#like nobody ever asked for a sketch or line art of anything. it feels nice to remove that from the chart

[the-meme-monarch]

hello ! new commission ref sheet. please don’t cry

most of these are my own not-commissioned art bc i just felt that was better representative of my art if that makes sense? but a few of these are commissions ! from @/wetzoofan (yuri ddlc + their oc natália) and @/aperfecta (doodle page of their oc poppy) the stuffed jolteon was also a commission but my brother bought it for his friend so i don’t actually know who they are !

[luveline]

you know, I'm coming right back [Fred Weasley x Reader]

summary: you're a lonely artist and Fred is your adoring model

word count: 2.4k

tags: reader insert, lonely reader, artist reader, seventh year, kids in love, first kiss, getting together, pining, fluff, friends-to-lovers

It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

Something churned in your stomach. The butterflies had acquired a trampoline. You felt happier than you had in a very long time. "You're not half-bad yourself, Weasley."

[tio-trile]

@the-entire-population-of-finland (?!!) asked me about my art process, so I thought I’d make a post about how I’ve done my more recent fanarts. I still draw in Photoshop CC and mostly use 2 brushes from Kat @suqling’s brush set -- the Oil Pastel Large for sketching/“inking” and color, and the Hard Round - soft grainy texture for laying down colors + touch ups.

And not to sound like a monster but......for my personal fanarts, I don’t -- either “sketch” or “ink” anymore (depends on how you look at it) i.e. these are one step for me now. I just. Draw it straight. I don’t have the time or patience to draw it twice. If I ever need some construction lines I just erase them from that layer, which is why you’ll sometimes see phantom sketch lines in my final pieces. I think it adds character? (Of course if I have a client I’ll do an “inking pass”, but for myself or for the internet...ain’t nobody got time for that)

If I’m making big changes, I will copy the line layer and continue from that point, kinda like save points. So you can see that “Layer 1 copy 3″ is this final “line” layer, but I started from “Layer 1″ and went through “Layer 1 copy” and “Layer 1 copy 2″. After the line layer is done, I usually like to Image - adjustments - hue/saturation (hotkey ctrl+u) and then “colorize” the black to be a redder brown and then set the layer on multiply, but I don’t do that for TLT fanarts bc I feel the black lines usually work better with the black cloaks and the face paint. (And Harrow in general.)

Then, I’ll fill the character silhouettes with a base color -- this is usually some shade of gray, but depends on the piece sometimes I’ll use a soft color, or even a gradient.

Photoshop’s magic wand does a pretty good job; I sometimes just have to manually fix it with “quick selection” a little. I’m not great with color so this base color really helps me tie everything together.

Then I transparency-lock this base color layer and start laying big color blocks down with that soft grainy texture brush. Being soft, messy and all over the place here is totally okay -- it’s what gives me that nice texture and variations in color. (I didn’t save this step for this picture so here’s one from another fanart)

Then, based on these colors, I go back to that smaller Oil Pastel brush and just clean everything up, add details, etc:

I like to make a layer called “over” that’s...OVER the line art layer, and that’s for final touches, details, silhouette fixes that can really give the piece a painted look and not just having the line art be on top of everything. Sometimes I’ll already be doing stuff on this layer as I’m still working on the color layer under my line art. (The face paint is on another layer that’s under the line art tho)

And that’s...pretty much it? I’m sorry a lot of this sounds like “just do it lmao” but this is basically my technical process. Let me know if you guys have any questions regarding a specific step or anything else!

[nbrook29]

Kiss or Slap

Sander doesn’t remember when exactly their group made the riverside near the Scheldt their new hangout spot, but he couldn’t be more grateful for it as a cold breeze washes over his overheated body, providing a momentary relief against the scorching heat falling from the sky. It’s probably why the park is fuller than it usually is on Thursday afternoons, packed with people spread on their picnic blankets, searching for a bit of shadow under the big trees and desperately craving a bit of wind. 

It’s so hot he doesn’t even feel like sketching, preferring to just lie on the grass without moving a single muscle, and dying in peace. Even the enticing smell of cinnamon rolls that Noor brought with her isn’t enough for him to reach out and take one from the basket, the action requiring too much movement on his part.

“Guys, come on, we have to start or we’ll never get it done! Sander, get your lazy ass up.” He grunts when he feels Leon’s merciless fingers jabbing him in the ribs.

“Can’t we wait until it gets a little less hot?”

“No, cause that’s not happening in the nearest future and we need new content,” Nathan butts in, followed by Noor, which makes Sander officially outvoted. So he heaves a deep sigh, puts his shirt back on and ruffles his hair to make himself more presentable, rolling his eyes at Noor’s appreciative whistling.

“Someone’s gonna snatch himself a bunch of kisses today with that smoldering look,” she teases, pretending to give him a once over.

“Is that your way of telling me you want one for yourself, sweetheart?” He’s immensely proud of himself when her entire face scrunches up in disgust.

“Eww, no, feels like incest at this point.” Which is kinda true given the fact they’ve known each other since kindergarten and became best friends making sand castles. He fires an obnoxious wink at her, fully anticipating a shove which comes as expected within seconds, with Noor calling him a creep in between laughter.

“Who should we start with? Senne? Wanna go first?” Sander watches as Leon takes out his camera equipment and checks the settings as the rest collects their things.

“I guess, yeah. And then Nathan after me?”

“I’m not doing it, man, you know Britt, she’s gonna flip out.”

“Be a good reason to break up with her,” Sander mutters under his breath, not really feeling apologetic when Nathan shoots him a glare. It would be a long time coming, and honestly, Sander can’t wait for that moment to come. Just being in her presence gives him chills, she’s that much of a horrible person. A few years ago, he read something about alternate universes and sometimes when he looks at her he can’t help but think there’s a history there with the two of them, in a past life or something. At least it would explain that weird energy between them.

If it’s true, he feels very sorry for that Sander. 

He roots for him to run far away from said devil’s spawn.

“I can go next, I don’t have the ball and chain,” Noor says innocently, but she’s smirking over Nathan’s shoulder at Sander who pretends to high five her in their shared hatred for Britt.

“Yeah, us lonely birds will sacrifice ourselves and take the hit for the wellbeing of our channel,” Sander laments playfully, making Senne snort.

“Dude, you’re on your own by your own choice.”

“And pickiness. Don’t forget pickiness,” Noor adds smugly.

Sander huffs in protest. “I’m not picky! I just...” He cuts off because he’s not about to just explain it all now.

“Just what?”

“Specific about what I want.”

Brown curls, brown eyes, shortish, lean, pierced ear, cute giggle, elegant hands and a smile brighter than the sun. 

To be exact.

“Yeah. That’s picky.”

“Whatever,” he replies grumpily, and decides to ignore Noor’s knowing look. Sometimes he feels like she has a sixth sense and can read him like a book. Or she’s just less oblivious than the boys in their friend group. That’s a totally possible option too.

Thankfully, she doesn’t push him further (she’s awesome like that), though Sander has a feeling she’s gonna grill him later when they’re alone. For now, she checks her lipstick in her phone as they all briefly plan the video.

Not like there’s that much to plan; a few days ago, they decided to shoot a kiss or slap challenge for their YouTube channel because it had been wildly requested by their viewers.

Sander still doesn’t quite know how he became a part of a YouTube channel in the first place, always considering himself to be a bit more, well, sophisticated than that? But Leon was into it from the beginning and made them all participate in exchange for free beer, until one day one of their videos blew up.

If you can call getting 100k views on one video blowing up. 

Anyway, they got semi-popular amongst Flemish teens and even managed to snatch a sponsorship with Mentos (however small the offer was) that paid actual money. And he had just managed to move out of his family house so any money coming his way he welcomed with no questions asked. 

So they’ve kept shooting silly challenges slash anything else that’s a trend at a given time and have been able to cover their art supply needs with what little they earned. And, though Sander refused to admit it in the beginning, it’s actually kinda fun. It’s definitely better than his part time job at Pull&Bear where he has to deal with obnoxious customers on an almost daily basis.

They record a short introduction near the river, quickly going over the rules and explaining that the three of them will be competing in who gets more kisses versus slaps. 

“Hey, you know what, this is actually unfair cause you both can kiss anybody,” Senne points out all of a sudden, receiving four pairs of unimpressed glances.

“No one’s stopping you from getting kisses from boys too, dude,” Sander is quick to shut him up, shit-eating grin on his face as he gives him his first (light) slap to the cheek. 

They follow Senne around the park with a camera as he turns on his charm and smiles sweetly at the girls he chooses for the challenge, doing surprisingly well on the first few attempts. But when they venture deeper into the park and he tries his luck with college girls, he gets 5 slaps in the row to the rest of the group’s utter delight. In the end, his results are a blow to his pride and even Sander feels sorry for him, giving him a pat on the back while trying to hold his laughter in at Senne’s grumpy face.

Noor does much better, naturally, as her upbeat personality and a wide smile have always made boys and girls turn their heads. She gets a kiss after kiss, blush after blush, and two phone numbers in the process. Senne argues again that it’s unfair because no one’s gonna slap a girl anyway, but Leon just calls him a sore loser while Noor shamelessly flirts in French with another girl right in front of the camera.

Sander’s very proud.

Taking a quick sip of water, he gives Leon a thumbs up and starts his round, coming over to three blond girls chilling near the skateboarding ramps, trying very hard not to come off as creepy and clarifying the kiss part being only a cheek kiss. The girls erupt in giggles, but they all grant him a light kiss. One of them tries to flirt with him after, but he shoots her down before she can get too into it.

“Such a heartbreaker, you,” Noor coos at Sander’s pained face when they all walk away.

“That’s you, and you actually enjoy it,” he quips back, sticking his tongue at her.

“I do not, shut up!”

Fifteen minutes and fourteen kisses later he’s officially in the lead, sealing his victory with a kiss number fifteen he receives from a cute redhead. He’s gloating in Senne’s bemused face about nobody choosing to slap him when he stops in his tracks.

It’s the proof of his hopeless infatuation that he’d recognize that laugh everywhere.

He looks around for its source, but he comes up short. Then, his eyes focus on the skatepark area and his heart starts beating faster.

Because it feels like a sign. Like the universe is giving him a chance to finally do something. Make a move.

“Hey, can we shoot one more try?” He asks the guys, trying to sound casual while glancing furtively in the direction of brown curls.

“You’ve already won, but I guess?”

Nobody questions him about his reasons, they just follow him to the ramp.

And he’s so fucking nervous. 

It’s incredible, really, how he generally has no problems talking to people he’s interested in, conversation flowing without him even trying, gaining easy smiles and appreciative looks wherever he goes, some natural confidence to him. 

But that boy. That boy is something else.

He makes him question everything he says, makes his palms sweat and makes his deep hidden shyness come onto the surface.

Sander saw him for the first time during Open Day at the Academie in may, strolling casually through the hallway with his friend, completely oblivious to the turmoil he was causing to Sander’s heart.

That was the day Sander saw an angel. 

Fate placed him on his path again sooner than he could’ve hoped, the boy participating in a 2 week film course at his school only several days after he saw him for the first time. And he tried so hard to convince himself to talk to him over that time, but he only managed a few smiles while passing him by in the hallway. 

That and that one stupid joke he said to him while they were waiting in line at the cafeteria that makes him cringe in despair just thinking about it. Seriously, it’s like his entire cool evaporates when he’s near him.

But, the boy laughed at it. So maybe it wasn’t as horrible as Sander is making it to be. Or he was just being nice. 

Robbe. 

Robbe, who he’s been crushing on ever since that fateful day in may.

Robbe, who was at the same party he was last weekend.

Robbe, who he talked to at that party and managed to calm his nerves enough to be charming and funny.

Robbe, who giggled, blushed and bit his lip at Sander’s dumb jokes that evening.

Robbe, who slipped through his fingers because Sander blacked out soon after.

He almost never drinks, but that one night he did, celebrating the beginning of summer break, and not realizing his usual abstinence meant he was now officially a lightweight. What an awful timing.

Robbe doesn’t notice him right away, having his back turned to him while talking animatedly to his friends. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile to his face to hide his nervousness, he approaches them.

“Hey guys, got a second?”

He notices the recognition in Robbe’s face right away, and Sander shoots him a quiet “hi” when his eyes meet his, an unsure smile blooming on his face.

“Hey, what’s up?” One of the boys nods at the camera.

“I’m Sander, and we’re shooting a video for our YouTube channel, the kiss or slap challenge,” he quickly explains, the boys’ faces lighting up.

“Hey, we have a channel too! I’m Moyo, this is Jens, Aaron, and Robbe.” Moyo reaches out to bump his fist with him and damn, Sander has to find that channel if Robbe is a part of it.

Jens levels him with a look. “So, you want us to kiss you or slap you?” 

“Pretty much, yeah?” Sander chuckles because he’s aware it’s ridiculous, but he’s a man on a mission here, give him a break.

“I think Robbe should represent all of us, don’t you think so?” Moyo proposes, tongue in his cheek as he checks with the rest of his friends. Sander catches the death glare Robbe sends the boy before looking back at him and crossing his arms, looking a bit out of place. And, fuck, the last thing Sander wants is to make him uncomfortable.

So he asks softly, “you’re in?” and waits for agonizing five seconds as Robbe watches him, eyes narrowed, before his features smooth out and he smiles at him.

“Sure, why not.”

Relieved, Sander lets out a chuckle and tries to keep his cool. “Okay then - kiss or slap?”

Robbe squints against the sun and makes him wait another few seconds before he answers, but Sander’s not worried because there’s a soft smile on his face and obviously his angel wouldn’t-

“Slap.”

Wait, what.

He can hear his friends bursting in laughter at this unexpected turn of events while Sander can only stare in shock because how could he miscalculate the situation this much?

Gulping, confused and heartbroken, he asks, “you’re sure?”, to which Robbe nods with a poorly hidden glee.

“But you have to close your eyes cause I can’t hit you while you're looking at me.”

Heaving a deep sigh and trying to save a face despite the humiliation flooding his body, he nods and closes his eyes, steeling himself for it.

But it never comes.

Suddenly, he feels a hand cupping his cheek and he flinches a little, but then soft lips touch his in a kiss so gentle he blinks his eyes open, not knowing what’s happening.

“That was payback for you promising to call me and not keeping your word,” Robbe whispers against his lips before leaning away, something sad and wistful passing through his face. Sander is left completely dumbfounded, ignoring the hollering from the two groups as his eyes fleet all over Robbe’s face.

It’s difficult for him to collect his thoughts because holy fuck, Robbe has just kissed him and he’s internally freaking out. He finally manages to get his bearings when the remnants of a smile slip off Robbe’s lips.

“I-, Robbe, you have no idea how much I wanted to call you, but I don’t have your number.”

“I gave it to you. At the party?” He doesn’t look like he believes a word Sander is saying.

“Um, I kinda blacked out and don’t remember much after like one-ish?”

“You saved it though, I saw you typing it in,” Robbe argues again, but this time he doesn’t look so sure. “Wait, what’s your number?”

Sander watches him entering digit after digit before hitting call. He fully expects a plain number to appear on his screen, eyes widening when he sees what pops up instead.

zk bambieys 🥺🦌👁️💘🧡💖💞 calling

“Fuck, you did give me your number.” He’s not fast enough to hide his screen from Robbe, but he can't even feel embarrassment once he notices the frown disappeared from his face.

“Bambi eyes?” There's a teasing note in his voice, but his pink cheeks sell him out.

Sander scratches his head. "I was very drunk, you can't hold it against me. Also, your eyes are really beautiful," he clarifies, winking when Robbe laughs at his shameless flirting. "Hey, I tried to find you on instagram, but nothing came up. I was really hoping we're gonna bump into each other again. Sorry for being a dumbass and not realizing I had your number this entire time?”

“It’s okay.” Robbe shoves his hand into the pockets of his jeans, swaying on his heels. Sander decides to put them both out of their misery and take the initiative.

“So if I asked you out, would you say yes?”

It looks like Robbe’s about to nod, but then he bites his lip, an almost cheeky smile directed at him. “I guess you have to call me to find out.” And then he gets on his skateboard and casually skates away to the nearest ramp, pulling a surprised laugh out of Sander.

If he was intrigued before, now he’s totally smitten with this wonder of a boy, because damn. 

Their friends finally seem to regain their voices and speak over each other at what just happened, but Sander doesn’t pay them any attention, just takes out his phone again and pressing the call button. 

Watching as Robbe comes to a full stop at the top of the ramp, he cocks his head with a grin and waits until he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Sander.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Robbe laughs into the speaker.

“Will you go out with me?”

He meets his eyes across the skatepark as Robbe makes him wait again.

Then, with a smile so radiant it overshadows the sun, the boy finally gives him his answer.

“Yes.”

[genaleah]

ANSWERING WILDCARD QUESTIONS

For the first time in about a year maybe??? Some of these might be even older than that.

Yes, it is Korka! I definitely want her involved, she’s a wonderful character and there is a *lot* of fun paranormal stuff going on in this setting that she can help them research. Also, I’d just love for her and Nelson to become friends!

Thank you! I love him a lot, and it’s fun to picture him interacting with the other guys. They’d all make for some interesting uncle figures, but they might not be that great in terms of role models.

OHOHO. Devilish laugh. That’s a wonderful idea, and a good way to keep him occupied at some point. He’s a great character, but he’s incredibly powerful, and I want these dudes to solve their own problems whenever possible. 

A good question! I don’t remember most of my dreams, but there’s usually a consistent look to the vivid ones. Lots of water, mountains, creeks, and high, winding roads. There are also a lot of buildings that are closely integrated with nature, even though I have almost never seen construction like that. 

I had not, but now I have! Here’s a trailer, for anyone else that missed it:

https://youtu.be/33HXHaaagsw

I really like these new models! I’m looking forward to watching a playthrough when that’s available. Just like with Rhombus of Ruin, I don’t think I’ll be able to play this one myself.

DOUBLE FINE, I WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOU- no, I’m kidding! I think great minds think alike. But I’m really excited to learn more about that character and possibly involve them in this whole au eventually. 

I’ve actually tried to avoid almost any info about Psychonauts 2 so I can go in mostly-blind, and a lot of the characters are vague to me. It’s fun to look forward to, but it’s also a little harrowing because I don’t know how to anticipate for it!

N...NO..... I NEED TO... Honestly those are old enough that it might be a good idea for me to re-make them, as well as the playing cards I made for the mega playlist cover. I think it’d be nice to remake them as vectors... that might make for a nice art stream sometime. I’ll mention publicly if I start doing that, and sharing any of these conceptual Wildcards arts when they’re done. 

