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nettchan01 · 3 months

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illustration artist legacy

I was talking about illustration Illustration artists. But this time, I decided to speak about them. I decided to go with some British illustrators from the 35. images of British illustrators, and my top chosen illustrator is Beatrix Spotter. I chose Beatrix Potter as my top 1. One of the artist's legacies I wanted to chew on is because she made her dream come true to existing and publishing her favourite book of her little illustrations of animals, how she studied the anatomy of animals, and how many times she visited areas and places I hope if I talk about illustration artists of the British one, I could also one day on my next journey I could talk about the studio siblings in the future I know that studio nibbling doesn't have any British out. But I was so inspired by the studio Gibbling and also interested in checking out the studio Gibbling shows in future theatres in London. Interesting how was Mizayaki, as an illustrator being, succeeded. And how much time are the culture and foods and his mind being plotted out, and his inspiration is very, very visual and realistic. So I hope one day I can begin in 2 years' work, but today I will speak about Beatrix and the work such a matrix spotter is. The illustrator and her father are photographers, so her experience comes from her father's illustrations. She's really enjoyed working or sketching on the farm or having her own farms and also enjoyed the fact her family has so many rabbits and dogs. She's also enjoyed landscape sketching, so often she does those types of artists who like to sketch iconic places. She's more likely to sketch like Lance, more like an impressionist with her illustration, and then like an iconic place to sketch and expand it. Expanded more. It would be more like an impressionist if I compare what she likes with fine art. It was interesting how the animals looked realistic. The work also uses watercolour and ink; I think she also uses calligraphy and Lino um pan. So she made it very, very impressive. Printings and paintings. It was so realistic, and it had no pencils or drawings outlined with ink and watercolour. It was very, very interesting. She was really focused on the animal's shapes, like in life shovings, when I learned about imagining everything as abstract or as the shape I was. Imagined everything as abstract or shaded. I checked her books. I could only read some of her stories of Peter's rabbits and her animal kingdoms. But I really liked the squirrel story. I also brought a little book about the squirrels. The squirrels are my favourite animals. I checked out Instagram because I could see so many rabbits on the Instagram pages. Unfortunately, I don't have any area closest to me. I could check out Rabbit. So I just checked out the 4U pages videos of rabbits and imagined those little pom poms. It is like I closed my eyes and opened it, and I will see those little bunnies. It looked like a circle and was oval in shape. So, I was playing with my mind. It was like circles and oval shapes. It really has to be simplified. I also turned in my mind. It's like a geometrical shape. My favourite animal is the squirrel. I checked out those little scrolls, and it looks like I am taking photographs. I plan to upload them to my social media. I even made a digital collage, bringing them onto the same page, like those little squirrels. If I could close my eyes and open them again, my cheque the squirrels, I would imagine the little squirrels is like, um. Very, very straight-edged oval shape and. created like a little circle and had those little arms. It's also a little oval. This comes as arms, feet, circles, and triangles. The little. Nails That's how I imagined the level squirrels

The watercolours and the Aquarius are really, really enjoyable to use. I still experiment with them in my independent time. I even last year and um also my college years I was playing mixing them, playing with the colourful like to be playing with them, understanding the outstanding of the colours last year of the live drawings I was creating. one of the models out of watercolour was so enjoyable. I was step by step. They started understanding that by wishing for the life of your wings, I could also do more watercolour work and gain more knowledge of the layers and applications of watercolour. And the quality. So, I also started to use Arabic gum for making. The paint watercolour paints are more permanent, and when I use watercolour, I much prefer watercolour paper to use. Sometimes, if I use watercolour, I like to use single pages of cartridge paper because that's much easier. After all, it is always marked on the u,m t, he, and her pages, and sometimes it is. It was enjoyable experimenting with watercolour. I like to use black ink, which is water-resistant, and the calligraphy pen is still playing around. How can I make it using my own technique? Ink: I started to be along the water-resistant ink and began to make a great effort with the water-solid ball inks. And it was like I was so proud of it. It was like working at some point, and I started improving with it.

#illustration #british illustrator #organic materials #history #london

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writing-with-smut · 3 years

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Here's a story I wrote. now out on ao3 and wattpad. the link is to the ao3 version to read the rest. enjoy :)

“Tell me again why I should help you with your homework?”

“Because,” Lance whined as he set his books on the library table. “I have an art project with some kid in my class and I'm too focused on that to do my English assignment.”

Pidge rolled her eyes as she went back to typing on her computer. It wasn't unusual for pidge and lance to hang out in the library. Sometimes hunk would come and study with them while listening to lance bitch about his assignments. Pidge would continue to ignore him while Hunk gave some kind of advice on studying that would ultimately get ignored. It was Mostly his English ones. It was his bitching about another person that piqued Pidge’s interest.

“What’s her name?

“Him. and keith? He looks like some 2005 emo with a mullet.” Lance visibly cringed as he described keith. Pidge suppressed a laugh, shaking her head.

“A 2005 emo? With a mullet no less. Other than his appearance, is there anything else bothering you?”

“He’s an acrylic artist while I work with watercolour and charcoal. He makes it look soOoO easy, but it's not and I hate him for it. Our project is to paint the other titanic style. I'm going to die pidge, DIE”

Pidge rolled her eyes again, her thesis almost finished. “Its called gay panicking, and you’re going to be fine. Do the project, then forget about him. This Keith guy seems like a nice kid. Maybe you should, oh i don't know, be friends with him?”

“Who are we being friends with?” Hunk set his backpack on the floor next to his chair. “Sorry i'm late, culinary 3 was taking longer than expected to clean up today”

Lance’s head fell to the table with a thud, groaning.

“He’s having boy troubles. His partner in art is hot apparently.”

“I never said keith was hot”

“Keith Kogane?” Lance nodded. Hunk thought back to his economics class.

“He sits one row down and to the left of me. Nice dude. Sometimes I can see the wikipedia page open on his laptop and it's always some cryptid.”

“Even better. Ugh, i'm going to jump in front of a bus”

Pidge packed up Her belongings, giving Lance a sympathetic look. Hunk clapped lance on the back. “ I know Keith, he’s my co-host. Anyway, Good luck. And don't die yet! We want a full report tomorrow!”

All Lance gave back was a thumbs up as he packed up his belongings. “psh, I have to go over right now to talk about our project. That bus is looking like a pretty good choice right now”

They all laughed as he walked out of the library. Their goodbyes echoing in lanced brain as he walked through the long corridors to the dorm rooms. Keith had given Lance his room number earlier in class, so that Lance could come over and they could discuss the best way to go about their project.

“Stupid fucking acrylics” lance muttered as he gathered the courage to knock on keith’s door.

Now, the college was one that had dorm rooms built into the college itself. It had four stories, and the shape it made was rather obscure. The freshmen have the bottom floor, the first floor with most of the drama majors and auditorium for the theatre majors to put on plays. The sophmores have the second floor, and so on. There were two libraries. One in the north wing and the other in the southeast wing. Keith’s dorm room was in one of the farthest hallways, making Lance's trip a nerve racking experience as he thought of every bad possible outcome that could happen. But as he was standing in front of Keith's door now, his mind went blank. His fist rapped on the wood softly, hands clammy as they gripped his bookbag strap and fidgeted with it.

“Hello?” Keith’s head popped around the door as he opened it, eyebrows stitched together in confusion. He had forgotten that lance would be coming over. His hair was tied back and he was wearing black glasses that framed his face nicely.

Lance was having a hard time breathing. The window behind Keith had the curtains pulled back. The setting sun cast a rainbow of colour behind him, and lance? Lance was wide eyed and very aware of the sleep marks that littered Keith's cheek.

“Uh- what?”

“Hi! You wanted to talk earlier about our art project?” lance fumbled over his words as he spoke. “ I can come back later if you’re busy-”

“No! No, it's fine. I just took a small nap. Please, do come in” Keith stepped to the side, flashing a small smile towards lance. Lance returned the smile as he walked past. The dorm was the same as his, except there were way more posters on Keith's wall and, wait, was that a cryptid case connected with red string?

As Lance looked through each case taped to the wall, Keith moved to the mini fridge. “Are you thirsty?”

“Hm? Oh, no. i'm good, thank you though. So about our project…” lance sat in the ugly green chair that every dorm was provided with, getting the instructions out of his bag. The teacher had provided a list of Do’s and Don'ts for the students to follow. Some included, and were not limited to: Don’t stick anything in the clay, Do use colour, Don’t imprint your body onto a canvas/clay/piece of work. It should have been self explained, but most people wouldn't even read the directions.

“I was thinking that maybe we should get to know each other more since, well, we’ll be practically naked in front of the other for this project” Keith sat on the other chair, sipping his coke. He nodded, setting it down on the stand beside him.

“Okay then. I'm Keith, I like cryptids. I have my own blog. Sometimes I go down into the broadcasting room and talk on this show a friend of mine had created. My brother works here, and I hate my roommate. “ pursing his lips, Keith gestured for Lance to go. “Oh, and i have one of the only walk in closets on campus”

“You- what? No way. Show me.”

“Show you?”

“Yeah,” Lance shrugged. “I wanna see it. There’s no way that you have the only walk-in closet on the Garrison institute campus. I call bullshit”

Keith stood abruptly from his chair, he grabbed lance by the wrist and pulled him to the closet. Stumbling to catch up, lance followed. The room was noticeably bigger than most dorms that lance had been in before. The door to the closet was an eggshell white, and when Keith opened it and turned on the lights, Lance's jaw fell open.

“See? Told you so”

Lance wasn't listening as he walked into the closet, looking at the shelving.

“I’ve never seen one built like this. It isn't bad though.”

The door to the dorm opened. A male voice and a female voice were arguing. It seemed to lance like it was playful arguing, but Keith's face said otherwise.

“Fuck, that’s my roommate and his girlfriend. I'm avoiding him right now, so we’re just gonna stay in here for a bit” Keith closed the door to the closet, then moved to sit on the floor.

“What did he do to piss you off enough to stay in a fucking closet?”

“He’s been a huge dick for the past two weeks. It’s nothing but arguing, him bringing his girlfriend over and kicking me out. And then he spilt coffee all over a midterm paper I had finished and did nothing about it. Oh, and lets not forget the time he brought another girl over to makeout with while he’s still dating his girlfriend” Keith huffed out, crossing his arms over his chest. Lance sat next to him.

“That’s not bad. At least your roommate isn't your friend's brother. Who, by the way, is a walking shitpost. He makes all kinds of meme references in the cringiest ways. Plus he’s super hot, so it's distracting whenever he-”

“You like guys?” The question was mumble. It wasn't a mean question, or even a teasing one, but one of general interest.

