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neoyi · 3 years

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So there were new indie game directs (Day of the Dev and Wholesome Games) and I was basically Foaming Mouth Guy from Avatar because I’m hyped for indie games.

Since I can’t ill afford to shut up about my opinions, here’s a big, fat blog on what particular games I’m either looking forward to, has piqued my interest, or at least curious enough for me to comment on it even if it’s not within my wheelhouse.

Axiom Verge 2: I have no horse in this race, I just think it’s nice of them to let players skip boss fights if they want to for ease of gameplay.

Toem: A Photo Adventure: Some evil genius combined photo snapping and meandering sidequests together into one game, knowing I’d be putty in their hands. There’s actually a few photograph games in these directs, but this one grabbed me because the list of quests you do looks so specific that it scratches a particular itch for me.

Garden Story: Incredibly lovely Mother 3-like graphics aside, this game hits all my buttons: quest-based gameplay to help numerous NPCs, managing the layout of your town, exploration, and RPG-like elements make this one a dream indie game for me.

Vokabulants: For some reason, this game’s setting isn’t doing it for me, but I’m awestruck with their decision to use stopmotion for the entire thing. Rarely utilized, always cool to see.

Death’s Door: I don’t care about birds, but I DO like grim reaper stuff, so color me piqued.

Elec Head: I already knew about this game thanks to Game Maker’s Toolkit’s Game Jam, and I think I have it bookmarked on itch.io, so it’s nice to see this will get fleshed out into a full game.

I haven’t played the Game Jam version, but the minimum coloring (yellow = electricity which is what you need to trigger to progress) compliments the concept well.

Walk: I am a wimpy baby chicken bitch, so I can’t do horror games, but developing the entirety of Walk’s environment to look as if they’re seen from grainy cameras is such a brilliant way to convey the terrifying unknown your player character has to face. I won’t play this, but I am definitely going to watch a Let’s Play of it.

Moonglow Bay: I’ve been excited for this one for a while. All those hours playing the fishing minigame in Ocarina of Time (and eventually Majora’s Mask) and lamenting for the existence of an entire game with an excuse plot to fill out a fish compendium will soon be fulfilled. I’m so ecstatic.

Loot River: What the fuck? What the living shit? How did they animate the water like that? What the shit? What the goddamn hell? It just looks so good!

Recolit: This game has potential to be atmospheric. It also feels like the kind of game that can deliver a Surprise Spooky or two. For some reason, the main character walking through the barely lit museum really spoke to me.

A Little to the Left: A game where you arrange objects until they’re are properly organized and/or structured? Oh-no, who made this game for me?

Yokai Inn: Sold just for the adorably whimsical graphics alone.

Mythic Ocean: Undersea exploration and sea creatures are my jam. Hope this game will fill a hole in my heart that Abzu sadly did not.

Beast of Maraville Island: I see this game and Donkey Kong Country share a continuity through their banana birds.

We are OFK: Tell you the truth, I don't really care about Band Origin stories (I'm not really a music buff kinda person), but I've been waiting for Teddy Dief and co's game for a while. Whether or not I take anything from this game by end, I know I’ll never stop listening to “Follow/Unfollow”, which I have been obsessively playing in the background non-stop the past two days. If they ever bring out the inevitable bandcamp soundtrack, I hope they also include THIS version of the song that played on the Day of the Dev pre-show because it’s just so *chef’s kiss*

Dordogne: The game's premise isn't really doing it for me, but I dig the watercolor approach.

The Gecko Gods: I remember playing the Gex 2 demo decades ago and being mesmerized by the titular character’s ability to crawl on top of walls and ceilings, and being particularly disappointed at how underutilized it was. The Gecko Gods looks to fill in that gap and I'm intrigued.

Tasomachi: It’s about an airship. I gotta. I gotta!

Bear and Breakfast: I like the art style, kind of like a webcomic if it was picked up by Cartoon Network or Netflix.

Sally: MORE airships? Well, this is the indie direct that just keeps on giving, now isn’t it?

Rainbow Billy: Repaint a black-and-white world into color is becoming A Thing in indie games, but the animation and style is just bursting with charm.

Unpacking: I played the demo for this one and it did a decent job hitting my button. There wasn’t anything more to it other than unpacking and just putting stuff in its appropriate place (it didn’t feel like there was much wiggle room - books go on bookshelves and maybe on top of a drawer, shoes goes in closet and nothing but the closet, etc), but it beats real packing/unpacking any day.

Cloud Jumper: THREE games with or about airships? Now you’re just spoiling me.

Teacup: This one just looks delightful. It feels like playing through a children’s book.

Muttropolis: You take pictures of dogs!

Amber Isle: You know, I don’t think I see enough towns and villages in games inhabited by dinosaur folks.

Moonshell Island: Apparently I’m easy to please. I see indie games look this vibrant and colorful (almost pastel, but not quite) and I’m Phillip J. “Shut up and Take My Money” Fry. I don’t even know what this game is about, but I want it.

Lego Builder’s Journey: Okay, this looks nice and the graphics are mind-blowing, but does anything made and owned by the LEGO company actually count as an indie game?

Powerwash Simulator: who made this game for me?

Toodee and Topdee: Oh, this is clever. Perspective games in my head seem to have been relegated mostly to whatever Nintendo did with their 3DS games, but this looks like it captures the spirit of it without the 3D or the eye-strain that came with it.

Apico: I’m getting a 2D open world exploration vibe from this game and I’m down for that.

#indie games #video games #day of the dev #wholesome games #neoyi talks

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prettywarriors · 3 years

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Ok ill bite whats the worst mg series

alright, whats the worst magical girl series in your opinion?

Thanks you two for letting me do some yelling. The obvious guess would likely be one of the recent edgelord shows right? Magical Girl Site or something similar? But nay I say, for while MGS and Day Break Illusion and such and what not generally tell you what to expect right away. Don't like super violence and suffering? Watch something else is the clear message from the get go. One of the bait and switch series then like Madoka or maybe Yuki Yuna? For what faults they may or may not have, at least these series do something and are interesting, even if you're not huge on what goes down in the series. A parody then? They range from affectionate to banned in New Zealand but regardless of quality and their feelings for MGs, it's a parody. It's a joke and shouldn't be taken seriously (plus they're usually short so you can just forget about them forever).

So what makes a series terrible then, I am sure you are asking. IMO? Setting expectations for an interesting and enjoyable series, and then dashing them to hell.

Come with me below the cut, as I talk about Key Princess Story: Kagihime Eternal Alice Rondo!

Spoilers abound so if you care about those for a 15 year old series, click away.

Background: Kagihime was a 4 volume manga that ran from 2004-2006 that was picked up for a 13 episode anime adaptation near the end of its run. The manga is created by a pair (Kaishaku) who you may know for making Magical Nyan Nyan Taruto. Kannazuki no Miko, and Steel Angel Kurumi, and the anime had a script written by the same writer (Mamiko Ikeda) for Tenshi Ni Narumon who also did some script writing for Princess Tutu and Seven of Seven. The anime also had 6 character music videos which are fairly simple but a nice addition to the series for the main girls. Discotek has been publishing the anime in the states in recent years, and the manga was brought over by *squints at book spine* Dr Master Publications.

The Premise: Girls transform and enter weird outside of reality spaces to fight each other with giant keys to take each other’s stories to create a third Alice In Wonderland story.

Well, an off-brand Alice story written by Alternate L. Takion, rather than Lewis Carroll/Charles Dodgson, that while the series uses all the aesthetic hallmarks of the tradition Alice, the little we see of the in universe Alice story is clearly different. Which is fine, at the end of the day, it’s still about someone who loves the Alice stories and wishes there was more, and even makes his own fanfiction version. His? Oh yeah, while the girls do all the fighting, the main character is Aruto, a teen boy who loves Alice, and for reasons we don’t know till late game, can enter the liminal spaces that the ‘Alice Users’ fight in. He chases a girl who looks like the Alice he sees in his story, who is named Arisu, and gets roped into this fanfic battle royale. He is also the older brother of the very needy Kirihara, who also ends up being and Alice User. As does Kirihara’s bff Kisa. To round out the group of enemies-turned-friends-who-will-work-together-to-collect-the-Eternal-Alice-without-having-to-fight-eachother group is a young genius researcher Kirika who wants to know more about Aruto’s connection that allows him to enter the spaces where the girls fight.

Then there’s all the other girls, some of whom still have real importance to the story and some who have a few panels or 2 scenes total. But with a whole bunch of girls to design, the creators reached out to a whole lot of other people to have them create designs! Eventually the battle gets down to the last few girls, there’s a confrontation with the guy running the whole thing, and while the anime and manga vary quite a bit the whole time, in both version Aruto ends up with Kirihara. Oh and Arisu was created by Aruto’s super imagination powers.

The Promise: Here on is subjective, particularly with what I personally saw as potential from this series. because I need you to understand how much I want to like this series.

~Alice in Wonderland themed: I know some people aren’t alice fans and that’s fine you do you but as a big alice fan this is great. We have a few alice episodes and themed characters amongst series like CCS and MGRP, and even Alice themes in other series like Tweeny Witches and Alice 19th. But damn it I am down for Alice series.

~Giant Keyyyyyyyys: Yeah yeah Kingdom Hearts but these keys are much more staff like for a lot of the characters which ads and air of elegance rather than the KH ones that for me at least feel well designed for big ol props rather than actual weapons. We also get...

~Weapon variety: It counts as a key if it’s a thorn whip that can be shaped like a key right? How about a giant pocket knife? Crossbows can also be keys. Hush. And we have this variety because

~Guest Artists: For magical girl series where we have a variety of outfits designed by different people, we have Kagihime, Uta~Kata, and uhh I guess Magia Record? But that’s a mobile game with a hella number of characters and with how mobile game works I wouldn’t count it just because it’s less the intent of the series to have variety and more the nature of having lots of girls. (Precure doesn’t count because unless I missed a memo each season’s set is still by one designer). If a series isn’t about a team and therefore doesn’t need cohesion, bringing in other artists is a great way for variety and new looks.

~The long term goal: Fighting with other people who love the same piece of media you do in hopes of creating new material that will be viewed as official? That’s just fandom nowadays. But it’s a legitimate interesting concept, and opens up so many doors for a message for the series, be it ‘what you create is no less valuable than the canon work’ or ‘it’s hard to let go when something you love doesn’t have more to it but you can still love it for what it is’ or ‘bond with the people who like the thing you like ya idiot instead of fighting about it’. The concept is interesting and there are so many narrative ways you can take this.

~Gays: Between the anime and manga, we have at least 5 wlw. Is it a magical girl series without some gays? (side note- the manga had a short thing where the MC wears a girl’s uniform and is pretty comfortable in it and while there is no way this was the intent, between that and the emphasis on the stories that live in girls and how the fight zones have no men, I’m just saying, Trans girl Aruto.)

~Greater Fairy Tale Premise: We meet a Little Match Girl based MG who is obsessed with Andersen rather than the Alice books, and touch on a Sleeping Beauty character in the manga. The manga at least implies that classic stories and fairy tale authors uh. Live on in a liminal space as immortals with world warping powers within that world and there could be opportunities for other girls in the real world to fight for Little Mermaid 2: Electric Boogaloo.

The Good: Everything has positive points, no matter how bad it is.

~Character Designs: Some of those looks slap. As do most of their weapons.

~Backgrounds: I have a strong opinion on backgrounds in anime that can be easily boiled down to old watercolor backgrounds good, modern filtered photos as background bad, and as a 2006 series, this might not be Memole nice but they’re quite attractive.

~Splash Pages: Easily my favorite thing after the designs, each chapter’s title page for the manga just has a character standing in a setting. Which is not everyone’s thing I’m sure but it’s a nice simplistic way to let the characters breathe imo. Even if at least some of the settings were deffo traced. But that’s how backgrounds work to some extent? If I ever get to the Met again, I am tracking down this exact photo, but here is a likely candidate for an example.

~Different Versions: I do not understand the need to make an adaptation that tries to be a 1:1. Kagihime had the same ideas and characters and did some of the same beats but very much had a different finale story and a lot of changes in the middle (like the Alice cops in the manga). Again, not something everyone probably wants I’m sure, but I very appreciate this, especially since the Anime kept good pace with the number of Manga chapters (reading the manga again while watching the anime at 3.8x speed just now was very interesting to see the different interpretations of events in a different medium.)

The ‘Fine’: Yeah.

~Anime Visuals: Look 2006 was still early enough into digipaint that I will give it a total pass on these. The colors are too bright but in a very bland way, the lineart is nothing interesting, and the faces are. Iffy. But it’s not total garbage to look at (probably helped by backgrounds and character designs...) it just came out in an era where not enough people knew how to stylize things to account for the weakness of the tools of the time. (It was 4 years earlier but I feel Kagihime is the polar opposite of Chobits with its painfully bland color palette while still being just. Flat. Sorry for the drive by Chii.)

~Music?: There sure were songs. Obviously, they are nothing to me.

The Bad: CW for.... somehow all the big things to an extent.

