#i wanted it to look like an unfinished sketch abandoned by the artist

[chiiroptereh]

Grief is a hole in the chest

[randomwriteronline]

It was so warm and tender that he thought he might have died.

It was a fleeting thought, bursting from his chest with the rustle of a small bird's wings as it left him only a heart beating fast and gentle, and a splendid unknown with curious eyes looking up as it laid beneath him.

Could he have described it? Oh, he didn't know; he wasn't enough of an artistic soul to do such a thing justice with his words. If he was forced to wrack his brain about it, he would have said it was incomplete: like a sketch left unfinished, the vague shape of an anatomical structure made of sand abandoned at the cruel mercy of the rising tide, some new flavor of sublime.

But he didn't want to think, and all he could describe it as was handsome.

He leaned down upon it, basking in the heat and light and barely completed physicality. His hand brushed the cheek, pressure causing its infinite pieces to crumble before they returned to their rightful place.

So handsome, he muttered as he settled between the ever shifting legs. So handsome.

The marvelous being looked at him with the gleaming eyes of a puzzled child beholding a strange rite for the first time.

"What is this?" it asked.

"Oh, we've got names for it," he replied: "Some crass or mean or downright silly."

He sunk into the body of multitudes like one sinks in a warm, dense liquid, with a pleasant mellow resistance enveloping him wholly; his gorgeous partner gasped without a mouth, and its arms melted briefly as it was taken by surprise. He kissed its forehead kindly, feeling its fluid chest lurch slowly forward for an overwhelmed second before deflating so sweetly.

"If you like it, we can call it making love," he said with a smile.

The body beneath him raised to surround him.

"I do," his wonderful lover replied breathlessly, wrapping him within itself slowly, limbs rising to consume him, swallow him, with such magnificent tenderness, and on its yet to be drawn face bloomed something akin to watercolor blush beneath its shining eyes: "I do like it - I do like it very much."

He moved forward, sliding without opposition deeper within the gentle mound covering him, embracing him slowly.

It felt sweet, and good, and just like he'd imagined it, or almost; the strange non-existence of the body he pierced at such a deliberate pace felt welcoming despite the peculiarity, the fleeting sensation as it barely clasped around him like a spectre's shadow upon a wall - but after all, he could not expect the taking of a formless minor god to feel too similar to that of a creature of flesh and blood.

A blissful sigh grazed his face through a cloud of mild golden embers.

"I like it so, my friend," the wondrous beast whispered, its voice propagating through him in long waves: "I do like it - I truly do like it so, my friend, truly, truly..."

He was slow, so slow, so gentle, as he kept going, going, going, sinking further and further down in that barely held together shape that kept enveloping him with relaxed coils as if trying to turn him into another part of itself - here he was, inching slowly along its stomach, digging in its faux entrails to fill it up completely, kind and warm and loving, moving into its chest where a quiet thrumming spasmed rhythmically through the sand-like form while it curled around him, covering every single inch of him, leaving a sensation so indescribably good across his skin.

He leaned down to kiss where its mouth should have been and felt a pair of lips kiss back.

"I love it - I love it, I do," it breathed through him, overwhelmed by something too delightful to explain: "I do, I do, I do."

In a moment, he was swallowed up completely.

The splendid creature exhaled through his lungs, long and quiet, as they both unwound.

"I do," they both repeated longingly, bodies and minds muddled together imperfectly like too much syrup in too little water, distinct but not for long: "I do. I do."

His hand reached out.

Something akin to another palm caught it.

He held onto his marvelous lover for a long while, feeling it pulse over him slowly.

"How wonderful," it sighed through him, smitten.

He laughed quietly, just as lovestruck.

"How wonderful indeed." he whispered through it.

The dream kept going - longer than it should have, really; the shapeless body enveloping him held him down, close to the unknowable core of the gorgeous chimera in his grasp, until their thoughts began clearing from the humid mist overtaking them again, until their forms began to divide enough to be pulled apart from each other again, until he could see those magnificent eyes clearly again (half-lid and heavy and gleaming with the soft sheen of velvet, taking all the time in the world to return from their bliss), until he could feel the hand gently resting on his nape as something outside himself again, until the invisible mouth that met him halfway to a kiss was one with his own in a manner different from the inexplicable unity that had bound them again.

He felt a quiet sigh curl upon his cheeks, just for a moment, warm and tired. Then his sublime partner closed its wonderful eyes, breathing deeply, fast asleep - and Ackar woke up still groggy, with his body half aching from moving in ways it hadn't enjoyed in a long while now, as Mata Nui slumbered deeper still in his own rest, exhausted from making love.

[chronomaza]

You know what I don't see enough of? 4th wall breaks, but not as comic relief, as horror. I'm not talking stuff like Doki Doki literature club, either. When done right, I think there'd be few things as terrifying- especially since there's no way in hell the audience can see such a thing coming.

Like imagine reading through a book, watching a movie or a show, or playing a game, and as you read/watch/play through it you start to notice one character acting a bit odd after seeing or experiencing something, etc. Something's just- clicked something into place in their head, and now they're acting differently. Sure, maybe it's what happened earlier in the plot freaking them out, maybe they're just scared and want to go home. But soon, this character starts to ramble on about something they can't quite put words to, to this character, something is just absolutely wrong in a way they just CANNOT explain. Their friends try to comfort them, try to put reason to what they're explaining or simply cure their fear all together.

But then, it hits them. And it hits them like a bullet shot straight from the gates of hell itself. And they might not say it directly, but to the reader it's terrifyingly obvious. This character has just realized they're not real.

They start to ramble in an erratic, crazed way, any aspect of who that character was before slowly getting buried and twisting into unrecognizably as all their negative traits and fears completely take the wheel. Any hope at recovering this character has become hopeless, their previous story, life, plot, all abandoned. Their mission is now to solve this, to warn everyone, but how? They become more and more terrified over time as they notice things they shouldn't of.

They notice how the world simply doesn't exist in some spots- or worse, is a vague outline like an unfinished area in a videogame or an old incomplete sketch forever left in the WIP folder of an artist. They notice every character they didn't already know or talk to is blurry, as if they were a character in the background of a movie walking by. Only the people they were the closest to- that the plot considered relevant, are given the luxury of full humanity. How hadn't they noticed it before? Why didn't anyone else notice? Did the world only exist where it wanted them to look?

Why would it exist anywhere else? Why bother fleshing out lore for an area the plot never visits? Why inhabit a town with real characters when only a handful of them are ever met? Why give those few characters their own lives if they're only talked to once? Why give excess, overwhelmingly deep detail to anyone other than who the plot focuses on in some capacity? Why bother writing thoughts for any other character than the one we actively see into the mind of? Even the most rich and thick plots have holes left for the reader to fill in on their own, even the most in depth novels have places they stop for the sake of simplicity.

How terrifying would it be to realize your world has edges nobody talks about? To learn the stars are but an illusion, and nothing truly exists beyond the sky? To notice how everything gradually becomes lower and lower detail the farther from your average life you stray? To realize that in a world with a determined path set out for you, you've wandered off the trail, and now you're lost in the unforgiving cold? To realize that once you do something you're not supposed to, your entire world begins to tear apart at the seams?

What is a story, truly, aside from a stage filled with props, giving the illusion of a world to the audience? What are side characters, locations, histories, etc but props the plot uses on the main character?

And how terrifying would it be to realize you're the only actor?

[honestlyfrance]

to bleed on paper is to create

ship: sam/bucky

warning: angst, hurt/comfort

summary:

“What does this mean…” Sam whispered, setting his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.

“We could…” Bucky trailed off, then he became silent, “What do you want?”

or

Sam, an amateur artist, and Bucky, an international nude model, blur the lines of work, ending up being unprofessional to the point that they'd need to end it.

—■—■—

The way the sunlight streamed in through the musty French windows was of grandeur and an absolute aesthetic to the abandoned atmosphere, whisking the abandoned ballroom into another century too old for tales, yet it felt like home: like we belong. It’s here that the room looked like a filtered nude brown as jagged columns high as the sky reached the half-finished mural on the ceiling, raggedy pale nude curtains decorated itself with holes drawn aside to let the sunlight dance on the marble tiles like mosaics on a Cathedral; this architectural beauty wasn’t done yet �� construction beams and debris nets design the far end of the unfinished floor plan, and there’s much to do to make this room the final product.

In the empty expanse of the ballroom was one lone creaky bed, the clean cream sheets shoved to the side and the bed frame rusted with golden paint. Two figures were lazing on the bed, one half-naked and one fully clothed, too close together to call it anything but intimate. Their atoms buzzed together, seemingly forever and nowhere at the same time, as if they finally felt at peace with each other’s existence, almost as if they wanted nothing more than to lay in each other’s arms, feeling the other finally breathe so freely it should’ve been a sin to be so lax and human as if lovely and heavenly all the same, they’ve reinvented the very definition of such thing as if they’re the very essence of it.

Bucky Barnes was resting on his elbow, his bare chest free for the eyes as the lower part of his body was wrapped with the thin sheets that came with the raggedy bed. His breathing was relaxed and free, and he couldn't help but inhale the scent of the entire atmosphere; paint buckets lining the window sills and rose pots displayed at the double doors of the ballroom, mixing in together so beautifully it had a personality of its own. His fingers were lightly pulling at the sheet, feeling the softness like a desperate lover, you couldn’t help but take note of the adoration written in his eyes, and if he could, he would take that adoration to the stars, because right in front of him was Sam Wilson, in a criss-cross position as he sketched away on his sketchpad, his tongue gracing his lip slightly in concentration, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to place the pad of his thumb on the man’s mouth and to tell him to shut up and let me love you right here, right now. 

Bucky’s eyes were glinting with genuine idolization, wanting nothing more but to throw away his beliefs to make Sam the leader of it all, or instead, wanting to serve the man before him, to save the man right beside him, and to unconditionally love the man like no god has ever thought of before. His heart was pounding in his throat, making it dry and him unable to voice every little enthusiastic poetic claim he wants to tell Sam. Does Sam know how much Bucky’s lungs grow blue from depriving himself of air just so Sam could breathe freely? Does Sam know how much love pounded in Bucky’s chest that he just wanted to rip his stomach wide open to let it pounce right out of him? Does Sam know how much thrill Bucky gets from his sight alone that he couldn’t help but want to drown himself to slow down the pace of adrenaline in his veins? Will Sam ever know how much Bucky painfully starves himself of this love because he never wanted to be full of it, always afraid that if he took it all with open arms he’d never have this ecstasy ever again?

He fights the urge to grace his knuckles against Sam’s cheekbone, being delicately layered with the golden sun rays the sunset outside had blessed them with. Bucky fights the want to lean into Sam’s space and lay down beside him, embracing Sam with all of his body and never letting go, afraid that he’d miss him the next time they escape each other’s grasps. Bucky wanted to plant himself like a tree and scream at the fate the stars had set out for him, begging the universe to let him rest with the man he had found to love because it’s too much — God, it’s too deadly, it sickens, it pains Bucky to even love Sam because it’s too intense to hide it. Bucky needed to yell out Sam Wilson’s name to the suns and beg Icarus to rise once more to grace Sam with wings made of wax, forever intact in legend and forever an angel of the stars. There’s nothing more desperate than to want this badly, and Bucky’s too greedy to share the man with anyone else, always wanting Sam to stay and never loosen his grasp— Please. Just hold me close and never look back, Sam, please. Love me as I do you and never know of heartache. It’s below us to digress.

Bucky’s too tired to voice it, but he wants to bury himself in the ground just because Sam had smiled at him, always feeling the need to appear small to make up for being… himself. It’s not insecurity, it’s the idea of knowing you would only suffice; just being enough. Have you met Sam, you’d know that the man is full of service, and it wouldn’t take too long to learn to love him to the brink of exhaustion, and in the end, you wouldn’t think your love would be enough to satiate a man such as him, deserving of every last drop of love anyone could ever offer. You’d have the sudden urge to brace yourself for the god-like abilities the man has, and his smile alone is one of them. 

Sam, on the other hand, didn’t think so, always burying himself six-feet below whenever anyone gave him a slice of heaven, because maybe it was too much, needed to make up every amateur thing he did by making sure no one saw him as a professional. It’s not healthy, and it’s not what he knew was right, but it did; it felt right to dwindle into nothingness and blend into the wallpaper because maybe it was easier, maybe he was tired of the attention towards him, needed to forget himself to truly feel like himself again.  