“Yeah, of course. Im bisexual. Usually i lean towards girls, but there's been a few guys that caught my eye.'' Lance sent a playful wink Keith's way. His toothy grin housing that he was teasing.

“Jesus, lotor. There’s no need to be upset. I said I'd be at the library and I was. What’s the fucking problem?”

“What’s the problem? You were studying with some guy, Allura, and kept flirting with him! That's the problem”

Keith sighed, pulling his knees to his chest. His eyes travelled around the room until they landed on lance. Many things stood out to keith; like the freckles that littered Lance's cheeks, or the mole near his hairline behind his ear. He was an attractive guy, Keith knew that much. He was gay for god’s sake! But he hasn't told anyone but his brother. He protested at first when he was paired up with Lance, and he wouldn't be upset if Lance had complained too. But now that Keith was seeing him up close? He didn't mind as much.

“Do they fight like this all the time?”

“Yeah”

Lance frowned.

“How do you handle that?”

Keith sighed, looking up at Lance's face. His eyes were stationed on keith.

“I dont. It sucks, but i can't do anything about it other than drowning it out with music or podcasts”

A crash sounded from the main dorm, and the arguing continued to grow. Lance noticed Keith wincing at it, and decided to do something.

His hands cupped Keith's face, kissing him softly on the lips. Keith’s eyes widened in shock, but began to close as he leaned into the kiss. As their gentle kiss grew heated, both males manoeuvred themselves; Keith laying on his back, fingers gripping the back of Lance's neck as his tongue mapped out his mouth. Lance straddled Keith's legs, one knee in between. His fingers gripping soft hips. Pulling at Keith's shirt to take it off. Keith obliged as he pulled at lance’s too.

Grinding up onto Lance's thigh, Keith whined at the loss of Lance's mouth on his. His whining turned to whimpers as lance sucked marks onto his neck, kissing and biting at any part he could touch. Fingers dipping into the waistband of his pants as lance tried to pry open the button without looking.

“What are we doing?” Keith said between moans, arching into lance’s lips that had trailed down Keith's chest.

“This-” a kiss to Keith's collarbone.

“Is-” a kiss to Keith's left shoulder.

“called-” then to his right.

“A Distraction.” trailing his tongue back up to Keith's lips, he kissed them gently. Reassuring Keith that he wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to.

“Tell me you want me to stop, and I will.” Keith shook his head, his eyes looking into lance’s.

“Don't stop. Please, i-,” Keith blushed, turning his face away from lance’s gaze. “Ugh, fucking hell. I need you.”

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eausamu · 3 years

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001: nutritious, delicious

pairing: osamu x f!reader

warnings: food play, implied voyeurism

word count: 1.3k

it’s unsanitary.

it’s wasteful.

it’s stupidly cheap of him too. it’s not like onigiri miya isn’t doing well.

osamu knows it. knows at the very least, it would result in a very awkward conversation and perhaps some money out of his own pocket to keep tongues from wagging. and at the very worst, he’d lose his business license and a lawsuit.

which is why he had to hurry. you were coming in for your work shift soon.

he braces one hand against his counter, fingers trembling against the blonde wood. he tightens his grip, squeezing his masturbator over the swollen head of his cock.

osamu groans, voice almost as loud as the wet squelch below.

sure, it wasn’t one of those fancy high tech masturbators—engineered in a lab by people in glasses and white lab coats with a dozen pleasurable textures and suction power that could rival that of a black hole, designed to suck the soul out of men—but this, this was still good.

this masturbator, one that he’d fashioned crudely out of a slab of konnyaku, was doing its job.

he slides it all the way down his length and twists it back up, grunting as he tightens his grip again around his cockhead.

osamu strokes down again, and guilt skewers through him, sharp and hot.

he doesn’t know what’s more worse—that he’s fucking himself into a hole he’s cut into a simple block of konnyaku, or that he’s fucking it to the thought of you. out of all four of his part-timers, you were his favourite. if pressed, gun to temple, he might even admit that he likes you, more than just a boss likes a capable employee.

he likes that you’re hardworking and that you have initiative. you’re terrible at peeling eggs but amazing at customer service, charming newcomers and turning them into regulars faster than he could shape an onigiri.

he likes the way you smile, your sharp canines glinting when you tease him about being celibate, married to the shop like a priest to his faith. you pin him with that bright mischievous gaze, only to turn away, face flushed a pretty pink when he passes you, the front of him brushing ever so slightly against your back in the cramped space behind the counter.

it’s like watching watercolours spread, red ink bleeding into creamy ecru.

a loud sigh falls from his lips as he continues to stroke himself faster, with a looser grip.

you were right, you know. he’s been pretty much celibate ever since he opened the restaurant. turns out budding restauranteurs don’t get much time to themselves, let alone time to date. he squirrels away his spare minutes, sometimes for a coffee, sometimes with a phone call with his brother, and sometimes-

he bites his bottom lip hard, but even that can’t stop the groan from spilling out. it echoes loudly in the shop, the volume of it masking the wet squelches momentarily.

-sometimes he did this.

most of the time he’d use his hand, rough with callouses from handling knives and boxes of produce. but this time, he wanted something softer, smoother, something other than his obviously male hand—he obviously couldn’t pop out for a quick pocket pussy and so konnyaku, with a hole lanced right through the middle and warmed slightly, though an odd and wasteful choice, was the next best thing.

but every single time he did this, he thinks of you.

osamu’s eyes flutter close.

he thinks of you. your teasing smile, your bright eyes and red cheeks. he wonders—hand stuttering on an upstroke—if your cheeks will flush the same red when you’re on your back, under his body.

osamu lets his mind wander. he thinks of you, your supple body underneath your clothes, its ridges and curves. the oversized onigiri miya tee made it hard to tell the shape of you but he knows he’ll fit you just right all over.

he imagines palming your breasts, perfect handfuls in his palms. he wonders if your nipples are the same dusty pink as your flushed cheeks. osamu thinks about caging you against the counter, chest curling in to press against your spine so you’re touching all over, shoulder to hip to knee.

osamu is panting as he fantasises bending you over his counter. he’s sliding his hard cock against the swell of your ass, teasingly, delighting in the way you’re whimpering tencho so breathlessly underneath him, voice muffled by your own fingers.

he readjusts the konnyaku, holding it against the counter as if it were you, as the scene in his mind progresses.

he’s rocking back and forth slowly, teasing you with passes of his cockhead through your wet folds. fuck, you are so wet for him. so wet that you’re dripping, making a mess of his clean floors.

every time he rocks forward, the tip of his cock catches on your sensitive nub; it makes you shiver in anticipation.

he rocks back, and the ridge of his cockhead catches on your entrance- without any warning, he rocks forward and buries himself in you.

it’s the konnyaku he’s buried himself in, though. he’s fucking into it wildly, heavy balls swinging and making dull thuds against the drawer. it should hurt but it doesn’t. he’s too focused on imagining your voice—would you cry out or scream? would your fingers be scrambling for purchase on his smooth counters? or would you be babbling and whining, begging with breathy tenchotenchotenchos and pleasepleasepleases?

osamu groans, unabashedly loud as he fucks desperately into the konnyaku. why should he hold back when he’s all alone in the store?

he needn’t hold back—osamu lets his mind run with wild fantasies of grazing his teeth on your shoulders, of sliding a hand between your thighs to run fingers through the coarse hair there, circling around that one spot that’ll make you cry out louder.

except it’s osamu who is crying out now, breathy moans that tumble out and cut off into sharp gasps. he doesn’t hold back his voice, letting every groan expand and float into the rafters above.

it’s like a punch to the chest—all the breath leaves his lungs as he imagines you coming, knees buckling and pussy walls squeezing, pushing him out. it’s the thought of you, creaming around his thick cock, sated smile thrown over your shoulder at him that makes his balls tighten. and then he’s coming for real now, streaking thick white cum all over his pathetic food masturbator and counters.

fuck.

he makes food on this surface. he chopped vegetables, sliced fish, cut sheets of nori on this surface. and now it’s-

osamu squeezes the last of his spend out, watches as it forms a puddle of white on the edge of his counter.

fuck.

the guilt—real guilt now, brought on by the post-but clarity—seeps in. osamu turns his wet palm down, looking at the watch on his wrist. only 10 minutes till you were due to arrive and he had to change, had to wipe the counters and his mind free of evidence that he had masturbated to the thought of you.

osamu changes in his office (thank god he had a spare shirt in his locker), cleaning himself up as best as he can. but when he walks out, dish towel in hand, he stops in his tracks—you’re already there.

you’re already there, behind the counter, in your oversized tee and stained apron. osamu feels like he can’t breathe as he watches you tuck your hair behind your ears and lift your chopsticks to your mouth.

you bite, you chew, you swallow.

and then you lift your eyes to look right at him. they're glossed over with an unidentifiable haze, and there's colour high in your cheeks. your chest is heaving, rising and falling as you pant shallowly.

“tencho,” you call out by way of greeting; sunny as always, but there's a slight tremor in your voice. “thank you for preparing today’s staff lunch.”

“no proble-” osamu falters.

staff lunch? he had been so busy (read: masturbating) he hadn’t had time to make today’s staff lunch.

“it was delicious.”

osamu sees the konnyaku, sliced thickly and plated.

oh.

you smile at him and he sees it, catches the barely-there stain of white on the corner of your lips.

oh.

#miya osamu x reader #miya osamu x y/n #miya osamu x you #osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq smut #hahaha... ah...#osamu u are so hot let me eat ur c*m

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djs-sideblog-for-pog-trains · 3 years

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Friends (that we made up for along the way)

god knows how long it’s been or if anyone’s still vibing but HEY chapter 5. more gordon angst, ft. thomas and percy! looking forward to next chapter, i think i posted a section of it a while ago but it’s still funny to me

this should pick up pretty directly after the end of chapter 4

Characters: Gordon, Edward, Henry, Thomas, Percy, James, Duck, Sir Topham Hatt, (mentioning all characters who have and will appear, even if they haven’t yet)

Relationships: platonic gordon&edward a major focus, some possible allusions to 2x3 later on.

Genre: Human AU, hurt/comfort

Chapter’s Wordcount: roughly 1700 words [under the cut]

Chapter Warnings: intrusive/spiralling thoughts, angst go brrr

Chapter 5/?

Chapter 5 - chapter 5

When he knocked, the door was practically immediately yanked open, and Gordon nearly found himself knocking on Percy’s forehead before he knew it.

“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Percy said back, trying to smile but very poorly hiding how anxious he looked. “…Is Edward okay? Henry didn’t say much apart from a crash.”