~Fanservice: Look, I am fine with fanservice, especially for a series that’s, ya know, not targeted at kids, big Mai Hime fan here even if I would recommend skipping the panty thief episode. And honestly the series generally isn’t fanservicey, at least by the modern standards of having the camera choosing under the skirt rather than an over the shoulder shot like I’ve seen plenty in other shows. Even the sexier outfits like the rose whip dominatrix aren’t bad BUT. When the girls fight. One takes her phallic key and drives it into another girls chest between the boobs while the loser cries in pain and then her book comes out and when the victor rips out pages, the loser’s clothes also rip. It is very SuperS Amazon Trio assault metaphor-y. There’s also a bit of fanservice with the sister becauseeeee....

~Incest: If you read the premise up there, first wow good job because I’m sure not re-reading that, you might have noticed I said MC ends up with his sister. As someone who is a big mythology fan and watches plenty of anime, I have a decent tolerance for your obligatory ‘oh we’re siblings but actually cousins so our feelings are okay’ or whatever the fuck Citrus has going on I don’t know that series and I don’t vibe BUT. I have limits and boy did this series go beyond that because multiple episodes are dedicated to the sister being in love with the brother? And the brother returns her feelings but knows that they are wrong so he put everything he likes in his sister into his version of Alice who, of course, physically manifests as Arisu who he creates accidentally with his uh. Magic imagination powers. But again in both versions MC still ends up with his sister. Hey, at least the manga eventually said the boy was adopted when the sister was like, 3, so if nothing else no blood relations? The anime did not ad this. -_-

~Under Utilized Characters: Arisu’s gradual revelation that she has no childhood memories because she isn’t a real person is so interesting and they don’t do nothing with it but also? That’s the kind of thing I personally would love to dig into and Kagihime, while touching on this world shattering revelation, easily loops back to So Anyway She Should Fight For The Man and to hell with developing a life or personality outside of what has been written for her. The rest of the main 5 were 2 note characters which. Could be worse? The most interesting character ends up being the child genius who accidentally murdered her childhood bestie (and/or lover? depending on version) and her coming to terms with that (the friend is alive but the version changes how and why she thinks she’s dead). Then the villain has the motivation of ‘i lost my creativity and now have become an immortal living outside of normal space and am getting girls to fight each other because that’s like a story so I’m still relevant right?’. But shoutout to the anime for then taking death of the author literally. The numerous other girls are canon fodder outside of like. The manga version of the dead gf and the little match girl.

~Battle Royale: This is not a thing I have an issue with generally. Again, but Mai Hime fan, I need to read MGRP 11, BUT by not developing the non-main girls there is no emotional connection which makes them just canon fodder and that’s boring as sin for a royale system. The initial main character fights revolve so much around the MC guy being there that they fall flat, and the 2 or 3 final battles in both versions still feel without any stakes. Also for a royale thing most of the characters don’t actually die, which cool! Neat! Except when they do? Some nobodies and a somebody are murdered (at least in the manga) and the tone never feels like it’s supposed to be upping the stakes, it’s just. Some people are dead now. And do you want to guess which of the main characters died?

~Gays: Oh boy the best friend of the brother-complex sister is in love with her and (in the manga) dies. She does apparently get better for the last chapter but the death itself is only felt by the rest of the cast for a page or two before we go back to feeling sad big brother wants to kiss his mentally generated sister clone rather than his actual sister u_u. Bury your gays is nothing new, but I wonder if it was also intended to be justified because Guess Who Is Creepy and a bit Perverted? Oh look the lesbian keeps the used swimsuit of her beloved and manipulates events to get an indirect kiss and when she sees the sister trying to strange Arisu for a moment she decides to do it for the sister? It’s not good. You want bad gay rep in a magical girl series, well here ya go. We also had a nobody in the first(second?) episode whose story pages reveal her having a kiss with a girl, and then we also have the prodigy again and- in the manga- her. Uh. childhood lover who she thought she killed but the girl has been wiping her mind over and over so prodigy remembers ‘killing’ the friend and not the she’s alive so she can keep? fucking with her? Toxic!

~Sexual Content: But wait you say, you already covered fanservice! Ah but that is sexual content for titilation. This is sexual content for dramatic backstory! The red riding hood character was sexually assaulted, another character was manipulated into sex first as a teen and then more often to ‘get into the publishing industry’, and the same writer forces some aggressive kisses on the MC. None of it is gratuitous which is nice, but also, was it necessary? Not making a new point for this but read riding hood’s dog was also murdered so unnecessary animal death gets tossed on in there.

~Male Lead: You can have a male, non magical character as the main character surrounded by magical girls. This is not how to do it. If I can make a vicious and hopefully not understood reference, Aruto is basically Tate from the Mai Hime Manga. If you understood that, I am so sorry. If you didn’t, congrats! Don’t read the manga. Or do and send me asks about the iconic final page of the first volume (18+). Anyway, this dude is boring, everything revolves around him, BUT I’ll be generous and say at least this isn’t a harem series? It looks like it out of context but it’s just a triangle with a fun attached scientist and token lesbian.

~Premise: They didn’t make good use of it. The initial goals of ‘take other girls pages from their soul books because if we get enough we unlock a third alice book’ is good! And then we add the twist that that was never going to happen and either if we get all the pages we can grant a wish, or these fights are just happening for the amusement of and asshole. Either way, yeah okay I guess. But at no point do we ever achieve this forbidden wish granting book and the asshole just. Lives. Nothing happens to him. His peers don’t even dunk on him. The only real changes from the beginning and the end of the series are: the siblings are now chill with dating, and the scientist lady won’t turn into a child in magical spaces. Oh. Yeah.

~Why did we make this adult a child sometimes?: I think we know why. Stop trying to get those types of folks to watch your already meh series. I also could have sworn at points in the past looking up images for this series I’ve seen extra art for Yuuri the Thumbelina-y Alice User that seemed like it would fit alongside anything by POP. You know, the Moetan guy. If you don’t know, god I wish that were me.

Wrap Up: I have definitely forgotten some points and am well within my rights to ad to this whenever I remember more points but uh. Yeah.

Listen you want an alice themed battle royale with nice outfits? Rozen maiden is right there. Battle Royale magical girl series that’s good with fanservice? Mai Hime. Series with different outfits while being based on a classic story? Pretear.

Hope anyone who read all of this at least got what I was saying, even if they don’t agree with it. And thanks for reading because whoops.

#why do ya'll let me write so damn many words #thanks ya'll for letting me write so many words #kagihime eternal alice rondo #long post #text #not fashion #whoops 3k words

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owletstarlet · 4 years

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19 shy, 27 giggly or 28 first for tanunatsu if you dont mind 💖

[#19, a shy kiss, from the 76 kiss prompts meme. Sorry it took so long! Established relationship because lord knows we need it right now–]

***

“Is that a new shirt?”

Whatever Natsume had been about to say never makes it out of his mouth. Instead he follows Kaname’s gaze down to where the triangle of soft pink is visible, flecked with bits of green, where he’s tugged at his scarf and begun to fiddle with the zipper.

“Oh,” is all he says, not quite meeting Kaname’s eyes. That, and a noncommittal “mm,” as he zips his jacket firmly back up and yanks the scarf back into place.

Kaname blinks, puzzled. “You can take your jacket off if you’re uncomfortable. It’s really warm in here.” His own jacket lies discarded across his knees; he’d needed it in the dim coolness of the aquarium where they’d spent the afternoon, but the little waiting room on the train platform is generously heated and getting stuffier by the minute.

“It’s fine,” Natsume says, expression now perfectly smooth, arms coming up to rest loosely across his chest. If Kaname didn’t know by now how to pick out the taut thread that the words rested upon, he’d have missed it.

And Kaname probably should have dropped it there. Except there’s high spots of color on Natsume’s cheeks, and he’s clutching a hot can of vending machine cocoa. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks, instead, hand hovering of its own accord above Natsume’s shoulder. He’s struck, then, by a worse possibility than him getting ill, worse and likely paranoid of him, that Natsume could be hurt and concealing it with the jacket and that Kaname had somehow missed the signs. He doesn’t think Natsume would do that, or at least that he’s a lot less likely to than he might’ve been even a handful of months ago, but it sets off a flurry of unwelcome images through Kaname’s head.

“No, it’s—I’m okay,” Natsume says, quickly, and he looks sincere enough that Kaname’s chest unclenches, a bit. He blows out a breath. “Just. The shirt’s a bit…much.” His mouth tugs into a brittle line. “It was Touko-san’s idea,” he tacks on. “…mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Natsume makes a tiny non-answer of a sound in his throat and shifts a little in his seat, now studiously avoiding Kaname’s gaze. And the picture he paints huddled there in the little plastic chair, cheeks dusted pink, is so frankly adorable that Kaname has to firmly remind himself not to let it show on his own face. Not if Natsume’s legitimately uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to take your jacket off if you don’t want,” Kaname says, slowly, “but it’s forty minutes until the next train, and I really doubt anyone else is going to show up,” he says, gesturing towards the deserted platform outside. A pause. “You know I won’t laugh at you or anything, right?”

Natsume doesn’t answer, but he does look up, and something has softened behind his eyes. It’s like there’s a few dozen honeybees trapped behind Kaname’s sternum, all knocking into each other and clamoring for escape, to see that look directed at him.

“O-or, um,” he continues, “If it’s really bothering you, you can wear this one.” He plucks at his own long sleeves. “I’ve got a t-shirt under it, and you could change in the station bathroom.”

The look Natsume gives him is just long enough for Kaname to think he should’ve just dropped it after all. But then his expression shifts into something considering. Very slowly, he reaches up and tugs his scarf loose.

“You said you won’t laugh,” he reminds Kaname, his tone just this side of defensive, and he unzips his jacket.

And it’s a near thing, for Kaname to hold back the sound that bubbles up in his throat, when he sees.

“I have this one,” he blurts, instead, finger coming up to lightly poke a spot just over Natsume’s stomach. “A-and this was the first I ever got—” he brushes just below Natsume’s collarbone, but the image printed in pale green onto the cotton is half obscured by Natsume’s jacket, still covering his slightly hunched shoulders. His fingertips catch the hem. “Can I—” he cuts himself off, upon realizing how very still Natsume is holding himself, like he’s been holding his breath. He lets his hand drop. “Sorry.”

When Natsume meets his eyes, though, he looks vaguely startled. “Wait, you. Want to see?”

“Yes.” The word falls all too quickly from Kaname’s lips, and he feels his face grow warm.

“…oh,” is all Natsume says, like he’s not sure how to parse this information.

“It’s just, um.” Kaname has to resist the urge to chew on the inside of his cheek. “I really like it. But you don’t have to.”

Natsume still very much looks like he’d rather melt into his scuffed-up plastic seat than take his jacket off fully, but to Kaname’s surprise, a pale smile touches his lips. “I know,” he says. And he shrugs off the jacket.

And…objectively speaking, it’s not all that different from many of the other shirts he owns, the newest of the several button-downs in the light colors and playful patterns that Touko seems so fond of selecting for him. He’s never indicated that any of those shirts are a little much, but then again Kaname knows that Natsume would deeply value anything chosen just for him by somebody who cares for him half as much as Touko.

But what’s got Kaname’s full and undivided attention at the moment is the shirt’s pattern. Spangled across the cotton, in splashes of green and purple and gray and darker pink, are an array of succulents and desert flowers, each no larger than a bottlecap. There are easily a dozen varieties, not fantastically detailed but not dissimilar to the ink-and-watercolor illustrations in the guide book he’s had the longest—a library book Dad had brought for him when he was twelve and laid up with pneumonia for the better part of a summer. A book which had, incidentally, ended up in a box of his possessions the next time they’d moved house. Natsume had flipped through that very book last weekend, sprawled out lazy and warm across Kaname’s bed. Kaname had kept tight reins on the impulse to volunteer entirely too much information as he looked at each page over Natsume’s shoulder, while Sensei offered his periodical commentary on which plants looked like they’d be the tastiest fried up in oil. Sensei had been entirely unmoved by Kaname’s insistence that they’d probably make him sick to eat, and had given Kaname’s own little collection of plants on the desk and windowsill enough long conniving looks that Natsume had cuffed him on the head for it. Kaname feels warmed to the core at the familiar images before him now, at the slowly-relaxing shoulders and the still-flushed cheeks of the boy wearing them.

“Where did you get it?” Kaname asks, tugging gently at one sleeve. Pachyveria exotica, his brain supplies, reflexively, at the sight of the pale green starburst beneath his thumb.

“That secondhand shop, the one near the post office across from the school. I was there with Touko-san. She chose it—well.” A sheepish twist of his mouth. “She saw me looking. And she said it’d be…nice, um. To wear. The next time you and me went out.”

“…Oh.” He thinks his own face must have gone a bit pink now, too. Then he asks, because it seems important somehow, “Did you want to get it? You know, for your own sake.”

Natsume smushes his lips together a bit, stares very hard at a spot on Kaname’s shoulder. Finally says, “…yes? I mean. Yes. I tried it on, and, uh, Touko-san said it looked nice. She said you’d think so too, and she sounded really really sure about it, and I guess I ended up agreeing with her?” His expression turns sour. “Then I tried it on when Sensei was around. He laughed so hard he choked on the eel he was eating.” His eyes narrow. “He’s not here right now because I threatened him.”

