Tumgik
#and how we need at least a couple good sketches mixed in with the rough ones
mars-ipan · 3 years
Text
we were talking abt submitting ap exam stuff this in art class and i got hit with. the Strongest wave of imposter syndrome. so i don’t feel the best rn
#marzivents#teacher was talking abt how we need to make sure our sketchbooks have good work in them#and how we need at least a couple good sketches mixed in with the rough ones#and like. this year's been garbage for my mental health right#so my work isn't the best i've done#plus i'm in drawing so i have to try to do a little realism#but i'm much more suited for stylized work which is. far from realistic#so i end up feeling out of place and like i'm not as good of an artist as my classmates#and it just. feels bad man. i just wanted to save 2d for later bc like. i love 2d i enjoy using the elements of art in creative ways a lot#but i'm now worried that because A. i'm not really a realism person and B. this year Sucked i won't get the college credit#bc my art won't be good enough for it and i just. i'm feeling invalid ig#blegh. perfectionism sucks this shit's so tough to overcome#i gotta give myself a break. i got into this class for a reason. my friends think i'm good at art and i trust their judgement#my teacher believes in me. i'll be okay. she's only here to help#and if i cry in front of her? it's okay. she's an art teacher for crying out loud i doubt i'd be the first#besides. plenty of people don't get into art until their twenties#just because i'm surrounded by kids who have been seriously pursuing art since grade school doesn't mean i'm behind#i'm technically ahead of the course considering i may earn college credit#i'm okay. or i will be. even if everything goes wrong i'll be okay
1 note · View note
kurinoot · 3 years
Text
[day 7] seven ethereal portraits | akaashi keiji
Tumblr media
-> he was a piece of art, so you tried to make an art of him on valentines’ day, but unfortunately, you won’t be able to finish it all
Tumblr media
pairing: akaashi x reader
themes: fluff with a bit of angst (I think?), post-timeskip, art student!reader
wc: 1.6k
note: so far, akaashi’s my fave fic here personally uwu (a pretty fic for the pretty setter uwu) bc he makes me feel fuzzy things :(
Tumblr media
“Moving onto the seventh and final painting...”, you mutter as you were finally done with the sixth one for your series of paintings for your boyfriend, setting aside the newly finished work aside to settle and dry completely as you have been planning on giving him seven paintings that you started a week before Valentines’ Day.
Just as I planned… you thought.
Grabbing a fresh blank canvas, you started sketching on the last canvas as you let your hand dawdle the pencil around, your mind distancing itself from reality. You felt the heaviness on your shoulders before shaking your head, humming to distract yourself as you progressed through your sketch.
“Y/N, It’s time to eat!”, you hear Keiji’s faint voice from the other side of your studio, as the dishes clanged against the table. The faint aroma of your favourite dish entices you, pulling you back to reality as you compelled yourself to continue with the painting.
“It’s okay Keiji! You can eat without me! I just need to finish this for art school!”, you say loud enough for him to hear as you continue sketching his portrait. Your vision started to blur as you continued sketching while you forcibly hummed, your mind slowly autopiloting your hand as it made quick strokes of Keiji’s features in your mind, spraying water on the paint for your next work.
Akaashi, on the other side, could only look at your studio door as he sighed. It has been like this if you started working on your art projects, locking yourself in your studio for days, eating one meal a day through several restless nights; but your habits only worsened ever since you’ve started with your series of paintings for him this week.
He approached the door, giving a few knocks. “You’ve been like this for the entire week. You need to eat and rest, Y/N.” he crooned as he placed his ear against the door, hoping to, at least, hear your pencil strokes against the paper. “Y/N?” He called out your name once again.
Your weary eyes gazed in awe at the rough sketch. “Beautiful...” You mumbled as your finger traced Akaashi’s features on the paper before hearing his voice at your door, calling your name. You placed the canvas by the easel, covering it with a sheet as you went out of your room. Akaashi sensed your presence as you teetered slowly, haggard and dirtied with paint and charcoal all over you.
“Y/N… I know you’re very passionate about your art, but I’m worried about you. You really need to eat and rest.”, he scolds you with a sharp tone as he sees your being from head to toe, quickly coming to your side with his arm around your waist and a hand to steady you.
You scoffed as you let go of him, waving with one hand as you poured another cup of coffee, “This is nothing, Keiji. I’m okay!”
You went back to your studio with a cup of coffee in one hand, settling it down on a nearby table. You slapped yourself, waking yourself up as you started to set up your color palette, putting up small dollops of acrylic paint on your palette, mixing a few colors. You grab a couple of brushes, setting it up as you started painting your last valentines painting for your boyfriend.
For Keiji…, you thought to yourself as a smile forms on your lips.
You felt the fatigue start catching up on you once again as you felt the weight of your eyelids and the throbbing on your head. You brush them off as you continue painting,  pushing yourself to finish it as soon as possible so as to catch up to Valentines’ Day tomorrow. You pause for a bit to check your phone only to see that it was already 11:30 in the evening.
You sigh, “It’s already that late?”.
You dismiss all thoughts of resting as you desperately tried to finish your painting, creating swirls and swathes of different colors as your brush stroked each minute in detail. You cling onto your paintbrush as you fight off any telltale signs of fatigue, gulping on the now cold cup of coffee you had made a while earlier to keep yourself awake at this point in time.
Or so you thought.
As time passes by, your head swayed as your vision became unbearingly blurred as you struggled with your brush strokes, smudging at unwanted areas. You brush it off, struggling to continue further as you now feel the soreness of your muscles. You massage your temples, trying to relieve the increasing aching pain in your head to no avail.
Akaashi knocks on the door of your art room, trying to check up on you. “Y/N, as much as I support you and your art endeavors, you need to sleep now.”
No reply.
He felt a chill run up to his spine, but a slight hope lighted his eyes as he found your door unlocked. “Y/N? It’s already late, time to—”
He felt his heart drop as his eyes landed on you, unconscious on the floor, a paintbrush within your grip. His mind went blank as he frantically rushed to your side, sweeping the strands of your hair away from your pale face, feeling your temperature spiking against his cool hand. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, lifting you with all of his strength, immediately running out of your shared apartment to the streets.
Y/N! Y/N! How many times do I have to tell you to take some rest when you need to?
His mind screamed your name repeatedly as he desperately ran through the streets, the people frantically giving way as he carried you in his arms. His eyes looked around the area as he saw a familiar light emitting, entering the emergency area with you in hand. The nurses rushed to him as they pushed a hospital bed, inquiring Akaashi as they ran through the hall, pushing your bed. Akaashi’s eyebrows furrowed in worry as his mind reels of different outcomes in every possible way.
The medical staff checked up on you as one of the nurses stopped Akaashi in his path. “She might have to stay here for a couple of days or a few weeks just to check on possible signs in the future. For now, if it’s okay with you sir you can pack up a few things for her and for you.”
“Thank you so much!”, Akaashi bows in gratitude as he pulls out his editor business card, “Here’s my number, if anything happens to her.”
Tumblr media
Akaashi hurried back to the apartment, scrambling for his keys as he unlocks the door. He immediately makes his way to your shared bedroom, opting to pack up immediately as he pulls out a black duffel bag out of the cabinet and rushes back to his and your closet, picking. He continuously packs up necessities as he feels the vibration of his phone in his pocket.
“I thought I’ve already approved of it—”, Akaashi grumbles about the possibility of work only to find a message from an unknown number.
‘Good evening! This is from the medical reception; we would just like to inform you that L/N Y/N is in Room 1205. You can come for some paperwork to be signed with.’
Please… be alright Y/N..., he prays in mind, worried for you.
He finally zips the bag with a huff after finally settling with some comfortable clothes for you both as well as comfortable clothes for work as he will most likely come home to the comforts of the hospital to check on you still.
With the duffel bag in hand, he rushed to the entrance, although stopped his tracks as he passed by your studio. A feeling of guilt washes over Akaashi as his feet walk towards the door, stopping for a moment as he takes a breather before working up the courage to open the door, despite the memories and the sight of you lying unconscious still fresh in his mind, to the sight of an unfinished canvas painting as well as different portraits of what seemed to be a stranger. Looking closely at your unfinished business, he could only know and look so much as he sees your unattended palette, the paints threatening to dry. He grasps your spilled cup of coffee on the floor, albeit cold.
His eyes wander back to the paintings aside, walking to it as he removes and wipes his glasses for a second before looking closely as he notices a slip of paper sticking on the top of one that says ‘For Keiji. Happy Valentines’ Day! I love you so much!’ which only warms his heart. Looking at it as well as the other paintings, dawning on him that you were creating these paintings of him for him for the special day.
He gazed back at the unfinished canvas, noticing the rough sketches and the smudged areas from your hand. He clutches his chest in borderline pain as he realizes that you were making a painting of the two of you as a tear threatens to fall from one of his eyes, breaking his usual calm composure.
His eyes quickly picked the brush and palette from the floor, not long before grabbing his phone with one hand, replying back to the hospital.
I’ll be there later in the morning. Until then, please take care of her., his thumb hits the send, shoving his phone into his pocket. A smile forms on his lips as he eyes the looming unfinished canvas before him, gripping your paintbrush in hand.
“I’ll finish this painting of us, Y/N.”
Tumblr media
back to valentines masterlist
55 notes · View notes
starlitwhispers · 3 years
Text
saccharine. soulsilvershipping - 2400 words A flavorless au by yours truly. happy quarter century birthday to my boo @silverbuttercups
Heat. Pounding heat. Warmth beating into his cheeks like the summer sun, except it was her instead. He can’t get it to work, he just can’t. The paints keep meshing and clumping; it’s like his sweat is mixing with the acrylics. And it’s all her fault, because she won’t get off his mind. The idea of her sits atop his head, weighing him down — it’s like he can’t breathe. The air, it’s thinning, he’s panting, the taste of her skin is flashing back into his mind — he’s panting, remembering the feeling of her panting back onto him. His mind races, his heart races, time seems like it’s elapsing faster than the speed of light —
He breaks out of his trance. The drops of sweat trickle down his scrawny biceps and a wet stain darkens the front of his dirty, yellow and faded wife-beater. He’s alone. It’s just him as he glances around his disgusting, cluttered studio. Musty, dusty, he peers at the ivory, canvas curtains by the window, and watches the specks of dirt and grime waft through the air in the beams of light peeking through the cracks. He sits in silence, redirecting his eyes to his easel once more. Trash, he thinks at first, looking at the mess of paints and lines, how there’s no depth and no character. The brown he chose doesn’t match… it’s not the right shade. Absolute trash.
Blinking, he thinks again. He does not know what day it is, or month even. Now that he no longer works in that dingy office, contact with the rest of the world has vanished. He makes his way out of the studio, trudges down the hallway and walks right past the master bedroom. The master bedroom that has been tightly shut for more than a year. All the blinds, everywhere, in every window, they are closed. Ready to-microwave meal boxes pile in the trash bin and even fleck across his kitchen floor and countertops. Not a dish in sight, except for used scotch glasses with empty bottles not too far behind. His bed, the couch, has multiple blankets sprawled across it and a coffee table in front full of trash. His eyes focus on the trash, or more specifically, the crumpled up balls of his sketch pad paper. The balls of paper could be found as far as the corners of the kitchen floor, behind the counter and by the fridge.
He has quite the arm, although he appears thin. His strength multiplies with his frustration and anger. He sits himself in a rather indented spot on the couch, less cushioned than the rest of the sofa from months of his weight pressed in this one area. His hand reaches for the remote and turns on the television, afterwards he fixes himself a glass of scotch in a used glass nearby and his fingers shimmy their way into his back pocket. From within, his index and middle fingers pull out a cigarette box. He shoves a smoke between his dry lips and lights it. Between the alcohol and the nicotine, it’s just enough.
Just enough to get the taste of her out of his mouth. For now.