All Sam wanted was Bucky to stop staring at him as if every constellation known to man was in his eyes, knowing full well that Bucky was an astronomer and would want nothing more but to drown in his irises Bucky had claimed to “have the fates of every person written in the stars” as if Sam would believe such folly. Sam wanted nothing more but to bury this immense feeling of warmth that grows in his chest every time Bucky moved as if a danseur dancing to the melody that is his heartbeats as if dedicating his every move to the sun and the stars, wanting nothing more to make art in the form of love if such dedication existed in the first place. Yet, it did — Sam just didn’t want to believe it. 

Sam stared intently on his sketchpad for so long that his neck began to strain at the weight of it, his hand diligently making careful light strokes with his charcoal. Sam could feel Bucky’s eyes on his clothed body, and he wanted nothing more but to run away because— “it’s too much, don’t you dare see me so vulnerable to you! Don’t ever let me fall for you,” Sam wanted to say, but with Bucky’s eyes and playful smile, Sam would begin to judge himself, because why must I run away from a man who made me know he wouldn’t let me down? “I care about him,” Bucky said to himself, and he made sure of it that night when he held Sam that close, under the stars peeking through the windows, and under the same mural above them. It was an intimate getup, with the way Sam had clutched onto Bucky’s coat in the cold, Bucky rubbing Sam’s back in careful circles, and that could’ve been the time when they admitted they loved the other — forever buried in secret, because they were professionals, goddamnit. They shouldn’t be this close, and it hurts just to think of it.

Sam shook his head, stifling down a laugh; his smile alone, Bucky thinks, could challenge suns on its own. “Can’t believe you stripped down,” he said, and Bucky, right on cue, raised his arms to stretch his bare torso, a smirk on his face as Sam continued with an eye roll, “It’s way past our session, Barnes,”

read more on AO3

[helnjk]

Paint Brush Bristles - L.L.

Luna Lovegood x fem!reader

Word count: 699

Summary: A surprise for Luna gets discovered a little bit earlier than expected. 

Warnings: none! 

A/N: this was inspired by this ask by jess ( @whizboingies​ ) for the made up fic title game! it’s a short one because i really just wanted to write something out for the cute idea i had in my head 🧚🏼‍♀️also i can’t believe it took me THIS LONG to write smth so short sajdhk 

–

It wasn’t perfect.

The painting of the Moon Frog that you had been working on for what seemed like days now wasn’t perfect. In comparison to your other works, it was rather small, but it was part of the collection you were going to show Luna. It had to be of the best quality. 

Usually, you wouldn’t fret over a few minor mistakes. A few lines that weren’t just right, some coloring that didn’t meet your expectations, those things were just part of the creative process. In fact, your room was filled with either unfinished or imperfect sketches and paintings that you deemed ill-suited for anyone else to see. These were reminders to yourself of the growth you’ve had as a budding artist. 

But now, now you were working on a project that was too close to your heart for you to overlook errors. 

You didn’t know what went wrong. The paintings that you had finished before this one were practically perfect, you loved how they caught the light in just the right way. They were all placed neatly on a shelf, ready to be presented, but there was just something about this particular one that didn’t meet your standards. 

With a frustrated sigh, you dropped the paintbrush you were holding into a jar filled with water. The impact of the brush in the water caused a few droplets to spill over onto the table, but you were unbothered. 

“Is there something on your mind?” 

The soft, almost dreamy voice of Luna that came from your door nearly made you jump. She had a habit of creeping up on you, and despite this being the umpth time, your heart still raced. A nervous laugh escaped your lips as you gained your bearings. 

“Just a little creative block, I’m afraid.” You smiled at her.

“I figured,” she said nonchalantly, “You’ve got quite a bit of Wrackspurts buzzing about you right now.” 

“Is that so? I knew something was different about today.” You replied, not hiding the smirk on your lips. 

The blonde girl merely grinned at you before her eyes began to scan over at all your unfinished work. She liked to do that, take in the beauty of your sketches and your paintings, really taking the time to look over the details of each piece. 

Your art was actually one of the first things that brought you two together. You had been drawing out on the grounds of Hogwarts, making the most out of the beautiful day, when Luna had come up to you and told you that the way you drew the landscape was incomparable to anyone else. 

Now, even after your time at the school, she was still one of your biggest supporters. 

A small squeal shocked you out of your daydreaming and you turned to look at Luna. She was staring at the half finished painting of the Moon Frog you had abandoned just a few minutes ago. 

“Oh this is exactly what Moon Frogs look like, Y/N!” she sighed dreamily. 

You groaned slightly, realizing your mistake, “That was supposed to be a surprise!” 

She gingerly picked up the small frame, “Well, either way I think it’s beautiful.” 

Heat rose up your neck and onto your cheeks at the compliment, after all this time you still struggled when anyone gave praise about your work. 

“I’ve actually been working on a few more things for you,” You admitted sheepishly. 

Quickly, you gathered the small pile of canvases that held paintings of just some of Luna’s favorite magical creatures to talk about. Each painting was only about the size of your palm, but bursting with color and light. 

You knew how much she loved all kinds of things, things that most people couldn’t see, so this was your way of making them see for themselves. 

“These are all so wonderful, Y/N,” She grinned, taking each one and observing them from different angles, “We can even ask daddy if he could add some of these in the paper! Oh he’ll be so thrilled.” 

You let out a relieved laugh, shaking your head and pressing a kiss to her cheek, “You are wonderful, love.” 

–

general taglist: @expectoevans​ @george-fabian-weasley​ @gxthsanrio​ @slytherinscribbles​ @harpyloon​ @nuttytani​ @mesmerisedangel​ @amourtentiaa​

[mintchanniemint]

[4:06 p.m] You just sat down at the table in a small Café near home. It was a sunny day, although you had to spend it working, but changing location helped you feel a bit more motivated. Working on your project in such a chill place, with soft music playing in the background and the sweetness of a hot chocolate, was really a great idea.

You put your laptop on the table, after ordering a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie. You were already savoring the taste of the little snack you were waiting for and you couldn't help but get a bit distracted, forgetting for a moment to turn on your laptop, and you just stared at the black screen for some seconds, a bit lost.

The sudden noise of chairs moving right behind you snapped you out of that state and you accidentally looked at the reflection on the screen of your laptop, recognizing a familiar figure sitting right at a table behind you. You gasped and quickly turned on the laptop and took out some notes and books from your bag, hoping you didn't get anyone's attention, when finally the waiter brought your beloved hot chocolate and cookie. You thanked him with a slightly embarrassed smile and quickly focused on your things.

It felt like an eternity, but only twenty minutes have passed. And the cute white mug that was once filled with chocolate was quickly empty and abandoned on the corner of the table, right next to the window. You sighed, looking sometimes at the notes on your desk, and sometimes at the people outside passing by the street, while eating the cookie.

Do I really have to do this? It's such a boring task...

You sighed again, silently arguing with your own thoughts. You had to do this! C'mon, you definitely had to go through worse and more boring things, so why complaining now?

Your eyes quickly shifted to the screen of your laptop, seeing again that the curly haired guy who was sitting two tables behind you was still there. You couldn't see much, but he was probably reading a book, sometimes writing something on a small notebook, and taking a sip from the mug right next to his hand.

He looked really focused, unlike you.

What are you doing! Stop getting distracted and finish this project! If everything distracts you, you probably would still be here by the time the shop closes!

You shook your head and tried to focus once again on your laptop, slowly typing on the keyboard. Your eyes kept taking quick looks on the reflection of the guy, who was peacefully minding his own business.

You didn't see each other too many times, but the few times you interacted, it really felt so nice. He always recommended you to get specific flowers for specific occasions, and whenever he noticed you were not in a great mood, he would always leave a note with the name of a flower that reminded him of you or that had a specific, cute, meaning.

So… What if you did something like that, too?

… Was it really the time to think that? No, no it was not. But how were you supposed to focus if your mind just kept getting filled up with thoughts about the green haired guy? You sighed, and quickly got your phone from your bag, searching for some flowers and their meanings.

You… Didn't really have any flowers with you at the moment, but you had tons of pieces of paper, and way too many pens and highlighters, so maybe…! You got slightly excited, and smiled at your own idea. Anything sounded nice whenever you wanted to avoid work!

You searched for a couple of minutes on different websites, when suddenly you found it. You slightly nodded while reading the description of that flower, and quickly checked if you had the correct color for that small drawing.

You were not a great artist at all, but you really felt like doing that, so you got a small piece of paper and drew a rose.

Mh… That didn't really look like a rose.

You huffed and got another small piece of paper, trying to draw it again.

You looked at it, and once again… That was not a rose at all…

Why is it so difficult!

You whined silently, but accidentally hit the table with your knee, and noticed that you got Chan's attention for a couple of seconds, seeing how he looked at your direction with worry in his eyes, but once he made sure nothing happened, he smiled. You were holding your breath as if you were trying not to get caught, and once you saw him focusing back on the book in his hand, you sighed in relief.

Ok, c'mon, you're wasting your already wasted time!

You got another piece of paper, and tried your best to draw that little rose. This time you were pretty satisfied with the result, and quickly got the peach pink highlighter in order to colour the flower and then leave a short message.

<<peach rose = gratitude>>

…Were you supposed to… Maybe write something else?

<< - y/n :) >>

Better.

Maybe, leaving your number? Was it a good idea? You hummed, not knowing if you should have written it or not, but whatever, if he doesn’t want your number he can just... ignore it, right? You nodded, agreeing with your own thoughts and quickly wrote your number on the top corner, right next to the flower you jutst drew.

You smiled and carefully folded the little piece of paper, leaving it next to your book. You wanted to give it to him when you were leaving, but you didn't really think that maybe he was going to leave before you did.

And that's definitely because you wasted some time getting distracted!

You bit your lip once that thought entered your mind, and quickly focused on your work, doing your best not to get distracted in any way, sometimes checking if Chan was still there, or if he was ready to leave.

And there it was. After nearly one hour, the finished project!

You were probably ready to present it to your colleagues that exact moment. You felt so proud you couldn't help but smile, even though your hands hurt a bit and you needed some stretching, so you carefully did some quick desk stretches to release some stress from your shoulders.

You were doing some lazy seated twists and right when you turned, you saw Chan right there. The book left on the table. This time he was focused on the notebook, while slightly bopping his head according to the beat of the music he was listening, the mint green curls gently caressing his forehead.

You smiled and finally turned off the laptop, putting it back in your bag with the various notes and books you used. After eating the last piece of cookie you left as a reward to yourself, you noticed the small piece of paper you folded earlier, with the idea to leave it to the curly haired florist. But was it a good idea? What if he thought you were a freak?

You were hesitant, but you had to do something!

You suddenly stood up, clearing your throat, a bit embarrassed. Before leaving the money on the counter of the shop, you quickly moved closer to Chan. You were just going to say hi, ask him about his day and “accidentally” leave the little piece of paper on his book! Great idea, wasn't it?

When you reached his seat, he quickly closed the notebook and looked at you, his cheeks getting slightly red.

You were a bit confused at his reaction so you quickly greeted him. He smiled at you and you chatted a little bit.

"I'm glad you were able to finish your project! It was a really fun show to see!" He jokingly said, probably he noticed all the random things you did, from sighing every 4 minutes to getting distracted looking at every single person entering the shop.

You laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Oops, hope I didn't distract you way too much though."

You said, pointing at his notebook and book.

"Oh, actually…"

He hesitated a bit, but then quickly showed you his notebook.

It was a drawing. “I have to admit the subject didn’t stay still for more than ten minutes, but I think I’m satisfied with it.”

More specifically, a drawing of you.

He looked at you, trying to decipher your expression.

You just looked at it, slightly shocked.

It was a drawing of you, even though it mainly showed your back, it was nothing special, just a quick sketch: you could clearly see small details like the laptop files, the pieces of paper on your table, the mug and the unfinished cookie in your hand, while you were looking outside the window. An added object was a flower on the table, it was a really beautiful one and there was a small arrow indicating it, with a little note on it. You smiled reading the meaning of the flower. It was not an existing one, he just made it up on the spot for the drawing, but he felt like it would perfectly suit you.

You loved it, and felt a bit embarrassed as well. You never thought anyone could use you as a subject for their drawing, and it felt… weird, but in a positive way.

He laughed, a bit embarrassed at how you were just staring at it, and slowly teared up the piece of paper from the notebook, paying attention not to ruin the drawing, and he handed it to you.

"You can have it!"

You gasped and quickly accepted the little gift, carefully putting it in your bag. But weren't you forgetting something?

Right! Your drawing! ...Was that even considered a “drawing”, though?

