#mint green exterior

[aubreefisher]

Driveway in New York This is an illustration of a summertime mid-sized traditional shade front yard with concrete pavers.

[sakuranym]

Patio Concrete Pavers

With no cover, a medium-sized elegant backyard concrete paver patio

[wolfpal]

Patio Concrete Pavers With no cover, a medium-sized elegant backyard concrete paver patio

[andallshallbewell]

[fashion-boots]

D-Exterior Fall/Winter 2023

[scaredeverything]

Craftsman Exterior New York

Inspiration for a mid-sized craftsman green two-story wood exterior home remodel with a hip roof

[rmarts]

Exterior - Wood

[seiwas]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[graciegoeskrazy]

we're all just the same, what a shame

matty healy + daughter!reader (ft. mainly ross but a bit of the band)

warnings: fluff, short, should I start rewriting atpoiim with h!r???

a/n: I hated this but now I don't think it's that bad. just short and sweet. (like the concert I didn't get tickets to 😭)

The band was in NYC preparing for the release of a new album, an abundance of press, a Madison Square Garden performance, and new changes to a show that was yet to be finished. Despite your father’s protest that you should stay home and live your normal life, you tagged along. Because it was a very stressful, working time for them, you were 100% prepared to take a step back and let them do their thing.

The knock on your door took your gaze out of your phone and onto the door of your hotel bedroom that connected to the rest of the suite you and your dad shared. “Come in.”

You knew from his posture and they way he slightly hid behind the door that he was up to something. Your head tilted in confusion, prompting him to speak.

“Do you have…fairy lights?”

Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Why the fuck would I have fairy lights?”

He gove you a brief look that meant ‘language’ and then paused.. “‘Cause you’re a teenage girl.” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“No. Whatever do you need fairy lights for?”

“A fort.” His face comically didn't change.

You sighed. “You’ve gone mental.”

—-------

“When I thought I was gonna take a step back and let you work I didn’t think building a fort was on your to-do list.” He didn’t respond, just shrugged while sparing you a glance, then continued draping the fabric.

“Why are the lights off?” You said, walking through the hallway.

“Aesthetic.” He said simply.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever trusted your aesthetic.” You flicked on the tall lamp shade as you finished your sentence.

He looked up at you, bright eyed, and smiled. “Ah, good ideas babe!”

You quicked your head. “What?”

Without another word, he dragged the lamp inch by inch into it’s spot by the fort, then draped the remaining pieces of fabric onto it. “It needed height.” He said smiling at you.

“So why are you doing this exactly.”

He started to speak as he slightly struggled to enter the white sheet at the front.

“I’m gonna make a small one for the exterior, and in the video we’re gonna do a transition and it's gonna be like ‘look, it's bigger on the inside’ and it’s gonna be a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?” You asked.

Your father paused. “Something stupid?” He said, looking at you.

“Oh, right, right, of course.”

—-------

At the arena, hiding in the nearly empty dressing room, you were prompted to your feet when you father texted you telling you to come to the green room. You practically groaned upon entry. Adam held the camera and your father stood in front of it awaiting your arrival. He clapped his hands together excitedly and you groaned, preparing to turn away. “Not again.”

“Come onnnnn. I need you in it for the video. For your reaction.”

You rolled your eyes, to which he only allowed it this time because you were helping him with something. The small interior was already filled wall to wall with the band, who all smiled upon your entrance. Ross smiled the biggest, excited to see you, and opened up his arms wide, prompting you to sit with him.

Matty and Adam set the camera up and you switched to Ross’s lap while they did so.

“Hey! You found fairy lights!” You said, pointing up to the ceiling of the fort.

“Yeah, Uncle Ross had some.” Matty said, not taking his eyes off of the project in front of him and Adam.

You looked at Ross. he just shrugged. You knew your father probably just ran to the store to get them.

—-------

Your mind wandered back to the conversation in the room when your father commented on John’s go at jujutsu.

“You'd be mint.” He said.

“He’s too big.” Ross chimed in from behind you.

“No- What do you mean he’s ’too big?’ You have to be big in order to fight. Be able to sit in someone till they can’t breathe.”

“I’d be great at it.” All eyes turned to you as you spoke.