Kaname glances out at the platform, then, and the dark treeline beyond. Of course he’d noticed Sensei’s absence, but given that Natsume hadn’t seemed at all tense as he surely would if they were wholly unprotected, Kaname had figured that Sensei wasn’t far. If he wasn’t, then Kaname can’t quite help wondering what is out there watching over them. He forces his attention back to the matter at hand, though, saying, “I mean. Ponta doesn’t wear shirts, so I wouldn’t trust his opinion. And—” He closes the space between them, places both hands lightly on Natsume’s still-tensed shoulders. “Touko-san was right. I like it. So much.”

The twitch of Natsume’s lips, however slight, feels like an accomplishment.

Until he begins, “…but, ah—” before apparently thinking better of it, cutting himself off with a tiny shake of the head, looking of all things frustrated with himself. “Never mind.”

Kaname doesn’t press him, but he waits, not letting go of Natsume’s shoulders.

Eventually, Natsume huffs out a short breath, and glances down at his shirt. “I don’t remember the names,” he admits. “Of any of them. And I know you’ve told me. Probably more than once. And we’d even looked at your book together. The library over near the park didn’t help either, they only really had gardening books and—”

“You went to the library?” Kaname interrupts, unable to help himself.

“Um.” It takes a little longer to happen this time, as Natsume realizes exactly what he’s just said, but the shade his cheeks eventually land upon is spectacular, like they could scald Kaname’s fingertips if he touched them. “Just for a little while,” he mumbles, fiddling with the hem of the shirt where it sits on his thigh. “I just checked the one section.”

“You went to the library,” Kaname repeats, slowly.

“But I couldn’t find the—”

The rest of his words are lost, then, between Kaname’s lips.

He can taste chalky canned cocoa on Natsume’s mouth; and Natsume doesn’t quite kiss him back, but some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders beneath Kaname’s palms. After a moment, he feels Natsume’s arms snake their way around his waist.

When they finally part, Kaname doesn’t even get the chance to see if that astounding blush has changed any, because Natsume promptly plants his face against Kaname’s chest. Kaname huffs out a chuckle and rests his chin atop the crown of his head, silky hair tickling at his throat.

“Are you hugging me just to hug me, or are you hiding?” he asks, grinning.

“…you’ve done it, too,” comes the muffled accusation.

“That’s fair.” He brings a hand up to smooth Natsume’s hair, so incredibly fond that the feeling’s practically risen up to stick fast in his throat. “…You know it’s not a test, though, right? This, I mean.” He taps a spot on Natsume’s shoulder, letting his finger trace the strand of pale green pods tipped in plump, pink buds. Sedum morganianum.

“Mm,” is the only reply.

“I mean. I know a lot of the names are a mouthful. The only reason I learned them is because I kind of had too much time on my hands when I was twelve, so. It’s really okay.”

At that, Natsume finally pulls away, just enough to tilt his head up. By now his blush has receded to something a little less alarming. “You can tell me again,” he says, quietly, but eyes alight in that way that never fails to make all of Kaname’s insides feel somehow all bunched up and ready to burst at the same time.

“I don’t want to bore you,” he says, once he finally locates his voice.

“You won’t.” The answer is immediate, certain. “I mean. I’m still not sure I can remember them all, but. You’re really happy when you talk about them. That’s not boring.”

Oh.

Kaname leans forward, tucks an unseen smile into Natsume’s hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kaname peers down across what he can see of Natsume’s back, from this angle. “…it might be easier for you to see which of these is which if I show you in a book.”

“I’ll have to put my coat back on when the train comes,” Natsume points out. Regardless, he makes no attempt to untangle himself from Kaname, his face once more squashed into Kaname’s chest, arms still looped around his waist.

“Good point.” Kaname leans forward as much as he’s able, squints a little, and touches a spot just below Natsume’s shoulder blade. “This one’s sempervivum calcareum.”

He feels a warm huff against his shirt. “You know I have no idea which one you mean.”

“This one,” he says, and taps the same image where it’s printed over the edge of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” comes the dry response, and Kaname thinks his face might crack in two from the sheer and idiotic magnitude of his grin.

“You’re welcome. Here’s aeonium arboreum.”

***

[Pseudo-based on a thing I wrote about Tanuma’s hobbies: between Tanuma with his succulent collection and Natsume with his ugly button downs they make one(1) Disaster Gay. Notably I had @mayorofcattown’s awkward aquarium date piece firmly in mind while writing this one; not that this scenario was intended to have been after a first date, but I was very charmed by the idea of Natsume getting All Dressed Up for a nice aquarium outing… ]

#natsume yuujinchou #natsume's book of friends #natsuyuu #tanunatsu #owlet's fanfic #ask prompt #ask meme #nycnko #tanuma kaname #natsume takashi #is this great? no #is it done after three and a half months? yes

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walteinsamkeit · 5 years

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Alright, here it finally is. I worked on this for half a year and I’m happy with how it turned out. It’s a little fic told from Hosea’s point of view taking place during the days before the gang, when it was just Dutch, Arthur and him. Plenty of love, tenderness and Vandermatthews. I hope that whoever reads this will enjoy it! Summary: Before there was the Van der Linde gang, there was a family. Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 5048 Characters: Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan Warnings: None

The day was beginning to wind down when Hosea found himself on the road back home, swept past the fields of the Heartlands with the lingering warmth of a watery sunset on his back. Twilight was laid out on the horizon in velvety pastels, dripping like soft watercolors between the pines and over the distant mountaintops, soaking the world in evening blue.

Home, for a while now, had been a little cabin near Strawberry. Two bedrooms and a living space, not much more; they had found it abandoned one day while looking for shelter and decided to settle in for the time being, needing a place to stay for a while. That had everything to do with the boy they had taken in recently. Arthur was his name; barely seventeen years old and already bearing a lifetime of tragedy on his shoulders. His mother had died young and his father, a petty criminal, had been killed before his eyes, leaving him an orphan at age eleven.

With the addition of someone new to their odd little “family” of two came the responsibility of establishing some sort of much-needed structure in the boy’s life. It hadn’t been easy to get through to him at first, but with patience and gentle persistence they had eventually managed to lure him out of his shell.

Gaining his trust was an ongoing process, but Arthur’s evident gratefulness made up for the occasional struggles they faced. And there were many things in the boy’s upbringing they had to catch up on. They taught him how to read and how to hunt; how to ride a horse and how to shoot a gun proper, and were pleasantly surprised to find him taking up an interest in sketching the world he saw around him in a little notebook they’d gifted him for the first birthday he spent with them.

Additionally, they too found themselves learning plenty new things through caring for him. They took turns in taking care of the household and heading out to provide for them. It wasn’t as easy as they had premeditated, requiring plenty of mental gymnastics to make things work out sometimes, and they didn’t have much, but these were happy times. He came to realize this every day again when he watched Dutch and Arthur go about their day, unaware of his loving gaze, and thought about how lucky he was to have been blessed with something so good and true without as much as ever having asked for it.

It wasn’t long before a small, unassuming little house came into sight between the trees in the distance. The lights behind the windows glowed warm and welcoming as he turned away from the road and let his horse trot up to the front porch.

It was a small house, Hosea thought to himself as he neared the cabin; but it was a good house - their house. A house he shared with the two people he considered his only family in this world. Two people that he would, always and unconditionally, love for the rest of his life.

He hitched his horse out front and gave her a pat on the neck along with some hay before turning to head inside.

“Hello, boy.”

Arthur looked up from his book at the sound of his voice, meeting his gaze across the room with the usual inscrutable expression.

“Hello sir.”

Closing the door behind himself to shut out the cold Hosea glanced around the room, sniffing out the hearty smell of supper, and finding it simmering on the stove.

“Is that yours?” He asked in surprise, wandering over to check on the pots on the fire.

Arthur shook his head. “Dutch is cooking...”

“What? Poison?”

“I heard that, Hosea.”

Dutch emerged from the backroom with a can of peas in his hand and a grin on his face. They shared a fond look that lasted a couple seconds until Dutch spoke up again.

“You’re back.”

“In one piece,” Hosea confirmed with a nod, turning to face him.

“How was it?”

“Ah, same old, same old. They never suspect a thing until you’re long gone. I was halfway back down the road towards Valentine by the time they realized what’d happened, as per usual.” He watched as Dutch made his way over to the stove, opening up the can and adding the contents to what appeared to be a pot of stew.

“Oh, I know it,” he said, giving the thing a thorough stir. “Those folks are so easy to steal from. One would feel guilty for not helping them get rid of some of that extra weight they’re carrying in their pockets.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hosea agreed with a chuckle, turning away to head over to the table.

“Arthur here shot his first deer today,” Dutch announced with an almost motherly hint of pride in his voice as he focused his attention on the food cooking on the furnace again.

“Really now?” Taking his gun belt and satchel off he set it down on the table, opening it up to rummage through its contents. Starting to bring out the stacks of dollar bills he had procured, he leafed through them before neatly organizing them on the table top, straightening them out.

“How did that go for you, son?”

“Just fine I guess,” Arthur answered, his finger pausing along the lines of his book as he looked up from the page again, swiftly meeting Hosea’s gaze with those gentle blue eyes. “Dutch said hunting would be a good way to contribute to the household. Would take some weight off your shoulders too if I’d try taking care of the food. Or the part of finding it, at least.”

“Right, I see. That is a great idea. So, that is what you’re suddenly going all out for, hm? Dutch?” He shot him a glance from the corner of his eye, amused. “Soon enough we’ll have a real kitchen princess on our hands.”

“Do I hear a complaint?”

“No, no, I don’t think so.” Hosea shook his head with a chuckle.

Dutch paused for a moment, completely absorbed with his tireless perfectionism; then spoke again.

“I figured I might as well. I was getting sick of all the bland, tasteless grub we’ve been living off of, so I’m broadening my horizons a little. Besides, it’s a special occasion, ain’t it? You’ll always remember your first deer. I do.” He shrugged nonchalantly, glancing back over his shoulder. “Son, will you go and set the table? Dinner’s almost ready.”

With a creak of his chair Arthur rose to his feet, setting his book aside and heading over to the cabinet to bring out the plates.

As he passed him by Hosea couldn’t help but reach out and pat him on the shoulder encouragingly, earning him a smile that was little more than a faint curve to the corner of his lips, but it was honest.

It was good to see how Arthur had steadily been beginning to show more of himself lately in the care of Dutch and him. They did their best to offer him what they could - that not being a simple task in their case. A couple of outlaws trying to raise a boy together. The two of them being men, at that. But they got by. They made do with what they had and made up for what they didn’t in support and attention.

“And?” Dutch’s voice interrupted his train of thought as the younger man appeared at his sides with his hands on his hips. Curiously, he picked up one of the wads of cash, leafing the bills through his fingers just like Hosea had done moments earlier.

“Around a couple hundred dollars, I’d say. Maybe more. A pretty good catch. More than I expected to get out of this, frankly. I didn’t even try too hard.” Setting his satchel aside he gathered the money, taking back the banknotes that Dutch handed him, and moving them out of the way to make room for their plates and cups. “Either we’re getting smarter or they’re getting dumber.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dutch stated, moving to the kitchen to take the stew off the cooktop and carry it over to the dinner table. “To the victor the spoils, Hosea. What matters is that we’re still pulling it off. Now, take off your coat and have a seat. It’s been a long day. I bet we’re all hungry.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he nodded, shrugging off his coat and pulling out a chair to sit down across from Arthur, who’d already settled in his place again, moving his cutlery around while he waited.

“Of course I’m right,” Dutch said, with that smug grin of his that Hosea couldn’t help but shake his head at in amusement as he watched him dish out their food.

“Mhm,” he hummed, pursing his lips. “Of course you are. How could I forget? You’re as stubborn as a woman, Dutch van der Linde.”

“You best be careful now, mister Matthews,” he pointed at him with the ladle, raising a brow. “You’d be ill-advised to antagonize me now that I’m learning how to cook something half decent.”

“You wouldn’t kill me.”

“I might. Ain’t made up my mind quite yet. Night is still young. Would you like some tea?”

“Chamomile, if we’ve got any.”

“Me too, Dutch. Please,” Arthur spoke up, seemingly almost embarrassed by his request, nudging his empty mug. Hosea and Dutch - they shared a subtle glance across the table without a word.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll get some too, son. Don’t worry, we’re not forgetting about you. Ain’t nobody gonna forget about you no more,” Dutch gently reassured him, turning around to head back over to the stovetop and fetch their steaming tea kettle, adding some chamomile flowers from a fresh-picked bunch hung to dry before returning to the table with it.

“Thank you. I could really use a cup. Been looking forward to one all afternoon.” Hosea ran a hand through his hair, scooting his chair a little closer to the table before picking up his spoon. “So, apart from cooking, what have you been up to?”

“The usual.” Dutch nudged at a piece of venison on his plate with scrutinizing stare, not entirely pleased with the outcome, or so Hosea deducted. It was hard to please Dutch, even when you were Dutch.

“Is that so... No trouble, I hope?” He quipped, sending a wink over to Arthur across the table, who answered with a little smile.