You handed him the small piece of paper, and held his hand for a second, that embarrassing feeling slowly growing inside. You were a bit scared of what his reaction could have been, so, as the great coward you can be sometimes, you didn’t really want to witness it.

"Please open it when you're home! I feel so embarrassed right now… I'm not good at drawing, but I tried!"

You spit every single word so quickly, it would have been a challenge for him to really understand what you said.

He just smiled, though, looked at your hand gently holding his, and thanked you.

"So… yeah, see you!” You said in a hurry, not able to take that embarrassment anymore, waved goodbye to him and quickly went in front of the counter to pay and leave.

Once one your way home, you couldn't help but feel your cheeks going on fire. The interaction was the bare minimum but at the same time it felt like you just talked for hours!

You smiled, thinking about the drawing he gave you, and thought that maybe paying him a visit at his shop again wouldn't be such a bad idea.

[maximoffzinha]

Sunsets

“ @leilei-draws​ said:Hi! I saw that you are taking requests, i was wondering if you could do Poe Dameron dating an artist reader? :)“ 

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I really hope you like it!  Word Count: 1257 words. Pairing: Poe Dameron x Artist!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None :)

(A/N: The quote on the gif doesn’t have anything to to with the plot lol) °°°

You were calm. The evening breeze involved you in a pleasant way, a harsh contrast against the hot nights you spent in D’Qar. The war was over. The First Order was defeated, you could finally rest, you could finally live. Letting a small pleased sigh scape your mouth, you turned your eyes to the horizon once more where the beautiful and warm orange of the sunset greeted you and inspired you to keep working on the piece resting on your lap.

It was a simple sketch. The tall trees around the lake, the water would be reflecting the same orange tone surrounding you, and the shape of a landed X- Wing was just beginning to take form as you stroked the notebook gently. It was almost full already. During the fighting days you almost didn’t have time to practice your true passion. You loved the arts, you were studying it, almost finishing your degree on the Royal Art Academy of Naboo when everything turned into chaos.

The First Order started to grow quite fast, and while your heart was in the arts, you couldn’t stand by the atrocities being made. So, you dropped out, and joined the Navy Academy. Your family was quite wealthy, and while they didn’t like you abandoning an almost finished degree, they didn’t complain about having a pilot in the family, you could always make money on the royal fleet. Much to their dismay, you ran away, not wasting a single second on joining the Resistance, not hesitating on fighting for what was right.  You didn’t regret that, if it wasn’t for that you wouldn’t have met Poe.

He was already a Capitan when you joined, quickly ascending in positions as the Resistance best pilot. You didn’t pay him mind though. Only a few words were exchanged between the two of you for at least 4 months before you were called by General Organa.

 3 years and 4 months earlier…

 “Good evening General. Pava said you wanted to see me?” – You entered the General’s office, and saw the dark haired pilot siting right across the woman.

 “Ah yes, officer Y/L/N, come in.”- The woman said in a serious tone.

You couldn’t see his face, but you knew it well, after the mock posters featuring the handsome pilot were published inside the base it was hard not to know Poe Dameron. He seemed tense, but didn’t turn around as you approached the desk. “Well, it has come to my knowledge that you attended the Royal Art Academy of Naboo before enlisting on the Navy Academy, is that correct, Y/L/N?” “It is ma’am. Is there anything I could do to help using my arts background?”

She smiled at the young pilot’s quick thinking and nodded towards Poe.

“Commander Dameron is going to need your help on a small mission, we are getting information about a spy in our midst…”- at the mention of the spy Poe clenched his jaw. “ Our informant couldn’t get a picture or a name, but said they memorized the features of our little friend, so we need someone that can draw their face on a remote location while I go and get the description.”- He said looking at you, and oh boy, those eyes.

 You only nodded, he was facing you now, and you found yourself lost in those dark orbs, now lighted up by the orange glow of the sunset that came from the window of Leia’s office only pulled out by the tiny smirk forming on his face, reciprocated by one of your own. °°°

You shivered a little when the wind caught up, a little colder now that the sun had set completely. You got down of the edge of the balcony of your lake house, and sat down on one of the couches there curling up and flicking through your sketchbook, it was not the same one you had in the beginning years of your Resistance years, but it was one Poe got you in the middle of a mission, still back in war days, before he was General Dameron. You smiled fondly at a messy drawing of a stick figure person next to a detailed drawing you did of BB-8, the messy handwrite above the sticky figure (that had a tongue out, thank you very much) also brought a smile to your face, Rey had drew herself next to her favorite droid and while both you and her had been a little tipsy when this happened she was proud of her job.

A few pages forward that was a unfinished drawing of Leia and Poe sharing one of, what you called, Space Mom and Child moment, Poe was sitting on the floor while Leia was in a rock that looked a little like a chair, he was looking up at here like a little kid, a dopey smile in his face, while she had a scowl on her face, her eyes though, you remembered, they were smiling as much as Poe. Behind them a myriad of colors, purple, yellow and the ever present orange.

 “Admiring the greatest works of the greatest artist of the Galaxy again I see…”- You felt strong arms wrapping around her bare shoulders before she registered the words.

“They’re not that good Poe… It’s all blurred and stained on the edges…It even has a coffee stain…”

“It’s the greatest art ever, you can’t change my mind.” – He gave a small kiss to your neck before sitting down next to you and getting the sketchbook from your hands.

 “Poe! Come on, I have an unfinished one! And Maker knows what I’m going to do with you if you get engine grease on that one…”- You threw yourself at him when he started holding the notebook far from you.

 “Oh, come on, baby. I washed my hands! You know I did. Beebs was there If you want to ask him!”- He pouted when you managed to get the book again and going inside after giving him a suspicious look.

“How was your day?” – You called out making a happy sound when you noticed take out food at the dining table. “You are an angel, how did you know I was too lazy to cook today?” He walked inside and smiled, the smile getting bigger when you dropped your stuff to give Beebs some belly rubs, and he couldn’t help but grab the sketchbook once more and was blown away by the drawing. “B-baby? What’s this?”- They turned to him and smiled; “Is this… Is this what I think it is?”

“It’s you and me next to the X Wing… In front of our dreamhouse”- You tried sheepishly.

“Y/N, you drew Yavin 4… Why?”

“It’s on my mind since we went to visit your father… All that Nature, all that life, I never felt so at peace in my whole life, I never felt so inspired… And we had to go back to Coruscant… I missed the trees, and the Sunset… And well you.”- Poe got next to you and kissed you warmly, his hands cupping your face while your arms circled around his waist.

“As soon this is all settled down… As soon as I’m not needed… We will get a cosy house by the lake… On Naboo, or Yavin, or anywhere you want… And you’ll have all the inspiration in the Universe.”

You smiled into his lips while leaning in to another kiss, and you decided to still let him believe, just for a little more, that the sunsets were your inspiration.

[nedeljkovicsaysno]

hey wolf, there’s lions in here (hey wolf, just see there’s no fear)

Sander's all chaos and Robbe's so calm and Sander doesn't know how to handle it. AKA Sander's perspective when Robbe finds him in the midst of Chernobyl fallout.

I wrote this in a frenzy and it took me about thirty minutes so sorry if it's shit. I have a ton of emotions about Monday still and there might be more where this came from but I had to get this out. Disclaimer: I do not have bipolar disorder and I do not claim to be an expert on how Sander was feeling.

Title from "Run Run Blood" by Phantogram.

Also posted here. Hope you guys enjoy. <3

*

When he’s like this sleep doesn’t come, not when he’s at that dangerous cusp between mountain and valley, when he has one foot in blurry paradise and the other in darkness. When Robbe comes to him, finds him at the place he calls safe, he’s frantic: desperate for Robbe to understand him and is hot-shamed for the chaotic state he’s in at once. He doesn’t want Robbe to see, doesn’t want him to know how dire things can get when his mind takes control of him, and yet he’s never craved opening to someone more. The rational part of him that still lives and thrives beneath layers of paranoia and fear whispers to him: if anyone can love you, it’s him. If not him, no one.

And yet he still remembers how Robbe pushed him away, still dwells on the rejection his disobedient brain magnifies by thousands, reinforcing the mantra he’s had committed to memory for years, you’re unlovable you’re not worthy you’re NOTHING.

The sleeping bag in the corner of the room is unused. All he does is manifest his pain to paper, bleed the things he’s nearly bit his tongue off trying to stop screaming out loud to the one his soul knows: Robbe. Because it’s the only way he knows how to breathe he draws him in color, draws him in shades of black and gray and white, his face, his hands, that medallion gilded and stark around his neck. He sketches them together, scratches black and black and black across paper that’s so white it robs his vision. When he’s like this he feels like an unfinished painting, random scarred slashes of color across canvas, no order. Normally that’s the way he likes it, no rules, only spontaneity, all the way or no way, but when he can’t find lines and edges to define himself he is lost.

Robbe is those lines and edges. Robbe is the borders that keep him from coloring too far outside the lines. Robbe is stability; it’s just that Sander’s ability to upset the balance is as volatile and shattering as an earthquake.

“Get the fuck out,” he says when Robbe edges into the room, but across his mind sprints never leave me again. The entire room is how Sander feels about Robbe and every time he is vulnerable with someone they leave him in the dark and what must this look like, all of his artistic renderings of Robbe’s face, how obsessive, how intense? All Sander knows is shame.

“No,” says Robbe, in that soft tranquil murmur of a voice that Sander loves so, and then he says “I’m not leaving,” and then he says it again

And again

And again.

Through hazes and blurs Sander watches Robbe kneel beside him, feels his hand warm on Sander’s skin, mouth against Sander’s chapped knuckles. He’s aware that he hasn’t showered in days.

Sander says, “I’m toxic. Everything I touch is destroyed.”

Robbe says, “You touched me and I’ve never felt anything like that. I love you.”

But Robbe has said it and said it and then when Sander’s episode forced him to unmask the truth he ran and Sander wants to believe him but he can’t. But right now, right now, after he’s seen the worst side that Sander could possibly show him, Robbe isn’t moving, and his light-luminous eyes are honest, his face open and sure when he says look at me, Sander, look at me. Sander’s name on Robbe’s tongue adopts the hushed quality of a reverent prayer and Sander never needs Robbe to call him baby because that voice murmuring the sound of his own name is endearment enough.

When Robbe pulls Sander to his feet, taking charge for them at last, Sander follows. When Robbe instructs him that they will, from this second onward, be living their lives minute by minute, Sander agrees. And when Robbe kisses him, surprisingly big hands framing Sander’s ashen cheeks, the emotion radiating from his entire being is so sweet and genuine that Sander can do nothing but dissolve in anguish wrapped in Robbe’s arms, aqueous and ruined, the center of him bared for Robbe to see.

Robbe sees. He sees everything. And instead of running, instead of abandoning Sander to his ugly inner disarray, all he says is:

“I’m so glad I found you.”

*

Somehow Robbe gets him home, but he finds that when they cross the threshold to Robbe’s flat, he doesn’t remember the trip. Automatically Sander kicks off his shoes by the door and stands waiting for Robbe to lead him and when he does it’s straight into the bedroom, the path they hunt quiet and swift. Intermittent tears still drip hotly down Sander’s cheeks but Robbe’s hand is warm and sure at the flat of his back and if that’s the only thing tethering him to the earth then it will do: Robbe has proved that he is strong enough for them both.

“Sander,” says Robbe gently, when they’ve reached his room, shut themselves in. “What do you need?”

Sander looks at him, blinks. No one ever asks him that, not in so straightforward of a manner. It takes him a while to process.

“I,” he says after a moment, and his voice is a wreck. “I really want to shower.”

“Okay,” says Robbe. He leans up to him, kisses gently at the side of his mouth, sudden salt of Sander’s tears on his tastebuds. “Do you want me to come?”

“Yes,” says Sander fervently, because the thought of Robbe being out of sight for even one second right now is too much, and he’s already at war with the precipice at every breath.

Robbe smiles and leans his forehead into Sander’s neck.

“Okay.”

Tenderly he pulls him into the bathroom, where he runs the shower until it’s the perfect kind of furious hot, and then for the second time they’re under the water together and Sander is crying for how different it is from last time. Robbe holds his face in his hands like he’s sacred, like the worst thing in the world would be to handle him with anything but utmost care, and when Sander thinks about that he sobs even harder.

“I’m sorry I ruin everything,” he chokes into Robbe’s neck, and when Robbe pulls back to force eye contact Sander sees that he’s crying too.

“Sander,” he says, and there is his name again, made into song by the reverence of Robbe’s tone, so different from what he’s accustomed to. “You don’t ruin anything. I came after you that night, you know.”

Sander feels his chest seize. “You - what?”