“Edward is in one piece,” Gordon said, loudly enough for Thomas who was lounging in the living room but still listening intently to hear. “He… I think he has a broken leg and ribs and scratched up hands, and his face looked a bit scratched up too, but he’s… fine, other than that.”

They stood there for a moment, Gordon shoving the hand not gripping his suitcase handle into his pocket and blinking rainwater out of his eyes.

“Well,” Percy seemed to shake himself back into gear, flashing him a smile that was nothing short of tired. “C-come in!” And he stepped aside and let Gordon stoop and enter.

It was the same layout as his and Edward’s flat. Well, all the flats for the staff were the same layout, more or less. Saved squabbles in the early days. Each flat had three bedrooms, though not all housed three people. When James moved out of Gordon’s and Edward’s, they repurposed his old room into an office space. Edward spent more time in there than Gordon did, but it was handy for the occasional paperwork Hatt sometimes sent them home with.

Thomas had leapt to his feet as Gordon paused in the middle of the living room, taking it all in. Percy slipped past and stood beside him, and together, they almost looked anxious that he was there.

There. In their home. Intruding.

Gordon cleared his throat, trying to shake the thoughts, and it made his two shorter co-workers jolt, and that shot of guilt lanced through him once again.

“If you could direct me to… wherever I’ll be staying,” he prompted as politely as he could, and the two of them glanced at each other.

“Probably… Henry’s room, right?” Percy asked hesitantly.

“That makes sense,” Thomas nodded. “You’re too big for the couch.”

Gordon did his best not to roll his eyes and let the comment slide as Thomas turned and gestured for Gordon to follow him.

Down the corridor they went, and instead of right Thomas directed him left – to the room that would be Edward’s back in their flat, and opened the door.

The room was painted a pale green, with rich bottle-green curtains which were drawn tight, and had a desklamp casting the room in a warm half-light. But the thing that really got Gordon was… there was artwork all over the walls. Sketches, mostly, some watercolours too, of landscapes, trees, birds; mostly just… nature.

“This is Henry’s…?” he found himself asking, before doing his best to peter out the question before he seemed like an idiot.

“Yeah,” Thomas glanced around, a smile tugging at his face. “Henry likes to draw.”

He then turned on Gordon with a look that said I’m surprised you didn’t know that already and Gordon could only swallow hard and make a show of checking his watch. Though, admittedly, that made his mouth dry out as well.

“It’s 2am,” he said, probably too loudly, and Thomas blinked at him.

“We should… go to bed,” Gordon continued. “…I don’t know about you two, but I have an early train.”

Thomas tried to stay even-faced, but a yawn screwed up his attempt, and he turned away with a sort-of sigh. “Goodnight,” he called, leaving Gordon in the doorway.

“Goodnight, Thomas, Percy,” Gordon half-called, before hesitating, and blurting, “a-and if you need me for anything, you know where I am.”

And he closed the door almost a little too quickly to be casual.

--- --- ---

Oh, Henry’s room was nice. Henry made all of these? …Gordon had no idea he could draw, let alone paint. And as he found somewhere to put his suitcase and change into nightclothes, he let his eyes wander. And sitting down on Henry’s bed, oh it was soft.

And Gordon immediately felt guilty for Henry having to stay on his own bed, which was extremely un-soft.

But before his brain could torture him anymore, Gordon made the executive decision to firmly lie back and close his eyes. He was pretty good at falling asleep almost on command – a skill he’d honed from when he was young. It was easier than lying there having to process emotions and think about what he’d done, and –

He was asleep before he knew it.

--- --- ---

The next few weeks… passed. Gordon didn’t know if it was going well or not at all, actually. But nothing had burnt down yet, and Percy and Thomas had yet to launch an anarchist takeover of how Gordon had been running the place, so that was a good a sign as any that it wasn’t going catastrophically.

Edward rang most nights, to chat to him after Gordon got back from work, so he started doing his best to remember little things that had happened to him throughout the day, to flavour the conversations with. He had no idea how much enrichment Edward was getting, but he had to admit at times, over the phone, his old friend sounded bored.

One night, he had said “I saw an interesting bird today, along the coast. Thought it was a seagull, but it was far too big. Would Henry know…?”

“Hm,” Edward replied. “Let me ask.”

And Gordon listened to a muffled version of his question as Edward leant away from the handset, before a pause, and Edward replied, “Henry says it might have been an albatross.”

“Hm,” Gordon said. “I see. Thank him for me, will you?”

Then he looked up at the sound of shuffling feet, and saw a bewildered looking Thomas in the doorway.

“Ah,” he said, “Hello, Thomas.”

“Hi,” Thomas replied.

“Oh!” Edward said over the phone. “May I speak with him?”

“Edward would like to speak with you, if you have time,” Gordon relayed, tilting the handset away from his face.

“Oh!” Thomas’ face lit up. “Sure! Of course! Let me just, uh…”

And Thomas was shrugging off his boots and coat before almost scrambling for the phone, which Gordon relinquished, before rising from his place at the kitchen bench.

“I’m just stepping out for a moment,” he said quietly, watched Thomas nod, before walking out the open door and closing it behind him.

The front garden was surprisingly big on these flats, and it was up to the tenants if they wanted to do something with them. Edward had planted a low hedge in theirs now quite a few years ago, and Gordon helped maintain it sometimes. But Gordon couldn’t help but notice here that Henry’s garden was pristine.

Or, it had been pristine, maybe, before Henry had been gone for a few weeks and no-one had touched the damned thing.

Gordon looked around at the weeds and hummed. He looked down at himself, as if to reassure himself he was in his casual clothes, before walking around the housing unit to the standard-issue garden shed that was always at the back left of these properties.

--- --- ---

Thomas had been watching Gordon garden through the kitchen window for the past while, before finally relaying this to Edward with a tone verging on bafflement.

“I mean,” he reasoned, “it was looking pretty bad. We forgot to look after it. Don’t tell Henry, though.”

Edward laughed a little at that, but Thomas could hear how melancholy it was.

“I just didn’t think Gordon would ever get down in the dirt like that,” Thomas mused, leaning on the kitchen bench as he watched. “He’s… Gordon.”

“Oh, no, you’d be surprised at how willing he is to get his hands dirty sometimes. …But, honestly, I think I’ve seen him like this before,” Edward said softly. “…I worry about him, sometimes.”

“About Gordon?” Thomas repeated, scrunching his face up. “Well, I suppose he has been more quiet than I expected. I thought he wouldn’t shut up, old bossy-boiler and all that.”

“…He usually doesn’t,” Edward admitted. “I fear I’ve upset him.”

“Upset him by getting injured?” Thomas echoed doubtfully. “That sounds like a him-problem and not a you-problem, if that’s the case.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Edward replied. “…Oh, what do I know?”

“You know lots,” Thomas shook his head dismissively. “I do think he’s been acting weird. But I’m… I don’t… I don’t really know if me saying anything to him will help. I don’t think he likes me much.”

“I think you’d be surprised. But… weird?”

“Weird, like…” Thomas struggled for words, pushing his bangs off his face as he thought. “Weird, like he’s trying too hard not to be mean. Weird as in being too quiet. Weird as in spends most of his time in his room – in Henry’s room, I mean – and only coming out for meals. I didn’t think he would be that sort of person. Though he is a better cook than Henry. Also don’t tell Henry that.”

Edward chuckled once more, but seemed to reflect on this information like Thomas had told him something important.

“Oh!” A smile broke out on Thomas’ face as he watched Percy come into view over the low stone fence. “Percy’s home.”

“Wonderful!” Edward agreed. “I hope he’s well.”

“Well, he’s still outside,” Thomas reported. “Oop, he’s talking to Gordon now. He looks confused… Man, Gordon’s looking tired. Anyway, ah, here we go, Percy’s walking in the door now.”

“What?” Percy said, standing there, confused.

“It’s Edward on the phone,” Thomas called.

“Ooh!” Percy kicked off his boots and hurried over. “Hello, Edward!”

Thomas handed him the phone before coming over to lean on the doorway, watching Gordon work. He had to admit, Gordon was fast at this. He’d done about a quarter of the garden in the half-hour Thomas had been on the phone.

And Thomas watched Gordon sort-of freeze, before his shoulders just sort of… sagged, and he continued on with his work.

Had he realised Thomas was watching him? …Had that upset him?

Man, he thought he understood Gordon by now. But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have the slightest clue about what has going on in that man’s head.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

@theflyingkipper @freedreamersuitcasething @mean-scarlet-deceiver

#ttte #thomas the tank engine #ttte fic #ttte gordon #ttte percy #ttte thomas #cant think of any warnings i need to tag but lemme know if need be #ttte edward #dj's writing #friends (that we made up for along the way)#friends (that we made up for along the way) chapters

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dearest-valentine · 3 years

Text

fic snippet; by the ocean

Lance grins, his thumb rubbing patterns into Keith’s cheek. “I love you, too, Keith. I love you so much.”

That has Keith surging forward, capturing Lance’s lips with his own. He sighs softly in return, pulling Keith closer to him, hands slipping into his long hair. Kissing Lance, as cliche as it sounds, will never get old. Because Lance is…Lance is Lance, and Keith doesn’t see what else is to it. It’s a brief moment where he and Lance have no division of space between them, a brief moment where he can put all those feelings he can’t put into words into this small and sweet action.

Which is exactly what he does. He kisses Lance with every thought he can’t verbalise, every emotion he feels. Tries, desperately, to convey to Lance everything in his thoughts that he doesn’t dare say out loud for fear of messing it up. That it’ll come out jumbled, or as an insult, or with less force than what Keith was going for. It’s more than ‘I love you.’

You are my sun, and my stars, and my universe, he thinks, I am a defender of the universe, I am your knight. And I would be fine with going up in flames if it meant you were still by my side.

“This sand is not going to be coming out,” Lance laughs against his lips.

Keith grins back, leaning in for another kiss. And another. And another. “Future problem.”

Lance snickers, which Keith promptly silences with another kiss. He finally seems to get the message—thank God—and kisses him back, rolling them over. Keith’s laughter rings through the air. Lance smiles down at him, soft and small and full of love. “You know where I’ll be, right?”

Orange and yellow watercolour threaten to destroy the scene before him. Keith fights with the invisible force, refusing to lose Lance another time. Blue splashes fade in and out. He lets himself think about Lance’s question—how he’s leaving again, but this time he will be back. This time he’ll return as soon as he can, and he’ll come searching for Lance. You know where I’ll be?

“By the ocean,” Keith whispers, reaching up to caress Lance’s cheeks. His blue eyes shine, his smile taking on a sad tint. “With your hand open and waiting for mine.”