“Without you? You know me better than that, dear friend. Now eat up, before it goes cold.”

“Right. Arthur - will you say Grace for us? You’re the one who brought home the food today,” he offered.

A silence followed. The young man was visibly taken aback a little by the request for a good few moments, blinking long lashes under the golden light, his lips parted in mute confusion.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t feel comfortable. One of us can do it,” Hosea added.

“No, sir, I’d like to. I just... I don’t think I’m any good at that kinda thing.”

“You’ve heard us do it plenty times before. You’ll be just fine, I know it.” Dutch reached out to put his hand over Arthur’s, giving it a slight pat. “Go ahead. No need to be shy.”

Locking gazes with Hosea again, Arthur raised his brows, as if looking for some kind of permission, or perhaps, for reassurance.

Hosea only nodded.

“Go ahead, son.”

At that, Arthur scooted forward in his chair, clearing his throat, just a tad nervous. The boy hadn’t been exactly raised religious by his late father, and although neither of them cared particularly about religion, they had wanted to do right by him. To instill some morals and values in the young man they took under their wings, if only symbolically so. To teach him to be thankful and humble. And so far, Hosea thought they were doing a wonderful job.

“Alright, well...” He started, a little hesitant as he looked down at his plate, gingerly folding his hands against the edge of the table. “Father, thank You for, uh... For providing, for us. And for the warmth of the sun and the refreshment of water. And for all other things good. Like... The Fall, and the harvest. And the blessing of food with loved ones. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”

“That’s it. Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Dutch smiled at him.

“Nicely done, Arthur.” Hosea reached over to pick up the kettle, pouring all of them a steaming cup of tea. “Well, let’s eat then. Enjoy your meal.”

“Likewise,” Dutch added before he began to eat.

“And you,” Arthur mumbled, digging into his stew.

For a fleeting moment Hosea couldn’t help but watch him; observe that perpetual childish innocence in him that guided every clumsy movement, limbs too long for his torso, too old to be a boy and too young to be a man - he was balancing on the ever-awkward line right in between, where everything changes overnight and yet remains the same in many other ways. He looked almost out of place sitting at a table and eating from a plate and drinking from a cup. In such stark contrast to Dutch’s poise, Dutch’s straight posture; his sharp tongue and even sharper gaze and the purpose in his every movement.

They weren’t so far apart in age. His partner was twenty-four now. He had six years on Arthur and yet Hosea could barely begin to imagine Dutch as anything other than what he was and had been ever since the day they first met along the road to Chicago. Strong and determined and idealistic, and as much a father figure to Arthur as he was. Of course, he had grown. He was more responsible now; a little more down-to-earth than he had been back then - a tireless dreamer with his head up in the clouds.

But deep down, he was still the same. In him, Hosea could still see that boy, not yet quite a man even if he had come off age. A stargazer. A philosopher. A lover.

For a while they sat and ate in silence, quietly content in the warmth and the safety of their simple home, the sound of the wind whispering through the high grass and the trees outside, and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

It wasn’t quite like the camps Dutch and him used to set up when they moved around. They’d sleep under the stars and wash up in the river and cook dinner over the campfire, and when a new wind rose, they packed up what little possessions they had and followed it down to where it would lead them.

First and foremost, the two of them were opportunists who lived off luck. There was artistry in their craft; a kind of poetry in the way they went about executing their plans. Crime was an art. And Dutch; a virtuoso. The young man with the sun tucked away in his chest - he spoke of wonderful things; freedom, liberty, love. His dreams and his wishes and the beliefs he cherished despite being told he was nothing but a delusional fool.

For hours Hosea could listen to that honeyed voice spilling whispers in the halflight, like secrets meant for his ears only, about a vision of the future where they would have the world. And he let himself be swept away by the sweet promises willingly.

When Dutch was good he was great, and when he was great he was a small calamity; a one-man forest fire that would stop at nothing in its path, and burn all throughout the night and well into the morning. His passion and his idealism; the romance and the beauty he saw in everything wherever he went - it had managed to captivate him years ago and never let him go.

Dutch van der Linde, with his eyes of brandy; crowned with soft, shiny whorls of black hair framing his face. He must have been the embodiment of every mother’s cautionary tale.

“What’s on your mind, Hosea?” Dutch broke the silence after a while, observing him calmly from his side of the table. Nothing ever went by him unnoticed.

Hosea just shook his head along with a slight shrug. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just... Thinking.”

His words were met by an inquisitive tilt of his head.

Leaning back into his chair, he looked at the scene before him, keeping quiet for a moment - the three of them at the table together - an unconventional little family, but a good one. A warm one. A loving one.

“I’m... Happy,” he then finally decided with a nod, meeting Dutch’s gaze once again.

The other man smiled, slowly looking down at his plate as he thought for a moment before giving his answer. “I’m happy, too.”

Reaching under the table, Hosea gently nudged at Dutch’s hand, and the other answered his touch as if by instinct, their fingers tangling together with a soft squeeze for just a moment.

“Arthur, would you like some more stew?” Dutch then asked, casually, leaning over to stir the pot with his free hand. “We still got some left.”

“No sir, thank you - I’m full.” He politely declined, shaking his head as he dropped his hands into his lap and sat back. “I think I may just... Hit the hay early tonight. I’m beat.”

“You worked hard today. You just see what you do.” He began to rise to his feet, reaching to collect their empty plates, but Hosea was quicker.

“Let me take care of that, Dutch. You both done did enough for today. Sit a while,” he assured him, gently putting his hand over the one that was already holding onto the plate.

“I got it. Leave it to me.”

Dutch stared back at him in surprise a moment, and then finally relented, pulling back.

“Alright. Arthur, shall you and I play a game of dominoes before you head off to bed, then?”

The boy looked up, seemingly hesitating for a moment as he uneasily rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t know, Dutch... I’d love to, but… Games ain’t exactly my strong suit.”

“Then I’ll help you. C’mon, get the box out. Where did we put it away last time?”

Hosea watched as the two began rummaging through the room together, finally locating the box in the bookcase, and as they set up to play their game of dominoes, Hosea rolled up his sleeves and got to cleaning the dishes gathered in the sink.

It wasn’t much work, and he had the pleasure of being able to listen in on the brown noise of their conversation in the background. As they sat around the table, and played, and drank the remainder of their tea, he couldn’t help but glance back at them over his shoulder occasionally, smiling at the sight; Dutch’s patience with Arthur and the joy he managed to inspire in him with his words of encouragement - that boy was gonna be just fine, Hosea mused while calmly humming a song under his breath.

As long as they were together, he would always have someone to talk to and a shoulder to lean on. A place to call home.

Once the cleaning had been taken care of - the dishes returned to their cabinets and the cutlery to its drawer - he rejoined them at the table, picking up the book he had been reading in the past week or so: John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty, which Dutch, vocally passionate about the work, had borrowed to him upon completing his own reading of it.

Evenings like these, where all three of them were together - they always passed so swiftly and could never last long enough for him. Domestic and unhurried, they idly spent their time on the simple little pleasures that were card games or warm cups of coffee. Especially now that Fall had arrived, and the days were swiftly growing longer and darker, they found themselves staying in much more frequently than they did during the summer months, seeking out each other’s company on cold and rainy evenings. It was a simple comfort, having a home to return to at the end of a hard day’s work, and the sight of it in the distance - of that peaceful little cabin quietly slumbering between the trees - it never failed to fill him with a profound sense of satisfaction and a heartfelt happiness.

The warm touch of a hand placing itself upon his knee drew his attention, and he looked up, gaze fixing on the man seated closest to him.

He sat twisted in his chair and faced him with those big brown eyes of his - unarguably, the greatest source of warmth in the room; even when the fire burned bright and the oil lamps glowed warm and golden, it was his gaze that seemed to chase any kind of darkness away.

“Don’t forget about your tea, ‘Sea. It’ll go cold.”

In the rosy light he looked like a Renaissance painting - a Botticelli angel with life breathed into him by God Himself; the way soft curls fell forward over his ears and framed his face without pomade to keep them fixed securely in place, and for a moment he was completely lost in the sight of him, until, in the background, Arthur began to rise to his feet, and his spell was broken.

“Are you going to bed?”

“I think so,” he yawned, slowly stretching out before running a hand through his tousled hair. “Can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”

“Well, hunting isn’t light work. Go get some rest, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Alright. I’ll be turning in for the night then, I guess; goodnight, Hosea - Dutch, you too...” And with a little nod of his head he turned around and began heading for his bedroom, pushing his suspenders off of his shoulders with a sigh.

From his peripheral vision, Hosea noticed how Arthur attempted to cast a subtle but lingering glance back over his shoulder at the two men remaining in the room together, the slightest quirk to his brow - the way dogs do when trying to make sense of one thing or another. Then he vanished into his bedroom, and closed the door behind himself.

Of course, Hosea thought to himself amused, barely managing to suppress a snort as he picked up his cup and drank the last of his lukewarm tea. The boy wasn’t stupid, as much as he liked to pretend he was. He must have realized at some point; must have noticed by now that there was something profound between the two of them that ran deeper than any devoted friendship he’d ever witnessed before, or the sincere love between brothers. Something enduring and true that Hosea himself in all those years had not quite managed to find the words for.

And Arthur - he never mentioned or questioned anything. Perhaps he simply didn’t care, or, perhaps, he understood. Falling for Dutch the way Hosea had - it wasn’t a choice he had made; it was something that had simply happened to him. To deny it would have meant to lie to his own heart. But nothing good had ever come from refusing to face the truth. Hosea loved him. He loved him, and nothing the world could have told him would have stopped him from doing so.

Falling in love with Dutch had never been a choice. But loving him was. And if life would be kind enough, he wished to do so for the rest of his days.

For a short while after Arthur had left them, there was just the distinct rustle of him rummaging around as he prepared for bed. Then the room went quiet, and silence settled over the peaceful little cottage once more.

Outside the moon had begun to rise over the open fields that stretched out for miles and miles, and the silvery grass whispered in the evening breeze that had picked up, rustling through the leaves on the trees that had begun to take on the color of a hundred blazing shades of auburn. It stirred the flames in the hearth, humming low in the chimney - a bourdon note that reminded him of the childhood he spent far up in the mountains - the way the wind hummed him to sleep, howling among the snow-covered peaks while he slept safe and warm through many a winter storm.

Hosea glanced aside at Dutch, who sat staring pensively into the fire, comfortably curled in his chair. His breathing was low; chest rising and falling steadily as he pensively drew his thumb across his bottom lip, and he could tell by his slow, languid blinking; the way his dark lashes fell upon his cheeks, and lingered just long enough to betray a sleepy innocence in the otherwise so alert young man, that the glowing warmth and the satisfaction of a full stomach had began to make him drowsy.

He couldn’t help but smile, his heart softening at the sight of his lover, unaware of his admiring gaze. It wasn’t often he managed to catch Dutch in a moment of vulnerable unawareness. These moments were like sunrises to him; something to be enjoyed in silence, delightful in their fleetingness.

At times, he wished he could draw like their Athur could; wished he could capture these divine moments and preserve them before they would be gone forever - passing in the blink of an eye. Luckily, he had a good memory. It was hardly a challenge to call the sight of him to mind. He knew every curve and every edge of his form. The healthy glow of pink on his cheekbones, the color of a blushing dawn; the shimmer of gold on his collarbones when the sunlight kissed his skin damp from working; the sable curls of his hair splayed out on his pillow, spread around his head like an aureole as the night faded into morning.

Only after a long moment of quietly observing him did Hosea finally move, leaning over as he reached out a hand, and lightly brushed his knuckles over his cheek, up to his temple. The caress stirred Dutch awake from his drowse, and he raised up his head as he blinked into the halflight of the room before casting a questioning glance aside at Hosea. He answered with a smile and a shallow shake of his head to let him know everything was alright without breaking the silence between them. That he would let no harm befall him as long as they were together and he was around to watch over him.

It was a promise he’d made him years ago - Dutch, young and anxious, and wary of a future filled with uncertainties and trouble along the way. The world did not look kindly upon people like them, and their love had been, perhaps, a lifetime too early. What if they would drift apart? What if flaws and insecurities would drive a rift between them? What if, one day, they would no longer love each other?

He had kissed him on the head, and drawn him into his embrace as he soothingly spoke to him.

“It’s us together against the world, Dutch. Not us against each other. Don’t you ever forget that.”

And just like he had then, Dutch now reached up to take hold of the hand that rested on his cheek, and pressed it against the side of his face in affection for a few seconds.

“You think too much. Stop worrying about the things that you can’t change,” he had said to him. “Stop living in the past and being afraid of the future. It’s coming, whether you want it or not. That mind of yours… It’s always been your own worst enemy...”

“That is the trouble, Hosea,” he answered, heaving a weary sigh. “Sometimes it’s all the thinking I’ve got available to me. It’s the only thing I can’t run from...”

“Then for the love of God, Dutch - stop trying. Only a fool keeps looking for solutions in the same place he’s previously failed to find any.”

“Are you tired…?” He spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper as their hands, still intertwined, slowly fell down to bridge the space between their seats. The other man hummed in response and shook his head, then answered.