And if you’re just curious about what the tarot cards for the other characters are going to be, it’s this:

Eddie: Judgement, The Magician, The Emperor

Manny: Death, Justice, The World

Sam: The Chariot, The Tower, Strength

Max: The Devil, Wheel of Fortune, Joker

Although! I may actually give the Moon card to Max instead of the Devil, and replace the missing card from Nelson’s selection with the High Priestess?  🤔  I’ll decide when I get to it.

Could be! I’ve flip-flopped occasionally on if I want the split-a-cab gang to participate much in the story. I think they deserve a break, and splitting an apartment in New York seems like a good situation for the four of them.

Oh boy, that must be so disorienting for him. The Psychonauts deal with a lot of hippy-dippy weirdness in a seemingly organized way, but it seems like they’re not as paranoid about safety as a real federal organization would be. Not necessarily a good thing, considering one of their camp counselors went AWOL one day, and the head of the Psychonauts got kidnapped the next. They kinda need to get their act together.

Fun fact, in one of the earlier drafts of Chapter 3 I was actually going to make Nelson get scanned by the equivalent of a metal-detector for malevolent thoughts at the door and get really spooked by it, but I decided against it.

YEAH IT’S ON THE LIST

Honestly, a big bulk of the plot in this just regards characters having to face their mental health struggles... via facing it as literal internal demons, unstable powers, etc.  It’s going to take a little while for any of Eddie’s teammates to realize how MUCH he has going on under the surface because he does a pretty good job of hiding it. “Needing to help others above ever helping themselves” is a hard issue to notice if you’re not looking for it. But it’s a guarantee that once they find out he needs help, they’ll give it; whether that’s making sure he’s not working himself too hard, or fighting off demonic cultists. Care comes in many forms.

SHE NEEDS TO REST.... POOR SYBIL (on the upside, they don’t TECHNICALLY work there, so she might be fine most of the time.)

Strong Bad isn’t a Psychonaut! He’s just a vlogger and a petty (psychic) criminal. It’s honestly not very different from canon.

Free Country, USA is a smalltown hotbed of psychic activity. Nearly everyone there has some mild capacity for supernatural powers, but nobody really notices or cares. Strong Bad just pops the tops off of cold ones and.... sometimes alters reality, a tiny bit. But mostly just in regards to media. The cartoons, comics, etc, that he invents and talks about have a tendency to suddenly voip into existence and nobody knows how. I swear, there’s actually a line of him saying something to this effect, but I can’t find it anywhere.  Don’t worry about it! Nobody in town is ever going to do anything truly nefarious with their powers, so it’s not a high priority on the Psychonauts’ radar, just a weird footnote.

The only reason Homestar is an actual agent is because he seems like exactly the kind of guy to sign up for a job like that on accident and then stick with it. And he’s a talented telekinetic! None of his other friends know about his job or notice his absences.

And just for fun, here’s some weird instances of psychic overpowering that happened in the cartoon:

---

(Poor Strong Sad)

I’ve actually answered this one before! BAM  Pretty sure all of it is still accurate.

Nelson: He sees floating sheets of paper containing notes, questions, etc. Anything that he wants to know more about regarding that person. The notes are subject to edits, cross-outs, ripped pages, etc.

Guybrush: He sees the item that the person is carrying that he wants most. As he gets to know people better, he sees them for their useful skills first.

Manny: His view of most living people is not very kind...

The people he’s closest to will eventually look a lot less garish. More like a flattering, camera-ready versions of themselves.

Eddie: Sickass sketch drawings that look like they belong in the margins of a composition book. The illustrations improve as he gets a better picture of where they’d fit in the internal lore of his mental world.

Sam: A lot like Nelson; Sam pictures case files, though his are a bit more in-depth.

Max: Max’s visions of people are highly personal and uncomfortable for those who witness them. He sees Nelson as a puzzle with a piece missing. Guybrush is a ripped up voodoo doll. Manny is a forgotten ofrenda. Eddie is a powder keg with a long, lit fuse. Sam is Sam, but he’s the wrong one.

I also got two questions that were pretty big subjects, or that I didn’t want to repeat, so I’m gonna cover them pretty broadly:

REGARDING [X] CHARACTER OR SERIES INCLUDED IN THE AU

Sure, I support it! I’ve gotten this question a few times in regards to things that I haven’t had time to delve into yet, or I’m not interested in, so I’m not going to include it into the AU myself. But if you want to explore an idea like that, feel free! This AU is pretty dang collaborative.

My main focus is just on the main 6 properties: Psychonauts, Puzzle Agent, Monkey Island, Grim Fandango, Brutal Legend, and Sam & Max.

But my general rule of thumb for “characters that exist somewhere within the background of this story” are any other properties owned by Telltale, Lucasarts, or Double Fine. And considering all of the licensed games that Telltale was getting into before it kicked the bucket, that includes some really weird characters, even up to the Venture Bros. I loved that series, but I’m not really interested in doing anything with them for this story! Partly for my sanity, the canon I’ve picked are already a lot of content to play with. 

ASSORTED QUESTIONS ABOUT THE WILDCARD AU DISCORD

There’s no particular criteria needed to join the discord, and it’s not strictly on a need-to-know basis! Because it’s been a long while since anyone has joined, I've been hesitant about adding new people in... But I‘ve decided to try sending invitations again! Everyone who had asked about it in the past will be getting a ping by me in about a day or so, since I want to double-check if you’re still interested. If you’ve been nervous to ask you can reply to this post or message me privately.

Some things to keep in mind before asking or accepting the invite:

If you’re not a friend or a follower I recognize, I will likely double-check your tumblr along with some other current members before sending the invite. 

Here’s the Rules page, so you know what to expect before you join: 

Be Mindful - Respect other people's boundaries, don't do or say things that would cross the line. If your behavior makes other people feel uncomfortable or unsafe, I will remove you from the chat. In most cases I will try to resolve things with you and offer a chance to do better, but that will depend on the severity of the situation. And if you have any concerns regarding another member of the chat, you can contact me privately.

Health Boundaries - While discussions of mental health do occasionally pop up, do not rely on the chat for help. None of us are equipped to handle serious mental health concerns, and it will only cause distress for everyone. Please seek real help if it is needed! If you rely on people beyond the point that they have asked you to stop, I will remove you from the chat.

NSFW - Generally speaking, try to keep NSFW talk to a minimum. Swearing and humor is fine, but don't get too explicit please! Discussions should usually keep to a PG-13 / occasional R, but no NC-17.

Spoilers & Censorship - Please use the spoiler function to hide story spoilers, as well as discussions and graphic depictions of gore/excessive blood/body horror/severe psychological horror. Include a content warning so that people know what they could potentially be seeing when they click on the censored content. If the spoilered content is the subject of a back-and-forth discussion, please use another warning when you are switching to a different spoilered topic. (Note that these rules were added to the chat later, so be careful when using the search function or back reading.)

The canon series involved with the Wildcard AU are Psychonauts, Puzzle Agent, Monkey Island, Grim Fandango, Brutal Legend, and Sam & Max. Please be mindful of story spoilers!

Channel Organization - Also be mindful of which channel you're in and move a discussion over if need be! That way they don't get too clogged with unrelated info.

Creative Criticism - When it comes to writing, art, or character creation; try to be open to suggestions from others! Nearly all of the creative work in the chat is collaborative, so input from others is important! Creative criticism is not the same as judgement, and is not a personal attack.

Have fun! - Discussions move quickly in this chat! Don't feel bad if you ever need to step back, whether it's because of the speed or a disinterest in whatever current topic we're focusing on. If you ever want to come back, we're happy to have you and can give quick explanations if you feel out of the loop! :thumbsup:

We’re a group of approx. a half dozen to a dozen people, either posting very very quickly in a span of a few hours or barely anything for a few days. We’ve been in an activity uptick lately and there’s about a year and half of back content, too. If it’s hard to keep up on, not that interesting to read through, or you just have a hard time gelling with the group that's already there, there’s no shame in just lurking or dipping out if you need to.

We also talk a lot about Psychonauts OCs, so anticipate that.

[starrysupercell]

Sooo... Now that its my wif- Tara's birthday... Are the Mystics (And Bo) gonna celebrate it :D? I can imagine Gene trying to set up some kind of surprise party for her, that would remain a surprise for like 4 minutes...

DANG IT. Past 12. TwT

But here you go! An outline for how Tara’s birthday is celebrated this year. 🧿 best fortune teller in Starr Park tbh. Your wife says hi 💜

I really gotta start keeping track of the Birthdays to have these things planned out.

~

One of the many good things about how much time Tara and Gene have known each other, is he knows she'll figure it out.

The surprise for her will be not the fact that there's a party because she can easily see that, but the extent of it, because she can promise not to sneak a peek at it.

(But now she's curious! Also, she's so used to checking on the future,* it takes a very conscious effort to not do so.)

So, while Gene keeps Tara preoccupied by taking a walk around the Park, Sandy, the Tribe, Gale and Mortis (because they're also friends with the Mysticals bc of the skins, shush.) are in charge of decorating.

So, with only two responsible adults in this group, how well do you think this is going to go? :)

Gale: So do you have a plan for the setup?

Sandy: hm? >.o oh. Yy*yawns*eah. here you go... *hands him a paper*

Gale: ...this just has a rough sketch of the main room and a couple of balloons.

Sandy- mm..felt sleepy but there's still.... -.-...time to...zzzz....

Gale:

Mortis laughs because well they'd just have to wing it! (He would definitely ask Emz for help, but she's busy with the teen crew for plot convenience) As long as decorations are already bought, it should an easy thing in setting it up the way they want it to look.

....decorations are already bought, right?

Sandy softly snores, and the Party Crew realizes that's their answer.

~

Meanwhile, Gene and Tara walk through the Park. The plan is picking up a few extra gifts along the way before heading back to the main party.

Their first stop is Barley's for some drinks! He gifts one bottle of Tara’s preferred drink, but does charge for the rest. Along the way, we see Brawlers greeting Tara and wishing her well on her birthday.

Colette’s very enthusiastic! She knows all the Brawler’s birthdays, and wanted to make something for Tara!

She doesn’t really have extra money recently, since there was some recent change in management, and she usually makes more detailed items, but because of the money problem, couldn’t buy as many materials she needed, but she’s derailing, so she hands Tara her wrapped gift.

It’s a cute hand-made Shade Plush!

Tara is delighted and thanks her for it. It’s a pleasant surprise, and she appreciates it. Colette fangirls a bit, thanking her, and then waving bye as the Mystics carry on.

~

Back at the Bazaar, they're trying to brainstorm on what to do. Well, half of them present are. Sandy is asleep and Nita + Leon are playing around the house.

Mortis says the only things he has back home are.. well, decorations of a more... gothic type..you know,.. (Halloween decors. they’re Halloween decors.)

Gale also offers up... some Snowtel hangings, but again, ‘tis not quite the right season to be jolly.

Bo suggests makeshift decorations. The twins are good at crafts! .. but more so along the lines of forest materials, not sand and...

Everyone’s drawing a blank, and decide that they could gather up their own share of materials, and see what could work best. Their time limit won’t really allow a break after all.

So Gale contacts Lou and asks him if he could meet him halfway with everything he can carry. Try not to get caught by the Penguin boss. Lou, ever the chaotic good guy agrees.

Bo gathers up Leon and Nita and they head out to see what they can scrounge up.

Mortis wonders if he should call up Frank too since he’ll be here later to set up and provide the music, but decides to be ~generous~  and just send a flock of his Bats to pick some things up for him. He sees them off adoringly.

With a content sigh, he lounges back and waits for his precious lovelies to return with his ideal decorations. Sandy sleeps on...

~

Back with Gene and Tara, the next item to pick up is the cake. Piper has the order ready-- a black forest chateau cake.

“Magnificent taste, darlings!” she compliments. she has it all boxed up very fancily. “It’s on the house. Take it as my gift for you. Happy birthday!”

She’ll also be attending the party later. Tara thanks her for the cake. She and Gene then take their leave.

Along the way to their last stop at the new Castle environment for the food, (because while they don’t know Ash very well yet, Tara loves trying out the new items and pizza is always great for a party.)

“Hey, Tara! ...hold up.” Edgar jumps down from a building they’re passing, just because he can and . “...this is from the rest of the Gang. Me too, I guess. Happy birthday.”

~

The party squad are actually worse off than before.

The Shaman Tribe are back, and the Twins became interested in using fabrics to try and make something too. so they’re playing around with it pretty much.

Gale just arrived, with Lou joined along because he was interested in the party planning too. (So, the snowtel is understaffed right now.) but they’re just chatting instead of working.

Mortis’ bats haven’t arrived yet, and he’s getting worried. They don’t usually take this long in running errands for him.

Leon and Nita are practically playing catch right now. They knock over something that looked priceless. Oh, a crystal ball, perhaps. Bo reprimands them.

They haven’t gotten much closer to making up the room...

There’s a knock, and the group freezes because oh no, they’re out of time. but it ends up being Frank. A very unhappy Frank who was suddenly surrounded by screeching batties who kept picking apart the house while he was packing up his set up for the party. They followed him there afterwards, along with several things.

Mortis tries joking it off ;; , and then very quietly and off-handedly apologizes when Frank doesn’t find it very funny.

But then so hey!!! you’re here so decoration time, everybody! let’s hop to it!

Gene’s Lamp, Sliver, floats in. Sent by Gene himself to check on the progress. They were nearing after all. The Lamp’s alarmed by what it sees. That is, absolutely nothing.

It glares around, and spots Sandy still sleeping. Sliver floats over to him, and hops on him-- Wake up!

Sandy does so, but is very grumpy. “what?”

Tara’s Birthday.

“yeah? what about it?”

Don’t you care?

“obviously.” he swats at the lamp. “it’s tomorrow.”

>:( Today. It’s TODAY.

“,” Sandy looks around, as wide-eyed as he could be.

broken crystal ball, a mix of decorations, and nobody currently fixing up anything from the looks of it.

They’re on the way.

Sandy makes a face. “ok... game plan on the fly.”

~

The final stretch of the day out.

Gene and Tara are nearing the Bazaar, and along the way, Gene starts to get heartfelt.

He reminisces how they first met, how far they’ve traveled together, how much longer they’ve yet to go.

He wishes he could think of something to give her that meant something like the other gifts that she received that day.

He was a Genie, but after everything they’ve been through, she deserves much, much more than what he could ever imagine to conjure up for her.

Tara smiles. “(Don’t... put me on too high a pedestal, my Friend.”)

Don’t sell yourself short either. You’ve done so much.

“(Yes. I have.)” Tara muses unhappily, thumbing the doll.

Gene suddenly gets the idea of what his gift could be, but he needs his Lamp to start on it.

~

Right before the two opened the door, a pair of bats were hanging up the last decoration.

And when the two walked in with the final party supplies at hand and are amazed at the display.

intricate ice sculptures and a more snowy feel set up where the food would go. the music section where Frank set up (who was talking with Mortis.) had a darker aesthetic, including the balloons over there.

Lastly the rest of the place was decorated with very cute works of art. no doubt the Tribe kid’s handiwork. she recognized it from when they stayed over, and the gifts Bo’s gotten from them and shown her.

You’d think that the seemed like the mix of fancier silver decorations, a more gothic theme and natural crafts would look odd together... and well, it was quaint, but it was very pleasing to see.

a patchwork of oddities, not unlike this park, really. She’s always been fond of odds and ends. Tara loved it!

Sandy yawns and walks over to them. “we actually just got done with the set up. but if it makes you feel better, we can still hide right now and yell surprise.”

Tara laughs. It’s okay.. it isn’t like she could be-- but she appreciates it. Sandy shrugs, like he didn’t just call all the shots and work in a hurry with the other eight. “you’re welcome.”

Lou offers to help set up the food and cake. Gale helps too, after presenting his gift too.

Frank and Mortis notice the arrival of the Birthday Gal and wave her over. They chat animatedly-- it’s been so long since they’ve had the chance to catch up! They should plan something soon. Tara agrees, and their gift is from the both of them. I can see it being a very nice piece of clothing, though I’m drawing a blank as to what.

The Lamp reunites with Gene, and their perspectives merge again. Oh. the party was really cut close, huh? but it worked out well! what a relief. a scrap book of actual memories is what you have in mind? how very sappy.... She would like it.

Lastly, Bo walks up to Tara, greeting her and wishing her well on this day. He hopes she likes what they helped with ....he then has the Twins apologize for breaking a few things around the house--

Tara dismisses it easily. They can be replaced. The Twins, that is. (joke to scare them.) But really, as long as they were careful from now on, it was okay. the cub and chameleon agree with no hesitation and then run off to cause more mayhem, but quieter this time.

The Psychic smiles. The guests would be arriving soon, and it was already so lively.

Time to party~!

_______

*I’m still deciding on the extent of her powers, so future sight might not be a thing, because of the characterization I have for her. I’m thinking something along the lines of “Can see past events, and make very informed guesses based on what she knows about people, but cannot see the future itself.”

[quickspinner]

Month of Miracles Day 9 - Tradition

Find the prompt list here!

I’m mixing up the prompts a bit here because I had a plan for ‘Moments of Wonder’ that can’t happen until a little bit further on in the Hallmark AU. I was just gonna do the next prompt while I got a little bit ahead on the Hallmark ones since they tend to be longer, but...this one wouldn’t leave me alone and I didn’t have enough time today to do both. Honestly, I might not be able to keep up the one a day through the next week, but whatever I miss, I’ll catch up on Christmas week where we have some planned time off. 

Hallmark Movie AU Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 (end) | Read Month of Miracles on AO3

Marinette understood why her mother thought this trip would do her good, but the truth was that she felt at loose ends rattling around in Gina’s old-fashioned but large house, all alone. At home, there was always somewhere to pitch in, something that needed doing. Gina kept her life pretty streamlined, and when she was home, she delighted in fixing up anything that might be out of sorts in her home. Gina was just too efficient, so other than keeping her plants alive, which really wasn’t that difficult since Gina kept mostly hardy breeds that could survive being left under the care of a neighbor for weeks at a time, there just wasn’t much for Marinette to do. 

Finally Marinette planted herself on the couch, set the TV to a channel covering the most recent fashion shows, and sat down to sketch. She’d have a lot of work to catch up on when she got home, so she might as well take advantage of some of this quiet time to get ahead. 