“You’d die in a second tops, baby.”

You shrugged. “Have a little faith.”

—-------

Some of the band left. Now it was just you, your dad, Ross, Adam, and Polly. You left to get a bottle of water and when you came back you found your dad sitting criss-crossed and decided to sit in his lap. It was a routine you’ve had since you were little, and a moment that always made everyone around giggle or smile, especially when you were little. Seeing a four year old toddle in with a snack in one hand and a blankie in another sit on her father’s lap when he least expected it. Matty kept his gaze on his phone as he readjusted his arms to capture you into a none-crushing hug paired with a gentle kidd to the side of your forehead. “Why did you wait till I was 14 to build a fort? I feel like that's a primary school thing, no?”

“How dare you deprive your daughter of a childhood.” Ross said.

Matty finally looked up from his phone when he rolled his eyes. “I give up.”

You and Ross laughed as you both pissed your father off for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Starrrrr, my babe! Congrats on your 100 followers, that is amazing! You are amazing! IT'S ALL SO AMAZING! Happy squirrel and fellow CCS here. My request---Bradley (because DUH, it's me!), and a fluffy “You’re beautiful, you know that right?” moment because I'm feral over the idea of this man speaking these words to me. <3

Meer, my darling! Here's the fluffy Bradley Bradshaw fic you requested! Enjoy! This "You’re beautiful, you know that right?" moment is brought to you by the 1966 Ford Bronco MT drove in his first TG:M scene! 🥰 😘

The Mechanic

Cars. You love them. You also hate that you love them as much as you do. You’d taken over your grandfather’s small auto repair shop three years ago when the stress was too much for his body. Since then, you’ve been finding grease in places grease definitely should not be while slowly building your reputation amongst the car collectors in the greater San Diego area. You’re half under a mint-green Chevrolet Bel Air when you hear a car roll up into the shop’s lot. The engine sounds pretty good and you can hear the faint strands of music pouring out of the cab before it stops. Whoever it is will talk to your Grandad first.

Despite his ailing bones, and his trust in your abilities, your Grandad had still wanted to be involved with the shop. So the two of you had compromised. You’d do the work while your Grandad ran the front of the house. That way he could still talk to your customers about their vehicles without stressing himself out by trying to move heavy car parts. And, your grandma had shared in secret a few weeks after the arrangement started, that it got him out of the house and out of her hair!

It helped too, that your Grandad still had all of his contacts in the collectible car community. They were a godsend when you were looking for rare parts. The Bel Air, for instance that you’re under? You’d needed to source and build the entire engine from scratch and restore the exterior. The beautiful car had been rusting away in an old barn for years before the owners unearthed it and decided it needed to be restored. It was finally nearly complete and the engine purred like a kitten now that you’ve gotten it all hooked up. You are completing your final checks on the undercarriage when you feel a knock against your work boot. 

You roll out from under the truck to see your Grandad and what has to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

“Hey, kiddo. This here is Bradley Bradshaw. He’s got a 1966 Ford Bronco which he’d like to get fully restored. Bradley, this is my granddaughter. She does the actual hard work around this place.”

Your eyes widen as you look at him. He’s wearing a garish Hawaiian print shirt over a white singlet, slim-fitting jeans and boots. He’s got a pair of aviators hanging from the neck and his arms are crossed against his chest, biceps bulging alluringly. He’s so clean that it has you reaching for the rag scrunched into your pocket so you can wipe as much grease from your hands as possible. 

You proffer your slightly cleaner hand at him with a sigh, introducing yourself by name this time.

“It’s nice to meet you. A ‘66 Bronco?” You whistle through your teeth at the thought. “Do you have it here with you? I’d love to take a look under the hood first. Then we can discuss what you’d like restored and how.”

“Sure. I drove it here today.” His voice is smooth and a little raspy. If you weren’t covered in grease and other unmentionable vehicle fluids you’d have swooned into his arms.

“Great! Bring it to the lift to the right. And we’ll get her hooked and take a look.” You’re smiling your best customer service smile and trying your best to hide the way you’re drooling at the sight of his ass when your Grandad elbows you.