#fucking dumbasses OWN me #this fic is at 9k so far and i'm barely halfway done #i have a schedule tho and it WILL be posted next week...so look out #it STILL does not have a title but that's a next week problem #long post #just uh in case~#klance #vld #vld keith #vld lance

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erazonpo3 · 4 years

Text

Lance Appreciation Week Day 4 - Bonding with Rapunzel (and Pascal)

“Come on, Lance, just one date! You don’t know that she isn’t the one!”

“I appreciate it, Rapunzel, but I think I can figure my romantic life out for myself,” Lance says, resting his hand on her shoulder. Nevermind that none of his romantic exploits have ever really worked out in his favour.

Faith just- well- isn’t his type.

Rapunzel tugged on his arm and continued to protest, and it was a challenge to keep his face neutral the longer she continued.

“-And I just think that if you spent a little time with her-“

“Rapunzel, when do we ever hang out?” Lance asks, stopping her in her tracks.

“What do you mean? We hang out! Just last week-“

“Without Eugene.”

“Well… what about the farmer’s festival?”

“Or the girls. Or Varian”

“Uh,” Rapunzel stalls.

“Exactly! Let’s just spend some time together without dragging somebody else around with us, yeah?” he suggests, hoping she’ll finally let this Faith thing drop.

“You’re right. It’s Rapunzel and Lance time.”

A shrill chirp assaults her left ear, and she amends her statement.

“Rapunzel, Lance and Pascal time.”

Rapunzel, Lance and Pascal time, they decide, is shopping time.

Every week brings new merchandise to the Coronan marketplace, with thrifty travellers stopping by and sailing off again, taking their wares with them. It makes every trip unique, despite how frustrating it can be to discover a new favourite jeweller only for them to disappear at the end of the month. Rapunzel and Lance stroll past the colourful stalls, stopping occasionally to admire a wall of watercolour paintings or to buy a brightly frosted cupcake. Eventually their attention is drawn involuntarily to a stall decorated with all sorts of crystal tchotchkes and trinkets, dazzling them with a kaleidoscope of glinting light.

“Oh look, it’s a little glass Pascal,” Rapunzel coos, picking up a glass figurine stained in green that vaguely formed the shape of a lizard. Pascal trills dubiously at it from her shoulder.

“Look at this,” Lance says, lifting up a glass goblet embossed with gold. “You know, my birthday is coming up,” he nudges her.

“Your birthday is whenever you feel like it is,” Rapunzel smirks at him. “It was your birthday three months ago, and again only two months before that.”

“I’m trying to get my senior’s benefits early, alright?” Lance teases.

The saleswoman packaging her goods in the corner finally notices them, and dusts off her hands on her skirt before leaning on the tabletop with a wide smile.

“See anything you like?” she asks, her eyes flicking from Rapunzel to Lance. “These glasswares were all made in Nosçae, Hervania- you won’t find better anywhere else. They’ve got a secret glassblowing technique that’s unique to the region.”

“We’ll take the chameleon,” Lance says, and laying his crowns down on the table.

“Aw, Lance. You don’t have to buy that for me,” Rapunzel protests, but Lance waves her off.

“Think of it as an early birthday present.”

Rapunzel purses her lips but doesn’t argue further; the figurine is adorable but a little too pricey just to buy for herself, but not so absurd that she won’t let Lance gift it to her. Her glass Pascal is wrapped up neat and secure in a bundle of packaging, and with it in hand they set off again. As soon as they’re out of earshot of the stall, Rapunzel leans over.

“So… she was cute, right?”

“Rapunzel.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Lance shakes his head, but can’t help the smile that crosses his face. It’s refreshing to finally catch up and spend time together, Rapunzel’s matchmaking attempts notwithstanding.

And the next time his ‘birthday’ rolls around, he finds himself in the possession of a familiar glass goblet, wrapped up with pink and green.

#tangled the series #lance strongbow #lance strongbow appreciation week #rapunzel #my writing #my art

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hollywooduniversityalumnus · 4 years

Text

6. with a little dignity

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“If you expect to ever have a career anything like mine . . . which, let’s be real, you shouldn’t . . . You’ll have to handle Hollywood’s high-pressure environment with the grace and aplomb of a seasoned veteran. You must be prepared for anything,” he’d warned them in class, less than twenty-four hours before he made a complete fool of himself in front of his students.

In all his years as a professor at Hollywood University, Thomas had never been successfully pranked on April Fools Day, and he fully intended to keep that record. His students weren’t known for their ingenuity, so the tactics they employed were often derivative and predictable, like the slimy paint bucket drop that his Thesis Lab students rigged above his office door every year like it was tradition. He took pride in seeing through every attempt, and in recent years made it a habit to try and thwart the plan while it was in action, by either getting someone else afflicted by the prank or halting it in its tracks.

(And, while he despised April Fools Day, the memory of tricking Hiromitsu into activating the “watercolour paint balloon bot” brought a smile to his face every time he thought of it.)

But, of course, Miss Schuyler and some of her entourage (which included Bianca Stone for once, which admittedly surprised him) had to take a shot at the king. He honestly would’ve been disappointed if they hadn’t planned at least one go. They had been so transparent from the get-go; it was almost laughable.

But it wasn’t he who had the last laugh.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He had confronted the pranksters by the now-shattered skylight on the quad, slow clapping their efforts and crowing about how he’d been steps ahead the whole time. He took pleasure in their dejection, even brandishing the silver key he’d stolen from Margot during his heroic lunge to save her from the toppling bookshelf. And then he declared the prank over, that “he has never successfully been pranked, nor would he ever be.”

Hopes dashed, Bianca Stone, Lisa Valentine, and Ethan Blake slowly maneuvered past the gaping hole edged by broken glass. He watched them scurry to his side, relishing their devastation.

And then Margot spoke.

“Oh, darn. We really didn’t expect our plan to fall through.”

Ethan, who had paused by Thomas’s side, cocked his head to the side.

On Thomas’s other side, Lisa’s eyes flitted to Margot’s for a moment before turning her attention to him, her blindingly glossy lips pulling into a pout.

“Yeah, Professor Hunt, you sure caught us in the act!” She faked a sniffle.

He rolled his eyes at Lisa’s theatrics. “Stop moping around and come along. You lost! Accept defeat with a little dignity.”

He began to turn, but Margot spoke once again.

“Sorry, Professor,” she said, as if she meant it. “We’re coming.”

And, so quickly that he had no time to comprehend it, Margot began to maneuver around the skylight towards him when she slipped and disappeared through it, vanishing into the smoke slowly billowing out from below. Her scream, so sharp and shrill, chilled his blood, and he couldn’t hold back his shout of anguish.

“Margot!”

She didn’t respond.

He rushed to the skylight and tried to squint through the smoke, but it was useless. The fog machine he’d installed to thwart their plan was a powerful one. Its haze obscured the screening room below, and as it leaked out to the quad, made it nearly impossible to see through the broken skylight for any signs of Margot.

His heart felt frozen in place.

“Margot!” he called again, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. In that moment, surrounded by her shocked friends, staring into the abyss, he felt painfully helpless.

Ethan placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Professor . . .” His mouth was turned downward, a deep frown that the typically professional agent never wore upon his face.

Thomas turned his head to look at the agent. “Quickly, Ethan, downstairs! We have to get-”

Ethan shook his head. “Professor. Listen. It’s too late.”

Lisa’s voice trembled, on the verge of tears. “There’s no way she could have survived that . . .”

Even Bianca, being Bianca, seemed downcast. “She’s gone.”

He stepped back from the skylight and threaded his fingers in his hair, disheveling the neatly combed and gelled locks he so carefully cultivated every day. His heart was now at a racehorse gallop beneath his suit. He felt as though the floor would meet his face shortly.

“I . . . I never told Margot . . .”

That he knew it was her at the charity masquerade.

That he was proud of her and her achievements in such a short time.

That he felt something too.

He raked his fingers over his face in frustration. He hadn’t felt such a mix of emotions in years. A conflicting cocktail brewed in his stomach, twisting it with anger and guilt. He didn’t know if he would cry or throw up. Didn’t know if-

“Tell me what, Professor?”

At the sound of her voice, he whipped around.

Just outside the library doors, Margot stood, hands on her hips, flanked by Spencer “Crash” Yamaguchi and his entourage. The smile on her face was smug in a way he didn’t like, but he was happy – though shell-shocked - to see her anyway.

“How?” he forced out weakly.

At his words – well, word – the three students by his side instantly burst into cheers, joined quickly by Spencer and his equally self-destructively daring crew.

Margot simply raised an eyebrow. “Did I just successfully prank the Thomas Hunt? Mr. ‘I-Will-Never-Be-Pranked-Successfully’ himself?”

“I believe you have,” Ethan snickered. “Is this the proudest moment of my life? Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pulled out his cell phone and began furiously tapping away. “So many people owe me money now.”

Spencer and his friends whooped and descended onto the quad, doing quick jumps and flips over benches and potted plants. One ran onto the grassy knoll and began beating on his chest with his fists like an ape man, causing a small gathering of birds in the nearby tree to take flight.

Thomas clenched his jaw as Lisa and Bianca began circling him like dodos, chanting their victory cry inharmoniously. “We pranked Hunt! We pranked Hunt! We! Pranked! Hunt!”

In all the cacophony, he stared Margot down as if he’d never seen her before. She had managed to do what many failed at. As much as he wanted to contest their words, say that he never actually thought she was gone, he knew already it was futile. From the commotion her friends were stirring, and how fast some of them were typing on their phones, it would be common knowledge by his next class with them that he had been had. No point in trying to dispute it.

How had she done it? he wondered. Was Spencer and his friends waiting mere feet below the skylight, ready to catch her? Had they maneuvered a trampoline or curtain to break her fall?

At the latter thought, he scowled. They better not have torn down the projector screen.

Margot came closer.

“Miss Schuyler,” he said, moving to meet her in the middle, and thus breaking free from Lisa and Bianca’s strange dance. “I-”

“Accept defeat with a little dignity, Professor.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The Hollywood 101 class he taught the next day was almost intolerable.

Ethan and the other witnesses of the “prank to end all pranks” (as someone not-so-aptly put it) spread the news at an astonishing pace. They were all reaping the benefits of the successful trick, with Ethan collecting small wads of cash from students who had deeply believed that the attempt would fall apart like all the others, Bianca trying to claim the entire prank as her sole idea, and Lisa chanting that discordant cheer when Spencer and his crew regaled their side of the story.