He sits back as he watches the afternoon news. He stares at the journalist’s lips, sees how they curve into coy smiles as she laughs at the corny jokes the daily anchorman voices over into her ear. Just another normal girl, reporting normal things, in her normal life, he observes. Disgusting, he reflects, a normal life is disgusting.
He huffs the cigarette smoke towards the living room ceiling, shutting his eyes. Reminiscing the day he first moved into the home, how bright, clean, and airy it felt then. It’s almost as if everything else in the house is a shell of its former self… including him. A couple envelopes shoot through the golden lips of his front door — today’s mail has arrived — he thinks about the stacks of mail piling by his front door. He makes a faint guess she has not changed her mailing address on some things yet, which gives him false hope on good days or this burning misery that perhaps she has moved on in more ways than one. Changed her name? Married? Then again, she never came back for any of her other belongings. Maybe she already had a back up plan set in motion.
But the truth is, he never saw it coming. Perhaps that is what makes the stinging pain after all this time feel so fresh. What was that, she said a long time ago? That she loved him? He sniggers at himself, at his stupidity, at his unfulfilling life that he tirelessly plays out everyday. At the end of his frumpy sofa, his cellphone rings. Or, at least, he feels the vibrations.
In foolish—hopeless—optimism, he shoves his fist into the edge of the couch digging around for the device. Frantically, he drudges it up from the crevice, along with stray hairs and crumbs, and his eyes yearningly glance over the caller ID. His heart falls beneath the pits of his stomach. It’s just his PR agent. Disappointed, he declines the call and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. He stares at it, somewhat in disbelief and somewhat dismayed with himself for even hoping for it. For her.
By the moment the sun sets, he fiddles with his phone, his finger hovering over the dial button on her number… Of course, he does not call her. He shoves the device into his back pocket. Of course, by the moment the sun sets, he has finished another bottle and another pack. And he has passed out on the living room sofa, again. In a drunken stupor, he awakens, angry, and storms the hallway to his studio. Throwing a blank canvas to the easel, he begins his work once again until dawn. And in this instance, he allows the idea of her to drown him, flood his lungs like the oils and acrylics starting to spatter his body, until all he breathes is the image of her. An exposé of his love, his hatred, his loneliness. They have banned nudity everywhere except the museums.
Wasn’t that their first date? A museum? He stops mid-stroke and clutches his brush a little tighter. He tries to remember, when was the last time he was in a museum?
…Just like the day before, the sun begins to peak through his blinds, but this time, the work before him satisfies. His paint covered fingers nestle their way into his pocket, he presses the dial key and lifts the phone to his ear. The recipient of his call picks up.
The voice on the other end starts, “Hey, dude, I’ve been trying to reach you—”
“I’ve got something good,” the artists interrupts.
“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?! I’ll be over later to check it out.”
----
“And, that’s all the time we have for today, love,” her producer tells her from the side as the cameraman lowers the device from his shoulder.
She sighs, scratches the back of her ear, and smiles in unison with a nod. A small drop of sweat trickles from her temple, why does she have to be the on-scene reporter today? She saunters to the news channel’s van and with its open side door, she scoops a cold water bottle from the mini cooler. The sun continues to beat down on her rose-tinted cheeks. The buzzing of cicadas whiz through her ears and into her thoughts… some guy from work had asked her out for drinks later tonight, but suddenly she’s feeling a raincheck about to be typed on her phone.
She’s not ready yet. How can she be? Her right hand absentmindedly finds its way to her other hand, brushing over her now naked ring finger. A shame, really, that it didn’t work out. She really wishes it would have.
“You can head home now, of course,” her producer begins. “Do you need a ride home?”
“No, thank you,” she respectfully declines. “I think I’ll walk home.”
The staff executive eyes her in confusion, as she clearly does not enjoy the summer heat. He shrugs his shoulders in defeat, “Whatever floats your boat, honey.”
The young brunette collects her bag from the van and stuffs her hand into it, rummaging for make-up remover wipes. She takes out her compact and begins cleansing her face. If she plans to walk home, she would rather not be recognized. However unfortunate people may see it, her occupation does come with some less than desired fans. To top off her “disguise,” she removes the hair clip, lets her hair down and places a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.
On her way home, she stops by a local café for refreshment and a boost of energy. Sitting for a moment in the air conditioned shop, she takes frequent sips of her hazelnut iced coffee.
“Have you seen the new exhibition at the museum yet?” She overhears two young students chat with each other. “It’s honestly incredible.”
“Really? I guess I’ll have to check it out later today. Who’s it by?” The other voice asks.
She finally takes the last sip through the straw, and the liquid slurps from the leftover ice.
“Oh, uh… I forget his name… He was really popular a few years ago, though,” the first voice falters.
The young reporter stands up, slugs her bag strap over her shoulder, and heads for the door.
“Uh, Silver, something?” The first voice remembers. “He’s actually supposed to be at the exhibition today, doing an expository with some press over his inspiration and meaning.”
As the bell rings with her opening the door, she throws her empty cup into the trash followed by an exuberant “thank you for coming!” from the barista behind the counter.
She did not hear the last part from the student in the café.
In her trek home, she stops in front of the museum. In the pit of her stomach, she feels bubbling. Her intestines become upset from anxiety and emotions she wished to never feel again flash back into her senses. That feeling, of dread somehow turned into addictive ecstasy, floods into her veins, and her feet compel her to enter against her better judgment.
As she passes through all the marble walls, the scent of the canvases and oil paintings make her heart race and palms sweat. She anticipates something bad will happen, as something bad always happened when they were together.
All his rough yelling, all their petty disagreements over the things she wanted and the things he did not want, all the noise of hatred bred from what she promised to be forever with him. Stopping to admire a piece, she realizes that has become far from reality. Forever with him… part of her wishes she could go back and part of her desires ever so strongly to never see him again.
In the depth of these paint strokes, she observes and ruminates. What if she were to return and to feel his cracked, warm lips against hers? The sweat of his red hairs behind his neck as they pressed their bodies together, hearing his grunts.
She swallows. She’s warm at the thought of someone she hasn’t touched in almost three years. Being his wife isn’t the worst thing she has done when she thinks about the things they have done together in bed… Her tongue wets the bottom lip and she bites down. This is wrong, she thinks to herself, she left him for a reason. A good reason.
All the miserable nights, the crying, the loneliness. She cannot see him again. If she sees him again, it might sway her. She may want him back. She cannot see him again.
She wants him back.
—--
Here he stands, a month after the original piece he produced in a drunk, inspired stupor, with a brand new exhibition. His agent clinks a glass of champagne to the drink in his own hand, a smile plastered all over his consultant’s face. Of course there is a smile all over his face, the work he has promoted to the city has doubled the money in his pockets. Although the actual artist himself could care less for the revenue. He glances around the section of the gallery that has been sectioned off for exclusively his exhibition and the expository conference.
In his mind, the worst part of this event has ended. The few cameras and interviewers have left and now only art dealers, consultants, and critics remain. The moment he realizes he can slip away to breathe on his own, without being bombarded by awful, intrusive questions he can’t be bothered to answer, he does so. The other areas of the museum are far quieter and the company of the crowd makes his scotch taste bad. As he takes small, frequent sips with each step, he would much rather be drunk at home away from all these people.
He has finally done something he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do again: create art inspired by her. That alone makes him want to become blackout wasted. Or so he thought. He stops in his tracks as he downs the last drop of his drink. I should have just grabbed the damn bottle.
Standing a couple feet from him, peering into a painting, the nightmare from hell that dragged him down under and left him there. Dropping the glass in his hand, he doesn’t think much before his body moves towards her—all the anger manifested inside of him—she quickly becomes aware of his on-coming presence, surprised by the sound of broken glass and his person, and he grabs her by the shoulders.
Forcing her against the wall, she still stares wide-eyed in shock and he does not to hesitate to press his mouth against hers with ferocity. Her eyes still agape, he slips his tongue in quickly and gruffly releases her from his grip. He stares down into her eyes with disdain and she stares back with confusion.
“Silver, I—“ she begins, her voice somewhat hoarse from surprise.
But his expression silences her. He brutishly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns away from her. He starts walking away.
In that swift instance, he realizes.
He does not want her back.
9 notes · View notes
seaurchoon · 3 years
Text
As a tantilizing tease i shall drop these art bits.
They are of my Biker AU, it is my baby and i am guarding it jealously. However i am rshowing these little smidgens as i am excite bout it.
This lad is named Skint. Hes the cash variant.
Tumblr media
His Brother Wildcard the wildberry variant.
Its a WIP
Tumblr media
And a sloppy sketch up of the rest of my boys.
Tumblr media
Here is a sample short of the fic of the au i am writing.
“Kid, hey kid!”  The medium toned voice faded into your mind, a finger snap shook you back to opening your eyes.  A Lady, long Maroon hair dangled down into your vision, her very pale skin seemed to glare in the sunlight.  She ran a hand along her side of shaven hair on her head,  “Hey, good to see ya coming too, was tempted to try my best nordic accent, but...you don’t look so good…”  you feel the world rock beneath you, but you hadn’t even tried to move.  Her firm but light touch grounding you by the contact.
  Suddenly you remembered you needed to breathe, you suck in a deep lungful of air, only to hack it up choking on it.  She helped you sit upright, her face now coming into focus, she was maybe late twenties, wearing a long since new button down shirt.  It looked rough but felt soft as you fell into her chest as she tried to steady you.  “Ok kiddo, I am not sure who, where, or how you ended up on my street, but let’s get you inside huh?” you weren’t the lightest human being, but she somehow managed to scoop you up bridal style.  Cradling you as she started towards the wavering mirage like building in the distance, crossing a never ending stretch of asphalt that faded out into the bright sunlight.
  A cool breeze blasted over your face, the bright light faded into a dark vaguely fluorescent atmosphere.  It smelled like food, and leather, everything was hurting now, you scrambled inside your head to remember what happened.  You feel a jolt from the squeak of wood as she kicked a table to the side a bit, resting in a corner of what appeared to be a booth.  Her hand was cool compared to the skin of your forehead as she pressed to check your temp.  “Well, you def look like a glass of water is in order, or four…”
  After twenty minutes or so and a couple pitchers of water, you finally felt cognitive enough to think on how you arrived at this spot.  You sipped another glass of water, the bruised pain in your throat wasn’t going away.  The strong yet kind lady wandered back over with a fresh pitcher of water, ice clinked about in it as condensation rolled in heavy beads down the sides.
  “Okay there stranger, so…” she drummed her fingers on the tablet, sliding to sit on the corner of the booths other bench, “you seem more about your wits, however i feel i should let you know not to try and talk too much ok?”  you winced as you reflexively tried to utter a inquiry, your hand reached up to your throat, feeling bandages.  Your eyes wide shot to hers, she motioned to settle, “listen i just patched you up before i got you awake, it’s super bruised and very angry.  Like you clotheslined yourself on something at a high speed, tom and jerry style.”  she glanced you over, “honestly i have seen similar, but not on living folk, motorcycle accidents...few have happened out here.  If i was to be specific, one would say the kind where you lose your head.” she pointed to your sore bandaged throat, “you are lucky you can even breathe, and i would get you to a hospital, but closest one is miles out and they do not chopper for cheap out here.” She sighed, looking guiltily at the floor, “and The Cops refuse to come out here, let alone emergency services, haven’t for a long while.  Bunch of rumors about this stretch of road being cursed or some ridiculous stuff, but i tell ya what, if you want”  she procured a phone, gently easing it across the table, “if you want to try and call someone to come get you i get pristine service out here, most don’t.”  you eyed the phone for a bit, bit pushed it back, with a look of frustration.  “Huh, no one to call or can’t remember the numbers?” she raised an eyebrow in concern, but you looked down at the table, frowning, you weren’t quite sure why or who you’d know to call.  “Well you seem alright, no red flags from my gut” she stretched out her hand to you, “Name is Maalony, but you can call me Mal.” you hesitantly grab her hand, she gives a friendly and comforting shake, then motions to the bar they were sitting in.  “This is My place, got it so long ago and under circumstances i have now long repressed into forgetting.  It’s called the Rattle Ridge Roadhouse, don’t worry, not because of the snakes...mostly... here.” she hopped up, helping to get you standing on your feet, her smile beaming warmly at you. “Let’s get you upstairs, I can set you up in my guest room, it doesn’t see much use...since ever really.  I mostly use it as a backup storage room for overstock, the regulars tend to clean me out before the next shipment if I don't hoard stuff up.”  Maalony helped you up the stairs, each step felt like agony, maybe you were in a wreck.