“Just a little.”

“You should get some sleep then. It’s late. You’ve done a lot of work. Tomorrow’s a fine new day...”

”What about you?” Dutch’s head tipped to the side and studied him sleepily from the corners of his eyes. “Aren’t you tired?”

Hosea smiled softly before averting his gaze, pausing a moment before speaking up again.

“I’ll just have a smoke and join you. Scamming folks all day isn’t easy work. The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be.”

“Oh, stop it,” Dutch huffed with a frown as he rose out of his seat and took a step towards him, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head while lovingly combing his fingers through the blonde hair of his lover.

“You’re as sharp and artful as ever.”

“And you’re still just as easy to get a rise out of, my love,” he replied amusedly, gazing up at him with a smirk as Dutch pulled away yawning and began heading over to their bedroom, dismissing him with the wave of a hand.

Hosea watched him walk off with a soft smile before he slowly closed his book and got to his feet to go and fetch his cigarettes, a sigh escaping him.

Yes, it wasn’t much, Hosea thought to himself as he looked around the room while lighting a smoke. The shadows that the dying fire cast quivering on the walls drew his attention to their few belongings lying about; a quiet proof that his loved ones were here, safe and sleeping, and that whatever the future would bring them, tonight was peaceful.

Their house wasn’t big, and neither was their family. But it was good. It was sincere, and warm and loving.

And most importantly, it was theirs.

#Red Dead Redemption #fanfiction #vandermatthews #fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #creations #writing

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chelsfic · 5 years

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Chapter 11 - Inherited - Dracula/OFC - Dracula 2020 fanfic

A/N: Hi guys. Thanks again to everyone who has commented and liked and reblogged and interacted with this fic and with me! It means the world. Here is the promised smutty reunion! I think that Chapter 12 is probably going to wrap this up as the final part. I’m sure there are some who would prefer that the story keep going and going and going, but I’ve always intended to finish this with the Count turning Emilie. So depending on how it paces out I’ll have one more chapter to post after this one and *possibly* an epilogue, but we’ll see. I have at least two other plot bunnies scampering around my head right now just begging to be written.

Summary: The Count’s visit with Emilie turns fluffy and then distinctly raunchy!

Rating: Explicit!!!

Count Dracula, in his flowing dark cape and richly tailored suit, looked positively exotic sitting in the worn chintz armchair surrounded by the Andrews family’s aggressively feminine decor. The parlor was a charming mix of floral patterns, old lace, china knick knacks and displays of the girls’ various attempts at pastoral landscape watercolors. Dracula, with his long, lithe form and aura of dark monstrosity, tucked into the little chair and looking about himself with an expression of polite curiosity was enough to break through the miasma of Emilie’s sadness. She giggled in delight at the picture he made.

Dracula raised his eyebrows at her laughter and smiled softly. It was strange to see him here in her family home. But it felt so pleasant and natural to see him looking at her with that crooked smile on his face.

“Shall I make tea?” Emilie asked automatically, shifting into hostess mode in the absence of her mother and sister who were both already asleep upstairs.

Dracula huffed a laugh as he replied, “If you like.”

Emilie felt her cheeks flame in embarrassment almost as soon as the words had left her mouth.

She stammered an excuse, “Oh--I...sorry, force of habit. I think I will make some for myself if that’s not terribly rude?”

Dracula waved a hand dismissively and Emilie vanished into the kitchen where she could privately melt at her own stupidity while she waited for the water to boil.

When she reentered the parlor she found Dracula standing with his hands folded behind his back, inspecting a brightly hued watercolor hanging over the mantle. She set down the tea service tray and went to stand beside him.

“My sister, Anna, painted this one,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the brilliant splashes of red, orange and violet. The painting showed a line of birch trees on the horizon, a little village nestled safely in the foreground as the sun rose into a crisp, blue sky.

“It’s wonderful,” Dracula whispered in a tone of sincere awe. Emilie looked up at him, his lips parted and his eyes moving over the image as if to memorize every detail. She felt her heart clench at the look of boyish longing on his face.

“You miss it?” she asked hesitantly. “The sun?”

She was unsure of how familiar she was allowed to be with him now. Was he here as her friend? Her lover? Her employer...her landlord? She pushed her insecurities away, unwilling to lose this moment of connection with him after she’d so longed to see him again.

Dracula tore his eyes away from the canvas and looked down at her, a sad smile crinkling his eyes, “Yes, very much so. Appreciate her, Emilie, while you have her.”

They moved away from the mantle and took their seats. Emilie pondered his words as she poured herself a cup of tea. She supposed he referred to her mortality, the limited number of days she would spend under the sun. After his anger, his rejection, she couldn’t assume he meant anything else. Even if she’d come to think...to hope...he meant to take her as his dark wife. That was all over now.

She sat back in her seat and cradled the cup of tea in her scarred hands, taking comfort in its warmth, “She is radiant and lovely. And I’ve seen her in a new way since...well, since you showed me how. But...you know, I did come to love the night. For a while…”

She held her breath and felt her heart beat in her throat as she watched his face for a reaction to her words. Dracula’s expression was a mask of stoicism but his eyes burned as he leaned forward and reached toward her, cupping his hands around hers over the tea cup. His gaze fixed on the red, cracked skin of her fingers and he let out a sympathetic hiss.

“My Emilie. Your poor hands. What have you done to yourself?”

Emilie stared down at their joined hands for a moment, transfixed, before answering in a firm tone, “Only what I had to do. For my family.”

Dracula came fully forward, kneeling before her to stay at eye-level. He clasped his hands around her too-thin waist and looked up at her in silence for a moment. Emilie could feel his emotions through their bond. She felt his fear, his shame, his anger...and love. She still felt the bright jewel of his love shining out at her and it felt better than the warmth of the sun ever had.

“Emilie,” he murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers, “I have not forsaken you. Or your family. I won’t let you starve or turn you out of this house. Do you understand? You don’t need to work yourself into ill health. Please...don’t.”

Emilie choked back a sob at his words. She felt relief, gratitude, adoration...but also the echoing pain of betrayal and rejection. Only a few weeks ago Vlad had turned his monstrous cruelty against her. He’d hurt her and insulted her because she had the audacity to make him feel vulnerable. And now here he knelt before her like a supplicant, avowing his devotion and loyalty? She’d dreamed of this, but the actual event felt like being suddenly knocked about. She couldn’t keep hold of her emotions.

“What was I supposed to do, Vlad? How was I to know if you would continue to support us after...after…”

She couldn’t speak the words to evoke the final scene between them at Carfax. It was too painful a memory.

“I’m sorry, Emilie,” Dracula whispered. He leaned forward, brushing his lips over her cheeks, laying chaste kisses across her face, each one a plea for her forgiveness. “I was afraid, Emilie. I’ve never...I wanted to make you my bride. You knew that, didn’t you? I wanted to make you like me and I’d never come so close to succeeding before. I was afraid...I am afraid that I’ll fail. I never planned to get so attached...for there was always the risk that you might not come back...in the end. And when I felt that you had finally staked a true claim on me--on my heart and soul--I panicked and I was...unforgivably cruel to you. I--I love you, Emilie. I’d forgotten that I was capable of the emotion…”

Emilie set down the teacup and took his face in her hands, leaning forward to press her lips to his and letting her tears finally fall to stain his cheeks as well as hers. She was passionate and energetic, finally allowing herself to let go of the hurt and mourning she’d been carrying these past few weeks. She nipped his lower lip and delighted in his deep, rumbling purr of pleasure. Her fingers twined in the hair at the nape of his neck. Every detail was vivid and arousing with her heightened senses: the feel of his soft lips gradually warming from the heat of her own, the restrained strength in his hands wrapped around her waist and pulling her closer, each silken thread of hair brushing through her fingers. She broke away from him, panting and clinging to the collar of his cape with all her might.

Dracula let out an intentional breath and stared up at her, capturing her with the deep pools of his liquid eyes with ease, “Emilie, I want you to understand what this means. You’ve belonged to me since before you even realized it. I own you: your soul, your blood, your life. But...you own me, too. I’m yours, Emilie. Now and always.”

Emilie breathed heavily, overwhelmed by lust and emotion. Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she responded, “In that case...I think I’ll take you to my bed, Count Dracula.”

They crept soundlessly up the stairway and down the short hall to Emilie’s bedroom. She led him by the hand over the threshold and shut the door delicately behind him. Count Dracula, her dark lover, her master, her slave, was standing in her childhood bedroom. The contrast of his presence in this sacred space was deeply compelling to her. She stalked forward, standing before him and reaching up to unclasp the cape from his shoulders. In a stroke of playfulness she wrapped it around her own shoulders and smirked up at him.

“You know...this is where my sister and I would whisper stories to each other at night. About the terrifying Count Dracula and his dark powers.”

He reached up and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt, gradually revealing his dark chest hair and starkly pale skin.

“Is that so?” he asked in a tone of bland curiosity.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, dropping the cape to the floor and reaching around her back to loosen the fastenings of her dress and slowly let the material drop over her shoulders. “I’d have nightmares about the evil creature I would one day serve. His devil horns, his cloven feet….his power to transform into a wolf at will!”

Emilie’s soft laughter was interrupted by a sheepish look from the Count, “Well...yes that last one is true, I’m afraid.”

Emilie’s mouth dropped open in shock, “You can turn into a wolf!?”

Dracula suppressed a smug smile as he discarded his shirt and undid the buttons of his fly, “Does that frighten you, Emilie? Or excite you?”

He stepped out of his trousers and moved forward with inhuman speed, grabbing the waist of her petticoat and slipping it over her hips so she stood naked and exposed before him.

“I don’t know...maybe both,” she whispered, leaning forward so the points of her nipples brushed against the taught skin of his stomach. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him to her, reveling in the perfect feel of his naked skin against hers.

“My big, bad wolf,” she grinned and pulled him toward the bed.

She fell backward and tugged him down with her onto the tiny mattress. He had to curl his legs up in order to fit but he was happy to wrap himself around her little body. He enveloped her in his arms and ran his hands down her back and over the rounded flesh of her buttocks, squeezing gently and eliciting a squeak of surprised pleasure from Emilie.

“Shhh, little one,” he admonished bringing a finger to her lips and then pressing it forward, dipping his long digit into her mouth and watching with hooded, lusty eyes as she sucked obediently. “Do you need me to keep you quiet?”

Emilie’s eyes fluttered shut at the suggestion, envisioning her master taking her on her childhood bed as he gagged her with his own fingers. She felt herself nodding in response to the question, still sucking his finger and laving it with her tongue.

Dracula smirked and added another finger, pressing down on her tongue and watching as saliva pooled and spilled over her lips. He ran his other hand over her breasts, playing with her nipples and teasing them with his sharp nails.

“Good girl,” he praised her as she stayed perfectly silent, muffling her little sounds of pleasure by wrapping her lips around his digits. “I’ll always take care of you, sweet Emilie.”

He continued his attentions to her breasts, flicking, licking, biting and teasing until Emilie was near tears at the over stimulation. She struggled to form words around his fingers and he finally relented, pulling them out and looking down at her with brows furrowed inquisitively, “What is it?”

She took a deep breath and nearly sobbed her words, “Please, Vlad, I need you now.”

Dracula’s lips spread in a leering grin and he crawled over her, caging her with his body, “I’m yours to command, sweet Emilie. Always.”

He palmed her hips and lowered himself until he was just waiting at her entrance, teasing her by running the thick tip of his member through her soaking folds over and over again. He looked up at her, expectantly.

“Vlad!” she admonished him, unable to form much more in the way of coherent words. He took pity on her and plunged forward, thrusting himself inside her and hissing at the beautiful, tight, hot feel of her wrapped around him.

Emilie cried in joy and relief as he finally entered her. The sound was jarring in the silent house and Vlad whipped a hand up to her mouth, pressing his palm over her lips to keep her quiet as he pounded inside of her. He ramped up to an inhuman tempo that Emilie was powerless to match. She could only arch upward in needy wantonness, seeking to maximize the friction and deepen his reach inside her. If he’d planned this at all he would have taken her slowly, tenderly, injecting his devotion and apology into every movement of his hips, his hands, his mouth. But he was just as powerless as Emilie in the face of his reaction to her. His blood sang at their closeness as if it flowed in sync with hers. He could read her feelings in the touch of her skin. Her love, her passion, her wanting. It was everything that he felt and more.

He surrendered himself over to her, pushing his intent through their connection and dipping down to bury his head in the crook of her neck, laying sweet kisses over her jugular. He wouldn’t bite her. The next time he gave her his vampire’s kiss it would be her last. The joy and terror of his decision coursed through him as he felt his hips stutter chaotically as his orgasm washed over him. Emilie threw her head back and bit into his fingers as the sensation of his pleasure reached her through their bond and pushed her over into her own climax. Her legs shivered and trembled around his hips as they both relaxed their bodies and clung together.

***

The next morning Mrs. Andrews entered the dining room to find two sealed letters sitting on the table. One was from Emilie and it was a goodbye. The words were simple but heartfelt. The Count had proposed marriage and she had accepted. They would be away for some time...honeymooning.