All the while, Margot sat a little further away from the crowd, talking animatedly to Addison Sinclair with wild gesticulation that Thomas was unsure of how to go about interpreting. It didn’t seem like she was discussing the prank, though she was the main executor of the successful portion of it, and when he looked again, he was surprised to see Miss Sinclair close to tears.

Another roar of laughter came from the more crowded area in the lecture theatre, and Thomas shuffled a stack of papers rather aggressively against the angled wooden lectern. The loud laugher quickly sputtered into low giggles, then stopped once the students saw the icy expression on his face.

“Nothing on your desks except a pencil.” He picked up a stack of Scantron sheets and held them aloft, eliciting a groan from the crowd. “I hope you spent just as much time doing the required readings for this week as you did plotting juvenile – and unsuccessful – pranks.”

“Not all were unsuccessful,” a student stage-whispered, triggering another ripple of low laughter quickly squashed behind palms and sleeves. Lance Sergio tried to disguise his as a coughing fit, but, as he was a model major and not an acting major, failed miserably.

Thomas resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stepping out from behind the lectern, he divided the Scantrons into smaller stacks and handed them to the students in the front row.

“Take one, pass it back, you know the drill,” he said flatly. “You’ll have an hour, and not a second longer. You’re all free to leave-” me alone, he thought, “-once you have finished. Tests and Scantrons without names and student numbers will receive automatic zeroes.”

Then he retrieved the thicker stack of papers, the quiz booklets, and began handing them out at random. He recently made the decision to administer different versions of his exams with different questions and answer keys.

Although it generated a lot of extra work for him, it seemed to thwart attempts at his students cheating off one another, which ultimately reflected well on him and poorly on the students who hoped to coast through the class with minimal effort.

Once the tests had been distributed, he set a timer to be displayed on the projector screen and sat down at his desk to catch up on some grade recording.

The first chair screeched against the floor twenty minutes later. In that time, he had finished the files he needed to update and had begun drafting an email to the headhunter he had contacted a few weeks earlier. He’d also set up the two metal baskets in which they were to hand in their test papers.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a small hand tipped with light blue nail polish precariously drop the papers into the appropriate baskets.

Before the student had even stepped away from the desk, Thomas reached for the baskets and took the papers from it, glancing at the sheets to make sure they were completed.

The Scantron was neatly filled in appropriately. The booklet was similarly appropriately filled. But she’d also included in the quiz booklet . . .

“What is this, Miss Schuyler?” he asked lowly, trying his best not to alert the other students.

At his question, she froze in place. Though she immediately feigned a nonchalant expression, he instantly saw through it.

“What is what?” she whispered back.

He dropped the papers back into the baskets and leaned forward.

“My office. Noon.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He found her waiting in a stiff metal folding chair in the hallway, a whole ten minutes before she was due to meet him there. She followed him warily into his office and immediately sunk into the seat facing his desk, like a lamb to the slaughter. He took his sweet time adjusting the angled wooden doorstop to keep the office door cracked at fifty-five degrees, removing his suit jacket and hanging it on a foam hanger that hung by the hooks near the door, removing his cuff links and rolling up his sleeves, and logging into his office computer.

Once he was situated and had no more delays, he looked her straight in the eye and brandished her yet-to-be-marked test papers before them.

“What is this, Miss Schuyler?” he asked again.

She crossed her arms over her stomach, trying not to look at him.

“I asked you a question. Twice now. I do not like repeating myself.”

Biting her lip, she leaned forward and flipped the booklet open, turning to the blank lined pages and sifting through them until she came to a stop.

Not all the back pages were blank, and he saw it right away.

“Explain yourself.” He straightened up in his seat, quietly savouring the feeling of his luxurious, buttery leather office chair after having sat in the lecture theatre’s wooden monstrosity while waiting for the last few students to finish their tests. “What did you hope to accomplish with this?”

“Did you even read it?” Miss Schuyler’s voice was quiet, her demeanour the opposite of the smug, smirking young woman from the day before.

He frowned.

She turned the booklet around and slid it across the desk. He glanced down, then turned his gaze back to her.

“It’s an apology,” she said, to fill the air around them with something that wasn’t silent staring. “For yesterday.”

Silence.

He made no move to read it.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Why . . . are you apologizing?”

Her face twisted in confusion. “I upset you. I – I broke your record. My friends have been running amok since it happened, telling people. I humiliated you.”

His shoulder rose and fell in one swift motion. “You did.”

“You’re not mad about it?” she asked incredulously.

He let out a short, sharp huff.

“I’m mad about it,” he said. “But I don’t understand why you’re apologizing.” He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I have to; I did not see it coming.”

“It wasn’t planned,” she admitted, and leaned forward a little in her seat. “You seemed so sure that our prank was over, and Crash and his friends were already in the screening room looking for us. And you were just so – so smug, it was driving me mad! So, I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

And then her and Miss Valentine’s words echoed back to him.

“We really didn’t expect our plan to fall through.”

“You sure caught us in the act!”

In hindsight, God, it was so painfully obvious.

He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. “How did I not see that? Hear that?” he muttered to himself.

She smiled, a fraction of the mocking one he’d seen in the quad the day before. “Too busy gloating in your short-lived victory.”

“Right.” He nodded curtly. “Well done.”

She nodded towards her test booklet. “Is that all I’ve been called in here for?”

“No.”

He stood, then walked around his desk until he was by her left side. He looked down at her, studying the curious expression on her face, committing it to memory.

“I didn’t get a chance to say it before your friends went buck wild. But listen here. You may have won that day, Margot.” He leaned against the desk, appearing casual even with his deepening frown. “But mark my words . . . I always have the last word.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Later, when Thomas had returned home and began his usual tedious task of marking up the tests for the day, he saved Margot’s for last. And, after he was armed with his third glass of vintage merlot, he flipped to the not-blank page at the end of the booklet.

Professor, Thomas, Professor, Professor Hunt,

I’m sorry for pranking you and making you worry about me yesterday. I know there were better ways to go about it. I hope the other students and faculty go easy on you about it; it really was a last-minute decision and could have very easily gone wrong, so I understand your concern and justified anger.

Honestly, it was nice to see that you were worried. Makes me feel seen. Matter. Like I could disappear, and someone will actually care enough to look for me.

Anyway.

Sorry.

x Margot

P.S. Sorry about the projection screen, too.

P.P.S. Sorry about the skylight, too.

P.P.P.S. If you were just faking being knocked out by the shelf, does that mean you felt me trying to slap you awake?

P.P.P.P.S. Sorry for slapping you.

#only fools fall for you #thomas hunt #thomas orson hunt #hollywood u #hollywood university #pixelberry #fanfiction

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firemblem-fics · 4 years

Note

hi, id like a male matchup! im a 5'7" gay boy, ive got red hair right now and green eyes. im pretty clingy but will not accept contact that i didn't begin. i like to play a lot of games, mainly d&d and pokemon though. i fence sometimes, and i can say im the best in my group. i play a few instruments, but im not very good at any of them. i also draw a lot, and ive started watercolour. you could probably describe me as impulsive, too. oh, i really like candies, especially chocolates and licorice.

I ship you with Caspar!♡︎

Cas is super duper competitive and literally will join you in every single game you play

Like even if it’s a single player game, he’s gonna ask for a turn

Caspar is our resident brawler or axe man, but he’d definitely ask you to teach him whatever weapon you choose. When I hear fencing I think of lances, but no matter what, he’ll want to learn

Definitely clingy as well, but will respect the fact that you wanna initiate

He will, however, let out some huge content sigh whenever you cuddle him because he’s been waiting all day he wants to love you but also loves you enough to respect your boundaries

Impulsive is a weak word to describe Cas

He’ll be down for whatever you want to do, even if it’s sudden.

Anything to spend more time with you, really

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagines #fire emblem three houses x reader #x reader #fire emblem three houses imagines #caspar headcanons #caspar von bergliez x reader #caspar von bergliez imagines #caspar von bergliez #headcanons #matchups #asks

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solliium · 4 years

Text

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS?

REPOST! DON’T REBLOG. bold any that applies to your muse and italicize any that kind of applies to your muse. feel free to add to the list.

COLORS. red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. violet. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. bubblegum pink. sky blue. pale jade.

ELEMENTS. fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

BODY. claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. neck. shoulders. legs. freckles. unseen bruises. canines. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. fingernails. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. piercing. tattoos. athletic. hair. fur. sleek.

WEAPONS. scythe. fists. legs. sword. dagger. spear. lance. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. claws. teeth. stealth. strategy.

MATERIALS. gold. silver. copper. platinum. titanium. rose gold. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. ribbon.

NATURE. grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. sunflowers. tulips. lavender. petals. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. fungi. ocean. river. frozen lake. meadow. valley. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. snow. mist. pond.

ANIMALS. big cats. wolves. foxes. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. penguins. deer. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. monkeys.

FOODS/DRINKS. sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. vodka. beer. coffee. sake. tea. spices. herbs. apples. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. lollies. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. surf ‘n’ turf. burritos. pizza. ambrosia. eggs. milk.

HOBBIES. music. art. watercolours. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. strings. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. flute. bells. exploring. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. sleeping. climbing. running away. jogging. parkour. studying.

STYLE. lingerie. armour. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. ankle boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. cap. beanie hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. mittens. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sun glasses. straw hat. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ribbons. hoodie. sweater. converses. tennis shoes. boxers. briefs. boxer briefs. shorts. cargo. cropped pants. crop top. cuffed pants. wristband. chest belts.

MISC. balloons. bubbles. city scape. light. dark. candles. growth. decay. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. journal. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. comrades. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. kisses. spring. summer. autumn. winter. farmland. countryside. suburban. village. sewers.

#c. sarin #aes. sarin #aes. sarin — study

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smolstrawberrychara · 6 years

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Klance Au Month - Day 6 - Supernatural

I’m not sure how I got to writing a fluffy kid fic when my initial idea was an estate agent trying to sell a haunted house lmao, but here we go!

Tiny Little Ghost Hunters

Some kids collect bugs. Keith collects ghosts!

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683712

Lance swung his legs on the large wooden chair, gulping down the last of his burger. It was warm. And the sun was bright. He’d abandoned his cap ages ago – it made his forehead wet – but that meant his eyes were suffering now. The plates shone like mirrors and he squinted at the picnic table. Didn’t mum say there would be another kid? So why was he stuck here eating with boring adults who talked non-stop about how nice the neighbourhood was and kept asking whether the Kogane’s needed anymore help moving in?

“Lance.” Came a commanding voice beside him. “Eat your tomato.”

“No.” Lance mumbled, folding his arms and frowning down at his knees. Tomatoes were gross. And Veronica was being bossy.