“Kiddo. Keep your eyes on the prize. He’s a good man. But only once you’ve fixed the car. You know the first rule.” His voice is gruff and chiding as he squeezes your fingers.

“Yeah, gramps, don’t get distracted by the clients.” Your voice in turn is dismayed and small at the admonishment.

Neither of you can calm your joy when he pulls the car up to the lift, though. It’s a gorgeous machine, cobalt blue paint glistening in the late afternoon sun. 

“She’s beautiful, kiddo. Have fun!” Waving over his head, your grandfather retreats to the air conditioned office again.

“He’s right.” Your voice is reverent as you trace the sleek curves of the car. “Can I pop the hood, Bradshaw?”

At his nod, you prop the hood open, and take a look at the engine. It’s in way better repair than you would have expected. There are a few parts here and there which don’t look like originals, but on the whole, your auditory assessment from earlier holds up. This is a well taken care of car.

“Not bad, Bradshaw. Most of this engine is original?” You’re completely in mechanic mode as you grab a clipboard and start jotting down notes.

“Yeah, this car was my dad’s. He bought it before I was born and kept it in mint condition until he died. My mom took over at that point and then when I could drive, I did the same. Obviously she’s needed a couple of replacements and ‘66 Bronco parts in good condition are hard to find.” His face is soft and sad as he looks down at the engine. This car is important to him. You’re already resolved to track down as many parts as you can. And that’s what you and Bradley Bradshaw agree to; you’ll restore the Bronco and track down as many original parts as you can.

It takes you upwards of a year to finish the project. You’ve never felt so connected to a vehicle or its history. It’s become normal for Bradley Bradshaw to pop into the shop on his days off and to just hang out by the Bronco chatting with you as you and your staff work away. It’s harder and harder for you to keep your Grandad’s first rule. But you’re not distracted. You’re falling head over heels for the gorgeous, sweet, bear of a man with such an attachment to an old truck. 

Things boil to a fever pitch the day you finally fit in the final part of the car. Bradley Bradshaw has been on a ship for the better part of the past 3 months. Your chats about the Bronco have been taking place over video call and you’re not expecting to see him for two weeks. You’re just about to close the hood and start her up when you hear a voice that makes your heart skip a beat.

“That’s one beautiful car, doll.” You can feel the heat in your face at the endearment as you whip around. Sure enough, it’s Bradley Bradshaw clad in his khaki uniform.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Want to start her up?” Your smile is soft as you see the joy in his face as you toss him the keys. He’s grinning boyish and sweetly at you as he hefts his body into the front seat and turns the key. Your breath is bated as you hear the engine turn over before it finally catches. Your gasp of relief at the purring motor is shadowed only by the whoop of pure glee that pours from his mouth.

“Doll! You did it! My dad’s car! It’s perfect!” You’re smiling too when he bounces up to you and holds his hand out. You can sense an unbridled energy coursing through his veins at the thought of taking the car for a spin. But things are quiet between you as he settles the bill in the office and you go about freeing the car from your work area. It’s not until he’s pulled out into the parking lot that you hear his voice again.

“Hey, doll! Now that I’m no longer a client, I need to tell you something.” His eyes glimmer in the sunlight as he looks at you. “You’re beautiful, you know that right? Let me take you out to dinner?”

“I’m covered in grease right now, Bradshaw! If you think I’m beautiful now, let me know what you think when I’m all cleaned up!” Your voice is teasing as he winks at you.

“I’ll think you’re absolutely beautiful no matter what. The Bronco and I will pick you up on Friday at 6 pm. No grease included. Bye, doll!”

Your smile is giddy and disbelieving as you watch the most gorgeous car you've ever worked on and its owner drive off into the sunset. Friday night is going to be a lot of fun.  

Want to request something for my 100 Follower Celebration? The guidelines are here! Please leave me a request in my inbox with your ask!

- XOXO Star

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

Hiya! I'm glad things are better now! :3

I has some stuff, but rn, I'm just wondering what your & their fave color was.