“I came after you,” says Robbe, and he’s so beautiful when he cries Sander wants to paint him. “I found you, but Britt stopped me before I could get to you. I was screaming your name - “

[there is rain and cold and rain and cold and someone is wrapping a shield around his shoulders and the euphoria that crashed into paranoia that crashed into nothingness is fading and there is only rain and cold and

in the background, “SANDER!”

and something in his chest stirs but his mother is touching his face and the paramedics are pushing him back into the ambulance and Britt is there no now she’s gone and

“SANDER!”

he wants to look up but he doesn’t know if he is dreaming and then Britt is back beside him and the doors are closing and that voice the one he trusts is silenced]

“I heard you,” says Sander slowly. “I heard you, but I didn’t realize it was you until it was too late. I couldn’t - when I’m like that I can’t - nothing works.”

Robbe kisses his mouth and their tears mingle with the shower water and Sander is holding on to everything that makes him feel anything at all.

“Sander, I love you,” says Robbe, and Sander can hear in his voice that he’s trying to keep it together but he can’t. “You scared me so fucking much. She told me you - she said you had been manic the whole time. She said that you - that you didn’t love me. So I thought that meant it wasn’t real.”

For the first time in days something more powerful than darkness rises volcanic and ferocious in Sander’s chest.

“Britt told you I don’t love you?”

“Yes,” says Robbe, and Sander can feel him trembling. “I know it’s not true now. But I didn’t know what to think, I was scared, and that’s the only reason I - said what I said. I never, ever meant it.”

And just like that, clear as a Caribbean Sea, everything, everything makes sense; Sander understands the crucial part of the story he’d been missing. Robbe didn’t run away. Britt chased him.

“Robbe,” says Sander, and if it destroys him he’s going to ride this last positive wave of emotion until he can’t anymore because Robbe needs to know, Sander has to tell him. “I love you more than anything in this entire universe, in any universe, ever. And there will never be a day that that won’t be true.”

And this time when he collapses against Robbe’s chest and starts to sob anew it’s not for grief. It’s for relief.

*

Even when the brunt of the depressive wave is blunted by being with Robbe, sleep eludes him, a whim he can only chase and snatch at in bits and pieces. Robbe’s bed is warm and soft but not as warm and soft as Robbe himself is against him and he’d forgotten how healing it is to be clean. He doesn’t know the time; doesn’t care to know, all he focuses on is Robbe’s fingers braiding over and over through his hair, sliding gently down his nose and over his ribs (you’re so skinny, Robbe chides, and Sander manages a tiny smile and presses at Robbe’s poleaxe collarbones and says look who’s talking, tiny), their legs entangled beneath layers of blankets. Sander wants to look at Robbe all night long but he knows Robbe won’t sleep if he doesn’t so eventually he closes his eyes and pretends. Some time later, after he’s managed to drift the deepest he’s gone for days, Robbe’s phone dings and not long after he sits up, kisses Sander’s forehead, climbs easily out of bed.

Sander’s stomach knots; before he can shut himself up he blurts:

“Are you leaving me behind?”

Robbe turns to him, chuckles. His medallion gleams at his chest.

“Not in this universe.”

Sander smiles for that, rolls his eyes.

“Where are you going, then?”

Robbe walks back over to the bed, leans over, nuzzles his nose against Sander’s own. “School. I have exams.”

Sander has fears he cannot name and he knows they’re irrational but the monster in his head is loud. “Are you coming back?”

Robbe presses his mouth so, so tenderly to Sander’s own.

“Always.”

Sander melts then, closes his eyes, and all of a sudden he is so, so tired.

“Good luck,” he whispers, and Robbe’s soft response of “thank you,” is made of gold and sweet and kindness and Sander thinks that despite it all there is no person in the world luckier than he is at this exact moment because Robbe Ijzermans is a literal angel and his heart is bigger than the world and Sander gets to call him his own.

He sleeps.

[incomprehensibi1ities]

I know I posted something kinda like this already this week, but imma say it anyway: if you are losing passion for an idea or a WIP, here are some things that might be happening:

-You’re not visiting that world enough. How can you be intensely invested in the future of a place where you do not sometimes live? Write, plan, or deliberately dream of a little of this story every day (or as often as possible) to keep yourself invested in what happens there.

-You’re not writing what actually interests you about the story. If you’re not excited about the tale you’re spinning because you need to write another ten pages of political bullshit until you get to the fun execution scene, SKIP the bullshit for now and write that execution! You might be in the mood to write politics and make it NOT bullshit later. But right now you’re in execution mode, and it would be a shame if you wasted that time you’ll be spending in execution mode anyway. What if you do write all the political bullshit first, and then find yourself no longer in execution mode when you’re lined up to write that scene at last? Better to not waste your interest in writing that moment on something else. Focus on the characters, parts of the setting, specific scenes and chapters that you actually want to write over ANYTHING that you find frustrating or tedious to write about. If you write something while caught up in how frustrating or tedious it is, I guarantee that your readers will find it frustrating or tedious, too. And if some part of your story is ALWAYS frustrating or tedious and never lets up on being just awful, don’t hesitate to cut it out or change it to something interesting.

-You’re too worried about writing in Complex Themes and Overarching Meaning and it’s all overwhelming you. Honey, no one writes *all* the symbols, thematic parallels, clever references to other works and other magical Smart Author things in on the first draft. That would be exhausting! Get the story down first. Write what HAPPENS, write the most interesting possible of that. Do not, do NOT worry about what it all Means until at least Draft #2, or you’ll wear yourself out. Nobody builds the entire house at once— you start with a foundation. That foundation is What Happens, and you have to lay at least a version of that down before you can dream of deciding the way the roof will look or how the master bedroom will be painted.

-Failling these, maybe it’s just not the time to write this story. Maybe you’re sick of writing or suffering from a depressed-n-stressed spell, in which case you should take a break. Maybe you’re no longer interested in anything at all about the story, the setting is boring and the characters never seem relateable— in which case you might need to write something completely different. Maybe some of the stuff that happens in this story is too emotional for you to write about right now, or the vibe in your life is just wrong (like your story is about struggling with depression, but you yourself are having the first depression-free month of your year and don’t want to bring those feelings back).

Never feel like you can’t pick up a story again after shelving it. Never feel like it’s shameful to leave something unfinished, temporarily or permanently. Artists of every type litter their desks with half-painted models, plays with only two acts, partially cut garments, sketches with halfhearted shading. Because the time wasn’t right, or the art wasn’t slated to be quite as good this time ‘round, and it was wiser to leave it be. You are STILL an artist if you have dormant or abandoned works, and you STILL learned from those works, even if you didn’t wrap them up in a nice bow.

There’s a reason that you lost interest in your story. Diagnose it!

[cookiecutterwrites]

Live Action

In this tribute to artists, dreamers and anime, an autistic daydreamer and a disillusioned baker have a falling out once it’s revealed that the latter has been stealing the former’s art.

Word count: ~3000 (15 screenplay pages)

AN: Happy Autism Acceptance Month, everyone!! Nat is a Japanese-American middle-grader who’s special interest is character art. I’m still learning so please don’t hesitate to let me know if I got anything wrong!

FADE IN:

EXT. REVERIE

Grainy paper and granite-dust fingerprints. A line darts across the frame -- a horizon.

Bits of debris and rubble materialize, populating the landscape. They're partially formed and crude, as if scrawled with an impatient hand.

AURORA, 14, reluctant yet stalwart, stands with her eyes glued to the top of an off-kilter skyscraper. She casts off a tattered seafoam fur-lined coat, raises her hands, conjures ethereal snowflakes between her palms -

She's HIT in the shoulder! She gasps, her ice magic dissipates. She jumps back -- a burnt yellow, amorphous projectile plunges itself into her winter boot, CEMENTING HER TO THE SIDEWALK. It's superheated, she's burned. She screams. Aurora looks back up at the tower, all dismay and pleading eyes now.

               AURORA    Vanilla, please! -

Atop the slanted skyscraper, VANILLA, 13, stands proud, her face hidden in shadow. Her magical girl outfit is decked out with yellow ribbons. She's pulling amber hot sugar with her bare hands, stretching and twisting the strands into a thin baton, which she holds out to cool in the falling snow.

               AURORA    You don't have to -

Vanilla snaps the candy cane over her knee, producing two spear-tipped halves. She levitates the shards to either side of her, takes aim...

Vanilla turns and walks away, leaving the broken shards to JAVELIN toward a defenseless, wide-eyed Aurora -

               AURORA      VANI -

           SMASH CUT TO:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - MORNING

NAT's eyes snap open. Soft mint bed sheets rustle in the morning light.

AMANDA, 40, Nat's mother, hollers from beyond the door.

               AMANDA (O.S.)    Nat! Get up already, you're gonna be late again!

Nat just whines in response.

MONTAGE:

- She shoves a sketchbook in her backpack.

- Zips her bag up.

- She pulls on a pastel turquoise sweater.

- She kicks unfinished sketches under her bed, where they join a slew of coloring pencils, markers, gel pens, and old sketchbooks brimming with stick people.

               NAT (V.O.)    My name is Nat Okura. I'm 14 years old. I'm in the 8th grade. And there's something about me that no one -- and I mean, no one -- can know about.

- She stands in her doorway adjusting the straps of her backpack. Her room is plastered wall-to-wall in drawings of cartoons, lined and colored, crude yet dynamic, the very style that came alive in her Reverie. She shuts the door.

- TOAST! She tries to pluck it fresh from the toaster, drops it, hisses with pain.

- Spreads jam on toast.

- Jams toast in her mouth.

MONTAGE END.

INT. FRONT DOOR - MORNING

Nat slips into her shoes at the front door, toast between her teeth.

Amanda descends upon the scene. She's firm but well-meaning. She plucks the bread from Nat's mouth.

               AMANDA    Don't do things in parts or people will get confused. You have to commit.

She pulls Nat in for a hug. Nat stiffens at the sudden contact, she waits out the hug rather than reciprocating.

               AMANDA    Have fun, darling.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Nat speedwalks down the street, making anxious faces and whispering to herself under her breath.

               NAT    "I just wanted to be... somebody..." "I know you did, but one of these days, you're gonna have to learn to be happy with the hand you're dealt..." "One of these..." "One of these days -

An L train RUSHES by, rumbling noisily.

A sound effect bubble RIPS across her path in tandem with the speeding train, 'TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK' etc.

Nat shutters to a stop, takes a step back, narrowly dodging the bubble. It vanishes once the train's passed.

She's tapped on the shoulder. It's MELODY, 13, playing the tap-the-opposite-shoulder prank. Nat falls for it. Melody beams.

               MELODY    See you in class, Aoi-chan!

She zips away, light on her feet, small yet assured in her oversized yellow hoodie. She threads under the L tracks.

FLASHBACK:

INT. L STATION - NIGHT

Amanda pulls a YOUNG NAT, 8, along. College students chatter, music blares from an unseen source, trains pull up and jet off. Text bubbles pops up with each cacophonous addition. They crowd out the already-stifling space. No one else senses them.

Nat wrenches her hands from her mother's and covers her ears, screws her eyes shut. Amanda urges her on, it doesn't work. Amanda grows frustrated, people are starting to look.

Suddenly, Nat is GRABBED from behind and pulled into a hug. She SHRIEKS. It's just a YOUNG MELODY, who lets go immediately.

               YOUNG MELODY    I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

PREEYA, Melody's mom, pulls her away.

               PREEYA    Apologies, she has so much energy...

Nat peers at Melody.

FLASHBACK END.

               NAT    "Tch. You're gonna be late."

Nat forges on toward school. The real world and her Reverie mesh together. Melody, receding into the distance, resembles Vanilla without any of the magical girl embellishments.

A colossal Beast with an untamed mane hidden in shadow rises above the school.

Nat -- Aoi -- transforms into Aurora with a wave of her hand and a burst of light. She parkours effortlessly up to the L, sticking a three-point landing on top of the moving train.

New tracks materialize, redirecting Aurora toward the school, straight toward the monster.

She brandishes a blade, seemingly out of thin air. She leaps off the train, rising impossibly high, swings her sword with a flurry of conjured snowflakes -

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

Nat blinks. She's back at her desk and she doesn't like it one bit. Her knee bounces restlessly.

Down one side of her lined notebook, there's some 8th grade biology nonsense about the freezing point of water. On the opposite page, she's doodled a katana and written under it, 'SLICICLE?!' and, 'SNOWDROP' and finally, 'SILVER STORM', which is underlined and circled several times.