  After what felt like an hour long trek up stairs and about the balcony area lining the back top wall of the bar.  Maalony opened a door and eased you over to a slightly dirty but overall unused bed, it’s long faded quilt comforter the most inviting thing you’d seen in a long while.  The moment you lay out on the soft surface, you blink off into sleep.
The sound of Hearty Laughter, Maalony’s voice raising indescriptly and clinking glasses muffled from beneath the boards of the floor woke you.  Achy but feeling significantly better you immediately glance around for a bathroom, a long curtain adorns the back wall of the room, you pull it back only to gaze out into the nighttime scenery of the dry dusty place.  Stars sparkled brightly above the dark mountainous yet desert looking landscape. Your body swiftly reminded you about your urge to go, you shuffled around glancing at another door in the gloom.  It was nestled behind some stacked boxes, after praying while precariously wedging past the boxes you squeeze into the room past the door; it was a tight fit as the door was only able to open a bit due to space.
 You sighed in relief as your finger found the light switch, now illuminated before you sat a toilet.
  You wedged your way back out, at least there had been hand sanitizer in there.  The boards beneath your feet shook as rocacious clatter and laughter echoed up. Against better judgement you decided to take a peak out at the wild scene obviously happening below.  Being as quiet as possible always seemed louder when you definitely didn’t want to be found, ducking out the door seemed to make the hinges scream.  You knelt down, hands on the bars of the railing to see down below, and what a sight, like nothing you’d seen before.
-----------------
“Hey hey, c’mon sweetie, gimme a freebie, I’ll give you a personal freebie in the back.” Skint flailed his tongue between his fingers at Maalony.  Her expression stayed steady as she leaned in closer to him,
  “You have no credit Skint and I am pretty sure I can do fine on my own in that department, don’t push me tonight.” she swiped up an empty glass and started to clean it, the tall and yellowed skeleton looked at her languidly.  Right eye sagged shut from lack of function, sharp toothed smile as he rolled a toothpick about the fangs. He was sharply outfitted in leather and what appeared to be purple metal accents. His one illuminating Violet Purple Eyelight following her every movement,  she glanced past the pool table at the farside of the building.  “Wild, can you please reign your brother in?”
  A short stock skeleton, in a chair reclined against the wall, feet propped up on the pool table edge.  He lowered his magazine on Motorcycle assembly, two oddly startling shaped Brighter Violet eyelights looked up to her, then to Skint.  He sighed going back to his reading, leather jacket complaining as he settled back,
  “I WOULD BUT I AM BUSY…” Maalony sighed as the Taller one jokingly made a grab at her arm,
  “Skint, you really like living up to that god awful reputation of yours…” he snaked a finger in a circle on the counter, eyeing her with his permanent grin.  He reached as she turned to place a glass, only for a knife to bury itself into the counter through Skints sleeve.  It sunk in deep, between his radius and ulna, mounting him in place by the forearm to the counter.  Maalony turned round at the sound,
  “G’Damnit Hazard, not the counter again, i just fixed it from last time…”  A grin sharp as its victims, but accented with two gold canines shined at her.
  “Got Anxious Darlin’, He doesn't stop sometimes, Better to keep him in place.” His voice was gravely and low, but almost timid.  His rusty orange eyelights peaked out from the hood of his leather duster coat.  Skint tugged fruitlessly at the hilt of the blade,
 “you Idiot, what if we gotta roll out! Now i can’t go outside to smoke!”  Hazard scoffed at the complaint,
  “You don’t go outside to smoke anyway you assh-”  he was cut off as a much more delicate but fiercely dressed skeleton raised a hand at Hazard.  Sneering his sharp teeth as starry crimson eyes glared at the hooded figure,
  “STOP GROWLING SO LOUDLY YOU MANGY DOG!” its tone was scathing, he gently shook his empty martini glass at Maal. “PITY YOU ARE SUCH AN AFFLICTION TO OUR GENEROUS HOST.”  he smiled composed at Maalony, then gave her a stern look.  She produced a shaker, refilling the glass with a very bright cocktail. He eyed the beverage, then glanced up to her, she bowed with a flourish.
  “This one is the royal flush of mixes I make, enjoy at leisure dear Nitros.”  she flung her towel over her shoulder and quickly blew him a kiss as she proceeded down the line at the bar. He puffed up with pride at the attention as he sipped it, eyes widening in pleasant surprise at it’s taste. The next seat down the line held seated a tall and spiked red metal accent riddled skeleton, as sharp in body as he was in attire.  His massive scarred left eye watched her work as she refilled his glass,  “And for BigBoss I have fireyTomata, specially mixed.”  his massive sharp teeth curved into a grin, then swiftly evaporated.  He picked up the glass delicately and swigged a portion, then started into thought, gently swirling his beverage. Hazard and Skint bickered quietly now as they both worked to remove the knife with minimal damages.  They ripped it free, with a holler of victory, Maalony slid them down a beer and a glass of bourbon and BBQ sauce.  Then she rounded to the far end, past big boss, to a hunched up figure, skeletal fingers drumming on the countertop.  Red piercing eyelights bored into the surface of the wood, smile punctuated by a solid gold fang amidst the other sharp teeth.  She mixed vodka and mustard, then set it down infront of him, his hand tapped it’s way onto hers before it left the glass.
  “Baby, you gonna be free at 2am? I am dying for some one on one action.” he growled it seductively at her.  She patted his grip with her free hand,
  “Gravel sweetheart, I am always free after 2am, the big question is if these other trouble makers will let me stay that way.” He dropped the tough act for a second, giving her the softest look one can manage as a very spiky and sharp clad biker.
  “Doll I’m serious here, i need this.” she sighed and nodded.
  “My room at 2:30 but be sly” she leaned in close, “Big Boss will have a conniption if he sees you at it again.” he nodded, chuckling as he released her hand for a drink of the beverage in front of him. 
  Suddenly the Jukebox in the corner by the main door roared to life, Loud Chiptune music blaring through, a cover of a metallica song from the sound of it.  A reserved yet leather clad and tall skeleton was on his way back to his seat, hood flipped up and shoulders hunched. At the table his companion was sipping a glass of red wine.  A shy brace wrapped smile flicked at Maalony as he raised his finger for a refill, The one sitting apart from him raised a brow, he had a very Steve McQueen look going for him.  The only one of the group wearing a savory red ascot, “GOODNESS YOU ALREADY HAD FIVE COFFEE WHIPS, YOU WANT ANOTHER?”  the taller reserved one, fidgeted as he waited, Maalony walked over, placing what one would think a rootbeer float down onto the table.  In fact it was a carbonated coffee drink with a mountain of whip cream atop it,
  “Oh let him enjoy himself Driver, you are.” she placed a freshly opened bottle of Merlot down, Driver shrugged as he smiled up an agreement.  She looked back to the shy skeleton, “and how are you enjoying the drinks, Slick?” he coyly flashed a happy smile as he started to swipe a finger of whipped cream off the top.
  She wandered back to the bar, setting the empty dirty glasses at the end, grimacing at the knife hole in the countertop.  She wandered over to Wildcard, “hey figured i’d check if you wanted another calcium shake.” he reached to his side, holding up a still partially full shake, straw lolling about the rim.  She nodded, “noted, also your brother is about to start playing darts again.”  he flapped the magazine down onto his lap, scowling at the dart board area, Skint was trying to talk Hazard into making a bet for the game.
  “C’mon big guy, this is easy, you got excellent aim and power, and well you aren’t allowed to play pool anymore due to the last incident.  Just a few gold pieces, nothing much.”
  “How much?”
  “Let's make it fun, and say...50?”
  “Well i suppose-”
  “Thousand?” he extended the handful of Hazards Darts to him.
  “Fuck that!” Hazard Snarled it out swatting the hand, darts flew up, one landing in the ceiling the other two in the upstairs railing.  Skint tsk’d at the show,
  “My my, very unsportsmanlike.”  Hazard Gave Maal an apologetic look, then started for the upstairs railing.
  Maalony glanced upstairs, then spied her latest house guest, and darted into Hazards path.
  “Y’know what i can go get em’ no biggie, everybody has their drinks.” Hazard puzzled at her remark,
  “Yeah...but, I can actually reach em darlin’ you aren’t that tall. Besides-” his words dropped off as he locked onto something upstairs.  He darted past Maal who cursed under her breath, she hollered up after him,
  “Hazard stop it! They-” she could hardly finish her explanation before it was drowned out.  Hazard had the Poor kid suspended by the collar in the air, growling deep and threateningly. The rest of the Skeletons shifted in mood quickly, all of them very bristled and a few even had produced bones aglow in hand with sharp points to match their eyelights.  The one that had been stoically silent stood from the bar, motioned for Hazard to bring them down.  Maalony stormed over to him, “BigBoss, I know it looks suspicious, but they are why I asked you guys if anyone had hit anybody recently and- Hazard will you PLEASE put them down!” the Tallest skeleton had made it down the stairs with them in tow, then abruptly dropped them to the ground. Maal walked swiftly towards the now coughing and very scared charge she had taken in earlier that day.  “They are who I found today out there, and this is more than a bad first impression.” BigBoss strode over, and knelt down to examine the crumpled thing beneath Maalony’s hands.
  You looked up to a very large and imposing face, sharp cheekbones sat beside piercing dark sockets with pinpoint fiery orange lights glowing from deep within them.  It seemed minutes before anybody moved or said anything, the first to do so was BigBoss.
  “GRAVEL!!! DID YOU DO THIS!?” he stood glaring at his brother, who now sweating was looking very perplexed.
  “How the heck would I have hit 'em? I ride right next to ya, you woulda seen if it was me fer stars sake!”
Your throat burned and thudded with your heartbeat, being hoisted up by the shirt collar looked less painful in movies and tv. Even you could remember that much as of the moment.
Thanks for reading, feel free to ask me any questions you may have. I plan on getting it typed up enough to unfurl its full sail capacity on AO3.
39 notes · View notes
Note
Hello again dear friend. Maybe friend. Or whatever. (I guess it'll take time to figure out whether we'll really call each other friends? :) )
How much time went by since the last letter I sent you? For me it's been almost two days. Your reply came this morning, but I needed some time to get over the call I told you.
The call, and honestly also you and your Jake. Don't get me wrong, I'm still absolutely glad I found someone to talk to! I also want to thank you for giving me Jakes message. But I was still having some doubts...How can I be sure this all is real? You are real? And not lying to me?
I'm scared and honestly, you do not figure out that there really is some messed up multiverse and some kind of...trickster entities who like to play weird games everyday. Like..How did you even figure out that an entity brought you to this place? (Even though I have to admit; maybe I would've thought the same thing in your situation.) To bring my emotions more near to you: I'm sighing right now. I guess I'm just scared this is another kind of sick mind play.
Aaaaaand I start babbling again.
The second thing I wanted to adress; the call. Like you said there weren't many options I had in mind, but I still was kinda hoping for..I don't know, just a spam call? Since I didn't hear from the Crow-Crew.
But it wasn't. Not that I would know. I didn't pick up the call, but some time later an unknown number sent me a picture of THE mask. Ya know what I'm talking about? Nothing more. Just the picture. (I'm sighing again. Really much today...)
What I'm trying to do is reaching Jake now..I mean, maybe this time-stopping-thingy ended by now? Or, to say it in your words, a weird entity started messing around again.
Well, I hope this letter wasn't to accusing or rude..Because, honestly, even if it was a weird mind game...I wouldn't want to lose you and your contact now.