Mine's orchid purple! :D

I am a fan of blue, all blues really! But if you want me to get specific, Royal blue has been a long time favorite since I was younger, but Mint Green and Lavender Purple are quickly rising through the ranks. Softer colors right now are just nice to look at. <3

This was just a really wholesome ask, so thank you for asking! Its been a hot minute since someone asked me what my favorite color was. <3

************************************************************************

Here’s a detailed exploration of the favorite colors of each Ganondorf and Demise, including the specific shades they prefer and the reasons behind their choices:

Wind Waker Ganondorf

Color: Deep Sea Teal (#014D4E)

Shade/Tint: A dark, rich teal that mirrors the depths of the ocean, with a hint of green that reflects the ancient waters surrounding the sunken Hyrule.

Reason: Wind Waker Ganondorf is deeply connected to the sea, both physically and emotionally. The deep sea teal represents the vast, unyielding ocean that surrounds him and the ancient history of the world he longs to reclaim. It’s a color that speaks to his enduring patience, his ability to wait beneath the surface for the right moment to rise, and the sadness of his lost homeland.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf

Color: Ember Red (#D92525)

Shade/Tint: A vibrant, fiery red with a slightly orange undertone, reminiscent of glowing embers in a fire.

Reason: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf is driven by passion, power, and ambition, all of which are symbolized by the intense ember red. This color represents the fire that burns within him—the desire to dominate, the relentless pursuit of his goals, and the fierce determination to reshape the world according to his vision. The slight orange undertone adds a sense of heat and danger, reflecting his volatile nature.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf

Color: Obsidian Black (#0C0C0C)

Shade/Tint: A pitch-black shade with a glossy finish, similar to the surface of polished obsidian.

Reason: Twilight Princess Ganondorf is shrouded in darkness, both literally and metaphorically. Obsidian black represents the impenetrable shadows that surround him, the darkness he commands, and the cold, hard nature of his resolve. The glossy finish of the obsidian hints at the hidden depths beneath his cold exterior—a sharpness and clarity that cuts through all illusions.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf

Color: Bloodstone Crimson (#820000)

Shade/Tint: A deep, dark crimson with a slight brownish undertone, resembling the color of dried blood.

Reason: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf is a warrior at heart, and his favorite color reflects his blood-soaked path to power. Bloodstone crimson symbolizes the countless battles he has fought, the blood of his enemies, and his unwavering commitment to his conquests. The brownish undertone adds an earthy quality, reminding him of the brutal reality of war and the weight of his legacy.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf

Color: Ancient Bronze (#4B2C20)

Shade/Tint: A dark bronze with hints of reddish-brown and gold, evoking the image of weathered, ancient armor.

Reason: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf has a strong connection to the ancient world and its lost glory. Ancient bronze represents the timeless power and authority he seeks to reclaim, as well as the resilience and endurance required to achieve his goals. The reddish-brown hints at the blood and sacrifice along the way, while the gold adds a touch of the regal, godlike status he aspires to.

Demise

Color: Molten Lava Orange (#FF4500)

Shade/Tint: A bright, fiery orange with a glowing, almost molten quality, like freshly poured lava.

Reason: Demise embodies the raw, destructive power of fire and earth, and molten lava orange is the perfect representation of that. This color is intense, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore, much like Demise himself. The molten quality of the color speaks to his ever-present rage and his desire to consume and destroy everything in his path, leaving only scorched earth behind.

These colors are more than just favorites; they each symbolize a fundamental aspect of the character's nature and the forces that drive them.

[hearseposting]

1973 Cadillac Fleetwood Hearse

This gorgeous green example is a real gem, an emerald, if you will. Asking price $13500.

Including a list of extensive repairs and upgrades, this hearse is most striking for its unique green over green finish, a verdant theme that stretches from the cosmetically gorgeous paint to the well-taken care of interior. Note the condition of the dashboard.

The entire car is in used but fairly mint condition, the dark green exterior contrasting subtly with the black vinyl top.

Find it here.

[kurov1864]

Scents of Babyls teachers + Opera (pt.2)

Suzy: Warm honey milk, wet soil, green tea, apple crisps. Sooo I may be exaggerating quite a bit, but Suzy seems like a really homey person yk?? Like she's really bubbly and sweet but in the grandma down the street that cares for you just like her own grandchildren way. She would definitely smell faintly of flowers, and that would result in hints of jasmine and lavender, creating this calming and soothing aura around her. Also herbs and spices that lean into the warmer side, so honeysuckle, cloves, vanilla bean, thyme, sage and nutmeg, basically those spices that would taste real good when mixed up in milk. But there would also be some lighter notes, like citrus and mint, to add some energy and zest into her fragrance.