The second letter was written in the Count’s own severe hand. It explained that his solicitor, Mr. Renfield, would be in touch to discuss the transfer of ownership of Carfax Abbey, along with a substantial sum, to Mrs. Andrews.

A/N: P.S. The “I own you and you own me” thing--I’ve used that little idea in fics before and it’s entirely owed to the sexy negotiation between Claire and Jamie in Outlander when they finally reconcile after he physically punishes her for putting the clansmen in danger.

Tags:

@girlonfireice @charlesdances @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @dracula-s-bride @haleyea @irrelevantwriter @felicityofbakerstreet @festering-queen @kaddis-world @leah-halliwell92

#dracula x ofc #dracula x oc #dracula imagine #claes bang imagine #dracula thirst squad #count dracula x oc #count dracula x ofc #dracula fanfic #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #dracula 2020 #chelsfic

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writing-for-amusement · 5 years

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Commission for Confidence, 5

Summary: Y/N has been struggling with her self-esteem for years. After incessant pushing from your best friend, Y/N decides to commission an artist to draw her, expecting everything to happen via Internet. However, when your phone is stolen, you try to cancel the commission, but Peter Parker has other ideas. He quickly becomes enraptured by you, and a friendship forms easily. Will it lead to something more? Or will your past fears get in the way?

A/N: Sorry for the wait, everyone! We caught up to what I had written, and I kinda fell into a funk, so I wasn’t writing that much. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, I kinda agonized over it (I even drew out the apartment to try and figure out the logistics). Let me know what you think!!

Taglist: @pparkerwrites, @scatterbrainedgenius, @jordyns-library, @wildfirecracker, @pastlives-purplesouls

Word Count: 2155

Warnings: brief mentions of anxiety and depression, Peter being cute, awkwardness, probably too much detail about apartments, stuff about art, an AI

You chuckled nervously as you looked around the entrance to his apartment. It was a really nice place, especially for New York. It paid to work for Stark Industries, that was for sure. It was relatively open, not quite a studio apartment in its setup but akin to one, and there was a lovely view—via ceiling to floor windows—of the tops of a few buildings and the windows of a few others.

“Karen, lights,” Peter said as he toed off his shoes. The lights came on immediately, giving the apartment a warm and comforting glow.

“Karen?” you asked him, tilting your head in confusion as you began to remove your own shoes and place them by the door.

“Yes?” a feminine voice replied, making you jump in surprise.

“O-oh, hello?” you asked, unsure of what sort of social protocol came with talking to disembodied voices.

“Peter, is this a new friend?” the voice asked.

“Y-yeah,” Peter chuckled, patting you reassuringly on the back. “Karen is this AI that, uh, Tony and I developed. She’s kinda like Siri or Alexa, but better, in my opinion.”

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding. You cleared your throat a bit and said, “Um, Karen? Can I call you Karen?”

“Of course,” Karen replied. “Did you need anything?”

“Um, I’m Y/N,” you told the AI, “and I was wondering… how are you?”

“I’m wonderful, Y/N, thank you for asking,” she said with what seemed to be amusement or affection in her voice, though you weren’t sure. “Are you a new friend of Peter’s? He didn’t tell me he made a new friend.”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” you smiled at Peter, who blushed slightly. “Karen, what all can you do? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Of course not. I can control all technology in the apartment, surf the web, read the temperature of the apartment and outside, and I’m connected to Peter’s phone and his place at Stark Industries, so he can ask me to do things while he’s out and about. And I can do many other things.”

“You’re so talented!”

“Peter, I like her. She has good taste.”

As heat gathered in your cheeks, Peter said, “She has the best taste. Actually, Y/N is going to be my newest model for some art! She commissioned me and I want to really explore the mediums to best capture her beauty.”

“It’s been awhile since you’ve done something like that, Peter,” Karen said. Peter’s ears turned red and he sheepishly avoided your gaze as he continued farther into his home.

You followed him in while he made a beeline to his kitchen, which was open; once you stepped into the apartment, there were three steps to the side and down to the wall. The kitchen was up the steps, and the counter that went between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment had a few stools placed there, safely away from the steps, to make a little breakfast bar sort of thing. Though at the moment, it looked to be a holding spot for a lot of mail.

“Ned’s out of town for work for a few more days, so his mail has been piling up,” Peter explained as he stuck his head into the fridge. It was almost like he was trying to cool off his cheeks. “I know most of his mail is junk, but it’s so much fun to watch his face when he sees the mail piled up like that, only to discover it’s mostly junk.”

“Hey, we all have our things,” you said with a shrug. You’d walked farther in, noticing that the living and dining rooms sort of blended together. There was a hallway between the kitchen and what you assumed to be Peter’s little art studio (judging by the easels and drying canvases).

“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got, uh, water, milk, orange juice, a beer, I could make coffee or tea, uh… Ned has like two cans of tomato juice, but I don’t know why, that stuff is not that good,” Peter’s voice said from the fridge.

“Um, water is fine. With a little ice, please?”

“No problem.”

You continued to look around, finding the décor to be fittingly Peter. The apartment itself was really nice, but the furniture betrayed that Peter and Ned were in their twenties. It wasn’t matching at all, but it managed to go together in an endearing sort of way. Instead of carpeting in the living room, there were rugs layered almost tastefully, and the cutoff is what separated the dining and living rooms. There was a bookshelf in the back corner of the living room that you itched to go explore, but you didn’t want to be rude (you knew how personal bookshelves could be).

You ventured a bit farther into the apartment, looking at the pictures on the wall. The wall to the left of the window, closer to the bookshelf, had framed photos. There were cute group photos that made you smile. Then, some people that were in the group photos had solo photos, very artfully done (you could tell that Peter had done them).

Your favorite photo was of a woman’s profile (perhaps it was his Aunt May?) as she looked upon a park with trees. You could see the emotions she was feeling in her eyes, and she truly looked to be at ease. And, something else you loved, was that the photo was set up so that it looked like she was looking out of the window at the colorful buildings outside. You could see her freckles, and the small lines around her mouth that showed she spent a lot of her life smiling. That fact, actually, you could tell by the photo itself.

“That’s my Aunt May,” Peter said from right behind you, making you physically jump in place. You steadied yourself against the wall with one hand while the other clutched your chest as you tried to lasso your bucking heart.

“Sorry,” he grinned at you, offering you a mug that had the Spider-Man logo on it, with ice and water inside. “Sorry about the mug, too,” he chuckled slightly, “the rest of the stuff is dirty, I forgot to actually turn on the dishwasher before I left.”

“Set it up and forgot to press start?” you asked. He nodded. “I do that all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty consistent occurrence with me!” he laughed.

You took the mug with a thank you and shuffled yourself over to the wall to the right of the window to see the stuff there. You went up the three little steps and onto the hardwood floor so you could see the stuff on the walls, but Peter’s “studio” actually began where he’d laid down a large tarp to protect the floors.

You focused on the wall as Peter nervously scampered towards the studio to occupy himself with something as you were engrossed with the artwork on the walls.

The artwork on the walls, framed and not, were absolutely stunning. You’d seen some of the work on his Instagram, but they were even better in person, if that was even possible. There were two or three gorgeous photos of landscapes, but they were surrounded by other pieces of all mediums.

You found your favorite piece from his Instagram on the wall, a watercolor-esque piece that, as you recalled from the Instagram post, was also done with watercolor pencils. It was as if Peter had been sitting on an incredibly tall building, looking out onto the water on a rainy day. It had a lot of grays, but it was still incredibly vibrant. Now that you could see it in person, you saw that there were the softest of purples and reds going into the harbor, and the faintest of yellows and oranges in the gray sky.

“Whoa, are you okay?” Peter asked, surprising you again.

“Hm?” You turned to him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

Peter cupped your cheek and rubbed his thumb across your cheekbone. It was then that you realized you had been crying.

Your entire body recoiled from Peter in shock, almost spilling the water from your mug, when you realized that is what he meant, quickly wiping your cheeks. “I am so sorry,” you stammered, shaking your head to revive yourself. “I’m sorry, wow, I didn’t even realize… This painting, it’s just, it was my favorite on your Instagram, and seeing it up close, I can see so much more than I could online. And it just, I guess it just reminds me of my journey through mental illness.”

Peter tilted his head, silently asking you to explain.

“This piece is kinda dreary, you know? I mean, you obviously do because you painted it, but, anyway.” You inhaled and tried to calm yourself. “So, it’s kinda dreary, and demure. Like how my brain has been for most of my life. But there’s still bright pieces, bright colors, coming through the grays. And those brighter colors also blend into the gray. It’s not two different entities, it all comes together to create one gorgeous painting. Like how all parts of my personality come together to make me, vibrant and living even with this pesky depression and anxiety I’ve always had.” You looked at Peter and smiled, noting his eyes widen and brighten. “You’re so talented, Peter.”

His face slowly morphed into a tomato and he kept glancing between the floor and your eyes. “I…” he began before clearing his throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you smiled again.

“So,” he cleared his throat again, “do you want to check out the rest of the apartment, or do you want to kinda get to work, or?” He trailed off, looking out the window with furrowed brows. Your hands itched to smooth out the wrinkles, but you stopped yourself, instead thumbing the mug in your hands.

“Let’s get to work, how’s that?” you asked rhetorically. “Uh, how does this work?”

Peter chuckled and gently took your hand to lead you to the little “studio” he had setup. The back wall, which it shared with the hallway, had unfinished works spread across it, both hanging and leaning. You found that to be artistic in and of itself.

There was a big bookcase and several shelves that held supplies, and the back corner had piles of canvases and pieces of paper. One shelf was cramped and overflowing with sketchbooks. There was an easel that could be shifted around, and a stool for Peter to sit on while he worked. It appeared to be a cozy place for Peter to work; even if it was a bit small, it was moldable, easy to transform to Peter’s needs.

“I love this!” you said brightly as you looked around.

“Thanks,” Peter blushed a bit.

“So, how do you want me?” you asked as he deliberated in front of his supplies.

After a few moments of silence, Peter seemed to register what you said. He grabbed something you couldn’t quite see and was fiddling with it as he said, “Could you move the stool to be closer to the window and sit on it, please?”

“Sure,” you replied easily. You placed it around where you thought he wanted it and heaved yourself on, being careful not to overbalance and fall off. You held the mug in both hands, looking down at the slightly bobbing ice.

“Gorgeous,” Peter breathed loud enough for you to hear, and you looked up to see him now watching you, a camera wrapped around his neck. His blush was the most endearing thing you’d ever seen, and he quickly began to fiddle with his camera again.

“Photos first?” you asked, sipping your water to hide the smirk you’d created once you’d seen that adorable blush.

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered, stepping a bit closer. “I figured, well, if inspiration strikes in the middle of the night, I could always, you know, look at some photos.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me over in the middle of the night?” you asked boldly, raising a brow and trying to stop yourself from visibly freaking out at your actions.

If possible, his face reddened even more, and he nearly tripped over his feet. You chuckled lightly, sipping your water gingerly. Instead of saying anything, you let Peter regain his composure, though what happened next nearly made you spit out your water.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to wake you up and make you get out of my warm bed,” Peter said smoothly, the red slowly fading from his face.

You nearly choked on the water but managed to keep it in your mouth and in the mug, and you certainly didn’t miss Peter’s smirk. This was certainly going to be an interesting art partnership, and hopefully a long-lasting, laughter filled friendship would blossom as well. That was all you would let yourself hope for at that moment.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x plus size reader #peter parker x insecure!reader #spider-man x reader #spider-man x plus size reader #reader insert #slow burn fic #please let me know what you think!!!!!!#commission for confidence

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comicteaparty · 4 years

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June 13th-June 19th, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from June 13th, 2020 to June 19th, 2020. The chat focused on the following question:

What is your physical and digital workspace like when you’re working on your story?

🌈ERROR404 🌈

LOL it really depends on what stage I'm in of the process - My storyboarding space is at home, as comfortable as I can be, a beer and some food at the ready and pure silence. The cats have to be freshly fed, otherwise I'll be harassed and lose my headspace entirely LOL. I usually work on my story boards digitally, just at a very small scale, with my script/outline on my computer and working on my ipad! The double screen helps a LOT, although i would just print out the script if I had access to a printer, haha. When I'm working on the actual page itself, it's a very different story. I usually just try and work on it in tiny little batches during the day when I'm stuck at home, and usually work around the animals as best i can, lmao. Truthfully, I really prefer to be in a coffee shop when I'm working on finishing pages, it makes me so much more productive than i am in this house with so many things to take care of right in front of me, but, obviously, that's a bit difficult to do these days. ;; I usually reserve food and drink until after I pass a milestone in inking/sketching to help motivate me to keep going for as much as I can before taking a break, and I need some kind of music or video playing in the background to keep myself from being absolutely bored out of my mind. My shading process, since it's in black and white, is very easy and i can finish it in one setting, easy, no matter what I'm working with. I also work digitally for my pages, of course, although I don't need more than my ipad and clip studio for it!