Liska🐾🔥
Liska,
If you want to be friends, I'd love to be :)
It's... been a couple of hours since the last letter? I think. It's hard to tell time, here. Wait, I'll ask Jake. ...He says something like four hours, but he didn't think to keep track. Great, now we get to deal with time bullshit. Wonderful. Excuse me while I scream in frustration for a moment.
I mean, fair. You don't really have much of a reason to trust me, I guess, other than the proof I gave to Rai that I'm involved with the case. If you want any more evidence, though, I will say that I've got very strong suspicions as to why you mentioned you wanted to make Chinese food in your last letter. It's across from the motel room, isn't it?
Additionally, to be fair, I've very little reason to believe you either. However, given both that Rai is who they say they are, the contents of the letter that started it all, and our similar relationship dramas, I think I can safely assume that you are at least heavily involved in the Duskwood case, and that you're taking the same role that Rai and I am. So I'm choosing to trust you, here. Not like you can use any of this information to hurt me, anyhow XD I'm in a pocket dimension slash limbo prison thing, after all.
I don't know for SURE that it's an entity that brought me here, but it seems likely, doesn't it? I mean, this... place was clearly CONSTRUCTED, looking at the library, the game room, the comfy room, and the initial letter that started all this shit. Constructed for ME, in particular. Unless this is some weird as hell manifestation of my subconscious or something, that implies intelligent design.
Then again, I do have a habit of jumping straight from point A to point C, and skipping B in the process. I could be wrong. The "eldritch" descriptor is because in the works I read/watch/play, dimensional travel almost always ends up with Lovecraftian monsters somewhere in the mix of the bad guy rosters. Again, I made assumptions there. Whoops.
Huh. So, Duskwood is in stasis, but someone still sent a photo of the MWAF mask... grrrr. (There's a rough pencil sketch of the MWAF's mask here, with cartoonish inked X's over the "eyes.") This complete lack of logic is what I really hate about dealing with these reality warping assholes. Yes, definitely try to reach your Jake. Don't repeat my mistakes, just tell him everything if you manage to reach him. Good luck. Sincerely.
You're being rightfully skeptical. I didn't take offense at anything. When you're in situations like ours, not even the weird shit happening around us but just the Duskwood case itself, you really start doubting everything, don't you?
Or is that just me?
Jake thinks that the picture of the mask was either a threat or a message of some sort. He's recommending you keep an eye out for raven signs, or (given how things are going over on my side) just literal ravens. He's not sure whether you should follow them or run from them if you find them, though. He's also asking if there was anything in the background of the image.
I hope your Jake responds to you soon :(
—Yuvon and Jake
(The letter tucks itself in the paper clip with the others.)
3 notes · View notes
nighttimepixels · 4 years
Note
How do you draw chubby characters, if I can ask? I've only really been able to draw one type of body and I want to expand that! And your art is so lovely I wanted to ask you. If this ask makes your uncomfortable, you dont need to answer!
Oh stars, I dunno if I’m any sort of high tier speaker on this, but I can give a few tips?
First, it’s really common for most artists to start with only being able to draw a fairly lean or lean-adjacent stock body; it’s rad that you’re looking to work on that, and I’m delighted and cheering you on, right there with you! Also, super flustered and grateful that you’d say as much.
There are a few main things you’ll want to do to draw a better variety of body types:
Look at different body types! Actively seek ‘em out!
This sounds almost offensively obvious, but I really mean look.
Study, follow online - make observation part of your regular routine!
Are you on Instagram? Make a concerted effort to follow creators who have different body types. There are a lot of fat-positive bloggers & creators out there to vibe with! Same applies to Twitter, Youtube, etc - whatever your social media consumption, mix it up and make an active effort to diversify.
And if you’re not the type to regularly consume online real-person-visual-here content, that’s okay! Bookmark a few you like the vibe of, at least, and start checking on them more often - draw a couple random studies as you do so. Not anything you intend to post, but just - to help you get the feel of what that body feels like in it’s core lines, navigation of space, and so on!
Example of the kind of rough sketches I mean-
Tumblr media
First one’s an exploration based on me feeling my own body, second’s referenced from online media, third’s a cross between them, and so on. These were all purposefully on the stylized end, and I focused on the feel of the body most of all.
(...Please note that I’m very sapphic and favor drawing ladies, but this applies to dudes and body types of all genders! I’m working on my dude game atm too, but it’s a WIP for sure, heh. We all gotta start somewhere, and that somewhere for us artists is... our eyeballs!)
((I imagine it goes without saying to study anatomy, from bones to muscles to of course fat itself, but here’s saying that in acknowledgement, anyways. It helps no matter how tedious it may feel to hear the advice ad nauseum XD ))
Follow and study artists that draw different types of bodies!
Maya Kern and Jijidraws (on Twitter) both pop to mind immediately, but there are so many more! I’m an artist that likes stylization, so though I work hard to get irl reference, part of being an artist is dissecting what other artists do to learn and grow on your own.
For example - on chubby/fat bodies, note how the neck & and jawline connect in a gentle slope or rolls! Note how boobs rest on tummy fat with a cat-like mouth (think the w in uwu) rather than a defined round-then-flat ‘skinny’ look. Notice how arm fat falls softly, but there’s still a little elbow definition - and often elbow ‘dimples’! Notice the way leg fat falls, moves, shifts solidly but softly against itself when kneeling... and so on!
Different artists have different ways of boiling these traits down - study ‘em and figure out what’s the core essentials, what works for your level of stylization, and keep applying those things until you get your own flare and can do it naturally.
Feel how your own body feels, and read accounts from others if possible!
No, really. Even if you’re not chubby or fat yourself - feel how your body distributes it’s mass as you bend, twist, hunch, crouch, curl. You’d be surprised how much translates - our squishy bits have to go somewhere, so figure out where that is on yourself! Both by touch/feel, and in the mirror/using the camera on your phone, if possible :)
Biased bit here, but- watch good animation with different body types!
I really like the Ghibli-type approach of stylization where you don’t just draw what you see, but you draw how the thing feels. From tears to laughter, to sleeping, to stomping in frustration, to running! That applies to literally all parts of the body.
Even if you’re not an animator, you can learn and grow so much from studying how animators move different types of bodies (and personalities) through space. Try to figure out why and how, and translate that into your own art! It’ll benefit both in helping variety in your character designs, and in portraying how they carry themselves, regardless of their shape.
====
These are just a few tips, but they’re the core of it. When in doubt, observe! But don’t think that just means still-life, fancy nude studies - though those are important and helpful too - basically, be mindful of the choices you’re making.
Use reference for everything, until it’s freakin’ second nature - and even then, use reference! And observe other artists work just as much as real life - every act of creation is in fact an act of remixing, and that’s okay - heck, that’s the beautiful, wonderful thing about creating. We’re all building off one another, and ideally, pulling one another up with each other as we go :)
Godspeed, and happy chubby drawing!! :D
69 notes · View notes
kerwritesthings · 4 years
Text
California Calling
Summary: It’s just what you do when you love someone
Word Count: 2,340
Warnings: fluff, a teeny tiny blip of heart hurt, but then more fluff
Author Note: Another one of those hitting me out of nowhere pieces. Maybe it’s all the pretty from this past week/weekend? Maybe? I really don’t know. I opened a word doc and next thing I knew I had 500 words, then it somehow made its way up to this 2.3k we’re sitting at now. And in like 2.5 hours? I don’t question the muse anymore. 
All I know is this little world will not let me go. I think I’m ok with that. I’ve already got two additional pieces rough sketched in my head. One that falls between part two (Warmth of the Morning) and this that is definitely a little naughtier, the other happening after this one. First part can be read here, second part here.
Tumblr media
After that weekend together, after that afternoon when you spent more time tangled up in each other and the sheets than you expected, you made up your mind to push your flight up. Literally, the moment he was out the door to catch his flight you had your phone in hand looking at options. You want a bit more time with him, the time you had as lovely as it was, just wasn’t enough. You have the PTO at work, and if you need to pull a couple late nights and a Saturday in to do it, so be it. He is worth it.
The two of you talk, and you knew after your time in LA, it wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as the last few months had been. You have a few dates blocked out in both your calendars already that were meant for the two of you, and the two of you only - even with him not knowing exactly what his schedule was looking like.
“Don’t care,” he says, dusting a kiss to your temple as you sit on the couch next to each other, calendar and notes apps open. “I’ll schedule around it. This is important, you’re important.”
The thought of that making you smile as you start to make your plans to pull off a surprise of your own. Knowing you wouldn’t be able to pull this off alone, you think quickly of who the best cohort in your new scheme of plans would be and more so who was out in LA that could be trusted with a secret.  
Thinking about coming in early, wanna help me surprise him C? You’re the one who can make shit happen for him and not give away anything! you shoot off in a quick text before digging back into flights on phone while balancing and cross referencing your massive work planner across your knees. Finding a direct flight was harder than you thought, but if you push up a self-imposed deadline, you’d be able get out first thing Wednesday morning instead of the original late-night flight Friday. Plus, you’d still have the whole week after as originally planned.  
Good weekend then? :) Only if I get to deliver you from the airport and see Shawn fall ass over teakettle in person when you get in early. He’s been good, but you can tell how much he misses home. And you. I’m in, so just tell me what I need to do and when. Nothing’s crazy the week leading into the show just writing and studio time, so we can make things work. Will be good to see you, been too long!
You smile, grateful that his work family has in turn become an extension of yours.
Thanks – looking at flights now and seeing what I can do with the office. Stay tuned and will text you everything shortly. You’re a good man.
After a bit of maneuvering on your side with a promise to your boss, who is a saint and adores your boyfriend, that you’d be available via phone or text and only in the dire case of any blow ups those few extra days all the things began to fall into place. Now, to keep this close to the chest and not give anything away.
The night before you’re due to leave, you almost slip.
“You’re avoiding me,” he whines through the speaker of your phone. “Don’t pick up my FaceTime, ignore my first call, leave my texts on read. I see how it is.”
You know he’s joking, but you also can hear the slight tinge of disappointment backing his voice. It’s been a bit of a chase the last few days. Quick calls, most of which miss each other, texts on the fly and no FaceTime.
“I’m sorry baby. I’m trying to get all this work done before I leave,” you say, throwing some of your last-minute purchases into the open suitcase on your bed, including another little surprise for him. “No distractions while I’m out there. Just you, me and that LA sunshine.”
“I know, and I don’t mean to sound petulant. I’m sorry,” he sighs and takes a breath. “We haven’t had a ships passing in the night beat like this since the thick of the last tour block. I’m feeling stuck on things in the studio though everyone says it’s solid and, shit I just miss you honey.”
You plop on the edge of the bed, running a hand over your face. It hurts your heart hearing him this way, but you know all this is for a reason. You cannot tell him; it’s going to be all worth it tomorrow morning when he walks into the studio to you. “I’m going to finish this last thing and then pull together a playlist for you. Some stuff I’ve been noodling on, some old favorites, couple off that sleepy playlist of mine you swear up and down you don’t like, but I know you listen to. I’ll listen to it too, so it’ll feel like we’re together cuddled down listening to it. We’re almost there. Couple more days and nights, then I’m there.”
“I love you,” he says easily, full of affection. You could hear the vestiges of whatever was eating at him starting to slip away. You say your goodnights and you were both off. The playlist wasn’t something you planned on, but it shouldn’t take you too long to pull together. Plus, you could sleep in the car on the way to the airport and on the plane. Making him feel better, feel loved – the loss of a little sleep was nothing compared to that.
Landing in Los Angeles is always something that brings a special feeling, it’s a strange mix of trepidation and excitement. Luckily there was no issues with the flight, so you land on time and can make it through the gates towards baggage claim fairly unscathed. As you made your way down the escalator, there in sunglasses and a hat to blend in with the other drivers awaiting passengers, with your name on a sign and a Starbucks in hand, is your partner in crime.
“You didn’t need to come in,” you say chuckling before wrapping him in a hug.