Buer: Clean linen, antiseptic, peppermint, herbal tea. I would think that despite his very stoic exterior, he would have this very fresh scent, almost piercing in a way. It's very invigorating, yet sharp. Maybe it's the scent of all that rubbing alcohol, or maybe it's his eucalyptus shampoo. Whatever it is, it's crisp and refreshing, almost overwhelmingly so.

Orias: Ocean breeze, chocolate, wisteria, lavender. Orias... is quite the two-faced guy. Mysterious and charismatic during the day, an anti-social recluse at night. Also I have no idea what I'm doing I just picked out what feels right?? He definitely has a sort of like clear/light scent, probably more on the refreshing side so I chose ocean breeze. But at the same time purple so like,,, lavender and wisteria. Yes. I am so so so sorry to all Orias lovers.

Monomoki: Moonlight perfume, subtle sugary shampoo, hair spray, sheer lavender. Listen. You CANNOT convince me that her hair just naturally stays down perfectly all the damn time. If she has hair spray, there is most definitely a smell, but that doesn't mean it smells bad. Just gives her scent a more,,, artificial/chemical aspect to it. Moonlight perfume (from Bath and Body works specifically) because she has this light floral scent, but not in the bright way?? Idk if that makes sense but I would say it's like walking through a flower garden at night, when the moon is high in the sky and casting this white, almost blueish glow over the white jasmines, star roses and lavenders. So it's flowery yes, but barely detectable.

[sleepingpopplio]

Deku’s hero costume and indicating tonal shifts within a story

This post builds on everything I mentioned in a previous one, and highlights the brilliance in Horikoshi’s character design. To be more specific, the brilliance in Deku’s design and his hero costume. I also want to start this post by saying that I am an artist myself, and while I’m always learning new things, I do have some knowledge and understanding of color theory and character design. Now, on the surface, Deku is purposely made to look as non-threatening as possible. He has very few sharp edges, his face is round, his eyes are round, and he has very curly hair. Furthermore, when you learn art and character design, one of the fundamentals is understanding how shapes affect the audience’s perception of the character. It’s a very complicated subject and shape language can be used in various ways, but to simplify: sharp edges and triangle shapes indicate harshness or intimidation, square shapes indicate stability and balance, and circles or round shapes indicate softness and gentleness. Izuku falls under the category of circle shapes and as previously stated without his hero costume, particularly in the beginning of the story before he loses more of his innocence, he looks relatively harmless. But let’s take a look at his first hero costume…

His first hero costume is very bright, with a mint green and white & red accents. Izuku has just begun his hero journey, and he has not had any pressure placed on his shoulders yet (except his need to not be useless and prove himself as having value due to his trauma from years of being looked down on for his quirklessness). He doesn’t know about the true history of one for all, or all for one. He hasn’t even encountered shigaraki yet. The use of highly saturated and bright colors are supposed to look odd on purpose, because this costume was designed by an bright eyed child who simply wants to be a hero, and not by a pro who’s been training for this moment for years. Furthermore, the light color scheme fits the idea of a positive protagonist who wants to goes into everything he does with an upbeat attitude. Think of Superman, who also have very saturated, bright colors in his design, and is another character is is known for his optimism. It should also be noted that the shaped in the hero costume are much sharper compared to deku himself. The stripe pattern, the utility belt, and elbow/knee guards are all very angular. This then can be taken in two different, yet connected directions. Deku, despite coming off as a harmless character, is able to function well as a hero right from the start because of his intelligence and ability to think on his feet. He’s an analyzer who takes his time to dissect his opponent’s weaknesses, and therefore one could say that he holds the capacity of being a very grounded character. Sound familiar? That is the square shape doing its job of conveying another aspect to Izuku that is best seen when he is in action as a hero. Thus, Izuku’s inner strength, reliability, and strong will are conveyed through square shapes in his costume. However, the angular nature of the same design patterns I’m mentioning, in addition to the pointy all might ears on his head, could also be hinting at Izuku’s ferocity in battle. I’ve already mentioned in a previous post I linked at the start of this but will link again just in case you don’t want to scroll up again lol, that Izuku has an intense, repressed inner rage that stems from his childhood trauma and self loathing. The sharp edges in his hero costume allude to this fact, but it can easily ignored since the color scheme is so bright and positive— his inner darkness can be overlooked by Izuku’s positive exterior. But let’s take a look at deku’s 2nd hero costume, and how it indicates a shift in Izuku’s character.