DaeofthePast

freshly fed cats

🌈ERROR404 🌈

They are BEASTS when hungry, the little bastards (love them)

I may only work in peace when they're post-food napping lmao

DaeofthePast

we only have one, but same

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

I work almost entirely in the corner of my IKEA couch at home I used to work at a proper desk with a Cintiq, but when I switched to Procreate on an iPad, I migrated to the couch and surrounded myself with a nest of clothes and blankets and books and... here I am, bein' cozy. With terrible posture But when I was between jobs last year, I did rent a little coworking space down the street so I could get out of my pajamas and go get comic stuff done there. It was a godsend. I like drawing at my favorite coffee shop every so often too, but I tend to hide my work while I draw, and there, everyone can look over my shoulder The coworking space had a tall artist desk that was rarely used, so I often grabbed that one. Not cheap, but to stave off cabin fever, heck yes, worth it.

🌈ERROR404 🌈

Ahhh I've been really thinking about getting a studio space one of these days I really shouldn't rn, with my finances as they are, but I could REALLY make use of one recently

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

I loved the space I used last year. They recently had to close for... current-event reasons... and are going to reopen with all sorts of plexiglass barriers between the desks I feel so bad for them. Good studio spaces are wonderful, I would support them again if I ever was out of a job!

🌈ERROR404 🌈

it's good they've found ways to make it safer, though!

carcarchu

My old workspace was in the basement of my home in canada and it was always perpetually freezing even in the summer and i was frequently visited by spiders so my current workspace is a huge improvement in that regard. I do miss my old ergonomic desk chair though. I'm definitely not the kind of person who can draw in bed or on the couch. I need to be in workmode and having a designated space just for that is necessary for me to get in the right headspace for that.

DaeofthePast

my workspace rn is just my desk with my laptop and my drawing tablet. my laptop is stacked on top of a pile of books so i can see the screen (otherwise my tablet blocks my line of sight). it's kinda simple

chalcara [Nyx+Nyssa]

Depends. I have a Cintiq Mobile Studio, so I can draw pretty much every where and sometimes in the oddest position, but most of the time I am on my desk with the cintiq hooked up to a second monitor so I don't have to look down so much.(edited)

Holmeaa - working on WAYFINDERS

For Wayfinders: Thumbnails are somewhere cozy and the only physical work. Me and Q sit and plan them out together. The rest of wayfinders are made on Photoshop, and flat colors in clip paint studio. In the world I would love a nice studio place in an office with others. During corentine I have been working from home, and I am not that good at it, being quite the extrovert. Before corentine I was in a artist residency where I worked on Wayfinders which had a workstation and all the programs we could need. It is so nice and me and Q are going to return there when it opens up again!

Miranda

I have an iPad so usually on the couch, cozied up with coffee and pillows and blankets. But sometimes at the table. But usually on the couch like the gremlin I am

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

I have a large drafting table, a mini drafting table, and a lapdesk in my papasan when we ink/draw! Toning and letters are all done on the desktop in its own space

Miranda

I need to get a good lap desk. But that sounds like a grand setup!

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

My first time hearing about a lapdesk

Omg I need one

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

They are the best things ever Mine has just the pencil holder !(some come with cup holders and its a waste of space imo)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Wow I like your setup of the drafting tables

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

I wanna show pics of them....if im allowed in this chat?

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I hope so, I'm not sure which channel we can post studio photos at? I did see some did before?

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

Ill post in shop talk since creator babble gets archived

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

my current space is uh.... a bit better than my last one. I used to work on an old writers desk for a decade and I did most of my comic work sitting there cramped up with my desktop taking most of the space. Now I have an L shaped desk where I have my desktop on the shorter end. The longer end it's my pen, pencils, and watercolor stuff. my display tablet occupy the space at times so switching from digital and traditional without worrying about setup hassle is a lot better than what I dealt with before lol.

I'm glad the days I had to curl up and draw with no privacy are long gone now

kayotics

I’ve got a little drafting table where I draw all my comic pages. I’m messy with my pens so they’re kind of strewn about until I start to lose them. Then I put them back. I’m not particularly neat. I spend most of the comic process off the computer, so most of my digital work is just on an iPad where I can sit anywhere. I try to keep good lighting around my drafting table and there’s always loose eraser shavings all over.

Natasha Berlin (Pot of Gold)

I got myself a lil corner desk by the dining table. Not as well-lit as I'd like, but it's decently ergonomic and I started putting posters on my wall Plus I can leave work mindset easily by turning off my computer and forgetting about the dark corner in the dining room XD(edited)

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

My desk is really sloppy and covered in all kinds of junk. I have a harmonica, a ball of yarn, a bunch of ink bottles, etc on my desk. I have my sketchbook under my tablet and usually a notebook somewhere for writing. My tablet sits to the right of my laptop (on top of sketchbook) while I'm not using it and when I'm using it it goes over my computer keyboard. I sometimes have a glass of water or some food sitting to the lefthand side

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

The only thing I wanna share about my workspace is this

once i spent over three hours looking for that damned pen

never again

🌈ERROR404 🌈

Ajkdhfkjs the models for hte magazine im crying

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh my God

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

mad giggling

Deo101 [Millennium]

youre gonna manage to lose the string

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

omg

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

i know in my heart deo is right but still i hope

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

You should weld a metal chain to it

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

Watch me lose the whole tablet

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh nooo

I believe in you!

TaliePlume

My workspace is a black table with a white, yellow, blue and green tablecloth with 3 black chairs. It's next to the kitchen. On it, is my laptop and the left side is my clipboard, 3 blue folders full of writing. Then above it, is 3 sketchbooks and another blue folder from a class that I took in community college.

June 16, 2020

sagaholmgaard

I have one long desk at almost three meters. On the left side is all my coffee and tea supplies, in the middle is my work space and on the right is my dining table xD I get everything done from there, despite having a mobilestudio so I COULD sit anywhere and work, lol. It's a blessing during holiday seasons to be able to bring it everywhere, but at some I like my designated working space. Although I am moving in a few weeks, so who knows what my new workspace will be

Moral_Gutpunch

My workspace is anywhere I can draw or write. It's more of a "Will I be interrupted over something petty or stupid" issue than space. Not that I don't want more space.

Mitzi (Trophallaxis)

My workspace is a big, broken corner desk I managed to lug out of an old apartment when it was gonna be trashed. Before then, I'd just draw in bed. I don't remember, but I'm pretty sure the folding chair I sit at is a similar affair. It's got a Dollar General throw pillow on it so I can at least say I'm trying to save my back. The top of the desk is a mess of mostly old bottles and cans, pencils, incense ash, and my old tarot deck. I love this setup dearly. This is the first time I've ever had my own desk space, much less a space I can decorate or leave as messy as I want. Got my own art up on the walls with sticky tack and all! Also the cat's scratching post is directly behind me, because we've learned the cat won't use it unless it's as in the way as possible. What can ya do, lol.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh cats...

Desnik

I got spoiled with an adjustable desk. It is six feet long, and has a whiteboard top for noodling with dry erase markers

my main computer is set up on an adjustable stand so it floats over the desk, and then I have my cintiq, which we tried to mount on a similar stand but then it was just too heavy

I keep my dice collection nearby because fidgeting helps think things through sometimes

and rolling to make odd decisions never hurts

lately during the quarantine I've been sharing the office with my spouse so we've had to establish rules over when it's okay to bug each other(edited)

oh yeah and we also have a whiteboard installed in the office, and it rules!(edited)

Shizamura 🌟 O Sarilho

Mine is pretty simple: I have a laptop that's long stopped being portable and is now mostly just sitting at my desk at all times and a 19 inch Ugee as my display. I usually keep a lot of stuff on top of my desk, but it's mostly just a mess because I have been using it for work too for a while now

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

I suppose I'll talk about my setup too :) My main setup is where I do digital art. I share an office with my SO, so we both have workspaces on opposite walls from each other. I work on a corner desk that holds my beefy computer, two monitors, and a Huion Kamvas GT-191. That's where I draw my comic and pretty much everything else done digitally. Ngl, it's a mess right now. I have comic notes and location floor plans in sketchbooks and DnD character sheets spread out all over the surface, and random pens and sticky notes. In the corner of the room, we have a nice large-format printer where I produce prints for conventions. I actually sketch my pages on an iPad pro in Procreate, so during the sketch phase, sometimes I'll just bundle up on my couch and do it, or before quarantine, sometimes I'd sketch on the go. My other workspace (which hasn't gotten much love as of late tbh) is a drafting table in the corner of our living room. I keep a tabletop easel on it and my Copic markers, as well as whatever I'm working on at the moment. (RN it's some ink washes.) The drawers hold all my ink, pencils, erasers, etc. Next to the drafting table is where I keep all my large charcoal, graphite, and oil pastel drawings (mostly school projects), and my large paintings. Other than that, I have a nifty little cart where I keep painting supplies :) I will say, this setup is by far an enormous improvement from my previous setups.

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #comic tea party #ctp #creator interview #comic creator interview #creator babble

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imagineclaireandjamie · 6 years

Note

Please more of artist Jamie!!! So beautiful!

Follow up to this story

January 1976

Elias Pound had known Mandy MacKenzie for all of fourmonths – but he already knew he’d gladly follow her anywhere.

So when she proposed they spend an evening at a downtownart gallery – in a neighborhood she called SoHo (“But we have one of those inLondon,” he had protested – and she’d replied “This one has a capitalized H,silly goose”) – he immediately leapt at the chance to be with her. Even if itmeant following her on the subway (“Don’t you have one of those in London?” shehad teased), gaping at the half-beautiful, half-terrifying graffiti scrawledover the walls and seats and windows and exterior of the cars, stepping around thegarbage and panhandlers on the platform at Times Square and Grand Central whenthey transferred from the 1 to the Shuttle and then to the 6.

Once above ground at Spring Street, he thought she’d madea mistake – for the neighborhood appeared to be stone dead, even at arelatively early hour.

“Where is everybody?” Elias dug his hands into thepockets of his peacoat, pulse rocketing from a mix of fear and sheer joy asMandy slipped her mitten-clad hand through his arm.

“Barely anyone lives down here,” she explained, lookingboth ways before stepping off the curb. “It’s mostly artists and galleries.They love the big old buildings – fantastic twenty-foot ceilings in the rooms.”

A cab appeared out of nowhere, horn blaring. Mandy tuggedhis arm to stop – and the cab squealed by, the driver hurling obscenities.Calmly Mandy kept walking down Broadway, turning right onto Prince Street.

“And how did you find out about this exhibit?”

His eyes darted over to her; she just smiled and keptwalking.

“Here we are!”

And they were – for in the first sign of life since they’dleft the subway, a line snaked out of an industrial metal doorway and aroundthe corner. Elias could only see a tiny sign above the door – The Broch Gallery – and a burly man outfront, clearly the security guard.

Elias steeled himself to wait outside in the cold –regretting he hadn’t brought his knit cap – but then Mandy marched right up tothe man at the door.

“Hi – I’m Mandy MacKenzie,” she explained. “Elias here ismy guest. I should be on the list.”

The man fished in his pocket and produced an index card;he squinted, looked up at Mandy, and nodded. “All set, miss. Coat check is onyour left.”

“Thank you,” she smiled sweetly, taking Elias’ hand anddrawing him inside.

A woman wearing black took their coats and handed themeach a small booklet. Before Elias could even glance at the cover, they turned anothercorner and came face-to-face with a panel of text on a gallery wall.

JAMES FRASER: ART WITHOUT LIMIT, 1920-1975 – A RETROSPECTIVE

Elias could see several dozen people milling around in atleast six adjacent galleries, sipping champagne, studying the walls intently.

“Who’s James Fraser?” he whispered.

Mandy looped her arm through his. “Someone I’ve admiredmy whole life. You’ll see why. Don’t bother reading the labels – I’ll be yourtour guide.”

And she was.

The first gallery displayed small pastels and watercolorsof New York City street scenes in the 1920s – old cars rumbling down widestreets, women in elegant dresses pushing old-fashioned baby carriages onsidewalks, children playing tag on a gorgeous summer day in Prospect Park, ruddy-facedmen toasting their joy in cavernous long-gone beer halls.

These were interspersed with photographs. A combinationof society portraits and even more street scenes.

“Is that the Flatiron Building?”

“It is. Can you believe that it wasn’t yet twenty years oldwhen this photograph was taken? Even then it was still so controversial.”

Elias tilted his head at a series of three of formal,posed paintings of different women. “Who were they?”

“Wives of wealthy businessmen and lawyers.” Mandy noddeda thank-you to the woman who offered a tray of snacks. “He made a good livingas a portraitist. Back in the day, that was a way for men to show how muchmoney they had – by paying an artist to paint their wives. Even after photographybecame popular – they still insisted on it.”

Elias chewed thoughtfully. “I’d think it still is a wayfor men to show how much money they have. Someone I went to school with – I rememberthere was a painting of his mother in the house. I never quite understood it.”

Mandy led them to the next room – and Elias’ jaw justabout dropped.

It was another portrait – but so radically different fromwhat he had just seen.

A beautiful woman – her curly brown hair rioting aroundher ethereal face – wearing a dress that could only be described as anincredible shade of electric blue. Surrounded by sumptuous plants andblue-and-white Chinese porcelain. Strongly, confidently facing the viewer – a hintof mischief evident on her perfect lips.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Mandy squeezed his hand. “Thiswas the first work that truly got him noticed.”