She sighs, ignoring the lecture, slides her notebook aside, revealing her sketchbook underneath. She starts sketching Aurora posing with her blade.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

Nat sits on the ground, leaning against her locker, sketchbook propped upright against her knees so as to hide the contents from milling extras. She sketches frantically, head bowed, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

Wispy shadows lash out at her from under the lockers. She glares at them and they scatter.

Melody approaches from the other end of the hall. She chats up other students as she passes, tackle-hugs a few, shares a secret fistbump with one, plays tap-the-opposite-shoulder with free abandon. She pulls to a stop before Nat.

               MELODY    'Sup.

Nat shuts her sketchbook sharply, looks up briefly, then breaks eye contact like it burned.

FLASHBACK:

INT. FRONT DOOR - NIGHT

Amanda answers the front door. Young Melody shoves a tray of brownies in her face. Preeya is there too.

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Young Nat sits on the floor of her room fidgeting and doodling stick people. Melody creeps over, fully intent on watching. The door's been left open, and Preeya and Amanda are sat in the living room beyond.

               PREEYA    She made those herself, you know? It was all her idea.

               AMANDA    Such a sweet girl.

Melody offers Nat a brownie.

               YOUNG MELODY    Sorry for trying to hug you. I should've asked first.

Nat merely slides her sketchbook back and away.

Melody blinks, bemused, stuffs the brownie in her own mouth.

               AMANDA        (sighing)    Sometimes she doesn't understand what peoples' words mean. Takes things literally. She can be so cold sometimes.

Nat looks up slightly at this, registering it, goes back to drawing. Melody scoots right up to Nat, points at a teal-haired pencil-sketched girl.

               YOUNG MELODY    Is that you?

Nat tries to withdraw but Melody holds the sketchbook fast. Nat squirms as she answers.

               YOUNG NAT    It's Aoi.

               YOUNG MELODY    Aoi?

Nat writes it out in English then in hiragana. Melody watches raptly. And then:

               YOUNG MELODY    Can you draw me?

FLASHBACK END.

Back to the school hallway.

               NAT    Hey.

               MELODY    You good? Wanna head to class?

Nat stands, her open backpack tips upside down, spilling colorful stationary and loose papers EVERYWHERE.

Melody calmly helps pick stuff up but Nat scrambles to shove everything back in her bag, hating every passing second. Text bubbles pop up to accompany her halfhearted mutterings: 'PEOPLE ARE WATCHING...', 'EVERYONE'S STARING AT ME', etc.

She shoulders her bag and speedwalks away.

In her haste, she'd forgotten her sketchbook, which Melody holds up.

               MELODY    Hey Natty -

But it's too late. She's vanished.

Melody's puzzled expression morphs to one of determination. She alone understands the power of the artifact in her hand.

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

She rushes over to her desk, switches on the desk lamp, flips open the sketchbook, whips out her phone, snaps off a few photos.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

Melody mills about a water fountain with JUNE and ANNA, two other students. They're flipping through Nat's sketchbook.

               ANNA    Mel, you drew all of these?

               MELODY    Um. Yup.

               JUNE    What? I had no idea you were a drawer!

Nat marches up to greet Melody, small and skittish. She takes one look at the sketchbook in Melody's hands, stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth falls open. She turns tail and storms back the way she came.

Melody traces Nat's wake as if shocked out of a trance.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Nat marches home, under the L and back.

               NAT    "How could you betray me like that?! I trusted you!"... "I trusted you..."

Behind her, a shadow grows. She glances back. The beast engulfing the school SPROUTS ABOUT A MILLION EYES. They blink in unsettling syncrony. They turn on Nat.

With an assured flick of her wrist, she disappears in a flash of light and reemerges as Aurora, bringing her Reverie to the waking world.

The Beast advances, sluggish yet chilling. Aurora ICE-BLASTS IT IN THE FACE, but to no avail. The amorphous shadows SWAMP HER, blotting out the screen.

Aurora BURSTS from the darkness, gasping for air! She hacks uselessly with Silver Storm before being pulled under again.

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

It's dark. Melody flips through the sketchbook. Nat's drawn Aurora and Vanilla in the same poses and situations over and over again. She frowns.

Light washes in from the living room through the open door. Suddenly, a silhouette. Hand-drawn and grainy. Yellow ribbons.

               VANILLA    What were you thinking? You know she doesn't like it when people look at her art before it's done.

Melody looks up briefly, then back to the sketches

               VANILLA    What're you gonna say to her? How are you gonna look her in eye and say, what? That you're sorry?

               MELODY    You -- they're my characters too.

           CUT TO:

OVER BLACK;

The satisfying rustle of pages flipping in rapid succession.

               YOUNG MELODY (V.O)    What happens after they beat the Beast?

               YOUNG NAT (V.O.)    They go back and they do it again the next day.

           SMASH CUT IN:

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Yellow morning light floods Melody's bedroom. Her eyes snap open.

               MELODY (V.O.)    Let's take it from the top. My name is Melody Kumar and I'm 13 years old.

INT. LIVING ROOM - MORNING

Melody yawns, stepping into the living room, pulling on her yellow hoodie. She sneaks by her brother, SHIVAM, 17, who's passed out on the couch, game controller in hand. She sidles up to the front door, dejected.

MONTAGE:

- Preeya clicks her tongue.

               PREEYA    My sweet little girl, why can’t you be more like your brother?

- Melody glowers at her homework. Behind her, Shivam plays a game, headphones on, shouting occasionally.

               MELODY (V.O.)    What’s so great about him?

- She glances up from a tin of cupcakes to catch her brother and mother hugging. She pays them no mind, goes back to piping frosting.

               MELODY (V.O.)    I was never gonna be the favorite child. So whatever, I found people who would like me the way I am.

- Young Melody hands out homemade cookies at school.

- Snap to earlier in the week: Melody chatting up multiple cliques, stopping before Nat.

               MELODY (V.O.)    But they don't give medals for being nice.

MONTAGE END.

Standing framed by the front door, she stuffs Nat's sketchbook in her bag.

               MELODY (V.O.)    I needed a real talent. I know I can be more than -

Voices echo in her head:

               AMANDA (V.O.)    ... Such a sweet girl.

               PREEYA (V.O.)    My sweet little girl...

Her face falls just as she’s pulling back the door.

               MELODY (V.O.)    And yet...

FLASHBACK:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Young Nat lies on the floor penciling in eyes, hair, a skirt. Young Melody inches closer to look. Nat pulls the notebook away. Moments later, she lays the book flat, revealing a candy-themed magical girl in a yellow costume. She points.

               YOUNG NAT    It’s you.

               YOUNG MELODY    Oh, I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a magical girl.

               YOUNG NAT    Are you kidding me? You’re the nicest person I know. Everyone wants to be friends with you and you put others before yourself. You’re the perfect magical girl.

               YOUNG MELODY    I guess. If you say so.

Nat spins the book back around, chews on the end of her pencil.

               YOUNG NAT    ... "Vanilla."

FLASHBACK END.

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - DAY

Nat's scrunched up in a corner of her room, hugging a plush polar bear to her chest. She nudges a half-finished drawing of Vanilla, back turned and lording atop a spire, away with her foot.

She's been drawing lots. Her room is covered classic crumpled paper balls and doodles spanning at least three different kinds of paper, some half-colored, half-inked, half-baked.

               NAT (V.O.)    "Don't do things in parts or people will get confused. You have to commit." I don't think this is what she meant, but what do I know? Sometimes I don't understand what peoples’ words mean.

Knock-knock. She pushes the bubbles away. Knock-knock. There it is again. Bubbles fill the room. Nat shrinks in on herself until the congestion becomes unbearable. She stands.

INT. OKURAS' APARTMENT - DAY

NAOKI, Nat's father, 45, stands before Nat's bedroom door with Melody by his side. He's a fidgety sort of fellow, bursting with nervous energy. He speaks as if picking each word with great deliberation.

               NAOKI    She’s been like this for 3 days. She won't talk to us.

Melody raps on the door. Nothing.

               MELODY    Can I try talk to her alone?

Naoki leaves.

               MELODY    Thank you, Mr. Okura!        (leaning toward door)    Nat, are you there? Nat, I'm sorry -

           INTERCUT WITH:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Nat, inches from the door, starts to back down.

               MELODY (O.S.)    ... Aoi-chan?

Nat stops, inhales sharply -

           INTERCUT WITH:

EXT. REVERIE

Close on Aurora's face. She's silhouetted, shrouded in darkness.

               AURORA    I fight every day to live in this world that's not meant for me. And still, you feel the need to make it harder for me.

               MELODY    It's not like that! I-I wasn't thinking straight. I deleted everything, set the record straight -- I told everyone who really drew the art! Look, I brought your book! It'll never happen again -- Nat, are you still there? Nat?!

She puts a hand to Nat's door, rests her head against the wood. She sighs.

               MELODY (V.O.)    Vanilla turns back. She can't believe her eyes, can't believe she ever did that.

Vanilla does just that. She descends the tilted skyscraper bit by bit.

               VANILLA    I'm ...sorry? I can't say I know how you feel, but... I know why you fight the Beast.

Nat's eyes snap open at this. She's leaning against her side of the door, exhausted.

               MELODY (O.S.)    The Beast isn't there to remind you there's bad in the world. You already know that

It's revealed that Vanilla's sugar spears missed Aurora by mere inches. Aurora is unharmed but infuriated nonetheless.

Vanilla vanishes the pulled sugar with a wave of her hand. Aurora stumbles, her foot having suddenly been freed. Vanilla catches her.

               VANILLA    You fight the beast so that you know that you can. Over and over again. Every day. And I don't wanna watch you fight alone anymore. Melody leans against her side of the door.

               AURORA        (too quiet for Vanilla to hear)    So it turns out we both have a little sugar and ice in us.

               MELODY    What was that? Na -- Aoi-chan, are you still with me?

Nat silently nods.

Melody takes a deep breath. The Reverie overtakes them both. Vanilla and Aurora stand back-to-back, as if preparing for battle. They're done this a thousand times before but this time, it's devoid of the fanfare. They're both tired.

               VANILLA    You let me into your world.

The Reverie recedes.

           MATCH CUT TO:

Melody and Nat standing back to back with the bedroom door separating them.

               MELODY    Won't you let me stay? Even if we both know the live action will never be as good?

Nat cracks her door open.

           END INTERCUT.

Melody holds her arms open wide.

               MELODY    Permission?

Nat nods and Melody goes in for the hug. This time, Nat reciprocates.

               MELODY    Nakama?

               NAT    ... Nakama.

They breathe again.

           SMASH CUT TO:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Nat's eyes snap open.

MONTAGE:

- Nat kicks unfinished art under her bed where it joins a mass of other unpolished pieces, including but not limited to comic pages of Vanilla turning against Aurora.

- Melody puts yellow ribbons in her hair

- Nat pulls on her signature green sweatshirt.

- Melody snaps pictures of her homemade breakfast scones.

- Nat slips into her shoes. Amanda comes up from behind and shoves her sketchbook in her backpack. She asks Nat if she's okay with a hug today and Nat nods. They embrace.

MONTAGE END.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Melody darts to catch up with Nat on the way to school. She's got a jam-slathered slice of scone sticking out of her mouth, which Nat appraises, then -

               NAT    You're kidding me, right?

Melody shrugs, takes a bite, holds the scone in her hand.

               MELODY    Are we gonna do this or what?

A monstrous shadow creeps toward them.

Nat nods. She flicks her wrist, she and Melody vanish in a burst of light -

Grainy paper scenery. Aurora and Vanilla pose back-to-back, smirking. Vanilla pulls molten sugar into a whip and Aurora swings Silver Storm at the screen -

           CUT TO BLACK.

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

Making paper stars!

One of my favorite things to make is paper stars. I was inspired by a webcomic about a girl who was lonely so she was told to fill a jar with paper stars and make a wish. For some reason that comic stuck with me - probably because I saw myself as the main character at the time. 

Anyway, we’ve got a special project for arts and crafts week. We’re being joined by Coen, his brother Scottie, and friend Polly for Operation: Constellation! Next year marks the fourth anniversary of the Tripletown Earthquake, a devastating disaster that ravaged the city. Scottie had lived there for a few years and was one of many volunteers who managed to help save hundreds of lives. Polly’s brother Tad was a friend of Scottie’s, one who sadly lost his life while saving others. 

So for Operation: Constellation, we’re gonna be making lots of paper stars - and by lots, I mean at least a thousand or so. There will be a museum opening in the nearby town of Vibrance dedicated to Tripletown and there will be a room about the earthquake, the lives lost, and how the city persevered. The ceiling will be decorated with paper stars hanging down like constellations. Scottie had permission to reveal the sketches of what the museum will look like and it’s looking great! 