It should first be noted that Izuku only puts on this costume After the sports festival. The festival is where the process of an insurmountable amount of pressure being put on Izuku’s shoulders begins. He learns about the true legacy of One For All, he learns about his destiny to fight All For One, and he is told that he has to become the next symbol of peace and therefore has to have an “I am here” moment. All of these things are responsibilities that Izuku was never previously told about, and was never given any indication that he had to worry about. Thus, Izuku’s mental health begins taking a serious downward decline starting at this arc. This decline, or regression, follows him for the rest of the series all culminates in the vigilante arc. I won’t go into too much detail about that, because as previously stated I’ve already gone in depth about it, but I am mentioning this because this costume perfectly represents the beginning of Izuku’s regression. The color is much darker, and instead of white accents there are black ones. I cannot emphasize enough how big a deal it is for a superhero to change costumes to wear a much darker one. Spider-Man is the most well known case of this, as all of his darker toned or black suits often indicate a dark time in his life where he struggles with his inner rage and weight of responsibility. Does this sound familiar? Horikoshi loves heros such as Spider-Man, and that is why quirks such as blackwhip and danger sense are based off of Spider-Man’s abilities. It wouldn’t be much a stress to assume that is where Horikoshi also got the idea of making deku’s suit darker from. Therefore, Deku putting on his darker suit after he begins his slow downward spiral serves as foreshadowing to the audience that all is not well with our protagonist. While it may look better than his last, because he has become more mature and thoughtful about his choices, what it represents is not come-Worley positive. Furthermore, the hints of white, the remnants of his first costume, serve to show the remaining innocence he has left, or will have left by the time he stops wearing this version of the costume. It’s not much, buts it’s a beacon of hope that maybe it’s not too late.

By the time Izuku unlocks his shoot style, even more black is added to his costume in the form of his leg armor and his iron soles. He shifts to the shoot style after the summer camp and Bakugo retrieval arcs, which were very intense and traumatic events for him. He’s developing his own identity outside of allmight, which is positive, but the increasing amount of dark colors in his suit is concerning. His mental state is getting worse, he is continuing to enter a darker phase in his life, and it is happening at a slow enough pace that most other characters do not notice what is happening. Surprisingly, his costume does not change much for most of the future arcs. From a strictly character design perspective, this makes sense, as constantly changing a characters costume can make them less recognizable and thus alienate them from the audience. Plus, it’s simply easier to draw because the author will always know how the character is supposed to look. But, this could also be a sign of how Izuku tries even harder to put forth a positive persona while at the same time hiding what he is going through. We all know that things get worse before they get better, so let’s look at another costume change…

We don’t have many colored versions of Dark Deku yet, but from what we do have we can see how much work horikoshi put in his design to make it as menacing as possible. From the tattered costume, to the muddied colors, to Deku’s facing being hidden by a mask and cowl full of sharp edges, with only his pupils being visible. One thing about character design that I haven’t mentioned yet is the effect of showing/not showing a characters face. With characters, seeing their faces tends to make the viewers relate to them more, as we can more clearly see their facial expressions and make eye contact with them. Covering a character’s face purposefully creates a disconnect between them and the viewer. Think of characters who have something to hide, or struggle to be emotionally vulnerable. The personas of Batman vs Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man vs Peter Parker are comic book examples of characters who present themselves very differently as super heroes compared to their civilian forms, and wear masks that cover most of if not all of their faces. Furthermore, that is why in many Spider-Man movies the character will take off his mask a lot, even if it is mid-fight, because the audience needs to see his face in order to connect with him during those important moments.