“I should think so,” Elias breathed. “She’s – she’s so alive. So much more alive and presentthan in what we saw in the other room.”

“The artistry is without comparison,” Mandy agreed. “But thescandal that surrounded the painting made it even more notorious.”

“Scandal? What scandal? It’s a modest dress.”

She shook her head. “This portrait was commissioned byFrank Randall, on the occasion of his wife Claire’s thirtieth birthday, in thefall of 1925.”

“Frank Randall? As in Randall Steel? That Randall?”

“The same,” she grinned. “Anyway – Claire Randall wasvery famous in New York society at the time for throwing very grand parties attheir townhouse on East Sixty-Eighth Street. Somehow James Fraser got aninvitation to one of their parties – and once Frank learned he was an artist,he commissioned him to paint Claire.”

“I don’t see what’s so scandalous about that.”

Mandy smirked above her flute of champagne. “Well – you canimagine that Claire got to know the artist quite well as he painted herportrait. So well that when the painting was delivered to the Randalltownhouse, she told Frank she was leaving him, packed her bags, and moved inwith Jamie.”

“Oh my God!” Elias exclaimed. “Did she take the portraitwith her?”

“Of course! It hung in Jamie’s studio on East TwelfthStreet for many years.”

“And did they stay together?”

Mandy set down her empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray,and took Elias’ half-empty flute. “See for yourself.”

The next gallery was full of Claire Randall. Oilpaintings of her draped in a Japanese kimono. Pastel drawings of her reclining nudein bed, surrounded by rumpled sheets. Striking, black-and-white photographs ofher hands forming different shapes, and the curve of her spine, and the back ofher neck.

“She was his muse,” Elias murmured.

Mandy nodded. “My favorite is right over there.”

It was a small photograph – just about as big as aletter-sized sheet of paper. At the bottom right of the frame was a reflectionof the old-style camera; at the middle of the frame was Claire caught mid-laugh;and peeking over her shoulder was a man – hair parted down one side, eyescreasing with laughter.

“It’s called Joy;he took the photograph on their wedding day,” Mandy whispered. “In a publicbathroom at City Hall. Probably ten minutes after they exchanged vows.”

Elias swallowed, his heart soaring at the explosion oflove and adoration captured so simply and elegantly in the photograph.

“I’m surprised Randall gave her a divorce.”

“Apparently she threatened to go to the papers with proofof all his affairs. My understanding is that it was settled quite quickly.”

He wanted to know more – so very much more – but sheushered him into the next gallery.

Here the artist’s style had clearly matured; thecityscapes were bolder in outline, brighter in their use of color.

“He immigrated from Scotland as a very young man. But NewYork City has always been his home. His art documents what it’s like to livehere.”

It did – subways, and buses, and even photographs ofairplanes landing at Kennedy or LaGuardia. Interspersed with photographs ofClaire as she got older – still smiling, now in color – in what appeared to bethe same East Twelfth Street studio.

Before he knew it, they were in the last gallery. Whichheld a single artwork – another painting of Claire, posed almost identically asshe had been in the scandalous portrait. Surrounded by ferns, and Chineseporcelain; wearing another electric blue dress. Her face had more wrinkles, andher hair was gray – but she was still so vibrantly alive.

Mandy withdrew her arm, but he didn’t realize she hadcompletely left his side until an unfamiliar voice spoke beside him.

“Personally I prefer this one to the older one.”

“I’d have to agree,” Elias remarked, turning to his newneighbor. “In fact – ”

He froze.

“It’s you,” he croaked.

Claire Fraser – hair still curly after all these years,wearing a bright green dress and gorgeous silver jewelry – smiled.

“It’s me,” she agreed. “Jamie painted this one to commemoratemy eightieth birthday last October – and, of course, the fiftieth anniversarysince the first one.”

“Oh my God,” Elias breathed. “I – you – um, you are verybeautiful.”

Then Mandy appeared, and slung an arm around Claire’sside. “Are you flirting with my grandma?”

“Grandma?”

“Come on, Mandy – you’ll make the poor man suffer a heartattack right here. I thought you told me you liked him.”

Stupidly Elias stuck out one hand. “I’m Elias Pound.”

Claire laughed. “Yes, I know. Mandy’s told us all aboutyou. You study engineering together, right?”

“Always had a head for numbers, that one.” An older manappeared beside Claire, and kissed her cheek. “Just like our daughter – her Mam.God knows where she got that from.”

Claire nodded at Elias. “Jamie, this is Elias.”

Elias gulped. “H-hi,” he stammered.

“Ach, no need to be shy, lad! I dinna bite.” Jamie Fraserheartily clapped Elias’ shoulder. “So – do ye like the paintings?”

“Be honest,” Mandy teased.

Elias cleared his throat. “I – um – yes. I’m stillgetting to know New York, and it’s so interesting to see how your workdocuments how the city has changed.”

Jamie looked over at his granddaughter, one still-redeyebrow raised. “Very astute observation. Good that he appreciates things thataren’t numbers.”

Mandy groaned. “Be nice, Grand-da. We go to museums allthe time – we get in for free with our student IDs.”

Elias cleared his throat. “Also, sir, your work is one ofthe most honest and pure representations of love that I’ve ever seen. I – I can’tquite describe it, but I can just feelit pouring out of the frame. It makes my heart race. And that’s something thathasn’t changed – am I right?”

Jamie and Claire and Mandy – she had Jamie’s eyes, herealized – looked at him, eyes wide. Quietly Mandy stepped forward to take hishand, squeezing it. So proud.

“Thank you,” Jamie whispered, drawing Claire to his side.“You understand. She’s everything.”

“Yes,” Elias agreed, looking at Mandy. “She is.”

#;mod gotham #this is the best way i can think of to tell the rest of artist!jamie and claire's story #all of the artist aus

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andreasunny · 8 years

Text

To Love A Smile (Remus Lupin)

Fandom: Harry Potter (Marauders Era)

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: fluff

It wasn’t that you didn’t notice.

It seemed daily that the boy showed up to class with new wounds and darker eyes. Sometimes he didn’t show up at all. In the beginning, his appearance raised questions amongst your fellow students, though now they had grown used to his disheveled and rugged appearance—it was just how he was. No one seemed to care about it. Except for you, that is.

You were sitting in the library one day, your head buried in a book as your mind was stuck on Remus once more. He had been absent from classes for the past four days, and you were worried, to say the least. Usually Remus never skipped classes for more than a day or two, and four days was a new record. You had been anxious the whole time, even resorting to asking James Potter if Remus was alright.

He had looked up at you in surprise when you did. You were Remus’ friend after all—not James’. Besides, you could count the number of conversations you had had with James Potter on one hand. You had finally started to lose yourself in the pages of the Charms book in front of you, reading about the history of memory spells, when a shuffle behind you brought you back to reality.

“Remus,” you called out quietly, though without hesitation.

“(Y/N).”

His voice was hoarse and quiet, though it held a friendly tone. He knew that you were surprised to see him that way and he knew that you were questioning it, though he tried to mask it and put on a lighthearted façade.

“Are you alright?” You knew it was a stupid question—probably one of the stupidest you had ever asked. There he was, directly in front of you, obviously not okay. Though something inside of you still longed for him to defend himself, to explain what had happened and how you could help. He just continued smiling at you, though, his eyes never wavering.

“Oh, I’m quite alright. Just a bit worn out.”

“What happened to your arm?” You didn’t want to be nosy, but it seemed crucial at this point.

His smile flickered downwards a bit, but he kept up his cheerful image. You had to give him credit for his attempt at acting. “James, Sirius, Peter, and I were walking along the edge of the Black Lake. I stumbled on some rocks and injured my arm. It should be healed in a few days. Madame Pomfrey is a genius when it comes to healing.”

It was such a blunt, bold-faced lie that you had to grit your teeth. For a brief moment, you hated him. You hated him for disappearing and returning days later, injured with no explanation other than barely concealed lies. You hated him for refusing to confess to you, refusing to speak the truth, signaling that he obviously didn’t care enough about you to tell you what was wrong. It seemed like you were just a pawn in his game, and you hated yourself for letting yourself fall so easily into his grasp.

Your gaze returned to your book, not bothering to conceal your frustration and anger. Your jaw was clenched and your eyes stung as you stared at words on the page your mind wasn’t even focused on. It was unfair that you were upset when he was the one injured, but it was also unfair that the circumstances had made you care so much about the boy.

“(Y/N).”

When you still refused to look up, you felt his fingers lightly brush against your jaw before lightly pressing down and moving your head to face him. His touch was softer than a feather as if he were afraid that you were a porcelain doll that was bound to break. Once you were facing him, you saw that his smile was gone and his eyes were no longer steady but creased and clouded. You wanted to kick yourself for doing this to him, for taking away his smile.

“Everything’s going to be alright.” His voice was still steady, though it was as quiet as yours. His eyes dug into yours, and you were forced to look into his soft green eyes. They weren’t bright or sharp, but soft and muted. They reminded you of watercolor paint blended smoothly along canvas. You could have stayed there forever looking at him, but a part of you knew that he would break away soon and leave.

Remus John Lupin seemed to be all you could think about. You worried about him, to put it simply. You feared that every smile he gave you was covering up something else. You had initially believed that he was sick and that was why he was always absent and ill. It had been five years, though, and it seemed unlikely that anyone could be that sick and not have left to receive alternate professional medical treatment. Though he never looked healthy, he never seemed to get any worse.

Your patience was wearing thin, however, and you had to put your mind at ease. James Potter had just stared at you, though, taking a while to answer you, which caused your mind to dart to worst-case scenarios.

“Remus is alright—don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

Sirius Black, who had been sitting next to James, spoke up and answered you instead. Normally you avoided interacting with him because he unnerved you. He seemed too cocky and too confident for your taste, and being around people like that made you tense. Sirius’ words calmed you this time, though. When Sirius smiled at you, it didn’t tremble. He wasn’t lying, and why would he have any reason to? Remus was just fine.

You had muttered a quick “thank you”, before walking away quickly to the library where you had hidden for the past few hours. It had started off as an attempt to study for an upcoming Charms test, though your mind was racing far too quickly for you to study. Instead, you just daydreamed about Remus and tried your hardest not to jump to conclusions. Sirius had said he was okay, and you had to trust him.

Looking up with a slight startle, you saw a familiar set of ruffled Gryffindor robes behind you paired with messy brown hair. You exhaled in relief, your mind clearing for the first time in those four days.

The boy turned around slowly, not at all startled by your voice. A smile made its way to your face, but quickly disappeared when the boy was facing you. On his face was a long scratch that ran from the corner of his eye to a few inches down his cheek. It looked shallow, but there was no question that it hurt. His arm was also in a white sling, partially concealed under his robes. Despite his war-torn appearance and the dark circles that were almost black under his eyes, Remus still looked determined. His jaw was set and his eyes held the faintest sparkle as he smiled at you with the corners of his mouth.

Somewhere off in the distance, you heard him sigh, though you tried your best to ignore him. Maybe if you ignored him, all of these feelings and all of the worry would go away too.

You heard the chair next to you scratch against the wooden floor and creak as he sat down, but you still refused to look at him. Your eyes burned more and your heart raced faster as you tried to stop the oncoming tears. You didn’t have any right to cry in front of the boy who had probably been through more hardships than you could imagine, yet was still able to keep a smile on his face for anxious girls like you.

His voice resounded again. “(Y/N). Look at me.”

“What?” Your voice was softer than a draft of air and you were surprised that he could hear it. You wanted him to leave so badly, for him to stop speaking to you, but more than anything, you wanted to grab onto him and never let go.

As soon as you thought it, Remus turned away from you and looked at a spot over your head. He removed his hand from your chin and it sat awkwardly in mid-air, unsure of where to go. Your shoulders visibly sagged and you were left to your chase for someone who didn’t seem interested enough to care about your emotions.

You shifted in your seat, moving a bit farther away from him, believing that the conversation was over. As soon as you reached forward to close your book, Remus’ hand shot out and lightly grabbed your arm. In one fluid movement, he pulled you closer to him until you were pressed against his chest, his good arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You slowly and experimentally rested your hands on his back, moving a few inches closer. When he still didn’t back away, you exhaled slightly and rested your head on his shoulder, your forehead pressed against his neck.

“I’m sorry, Remus.” You could smell him easily from where you were, and he smelled of chocolate and grass and heaven. It was the closest you had ever been to him, and you could feel his heart pounding next to yours. His body seemed willowy and fragile, but he held onto you with determined strength that made you feel secure. You balled up your hands into fists against his back and closed your eyes, trying to preserve the moment.

“Don’t be sorry for something that isn’t your fault, (Y/N). It’s pointless.”

You could hear his voice vibrating in his neck and it made you smile. His cheek brushed the top of your head and you could tell he was smiling too.

Sometimes, it seemed that a smile was the best form of communication with Remus Lupin.

#Remus Lupin #remus x reader #Marauders #marauders era #Harry Potter #hogwarts #fluff #oneshot #fanfiction

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