Although he only lived in Tripletown for three years, Scottie’s considered a notable resident there as that’s where his athletic career took off. He and Tad were at the library when the earthquake occurred. For the past two days, Tripletown was experiencing a lot of tremors, the worst one taking place hours earlier and caused significant damage in some places. People were aware and prepared for the worst, but nothing like what was about to unfold that day. 

When the earthquake hit, Scottie and Tad quickly hid under a table. Scottie saw the library collapse around him. A bookshelf fell over, landing on the table next to them. Although the shaking only happened for a few minutes, it felt like forever to him. When the earthquake stopped, everything went quiet. No one dared moved or said anything for a while. After being evacuated, Scottie and Tad decided to volunteer because they couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.  

Seeing the wrecked library was bad, but outside was devastating. Almost every building was damaged in some way, and walking was dangerous because of falling debris and cut power lines. Since there would be no way to call or text each other if they got separated, Scottie and Tad stuck together.   

Along the way, they came across many of their friends, who were fine aside from minor injuries. For the next few hours Scottie and Tad helped rescue people trapped in various places. Then evening came and an aftershock hit, causing even more destruction. They were in the middle of helping people trapped in a hotel when it happened. To make matters worse, a dam several miles away was on the verge of collapsing and the hotel would be flooded. Many of the hotel guests were evacuated to the lower level, only to be trapped by the aftershock.   

Despite the danger of being flooded, the rescue crew went through the tunnels to get to the parking garage to retrieve the others. Halfway through, another aftershock caused the pipes to burst. Still, the volunteers were determined to get everyone out before either the hotel collapsed or flooded. At that point Scottie and Tad got separated and Scottie last saw him helping an injured person up.   

Then while getting back above ground, another aftershock broke the dam and caused several walls to collapse. Scottie managed to get out in time, suffering minor injuries from getting scraped by debris. However Tad was nowhere to be seen, along with several other people.   

For two days, Scottie was unable to focus. All of his friends were safe except for Tad. A part of him hoped that Tad would survive, even though it was unlikely. On the second day, his body was found underneath slabs of concrete along with two other volunteers. It was concluded that the falling debris killed the three of them instantly, which I guess is better than drowning while being pinned to the ground. At least that’s how Polly sees things, as her brother being a championship swimmer who drowned would be ironic. 

Pretty much the entire city was in shambles. Even the structures that were still standing were deemed unsafe because a small tremor could send them tumbling down. Scottie and his friends stayed at one of the shelters set up in Vibrance since they had nowhere else to go. It was total and utter chaos, he recalled. With the university closed due to extensive damage, Scottie packed whatever he could and flew home. Since then, he’s returned to Tripletown twice since the earthquake to tie up some loose ends. And of course, he’ll be back for the museum opening. 

After that Scottie took a year off. During that time he visited many friends - like Polly, helped his brother run the dojo, became an assistant coach, and learned how to play the guitar. Then in the fall he transferred to HWU with in Peace Coast Island with Coen to continue his studies and pursue a professional athletic career. 

Along with being there for the museum opening, Scottie will be saying a few words before the unveiling of Operation: Constellation. He said he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say anything but with encouragement from Coen and Polly, he accepted. It’ll be difficult bringing up memories of the earthquake and the lives lost, but someone’s gotta tell their stories. Might as well be him and the other volunteers and survivors who are also speaking at the event. 

Now, back to Operation: Constellation. We’ve got jars full of paper stars in various colors. From origami paper to scrapbook paper to wrapping paper - there’s no limit to what kind of paper we can use! Polly also bought some craft supplies as well, as in a sketchpad full of her brother’s unfinished or scribbled out drawings. Apparently Tad was the kind of person who starts a sketchbook and abandons it halfway because he wasn’t happy with his art - a habit that I also share. He was a good artist - even when most of them were rough sketches - and at first I felt bad for tearing it into strips but Polly insisted. I can see why, that way he’d be a part of the exhibit through his art. Also since it’ll be folded into origami, it won’t look like a rough sketch and instead gives the stars a cool and unique design! 

I’ve lost track of how many stars we made but I’m sure it’s almost enough to fill a night sky!

[askcarlyle]

[A contribution (in conjunction with @askbarnum) to FanFicFeb on @theothersidediscord for Prompt #14 (Soulmate). Edited from the live version, which appeared on server earlier this month.]

Barnum

Wanders into the office a warm afternoon, hair still slick with sweat from rehearsals and puts down a mug of coffee and a muffin in front of Phillip

Time for a break from those finance forms. You've been staring at them for over an hour.

Carlyle 

pushes aside the papers, shaking head

That's because I'm still not sure why you ordered costume beards for the elephants. They're shedding hair everywhere and you need five people to tie each one on.

Barnum

Hey, sometimes you just have to trust me. Thought you'd know that by now.

Beams at him smugly, playfully grabbing his shoulder and giving it a little shake

Let's take a walk, Phil. I wanna show you something anyway and you look like you could use the air. You get any more pale and you'll blind people when the spotlight hits you.

Tugs him to his feet gently

Carlyle 

comes along gamely but holds up one finger in protest at the last comment

New York City air is hardly the healthiest panacea one can offer, you know. I'm pretty sure many places would turn one green rather than pale.

Barnum

Raises his eyebrows sassy at him as they exit the circus and ushers him into a carriage. Plonking the muffin into his lap as he sits down

Eat, I didn’t see you grab any lunch.

Taps the top of the carriage and tells the driver where to go, sitting back and bumping shoulders with Phillip affectionately before pressing a kiss to his cheek

I've been working on this in the mornings all month.

Carlyle

looks up from muffin, startled

Exactly how early were you waking up? You've been in at the normal time every day. Except that one time you got sidetracked by the patterned waistcoat sale in the warehouse district. That delivery never arrived, by the way. I have no idea why.

Barnum 

Yes I did notice. Mysterious.

Sips from the mans coffee cup before handing it back to him

4am, you can tell the bits I've worked on by candlelight. It's been worth it though.

As the carriage comes to a stop he dusts the crumbs off his jacket, opening the door for Phillip to reveal their train. Originally black now brightly painted in red. Many of the carriages are still unfinished, charcoal sketches of lions and oddities covering the sides. The very first carriage is the only one completely finished and painted in vibrant tones. A carriage sized painting of Phillip in his ringmaster costume gracing the front, next to him Barnum himself.

Carlyle 

brushes crumbs off lap before looking up, and stares for an extended minute

You did this all by yourself? It's incredible...

steps a bit closer and puts out hand, about to touch, before drawing back at the last minute

Is it finished?

Barnum 

It’s dry, don’t worry. Finished the last glaze this morning.

Leans his head against Phillip's shoulder fondly

I was going to wait until the whole thing was finished but I think if I do everything myself it might take the rest of my life so I've hired a few artists to finish up the rest. You were looking a little low this morning and I wanted to cheer you up.

Carlyle

reaches out again and runs hand over his larger-than-life portrait, lingering over its raised hand

You painted the ring, too. Right there on the front of the train.

Barnum 

He shrugs one shoulder, almost a little sheepish that he noticed, and glances at his boots for a moment with a chuckle

I can paint over it....if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm just. I'm proud to be engaged to you. I couldn’t bear to leave the ring out. It's a symbol of how much you mean to me. Besides, people aren’t going to know, right? They'll probably just think it's yours from Miss Wheeler or something. It's hardly the most scandalising thing I've done.

Meets his eyes again. Excited but vulnerable. Eager for his verdict on the piece

Carlyle

shakes head and leans over to pick up an abandoned brush and dip it in gold paint before adding a similar ring onto Barnum's portrait

Just one... little... addition. Anyone who does figure it out might as well be thoroughly scandalized rather than just halfway.

takes Barnum's hand and impulsively paints a matching golden adornment on his actual hand

I might have picked one for you a while back as well, but never quite found the right moment to give it to you, so this will have to do until we get home later.

looks Barnum in the eye, still holding hand and giving its scarred knuckles an affectionate kiss

Now it's absolutely perfect. 

Barnum 

Stares at the wet ring of shimmering gold paint on his finger, where the faint dent left from so many years of wearing a wedding ring before was lingering. His eyes misting up after a while of silence, a little speechless and clearly rather touched.

Chuckles loudly, throwing his arms around Phillip and swinging him around enthusiastically. When his feet touch the floor once more he immediately presses a loving kiss to his lips

You are ridiculous. I love you.

Carlyle 

Hmm. Learned from the greatest, so I'm told.

wraps arms loosely around the back of Barnum's neck and sways in time to music in his head

[FTB]

[haeroniel-doliet]

a bonus thought post for the night!!

on that nostalgia raising feelings train but it derails so it got long so its under a readmore :*

scrolling my old art made me a bit sad and nostalgic (who doesnt get those feelings though doing the same) specifically i really have my heart going out to kid me who got basically no notes on anything. (im not saying i shouldve, art was definitely kid art and questionably tagged etc!) but some i put effort into and it made me so happy to get those 10 likes or whatever. it made me post post and post even what i was working on and unfinished bits (Sure, being me? many of those never got finished bc posting gave the hit of reward chemicals, no response meant no motivation to finish to get more yknow?)

its weird thinking ive now as an adult got a handful of posts with -hundreds- of notes. one over a thousand!! (sure, the really good and popular artists may have thousands but hey they deserve it!!) its weird that i sort of maybe now know what to do to get a reaction out of my prefered niche of the internet. that if i tried w some more consistently, who knows?

im proud of everything in my current art tag. (mostly. no. i am proud shut up brain) i feel slightly like posting more wips. bc i have a ton. surprisingly? ive been drawing way more in the past year than ive been posting (new for me). of course, there is no obligation to post it. why post stuff im not happy with? only to get anxious abt it? sure posting that one teaser when i was actively working on making it better was kinda fun. sure maybe posting some wips would make me go back and finish them bc some of them are good ideas?? but also some are just. theyd make sense to nobody but myself. and why should i share every crevice of my creativity like i used to as an attention craving kid?

my blog is my blog its me, its not a nice art blog its got all my vents and whatever i like to reblog on a given day on it all together. i could make a new tag that feels less like a portfolio to post wips i abandoned or doodles that never went further. it might be nice having them out here. but somehow i feel like id be too embarassed to post them, for my few followers to actually see them. what if i actually tagged them and ppl in tags saw my nonsense doodles? is it worth it? right now my art tag feels like its: dinluke and finished at that ONLY. things that people who come on my blog would like to see perhaps...

hahahhahahha i just crashed my Krita trying to with brash abandon look at all the unposted wips i have at once

turns out i have like. a handful of original works that never got past a rough doodle stage which is fair yknow they were just ideas that could be fleshed out but dont need to. some of them are very personal vent art

ive got a few sketch to tiny doodle to questionable attempt at painting etc bits of the star wars ladies. reminds me that i should branch out in my star wars posting and that drawing women is just way easier and more natural to me why dont i do it more?

ive got a good few fic inspired sketches that never got legs and tbf? theyre olddd now.

ive got like 12 frames of the inktober challenge from last year... in the style of posting 5 at a time, theyve all been sketched out and like half are i think finished. obviously october went long and at some point it just felt weird to post them even if i finished them. i sort of decided if i finish them up early autumn i could get away w posting them for beginning of october while i had a try at the new inktober? idk why i like a challenge to force me to draw more than i do in a year. and then it takes me a year lol. i have a set of 5 that are all inspired by fic, and like. i still like the idea of them. unfortunately? some of the references were old..  A YEAR AGO. sure theres like, the appreciation for vintage and telling ppl we like their work ages on. but i worry the authors no longer are in the fandom or want to be reminded of their work? etc etc. some of them are meh, some i like.

ngl i am especailly happy w my oct 31 post, which i really wish id finished on time for last year. heres to seeing if i post it this year? maybe i’ll finish what i want to finish of them (theres like. 2 im just really not inspired for and never was) and then have a wee collage of them to post, w the oct 31 prompt seperate, as a sort of. hey wip clear out! these are the stragglers from last year :))

maybe ill post original art one day when i get drawn enough to finish one.

ok ok hi welcome indepth to my thought process, bonus thoughts for every thought included. this doesnt need to be on the internet SURE but its a small time capsule for myself ok?

i dont think right now making a doodle tag to post wips is gonna bring me anything but anxiety and feelings of inadequacy i know too well from posting art as a teen. maybe at some point itll help break the barrier and ill just. post shit but it doesnt have to be on my ““portfolio tag”“

i could pick up an wip to finish now, ive got a good few candidates. but i think i should best just, shake off the cobwebs on smth new so i dont feel like im ruining it. it might be a rey or a leia or other star wars heroine portrait. it might be grogu bc hes an already ugly gremlin. it might be something else. i might be talking a high load of shit bc its 3 am again and i should go sleep rather than push myself in delirium. odds are tomorrow im exhausted again, feel like i should do things that actually benefit me in my life and address responsibilites, and shut down under the weight of the thought of it and not do anything until i go crazy at night again? time will tell but rn im stuck in that loop.

perhaps i should never have posted this bc its very long and personal but also? i kinda doubt anyone will read it and thats ok :)) if you are here, hi sorry that you know me better now! uhhh thoughts on the above?