“Your boy would box my ears if I did a drive by pick up and you know that,” he quips, kissing your cheek before trading your bag for the Starbucks cup in his hand. “Come on, let’s get your other bag and get up to the studio. He thinks they’re swapping out some equipment so that’s why they have to have a later start.”
“Genius call, and he’d only believe that from you. He’s got no clue, does he?” you ask with a Cheshire cat grin as the carousel starts to spin.
Making your way through the masses and to the garage wasn’t too much of a time suck, you were still on target. It was LA so there was going to be traffic no matter what, but landing as early as you did was a at least a little helpful since you were heading straight across town and then some since the boys made the new place by the beach home base for this go.
“Should I be worried that you’re quiet? Normally you’re talking my ear off by now if we haven’t seen each other in this long,” he asks, the care tinging through his tone as he makes his way up onto the PCH.
You shake your head, “No, no not at all Cez, sorry. Late night last night, late nights all last week to make this happen. All worth it though when I see his face.”
He reaches over,  squeezing the hand resting on the cup between you. “I’m glad you have each other and love each other the way you do. I always worried he’d not find his person, so wrapped up in the work and so focused. I remember the day after he met you the first time. He had a different smile that morning. I knew right away, even when he probably didn’t. You were something special for him, to him. You understand and respect this crazy bullshit we’re in, which takes a whole other level of care and person to get. Helps you’re a bad ass in your own right. I’m just happy he’s happy, and that you’re happy. That you’re happy together like this? Best thing.”
“Damnit don’t make me cry what little makeup I have on all off,” you sniff out. “I love him. It’s just that simple. It’s not easy, god you know that. But I would rather deal with all this than not have him and love him. Why you do the crazy shit like this.”
It’s only a few minutes later that you’re heading off the highway and winding your way through the still quiet streets. Finally, you pull up to a set of dark gates, well hidden with greenery.
“They basically took a pre-development boom location, this old 50’s old beach house with its massive garage and converted it. It’s a pretty solid setup, off the beaten path and not well known, but it’s state of the art. I can see this becoming a regular thing with the ‘shed. Plus, it’s a quick wander down to the water from here,” he explains as the gates pull back and you head through.
Your phone pings as you pull to a stop and open the car door.
Finished at the gym and off to the studio. Nothing cray so just call when you can today, love you xo <3
“Perfect timing, he’s on his way up. Have I said thank you yet Cez? Because…” you start before being wrapped up in another hug.
“You’re family, don’t even,” he says, dropping a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll go stash your bags, just head through to the studio. Door is around that cluster of birch trees. I’m also on good knowledge that big leather couch is good to curl up on for a nap. I’ll make sure to head in with him. I don’t think the rest of the guys are due in until a little after him, he wanted to work a run by himself first.”
You make your way into the studio space and it’s better than described, or from the photos Shawn has sent along. It’s so easy to see why this will fall into a place where he feels comfortable and creative. Warm wood, windows, well-worn rugs and the infamous camel colored couch. It’s easy to sink into the cool leather and down into the cushions, sliding into a dozy twilighty state – not quite sleeping but not quite awake.
You hear voices, which bring you more towards full consciousness, but you stay cozied into the couch.
“I want to get this one track done before everyone decides to come in and have opinions, thought of something last night and I just want to have it down first,” your boyfriend prattles on as you hear him push open the door, dropping what’s probably his backpack and guitar case onto the floor. “Though I think I need to hash the last of the lyrics out first, maybe. I’ve got time though.”
You see his feet first, then his legs, realizing he’s not paying attention to the couch at all or realizing that you’re there. He’s just standing there, chatting. Not a care to what’s actually behind him or a second thought to the couch whatsoever. You look past his legs, seeing the smile creeping up over Cez’s face as he realizes that Shawn still has no clue what’s awaiting him.
“You may want to kiss your girlfriend hello first though before all of that,” you try to say as seriously as possible, but break out into giggles at the end. “Surprise baby!”
He turns on his heels so quickly that he’s tangled up in himself and in a heap on the floor next to the couch, laughter peeling out from all of you in the room.
“Now that. That was totally worth it. Hope you like your gift, Shawn. Gonna leave you two alone for a bit,” Cez says with a nod before backing out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Shawn is just shaking his head, pulling himself to sit upright, before bringing his hands up to cup your face.
“You, you’re, I just. You,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing ever so carefully across your cheekbones.
“It was my turn, so. I figured go big or go home right? I figured we could use a couple extra days together before everything this weekend. It’s going to be a lot. We know that. And I knew I’d be missing you at this point. I changed my flight literally before you boarded yours back here. I still have all next week too. This is added bonus,” you reply. “I was packing when you called last night, it’s why I couldn’t hop on FaceTime. I didn’t want to give anything away. I was so close to telling you, but I knew I’d see you today. Hearing you last night though, I knew I made the right call to come out here early.”
He just looks at you so softly, so intently. Not saying anything, but still keeping his eyes on you he moves his right hand to slide into your hair, cupping your head and bringing you closer to him until you are nose to nose. Nuzzling against you ever so slightly, nose sliding against yours like a whisper, his eyes slip closed and he exhales. “I am so lucky that you love me, that you made the decision that I’m worthy of your love,” he sighs out, lips just a hair from yours. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this and you, but I’m so damn grateful. I love you, so much.”
He presses in, kissing the breath straight out of you.
Yep. It was absolutely worth it.
TAG LIST: @loveat2am, @sinplisticshawn, @hollandraul​, @whenidance​
95 notes · View notes
Text
the artist | prologue
something that began life with my encounters with joey belladonna on instagram last fall and this past spring (before they turned into qvc 2.0 in late october, that is). i thought of him, as well as the time i wrote a letter to lars and the three years chris was in my periphery. thus, this is actually somewhat autobiographical as well as my watching the world unfurl right before my eyes in the year 2020. joey, lars, and i are alive in this terror-filled nightmare that chris never saw, and i cherish every second the two of them are continuing to walk the earth with me. consider it a testament of our survival that we have reached the final 30 days of this year unscathed.
i’m also looking ahead to after the pandemic, how the world might manifest in the virus’ wake after looking at history with the world-changing diseases like spanish flu, smallpox, and the black plague, as well as civil unrest and the existential threat that is climate change. i will admit that i have no idea where we all will be in 5 years time, but i can guarantee that no nation was the same following those events, especially since the united states was seemingly on the brink of destruction for a few years preceding the pandemic. it’s kind of like what sci-fi writers of the early 20th century did with the advent of the nuclear bomb as well as space travel.
at this point, with 20 chapters left to write, i hold the artist right up with now it’s dark, amped and wired, and black diamonds. it’s me living in a world that has collapsed and we’re all living in the unknown; it’s me wondering which step to take next with the three men i adore near me. it’s not on the same level of agony with my dead trilogy fics, the mirror never lies, or my original work black rain (which i wrote as a goodbye to chris), but it’s... it’s definitely there.
anyways, enjoy! xoxo
He was a tall lithe gentleman with those lush dark curls strewn over his shoulders as though they were the sides of a mane. The way he moved about on a stage with either that shiny mint green guitar cradled in his hands as though it were a naked woman, or the microphone as though it were about to get away from him was enough for me to pick up a pencil. I wanted to touch and caress his black curls, to put them down on paper. He was what I referred to as “draw-able” in that I always returned to him for inspiration.
I swore that it wasn't a phase—I tried to convince my dad that it wasn't a phase, even when I showed him my first drawing of Chris. I was proud of the drawing, too: it was rough and sketchy, and yet you could tell it was him with those long shoulder length curls behind his back and down over his collar bones. I had used a single pencil to draw him as well.
“Holly, you've gotta do something else with your art,” he said to me that first time. “You've got to do some more still life.”
I often heard that a few times thereafter, even as I did more studies of Chris singing and in different stances to understand his anatomy a little better. It always struck me as odd that my art wasn't more embraced at home growing up, even though my parents were more than happy to support me in my path to art school. My dad showed me the one school down in Portland. I wanted to stay there in Tacoma, even with Chris and his band based up in Seattle.
At some point, and by that, I mean a few months before I graduated, to work my way around that complaint, I began incorporating more plants into my drawings of him. More roses and more leaves jutting out from his shoulders and from the crown of his head. I kept those drawings to myself, granted I knew if I shared them with the household they wouldn't be seen as serious art.
One time when I strolled into an art shop for some colored pencils and I had my sketchbook tucked underneath my arm, I went in under the power of a secret. I had climbed off the bus before the one outside of my house. I protected my sketchbook from the soft spring misty rain of the Northwest. I had a few dollars in my pocket, money left over from the stimulus money I had scrounged up. Just enough for some new colored pencils for some more botanical type work for my drawings.
I'm the multiracial kid with the kinky coarse black hair inherited by a Native American mama and the pale skin from my half white daddy. It had been a long road to hoe the past few years in the wake of the pandemic, especially for my mom and me. She and I had been dealing with it with a bit more difficulty from my dad, since he was the one with the job, at least at first. Even though I was a few years younger by the time we got our check, I got one for myself and I made sure the money stretched enough to whenever we got another one.
Even with my drawing pad under my arm, and the introduction of my digital drawing tablet, I had days where it felt like I needed to do something a bit more useful.
It was from all of the times I heard my dad's criticisms about my art in the past. Add to this, the uncertainty from living through a global pandemic and social reset made me wonder where we all would go from the second the dust settled. I needed to rest my head so much following even the smallest projects. I had witnessed the older generation pushed to its brink and stragglers such as myself found themselves at square one for so long that it was difficult to know which way to go. I was always told that I needed something feasible, something to keep me safe. But the pandemic showed that nothing was safe.
Even in my spare time, or in the times I took a day off from drawing, I found myself seeking solace in reading about things like science and of course, listening to music. For years, I found myself leaning more towards the harder side of the rock n' roll world: Soundgarden was the first band I had found, but then there came along Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. It helped that they hailed from the north of us, so it made sense to me to find them.
But then there was Metallica and Anthrax.
I would sit on the floor of the living room before my stereo with the radio tuned to the modern rock station nearby, and with my earphones in my ears; I would sit there with my drawing pad cradled in my lap and let the music be my master. I came for the scene to the north, but I found my way to the heavy stuff.
I had used a little bit of the stimulus money to buy myself a couple of albums, on part of the recommendation of the chick in the record store of course.
Those swirling powerful but simple drums riddled throughout the Black Album. So simple and yet so strong and with such prowess, perfect for the spine of the music. That strong and exotically beautiful voice from Spreading the Disease. I wanted to touch that voice, to put it and cement it down into something like paper. I was enthralled by the power and prowess of heavy metal.
I scoured the channels of Tumblr to see and study their faces, to see Lars and his long lush brown hair and fuzz about his face, to see Joey and his long beautiful black curls and handsome face, to see them all. And yet I still found my way back to Chris. I still found my way back to him and that unique voice. So deep and full in places and yet unafraid to howl.
And yet I felt so far behind them, a teenage girl from a lower end family and with mixed roots. A girl with parents working so hard that they almost ignore the very craft she was proud of.
I wanted to draw him with roses, complete with the lush red and orange petals. Thus I headed to the little store for some new colored pencils—those good ones that come in all manner of shades of color in a silvery tin. I brought my sketchbook along with me to try them out before I bought them for myself. I already had sketched a portrait of Chris himself but I left him as is so as to fill him out later on.
I stepped into the front of the shop and stripped off my hood. I ran my fingers through my coarse black hair and then unbuttoned my jacket: I looked down at the linoleum floor underneath me. My jeans were falling apart: the waist fitted me a little too well at that point and the hems were tattered. My mom vowed to fix them for me, but when the fabric stores were all closed during the pandemic, it was difficult to find anything that could help us.
I shuffled across the shiny linoleum to the aisle with the colored pencils and the nice paints. I stood before the display case and scanned the tins and boxes before me to find anything that would catch my eye.