She sketched a few basic silhouettes to warm up and get the juices flowing, but after that...nothing came. Every time she started a line, she quickly rubbed about it again. Stop editing yourself, she scolded. Just get it out, and you can fix it later. 

It didn’t work. Everything she did felt wrong. Audrey’s complaints echoed in her mind. Too derivative, too pedestrian, where’s the art, Marinette? That’s why I hired you, and all you ever give me is this trash! Did I make a mistake bringing you on?

Did Audrey make a mistake? Marinette put down her sketchbook and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them as she dropped her face against her legs, fighting down the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She swallowed hard and tried to breathe. 

Okay. So she couldn’t draw right now. That was okay. She’d do...something else.

She got up, leaving her sketchbook on the couch and the television on, and went into the kitchen. She started pulling out ingredients without conscious thought, the spiral in her mind continuing until she actually stood in front of the mixer, measuring cups in hand. 

Marinette took a deep breath. She began measuring out ingredients, repeating the recipes in her head as she worked. This, at least, was something she could do. Nobody got all twisted up over cookies, after all. 

Well. Except Audrey are you trying to destroy my figure you’re FIRED Bourgeois. Marinette pushed that thought aside. Rose would appreciate cookies, she was sure. Gina’s neighbors would too. Maybe even Sally...would it be insulting to take some to Sally? She tried to remember if she’d seen cookies for sale in the café, and finally gave up. She’d just make some, and figure out who could eat them later. 

This was something she could do, and nobody could say she didn’t do it well, and that...that mattered to her right now. She could feel herself relaxing into the process, and she began to consider what she could make. Gina’s supplies weren’t as extensive as Tom’s, but there were still plenty of options to choose from…

Her first batch was in the oven, and she was making some simple Russian teacakes for a breather, when Gina’s old-fashioned doorbell rang. 

Frowning, Marinette grabbed a towel from the oven and went to the door, wiping at least one hand as clean as she could get it before she opened it.

If she’d expected anything, it was a package delivery, or maybe even a neighbor stopping by with some cookies of their own—this seemed like the kind of place where that stuff happened. 

On the doorstep stood a grey-haired woman with a bright smile, glasses that made her blue eyes look huge, feet well apart, and her hands solidly on her hips. Behind her stood Luka Couffaine, his lips pressed together in exasperation, propping up a large Christmas tree. He gave her a tight smile when her eyes flicked over him, but the woman in front of him had a presence that was impossible to ignore. 

“Um,” Marinette said, smiling uncertainly. “Can I help you?” 

The woman stuck out her hand. “Hello, lass. Marinette, isn’t it? Anarka Couffaine! Yer grandma be a friend of mine. When I heard you were keeping house for her while she’s away I thought we’d best be bringing over her tree!”

“Her tree?” Marinette asked, mystified. She glanced at Luka, and couldn’t help a smile when he mouthed I am so sorry at her over his...mother? Surely she must be his mother. Only a parent could put that look of embarrassed frustration on a grown man. 

“Aye, Gina always gets a tree from us,” Anarka was saying. “Thought she wouldn’t be needing one this year since she’s gone. Hated to think of her not having one when she gets back, but it makes sense, no one here to take care of it and all. But since you’re here, all’s well. You can decorate it and have it ready for Gina when she comes home. She’s still planning t’be back for Christmas Day, aye?”

“Uh, yes,” Marinette said, reaching up to tug a pigtail and remembering just in time that she’d pinned up her hair, and that her hands were still dusted with flour despite the wiping. “She and my parents and all were supposed to meet back here for Christmas Eve, so I guess—but I don’t know if—”

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” Anarka burst out cheerfully. “She’ll definitely be wanting her tree, then. No worries, lass, we know where everything is. We won’t be in your way but for a moment.” 

She didn’t push past Marinette, but it was clear she intended to move forward, and Marinette backed out of the doorway on instinct.

Luka gave her a kill me now look as he hoisted the tree and followed his mother. Marinette giggled in spite of herself, and closed the door behind them. 

True to her word, Anarka knew exactly where to find Gina’s Christmas tree things, and ordered her son around with a brusqueness that left no room for argument or debate. Marinette hovered, a bit at a loss for what to do. She wondered if she should go change into clean clothes, but Anarka said they weren’t staying long, and she still wasn’t done in the kitchen—

The oven timer chimed, and she automatically turned to tend to it. She hesitated in the door to the kitchen for just a moment, but Luka was half under the tree, getting it adjusted in the stand while Anarka barked orders. Neither was paying any attention to her, and even if she wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular, she couldn’t stand to let perfectly good cookies burn for no good reason. 

She’d just gotten everything settled when Anarka’s booming voice behind her made her jump. “I’ve got to run, lass, but Luka can finish getting things set up. I’ve already told him what to do and where to put everything. We left the box of decorations out for ye, so ye can get things all nice for when Gina comes home. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, so, goodbye for now. Don’t forget to check the water in the tree every day!” 

Marinette didn’t even have time to answer before Anarka was seeing herself out. 

As soon as the door banged closed behind Anarka, Luka made a beeline for the kitchen. Hands against the doorframe, he leaned in. “Hey.”

Marinette turned to look at him from where she stood rolling some kind of round cookie in powdered sugar. “I swear I tried to talk her out of it,” he told her, ears burning. “I’d have had more success wrestling a bear.” 

Marinette laughed, blushing, and Luka couldn’t help his grin. She looked adorable, with her hair pinned up and her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, flour streaking the red and green, frilled apron she wore. “I can imagine,” she replied, placing the sugar-coated ball carefully on a pile of others already in a dish on the counter. “She seems like someone it’s hard to say no to.” 

Luka shrugged. “That’s my mom.” They looked at each other for a moment, Luka thinking about what a sweet picture she made and her thinking—probably that he was completely weird, standing here staring at her. “Anyway,” he said hastily, pushing himself back upright, “I’ll get this finished up and get out of your hair. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry and I had nothing to do with this...whatever this is.”

Marinette giggled. “It’s fine.” Her shoulders came down a little, and Luka gave her one more grin before he went back to setting up the tree. He was starting, he reflected ruefully, to have some dangerous if only thoughts. If only they’d met sooner, if only she weren’t leaving in a couple of weeks...

If only the people in his life weren’t so damn pushy, so that he wasn’t sure how much of the attraction he felt was sincere or mutual. If only he could be sure he wasn’t seeing things because Rose put the idea in his head. 

Luka wasn’t sure what had put his mother on the scent. It was, just barely, possible that her motives were exactly what she said they were. Gina did buy a tree from them every year, and since they were friends it was usually more of a visit than a delivery, and Anarka had more than once hauled Luka out to help set the thing up when he was home. 

Luka doubted it though. Either Rose had blabbed, or someone else had. Sally, maybe, who might have seen him holding her hand at the café, or maybe one of the townspeople who had seen them say goodbye outside afterwards, smiling and friendly. Marinette blushed so easily, and he did find her extremely pretty. it might have been easy for someone to get the wrong idea. 

The television was on, but Luka hadn’t paid any attention to it until Marinette’s name caught his ear. He looked up, and saw a good-looking blonde man on screen, waving to the crowd before he turned to help a lady out of the limo he’d just exited. There was a smaller picture of Marinette on the arm of the same handsome blond in the corner. 

Luka put it together with what Marinette had told him at the café, and pressed his lips together, irrationally angry at the man. Clearly he has a type, Luka thought sourly, looking at the new woman on his arm as the couple proceeded down the red carpet. Luka glanced back at the kitchen, and then walked over and turned the television off. Marinette didn’t seem like she was watching it, and she certainly didn’t need to see something like that by accident. 

He finished up, making sure to clean up after himself as best he could, stacking the boxes that had held Gina’s things neatly where his mother had found them. Conveniently there was a broom in the same closet, so he was able to sweep up the needles he’d inevitably tracked all over the house. 

He put the broom back, and went back to find Marinette. Whatever she was making smelled amazing. Luka paused in the kitchen doorway. Marinette was concentrating hard, piping icing onto cookies laid out in front of her. Even focused as she was, he couldn’t help but note that she looked more content than he’d ever seen her, smiling and at peace, humming softly to herself. She leaned back to study what she’d done, and the humming turned to singing. 

Luka took a quick step back and turned, putting his back to the wall next to the door, one hand going to clutch at his heart as it suddenly decided to gallop away. 

She was singing one of his songs. 

So she’s a fan, he scolded himself. I knew that. And why should he care? By the end, Luke Stone had been almost an entirely separate entity from himself. An illusion created to sell music, not a real person. 

Except Luke Stone still played Luka Couffaine’s music. And it was one thing to know Luke Stone had fans, to see them screaming in a crowd or throwing themselves at the security ropes to get to him, but...it was entirely different to hear sweet, sincere Marinette, thoughtlessly humming Luka’s songs just because she was happy and she enjoyed them. It was what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? To know that people appreciated the music, and not just the image. It was no wonder his pulse was racing. 

Luka sighed and closed his eyes.  I’m in trouble, he admitted to himself. 

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles 

[dinosaurtsukki]

across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. III)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

Bokuto only saw Akaashi two more times since he last left the Elysium Manor. The first time was three years after that unforgettable summer in a secluded house. Thanks to finishing the portrait commission that pleased Mikoto, a woman of relatively high social standing, Bokuto gained a bit more status within the artist circles. Rich nobles commissioned him for portraits, scholars and other writers and artists commissioned him to create paintings of fantastical scenes, and almost any painting that he made was guaranteed a spot in a museum. Bokuto was invited to join the upper social circles at their dinners and luncheons or visits to the opera, but he would politely decline. He couldn’t imagine himself being a part of that social circle and let them paint a picture of mystery around him.

Instead, he decided to teach. He used his money to open a studio for young artists and taught them the basics of sketching and painting with different mediums, instructing them the way his master did. Bokuto had his own studio situated on the floor above where he would teach that came with a bedroom. At night, he’d open the windows for the smell of turpentine and oil to air out, but he’d keep the windows closed, the lights off, and the backdoor open for Kuroo to come in.

He was a male model, one quite famous with fellow artists for being a good one. There were probably a number of sculptures in the nearby museum, Asphodel, based on his physique. He didn’t discriminate when it came to preferring the company of men and women and hit his preferences just as well as Bokuto did. Kuroo was a nice man, a kind one, and Bokuto knew that maybe the dark-haired model had feelings for him. And yet, he never crossed that line. Most likely, Kuroo could see that faraway look in Bokuto’s eyes when he woke up in the morning, his eyes searching for the sea and whatever was across it.

The first time he saw Akaashi was in Asphodel. Bokuto had recently finished a painting that was going to be a centerpiece in their main gallery. On that day, he wore his best shirt and tried to wet his hair and comb it down but to no avail. ‘It’s alright. You’re known for your skills. Not your looks,’ he told himself before putting on a coat and heading out to leave.

The museum was already packed when he arrived with a good number of people circled around his painting. Bokuto pushed his way through the crowd, muttering ‘Excuse me’ along the way, until he was standing near it with his back to the wall. He was aware that he was drawing attention to himself looking like a sentinel instead of the painter but he couldn’t help but wonder about the things people would say. One of the viewers, a young couple, were in conversation as they scanned the painting.

“It’s that Greek legend, isn’t it? The one with Orpheus.”

“Yes. And his wife Eurydice. He traveled to the Underworld after she died with the hope of being able to bring her to life again.”

“I remember! But then there was a condition, right? He couldn’t turn around.”

“That’s right. Although… most painters and writers depict Eurydice already just as Orpheus turned around. In this one, it’s as if he turned around just in time to see her fall.”

“Kind of like he expected it?”

“Maybe. It’s quite an interesting take, if you ask me.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Bokuto smiled to himself, satisfied at the exchange generated by his painting. It was all about the exchanges, the different conversations that his art generated. He stayed by his painting for a few more minutes, listening to conversations, before deciding to stroll through the museum and peruse the other collections. His best sources of inspiration were other artists, but during this visit, it wasn’t just inspiration he found.

It was another portrait of Akaashi Keiji.

It hung in one of the museum wings that they dedicated to portraits. Bokuto rarely needed inspiration for those but something about that day pulled him into the wing to view the collections until he caught a familiar painted face. ‘Is it really him?’ he wondered, eyes flying to the placard to the right that confirmed his suspicions: Portrait of Akaashi Keiji, oil on canvas. It was him. In the portrait, Akaashi was sitting on a chair, elbows on a desk, hands holding up a book. His posture was impeccable as always but his face was completely absorbed in what he was reading. But it was him: same high cheekbones, same curly brown hair, same delicate fingers, same emerald eyes.

Bokuto didn’t know how long he stood there just drinking in the portrait and attempted to memorize every detail when he came to the book in Akaashi’s hands. The worn spine, the burgundy leather jacket, even the size of it: it was his book on Greek Mythology. The book was angled just so, enough for the viewer to see the top corner of the righthand page. “Page 57,” Bokuto whispered, overcome with sheer sadness and joy at the encounter, “You remember.”

The second and last time Bokuto saw Akaashi happened two years later at the Museum Greek History, this time in a different city. Bokuto was there working on a commission for a noblewoman who wanted portraits of each of her children. It was a lot of work, but the money was good and he got to see much of the city. Bokuto decided to explore the museum during a day off. His favorite part was the collection of ancient texts and scrolls that were each displayed in a glass case. He couldn’t read anything that was written, but he liked knowing that they had such a collection. ‘Maybe this time they won’t keep the homosexual subtext out of translation,’ he thought with a smile. He still held out hope that maybe someday, people would accept that Achilles and Patroclus were lovers.

With that thought in mind, Bokuto decided he was done looking around for the day and get ready for the amount of work he would have to do on the way back home. He was walking down the flights of stairs, deep in thought, when a voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“Bokuto-san.”

He had to hold onto the railing to keep himself from falling. It was just like that time he saw Akaashi’s portrait two years ago. Nobody else said his name like that: all crisp syllables and with more than a little warmth in the tone. Bokuto remembered the last time he actually saw Akaashi back at Elysium Manor, and turned around.

There he was, standing at the top of the staircase. He looked as if five years had barely laid a finger on him and looked just as surprised as Bokuto did. Akaashi took a hesitant step forward and walked down two steps. Bokuto felt as if he was back in Elysium Manor as their surroundings fell away.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“H-how… how have you been?” Bokuto stammered. So many questions overwhelmed his mind and yet he could only pick out that one. An inkling of a smile appeared on Akaashi’s face as he nodded his head in understanding. ‘Even now, we still have this connection,’ Bokuto thought.

“I’m alright. Married. We live in a nice house. My wife is kind, beautiful, friendly. Sometimes we play card games at night,” he enumerated, tapping absentmindedly at the railing of the stairway. “A good life actually.” He looked back at Bokuto. ‘But you’re not in it,’ he seemed to say. “How about you?”

“I could say the same,” Bokuto managed a smile. “My paintings have been pretty famous. I get commissioned often. I teach young artists. I make enough to keep my studio and do some traveling here and there.”

“Sounds like a good life.”

“It does.” But it was just that: good. Bokuto opened his mouth to say something when a child came running down the staircase from above.

“Father!” he exclaimed, barreling into Akaashi’s side. ‘Father,’ Bokuto echoed in his mind. The little boy looked to be about five or four years old. He mostly took after his mother as he had fair hair and fair skins, but when Bokuto looked at closer, he could tell that the boy had his father’s eyes.

“Hiro. Please don’t run down the stairs, you could slip,” Akaashi gently scolded him, leaning down a bit to fix his tie. It was such a small gesture but it made Bokuto’s heart ache just to watch.

“I saw this really cool looking spear in the Weapons Wing. It looked just like the one in the book you read to me!” the young boy exclaimed excitedly.

“Is that so? I hope you remember it well then,” Akaashi fondly patted his son’s head before turning to Bokuto. “Hiro, this is one of my… good friends, Bokuto. Bokuto, this is Hiro. My son.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bokuto smiled down at him. Hiro cocked his head and waved shyly, making Bokuto chuckle. “He has your eyes, Akaashi.” During the past five years, Bokuto had held out hope that maybe he and Akaashi would cross paths again, that maybe they could run away like what Akaashi dreamed of. But now, he knew that he was too late. Ever since he left Elysium Manor, it was all too late for that.

“It was great seeing you again, Akaashi,” Bokuto cleared his throat and feigned a smile. “I… I have to take my leave now.” He didn’t want to leave. With every fiber of his being, he didn’t want to leave. He would hold this encounter in his heart for the rest of his life but nothing good would come out of him speaking his mind.

“Alright, say goodbye, Hiro,” Akaashi said, tight-lipped. ‘You know it too,’ Bokuto thought.

“Bye,” Hiro waved shyly. Just as Bokuto was about to turn and leave, Akaashi quickly ran down the rest of the steps and wrapped both of his arms around him before he could say anything. Bokuto held his arms awkwardly at his sides before wrapping them around Akaashi’s waist. He wondered how much Akaashi had tried to hold himself back from doing this.

“Koutarou,” he whispered. “Until now, do you…?”

“I do. I think of you every single day,” Bokuto whispered back. “I still love you, Keiji.”

“I’m glad,” Akaashi swallowed and pulled back, leaving the feeling of that loss of warmth that Bokuto would carry with him for the rest of his life. And with that, he nodded once, and left.

Five more years passed. Bokuto had begun to grow tired of the fame and attention and decided to move to a provincial town along the coast. He left his studio to one of his young apprentices, packed up his materials, and bought a small house with a garden that sat near a cliff, overlooking the sea. He still painted, it was something he never grew tired of, but he chose to paint nature or the people at the countryside instead of the portraits of noblemen and fantastical scenes. He liked getting to know his neighbors, going to the festivals held at the town square, and looking out of his window to see the birds that chirped on the trees or dove into the sea for food. He was sitting on his chair outside, trying to sketch the charming woodpecker he saw that morning from memory, when Kageyama came.

“If it isn’t Elysium Manor’s most loyal butler,” Bokuto grinned at him as he saw the familiar head of black hair approach his porch. He looked different from the last time Bokuto saw him. His arms were thicker and his complexion was slightly tanned. But it was still him.

“It took a while for me to find you, Bokuto,” he returned the smile.

“Find me?” Bokuto said, puzzled. “Did you suddenly become a fan of my paintings?”

“No, it’s…” Kageyama paused and exhaled, the look on his face somber. “Can we talk inside?” Bokuto felt his stomach drop. He knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it is Kageyama was going to say.

“Sure. I’ll make tea.”

Once they were sitting at the table with two mugs of tea between them, Kageyama broke the news.