Now with Izuku, as previously stated, we don’t see any of his face except his pupils while he is in his Dark Deku form. We are instantly disconnected from him. That is also why we’ve rarely seen deku wear his mask up until this point— even though we knew that it was always there as a part of his costume. The only other time that deku wears his mask for a significant amount of time is with his first costume, and when we is trying to simply imitate all might instead of trying to be his own hero (just as a lot of bright-eyed children would do when it comes to their innocent wish of wanting to be like their hero). He is trying to run from his emotions and who he is as Izuku Midoriya by hiding behind the persona of the Hero Deku, the 9th holder of One For All whose only purpose and source of value is to defeat All For One. Only when he takes the mask off at the end of the arc do we finally get to see genuine emotion from him. In addition, during this arc Deku is incredibly aggressive and vengeful. He has very little patience for his opponents. This is emphasized by the fact that there are almost no soft edges in his costume at this point. With it being torn to shred, there are shard and jagged edges everywhere you look. It may be a pain to draw, but it’s worth it for the effect it achieves. Any source of light colors are also gone. The white accents, which once represented the little innocence that Izuku had left as he continued to be plunged into the darkness of the hero system, are completely gone. His white gloved are now a dark brownish color, and even the dark green of his costume has become even darker. He’s so dirty that in many drawing of this form he is even drawn in all black, furthering the parallels between him and other comic book heroes with dark forms. He is the embodiment of despair and rage, thus cementing this costume as one that, in the words of civilians within the manga, “would never guess is a hero”.

Now this leads us to Izuku’s final costume change. Once again, we don’t have many colored pieces of this one and the ones we do have don’t show his entire body. However, we can notice some things about the color. Gran Torino’s cape is not longer just a thrown on addition, and instead Deku’s entire costume feels more cohesive and inclusive of the cape. Not only that, but the specific shade feels more like the color gold than a plain yellow. Gold is a color that often signifies success, and is commonly seen as the color of champions. Izuku is ready to finish this story, the legacy of one forand for all (lol, get it). But this time, he’s ready to do it with the help of his friends. That is what makes him a champion, instead of the villainous persona he had when he tried to complete OFA’s legacy on his own. Furthermore, the main color of his costume is much darker, and almost looks black. Izuku has been through a lot dating back to when he was a little kid, and he has a lot of trauma. He’s tried to run from that trauma all his life, but by the end of the vigilante/villain hunt arc, he finally is able to confront it in a healthy way with the help of his friends. He’s finally healing, and while he will never be able to get the childhood and innocence that he lost back, he can still find comfort and human connection as he moves toward a better future. Similarly, much of the lighter, more highly saturated colors on Deku’s costume will never come back. Gold is not a color often seen on children, and thus his costume is much more mature than his previous ones. While it may be bittersweet seeing our protagonist all grown up, the use of color and return to similar shape language signify that change is a part of life, and that at the end of the day a person will still be the same at their core. What matters is finding hope and success in the darkness.

So what does this all mean in the context of the story at large? Well, since Izuku is our protagonist and we go through the story via his perspective, as he regresses, and his costume changes, the story changes. We enter BNHA with a comedic and lighthearted story. There’s plenty of gags, pretty black and white interpretations of good and evil, and a decent amount of relatively laid back chapters/episodes. But during the arc that stain is introduced, Deku’s costume changes because of his own issues, and the story gets darker. His story gains more black accents, and the story becomes even darker. Deku has is dark deku form, and the story is the darkest it’s ever been. But once deku changes into his final costume, the story is still dark, but there’s a sense of hope that things will get better. Deku has hope that he can save Shigaraki. Thus, Horikoshi masterfully uses color theory and shape language to shape Izuku Midoriya as a character, his regression, and the increasingly dark tone of the story through the eyes of our protagonist.

[andallshallbewell]

[sunmiyane]

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Currently Reading: Turtles all the way down by John Green bc a movie is coming out and i’ve been told the old representation in it is on point (i’m at the very beginning, I just finished re-reading the hunger games trilogy bc I heard Collins is giving us a new book)

Currently watching: King the Land (caved in), The Mentalist with my sister, NCIS with my brother, House M.D, Bridgerton season 3 part.2 tonight!!

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