“Lance.” His sister repeated, sending him a glare. “You're being impolite.”

“Don't care.” He said, throwing his head to the side. Who was Veronica to tell him what to do? She was still a kid like him. Five years meant nothing. He hated being the youngest.

There was a growl and then Lance’s arm was yanked violently upwards.

“OW!” He yelped, ripping it back.

“That hurt.” He spat into her face. Then he shuffled to the edge of his seat and pouted down at the grass. “Moronica.”

Veronica let out a harsh gasp. “What did you just say?”

Lance sneered up at her, “I said, Moronica.”

Hah. His sister hated that name. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, anger bright in her eyes. Lance gave a smug wiggle. That’ll show her.

“MOM!”

Argh, she was such a tattle tale.

“Lance is calling me names!”

“Hey! She-!” Lance cried but was quickly interrupted.

“Lance.” His mother snapped, piercing him to the spot with a glare. “Be nice to your sister.”

Lance sank into his shoulders as he waited for the woman to turn back to her conversation. As soon as she did, he shot back to Moronica, tongue out in the universal sign of defiance. Veronica seethed. Before Lance could even flinch, her arm flew out like a whip and his skin screamed as it got caught in a pinch. Lance squeaked, wriggling to the edge of his chair and away from the demon. Sisters were the worst. He hated family barbecues.

Rubbing his arm, Lance looked around the foreign garden. The grass was yellowed, dandelions popping out in random places and there were those sharp weeds that attacked Lance’s feet like bear traps everywhere. He frowned. It was like this whole place was designed to offend him. Lance leaned out further, peering behind him. There were dark green bushes sat around in patches, masking the exposed soil surrounding an apple tree. And underneath it was a boy. He had plasters on his knees, a cut on his face and a red jumper tied around his shoulders like a cape. He was sneaking. Lance could tell by the way his knees were bent close to the ground as he crept forward.

Lance hopped down from his chair.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.

The boy jumped. Whipping around, he threw dark wide eyes at Lance before shoving a sticky palm over his mouth.

“SHUSH!” He half shouted before turning back, leaving his hand there. Lance craned his neck to follow the gaze but the boy didn’t let up. “You’ll scare it away.”

A mess of black hair was blocking Lance’s view and he shook his legs impatiently. What would he scare away? He wanted to push the kid down to see. But if he was telling the truth then Lance might miss whatever the thing was. He decided it best to play along and nodded against the palm. The boy finally released his face and began unscrewing the lid of a large jam jar Lance hadn’t noticed he’d been clutching. Then he turned around, bent his knees, tightened his face in concentration and, like a cat, he leapt forward.

“A-ha!” He yelled, throwing the jar to the dirt. He scooped the lid against the soil, lifting it up to the sound of gravel scattering. Then he turned around, grinning widely. “LOOK!”

Lance gasped. Inside the glass was an orb. A large white circle with a wispy tail – like smoke from a birthday candle. It hit the edges of the jar with sharp clinks and seemed to have shiny black eyes like pebbles freshly born from the sea. Lance pressed his face to the window.

“Woah.” He breathed, steaming up the glass. “What is it?”

“Ghos!” The boy announced proudly, “think it was a moth.”

The ghost of a moth? Lance stared in awe, squishing his nose against the surface. Then the jar pushed hard against him and he found the other boy’s eyes on his, warped like a fish’s. “Wanna see more?”

More? Excitement rushed through Lance like a tidal wave. “Yeah!”

The boy sprang back. Then the coolness was ripped from Lance’s face and the jar getting tucked carefully under a chubby arm. Lance’s hand was caught by another and he was grinning again. “COME ON!”

Then he was running. Cutting straight across the grass, he fell after the boy, arm straining against its socket.

“Keith, honey-”

“Sorry mom, can’t talk. Busy.”

Lance felt his cheeks tighten as the boy, Keith, refused to stop. He tucked his face into his collar, trying to hide the giggles. His heart was racing by the time they hit the back door. Keith let him go to tug at the thick plastic handle and heave it aside. Then his hand was smothered in heat once again and Lance being pulled inside.

The two ran past the looming kitchen counters, ducked under the wooden dining table and whooshed past the cardboard boxes piled high in the lounge. Keith pulled open another door at the end of the hall and suddenly they were plunged into darkness. Lance found himself clattering down hollow steps that creaked with every foot. He clung to Keith’s arm, slowing suddenly. He didn’t like the dark. Or stairs. He held Keith’s arm for support as he carefully began climbing down, scared his foot would fall between the wooden slats. Keith fidgeted ahead of him, jumping down the steps one at a time and bouncing on his toes whilst he waited for Lance to join him. It threw him a little off balance, but Lance refused to let go. He didn’t want to lose his chance at seeing more ghosts. When they eventually got to the bottom, Keith rushed them around the corner. Lance’s breath left his lungs as he caught sight of why. He dropped his arms, jaw falling slack.

In front of him, was a glowing wall full of ghosts. Haphazard shelfs made from broken slices of wood and large pointed nails held up hundreds of jars and bottles filled with the same tadpole-like creatures as they’d found in the garden. Some spun like tornadoes, whipping silver against their tops, whereas others were like fish bobbing in their tanks, softly glowing like lava lamps.

Keith crawled up on the stool in front of the desk, carefully placing his latest find on the table top. Then he tugged over a thick book and flipped over the heavy cover with a thud. Lance wrapped his fingers around the table ledge and pulled himself up, tiptoeing to see the pages. The corners were wrinkled, tears and creases lining the paper. But Lance was too distracted by the content to mind. He let out a gasp as he found each page covered in sketches of the creatures on the shelves, all painted in delicate watercolours. Thick inked writing titled each page and little notes surrounded the pictures like diagrams in a science book.

“Classification.” Keith explained, sliding a smaller notebook out from under a mess of rustling papers. He grabbed a crayon from a pot and stuck a finger to the page.

“This one. Moth.” He said, flicking through the jotter. “Can tell by the genie tail.”

Lance nodded, peering between the book and the rooms latest addition. It did bounce off the glass like how a moth bounced off a lampshade. Keith’s crayon began earnestly scraping against paper, and Lance scooted over to watch. His tongue slipped out of his mouth as he drew letters, writing the date, location and type. Then he looked at Lance.

“What d’ya wanna call it?”

Lance blinked, pointing to his chest. “Me? Name it?”

The boy nodded and Lance sucked in a breath. He got to name the ghost? That was a big responsibility. And a great honour. Pride swelled in Lance’s lungs as he accepted. Wracking his brain for a suitable candidate, he chewed on his thumb, brows furrowing to the point he was sure he could see them. He needed to get this right. And after a moment of painful deliberation, Lance reached an answer.

“Lance two!” He cried. “Because I’m Lance too!”

Keith grinned, eagerly adding the information to his log book. “Perfect.”

Then he looked back up at the shelves above. “You wanna choose a spot for Lance two?”

He got to choose a place for him to live too? Lance couldn’t contain his excitement, bouncing eagerly on the spot. Keith shuffled over on the stool and helped him up. Then they both crawled onto the table to stare up at the jars. There were so many. Some contained single clouds, others multiple dandelion clocks that spun around each other in a game of chase. Keith must have been collecting for years. Lance breathed in awe as he tried to find space. Then his eyes landed on the perfect spot. Three shelves up, there was a blue plastic bottle, containing a long spindly ghost that resembled an eel. A couple of dried flowers fell on the wood next to it and there was a decent gap between it and the next jar which contained a pearly coloured, jelly-fish type.

“Got it.” He announced, pointing to the space. Keith gave him a nod of approval before passing the jar containing Lance two over. Lance took it in both hands, taking a steadying breath. Okay Lance Two, he thought, time to meet your new home. Then he reached up. The jar clattered against the shelf below. Lance wasn’t quite tall enough. He stepped back with a huff, glaring at the wood. It was not going to win today. So, he stretched up to his limit once again, grabbing onto the shelf for balance. Attempting to haul himself up, he didn’t quite get the boost he’d hoped for. Instead, the wood flipped upwards.

Lance stumbled back with a yelp. The world tumbled around him, shining objects flying. The sound of shattering glass filled the room as white wisps tore through the air above him like shooting stars. He let out a screech. The ghosts! They were escaping!

Lance scrambled to sit back up. Above him, the shelf was empty. The desk around him was covered in tiny shards like diamonds. And most importantly, there were no whooshy wisps. Lance felt his eyes turn into pools. He looked to Keith who stared back open mouthed. Lance’s eyes overflowed. His throat felt tight and he let out a sob, burying himself in his hands. He’d let the ghosts escape.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked, carefully tiptoeing closer. “You want me to get my dad? He’s a firefighter ya know.”

Lance shook his head, scraping at his cheeks.

“m’not hurt.” He said, hiccupping as the emotion jumped up his throat. “It’s just- all your hard work.”

The tears spilled once again, and he was sobbing hard into his palms. Keith’s beautiful collection. He’d ruined it.

“It’s okay.” Keith said, landing at his side. He reached out to pat Lance’s arm and Lance finally looked up.

“It’s okay?” He asked, shoving his sleeve against his nose and staring up at the boy’s dark features.

“Mmhmm.” Keith hummed, giving him an encouraging smile. “We can just start again.”

Lance blinked against the tears, watching as Keith reached his hand out. “Together.”

Lance felt is cheeks pinch near painfully. Together. They could collect them together. He rubbed his knuckle against his eye one last time, relief flushing out the tears. Then he took Keith’s hand, squeezing the warmth as he got to his feet.

“Together.”

#klance au month #klance #klance fluff #klance fic #klance kids #supernatural #my writing #my post

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blogging-orange · 6 years

Text

oreo’s klance fic recs #21

All the fanfictions are completed, some may have NSFW content (please check the tags!)

* are personal favorites :)

my other recs are here

In Front of You by AhHHH (Inky_Coffee) **soulmate AND spidey au! super cute

Soulmate AU where the spot where you and your soulmate first touch is stained with different colors.

Keith Kogane has hid his secret identity as Spiderman for the past year, the only one knowing being Katie, better known as Pidge.

When a transfer student from California arrives, things get a little complicated.

Patient 5E81B5 by meimentomori

Lance gets sick after a mission and to the rest of the team, he seems better. Except Keith knows that there's something wrong, something that could cost Lance life (and possibly his own).

Watercoloured hearts by thatsformetoknow

‘Watch it.’ Pidge said softly with a giggle, elbowing him in the side.

‘Watch what?’ Lance asked and Pidge just snorted.

‘Your gay is showing.’

Lance decided not to rise to the bait. ‘Excuse you, my gay is always showing.’