“Akaashi-san passed away last winter.”

The news hit Bokuto like cold water to the face. Akaashi Keiji. The man that Bokuto had loved ten summers ago. The man he just saw five years ago. The one that haunted him at midnight, tossing and turning and longing for that touch and wondering about all the what-could-have-been’s. His Akaashi Keiji. His Akaashi Keiji whose sketch Bokuto still kept in a small pocketbook close to his heart. Who grew up a lonely, sickly boy in a house full of books. His Akaashi Keiji, who would mumble ‘Koutarou’ every time they woke up together during those numbered mornings. His Akaashi Keiji.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto. I truly am,” Kageyama sighed, reaching out to touch his fingertips.

“How—how did you know?” he stammered.

“I received a letter,” he said. “It said that he contracted tuberculosis from a trip abroad and, well you know how sickly he is. He wasn’t able to survive it.”

“God…” Bokuto rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I… I didn’t think… of all things…”

“I know,” Kageyama nodded. “The letter said that I was mentioned in Akaashi-san’s will. He entrusted two items to me to deliver to you.” With that, he pulled a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twin from his satchel and placed it on the table. Bokuto made no move to accept it. All he wanted was Akaashi back. He didn’t care if had to take ten, twenty more years for them to meet again. He just wanted to know he was alive somewhere and still thinking of him.

“I…I think I know why he had these sent to me instead of having them delivered directly to you,” Kageyama cleared his throat. “Akaashi-san cared about you, and yes, I know he cared about you in that way. I could see it in the way he looked at you. I was skeptical at first of your relationship but ten years after, the moments I witnessed of the two you stand out starkly.”

At this, Bokuto could feel himself collapse with his head on the table, the dam of tears finally breaking as he sobbed into his arms. “It’s true. We did love each other.”

“I know he thought of you in those last moments,” Kageyama consoled him. “You were too important for him to think of breaking the news to you through just a letter.”

Bokuto didn’t know how long he had cried there on the table for. He could hear Kageyama busying himself in the kitchen and the smell of dinner being cooked, as if they were both back at Elysium Manor. Finally, when his tears had all run out, he sat up to open the package that Akaashi had entrusted to Kageyama. Inside, there were two books: the Greek Mythology book that Akaashi loved so much, much worn down than the last time Bokuto had used it to sketch a portrait of himself, and a soft, leather-bound notebook.

It was late so Kageyama stayed the night and slept on a roll-out cot beside Bokuto’s bed before he left the next morning. “It’s a nice place,” he told him, as they stood at the cliffside overlooking the sea. “I could see why you chose to be here.”

The next few months after that was the longest that Bokuto spent without painting. Every time he tried to pick up a brush or a piece of drawing charcoal, his hands shook and all he could see in front of him was the half-finished portrait of Akaashi, and Akaashi himself posing in the distance. And at night, he’d find himself looking over his shoulder more than once to see that vision of his beloved, pale as a ghost.

Finally, he picked up the leather notebook that Akaashi left for him. He had expected it to be a diary but it ended up being slightly more than that. It was a story: about a lonely boy who spent his days reading books in an empty house and the beautiful painter who entered his life and made it worth living. ‘He came on a little lifeboat from across the sea,’ it began. Bokuto found himself tearing up again at the sight of Akaashi’s handwriting.

Every day, little by little, he read a bit more of the story, mostly while he was sitting on a chair near the cliffside. He relived everything: the time Akaashi drank the sea from his cupped hands, the look on his face when he saw the ruined portrait, Akaashi dancing around the maypole with his crown of chrysanthemums, the summer night kiss, the feeling of their bodies pressed together, the sound of his voice when he read out loud, Akaashi’s emerald green suit in the portrait, their last night together, the morning after and the sketches to remember each other by, Akaashi illuminated by a single shaft of light in the middle of the floor, the portrait of him hanging in the museum with the pages of his book turned to the 57th page, the last time Bokuto heard Akaashi say his name.

At the very last page of the notebook was a note, directly addressed to him: I know for a fact that there are others like us, Koutarou. Afraid of the punishment, afraid of the scorn. I don’t think I’ve ever cared about what people would think of me once I died, but if there is one thing I want people to remember about me, its that I was yours, always yours. Maybe someday there will be a place for people like us, a better place. And I want them to know that we’ve always been around. We’ve hid. We’ve suffered. We’ve lost. But we’ve also loved.

“We have loved, haven’t we Akaashi?” Bokuto whispered, closing the notebook. He knew that he was going to finally pick up his charcoals and later on, his brush. He remembered what Akaashi said about how texts were continuously misinterpreted to remove the homoerotic subtext and as much as he knew it would be difficult to do so with Akaashi’s journal, Bokuto wanted to further ensure how history would remember them. He would sketch and paint everything he could possibly remember. But for now, he wanted to finish his day staring out across the sea.

Kageyama knew why Bokuto purposely chose to make his home here. The town and house he lived in was just on the other side of the sea, across where Elysium Manor still reportedly stood. Nobody went there and it was still Akaashi’s name, but the land and the manor would eventually be donated to the nearby town. Under the condition that Akaashi Keiji’s final resting place wouldn’t be disturbed.

“That clause in his will was only allowed for me to hear,” Kageyama had said a few months ago before he left. “That small plot of land next to where Akaashi-san is buried is entrusted to me to be passed on to you. Bokuto-san, I will ensure that that will be your final resting place. And if I pass on before you, I will entrust the task to my nephew. I can promise you that.”

“You do love your Greek myths, don’t you Akaashi?” Bokuto smiled to himself. He could almost hear his laugh in the back of his mind. As he looked out to the sea, he could just barely make out what lay across it. It made Bokuto remember how Orpheus and Eurydice’s tale truly ended. After losing his wife a second time, Orpheus wandered the Earth, lost and mourning, until he was torn apart and killed by Maenads, Dionysus’ traveling followers. When Orpheus soul traveled down to the Underworld, Eurydice was there, standing on the banks of the River Styx, arms outstretched to her lover who finally came home.

[the-final-sif]

could ya tell me more about Kat drawing? like one of favorite headcanons ever and mainly because of you. bruh Katsuki hakamata au really made uwu with his sketchbook i would love to know more headcanons on that

Okay! Katsuki drawing is one of my favorite smaller headcanons for him!

He draws almost exclusively realistic stuff. If he’s drawing for fun, then he’s drawing memories and moments from his life, sometimes scenery, and sometimes on his worst days scenes from his nightmares, but all things that he’s seen somewhere else. He also draws out designs for costumes/weapons, but they tend to be pretty realistic/technical drawings.

That’s because art is a form of processing for him. Katsuki has a lot of trouble with processing and understanding his own emotions. He wasn’t taught any self-reflective skills or emotional control skills when he was younger, and as a result he often experiences intense emotions that he doesn’t even understand let alone know how to handle.

Art is one of the few methods of dealing with those emotions that he has. It lets him reflect on the day, thinking over how things went and deciding how he feels about something as he sketches it out. It also lets him thing about his own actions and what he might want to change about them.

When he’s designing stuff, it’s still a form of processing, but it’s more of him processing his ideas and figuring out what he wants the design to be/do. A lot of it tends to reflect how he wants himself or others to change in the future.

That can mean redesigning his costume to be better for rescue work, but sometimes it means drawing up a redesigned version of Izuku’s costume which has better protective features on it, because Katsuki doesn’t know how to express his concern to Izuku in anything even approaching a healthy way, but he knows how to design better arm and leg guards. That’s much easier.

The only thing he never draws is himself. No part of him is included in his sketches, only ever the world around him. Even when he designs new upgrades and versions of his costume, there’s no Katsuki inside the costume.

He doesn’t like to think about why he doesn’t draw himself. It’s a line he doesn’t cross. Deviling too deep into feelings and ideas he isn’t ready for.

Drawing is a quiet period for him, time when he lets himself be alone with his thoughts and his feelings. And those are not thoughts and feelings he wants to deal with.

In the Katsuki Hakamata AU, that starts out being times when he’s truly alone and knows nobody else can come in and see him drawing. It’s one of the few times he’ll actually feel safe and let himself experience his emotions properly. So much of his life is spent shoving his emotions down and pretending that he doesn’t have them, that having a bit of time to himself to feel those emotions again is vital for him. Only ever when he’s sure he’s alone though, and nobody else will know he has feelings. It’s too dangerous otherwise.

But slowly that changes. As he learns other methods of emotional processing, and as he learns to open up and trust others again, he starts drawing around other people. Art is still a very important moment of reflection for him, but it’s a form of reflection that he can share with other people too.

With enough time, his class adjusts to Katsuki drawing around them. People learn quickly that if he’s drawing, he’ll be fairly quiet and focused on it. They can ask him questions about the artwork if they want, he may or may not feel up to telling them, but often times he will. They always try not to bother him with questions about other stuff though, otherwise he might lose focus.

It takes until well into their second year before Katsuki feels comfortable enough with his classmates and his artwork to start giving it to people.

Obviously it starts with the designs. He knows he’s good at designing shit, and he’s got god knows how many different designs for various people tucked away. Hell he’s made designs for heroes he’s never met before just because the idea struck him. The support department loves and hates him for all the designs he’s got for his own stuff. And some things about his classmates’ costumes or items were bothering him too much to stay quiet about.

So he gets proper blueprint paper, double checks all the support department’s regulations and design rules even though he knows them all by heart, and he draws up a few improvements and new items. New padding and bracing for Izuku because holy shit he needs it. A better electricity regulator for Denki because he’s been zapping himself more lately and Katsuki might be a bit worried about that. Some hidden weapons for Ochako, because she’s got those so many damn places to hide them and Katsuki knows she’d put those weapons to good use.

Once he’s got the first round of designs done, he’s not quite sure how to give them to the others. He doesn’t want to have to explain shit, and he’s already feeling kinda embarrassed about it.

So he.... doesn’t. Kinda. Katsuki slips the drawings under their doors when he knows they’re out instead. Each tucked into a nice envelope and address to them. They’ll still know it’s from him, because of course it is, but this way he doesn’t have to figure out what to say.

That becomes his new routine, slipping drawings under his classmates’ doors with upgrade ideas for them. They always thank him, with big smiles and hugs and excited chattering. He’ll huff at them and look away, but he still loves seeing them using the new stuff. It makes a warm feeling bubble up in his chest when he’s out on the field and sees something he designed come in handy.

It’s not always just his classmates either. He may’ve designed better eye guards for Aizawa-sensei, ones with built in eye drops to make it easier on him. Just maybe. Hawks finds designs for a jacket that’s easier on his wings on his desk.

All-Might’s not a hero anymore, so he doesn’t need any support weapons or costume changes. But when winter comes around, and cold starts to burrow it’s way into his old bones, he finds a thick homemade scarf on his desk in the teacher’s lounge. It’s extremely warm, and he knows who made it, even if there’s no note. He wears it all winter and well into spring, and doesn’t miss how young Katsuki’s face seems to soften a bit when he sees it.

It’s not until their third year that Katsuki works up the courage to give away some of his art that isn’t a design. To anyone other then Auntie Inko that is.

The very first gift to is to Aizawa, at the start of the school year, when Katsuki can already see the nostalgia creeping into his teacher’s gaze, his preemptive worry over his kids heading out into the ‘real world’ even though he knows they’ve been there for a long time. 

He goes through his sketchbook and he picks out the very best of his pieces, those of his classmates and his teacher. Sure, he’s got more of some people then others, but he tries to keep it an even amount of each person. Some of the pieces need little touch ups or fixing before he’s happy with them, but once he is, he makes copies of each piece for his own collection, and the originals are bound together into a careful book.

This time he doesn’t leave it on Aizawa’s desk like he might a design. This is too important for that. He can’t quite look Aizawa in the eye when he hands it to him after class, but he does manage to mutter out a “Happy last year with this hell class.”

He doesn’t stay to see Aizawa’s reaction, but his teacher finds him afterwards and hugs him anyways. He tells Katsuki that he loves it, but comments very lightly that there’s someone missing from it. Katsuki knows, but he doesn’t have an answer for that yet.

Other people start getting artwork from Katsuki after that. They usually get copies rather then the originals, and it’s usually artwork of them. Izuku is the exception, he always gets the original copies because Katsuki knows he likes those. Most of it is just memories that he thinks they’ll want to hold onto.

Tsunagu gets drawings, of course he does. It’s less then Katsuki gives to other people, because if he’s giving artwork to his dad then he wants it to be good, but he still gets some. Tsunagu treasures each piece, but he notices the same pattern Aizawa does.

There’s pieces of Tsunagu in battle, pieces of him on his own, or with Kugo, or Hawks, and even one of him sitting beside Aizawa. Pieces of him rescuing civilians, or holding various children he’s met. But none of him and Katsuki. None of Katsuki at all.

He doesn’t press at it, but he mentions it offhand every so often. Gentle as he can be.

Katsuki knows, and it’s not until he’s almost graduated that he finally works up the courage to do what he hasn’t managed since he was a child.

He’s been working on the piece all year. His very first piece that isn’t a memory, isn’t a scene from real life or a future design. Something created from his own mind. It’s a big one. It’s got all his classmates in it. Aizawa-sensei. Mic-sensei. All-Might. Eri. His dad. Auntie Inko. Kugo. Hawks. Everyone’s there. Most of it is done, most of it but not the center, the focal point of the piece.

Drawing himself into the piece, one in which everyone is smiling and happy, had felt wrong each time he picked up his pencil. Felt like a lie, felt like he was sullying something perfect with something that didn’t belong.

Even now as he sketches himself into the picture, the last person missing from it, it still feels wrong. But he does it anyways. He pushes past the clench of his chest and reminds himself that he belongs here. He belongs in the picture too, smiling like everyone else is.

It takes longer then he would’ve liked, but he finishes the piece. When he puts down his brushes, done with the coloring at long last, and he takes it all in, that’s when it feels right. To see himself smiling with his family all around him.

Each person in the photo gets their own copy of it, each person but Tsunagu, who gets the original which he gets framed and is hung up in his living room. Katsuki doesn’t keep a copy of it for himself, he doesn’t need to. If he ever feels like seeing it, then all he needs to do is go visit any member of his weird, giant, amazing family.

[shanie-the-toyaddict]

Who Here Asked For Pictures of  “CASA DEL SHANIE”??

Nobody? Nobody at all? TOUGH!

Have some pictures of my freshly cleaned apartment because dammit it took a month to get it this way, I’m gonna show it off!

We start off with my primary figure shelf and entertainment stand. Notice the ass-old CRT TV. No it isn’t getting replaced anytime soon. I’ve showed off the figure setup already (I believe) but since they are really tiny here, I’ll just let you know that those bitty figures on top of the JVC Monstrosity are Japanese Final Fantasy X Coca-Cola figures. I can’t begin to afford full sized Final Fantasy ANYTHING!

Moving to the other side of that end of the living room, we have the giant Young Simba plush (If you get it, you get it, I’m not explaining), my line of Doctors (along the banister) and my precious sword, hung over a Doctor Who poster. That sword was the first sharp ‘n’ shiny I ever bought for myself. I was 15 and had to buy it though my boyfriend at the time since I was under age. It is, in fact, a women’s sword, but it’s for display only. It can’t cut for shit. There’s also a random Boxed GoT Dany figure there too. It’s the only GoT figure I have and it was a gift.

The pit on the left of the photo are the steps leading down. I live on the second floor.

My kitchen table. Nothing fancy here other than the plastic candelabra, some nifty bottles and some posters. That DW Six/Peri poster is not my only one of them (you’ll see) and yes, I do ship them. They are my guilty pleasure Classic Who ship. The grumpy one is soft for the whiny one. It’s a thing.

Also, two different Pokemon posters here. Oh, and that recycling bin? I yoinked that from my college dorm nearly 20 years ago, Had it ever since.

Wall of Shane and looking into the bedroom. I’ve shown off that wall before, but notice that the centerpiece is a poem. It’s “Footsteps” in case you were wondering. I am a Christian. Also, that sketched looking photo up top is Sarah Jane Smith. That wall used to be a Doctor Who tribute wall. I took down all the DW photos except her. And yes there’s a photo missing where the gap in the center of the photo is. It keeps coming out because I can’t pin the sides. The wood art was a gift from my high school sweetheart.That plush sunflower on the back wall was a gift from a lady at church. She was so nice. I miss her.

This is my kitchen. It is tiny and cramped and I hate everything about it except for my kettle and coffee maker.

Looking out of the bathroom door. Being an adult means nobody can bitch over the SpongeBob wood painting you have hanging on your wall. He brings me great joy. Best thing I ever bought from Hot Topic in my life. And he was on clearance!

Oh, and that’s my old besom hanging above it. There’s remnants of my pagan days all around my place. I just never got rid of the stuff.

You don’t get to see my bathroom because who the fuck wants to see the bathroom. Instead, have a look at my bathmat. Four dollars on Wish.

The one corner of my bedroom by the door. See, I told you there was another Six/Peri poster! Also, an Eleven/Amy/Rory poster. I’m proud of that one. i don’t think you can even buy that one anymore. Also, there’s another wood art, a Sherlock poster (don’t judge me) and a dollar store decorative fan.

The bookshelf is a random assortment. Except for the top two shelves which contain the entirety of my Classic Who DVD collection. I have a bunch of those, including some rare ones!

Oh, and the painting under Six and Peri was a Christmas gift from a friend. It reads “You Are Fearfully And Wonderfully Made”

MORE POSTERS! YES! I DO HAVE A SHANE O MAC POSTER!

For the record, that’s the second copy I have owned of that poster. The first one I got directly from a bar in college after the PPV. It hung in my dorm room until I went home on med leave and it got destroyed in the interim. So I had to rebuy it and, guess what, it just got hung today! 

Oh, and also, random Tenth Doctor poster there as well. The curtains are also new. 

Plus Lizzie. Lizzie says hi.

Finally, my Xena Wall. I want to put up more photos there but I just haven’t gotten to it yet. That bookshelf is my TV Series/Musicals/MCU bookshelf. I have almost all of the MCU films, all of Fringe, and almost all of NuWho on there. I’m missing the Season 12 set. 

Oh, and yes, that’s an entire setup of McMahon figures on top of the shelf. I just set those up yesterday. As you can see, there is plenty of room for more McMahon figures!

Oh, and the dreamcatcher was a gift. I have no idea if it’s native sourced or not. Try not to judge me for having it.