I was still adjusting to the world following the pandemic: there was a part of me that wanted to stroke my chin in pensive thought but after hearing all of the talk on not touching your face, a part of me continued to resist that very tidbit. I spotted a box of Prismacolor pencils, seventeen of them to be exact.
Seventeen, and as smooth as butter and right within the budget of twenty dollars in my pocket.
I set my sketchbook down on the shelf so I could open the box and reveal those pencils, and I hoped to see them as sharp and new as I would ever see them. I'm usually easy going on all of my tools just out of the nature of the price range, but I wanted to make the roses on Chris as bold and fiery of red as possible. I took out the scarlet red one and opened the sketchbook for the inside cover and I paid no attention to the fact I held the box, open end sideways. Three pencils slid out from under me.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself as I closed the cover and stooped down to fetch them.
“I hope those are nice ones,” a voice caught my ear behind me. I turned around to find him looming right there with me. The most stray tendrils of his inky black hair were tousled a bit even as he sprawled over his collar bones and the front of his black raincoat. I stood upright to meet up with his gaze: he towered over me, such that I could make out the sight of the first sprigs of hair sprouting upon the underside of his chin.
“Easy there,” he cautioned me, which he accompanied with a raising of his hands.
“It's alright,” I assured him, “social distancing hasn't been a thing in quite a while.”
“Nah, I don't mean that—I don't want you to drop any more pencils.”
“Oh!” I fetched up the pencils I had dropped on the floor and then closed up the box before I drop any more. He grinned at me, and I followed his gaze to the sketchbook perched atop the shelf.
“Is that yours, too?” he asked me.
“Why—yes.” I wasn't even flustered and yet I felt it even by his gestures and that gaze from those eyes. He stood so close to me, even with the pandemic behind us. I felt my face growing warm as I took the sketchbook off of the shelf. I forgot I still had it open to that sketched drawing of him; when I took it off of the shelf, I held the drawing of his face right before my chest.
He gasped right as I held it before me.
“Is—Is that me?” he inquiringly asked me in a soft voice.
“Huh?” I clutched at the sketchbook and held the drawing away from him.
“I don't wanna—be rude or intrusive or anything,” he swore to me. My face bloomed with warmth. It had been so long since I showed anyone one of my drawings from my sketchbook, much less anyone outside of my family. I whirled around to see the tender expression upon his face: his eyebrows raised a bit and his head bowed enough for me to wonder if he was flirting with me or not. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed through his nose.
I swallowed and then, gingerly, I turned the sketchbook towards him.
He lowered his eyebrows and brought a hand to his mouth as if he was shocked.
“Oh,” he breathed, “oh, wow, that's wonderful. I love the roses.”
I shrugged.
“I just felt you could use roses,” I confessed to him.
“I love it,” he admitted as he lowered his hand from his mouth. “I'd love to see it when it's colored in.”
“I gotta get some pencils first, though.”
“Have at it, girlie.” He gestured his open palm towards me as if giving me his blessing. I decided on the Prismacolor pencils—I also didn't see anything else that caught my attention. Within time, I made my way up front to break those twenty dollars even. I kept my sketchbook out in the open and I assured the young peppy clerk that I had already opened it and long paid for it. He lingered near the cash register and eyed the ceramic supplies at the front there. I never thought I would've met him there in that art shop and at such a strange time. I wondered if I could make my rapport with him as I paid for the pencils and awaited the change from the clerk there before me.
He met up with me on the other side with a pensive look on his squarish face. I slipped the pencils and the sketchbook into the plastic bag in hand so as to protect both from the incoming rain. I felt myself blushing again at the sight of him: it didn't help matters that he continued to tower over me.
“What's your name?” he asked me, that pensive look still riddled upon his face.
“Holly. As in Hollywood.”
“Hollywood…” He grinned at me. He took out the little burner phone from his jacket pocket: such a sight to see, what with technology the way it had progressed to that point.
“Holly Sherman is my whole name...” My voice trailed off as I watched him open the address book up to a fresh page for a fresh number.
“You want my number, don't you,” I teased him.
“Well, yeah. When the drawing's colored in, I wanna see it.”
I could not resist that offer, and it was that very moment I knew I would have something on my hands. I would have something on my hands even in the wake of the pandemic.
1 note · View note
Text
Rough Night In Commorragh
@lordsofmedrengard You know what I do have another ficlet! I wrote this before I got on tumblr, when Taffy was still being developed as a character, but it’s still damn good. 
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 1: The Best Part of Waking Up
One eye opened a crack and took stock of the situation around me. Snoring, mostly naked kin, not unexpected.  Didn’t look like my living space, which was good, since it smelled like cleanup would be quite the task. Pretty sure the clothes dangling from the fan are mine, though. Lucky they wound up somewhere easy to find!
Oh, Khaine, my head hurts. Should not have taken Adrenalight for that fight. Then again, it was fun, easy to get hold of, and the side-effects weren’t much of a problem in the arena. Plus, I won. Okay, poor life decisions rationalized, what’s next? I groggily pawed around at my left thigh (christ, can’t feel a thing, it’s gone numb). Should be a pouch there, all manner of delightful concoctions, one of them’s sure to make aching skull feel better.
“Hrnnngha?” The grunt came from somewhere underneath my shoulders. Shit, that’s not my thigh. One to the left maybe? Ah, there we go, not as numb as I thought. The pouch!!  Aaaand fan-fucking-tastic. Empty. At least, empty of the trance-inducing narcotics I had been looking for. I’ve never tried taking a dose of Psychon for a hangover, but I doubt it would end well. Okay, some charming piece of shit talked me into sharing my stash,  if I’d taken that much I’d be waking up in a rejuvenation pod, not a pleasantly bloody pile of sleepy Eldar.
Ups-a-daisy, girl-  fuck, my scalp!! OW!. Damnit, my gloriously (yet inconveniently) long hair’s caught in the armor of some dead-asleep warrior. But, upon further consideration, my hair is absolved of guilt, since, glory of glories, he’s got my half-full narcotic needle stuck in his arm!
A series of mixed grunts rises from those around and underneath me as I crawl over and and yank the needle from his limp arm, jamming it into my own and sighing as I depressed the plunger, a tingle of euphoria through my poor, dazed skull. I glanced down at the hair tangled through his armor, tugging to get it free.
Wait, is this tied on?!
Damn, it is. Looks like I got kinky* last night. Huh, this guy must have been pretty smooth. Should probably leave my contact.
*Translator’s note: The Dark Eldar lexicon has 1,227 words that can be approximately translated to English as “kinky”, each of which has subtly-different-yet-critically-significant connotations. The rune used here is one of the milder forms, and is best read as “activities outside of my normal range”, rather than “particularly extreme”.
I flipped him over and found a spot on his chest mostly free of tattoos. As full as narcotics as he was, I don’t think he even noticed. I grabbed a knife from my hip and pursed my lips slightly while I went to work.
Of course I had a knife handy when my pants (okay, black fiendleather panty-thing) were currently dangling from a ceiling fan. Why would I disarm myself just to having sex?? Aside from being boring, acting like you’re sure that your partner won’t kill you mid-sex-act implies a lot of emotional commitment, and I’m not ready for that.
Anyway, I dug the tip of my knife through flesh, scarring a message, feeling the trickle of pain into my soul as I did so:
“Srry bout scars- c me outside the Pit? Ask 4 Tamephela, <3!”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 2: Danse Macabre
The gloom of Commorragh settled around my shoulders as I stepped out the door of wherever it was I had wound up after the previous night’s debauchery. Buncha marks around it, what are they?
Ah, I recognize the sigils. Hellion gangsign, the Gutrip Claws, specifically. Not a huge gang, but they had a reputation for seriously fucking up people that started shit at their parties. Good for business when you run a string of drug-dens. 
My head twinged a bit, a reminder of just how enticing those drug-dens could be. Ought to get home. Where the hell is my bike?
A quick glance around showed no sign of it. Damnit. Why weren’t things ever easy? Well, aside from living in a city of complete bastards. No matter- I kept track of my shit. I checked the tracking-screen built into my dagger’s handle- aaaand groaned. Loudly.
Why did I leave the fucking thing on a roof half a click away and a hundred meters up? ...Probably because somebody dared you to climb down the wall, dumbass. Ah well. There’s more than one way to get airborne in Low Commorragh.
I slipped into a low, loping stalk and set out. A bit of work later and I had turned up what I was looking for.
The hellion was gliding down the street confidently, but his eyes darted crazily across those who walked the streets beneath him- a sure sign of too many drugs. Or possibly a gambit meant to lure me in- but no, the faint wrinkles around exposed pectorals suggested the Thirst was getting to him. 
Prey.
Could go after him with my agoniser- but nah, whipping that around would invite someone to steal it. Plus, if I just kill the little shit, his friends- or at least, co-gang-members’ll probably come up behind me in an alley at some point to have a few sharp words. So that’s out- let’s put on a performance instead, make ‘em think twice.
Think. Plan. Wait for the moment- move. 
Dash up the wall. Feel it’s sharp protrusions rip a long gash in my left palm. Spring off in a lightning fast arc. Cast my left arm before me, sending a long arc of blinding blood into his eyes. His mouth opens in a warcry, but my hand is already at my pistol. I feel a surge of terrible glee as I send a splinter right down his open mouth into the back of his throat a moment before I strike the ground, rolling.
He descends upon me, howling, his glaive out, dropping towards my head as he shoots forward.  A smile, as I feel his pain begin with a burning along his throat- no need to move quite yet.
His howl turns into a horrible, hacking cough as the splinter-toxins I selected take hold. Blood first, then his partially-liquified stomach, pour out of his mouth, his glaive falling from his grip as he feels the acids of his own digestive tract start to burn up his vital organs.
Leap forward once more, the ecstatic electricity of his suffering galvanizing my legs, and land in front of him upon his skyboard. As his essence bursts out of him, wrap a leg around him, setting the skyboard spinning, and extend one arm- a bloody mockery of a dance, sending showers of his internal fluids spraying across the street and onto onlookers. 
Slow, as I feel his pain slow and his death begin. Bring the skyboard to a slow, final twirl. Hold him close, bend him forwards, and share a kiss as the last of his lungs spews forth, coating my face in sweet-smelling blood and gore. How beautiful, the light fading from his eyes, the exquisite agony as he feels his torso collapse in upon itself.
End the performance- cast him over my shoulder, a sprinkle of blood from my palm following him, his ejection sending the skyboard into a graceful, tumbling flip. Sketch a bow, bringing myself to a halt.
  A human slave on the end of a chain looks on in wide-eyed horror- the light musk of his terror adds a delightful bit of ambience. The kinsfolk on the street grin wildly, and begin a short round of applause- excluding, I note, a couple with similar tattoos to the fresh corpse. Them, I can feel their surprise, anger- and yes, just a hint of fear. Good. They’ll think twice about trying for revenge. 
I love it when I can send just the message I want!
16 notes · View notes
sweatersarecomfyy · 5 years
Text
Mister Scamander (Newt Scamander x Reader)
Summary: Reader gets separated from Newt when they are looking for dragons. She is stuck in the desert for a while before he finds her and then they have to deal with some poachers. Newt heals reader. Some angst, also lots of fluff. Happy ending.
Warnings: Blood, a little fighting, physical contact. Really nothing too bad.
Word Count: 4,481 (It’s so good!)
A/N: This is my first fan-fiction on here. Constructive criticism/compliments are appreciated. Let me know if I should do more!
“Shh. What are you doing?” I hushed him. Overjoyed to see him, but groaning to think he could have been tracked.
While on a search for dragons I had gotten separated from the one and only Newt Scamander. He was a magizoologist, whereas I was more particularly specialized in dragons. He had sought my help for discovering dragons around North America and we had been working together for a number of months. Wonderful months. Unfortunately, we had gotten separated. So one can imagine my surprise when he apparated right in front of me after a month of being alone.
“I could ask you the same thing YN.” Newt looked around, keeping his eyes down as usual. “I’ve been looking for you for over a month.”