[toboldlywrite]

Unfinished

So I know people wanted stuff with backstory and crew shenanigans and I promise I am working on something great but for now, have another slice of Claire and Tobias's domestic life before Plot went down.

Tagging some possibly interested people: @lady-redshield-writes @cog-writes @ava-burton-writing @silverbird-scrive @bluemartlet (let me know if you want on or off the list!)

Tobias had been thinking about tacos all day. Friday was technically take-out day, but he knew it wouldn’t take much convincing for Claire to agree to him cooking, especially since he was already carrying three bags of groceries up the stairs into their apartment. But when he nudged open the door he’d barely managed to unlock with half a hand, neither Claire nor Chewbacca was there to greet him. That wasn’t so odd, though, that he didn’t wait to call for them before making his way into the kitchen to put the bags down somewhere.

Only to find that there was nowhere to put them.

Something not unlike a hurricane had attacked the room, covering the counters with newspapers and crumpled sheets of paint-splattered paper towels and paint brushes that had seen better days. The table was hardly visible underneath the sheets of newspaper; bottles of paint, even more paint brushes, and canvases with half-finished sketches or paintings strewn all over it. There were no less than three cups of dirty paint water among the mess, one perched dangerously close to the edge. Tobias slowly slid it back into safer territory, catching Chewbacca’s eye. The cat glanced towards the living room, then back up at him with what he could have sworn was worry in his gaze.

Or maybe that was Tobias projecting. He picked up the nearest piece of abandoned artwork; a sketch of a planet, half of it painted in. It certainly wasn’t Earth- the continents were all wrong; the most massive of which looked like the talon of a giant eagle, ready to pounce on the smaller landmass below it. The color scheme was different, too: oceans a deep emerald green and the land different shades of brown fading into oranges and pinks. Around it were four hurriedly drawn circles- unformed moons waiting for the artist to bring them to life.

But given the number of canvases, Tobias doubted the artist was going to get around to that any time soon.

He made his way around the table, careful not to step around Chewbacca’s tail, while making just enough noise to not startle Claire. She stood just in front of the window, staring into the sky beyond with concentration intense enough to direct the clouds in their path overhead. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm on each.

He hesitated. He remembered all-too well the last time he'd seen her like that, and braced himself for the worst. “Claire?”

Her tapping faltered for just a second, the only indication that she’d heard him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” Her answer was too short, too flat. Tobias's heart dropped to somewhere in the apartment under them. It's her dad again, isn't it?

“Claire.” He stopped next to her, and only then did she look over at the painting in his hands. “Please. Talk to me. What happened?”

“None of them were right,” she muttered.

“What do you mean? Is this about the paintings?” Claire liked sticking her hands into all sorts of hobbies- she had always had a bit of a restless spirit. But while her creative pursuits were chaotic,  they were also usually joyful. The only time they weren't was when she was trying to distract herself.

She sighed, turning to the window again. It still took her a minute to speak, but this time Tobias could feel her searching for words in the silence.

“You know that feeling… when you walk into a room and instantly forget why you came in there?”

He nodded, even though she probably didn’t see. “It helps to retrace your steps.”

Her smile was thin and didn’t reach her eyes. “Exactly. But what if you felt that way for your entire life? What if you had no idea which doorway you came in through, and which steps you needed to retrace to find it again? How would you ever remember what it was you were doing there?” Her fingers stopped tapping, instead gripping tightly around her arm until the skin went white.

Tobias blinked. “That… that sounds like anxiety to me.”

“What?” She looked at him clearly for the first time since he’d come home, like she’d been snapped out of a trance.

“It’s not how I experience it. Not exactly. But it does sound like it.”

“Maybe.” But she bit the corner of her lip- she was just humoring him.

He set the painting down on the back of the couch and grabbed her hands. “Maybe you should see someone,” he suggested as gently as he could.

She scoffed. “Tobias, I don’t need-”

“Just, hear me out, ok?”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, but stayed quiet.

“You were the one who talked me into going, remember? Berated me, actually.”

“I did not,” she grumbled.

Tobias rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ok. But the point is, you were right. It did help. I still worry too much, but I know how to handle it. And now it’s really just about things that warrant worry in the first place. You don’t need to do this on your own, Claire. You deserve to be helped and not have to feel like that all the time.”

She took a deep, long breath and sighed it out. “Ok, fine. Maybe you’re right.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “You are right,” she corrected. This time the smile did reach her eyes, even though she tried to cover it. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” His smile managed to coerce a better one out of her. “Now can you please clear off the table so I can make dinner?”

Claire glanced back into the kitchen and groaned, catching sight of the cataclysm she’d left behind. “I’m never doing art again.”

“Why not?” He picked the painting back up, handing it to her. “You can’t leave this unfinished. Remember what you told me?”

“That an unfinished work of art is an unfinished world. Literally, in this case.” She made a face at all the paintings on the table. “I have a lot of worlds to finish.”

“Well finish them some other time. We need room for tacos.”

[withinthescripts]

Season 2, Cassette 9: Metropolitan Museum of Art (1981)

[tape recorder turns on]

Welcome to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and its new Harlem Island home. I am Elaine Hara, director of contemporary exhibitions. Thank you for attending “Claudia Atieno: in Memoriam”. This exhibition has been curated by Atieno’s friend and fellow artist, Roimata Mangakāhia, who spent two years with Atieno in her artist commune in Cornwall in the early 1970’s. The commune was deserted in 1972, when Atieno vanished. We know of course that she died, although there is much uncertainty and speculation as to how. We might expect that these paintings or Mangakāhia’s narration would address the rumors of foul play or open windows on Atieno’s story, but we feel there’s little to be gained here. Please instead enjoy this retrospective on Atieno’s known life and work, and join us in farewelling one of the 20th century’s greatest artists.

For membership to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, please see the kiosk located at the Hudson River ferry station at the Saint Nicholas Park dock.

[bell chimes]

I have thought long and carefully about what to include in this exhibition. I have thought about which works Claudia would want included, and what she would have left out. It is not easy to guess at a person’s opinions years after they have gone. It is hard to know if the impressions you hold of them are accurate, or if they’ve been colored and altered by the changes that have happened within yourself.

Perhaps it is for the best that she was unable to provide any input into this exhibition. Creative people are not always the best curators of their own work. When you have been so close to a piece for as long as it takes to conceive it, refine it, and in the end create it, it becomes difficult to see how it might fit into a wider picture.

When you are busy examining the flower in front of you, it is hard to see the mountains in the distance. I hope Claudia would approve of my choices. I wish I could share them with her. She is one of the finest artists I have ever known. And I would very much like to know her thoughts on how I’ve chosen to celebrate her work. [tearily] She’s one of the closest friends I’ve ever had, and I would very much like to again hear her feelings on the world, on art, and on ourselves.

I’ve selected a range of works from various points in her career, including the unfinished painting she left behind when she abandoned her home in Cornwall.

[bell chimes]

One. “House with Yellow Door”.

We’ll start one of my favorite of Claudia’s works. It has a playfulness to it that she rarely shows in her work, although it was pervasive in her life. There is a cliché that artists are moody and unfriendly, malcontents who pour so much of themselves into their work that they’ve got nothing left to the people around them. I’m not convinced that this cliché is very often true. It certainly wasn’t in Claudia’s case. She was warm and lively and welcoming. She liked to talk about anything except herself. She was exceptional at pulling people out of herself and loved to be surrounded by people as much as possible.

This painting, while simple, is imbued with that liveliness Claudia carried with her through her life more clearly than anything else she’s done.

Look at the house and its ordinariness. The ordinary street as well. What do you define as ordinary?

You expect to enter this home and be met with a warm meal and a generous glass of wine, which is exactly the kind of expression Claudia gives as well. No one walks away from her unfed, which is as admirable a quality as any I can think of.

What kind of food do you like? Do you need food to feel comfort?

The people standing outside the house are ordinary people. But they look like people who would care about how you are and offer you a place to stay if you needed one.

Do you need a place to stay? What does caring look like?

It is a portrait of Claudia’s past life, of her childhood, and there’s no way to know whether it’s accurate or not. It is a portrait of her house and her family before she was made to leave them. The house no longer exists, and the family are scattered to the winds.

The vision may be an idealized vision of a childhood that never happened in place of a more painful one, or at least a more imperfect one. Or it may be the reality, a snapshot of a life of bliss cut short by the rebuilding of society. It’s hard to say which idea is the more tragic. Perhaps there’s always loss and pain when we look back at a person’s childhood.

[bell chimes]

Two. “Woman in Bath”.

I have never allowed another artist to use me as a subject. Sitting for an artist is tedious at best and I’ve never had much patience. But Claudia was always persuasive, and every artist should know how the person under their brush feels. So here we are.

I lived with Claudia for a while on an island off the coast of Cornwall. The house had a few idiosyncracies. One of which was a bath tub just off the corner of the living room. It stood on its own clawed feet, not hooked up to any plumbing. Filling it took dozens of trips from the kitchen with pots and pans of water. Emptying it was complicated.

Portraits never show the full bredth of a person’s experience, even when that experience is just one moment captured.

What do you see in a portrait like this? The blackness of the woman’s hair, rising above the curved white edge of the bath tub. The curve of her fingers as they droop towards the floor. The steam rising from the water.

Do you see the conversations that happened between artist and subject? You do not. Can you hear what’s being said? You cannot. Can you hear what’s being left unsaid? What are you leaving unsaid? [chuckling] Why would you do that?

A portrait is always a picture of secrecy, no matter how open and honest your subject. No matter how skilled and perceptive the artist. A portrait always hides more than it tells.

So here is the only portrait ever painted of me by another artist, and you can barely see my face, with no hope at all of knowing what I’m thinking. But are you trying anyway? Please, do not.

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on] [bell chimes]

Three. “The Empty Pier”.

Claudia painted this long before we met. I don’t know where it is, I never asked and if I had, it’s likely she would have evaded the question, spun it around to ask something about me instead.

The beach is lonely and somehow feels like it’s been lonely for a long time. It is not the loneliness of a beach in winter, remembering the laughs and games of summer, feeling like they will never return, even though they come back every year like clockwork. No, this beach feels like it hasn’t seen a human being in years, maybe ever. It is bleak and quiet.

But for the pier, you would think no one had ever discovered it. The pier itself is weathered, but looks sturdy at first glance. It is not until you look closely that you see how rotten and perilous the struts supporting it are. Stretching, brittle, and weak into the sea below.

The sea also looks at first glance reliable and safe. But below the shimmering green of the surface, a darkness moves. It is a portrait of a storm about to strike, of a ground about to fall out under someone’s feet. It is a portrait of peace about to end.

[bell chimes]

Four. “Unfinished Work”.

I did not see this painting until I began planning this exhibition, although Claudia must have started it while we were both in Cornwall. It is a painting of the house, or of the island, or of neither and both those things.

You can see the northwest corner of the house and behind it, the sloping grass leading towards the sea and the sea fading off towards the south. At least you would have been able to see the sea, had she finished the painting. As it is, there’s simply a thin, pale wash waiting to be built upon.

At the southern edge of the island, there are a few sketched-out lines. They could be the beginnings of a tree, although I can’t remember that any tree stood on that part of the island. They could be a figure, standing at the cliff’s edge.

That spot was a favorite of mine while I lived there. At high tide, you could dive into the sea below and it was like – jumping into oblivion. Claudia often asked me how I was brave enough to do it, but it was perfectly safe at high tide. I encouraged her often to take the plunge. It would release her of every feeling, every weight, to fall so far, for so long. And at the moment you feel you cannot stand the sky any longer, the sea hits you, returns you to the cold shock of birth. Your mind clears, your skin aches, and you cannot climb back up quickly enough.