It just occurred to me I missed a wall. This is standing by my staircase looking toward the kitchen. Important notes here include another shot of SpongeBob, the Dark Willow photo top right, several Doctor Who postcards, a Star Trek Generations mini-poster, another witchy leftover, my glorious Kit Rae dagger (my FAVORITE sharp ‘n’ shiny), a M&M’s Gumball Machine, and finally, my last shelving unit that has Buffy, Xena, Star Wars, and my full McMahon Family Master Set. Also, yes that is a sconce on the wall. It was supposed to be for my keys, but I’m too disorganized to ever put them there.

Really though. I love that SpongeBob hanging. It’s awesome and he smiles at me every time I walk by.

Well, that about covers it. If you stuck through to the end, grats. I probably wouldn’t have. But I just feel like there’s so much fun stuff in my place that absolutely NOBODY ever gets to see. It’s mi casa and now es tu casa.

Hope you enjoyed!

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 39)

Country Pursuits

Reader’s art dealer job has some unfortunate (but is it really unfortunate..? You’ll see) results. Arthur starts making plans. The bank job is looming on the horizon, y’all... Enjoy!

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

The men were out doing the art dealer job. My art dealer job. I felt full of nervous energy, sitting by the campfire with my sketchbook and pencil, tapping the end of it against the page as I looked around for something to draw that'd take my mind off of it. 

The day had been pretty uneventful until then. Arthur and I had returned to camp with a pair of pronghorns for Pearson and the gang, so nobody commented on the fact that we'd spent the evening away from camp. I thought that was a nice trade. Food for their silence. Not even Dutch had anything to say, only stopping to tell Arthur that he had been thinking of how to deal with Bronte, and that he'd need to talk to him once he, John and Lenny returned from stealing those paintings. 

That was so long ago, it felt like. The boys had only been gone a couple of hours and realistically it was going to take a few with how far they'd be travelling to Valentine, then Emerald Ranch provided everything went correctly (Hosea had spoken to a friend of his over there, Seamus, who'd be taking the art off our hands). Even so, I was restless the entire time. 

I focused my attention on Javier's guitar where it was leaning up against a barrel, and started drawing it. I sketched it to fill up a page, giving it plenty of detail in a bid to stretch out the process, have it consume more time before the boys got back. I could only pray that the job went well, considering I'd brought it to them. If anything went wrong, I wouldn't be able to stomach it.

"You, uh, you ever drawn me in that book o' yours?" The log I was sitting on shifted unsteadily as someone dropped in beside me. Micah. I froze for a moment, eyes going wide with shock.

Micah hadn't been particularly friendly with me as of late, given our quarrels and the whole Arthur kicking his front teeth in thing. He either didn't speak to me at all or he barked some order at me, got me to do something for him. A lot of which, I simply didn't do. I wanted to be useful, not a damn servant. 

"Why, you gonna demand that I do so if I say no?" I asked, not taking my eyes from the guitar, carrying on sketching. Micah chuckled, and my throat itched from cigarette smoke as he exhaled it, not bothering to direct it away from me. 

"Well, would be nice if you did. Show a little friendliness, make out like you might just be able to stand me," it was all spoken in jest. I finally looked at him. 

"I stood you for a long time, remember? More than that, thought you were a decent feller if you tried."

"Well, I told you you was wrong, that this is just who I am."

"Yeah and I never believed you. Though, that was 'bout the only thing that came out of your mouth that's true, so I should've."

"You saying I'm a liar, princess?" He questioned and my mood withered further, eyelids lowering in irritation. 

"I ain't gonna waste my breath asking you again, Micah. You know I don't like you calling me that," I deadpanned, and I heard him exhale a drawn out breath. "And lying might not be the right word for it. Twisting things, though, that you do plenty of."

"Still think I was going 'round trying to convince people I'd fucked you? That's all rather conceited of you, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. Not half as conceited as you thinking me showing you the barest of kindnesses means I must want you to kiss me," I quipped back, and there was a pause before he made an unconvincing chuckle. 

"Whatever," he breathed, sucking on his cigarette hard enough to hollow his cheeks, the end glowing bright before ebbing again when he exhaled the smoke; once again in my direction. It made my eyes water.

"I don't wish to be unfriendly with you, Micah. I never was one for conflict."

"Then I guess you chose the wrong business, this ain't a life that comes free of conflict. That pretty gash in your neck's some pretty solid evidence of that," he muttered, gesturing to my throat. 

Every time someone mentioned it, it burned. 

"I can't argue with that. I guess I could be more clear; conflict with people that once upon a time I got along with, dare I say liked," I replied, snapping my sketchbook closed when I became too distracted to carry on. 

"You liked me?" He smiled and spoke in a sickly tone that was completely condescending and not in the least bit pleasant or sincere. "First time I've ever been told that. Truly, I am touched."

"Maybe it'd happen more often if you didn't go 'round treating people like crap."

"I've never treated you like crap," he told me in all seriousness, brow forming a heavy line above his eyes. I cocked a brow at him and snorted. 

"You ain't? How about dumping all your shit on me, telling me to wash this, fix that, I stood in horse shit, scrub my boots? And saying all those dirty things to Arthur right in front of me?" I provoked and he laughed, shaking his head. Anger fizzed up and over inside. "And telling me that all I'm worth is my unsullied body, and you only wanted to fuck me 'cause I'm a virgin?"

Micah's eyes snapped to me at that, and it was a fair bit of time before he responded. 

"If I'd've buttered you up real good, would you have been up for it? If I whispered sweet nothings in your ear and called you beautiful and scattered rose petals on the bedroll? Would you have fucked me then?" He levelled his gaze to me, looking directly at me after flicking his spent cigarette away.

"No!"

"Then what's your problem? So what if that's all I wanted you for, if I weren't gonna get you anyway?"

"Well, I suppose you would look at it that way."

"What way do you look at it? Educate me."

"It just weren't nice having that spat at me like I was nothing, like I was completely useless to you since I weren't gonna give you what you wanted. Especially with how well we worked together, how we got along whenever you weren't in one of your moods."

"Well, I guess I figured I owed you the truth. Otherwise you'd be walking 'round thinking you'd hurt my feelings, feelin' guilty, and we can't have that," he shrugged and I rolled my eyes, looking away. "You got an attitude somewhere in you," he added at that. He was smirking. 

I didn't respond, opening up my sketchbook again and flicking through it absentmindedly, opening it to a blank page.

"Well, you should know," he began, "I ain't got no hard feelings. It's pretty clear the ship has sailed, anyway."

"I'm sorry?" I questioned, looking at him. 

"You think nobody notices when you walk in here with Morgan, acting like he ain't been pokin' you all night? The bags under your eyes are as tellin' as they are unflattering, my dear," his tone was low and dirty and I screwed my face up in distaste. "You ain't no virgin no more."

"Whatever," I hissed, though my face felt hot. 

"Those marks on your neck, too, you didn't get those from that O'Driscoll's knife, did you, sugar plum? Likes doing that, does he? Marking what's his," he added, and I stared at him, mouth agape. He was unbearably audacious!

"I don't know. But he sure liked kicking your teeth in," I reminded him, narrowing my eyes. His lip curled up, revealing the gap in his teeth, and he wriggled his tongue between them crudely. I wrinkled my nose. "Just leave me alone," I eventually sighed. 

His nasty little laugh petered off as he surprisingly did as he was told.

-

I must have dozed off at some point when I was supposed to be darning a pair of socks, leaned up against the large tree by the fire. I woke with a start when something tapped my arm; for a moment I was ready to receive a lecture from Miss Grimshaw for sleeping on the job, but instead a hand holding a bundle of cash was in front of my face. My eyes travelled up the arm it was attached to and settled on John.

"Here's your share, sleepy head. Get up before someone sees you, I know Hosea don't take kindly to people doing what you're doing," he advised me, and I took the cash from him, my brows raising. 

"Wow, this is my cut? Just for setting it up? You must've got a lot."

"Yeah, we didn't do too badly at all," John nodded. 

"Did it go okay?"

Amusement twisted his features. 

"Yeah, went off without a hitch. We all rode off without having to fire a single bullet, no one was hurt on the job," he began, and I was about to voice my relief when he continued, "didn't stop Lenny from fucking his leg up somehow on the way back."

"What?" I balked, sitting up. John stepped aside and gestured to where Arthur was helping Lenny down off his horse. Well, dragging him off of it with control while Lenny clung to him, wincing at every jostle of his leg.

I bolted up and raced over there, John hot behind me.

"Lenny! What happened? Are you alright?" I asked uselessly holding my arms out towards him and Arthur in some vague attempt at offering to help. Arthur managed to get him on the ground, balancing on one foot. 

"Sure," Lenny said, face frozen in a grimace, "don't worry, ain't nothing to worry about."

"The kid's horse threw him," Arthur informed me, mild amusement on his face too. Neither Arthur or John seemed too concerned, which brought me some relief. 

I looked at the horse in question. Little, tiny Maggie. 

"She threw you?" I murmured. 

"She saw a snake and got spooked, that's all."

"Was pretty impressive, the way he landed on his feet," Arthur mused. 

"Till he hit the floor, screaming bloody murder," John added and they both chuckled. 

"Glad it's so amusing," Lenny sighed, looking nothing short of mortified. 

"We just robbed a whole bunch of valuable artwork from a serious collector without a single problem, but you can't manage to ride home? Yeah, it's a little amusing. Don't worry, it don't look broken, you probably just sprained it," John said. Lenny shook his head, leaning heavily on both Arthur and John as they helped him towards the house. Arthur called Hosea over, who immediately joined us. 

They set Lenny down on a chair inside, and Hosea kneeled down in front of him. He inspected the injured ankle, asking him about the pain; where it was, how bad it was, if he felt anything snap. Hosea seemed satisfied after some investigation that no bones were broken, but he needed to rest it. He sent me off to fetch some medical supplies, and when I returned he bandaged up the ankle firmly to support the joint, and Arthur gave Lenny some whiskey for the pain, patting him on the shoulder. 

"Now, you just take it easy for a few days, keep your foot up. You keep moving around on it, you'll make it worse," Hosea explained, tying off the bandage before pushing up to his feet, leaning on Lenny's good knee for support as he did.

"What about the bank?" Lenny queried, and Hosea went quiet for a moment. Arthur and John looked to him for his response. 

Bank?

"Well, I'm sure we can manage without you, son," Hosea started, and Lenny sighed and leaned his head back, face a picture of disappointment. "Hey, don't be like that. How irresponsible would it be of us to have you along on a bank job when you can barely walk?"

"I know," Lenny grumbled, "I just wanted to be along for that. Show you fellers I can do a good job."

"I trust you would. Don't worry, there'll be other opportunities, I'm sure."

"'cept Dutch keeps saying this'll be the last big score," John noted with a humourless chuckle. Hosea looked at him, unamused and with a certain look in his eye. 

"Well, I ain't got much to say about that," Hosea replied, his tone abrupt. It was clear he believed as much as they did that their scores were numbered. "Anyway, you stay here, Lenny. Rest up. Can we bring you anything?"

"If I'm gonna be sat here on my ass for the foreseeable future, some books would be nice," Lenny snorted, slumping glumly in the chair as Hosea dragged over a crate and had him rest his foot on it. 

"Books," Hosea repeated with a nod, "certainly."

With that, he headed off. John left too, with a parting sympathetic pat on Lenny's shoulder, leaving just the three of us behind. I immediately turned to Lenny, fiddling with my own fingers, chewing on my lip a moment before speaking. I felt Arthur's eyes on me the whole time. 

"Lenny, I'm so sorry," I began, and Arthur laughed. 

"I was waiting for that," Arthur said, and I frowned at him in confusion. 

"Huh?" Lenny simply grunted, looking at me cluelessly. 

"I'm sorry about your ankle, I was praying all day that none of you'd get hurt, but…"

Lenny looked at Arthur, a hint of a smile curling his lips. 

"Is she for real?" Lenny shook his head and I flushed a little, feeling foolish. Was I missing something?

"Just tell her it's okay," Arthur put an arm around my waist and carefully began leading me away.

"You think this is your fault?" Lenny called to me, then laughed, "hey, don't worry about it. I forgive you for making Maggie throw me, I don't appreciate it, but at least you're sorry," he teased.

I stopped in my tracks and turned back to him, resisting Arthur's tugging. 

"It was my job you got hurt on, that's what I meant. I mean, obviously, right?"

"Listen, somethin' I came to learn real quick. Shit happens. Sometimes it's somebody's fault, but most of the time? It's just shit," Lenny snickered, shaking his head and grinning at me. 

"You're speaking to the lady who felt bad over killin' an O'Driscoll who was about to slit her throat, just let her say what she's gotta say," Arthur explained and I frowned deeper. 

"Hey, don't tease me for having… morals and– and guilt. You were the one blaming yourself for that O'Driscoll ordeal just 'cause you didn't make me leave the gang, Arthur, so you're one to talk," I snapped.

"That was a whole different thing," Arthur frowned, going serious, "I still think about that, you know."

"Well, don't!"

"How long you two been married?" Lenny asked and we swivelled our heads to look at him, observing his mischievous grin. Hosea walked back in then, a bundle of books in his hands. 

"Here you go, son. These were by your tent, but I can ask around, see if anyone can lend you something different?" He began, putting the books down next to his foot on the crate. 

Arthur took the opportunity to lead me off again, with that marriage comment ringing in my ears I didn't try to resist. Oh, to be married to Arthur Morgan… I stopped myself before I got carried away. 

He led me outside and we took a seat at the front of the house, on the edge of the fountain. He groaned as he sat down, sighing in exhaustion. He looked about as tired as I'd felt all day. 

"You alright?" I asked. Arthur nodded, yawning. "Wow. I hope last night was worth it," I said light-heartedly, smirking. 

"Oh, it definitely was. Much better than a restful night, princess," he chuckled. "That job went well, John give you your cut?"

I nodded. "It's a lot."

"Yeah, we did real well. I'll tell Dutch… I gotta speak to him at some point. Wants to talk about Angelo Bronte. Dutch is on about robbing a bank in town, so something's gotta be done about him; the man who seems to run the whole damn city."

"You're gonna rob a bank in the middle of the city?" I balked, eyes going wide and bile rising uneasily in my throat. 

"Apparently. Hosea thinks we can do it, couple of the girls have been out scoping the place. Doesn't look too heavily guarded," he explained, though it didn't quell my fears at all.

"Yeah, but what about after? Fleeing through the city? It ain't like Valentine, where you run for thirty seconds and you're out on open plains," I exclaimed and Arthur shook his head, agreeing with me.

"It's a risk. I know. But Hosea says the place is full of cash and gold, so if we get away…" he trailed off, looked up towards the house. Hosea and Dutch were sitting up on the balcony above us, talking. 

With a sigh, Arthur took my hand and led me away, over towards the edge of the water, out of earshot from any of the camp. I went along with him wearing a concerned frown. He turned to me, then, taking both of my hands and looking down at them. 

"If we get away," he continued, not yet meeting my eye, "we should have a lot of money. Enough for the whole gang to get out."

I stared for a moment, wondering why he needed to tell me that in secret. "That's great, but–"

"Not only that, my cut… my cut would be big enough that – put together with what I have saved – you and I might just be able to– to– we could get away," he finally met my eyes at that. "You and me, princess. We could leave, we'd have enough to support ourselves. I could keep you safe."

My lips parted. I had to admit, that all sounded rather wonderful. A totally fresh start, far away from Dutch and the Pinkertons and the O'Driscolls… with Arthur. Just him and me. I must've started smiling a little because Arthur smiled too, pulled me into a hug. 

"We could do it. We'd see that the others made it out alright; Charles, John, Mary-Beth, all those people you've grown close to. We'd have peace of mind and then we could leave, be done with all this getting shot at and knives held to our necks. Start leading a proper life," he whispered against the top of my head, swaying me from side to side in his arms. 

"You gotta do the bank, first," I reminded him, "oh, please be careful, Arthur."

"I'm always as careful as I can be," he told me, then pulled back to look at me, "I want this. I'm so certain of that."

"Me too," I nodded, cupping his cheeks. 

"All that's holding me back is not knowing what'll happen to these people. I want to make sure they're gonna be okay," he whispered and I nodded in understanding. "This bank could be it, princess."

"Arthur!" Dutch yelled across the camp. I looked over Arthur's shoulder to see him leaning over the edge of the balcony, waving him over. Arthur held a hand up in acknowledgement, then let out a soft breath. 

"I'll see you later," he said, kissing my forehead and squeezing my hands. I watched him walk back to the house, a feeling in my stomach a bittersweet combination of hope and dread. 

-

I awoke the next morning in my bedroll, laying on the floor of Arthur's room. I knew he'd be returning at some point in the night after heading out with Dutch, so I'd left his bed free. I had to smile to myself, then, when I felt his presence behind me, a hand softly resting on my hip. 

The next thing I registered was the smell. Wet, stagnant, musky… unpleasant. I shifted, looking over my shoulder at Arthur to see him lying asleep in just his union suit. His clothes were in a pile nearby, and I realised they were the source of the smell; his jeans and shirt sodden with filthy water, his boots caked in mud. What on Earth had he been doing last night?

I laid back down, lacing my fingers with his on my hip, lifting his hand from me as I rolled to face him, replacing it on my other hip. Arthur woke up a moment later, either stirred by my movement or sensing my eyes on him. His eyes creased with a smile when he saw me, but before he could say anything, I couldn't help but ask;

"Have you been swimming around in the swamp?"

Arthur only paused for a moment before answering. "Yes."

I quirked a brow, utterly perplexed. 

"Dutch had us helping out some feller with a boat, reckons he'll get us to Bronte's house so we won't have to go in through the city," he told me sleepily. He started to appear more alert until it all seemed to come back to him in a rush and his face shifted to urgency. "You should'a seen the goddamn alligator out there. Big as a damn bison, I swear."

I nodded in understanding. "Yeah, some big ones out there. You couldn't pay me to set foot in the water, and I grew up there, what on Earth were you doing out there?"

"It's a long story. Ended with me in the water saving some kid, almost had his leg torn off. This alligator… there's big, and then there's big,” he shook his head in disbelief. 

I stared at him, a little bit horrified. "You were in the water with a bloodthirsty gator?"

"I still got all my fingers and toes, don't worry," he chuckled, but it quickly faded off, "this kid weren't so lucky. Well, everything's still attached, I just hope he don't get gangrene. Could be pretty bad…"

"Goodness. And where was Dutch during all of this? It was his thing, getting the boat, right?"