“I’m fine, but you need to keep it down.” I whispered emphatically.
“Why?” He asked back quietly, shifting his feet on the blackened rocks.
A grin broke across my face. “Dragons.” I said simply.
His face broke into the widest smile I had ever seen, which was absolutely adorable. “Really?”
I nodded.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen this kind before, but get this, I’ve gained their trust.” I said excitedly letting out a giggle that was reminiscent of my girly teenage years.
He looked like he was about to burst with excitement, he didn’t even care that he could be burned to a crisp within a matter of minutes. Next to do was draw and classify these dragon’s for Newt’s book. They had been so friendly to me that he figured they hadn’t had contact with humans and wizards before.
“I’ll go first just to make sure they are alright, and then I’ll introduce you.” I said, clambering up to the cave.
He stayed put as I looked in on the massive silver creatures. One mother and her two tiny dragon babies. The mother towered over me, but her babies were only about the size of great danes. She sniffed the air suspiciously.
“Hi dear.” I said caressing her snout as she bent down to me. Her children nipped at my pant legs. “I brought a friend is that alright?”
She sniffed again, and I beckoned Newt to come slowly. She shifted nervously as he stood next to me.
“Don’t worry. He is good.” I rubbed her lower jaw. I took Newt’s hand in mine and placed it on her snout, still covering it with mine so that she wouldn’t be afraid.
Excitement and happiness were both present on Newt’s face. He was even turning a bit red. I took my hand off his and backed away from the dragon leaving him to touch it alone.
“I call her Winnie.” I whispered.
Winnie’s body language softened as she examined the man in the blue coat. She nuzzled his neck and sent a small puff of steam into his hair, making it even floofier than before.
He laughed joyfully, still not believing his eyes. His smile was literally the best thing ever. “How did you do this?”
“I didn’t do anything.” I moved back towards him. “I was camping and I happened upon them.
“What happened to you?” He said, taking in my rough appearance.
I looked down, only slightly embarrassed at my ripped work pants and thinning flannel shirt. At least I had grabbed some magic soap to keep me hygienic. Being covered in grime in front of Newt was not something I wanted. “I’ve been stuck in the desert. I don’t know where my wand went.” I said patting my pockets for the thousandth time just to make sure. “So, you know, I couldn’t really apparate.”
“Ahh.” Newt backed away slowly from the dragon and reached shoulder deep into his case. He pulled out my wand.
“You had it all this time?” I said delightedly, grabbing it from him.
“Yes, well, when we got separated, in the scuffle, it must have gotten mixed up.” He looked down and clasped the case shut. “And so, well, you know, I got it but you were gone.”
Without really thinking about it I hugged him, forgetting that he wasn’t used to that, and ended up just trapping his arms to his side. I didn’t really care, I just hadn’t seen another friendly face for so long. Having known him for a long time, he knew how I was with physical contact, but I generally tried to keep it to a minimum for his comfort.
“Thank you Mr. Scamander.” I said examining every inch of the wand I had missed so much. I call him Mr. Scamander, but in my mind he is Newt, because in my mind I can admit that I like him, and in my imagination, he likes me back. I have avoided calling him Newt out loud, because I am afraid that with his first name will also come a confession of my feelings. As if if I say that word out loud he will immediately know.
“How have you survived?” He asked a smile flickering on and off his face.
“I’ve been coexisting with the creatures here. But it’s been hard. You know the poachers from when we got separated, Grindelwalds people?”
He nodded.
“Well they’ve heard about this here dragon and they are trying to find it, or you, or both. I’m not sure. I’ve been doing everything in my power to keep them off their trail.”
Newt looked impressed and momentarily looked me in the eye. I saw amazement in them, and something close to adoration, but he was probably thinking about the dragons.
“All without magic?” He asked looking away quickly.
“Yeah, I’ve just been setting up false trails and stuff like that.” I responded, looking at him curiously.
He didn’t speak for a minute. “This dragon looks a bit like an Antipodean Opaleye, but they live in New Zealand. I can’t imagine what one would be doing here in America, although they have been known to migrate. Well I, I guess, I should probably do some sketches, and, and, observe. Then we can figure out what to do next.” He looked back and forth between me and the dragon and started fiddling with his case.
I smiled, I had missed his ramblings about creatures and was looking forward to learning more from him in the near future. “Alright. I want to make sure we are safe, I am going to go cast some protective charms, is that alright?”
“Good idea.” He said, settling down with a notebook on a large rock. The dragons were playing some sort of tug-of-war with each-other and didn’t seem to mind our presence.
I jumped from rock to rock until I was near the bottom of the hill, a good distance away from where the cave was hidden and raised my wand. I waved it a couple of times, muttering incantations, and watched as magic rippled through the air and turned invisible. Hopefully muggle-repellant and sound-blocking would be enough for now. Invisibility would have meant that I may have not been able to get back. Just before I turned around to walk back, three figures appeared at the base of the hill, three all-to familiar figures.
“Poachers.” I muttered under my breath. They had spotted me and raised their wands.
“Stupefy!” One of them yelled, but it missed.
I flicked my wand again, sending the same spell back at him non-verbally. It hit him straight in the chest. I raised my want to do it again but the tallest of them unarmed me with a swish of his wand. I stood my ground. Running to Newt would mean revealing him and the dragons.
“Well, well, YN.” He said slowly, smirking. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for far too long now.”
Not knowing exactly what to do, I ran forward, towards him, maybe, hopefully, to reach my wand. He obviously hadn’t been expecting this and jabbed his wand at me. I flew backwards onto the sharp rocks. I felt my shirt rip and the sharp, knifelike rocks puncture my back in several places. The man, who I learned was called Haven, laughed.
Reaching around I felt my wand and slashed it through the air, knocking both him and his crony back into the sand at the bottom of the hill. I grinned, and then grimaced, feeling the pain in my back. Blood was seeping into the fibers of my shirt.
“Why you little—” Haven said righting himself and pulling up his companion.
I couldn’t move because of the pain in my back and I felt my wand leave my hand again. A second spell shot at me, tying me up, now I really couldn’t move. I felt the rocks cut me even more as I wriggled to get free.
Haven bent over me “You will tell me where the dragons are, and that boyfriend of yours.” He squeezed my neck with his left hand.
“No.” I said as defiantly as I could.
He chuckled evilly. “Look here, little YN, you’re pretty nice looking and if you’re not gonna tell us where these dragons are hidden, I could find a lot of other uses for you.” He brushed a gloved finger over my lips, looking at me hungrily. “It’s your choice.”
“I’m not gonna tell you.” I spat in his face.
He stood up sighing. “I’ll get it out of you then. And when I’m finished with that we’re gonna have some fun.”
He pointed his wand at me and every nerve in my body suddenly exploded in pain. My scream caught in my throat. I writhed, trying somehow to escape it, but it was no use. When it finally subsided I was breathless and sweating. I looked up at Haven.
“Tell me where they are, or I’ll do it again.”
My thoughts at this point were only of Newt. If these people somehow captured him it would be catastrophic. Grindelwald was after him not me.
I managed a small smile. “Go ahead.” I said quietly.”
The anger on Haven’s face was the last thing I saw as my body erupted in pain again and I was sent flying. My head hit stone and I was out cold.
 My vision was blurred, but I could see light, and some colors. A blob of colors that looked like Newt was scurrying around. My eyes focused. I was face down on a cot in what looked like the shack in Newt’s case, and Newt was indeed hurrying around, looking through bottles and jars.
I pushed myself up hastily. “Dragons!” I said rather manically, an obvious look of distress in my eyes. “Are they ok?” I looked at Newt.
He was pale, his freckles very apparent on his white skin, and he looked incredibly stressed. “You’re awake.” Relief in his voice, and then concern. “What are you doing lay back down.” He said sternly.
When I didn’t he came over to me and pushed my shoulders back into the bed.
“Are they ok?” I asked again frantically, giving in to his push.
“Yes, they are quite alright, I can’t say the same for you though.” He mixed some ingredients in a small bowl.
“What happened?” I asked suddenly becoming aware of all the pain in my body and breathing in sharply.
“Winnie, well, she killed, those three men.” He said dipping a cloth into the bowl.
“She protected me.” I stated gratefully.
“Well yes.” He paused fiddling with some more ingredients.
“Mr. Scamander?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Where’s my shirt?” I asked, suddenly becoming aware that it was missing.
“I’m sorry. I had to take it off. Your back is badly injured. And maybe your legs, but it looks like the rocks didn’t get through your pants. And your head got pretty banged up.”
“Oh.” I let out a breath. I glanced on the floor next to my bed to see an unrecognizable cloth soaked in blood. One of the buttons caught my eye and I realized it was my shirt. I didn’t realize how much I had been bleeding.
“You are still in shock, you probably don’t feel the extent of it yet, this will fix it quick enough so that you can’t.” He took a now saturated cloth out of the bowl and started dabbing it on my back. It stung, but I didn’t show it. His movements were amazingly gentle, and respectful, especially around my bra, as he carefully worked the salve, or whatever it was, into my back.
My back was on fire from whatever he just used but I was too shocked to realize the extent of the situation and the fact that I was shirtless in front of Newt Scamander.
“I’m going to use my wand to heal the cuts now. It might hurt a little bit, I’m also afraid that you won’t be without scars. These cuts are quite deep and jagged” He said gently.
“That’s ok, thank you.” I said wrapping my arms around the pillow in front of me to brace myself. I felt the tip of his wand on my back as he traced it over the cuts. There must have been a particularly long one because he muttered some spell and I felt his wand there for a while. A weird sensation settled on my back and then I yelped. Pain shot through me in a quick jab which left me teary. I grabbed onto the pillow harder and stuffed my face in it as the rest of the gashes closed up.
I raised my head out of the pillow and felt him prodding my back gently. Now that the pain was mostly gone each touch felt like tiny waves of electricity, but again, I was still in pain and didn’t notice as much. His fingers lingered slightly on the spine of my lower back, and then he quickly took his hand away. I wiped away my tears.
“Your back should be fine now I need to look at your head.” He said bluntly.
I put my head back down and he parted my hair. Again he raised his wand to it and there was a moment of pain before it was swept away.
“Here.” He handed me a cotton sweater and looked away as I sat up and pulled it on. It smelled like him, specifically like the mash he generally fed to the nifflers.
I sat up but suddenly got very tired and flopped back down. Although the immediate pain from the cuts was gone, the scars felt stiff and raw, and so did my whole body. It was as if all the energy had been drained out of my muscles. They were extremely painful and difficult to move.
“Ow.” I said tearfully.
Newt looked surprised, his eyes widened, and rushed over to me again. He scanned me for any injuries and grabbed my hands, my shoulders, and then my head. “What is it? What’s wrong YN?” He asked frantically.
“Nothing.” I lied, and tried to look away, but he held me there, and looked me in the eyes, something he hardly ever did.
“Tell me what happened dear.” His eyes got rather glassy and his face fell. “Your cuts are healed you shouldn’t be having this reaction.
I couldn’t resist those eyes, or his worry. “They attacked me. I fell on those rocks and got cut up.”
“Why were they attacking you?” Newt asked his eyes darting around my face.
“I’ve been hiding the dragons from them, they may have tracked you too. They wanted me to give up their location, so they tried to get it out of me.” I said lips trembling
“How?” He asked seriously.
I shook my head, a tear running down my cheek.
He looked at my hands again and noticed the burn marks of the rope, and just how much my hands were shaking.
“They used the cruciatus curse on you didn’t they?” He asked quietly. He sounded shocked, like he didn’t want to believe it.
I looked down and nodded slowly.
