece of shit book on the subject unlike her dumbass and I fucking swear, princess, she better hope I don’t find her ‘cause--”

This went on for a while. One continuous sentence without so much as a pause that lasted all the way to a clearing among the trees that eventually faded into what looked like a local farm. Overgrown wild grass was separated from trimmed grazing ground by a rickety wooden fence, the entire expanse illuminated by the moon. And there, standing proudly like he was waiting for us, was the deer.

Dead Coyote reached for the salt in his pocket. Through some chance miracle, our stomping around in the underbrush between the street and the clearing hadn’t ripped a hole in it. I expressed concern pretty much immediately about how effective salt would be against a bona fide Goetic power, but he just glowered at me and huffed a tangled strand of hair out of his face.

“Princess, the only thing better than salt is holy water, and I ain’t packin’ that today. I do have, like, what? Half a cup of Burger King salt? We make do, a’ight?”

Slowly, we crept toward the deer. Looking back, I’m not quite sure why, as Furfur was watching us the whole time, painfully aware of what we were doing, rigid and strong and unwavering. He didn’t really believe we would do anything to him, or that we could even if we tried. Part of me wants to believe it was out of habit--deer are normally so easily spooked--but I know that I was absolutely petrified. I had never encountered anything so strong that was unbound, and I could still remember that feeling of electricity and pain in my stomach when we nearly hit it with the car. I didn’t want to be near Furfur but I knew in the bottom of my heart that the only person qualified to get rid of him in the area was Dead Coyote, and armed only with salt packets? Well, he sure as shit couldn’t do it alone.

We were almost within salt-throwing distance when Furfur turned to me and smiled. Human teeth in a deer mouth, stretched as wide as it could, grinning at me with a glint of curiosity and maliciousness in its eyes. That tearing feeling in my abdomen came back and every nerve in my skin flared to life like a thousand white-hot pins were being jammed into me. Dead Coyote opened his mouth to speak, but his voice trailed off when I keeled over.

“Lonely. Empty.”

Furfur’s voice was an echoing, monotone whisper. His mouth moved in a way far too human to be anything but horrifying.

“Come to harm me. I can help you.”

I still don’t know why I remember everything he said. Maybe it’s because of the fact he was so powerful and supernatural that he just willed his little speech to burn itself into my mind. Maybe I did it myself, seeing as trauma can be a bitch. But, while I was rolling on the ground, clutching my stomach, vision blurry and nerve endings screaming, he spoke to me. Slow, rhythmic, almost taunting, and every word made my heart squeeze like it would burst.

He told me how disgusting I was. He told me how I made my mother miserable, how much she wished that she had aborted me. He told me that my father had forgotten I existed and was glad to be in prison, away from me. He harped about how I would one day die alone, forgotten and unloved, in the same shithole apartments I grew up in and that it would be just like Cheryl. I’d choke on my own vomit and nobody would find me for days, the victim of a low and savage upbringing. And about Cheryl? Oh, he talked on and on about Cheryl, smiling and speaking in a melodious, almost sing-song pattern that was somehow still as flat as its words before.

“You hated her, did you not?”

I choked that I didn’t.

“No. You did. You were jealous. She was stealing him, yes? You are glad she is dead.”

Dead Coyote’s lips were a tight line, his muscles taut. It was as though he was frozen in time, though I know it was just the mention of Cheryl that choked him up. There was something furious in him, a fire I could almost feel. I was afraid, so fucking afraid, that he hated me because of everything that fucking deer was spewing out of its mouth. Tears welled up in my eyes and I sobbed, loudly, that I didn’t want Cheryl dead.

“No. No. You wish for something else. Tell me what it is… princess.”

He snapped. It had been a long time since I had seen Dead Coyote lose his absolute shit, but he exploded toward Furfur like he was launched out of a cannon, salt balled up in his fist like he was planning on punching a deer in the face. Furfur only tilted his head and chuckled, perfectly still even as Dead Coyote began to bark dispelling incantations at him and shovel handfuls of salt in his face.

When the salt-well ran dry, he pulled a folding knife out of his pants pocket and took it to his arm. I didn’t see what he carved. I found out much later on that he now has a nice, jagged, but rather impressive scar in the shape of a magic triangle hiding amongst his tattoos. It’s the one seal that can control Furfur, the one that can make him play nice and go home.

But I missed the excitement afterward, being curled into a ball on the grass and heaving sobs into my knees until I heard Dead Coyote stop screaming. I hardly even noticed the pain receding over Furfur’s voice still ringing in my head, only snapping out of my trance when I felt something thud to the ground next to me.

A deer skull, with half-finished carvings riddling the bone that were redone with smudged paint marker. Furfur’s crest was right smack in the middle of its forehead, in metallic silver. A smaller, almost insignificant Seal of Solomon was beneath it, perfectly centered and meticulously drawn. I sniffled as I cursed Miranda the RA for being too stupid to realize that placement and sizing in sigils were more important than aesthetics. You don’t make the demon more powerful than the controller, and you better use the right damn pentacle. No wonder her pet was running wild.

I think the most pain I ever suffered was still aching from Furfur’s aura and trekking back to the car, and I almost begged Dead Coyote to let me just sleep it off in the clearing. It was worth it to go back to campus--me hobbling in and clutching my everything while he strolled in behind me holding his trophy by the antlers--to watch as he walked straight to the RA’s office, found little Miranda sitting at the desk watching Youtube videos, and slammed the skull so hard into the ground that the bone splintered and shattered in a dozen different directions. Miranda screamed and jumped out of her seat.

Dead Coyote snarled.

“If you don’t know how to walk the left-hand path, stay on your own goddamn road. And if I ever hear you have tried to summon some bullshit again, or if you think about hexing my girl, I will throw out every single goddamn reservation I have about doing harm unto others. Do you understand?”

She didn’t call campus police, for whatever reason. Maybe because she knew she fucked up. Either way, when aspirin and Tylenol did nothing to make me stop jittering and groaning, I decided to skip my dorm for the night and head down to Dead Coyote’s camp site at the parking lot down the road. We sat up for hours upon hours, blazing through a secret stash of dashboard weed despite his insistence that I not touch the stuff. It was the only thing that made me stop hurting, though, and that was all he cared about in the end.

I apologized, again and again, bawling in a cloud of smoke about all of the things Furfur said, everything about Cheryl. He watched me, eyebrow raised, before handing me a napkin from the center console.

“Ah, princess. C’mon. It’s Furfur. He lies about everything if he ain’t sealed properly. I know you didn’t hate Cher. You cried as much as I did when she died.”

He took a drag off his joint.

“You were jealous, though.”

When the weed was gone and he’d given me one of his patented, stoned-out-of-his-mind, how-are-you-this-goddamn-wise-when-you-can’t-even-remember-your-phone-number pep talks, he dropped me back off at my dorm. Miranda was gone, the RA’s office empty, and the lobby deserted. When I got to the hall, only Cereal Girl remained, staring at my door with half a Twix sticking out of her mouth like a cigar. Our eyes met, but she didn’t have to say a word. She just smirked and laughed, crumbs splattering across the ground and, probably because I was high as fuck, I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

Taped to my door was another crest of Glasyalabolas.

Yet again, Miranda had drawn it wrong.