"He was in the boat, yelling, but otherwise being unhelpful," he said drily, moving to sit up with a groan. He stretched out his back and I watched the muscles work through the clingy material of his union suit, my head propped up with my arm. "Still, I reckon he was shittin' himself. Course he weren't getting in to help."

"Course," I tutted. "I'm so glad nothing happened to you. Gators, they can be real vicious."

"You're telling me," he snorted. 

"When I was a kid, my closest neighbour's son met his end that way," I started, Arthur looking to me with widened eyes, "was out there fishing, waded in too deep and didn't see this big guy in the water."

"Shit…"

"Yeah… all I know is, his dad started firing his gun at the gator, but ended up aiming at his son just to– well, it was the kindest thing to do, apparently," I murmured solemnly.

"Jesus. This ain't filling me with confidence about getting back in that boat, heading out into the swamps again tonight," Arthur breathed, shaking his head. 

"Just make sure everyone keeps their limbs inside the boat this time. You'll be fine," I offered him my most comforting smile.

"Noted. I don't particularly feel like watching someone get torn limb from limb by some dinosaur-looking bastard," he sighed. "Anyway, I best get dressed."

"Me too. And I'll wash those nasty clothes of yours. They stink," I laughed, sitting up and reaching for my suitcase, pulling it over to me and retrieving my corset.

"They do? I'm sorry. I can't smell it, must be used to it. Either that or I stink too," he snorted. 

I leaned over and sniffed him, amusement worming its way onto my face. I held my thumb and index finger an inch or so apart and gave him a sheepish smirk. He dropped the clean shirt he was about to put on before nodding.

"I'll wash up first."

[bbbarneswrites]

Future’s Now

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: For every time Bucky thought of his past, you made him think of his future. Genre: Romance/fluff Rating: T Warnings: Swearings, mental health issues 4,314 words

Notes: Hello! It’s been a very long time since I posted something...and for that I’m sorry. My writing skills seem to be drying out each day and even when I want to write, I just can’t put anything together. This piece started last year and I finally got myself to finish it! It’s not my best but it’s something. I’m hoping to be posting another piece soon until next week. Meanwhile I hope you enjoy this one. Feedback’s always welcome! Happy reading! <3

As soon Bucky steps into the bar, he’s welcomed with the warm temperature of the crowd and its noise, the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air. Choosing that place most definitely isn’t his smartest choice, he admits, but the Winter Soldier knows how to blend in anywhere like no one else.

(Plus, this is as near as he can get to his apartment so he can’t exactly complain).

The small dancefloor is packed with people, mostly young and drunk and way too happy when compared to his shit mood but that doesn’t stop him from taking the farthest seat at the bar’s counter, his brown locks falling against his face as soon as he places his order for the strongest drink in the menu. That’s all he needs for now–a drink (that won’t make him drunk, much to his dismay) and a few hours away from the Tower and its residents, including his long lost best-friend.

After completing his fourth mission in about a week and a half, Bucky can’t help but feel annoyed and useless as his teammates keep pestering him about his well-being. Always hearing something among the lines of coping and therapy and health, he pushes all those concerns away because those are things that doesn’t matter now.

Not to his redemption, anyway. Because neither of those things will ever erase whatever shit he’s done over and over for decades in a row.

But this is his easy way out.

It should be easy enough. To spend a night somewhere around people who don’t give a fuck about him or his health. People who might hate him for what he’s done. People who’d rather have their drinks than to pay attention to what’s surrounding them. He just needs a night where he can be a nobody instead of a super soldier in a team of super human beings. And so, that’s the last thing on his mind as he takes sip after sip from his bitter drink–getting recognized.

That doesn’t happen until he takes a note on you standing right beside him, having taken the duty of ordering another round of drinks for your friends. Even though Bucky isn’t in the party looking for something or someone, he has eyes and he can’t deny you’re beautiful. And it’s funny how you’re the first girl to really catch his eye during his first hour spent at the bar.

Your hair frames your face just perfectly and the little make-up you’re wearing it’s enough to do its job and highlight your features. Your outfit isn’t the boldest one he’s seen around but it still makes him squirm a little on his seat, his eyes incapable of not flickering over the expense of your legs exposed by a black skirt, t-shirt tucked under the waistband.

You are beautiful and he can’t deny that.

But his mistake is to think you’re just another face in the crowd.

“You know, if your mugshot hadn’t been plastered in the news for months in a row, you’d give a nice NYU senior.” You say smartly, lips holding back a grin and eyes brimming with amusement while all Bucky can seem to do is stare dumbly, like a fish out of water. “A hipster-like senior, maybe? Really into arts and acting if you squint.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything but his mere raise of eyebrows is enough of an answer for you, given that you huff out a little laugh and turn your attention back to the bartender, now lining up six little cups of tequila in front of you.

Putting two and two together and now everything makes sense–the young crowd, the pop music and the insistent drinking. It’s a fucking student party and he’s right in the middle of it. Choosing that place most definitely isn’t his smartest choice, Bucky admits, but he’s surprised to acknowledge that he doesn’t want to leave. Not now, anyway.

“Guess you’d be surprised to know I was an art student back in the day.” Bucky finally breaks his silence, unable to hold back a little grin as he watches you raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Not all history books put that up, huh?”

You chuckle incredulously, eyes firmly set on his imposing frame as he just shakes his head with a deep breath and turns his attention back to the glass hanging from his fingers, holding back back a grin of his own. Bittersweet is the right word for the feeling beaming in his chest, as he misses the days where he could just talk to a girl like a normal guy but dreads the problematic person he’s become after all these years.

Bucky wonders if you’d still give him the time of your day if you knew only half of what he’s done as the soldier.

“Yeah, not all books do that. It’s a shame, really, if you ask me.” You sigh dramatically, placing a hand on your chest until Bucky is snickering in reply and you’re laughing at his sassy reaction. “Okay, so if you really were an art student, what’s your deal when it comes to it? Paintings? Performances?”

Bucky takes a sip of his drink, his lips curving in a small grin as he watches your antecipation over his answer–raised eyebrows, elbows resting on the counter, the tequila shots momentarily forgotten as you stare at him.

For someone who just wanted to get lost in a crowd less than ten minutes ago, he’s very well enjoying being the center of your interest and attention so far, much to his surprise. Oh, life, and the way it always come back to bite him in the ass and make him swallow his own words.

“Just sketching, mostly.” He answers with a small shrug, his eyes falling to the dirty wooden counter. Once you hum encouragingly, curious eyes still upon his bulky frame, Bucky continues. “Just got in art school for Steve. Wouldn’t let his sorry ass miss a chance just ‘cause he’d get beat up by bullies.”

When Bucky dares to glance up to you again, your eyes are somewhat sorrowful but there’s still a little hint of playfulness that you take up with an amused smile, making you look suddenly mischievous just like that.

He decides right then that he likes the sight, and it makes him think that if this was any other kind of life or universe (where he isn’t as fucked up as he is now), he’d do something about it.

“College kids are a bit more level-headed, you know. Or are supposed to be.” You tease, throwing him a cheeky wink as your fingers reach for one of the little tequila cups lined up in front of you. “Not all of us drink our problems to oblivion like I’m doing now. Or beat up other kids. Just sometimes.”

As you shrug and down the shot in one go with a grimace, Bucky can’t help but smirk.

Maybe he was hoping to be recognized, deep down in his consciousness. Maybe he was hoping to have someone to spit drunk but bitter truths to his face about his past. Maybe he was hoping for someone who wouldn’t coddle him, just take things as messy as they are. Maybe he was fooling himself into thinking that he didn’t want to meet someone in that night. But he’s pleasantly surprised to know all of that really is happening–just not in the way he’d been expecting.

Turns out, you don’t need to spit bitter truths to make him feel like a random guy in bar. Not an Avenger, not a recovering soldier, not a ruthless assassin. You only need to be you, talking to him as if he’s a nice NYU senior, really into art and acting, if one squint. Funny.

“Drinkin’ to oblivion sounds like a smart choice.” Bucky tips his glass between his gloved vibranium fingers but lets out a short laugh in the way. Your eyes follow the movement of his lips and he can’t help but grin, chest flaring in mild smugness with your reaction. “Can’t exactly do that with the super soldier thing and all.”

Just as Bucky takes the last sip of his drink, you raise a hand for the bartender and his cup gets filled up to the brim again. Words muffled by the rock song blasting through the room, the order is placed on your tab, just like you request it. And then, your fingers are expertly lifting up the little tequila cups together, a grin on your face as you turn to the side and rest your hip against the counter.

You are beautiful and he can’t deny that.

“Bucky Barnes.” You start, a smile on your face as you lean closer to him and lock your eyes with his. When Bucky nods in a silent urge, you swipe your tongue over your lips, feeling nothing but gleeful as he follows the movement. “Find me. And then I can maybe pose for one of those sketches of yours.”

And he does find you.

(Or FRIDAY does for him, that is).

He remembers the time where things like these were usual to him–the suits, dancing, parties and all that.

Bucky used to be that guy who liked going out, seeing and knowing people. He liked to dance, to get his best suit out of the wardrobe for a night out. He liked to have a good time with someone by his side, to feel comfortable and confident in his own skin. He liked to be a free spirit, not caring about people’s judgement over his actions and his life choices. But fast foward to this day and age, from the second the invitation is sent to his name to the actual gala party day, Bucky completely dreads the entire situation altogether.

The one thing he’s completely sure of is that he hates Tony Stark and his pompous events.

Bucky Barnes is now a former assassin with a troubled past and issues that can go down to his bones. Not exactly a perfect poster boy or a favorite between the Avengers. His day-to-day consists of occasional anxiety attacks, isolation and guilt trips. Sleepless nights, bad dreams and whatever else a man like him is supposed to have.

And still, the so dreaded night is nothing but pleasant.  

He drinks and laughs and dances and it’s a nice change from the times where he used to stick to the corners of the ballroom with people tiptoeing around him.

It’s a nice change to have someone who treats him as a whole, like he’s not made of glass or a ticking bomb that may explode at any second. Bucky might hate the parties and dislike the attention but he won’t snap because of it. Strange enough, the damn night grants him a pleasing sense of nostalgia as it makes him think of the Sergeant in a less bitter way than he’s accustomed to.

Twirling you around on the dancefloor, drinking just for the fun of it, enjoying the company of his teammates. Doing so suddenly doesn’t feel so foreign as he thought it would be.

Despite it all, Bucky can’t deny he likes this much better–both of you sitting in the corner of an old diner, waiting on your orders as the stereo plays catchy 80s songs and you pretend to sing along. Every person who passes by your booth gives a double take because you look anything but ordinary in that moment.

Between his jet black suit and your flowy mint green gown (a Dior, courtesy of Tony Stark himself, as a thank you for convincing Bucky to attend the gala), it’s clear that neither of you really belong to that place, at least not while sporting the very much expensive looking attires that will be returned in a few hours.

The burgers and fries and milkshares combo arrive in no time and after a suspicious glance from the waitress and a change of genre on the stereo (now playing a Ariana Grande song (that he’s surprised to know), you’re falling into mindless conversation between one salty fry or two.

“I need to know something really important about you.” You start, pointing one of your fries towards him in a rather threatening way, though he can clearly see you’re playing just by the mischief in your eyes. “Do you believe in astrology? Horoscopes and all that? Think wisely about this.”

With the milkshake straw between his lips, Bucky mulls over your question.

Back in the day, his life was simpler but way too busy for him to be thinking about something as seemingly silly as astrology. His sisters had magazines about it though and sometimes read bits and pieces to him, only to be always shrugged by the older brother. The traits they veemently claimed he had as a Pisces man, now don’t make much sense so maybe Bucky isn’t that sure about his astros anymore.

“I know I’m a Pisces but that’s all about it.” He finally answers, huffing out a laugh and offering a playful apologetic shrug when you glance at him in pretend hurt. “Just never put much thought into it. Can’t blame me, I was born in 1917. Why?”

In a ploy that is clearly meant to rile him up, because there’s definitely a hint of curiosity laced to his voice despite the nonchalant answer, you mirror his shrug and take your time on sipping your vanilla milkshake.

And Bucky knows he’s supposed to feel something but not this–at least, not yet.

Under the pink-ish lights of the diner, his mind is all over the place with just how pretty and just unapologetic you look in the moment. The straps of your dress are very thin, but just enough to expose your collarbones and skin, a simple necklace that hangs a little star closing around your the base of your neck. Despite the long night, your make-up is pretty much intact though a few strands of your hair are out of place. It’s right then, Bucky realizes he never wants to miss this sight–or rather you, again.

(Getting out of his comfort zone scares him a whole lot, yes, but feeling this infatuated with someone this damn quickly feels even scarier, if he’s being honest).

“Pisces are very compassionate people, you know.” You break his momentary misery, smiling cheekily despite the straw still hanging between your lips. “Very intuitive, loyal and kind. They can be a little unpredictable with their feelings, though. I can definitely see the pisces in you.”

An unfamiliar warmth spreads through Bucky’s neck and despite the unexpected blush, a rather grim laugh escapes from his lips, anyway.

He doesn’t mean to be this bitter but supposes it’s probably in his nature now, especially after the shitshow that has been his life since HYDRA. The one thing that Bucky can’t deny is the fact that even with his deep layers of grief, your sweet words are easily breaking all the way through his heavy heart.

So much that he feels soft, light as ever. He’s not made of glass or a ticking bomb that may explode at any second–he’s just Bucky.

“I think you see way too much in me, baby doll.” Bucky huffs, looking adorably sheepish as you offer him an unimpressed glance. “Just sayin’, I’ve been called a lot of things but compassionate and kind aren’t one of them.”

Stopping midway through a bite of a french fry, your face quickly shifts from tenderness to indignation.

By being who he is, Bucky doesn’t need somebody to pick up his fights. He’s stubborn as all hell, and Steve is one to testify to that. It’s hard to accept help from someone when you’ve got an historic as dirty and shady as his, he doesn’t think anybody in their right mind should be meddling in his business. It’s not a smart thing to do–being somehow associated with a former rogue assassin.  

And it’s true, Bucky Barnes definitely is a protective fucker, so he goes out of his way to protect his people from his own actions. Still, he can’t help but feel his chest flare over your own protective reaction towards him.

“That’s because people are stupid, Bucky Barnes.” You huff, voice sounding nothing but firm though there’s still a hint of empathy laced to it, one that makes Bucky smile softly. “They see what they want to see. Most of us close our eyes to the truth because it’s convenient, easier to judge.”

Silence falls between you as Bucky mulls over your words.

Over the years, there’s been a fair share of excuses for all the crimes he committed as HYDRA’s puppet–he was just a small piece of a bigger game, not in control of his mind, a victim just like other prisoners and experiments. When it comes down to it, Bucky knows it’s different, too personal when it comes to him. So he doesn’t fail to remember that it was his hand that pulled the trigger every time, his face that people last saw before their death.

He lives with the memories, sleeps upon them, and he doesn’t blame people for hating him.

That doesn’t mean the fact sits well in his heart, that he doesn’t seek redemption through his actions, that he doesn’t care about what his family thinks about him. About what you think about him. And despite knowing who you are and what you stand for, Bucky would be liar by denying the hint of fear creeping up the corners of his mind.

“Did you?” He mumbles, watching you frown in mild confusion for a second before a sigh escapes from his lips. “Did you ever judge me for what I did? Before you knew me?”

With your expression changing once again, this time from confusion to pure and unashamed affection, Bucky doesn’t expect your next move.

It takes a second for you to get up from your seat, the skirt of your dress swaying as you squeeze the way into his side of the booth. Bucky almost thinks that’s the end of it until you’ve got the lapels of his Valentino suit in a fist, pulling him to you so quickly that he barely processes your lips crashing into his.

When Bucky feels you smile against his lips, arms sliding up to close around his neck, he breaks out of his stupor to pull your body closer to him–hands on your hips, just slightly lifting you so it’s enough to bring you to his lap between the tight fit of the corner table. And while both of you know it’s highly inappropriate to be doing this in the middle of a diner so late into the night, discretion is thrown into the wind as soon you melt into the kiss.

A change of song makes you break apart from his lips with a laugh and Bucky bets it’s from a girlband he can’t quite remember the name.

Tightening your arms around his neck, he can’t help but smile by feeling your face buried against his skin, soon enough with your lips lightly pressing little kisses over the collar of his button-up. It’s right there that Bucky realizes–even though you haven’t said a word, he’s got the answer in the best way possible.

Your eyes were always open for his truth.

Sitting half asleep in the kitchen island of your little apartment in Queens, a lukewarm mug of tea between his fingers, Bucky can’t help but replay the twisted images of his nightmare over and over again.

It’s been over a year since the last time he’s even had one but the familiar heavy feeling settles back inside his chest like it never really left.

Irony seems like a right take on his situation–years and years spent with HYDRA having his body and mind harmed to no end, added to the many more he’s spend on the run until he was put back under and deprogrammed, to then become dust in Wakanda. He’s gone through hell and back but yet, he’s surprised to be visited by the ghosts of his past.

Over a year ago, he couldn’t care less about his nightmares.

They were his own–a sick, twisted way of coping and redeeming himself for his time with HYDRA. Sometimes if felt like a reassurance, a reminder that it was never him, never his own volition, only HYDRA. But even then, they were never like this one. It was always his victims, glimpses of bloodied places, hints of pain, blurried memories and faces that belong solely to the puppet he once was. It was never about Steve, his family, the Avengers, never about someone too close to his heart.

(Funny to see how his mind has betrayed him. Life is right there making him swallow his words once again).

Bucky can’t shake the image of your body strapped to the chair.

At first, there’s no comfort to seeing you safe and sound once he finally wakes up. It only makes him anxious, the possibility that his nightmare could eventually become a reality crushing his chest. It makes him angry, because out of all people in his life and all bullshit he’s been through, his subconscious chooses you to haunt him. It makes him painfully aware that anything can go south in his life, no matter how comfortable he feels.

But right now, Bucky’s heart can’t help but feel lighter as he watches you step into the kitchen in your baby blue pajamas and fuzzy socks, looking cozy and sleepy and just very you.

Knowing him inside and out, you silently walk over, arms reaching out around his waist and just lightly squeezing closer to  your chest. Your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades and his own hands covering your own over his stomach, Bucky easily feels like he’s safe again.

“Whatever’s going through your head right now, you know it’s not true. Right?” You mumble, voice muffled with the fabric of his t-shirt, though he can still feel the warmth of your breath and your hair tickling the nape of his neck. “Unless you’re thinking about us adopting a pet. I’m all up for that, just so you know.”