Pidge laughed and rolled her eyes like there was a secret she knew that he didn’t and Lance eyed her for a moment before turning back to Keith who gave him a quick smile before retreating to the showers.

You’ve Got No Idea by StrawberryCheesecake

Lance likes Keith. A lot. He vents by flirting with him in Spanish, which Keith doesn't understand, so it's like flirting without all the negative consequences.

Dancing with the Stars by potato_fan_girl

At a celebration on a foreign planet after liberating them from the Galra, all the aliens are dancing, and Lance is eager to join in. He's always loved to dance, and so naturally he joins in... but Lance isn't about to dance alone. He quickly makes it his goal to get the rest of his team to dance, even Keith. But Keith seems to be acting a little off… what could possibly be bothering him?

Crash & Burn by potato_fan_girl

When Keith’s car breaks down, he has to resort to calling Lance to help him out, since everyone else is busy. Keith is surprised that Lance is actually willing to help, but then... he doesn’t show up.

Or the one where Lance gets into a car accident while coming to help Keith, and it’s actually not his fault.

Break Every Chain On Me by Katsudonace **Lance going through the BoM trials and angst happens (but also some gud stuff)

Lance is tired of no one listening to him, tired of his fears and concerns being brushed aside. With his suspicions about Shiro and Lotor being ignored, Lance decides to go to the one person group that he knows will believe him, Keith the Blade of Marmora. However, emotions run high and situations become complicated. Lance must grow to move forward, but that's easier said than done when his insecurities bind him.

Keith was finally carving out a spot for himself in the Blade, finally feeling as if maybe he belonged somewhere. That's until his mother decides to return to the main base, and his crush suddenly shows up unannounced. It's hard for him to face his feelings when he's so used to fighting them. He needs to confront his issues or forever be locked in place, never finding a place where he fits.

I Love to Bug You by copyrightings

In a foreign planet on a dangerous mission, Lance is bitten by a bug that amplifies his feelings of love for the first person he sees. Keith is unfortunately the recipient of these feelings but things don’t go exactly according to plan.

All the Way Down by speaks

“You make it sound like we’re going into battle,” Hunk laughed worriedly on Lance’s other side. “I thought this was like, some kind of carnival.”

A chortle bubbled of out Coran’s throat as he slapped his side in amusement. “Some kind of carnival, he says! What an understatement! Allura, I think it’s high time to show the paladins precisely how and where we’re going to be spending the next three days. After you, Princess.”

A happy, childlike grin rapidly overtook Allura’s regal professionalism, and then a brilliant chink of light shone into the castle hall as she opened the front doors to the mountain they’d landed on twenty minutes ago.

Lance went slack-jawed as his eyes adjusted to the white-blue light of Krossin’s distant neutron star, and he almost stumbled as he and the other paladins followed Allura and Coran out onto the grass to take in the view laid out before them.

This place was a utopia.

#voltron #klance #fic recs #oreo shitposts #my recs #vld fic

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agapaic · 6 years

Text

[fic] chance encounters

lance x lotor

tags/notes: student/teacher, sculptor!lotor, art school au, semi-prologue to an artist!au fic @uneballe-unmort and i have had in the works for the best part of a year; see her beautiful concept art here. (thank you to @mondoboia for all their italian help, and for @akumamomo and @bowldeepfannish for their very sweet offers!)

synopsis: lance gets a helping hand in an art store in rome.

read on ao3

Lance meets him for the first time in an art store three streets away from the Tiber. The walls are terracotta and the shelves are floor-to-ceiling and made of wood bent from years of use, and he’s blond and marvelous and Lance thinks he’s fallen.

The struggle comes first—the meeting after. He learns later that the struggle was observed and noted, and perhaps, he thinks later, it was all in his favour. The meeting, too.

The struggle is this: the store is small and Lance’s list is huge.

The battle grows inside him for a while before he has to concede to needing help. Spanish, he knows well and can let run off his tongue like a river bursting its banks. Italian comes instead like a leaking faucet, stop-start and quavering. Arrogantly, he thought he would get by with a couple after-school classes, a scant few conversations with an Italian kid in their freshman year, and four hours of Duolingo on the plane.

He learns how to order food and make hazy remarks about the weather. He doesn’t learn how to ask where the vine charcoal is kept or what acrylic pigment they’d recommend. Most of it is easy: a new sketchbook to replace one he filled at the airport, a set of gouache paints that are begging him to spend his poor student’s allowance on, and a few tubes of cadmium acrylics because Rome was yellows: sun-dyed fountains and narrow alleyways and yellowing cobblestones and ochre manor houses on the Hills and monuments lit up at night against blue-black skies.

A city of sepia, Lance thought, hot air on his face through the taxi’s window en route to his apartment.

Lance combs the aisles now, arms heavy with supplies, stomach grumbling. He’d been up before dawn for the sunrise, perched on the balcony with a canvas Hunk had lent him. Evenings were cool, days stifling and hot. The city glowed in the mornings, unshuttered windows gleaming like a goldsmith’s cast, the river opulent and glittering, sunlight soaking the waking streets. Rome was an aching beauty Lance hadn’t been prepared for.

‘Rome?’ he’d been asked. And then: ‘You won’t know the place until you can breathe it.’

It was in the air to begin with, like pollen scratching in his throat, a woman’s perfume on the stretch of a wrist, the carried scent of a florist’s open window. Lance’s lungs aren’t full yet.

The store here smells of oil paints and heady turpentine, pine canvas frames and ashy charcoal, wood varnish and chalk dust, Conté and the vapour of hot glue, the dampness of sugar paper and bitterness of linseed oil. Lance’s fingers itch for a sketchbook, a palette of acrylic, the watercolour pencils in his rucksack.

He urges himself to focus, and takes another look at his list.

He received it via email a week before his flight. The class requirements are reasonable, but Lance still wants to wince. He packed a week’s supply of clothes and three month’s of art supplies, and there are still tools his professor has requested him to buy. Barely a week in and a good chunk of his savings are already gone, long nights spent back in his brother’s Varadero autoshop that seem wasted now.

He’s looking for a chalk pencil when he hears the shop door open. It’s a warm Wednesday morning, the store empty, sunlight streaming through dusty front windows, but the new arrival brings with it an animated response from the cashier like an ‘ON’ button has been pressed. Lance is far back in the store, overhead lights dim and few, backed up by books on Renaissance architecture, Bartolini, palette knife techniques, and human anatomy. He’s eyeing an impressionism-versus-modernism text when he hears the answering voice.

It’s low and male and liquid, and Lance’s ear isn’t good enough to pick up any words. The glimpse Lance gets through a shelf of coloured card is alien—a wrinkled, cotton skin rolled up at the elbows, a show of tanned, vascular forearms, and then his hair. White-blond and startling. Real enough to be unnatural, unnatural enough to be fake, tapering at the waist in a fishtail plait.

Lance edges closer for a look, breath held, while the customer and cashier participate in eager discussion. They’re oblivious to his watching. Closer, more attentive, he catches a few words—school, Florence, exhibition. The rest blend together too muffled for his ear to snare, too rapid for his mind to translate.

By the time Lance has grabbed his bag from against a yellowing, second-hand book pile and weaved his way to the front of the store, the man has gone.

Lance feels a pang of disappointment.

The cashier is an aging woman in her fifties, grey hair cut close enough to show the shape of her skull, striking peacock feathers dangling from low lobes. She greets Lance with a good morning and Tutto ok? and Lance finds himself immediately brought up against a barrier.

‘Uh,’ he says, trying to loosen his tongue, which now feels heavy and immovable in his mouth. ‘Tutto benne… Ma non ho un…’

The woman stares at him, and blinks once.

This is where the struggle begins. His phone is already dead, battery wasted on photos of steam rising of the Tiber as the sun rose, and he’s pretty sure his mother’s battered 1980’s Italian phrasebook won’t cover chalk pencil.

The cashier picks up a tablet lying beside the register. ‘Vuoi tradurre?’ she asks him. Lance takes the tablet, embarrassingly grateful, and opens up the web browser.

‘Don’t bother with that,’ comes a voice as Lance is navigating to Google Translate. ‘You’ll never find what you’re looking for.’

It takes a second for Lance to realise that the voice is in English, clipped and British, something else muddled in there too. It takes another five for him to register the face: pointed, devastatingly aristocratic, some masculine Mondragone brought to life, an Apollo without the rounded cheeks, a Corti Lucifer without the wings, unbearably humanised, and yet barely human at all.

‘What is it you need? I’ll translate.’

We have the same eyes, Lance thinks.

‘You do speak English, don’t you?’

It’s the same again, but now it feels like he has no tongue: empty mouth, empty mind, empty lungs.

He breathes in Rome.

‘Yeah. Sorry. You scared me.’

The man looks him up and down. ‘Sorry. I was under the impression you saw me from over there.’ A gesture towards the back of the store. Embarrassment draws blood to Lance’s face, and suddenly the sun is hotter and brighter and the supplies in Lance’s buckling arms are threatening to fall on the floor. ‘Do you need books?’

‘Supplies,’ Lance says. ‘Chalk pencil. Vine charcoal. Watercolour sketchbook in A4.’

The man arches a pale brow, then turns to the cashier. His translation is almost seamless; he pauses where Lance had, lists only three things. But then there’s a comment Lance doesn’t catch, and he wants to flush harder when the peacock lady tilts her head at him, considering.

‘Pensi usi gli acquerelli?’ she says, saying something about watercolours. ‘Sembrerebbe il tipo.’

‘Già, probabile,’ the man replies. He looks back at Lance, who’s tugging at a wisp of cotton unravelling from the pocket of his jean shorts. ‘Leave your things on the counter and follow me. I’ll show you to what you need.’

Lance follows, and stares at the broad width of the man’s shoulders, the fit of his grey chinos, the wandering flicker of his fingertips as they trail along shelves like a knowing, familiar caress of lover greeting lover. Hello, sweetheart. Lance’s eyes linger on the inside of the man’s wrist, the small patch of grey matter clinging to his artery.

Clay.

‘You’re a sculptor?’ Lance blurts out, and the image fashions itself in his mind with rapid ease: the swift brush strokes of his usual style in neutral acrylic, ordained to the shape of an artist at work, hair plaited to his waist, bare skin layered in his own medium, building a self-image, life-size, with his own hands. The Sculptor. Creator or created?

The Sculptor glances over his shoulder. ‘You know more Italian than you let on.’

Lance points a finger. ‘The clay on your wrist. And behind your ear. It would be rude of me to pretend not to speak a language.’ Rude to talk about someone in another language in front of them, too.