But as with my suggestions about her art, she did not take my suggestions. This was also the last spot I saw her before she went away. I’d been painting outside, taking my last few moments of the sun, (-) [0:14:22] about the horizon to finish a seascape I had been working on for some time. These were also my last few moments on the island before I would travel to Amsterdam.

It was low tide. The time for diving had passed. It was the only thing I wanted to do, besides leave Cornwall to get away from Claudia.

I passed Claudia on my way in to collect my things and head to the mainland, and we said our farewells. Neither of us has ever been sentimental and our farewells were brief. Plus we both assumed it wouldn’t be long til we saw each other again.

But she said: “Roimata,” and when I turned, she hesitated. She rarely hesitated in her words. “I’m… going to take the plunge,” she told me. I wanted this to be figurative and literal. But I understood she was ready to try diving. She did not understand the tides.  

The last reflection of the sun’s arc was below the water now. I think of this moment a lot. I play it over and over in my mind.

There was a moment, you see. There was a moment when I could have told her. I could have told her it was low tide.

Can you hear what’s being left unsaid?

That moment is frozen now, perhaps it always has been, I see it from outside my own body. I watch my face, trying to see there what I was thinking, trying to see myself making that decision. Or failing to make that decision. I can’t see it. My face is blank, impassive, pleasant.

I watch myself in the moment, where I didn’t tell Claudia Atieno not to cliff dive. The moment… where I didn’t tell her the tide was out and the water had given way - to sharp rocks.

This was the last time I saw her and honestly cannot tell you what she did, or or what happened to her a-after that moment. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see. I’d already packed and left for Amsterdam, I’d work at the…

I don’t know if she was brave enough to dive in the end, really. I hope she was. [chuckles] I hope she freed herself from the weight of an audience’s expectations. I hope she threw herself into a moment of brief bliss, but no thought as to how that moment might be perceived. I hope she felt the joy of falling into oblivion.

I hope she felt – reborn.

[tape recorder turns off]

Within the Wires is written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson and performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com.

The voice of Elaine Hara was Leah Nanako Winkler.

Don’t forget to check out the amazing Within the Wires T-shirts and Claudia Atieno artprint at withinthewires.com.

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum giftshop, grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about [my 17-year-old cat Simone]. Pick up a poster featuring [goats whispering to other goats]. And buy a commemorative vase made out of [Boston accents].

[newrageinc]

Day 8:  Drawing

This is an unfinished 1/3 of a thought. It’s raw as all heck and I’m posting it because I’m so done. I don’t think I’ve ever hated a single word more in my whole life. Writing every day is hard *whiny voice*

Sasuke was star struck.

A marked improvement from his prior mood of irritated. Who made the curriculum for art students? How did a faculty come together to decide what he’d need to know to be a successful artist? Who made them the boss? Other scholarly institutions?

It was all a scam.

Why was he even going to school anyway?

He should be out experiencing the world. He should be putting paint brush to canvas and getting firsthand accounts of big time rejection. He should be hunting down his next commission and fighting for publication and exposure.

Not hunting for a peer to model for a final project.

Sasuke had been stomping up and down campus, all but snarling at other students as he started his search. He had taken a different way out of the fine arts building than his normal route when he had stopped short, breath catching at the sight before him.

He probably should have started his search here instead of circling around campus before doubling back. It probably would have saved him some time as well as lessened the blow to his reputation as “calm.”

Hindsight was 20/20.

Sasuke generally avoided this side of the fine arts building. Something about watching people traipse around in tight fitted leotards and that different type of arrogance that dancers seemed carry themselves with had put him off of walking through. Even if their courtyard had the prettiest afternoon light and biggest trees and nicest marble benches.

He really should have just started here.

The courtyard was strewn with students, all of them wearing some type of dance attire as they hung around in small groups. Some were stretching out, long limbs reaching as far as they could go and others were practicing pieces of choreography.

Like the pair that was tucked away at the far side, a large oak tree partially obscuring them form view. Sasuke probably wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t been in the middle of a complicated lift.

The girl had her hair loose and it moved around her in a secondary dance, dark as midnight and catching the light in just a way that reminded Sasuke of stars in the night sky. She twirled around her partner effortlessly, her movements the epitome of grace. Her limbs were all long, elegant lines from her soft hands to her pointed toes and Sasuke knew.

It had to be her.

He was half way across the courtyard when someone stepped into his path.

“What?” He snapped, glaring at the girl who decided to block him.

She looked oddly familiar. Her hair was a light shade of pink, pulled up into a severe bun, and she wore a classic black leotard with pink tights. She had pointe shoes draped over her shoulder and she was smiling up at him. “You’re Sasuke, right? Naruto’s friend?”

“What of it?” He bit, shifting on his feet to look around her, a wave of annoyance rippling through him when he realized he couldn’t see the couple from where they currently stood.

“You don’t have to get snippy, it was just a question. I’ve never seen you come around here before but Naruto says you’re a painter?” Sasuke snorted.

“I usually avoid this side of the building,” he sneered and she huffed, her own delicate brows dipping downward as she pursed her lips at him. He sighed. “If you must know, I’m looking for someone to model for a project.”

She visibly brightened, shoulders rolling back as her posture straightened. “Oh? Well, I think I’d be available.” She smiled up at him, maintaining eye contact even as he glowered at her.

She was pretty enough. He remembers Naruto mentioning someone with pink hair he’d been hanging around with but couldn’t think of her name at the moment though he was pretty sure it had to do something with her hair. She was lean and her eyes were a unique shade of green he’d be interested in trying to match.

Just not for this.

His muse seemed decided as his mind replayed the scene of the dark haired girl mid turn.

“Thanks, but I’ve got someone specific in mind.” He stepped around her to keep heading in the direction of the tree.

“Hinata has class with Tsunade right now. Tsunade’s the department head and doesn’t like being interrupted.” The girl called out after him. He froze.

“What-?”

“You kept looking in that direction and she always practices up there before rehearsals.” She sniffed and started turning away. “Good luck convincing her to model for you, she hates unnecessary attention.”

Sasuke wasn’t able to catch up to that dark haired girl. He’d roamed the halls of the rehearsal rooms for about an hour before calling it quits and heading back to his apartment.

“What crawled up your butt?” Naruto asked when Sasuke swung the door open with enough force to bang loudly against the wall. Naruto’s shoulders drooped at the dent in the drywall. Not that they’d had any hope of recovering their deposit at this point anyway.

“Art school.” Sasuke grumbled, tossing his backpack on the floor and throwing himself on the couch. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “Art school and your stupid friends.”

“What? Which friends?” Sasuke threw his hands over his head and stared up at the ceiling.

“That pink haired girl you talked about kept me from a girl.” He could hear Naruto’s confusion from the kitchen table.

“A girl? Sakura? I need more details man, you’re making zero sense.”

Sasuke threw an arm over his face. “I have to get someone to model for me and I spotted the perfect girl and Sakura held me up so I wasn’t able to catch her.” A bitter taste filled his mouth putting it together like that.

Stupid art school.

Stupid Sakura.

Everything was just so stupid…

Sasuke heaved a sigh as he heard the scrape of a chair against the linoleum floor. Naruto hovered over the back of the couch, eye brows raised in concern as he watched his friend mope.

“Do you want to get stupid drunk?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That’s essentially the weekend.”

Sasuke blinked up at the ceiling then pushed himself up. “Yeah, fuck it.”

Okay.

Thursday was definitely not essentially the weekend.

But this was college. Essentially pre-actual life. He was allowed to make decisions on the same level of stupidity as this schools’ art program.

This didn’t make his throbbing temples feel better as he trudged through campus, hoodie sopping wet from the sudden torrential down poor he had not planned on getting caught in. Thunder rumbled outside as he pulled the heavy fabric off of his body.

So much for trying to camp out in the courtyard to see if he can find dark haired girl.

He found an empty longue chair and pulled out his sketchbook. He glanced down at his phone before stuffing back into his bag and pulled out the sketch he’d started on the night before.

Without more than his memory he wasn’t able to get much down on paper but he’d started trying to capture the movements of that girl. He’d started drawing different bits and pieces of her. His pencil drifted towards the hand he had started on the night before, lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to recall how her hands had looked when she’d spun away from her partner.

He heard the sound of rain increase as someone opened the door, the heavy patter of fat drops on pavement loud in the nearly empty halls of the building. Sasuke didn’t bother looking up, getting more frustrated with himself as he failed at recreating this girl on paper. He turned the page and started over, this time trying to see if he could sketch out the complicated lift that had caught his eye.

He had just started on her hair when he heard a gasp.

Sitting next to him in another longue chair, was dark haired girl, a coffee cup gripped in her hands and drops of rain dripping off of her bands as she stared at him with wide eyes. The paleness of her gaze made his breath hitch and he wished it were illegal to be this attractive. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, hangover momentarily forgotten as he took in each and every feature of this girl as quickly as he could like she was going to disappear.

Her skin was pale and immaculate save for the blush that started at her cheeks from how fiercely he searched her face. Her lips were parted slightly from her gasp and they looked so petal soft he was half tempted to reach out and touch her.

“H-hi?” She said, touch of hesitance to her greeting as he continued to state.

“Hi.”

Neither of them moved. A group of students came through, nosily chattering as they went, sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor. The door’s slam echoed after them and settled into an awkward silence that he wasn’t sure he wanted to break.

“I-uh that’s a nice drawing.” She muttered, pulling her cup closer to her lips to hide her face, finding the lid suddenly fascinating. “It kind of looks like they’re dancing.”

“They are.” He tapped the end of his pencil against the paper. “Dancing, that is.” He looked down at the gym bag by her feet pointedly. “You dance?”

She nodded, crossing her legs at her ankles, self-consciously tucking loose hair behind her ear. Sasuke quirked a brow at her.

“You’re quiet for a performer.” Her blush intensified and she pressed her lips into a thin line before responding.

“I just like to dance.” She jerked her chin at his notebook. “It’s pretty. You’re drawing. It kind of looks like… Part of some of the choreography I’ve been working on.” Sasuke smirked.

“Oh? Funny, I saw a couple of people running through it and I thought it was interesting.” She hummed and took a sip from her cup. “I’m Sasuke,” he offered when she didn’t say anything else. He squinted at her, pretending to think for a minute. “Actually, you kind of look like one half of the couple I had seen yesterday.”

“O-Oh?” He flipped a few pages back on his sketch book, looking for the one of her face he had abandoned when Naruto started puking last night. He presented it to her and he finally noticed her face had gotten so red he wondered if she was alright. “O-oh, how about t-that.”

He was about to open his mouth to ask her if he could draw her dancing on her own when someone called out to her from the end of the hall.

“Hinata!” A tall blond girl in knee pads, short shorts, and a crop top was waving at her from one of the class rooms. “Good! I’m glad you’re here, come help me real quick.” Without waiting for a response, she flounced back into the room, long hair whipping behind her as she went.

“I-I’ve got to go. Sorry.” She grabbed her gym bag and all but ran towards the room where the other girl had disappeared to.

‘Hinata, huh.’

“Who were you talking to, by the way? He looked cute.” Hinata shrugged, pulling her sweatshirt over the top of her head and tossing it aside, adjuster her off the shoulder t-shirt and shaking out some of the moisture from her hair.

“I’m not sure.” Ino gave Hinata a weird look as she joined her on the floor of the classroom she had sequestered. She liked to take over empty classrooms at the end of the day for impromptu hip-hop dance sessions.

“It’s not like you to strike up a conversation with a stranger,” she smirked wickedly. “Little princess Hinata, were you flirting?” She spoke in a song, eyebrows wriggling when Hinata spluttered.

“I-I I mean… I don’t. Ino,” she let herself fall back on to the floor, hair splaying around her as she blinked up at the ceiling. “I think he was drawing Sai and I.”

“What?” Hinata groaned and brought her hands up to her face, sliding herself across the floor and away from Ino with her legs.

“He was drawing and I sat next to him and happened to see and I guess I made a noise when I saw and he recognized me.” She took her hands away from her face to look up at Ino who was looking down at her curiously. “Is that conceited of me to assume he was drawing us? It was that weird lift that we do, you know the one where I bend my arms and legs in that weird pose?” Ino scrunched up her face in thought.

“No, I mean it’s a unique movement, I don’t think anyone else has something like that in anything they’re working on now so it’s not a farfetched idea. Is there something wrong with him drawing you guys? Does he give you like, creep vibes or something?”

“No,” Hinata groaned again as she pushed herself off the floor and drew her knees up to circle her arms around her legs. “No, I guess I just… He seemed kind of like… He wanted to ask about drawing me some more.” She hid her face in her knees, speaking into her tights. “And I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’re so weird sometimes, Hinata.”