Though it’s small, an unexpected smile makes its way to Bucky’s lips. To match, his cheeks burn to a rosy tone over the mere thought of an earlier discussion–a dog or a cat, Bucky, so we can finally be a family. And now, he doesn’t voice his sudden agreement, but he’s most definitely taking you to the shelter soon in the morning.

Gently prying your hands from him, a little noise of distaste coming from you that makes him really laugh, Bucky turns around on his seat and then there’s you standing between his legs.

“So no breakfast in bed tomorrow morning then? Goddamn, doll.” He huffs, eyebrows drawn together in pretend annoyance until you’re playfully slapping his thigh. “Breakfast in bed. Got it.”

The sound of your laugh echoing through the apartment and the sweet sight you make after such a hellish hour is enough to send him reeling back to a simpler time.

Where he could enjoy a night with his best-friend, win a fight or two as a welterweight boxer, provide what he could for his family, meet a nice dame that he’d eventually give out his mother’s ring, passing on the Barnes legacy with a kid or two, or whatever else a man from his time is supposed to do. And though Bucky hadn’t let himself think of that for a long time, he can’t help but to do so with you.

His life is anything but simple but his life with you can be just that and more.

“I’m not opposed to breakfast in bed, I’ll say. Nutella pancakes.” You wink, a tender smile curling your lips as your hand reaches out to cup his jaw. Beard harsh against your palm, you brush a thumb over his lower lip. “Are you okay enough for breakfast in bed tomorrow morning?”

Lips pressing a tiny kiss to your finger, arms reaching out to your hips and forehead meeting yours as he leans closer, Bucky nods.

“Just if you’ll have me for breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.” He chuckles quietly, sighing as your hand falls to his neck, fingertips into his hair. “I’m good, baby girl. Promise.”

Life and the way it always come back to bite him in the ass and make him swallow his own words. All it takes is a tug down from your hands until your lips are meeting his and Bucky is just melting away. It’s sweet, soft, and it makes all of his worries fade just as quickly as they fogged up his mind. You feel warm, welcoming and familiar–just like home is supposed to feel like, whether if it’s now or seventy years back in the past.

“Okay then, Mr. James Barnes.” You mumble, lips still brushing over his after the broken kiss. Eyes still closed, his lips curl up in a small smile when you squeeze his neck. “Tomorrow, we’ll have breakfast in bed with nutella pancakes. And then, we’ll make it a day out to visit a few thrift stores I’ve been meaning to go. Got it?”

Thrift stores like his baby sister would drag him to and that he’d usually hate with all his might.

Though the idea doesn’t sound so bad now–it’s a hint from his past with a twist of his future that makes Bucky realize that despite of all the ghosts glooming over him, he’s still standing tall, still hopeful for the life twenty-one year old Bucky Barnes planned out.

And so, with another kiss pressed to your lips, he promises to fullfil his own wish.

“I got it.”

[acuppellarp]

♬ Full Name: Louisa Cristina “Lola” Alvarez ♪  FC: Lauren Jauregui ♫ Alternate FCs: ♪ Age/Birthday: 25 / March 23, 1994 ♫ Occupation: Model/make-up artist/burlesque dancer/photographer ♪ Hometown: Brooklyn, NY ♫ Personality: enigmatic, magnetic, confident, lonely, passionate 

Louisa doesn’t talk about her birth parents, simply because there’s nothing to talk about. Her father, she can assume, was never really in the picture, and her mother left her on the stoop of a fire department in the 99th precinct of New York City, so it’s not as if she cared. Louisa rarely thinks about her birth parents, if at all. The truth was, Consuelo Migdas was sixteen when she gave birth to Louisa, and wasn’t ready to have a family. She had hoped that by putting her daughter up for adoption, she’d be put into a good home.

It took twelve years for Louisa to be adopted. Twelve years for the world to show Louisa its cold nature. By the time she turned ten, Louisa had been carted to four different foster homes. Every time it looked like there was a promise of someone wanting to take her home, she ended up being returned like a blouse that didn’t fit quite right. Louisa quickly began losing hope that anybody would keep her for good. She’d be stuck in the foster system until she was eighteen years old, and then she’d become a ward of the state. She’d have to fend for herself in the extremely cruel city of New York.

If you asked her now, she’d tell you that it could have been much worse, but that’s very much in line with Louisa’s character. She’s not dramatic in that way. She’ll downplay anything to make you think she hasn’t suffered, she’s perfectly fine. But truthfully? Not having the unconditional love of a family had more of an impact on her than she’d ever care to admit. Louisa was awful in school– on the days she came in and wasn’t starving, she found that it was tough for her to concentrate. Numbers and words didn’t make sense. Once, as a Christmas gift, she was given a book from one of her teachers: Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. Louisa loved that they had the same name, and she loved the idea of growing up with four sisters who loved her and a mother who would do anything for her. All she wanted was a stable, consistent life.

Louisa found that she loved art from the very beginning, and would lose herself in drawings. She loved to play dress up.  She liked to take things, too. It started small, like a pack of gum or a candy bar. Nobody was any the wiser, and Louisa would never steal from the same place twice. She would steal art supplies from her school and only got caught once. Crying, she explained to her teacher that she only wanted to be able to draw at home. Three days later, she was gifted a beautiful set of over a hundred colored pencils. Every hue and shade Louisa could possibly imagine was in that set. She saved the nubs of those pencils and strung them together to make a necklace. It serves as a reminder for her– how far she’s come, and how much farther she has to go.

Things changed rapidly for the better when Mimi adopted her. At least, that’s how she introduced herself to Louisa: “I’m going to be your Mimi and we’re going to be very happy together.” It took Louisa a solid three months to believe her. If she could last longer than three months, that would be all. But Mimi showed her a home that was full of love, and a place where she was accepted. She had dinner every night, she had a quiet, cozy place to read her favorite book, and Mimi made sure she did all of her homework instead of roaming the streets.

It was when she was thirteen that she started going by Lola, if only because that’s what Mimi called her. When she asked why, Mimi would start singing the song from Damn Yankees– whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. And honestly, Lola wasn’t used to being spoiled. She wasn’t used to someone loving her. She wasn’t used to a real home.

When she applied to FIT, she put the design on the side and instead chose to focus on the modeling aspect. She got her degree, fine, but found herself loving the idea of being someone’s muse. Someone’s obsession. Someone’s love. Lola began to become heavily involved in making her own clothing, with the sewing machine that had been passed down from Mimi’s dressmaking mother right into Lola’s greedy little hands. It cost them a fortune to send her to college, but Mimi swore Lola was going to be on the cover every fashion magazine someday. Lola assured Mimi that she was too short, and focused on building a following via social media, something that she keeps up with today.

Lola’s life couldn’t be without one more tragedy, though. Mimi was cleaning the floor of their apartment in Brooklyn when she slipped on a puddle and hit her head. The injury resulted in dementia-like symptoms, not uncommon in Mimi’s age. After calling emergency services, Lola was told that there was nothing more that the doctors could do. Mimi was transferred to a care facility in Queens, and Lola visits her as faithfully as she can. Mimi is lucid sometimes, but often has no idea who Lola is other than the nice girl who visits her and sketches her.

Mimi’s current state has broken Lola’s heart. She’s picked up a few random jobs trying to make some extra cash– including dancing at a burlesque club (she insists it’s for the glamor of it all, but it’s mostly because she likes the attention), modeling for a series of painting classes (again, Lola likes attention), and working as a make-up artist. All the money she makes goes to pay for Mimi’s care, and to keep her room full of fresh flowers. Lola feels lost, understandably so, which is why she’s been so happy to join April’s Growers. It’s given her a new sense of purpose, even if sometimes she’s still kind of sad. Lola is doing the best that she can to juggle her odd jobs, her newfound roommates, her beloved mother, and pursuing what she loves.

Pets:  Lola recently rescued a French bulldog puppy named Donatella, who she loves more than life itself.

♬ Santana Lopez

All things considered, they should be rivals– they’re both Latinas who can sing, they’re both drop dead gorgeous, and they usually go for the same modeling gigs– but Lola and Santana have somehow managed to become friends. It also doesn’t hurt that they’re now prone to admire each other’s beauty as often as they can in someone’s bedroom.

♪  Reggie Cliffton

Ah, how does Lola even begin to describe Reggie Clifton? They met at a rally in the city more than a year ago, which is only too fitting for the both of them.  Lola fell for Reggie and she fell very hard. They flirted, they messed around a lot, and when they admitted that they had feelings for each other, it was peppered with the worst thing Lola’s ever heard: I like you, but I don’t want to be in a relationship with you. Reggie, apparently, wasn’t ready, and Lola took her broken heart all the way back to Brooklyn and away from Acup. She’s come back around, though, and Lola is wasting no time in showing Reggie what she passed up.

♫ X Scott

X and Lola have a really beautiful relationship, based on a mutual love of art. Lola has become something of a muse to X, and she’s always willing to pose for a photo or painting. They’re very much kindred spirits and Lola would go to the ends of the earth for X.

♪ Nicola de Rocha and Kitty Wilde

Her roommates, but also her best friends. She’s only moved in with them recently, after Mimi’s accident. Her Brooklyn home got to be too quiet, and Lola loves their chatter. Lola thinks of them as three larger-than-life personalities who could gossip until the sun comes up. She’s not so subtly hinting to Kitty that she wants to shoot at Vogue, and always dropping her wishlist to Nicola. She loves her roommates and would do anything for them.

[extradan]

Hey I like your art a ton and I was wondering just how long you have been drawing and working to improve as an artist.

Oh my gosh haha thank you so much for liking my art!

I have been drawing for the longest time, I think ever since kindergarten, well at least the artistic dedication! 

I used to draw my when i was in middle school, starting from fourth grade i have been drawing more and more frequently until fifth grade in which I was drawing on a daily base, back then I would also be sitting and making animations on flash, which unfortunately I dont have backups of

but from middle school, up to high school 2012, my art never improved, it was just all the same all the time, I was back then on ritalin and I decided to start my first pony blog, while updating my blog, I couldnt consider yet Tumblr being part of the effective social websites that I go on as nobody was following me and I had no one to intreact with back, tumblr would be the thing i would check once every few days, it was nothing to me but a mere another google plus, until i was sponsored by catfood-mcfly back when he was running the Herpy Derpy blog, and thats where I got recognized and I was determined to continue my activity on tumblr as an ask blog, and I have gotten to become more interactive with people, being inspired by the many of the art I have been seeing from following other people, I would adopt and experiment with what I saw mostly shines through their art, and 2012 was the year I have made the biggest change in my art throughout the months, whitin 6-8 months I have improved by a ton!  tumblr was a very resourceful to the evolution of my art! and I also made so many friends and I have as well learned to become a better person! I am a better person of who I used to be in the past, and i am still improving! there are still a lot of things I need to work about myself as a person!

Also stepping out of drawing in flash and starting doing my stuff in sai was revolutionary to my art, flash back then wasnt recognized fully as an animators program by macromedia and neither by adobe, as they saw it an all purpose program for making goptimized ames and ads, only until all browsers and webpages grew out of flash and flash officially was blocked by all browsers since you could have implanted malicious codes into flash files, only then flash recognized as an art and animation tool for creators.

So moving to sai allowed me to build sketches and bodies easily and paint and yadda yadda and it was all great and helped boosting my art upwards

Flash limited my improvement as I wasnt drawing sketches on flash since you couldnt just lower the opacity of the layer you drew the sketch on, you would have to go through several actions to achieve that, but you would be lowering the opacity of your selected drawing and not the layer, I couldnt also paint on flash and flash ever since the stone age had those horrible vector tools that SUCKED DICK unless you do stretching and smoothing and fixing, in my opinion at least, they did improve the vector system a bit BUT IT STILL SUCKS, i prefer bitmap brushes more, which why I prefer Toon Boom harmony as a program for animators.

If you have been back in the days, you could have watched me go through a several phases! like drawing like atryl, raikissu’s shading and coloring styles, florecentmoo’s shading techniques and eye pupil style, and I uhh.. dont remember the rest, but theres have been a lot of artists out there whom I adopted artistic traits like:

theflyingtacoz, kittentoots(drunk fluttershy), w300, Santi, belaboy, dr idiot, inzergue (big impact on my current style), David (the guy who now works on mighty magiswords along with kyle), fungasm, colorlesscupcake (known as caek now), ahappypichu (a pretty powerful current impact on how i paint my art today), uhh, also “pinkie in private” which, to this day, drawing the way the draw the cheek for their characters, and some other artists I that I couldnt come up in my mind but I did adapt a trait or two from.

My current big inspirations are artists who work on OK KO and as fake as it might sound, my own fiance! yes!! they have been an inspiration for me for quite a while even back at 2012, but to how I viewed it, I never really dared to adopt anything from them because I was so out of their league, and my art was still shaping and i already had ideas that I wouldnt think would work if i mixed some of their’s, but now that my art have been developed and has a solid state of how it looks, they inspire me so much!!

Drawing ponies was probably the best practice I have ever had that thanks to that I have pushed so far in the art that I do, ponies are so simplified!! and easy to draw! it allowed me to produce more and that means that it allowed me to experience differently with each time! 

It helped me improve with a lot of stuff like gesture, facial and painting and other other minor stuff! drawing ponies was such a booster seat for me!

But unfortunately, from drawing ponies alot you wont learn how to draw humans, which understanding muscle, action line, figure and bones is so crucial for drawing, anything really! understanding how the body works is extremely fundamental and its there for you to know how to manipulate the drawings your making, of any specie, its not there to just teach you how to draw the anatomy of the human body, that will only serve as a plus.

I have learned a lot from ponies but how bodies work and draw clothes lmafo, to this day I cant draw clothes for days

in 2014 I ordered a really good book and I have polished my anatomy and human drawing skills, I yet dont know some stuff because i stopped practicing because of varios reason like relationship, access and physical health.

In the begging of the year I acquired a cintiq and it been nothing but dreadful to me, but im using it because i spent.. so much money on it.. and i have been so concerned about bringing it to my home country as well.. but it has the adventage of a screen so... 

its just, I dont have a low enough desktop or high enough chair to draw on it, its always above my shoulder no matter the angle and it puts so much weight on my shoulders, the thing is heavy too so its not something you could lean on your legs while you draw, neither it is portable, it made work much more harder and difficult and I wasnt drawing as frequesnt because my time wasnt so so enjoyable, my 2015 as well become a dreadful year to me and I was feeling guilty and shitty everyday, and it was my fault because it was all my doing and i let myself feel that way, and I had barely the stamina to work on my art ever over the year, I also lost my passion and motivation to draw and basically it dragged also to 2016, I drew a few commissions but I didnt produce much art neither, then I flew over the united states and I didnt have acess to drawing for 4 months as i was away from my equipment, my fiance had the equipment, but that means that I would have to use their computer for all the dedicated hours I use to work on my art and they would have nothing but a mere phone to entertain themselves, also our time togehter was really precious and every minute counted, so we rathered having fun other than doing work work work

2017 came and I still had the sense of drawing lost in me, I would draw whenever i would have a piece of paper available to me since I find fun in that, since im comfortable and cozy and i dont have to concentrate the entirety of my body weight on my hand and arm as i draw, but I would never draw on the cintiq unless its a miracle or if had a crazy comic idea in mind that i had and MUST HAD executed, i almost didnt draw anything in 2017, and neither in this year but the ok ko drawing i have recently created, but I found a new comfortable focus and its doing 3d, I am using my mouse to do everything and i dont have to feel my horrible chair scraping againt my butt like sandpaper, and I dont to feel like my shoulders are about to give up, I did try Tam’s 13hd and it was so much more comfortable and nice to draw on as i could put it on the bed or on my legs, but I cant afford another expensive piece of equipment, especially not in this generation of technology, wacom fucking sucks but no other brand is willing to be their competitive because tablet is not the purchase the average person would make.

Another reason why I have been so held on drawing and using the cintiq, which was probably the most major thing was it’s total, hot flaming shitty garbage diarrhea poopy stank abysmal horrible disgusting nasty dumbass smelly drivers which made every chance i had to draw a miss because i would battle myself from 30 minutes to over a hour fixing my tablet to draw a single thing, and its been like that every time i would turn my cintiq on! the situation was severe and everytime i would find a solution, it would be later suppressed, it was so harsh that i had a few months in which nothing I would do would make the drivers function, i was basically tabletless, so many, and a lot of opportunities for me to create a piece of drawing was flushed in the toilet with the rest, and so it was a deeper burden on my passion, determination and motivation to draw.

But yeah, now im doing 3d and it feels like a fresh hobby to me since I felt that im not going anywhere in and with my art (even though I yet have to learn how to draw bodies better, let alone drawing limbs, feet and CLOTHES!!)

and now the future has yet to be revealed!

[goldenscript]

i remember.

2,461 words | fluff, light angst ↳ meeting on a train au + lim changkyun

author’s note: this turned into a bit of a free-write, but i did enjoy how it came out! i know i’ve been crazy slow with these milestones “drabbles” but they’re still in the works!

They met on a train, going for unknown destinations, until eventually they had to get off and take their hearts with them.

—

The cerulean hues of the sky are congregated with wisps of white fluff, passing by within a blink of an eye as the train continues on its path toward the city of Seoul. Inside the cabins are a conglomerate of businessmen stuck on their devices. Each of them either mindlessly scrolling or fervently bashing their keyboards over tons of emails on matters that go beyond anyone else’s concerns. Despite how much they’re missing out on the very experience, there’s some peace to this.

The sight of businessmen glued to their cellphones or laptops are not new to you. Neither are the sights of elderly grandmas patiently waiting for their stop or the kids running around trying to catch glimpses out of different windows. Although these sorts of things remained the same, the view you see outside of the windows always manages to steal your breath away.

Perhaps it’s also just because you’ve always liked trains. They gave you the comfort of travel like a car without the stuffiness, and they were often quicker too. But it was also the freedom that they extruded that often ignited your fancy for the railroads and semi-plush seats. You enjoyed knowing that adventure was up ahead even if it were a mere three hours away. The very idea always struck you the most in childhood. Nowadays, it’s gotten harder to rid yourself of this desire ever since the first time.

The wind whips around you, your hair flies around your visage and even your coat billows toward against the gusts. To escape the cold, you shuffle into the train’s main seating area after a couple of well-dressed men jabbering on their cellphones. With your suitcase at your hand, you maneuver around them in search of a cabin, preferably empty or at least with two other people maximum. Although you’re fond of people to an extent, you want to enjoy the view of the window, actually bask in the experience of the train ride while the destination—wherever you decide to stop off at—stumbles upon you.