If the man catches the intention behind Lance’s words, he shows no outward sign of embarrassment—or remorse. Lance is trying to remember seeing a single glimmer of expression on the man’s face. Even with the woman—someone he seemed close with, familial, even—there had been nothing.

‘You’re observant,’ he tells Lance.

‘Maybe you’re just messy.’

A quiet snort. The quirk of a lips. It’s something. ‘Maybe. Try sculpting life-size and then tell me that.’

Lance doesn’t. ‘D’you work here?’ he asks instead.

‘I’m freelance. My studio is a short walk away.’

‘Studio,’ Lance says, impressed. ‘What are you working on?’

He stops so suddenly that Lance nearly walks into him, and the toe of Lance’s sneakers kick into the back of his ankles.

‘You ask an awful lot of questions,’ he says, before Lance can apologise, barely ruffled by the contact. He gestures at the shelving. ‘Your chalk pencils.’

The choice is limited, and the variation in price even more so. Lance reaches out—

‘Not that one,’ the man says. Lance looks down. The Sculptor’s cool fingers are curled around Lance’s wrist. He moves Lance’s hand slightly to the right, a marionette without strings, and the touch is so light it barely exists. ‘You’ll want this one.’

‘Right,’ Lance says, keeping his voice level. ‘Sure.’

Chalk pencil nearly breaking in half in his clenched fist, he follows The Sculptor again to the vine charcoal. It’s near the books; Lance must have passed it twice already during his own trailing. He glances between the three boxes of charcoal, bunched twists of coal like rush plants, reaches out—

It happens again.

‘This one.’

Lance turns on him, irritation mixing inside him with something heady. ‘Are you going to correct every choice I make just so you get to touch me?’

Lance’s voice had been too loud; the natural silence of the art store turns awkward.

The Sculptor blinks at Lance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and sounds genuine. ‘I use my hands so often with clay, it’s… I forget that people can’t be moved like that sometimes.’ He shrugs affably, spreads his hands, a humbling facade. ‘If I’m honest, I’ve been working on my piece so long I don’t remember the last time I touched anyone.’

Lance’s fingers press absently at his wrist. The touches weren’t heavy enough to leave a mark—weren’t heavy enough for Lance to be sure either one had been real—and the words replay in his head. I don’t remember the last time I touched anyone. So innocent, so expressionless that the slight quaver between The Sculptor’s pale brows transforms his whole being into a tortured one. The starving artist, left to ache. Lance doesn’t know what context The Sculptor meant it in. He hopes his guess is the right one. Hopes, desperately, that it isn’t.

You don’t need to be that honest, he could say.

Instead: ‘People can be. Moved. Like that.’ Lance clenches his jaw. ‘But, really, permission. It’s a thing, and it’s appreciated.’

The Sculptor inclines his head. ‘Understood. But take my advice: I’ve been to half the art stores in Rome, and I’ve been coming here for three years. The quality is unrivalled. I know the products. Their clay suppliers are over four hundred years old.’

‘Must be well-known,’ Lance says. He tugs out his supply list from his pocket. ‘My professor told me to get everything from here too.’

‘Professor?’

‘Art major,’ Lance explains. ‘Summer intensive programme. On scholarship,’ he adds proudly. ‘I have a project due on the first day. Rome’s cityscape in any medium.’

‘I see. The Colosseo and Fora Romano in watercolours?’

Lance looks at him shrewdly. ‘I can’t tell if I’m insulted, but I was thinking December’s starling migration over the Tiber. Charcoal.’

The Sculptor raises a brow again, and rests his spine against high-stacked trays of monochrome pastels. They’re secluded here, dust specks like fireflies, and the shelving is barely shoulder-width apart. It’s first-date material, nosing into the nooks and crannies of old art stores and second-hand book shops. Brunch in Trastevere, a sun-shaded stroll up to the Capitoline, merenda in the nearest piazza, sunset and a bottle of white from the Gianicolo. The fantasy unravels easily in Lance’s mind, a ball of wool rolling across tilted floorboards he has to let unwind. He can almost taste it—the crisp wine, sunblushed tomatoes on bruschetta, pink lips. The words play again and again in his head. I don’t remember the last time…

Lance knows why they echo. He doesn’t remember the last time, either. His freshman year of art school? Summer vacation back in Varadero between sophomore and junior year? Between school and oil paint smudges and late nights at the campus bar and later nights at a canvas, curled over a sketchbook, cramped at his dorm desk, Lance doesn’t remember the last time his body bent itself in any way for another person but for art.

‘It’s hard to catch movement in charcoal,’ The Sculptor says. ‘Especially if you’re unused to it.’

Lance reigns his attention in. He lifts his chin slightly. ‘I think I can handle it,’ Lance says, spinning the chalk pencil between his fingers.

Blue eyes meet his own, a half challenge when he asks Lance: ‘Do you speak from experience?’

The chalk pencil stops, and Lance holds it still in his palm. ‘I like to try new things,’ he replies, and feels the build of something. It feels like a word on the tip of his tongue, or an image he can only realise in his head once its on paper. It feels dangerous—too dangerous to let linger. He clears his throat, points down the store’s aisles with the box of vine charcoal. ‘Watercolour sketchbook?’

‘Follow me.’

Lance does.

They find the sketchbooks near the windows, only three left, stacked under packs of loose watercolour paper and an overhanging roll of brown craft paper.

‘Sometimes you have to do a little digging,’ The Sculptor tells Lance, an odd look of mischief in his eyes as he kneels on the shop floor, the boyish pleasure of treasure unburied where ‘x’ marks the spot. Lance watches as he tugs a sketchbook out from beneath the stacks and blows the dust off its cover, inspecting it. There’s a small circle of dirt on his suit pants when he stands, brushed off with a hand, and he hands the sketchbook to Lance.

He says, ‘Yours, I believe.’

Lance takes it, and looks at The Sculptor’s hands, wondering what they’ve created, and says, ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

There’s a silence short as a blink.

‘Excuse me?’

Lance winces, stumbles over the rest of his words like tripping over bracken on a forest floor. ‘Or wine. Whatever you want, really. I just figured… with you helping me with all this—the translating, the supplies… I’d like to thank you.’

A blond strand of hair has escaped The Sculptor’s plait, and Lance watches him tuck it behind his ear, a bizarrely youthful gesture, some vulnerability exposed that Lance doesn’t feel qualified to have seen. He can’t make out The Sculptor’s expression, eyes downcast, the apostrophe at the bridge of his nose returned. Lance can’t help the way he feels himself looking at the man: hungered and awed, like taking in a museum piece. The urge to touch, having to settle for looking with starving eyes.

‘That’s… a decent gesture of you,’ The Sculptor makes out eventually. ‘Really. But I seem to have given you the wrong sort of impression.’

Lance straightens. He says, ‘If you’re not into guys I’m gonna eat the damned charcoal soon as I buy it.’

The Sculptor chuckles. Rainwater on copper pipes, low like a pebble dropped in a well ten feet deep. Lance wants to climb down after it, cuts and bruises welcome, and hold it in his palms.

‘It’s not an issue of sexuality,’ is all The Sculptor says, neither confirmation nor denial. His eyes flick to Lance’s face, dart across the panes of his face, the ‘v’ of his neckline. ‘There are other matters to consider.’ The Sculptor inclines his head, some token gesture of tinged, soft-mouthed regret. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Yeah?’ Lance asks. ‘Like what?’

The Sculptor just looks at him. ‘You should pay.’ He angles his head towards the front counter. ‘Rosa will think I’ve carried you off to have my way with you amongst the easels.’

Lance’s pulse thuds in his throat. ‘Why would she think that?’ he asks, playing along.

‘How should I know?’ The Sculptor lies easily.

Lance wanders after him to the register, helpless to do anything but follow. He imagines Hunk seeing him now, the exhaustion that would settle into him, Lance’s fancies like fleeting whirlwinds, like a swarm of locusts shredding everything in its path, suffocating and entire—easy to lose oneself in and never come out.

Lance knows he’ll pull himself out of this one by the end of the day. A few beers back at the apartment and a pizza from the restaurant below them and it’ll be done. A drunken haze of indulgence, a wetted palm, and it’ll be over. A blush of fondness to look back on by the end of summer. Lance lets himself accept that truth now, wears it around his shoulders, a weight of resignation.

At the counter, Rosa has her eyes narrowed on The Sculptor, disapproval set into the lines of her hawkish features.

‘È tutto?’ she asks Lance, drawing her eyes away from the man at Lance’s side. The Sculptor has an elbow resting on the counter, quizzical smile toying at the edge of his mouth, the relaxed posture of someone ready to be exacted into art—someone used to being looked at.

‘Sí,’ Lance replies. ‘Grazie.’ He looks at the Sculptor. ‘Thank you. Again. You’re… sure about that coffee?’

‘Very sure. There’ll be plenty of time in the future.’

Lance tilts his head, confused. ‘We’ll be lucky to catch each other here again.’

The Sculptor smiles. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you in class, Lance.’ To Rosa, he nods. ‘Ciao, Rosa.’

The store owner makes a disapproving, shooing gesture. ‘Vattene, Lotor.’

Lotor laughs as he walks out the art store, the sound chiming with the doorbell, good-spirited and wonderfully wicked. It freezes Lance in his place, halfway to tugging out his wallet, and every moment from the past hour runs in his head like tickertape, faster and faster with every second until it’s a montage blur of disastrous events. The flirtation, the coffee invitation, the open worship of Lotor’s features that feels adulterous now.

The Sculptor, he’d called him in his head, stupidly and terrifyingly naively, some nameless beauty Lance was eager to forget by sunset. A foreign Michelangelo Lance thought he would never see again. Hoped, almost, to save himself the embarrassment of his own fawning—his own crush that would develop too rapidly by summer’s end. A few subsequent chance encounters in the art store, a coincidental stroll through the Piazza Farnese, Lance’s accidental discovery of the man’s studio. Personal fantasy would have urged it along with a rapid, awful descent.

But there will be nothing accidental about this. Their meetings now will be orchestrated and scheduled and graded. Lance feels degraded, and humiliation streaks blood through his cheeks and blooms across his torso.

Lotor, he hears, again and again as Rosa presses away a look of regretful pity.

Lotor Daibazaal. Graduate of Lance’s college with one of the highest grades ever achieved. Perfector of his work with a dedication that had made Lance ache with envy for years. Creator of a beauty that was painful in its realism. Founder of the coveted Daibazaal Summer Programme in his studio in Rome, an offer synonymous with future success.

And Lance’s teacher for the next three months.

The agony of the revelation was exquisite, and Lance could only wonder how beautifully Lotor would be able to capture Lance’s realisation in marble.

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