You walk between the aisles, careful not to run anyone’s foot over or run into anyone to avoid any possible conflict. Again, you’re here to enjoy yourself, not sustain a disdain for something you’ve waited twelve years for. Between gaining entrance into university and hoping to sate your parents’ expectations, you needed some kind of peace, some kind of solace with a life of post-high school graduate taking hold. You’ve had your fair share of crises for what comes next, but this trip was keeping you the most sane.

Over the course of your academic career, you’ve felt the pressure to know what you want to do. If you don’t, then you’re screwed basically. The thought alone is taxing. It even elicits a shudder down your spine as you pass through cabins filled with a plethora of different, unknown faces. None of which judged you for what you were doing or tried to nag you into some fruitless career that you knew no happiness would come out of it. 

At least here I’m a nobody like them. Just a traveler.

Relief floods your system the moment you pass by a cabin with only one occupant. You’ve found your spot.

“Is this seat taken?” The unevenness to your tone is hard to mask even with the softness, but you can’t help but feel your nerves tense up knowing that this is finally happening. You were finally going to ride this train and go somewhere far away. All you needed to do is find a seat, which you might’ve—you’re just praying you won’t be stuck with someone that’ll put a damper on the journey itself. After all, the trek to your destination also made up for about 85% of the train ride itself.

The man you’ve just addressed barely looks up, his dark hues flickering to meet yours before training them back onto a half-scribbled blank page. He doesn’t say anything, only provides you with a small nod of his head, so you take that opportunity and plop down on the grey leather cushion.

There’s a small metal table underneath him, his knit-covered limbs moving effortlessly with the small pencil in hand. You take a moment to really look at his visage, noting his fan of dark lashes, the strong definition of his nose, and the way his lips remained in a thin line. His hair is dark, swept to the side though there’s one piece that refuses to remain at his profile. He dons dark clothing, comfortable ones for travel, and you can’t help but admit that he’s handsome.

You don’t know what it is about him, but you try not to stare, allowing your attention to drift to the window with your own thoughts circling around in your head. By now, the train is moving, taking its passengers to wherever it is they need to get to. Not you, though.

You glance back to your only cabin mate for a brief second again.

“Where are you going?” he asks softly, meeting your gaze. His voice is soft, but there’s something that strikes it as calming to you. It suits him. And it stops you from breaking eye contact with him. “Is your stop coming up in the next half-hour?”

“Oh no…” you say with a small smile curving on your lips. Truthfully, you hadn’t expected him to talk to you at all. “Why do you ask?”

He exhales and the sound is akin to a soft laugh, though it only fuels your own pink cheeks. “You keep looking out the window, so I thought you were waiting.”

You shake your head, laughing then, “No, no. I’m just excited. This is my first train ride.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, eyes widening slightly.

You nod, “What about you?”

He shakes his head, “i’d say it’s my second or third? I enjoy riding so I figured this over a taxi.”

“Are you just traveling or is this a business trip?” you ask, nearly facepalming yourself for prying. So, you’re quick to lean forward to add, “Or is it top-secret, y’know, like spy work?”

You’re still smiling as you say this, and he begins to do the same. He even gives a nod, “Yeah, definitely top-secret. I’m delivering some artwork to this gallery. Gotta keep it from those evil businessmen you see over there,” he points a thumb to his right at the swarm of businessmen outside the window.

You laugh as his smile widens. “Does this art gallery have a destination then?”

He shrugs, his features scrunching together slightly, “More like, trying to find that right gallery. I can’t just give it to anyone, y’know.”

You nod in understanding, “I’m sure you’ll find the right one then. I don’t doubt your spy abilities.”

“Thank you,” he beams, “Um… what’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you reply, feeling your cheeks tingle.

“Y/N.” he repeats, giving a nod. He extends his hand to yours before giving it a firm shake. “I’m Changkyun.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Changkyun…” you then whisper, “the spy.”

He nods, biting back a small laugh, “And, you too, Y/N…” he leans forward to whisper, “the non-spy.”

You’re about to open your mouth to ask him about his art when he suddenly asks, “And where is your destination?”

You shrug in response. You admit you don’t really have a particular one. “If it feels right then I’ll get off. I kinda just bought a ticket and figured I’d stop wherever.”

He nods in understanding, rather than the usual hesitance you were used to getting, “Kinda relatable. I’m not exactly a concise traveler so I get that—it’s a lot more fun being surprised anyway.”

“Thank you!” you then say, “Not many people get that.”

He laughs, “Believe me, I get it. I’m an artist—next to being a spy—so getting called impractical it practically a second name for me.”

“Speaking of art…” you decide to change the subject, “what’s that you’re working on?”

“Oh this?” he blinks, pointing at the sketch pad with his pencil. When you nod, you can see the corners of his lips twitch, “Just a random piece. I liked how the outside looked with the railroad signs and the wind blowing everything.”

He turns the pad toward you, allowing you to take in his rendition of the outside world. It’s not particularly outlandish but you can see the way he captures the shadows in particular areas and emphasizes certain parts of the scenery that just keep you captivated to the scene. You know it’s supposed to be the scene you saw outside at the train stop, but you’re almost sure that this is a place away from there, a place you’d like to see as well. You like it, and you say so.

You’re then met with a dumbfounded expression on the young man, his brows are even arched upward, “Really?”

You nod, “Really.” When he tells you it was just a quick sketch, you just roll your eyes and reply, “Quick sketch or not, I really like it. I feel like I just want to be there. I want to see what you see.”

And, in that moment, Changkyun lights up, even more than when you told him you liked his sketch. His art is his everything. It’s an outlet, an escape from the real world, and as much as he’s liked keeping it to himself, he’s also enjoyed sharing it with people (which was partially why he was going from art gallery to art gallery to sell his pieces). Unfortunately, he’s received more misses than hits than he’d like, some of his friends were beginning to coax into becoming more practical, and for once in about three months, he heard encouragement—thanks to you.

The train ride passes like grains of sands into a sieve. You don’t know where it’s gone, but it’s slipped past your grasps faster than you can blink, because one moment you’re listening to Changkyun talk through his portfolio, each of them holding your attention in ways you never thought would, until you hear them call out for Daecheon.

You two blink from within your daze as if reality was setting in now that you both had your escape. He fumbles through his words now, a little more than when he was explaining through his plethora of pieces (which was still cute either way), that it was his stop.

“Oh…” you say, brows furrowing now. “Damn, time has really flown with you, Changkyun.”

He nods, making sure the pieces are pulled together in the leather folder. “I know… I—” he laughs, “—I actually normally never talk that much with anyone, but it was really easy with you. I liked it a lot.”

“I like you—I mean it—a lot too.” you fumble, giving your thigh a small pinch, “Ah, well, before I regret not doing this, can I see your sketch pad?”

He hands you the book, and you flip it to a clean page. You look to him with a raised brow, “Do you care if I write in this?”

He shakes his head, so you rummage through your bag for a pen, scribbling a set of numbers on the fresh page and signing it off with a smiley-face and your name.

“Call me sometime?” you tell him, handing him the book. “Maybe we can get lost on here… together.”

He takes a moment to respond, but he holds the sketchpad in his arms. There’s even a smile that’s curving wider on his lips, “I’d like that.”

He called you a few days after that first day, and you two talked about things that paved the way for what ensued. He was an artist with a passion for what he loved, though his finances could hardly agree at times, he made it work. He learned that you were a student with a drive to see the world, and you were determined to make that happen. Between your two worlds, it converged with your desires for more than met the actual eye.

It hadn’t even been a month since you last saw him that first time, but you had trips going on every two months to places neither of you had been to. It was the start of adventures, of memories you held near and dear, and still, you keep them close. You got on those train rides with him, passing between cities together, with no particular destination in mind. Only an open heart and mind until you both found yourselves in places that just seemed right, whether that was stopping by Busan for the beach or the rural area for a taste of simplicity.

In this day and age, lives as frivolous as this paved the way for newfound love and problems in the longevity. You knew it from the way his destinations grew more and more practical, less of traveling and more in settling in the comforts of your shared city in Seoul. And still, you couldn’t find it in your heart to settle. It wasn’t your nature, and as much as you wanted to adapt to his taste, you could not. He couldn’t with you either.

He did make your heart soar. He made soar high and low. Regardless, it was the kind of flight that felt like once in a lifetime. You just couldn’t bring yourself to land when he was ready to.

Laughter about spies and evil term papers melted into arguments and seething silences so much that that soaring felt like crashing and suddenly your heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Because, one thing about you is that your heart goes into whatever you want, whatever is worth it, but one day, that love for Changkyun was nothing more than just a shell.

As you passed through the familiar hallways, looking between the cabins, you can’t help but notice a head of dark auburn locks that look a little too much like the man you once loved. He’s sketching and everything. You almost want to say something when you see a dainty hand wave itself in front of the man (though it isn’t him), and you can’t help but still feel a little relieved.

Months ago, your heart would’ve been broken, probably shattered, because love is fleeting. It’s like those grains of sand going down the sieve. And, you suppose the same can be said about your need for train rides, but you know that as quickly as everything passes, it’s best to enjoy it while you can. 

Whatever’s ahead, you’re happy to keep it close to your heart like the times before.

[onstagesport]

Color My World Chapter 1/ 2

I may be taking a hiatus from Ao3, but I still want to share this. I did a lot of research for this and also am ignoring the passage of time (aka It’s 1903 but they haven’t aged)

Crutchie supposed that he just didn’t ‘get’ art. He enjoyed sketches and even some paintings, but he couldn’t really distinguish them from each other unless the content was really memorable. Most of the time, it wasn’t. But that was okay, he just didn’t ‘get’ art.

He liked Jack’s art, though! Everything Jack showed him, even the paintings he thought were kind of ugly though he never said that out loud. Jack was usually so secretive about his art that if he shared it, he either knew it was ugly and didn’t care or he was especially proud of it. Either way, Crutchie voicing his opinion would do no good.

After a stressful day of selling, all Crutchie wanted to do was go up to the penthouse and unwind with Jack. The headline had been crappy, and his leg hurt more than usual but he refused to play it up for sympathy. That would make him just as bad as all the others who faked their limps.

He struggled up the ladder to the rooftop, pulling himself up rung by rung and holding his crutch under his chin. If he dropped it from all the way up here and it fell to the ground, he might never get it back. That would be the cherry on top of his day.

“Hey, Crutchie! Heard you coming!” Jack appeared above him with a jovial laugh, ready to lend a helping hand.

“I can do it,” Crutchie glowered. Jack had seen him do it before.

“I know,” Jack promised with a smile. “But how’s about I take your crutch and then you don’t have to worry about it, huh?”

Crutchie frowned up at him but allowed him to take the crutch up to the penthouse for him. He took several more seconds to climb, but eventually he got there. Jack was waiting for him at the top of the ladder and he held out the crutch with fanfare. Crutchie had to smile at that. Jack could brighten even his gloomiest day.

They settled in and Jack returned to what he had been doing before Crutchie arrived. Unsurprisingly, he was sketching on some rolls of paper that Miss Medda probably provided.

“What are those?” Crutchie asked curiously, pointing to the sticks Jack was using to sketch. They were shorter than Jack’s pencils and wrapped in paper, so they couldn’t be the coal sticks he occasionally used.

Jack turned to him, beaming.

“Just got them today,” he nodded, proudly handing over the box. “For a nickel.”

Crutchie nodded as he read the box.

‘Crayola Gold Medal Eight Colors School Crayons Binney & Smith Co.’

“A nickel?” he repeated, looking up at Jack.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, saw them in a shop and figured ‘you know, I deserve something nice.’”

Crutchie snorted, shaking his head at Jack.

“What? You think I don’t deserve something nice?” Jack pouted, placing a hand over his heart. “That hurts, Crutchie.”

“What I think is I think you got conned.”

Jack huffed out a laugh and held up the eighth crayon that was missing from the box to show that he had gotten what he paid for. Crutchie turned the box over in his hands to see if there was any more information about crayons.

“Can you pass me the green one?” Jack asked, holding out his for an exchange.

“Sure thing,” Crutchie nodded. He picked one from the case and passed it to Jack. “What’re you drawing?”

Jack didn’t respond, but instead gave Crutchie a slightly confused look for a moment. Crutchie somehow felt very small. He wasn’t used to feeling like that with Jack.

“What?” he asked, his eyes darting to the ladder. He knew that he wouldn’t need to escape from Jack, but there was a fleeting moment of panic.

“Sorry. Did I say ‘brown?’ I meant green,” Jack corrected, handing the crayon back.

Now, Crutchie looked at him in confusion.

“No, you said green. …Like the grass,” he confirmed.

Jack side eyed Crutchie. Whatever this joke was, he sure was committing to it. He asked for the box back and Crutchie willingly handed it over. Jack plucked out a crayon that was almost the exact same color.

“Green, like the grass,” he repeated. Crutchie stared between the two crayons, trying to see how either was more grass-like than the other.

“Can you not see colors?” Jack inquired. Crutchie knew he didn’t mean to be, but after the day he had, that rubbed him the wrong way.

“I see colors,” he grumbled. He didn’t need a messed up leg and messed up eyes. He continued a little more quietly. “They just all look the same.”

Jack stared at Crutchie in awe like he was some kind of exotic exhibit in a zoo. Crutchie grabbed for his crutch. Even though going inside would be loud and grating, it was better than sitting here and getting silently made fun of by his best friend.

“Hey. Hey, where you going?” Jack asked, sitting up straighter as Crutchie got to his feet.

“You’re looking at me weird,” Crutchie defended.

“Sorry, I never knew nobody who couldn’t see colors,” Jack explained, rolling up the papers so he could stand too.

“I didn’t know I couldn’t see colors!” Crutchie burst. He had a limp and he couldn’t see right. If he lost his hearing, the guys would think he was an absolute goldmine for garnering sympathy buyers.

Jack reached out to him, carefully touching his shoulders and starting to bring him in for a hug. It was too hot for that and Crutchie shook him away.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack smiled at him. “It ain’t a big deal.” An idea struck him. “You know, I bet we ask Davey and he would be able to tell you a ton of people who can’t see colors. Inventors, scientists, millionaires…”

Crutchie perked up a bit. Not only about the fact that there might be other people like him, but at the mention of Davey. He hurried to the discarded box of crayons and picked it up. He drew two and stared at them for a long time. 

“Davey’s eyes are blue,” he stated decisively, holding them both up when he couldn’t choose between them. Jack laughed, but it was almost endearing enough that Crutchie didn’t mind. He took one of the crayons out of Crutchie’s hand.

“Davey’s eyes are blue,” he confirmed, smiling. “This is purple.”

Crutchie wanted to argue that they were exactly the same color but Jack was the one of them who saw colors right. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to be good-natured. He shouldn’t be surprised something else was wrong with him.

“I guess I’ll just have to believe you,” Crutchie dramatically sighed in Jack’s direction, sitting back down. Jack smiled at him.

“You’re not leaving?” he teased, settling in beside him. Crutchie shrugged like he hadn’t made up his mind to stay.

“What were you drawing anyway?” Crutchie asked, looking around for what Jack could have been referencing on the roof that required green.

Jack sank into himself a little, modest.

“I never used crayon before, so I was just doing some little test doodles,” he brushed off the question. Crutchie stared at him insistently, silently probing for more. “And I like to draw people I know when I doodle, okay?”

Crutchie scrunched his face in confusion. “And you needed green? Why?” He had a theory but it was probably stupid so he kept it to himself. He didn’t want Jack to laugh at him for asking if the boys with darker skin or darker hair could be green.

Almost sheepishly, Jack reached over and unrolled the paper he had been using.  “Now, like I said I never used them before so it’s not that good and I didn’t finish, but…here.”

He showed Crutchie a half-finished portrait. The lines were kind of flaky but they were still definitely outlining his own face.

“Is this me?” he asked, looking up at Jack again, smiling. Jack nodded. “Why did you need green?” He looked down at his beige clothes. “Do I wear a lot of green?”

Jack laughed again and shook his head.

“Your eyes are green,” he shrugged.

“Oh.” Crutchie frowned before falling silent. That was the second thing he had learned about himself in the span of half an hour.

“Hey,” Jack nudged him. “You ain’t upset about this, right?”

Crutchie shrugged despondently, “I can’t see colors, Jack.”

“So what? Huh? Blink can’t see out of one eye at all,” he pointed out.

“How many things are wrong with me?” Crutchie demanded. “Is…Is my arm gonna fall off tomorrow?”

“No,” Jack shook his head. Granted, he didn’t know that for sure but it seemed unlikely. “And if it did, I’d carry your papes for you if you want. Any of us would.”

Crutchie slumped with a sigh. That was true. He wouldn’t want the help, of course, but it was good to know that they would be there if he ever did.

He reached over Jack’s lap and grabbed the box of crayons. He idly flipped through them as though shifting them would magically allow him to see their true colors.

“Hey, is that why you thought I got conned?” Jack asked suddenly.

“It looks like you only got three colors for a nickel,” Crutchie explained.

He dumped all of them out into his hand and separated them. Blue and purple were together. Green and brown were together. Yellow, slightly darker yellow, black and weird brownish-gray were all their own colors.

“Okay, I guess you got five colors,” Crutchie corrected.

“Penny a color, just like a pape,” Jack laughed.

“Oh! Speaking of papes, the headlines today?” Crutchie changed the topic to complain about the papers. Anything except him. “The most exciting thing was the pope getting sick again.”

Jack laughed but agreed. “And we’ve been reporting on his health for two weeks. There’s only so much interest for ‘the voice of God might be dying? No, for real this time.’”

They dissolved into laughter, and Jack soon started sketching again while Crutchie continued talking about his day, trying his hardest to be cheerful and forget about his weird eyes. They kept on like that until it was about time for dinner, signaled by Jack’s growling stomach. Before they descended, Jack showed Crutchie the finished portrait. Crutchie nodded at it.

“It looks just like me,” he praised. Or at least the version of him that he saw when he caught his reflection. But Jack could have colored him different from real life and he never would have known.

With that, they descended the ladder. Jack went down first and Crutchie followed after.

“You won’t tell any of the guys about me not seeing colors, right?” Crutchie asked when they were halfway down the fire escape.

“Not if you don’t want them to know,” Jack promised, rumpling Crutchie’s hair. “Now, c’mon. Else Henry’ll eat everything before we even get there.”