He turned away and walked to his table. He leaned on it with both hands for a second before slamming his fist down on it. One of his bowls popped up and rolled off the table, shattering into pieces. He bowed his head. I wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“If Winnie hadn’t… If those men had gone any further…If I had been there.” He started the sentences but didn’t seem to be able to finish them out-loud. “I just can’t, can’t, imagine.” He let out a deep breath and turned towards me again.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I lay there in the hut, unsure of what to do. I lifted myself off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. The small mirror in there showed me my pale skin. I splashed a bit of water on my face but none of the color returned. I saw a small strip of red on my neck and examined it. It was part of the scars. It was thin and it reached my collarbone. Unsure of what I was going to see, I lifted the sweater I was wearing slightly and tried to get a good look at my back. It was a mess of fresh pink scars. As I had suspected there was a large one running right down my back. Smaller ones criss-crossed over each other and a couple wrapped around my hips. Before I knew it tears were coming to my eyes.
“YN?” Newt stood there, looking at me through the open bathroom door.
I quickly shoved the sweater down my back and wiped away the tears. “Is everything ok?” I asked.
“I think I should be the one asking that question.” He said, taking me by the arm. “You really shouldn’t be up.”
I let him lead me back to the cot, but I didn’t lay down, I just sat there.
“Look.” He untucked his shirt and sat next to me. He lifted it up to show me his side. There was a long white scar, and many other smaller ones carved into his freckly skin.
I wasn’t that shocked, seeing that his job entailed dealing with wild beasts, and his hands and arms looked about the same. “Why are you showing me this?” I asked. Almost unconsciously I lightly traced the scar on his side.
He shivered and pulled away. “It’s only fair. I saw yours.” He said, lowering his shirt and lowering his eyes to his shoes.
I sat in quiet for a minute. “It’s not about the scars, I’m used to those, I work with dragons. It’s about how I got them.”
Newt didn’t say anything for a second and then he just put his face in his hands and stayed like that.
“Mr. Scamander?” I asked quietly. Wiping my eyes with my overlong sleeve.
He smiled mildly and lifted his head. “You know you can call me Newt right?” He stated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Only you would ask that after going through everything you just did.” He shifted his gaze. “I don’t know what I would have done if they… I, I’ve been worried sick for weeks and then the the dragons, and these men. I just want you to be safe.” He finally finished.
“I think we both picked the wrong line of work for that.” I laughed and then grimaced at the pain.
He looked at somewhere past my ear, stepped forward, and hugged me and pinning my arms down like I had done earlier. “I can’t fix this pain. I’m so sorry. I wish I could.”
Tears threatened to drop from my eyes again.
“I know this seems to help you though so I will do it.” He let go for a second and then climbed onto the bed with me.”
“Mr. Scamander, you really don’t have to..” I started, tears now dripping down my face.
“No, I know physical contact calms you. It’s the least I can do.” He laid down right next to me and wrapped his arms around me, pressing my head into his chest. It was the same thing he did for some of his beasts when they were hurting. They would rest on his chest while they were sleeping, and he would make sure they were alright. I didn’t know how to feel that he was doing the same to me but it was true that physical contact calmed me.
I let out an involuntary sob. “It hurt so much.” I said into his chest. I felt tears dropping onto his shirt, making it damp.
“I know. Shh. I’m so sorry.” He whispered into my hair. He rubbed my back for a few minutes with his free hand. “Try to rest if possible. I won’t leave.” His strong arms held me close.
I could hear his heartbeat. It was quite fast. We lay there for a long time, I could feel his every breath on the top of my head, and feel the heat that emanated from his body. He was right, it was very calming. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep and he must have thought I was asleep because he spoke again.
“I don’t think I could live without you YN.” There was none of his usual stuttering or backtracking, and despite myself I felt my heart leap.
At some point, despite the pain that still flared up in my body, I did fall asleep. I remembered waking up and screaming and hearing him again. His voice cracked as he said. “Shh, they can’t hurt you. I’ve got you.” And I drifted off again, his strong arms still embracing me, tucking my head into the crook of his neck.
 When I woke up the next morning I didn’t immediately remember what was happening. I was still stiff and I didn’t want to move, afraid that as soon as I did the same pain would shoot through my muscles. Without even opening my eyes I could tell that I had latched onto Newt demiguise style, so that I had both my arms and legs wrapped around him. This is generally what happened to my blankets at night so I wasn’t surprised. The second thing I noticed was Newt’s soft voice.
“…and how brave you are. It also amazes me how well you can tame dragons. Your writing is phenomenal, you are loyal, and kind. Why would you even stick up for someone like me. It should have been me instead. I’m so sorry.” His voice trailed off and I felt him brush some hair behind my ear and then quickly move his hand back to my shoulder where it was before.
I opened my eyes to find myself staring right into his. He blushed so much that I couldn’t see his freckles anymore.
“Er, Hi. I mean, Hello. Uh. Good morning.” He smiled briefly and shifted his eyes away.
“Good morning Mr. Scamander.” I said sleepily, unlatching my limbs from him and receiving pins and needles in the process. “Sorry about that.” I felt heat rise to my face too.
“It’s quite alright.” He replied, still laying there for a minute and then abruptly getting up.
He made a fuss of tucking in his shirt and setting his clothes straight again, and picking up some of the stuff from the night before.
“Thank you Mr. Scamander.” I said looking fondly at him. “It really did help, the physical contact.”
He paused and smiled. “Anything for you YN.”
I grabbed my wand which he had set by the bed. I waved it over myself, effectually giving myself a shower. I immediately felt cleaner, and my hair was no longer grimy either. I sighed.
“Can I, Can I just ask why, why you insist on calling me Mr. Scamander? It sounds like you are addressing a superior or something.” He said with a confused look on his face.
“Does it bother you that I call you that?” I asked back.
“Well, no, not particularly. It’s just that generally my friends call me Newt.”
I’m not dumb. I could see where all his worry and whisperings from the night before was leading to, so I felt like this was the right point to admit it. “I don’t call you Newt because if I did I am afraid I would fall in love with you.”
“Afraid?” His face fell from concerned to even more confused.
“Well, I guess I should say more in love with you.” I looked him in the eye.
“More in love with me. So you are already in love with me?” He asked blushing, a shyly pleased look coming on to his face.
“Yes. And I didn’t want to force that on you in any way, I guess until I knew how you felt.” I shrugged.
“How I felt?” He looked mortified.
“I heard some of the stuff you said last night and this morning.” I smirked at him.
He nearly fell off the stool he had settled on and didn’t speak for a minute. “Oh, well, it’s all true. It’s just easier for me to say stuff to people when I don’t have to judge their reactions.”
“I know.” I smiled sweetly and reached for his hand.
He took my hand in his and cleared his throat “You need to rest. I don’t expect you’ll be feeling much better today. I have to tend to the animals, but I will be right back.” He stood up, dropping my hand, and walked out of the room. I chuckled to myself, he wasn’t very good at this, and it was quite endearing.
One second later he walked back in and got a blanket from a shelf and threw it over me. “Just in case you are cold.”
He started walking away again but turned back abruptly and took my hand again very gently. He bent down and kissed it lightly. “I love you too.”  He tried to turn away but I kept hold on his hand and pulled him closer.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulder and pulled his face closer to mine. He looked excited and terrified. “Can I kiss you?” I asked, not wanting to scare him anymore.
He nodded slowly.
I closed the last few inches and brushed lips with him, and then deepened the kiss. He responded wonderfully, and deepened it more. It was bliss.
After a minute I pulled away and looked into his eyes, smiling. He was smiling too, and very red. It looked like he could barely contain his happiness. Even more so than when he first saw the dragons, which was saying something.
“I love you.” He said again, looking somewhere near my shoulder, before walking out of the room again.
My heart felt warm and fuzzy and so did my whole being as I watched his copper bedhead walk out the door.
428 notes · View notes
thewritewolf · 5 years
Text
Rekindle Chapter 6: Family
Chat Noir is on a lonely patrol, but the scent of a bakery draws him in from the dark of the night...
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30  31
@marichatmay
Enjoy!
Read on Ao3
Adrien ran across the rooftops of Paris, feeling the crisp autumn air rushing past his face. As he leapt across a street to another block of buildings, he thought that even though he didn’t have Ladybug’s yoyo, he prefered his method of getting across the city. While he couldn’t soar with quite as much grace, there was something about how tactical it was to run and climb and jump that made the wood and stone and steel of the city feel much more… familiar to Adrien.
On his solo patrols, he could zone out completely and just focus on the here and now of getting from place to place. Nothing but him and the next improvised hand hold, or the weightlessness of a strong jump. Despite the energetic nature of it, there was a calm that it gave him. The luxury of being at peace in his own head, which was an increasingly rare thing for him.
Sometimes, he could simply stop and watch the city breath around him. Watch without being seen, hear without being heard. Who could notice a black cat at night, after all? And even now, with akumas a common enough danger, people rarely looked up at the rooftops. Usually only those who he wanted to notice him actually saw him. Most passed by completely unaware that one of Paris’s protectors was watching over them.
He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the Dupain-Cheng bakery. It had always been a favorite stop for him, even if he never went inside. Even when they were closed for the day, the delicious smell of the bakery’s goods permeated the space. And usually left him hungry by the time he got home. For the first time in a long while, he stood and stared at Marinette’s childhood home. Through the window, he could see her laughing and eating with her family. It made him oddly wistful. If mom hadn’t vanished, would father have become as cold as he was? They had never had what he could call a normal home life, but he had at least been able to call somewhere home.
He took another deep breath, this one more for peace than pleasure. The past was the past and he would be better off if he moved on from it. It was a lesson his father still hadn’t learned, even after all these years. He looked back toward the bakery.
Marinette had told him that she would be visiting her parents for the weekend, so her presence at their shop wasn’t surprising. But what did shock him was when he saw her looking back at him.
---------------------------
Marinette was basking in the warmth of the family bakery on this chilly fall evening. Not just the physical warmth that comes with the territory of having big ovens, but also the emotional warmth of the kind faces of her parents and the sense that no matter how long she’d spent away from here, she would always be welcome. In this rough patch in her life, it wasn’t simply nice; it was a lifeline. Just knowing she always had somewhere to go gave her a measure of peace and the strength to get through the worst challenges in her day to day life.
Her papa had just made another bread-based pun, one of the many that she’d heard nearly every day for the past decade. While she was rolling her eyes, she caught sight of a figure standing on a rooftop across the street. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized her best friend and heroic partner, Chat Noir staring right back at her. This far away, she couldn’t make out his expression, but when she tried to raise her hand to wave at him, a jolt seemed to run through him and he ran off.
A bemused smile came to her lips as she made a mental note to ask him about that when she saw him next. She turned back to the conversation her parents were having, but her mind was elsewhere. Over the years of their partnership, she’d learned to read Chat Noir like her one of her many fashion magazines. While he had never said it in as many words, she’d always gotten the sense that his home life… wasn’t great. A distant father, a missing mother. With the secret identities and all, she hadn’t pressed for more, but now she was wondering if that had been the right call after all.
She looked at her papa, laughing at his own jokes as he moved the main dish onto the table. She spared a glance for her mom, passing Marinette tea with all her favorites in it. How warm and cozy it was in this space. Was it her he had been watching so intently? Or was it the family he’d never had? Or maybe a mix of both?
Without really thinking about it, she begins idly sketching her kitty.
--------------------------------
Adrien was on his normal patrol route alone, once again. With how busy he and Ladybug were, solo patrols had become the normal rather than the exception these days. It wasn’t a trend he liked, since his lady had made it very clear that she didn’t want him flirting in battle, but they spent very little time together outside of akuma fights. Or maybe Ladybug wasn’t actually busy and just said that to keep him at a distance. With a disheartened sigh, he made his way towards one of the people that he knew would be happy to see him.
He arrived at Marinette’s in his usual fashion - through a window and with flourish. She didn’t seem to appreciate the effort since she just watched him curiously, her current project set down on her table. He knew he couldn’t stay long since she had a lot to work on, but maybe they could talk for a few minutes, maybe have a couple of hot chocolate.
Before he could make a quip to ignite a conversation, she asked him, “What was with you at my parents a few days back? You left in such a hurry.”
“Oh, ah, you actually saw me then?” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He’d hoped that she hadn’t managed to tell it was him in the dark. At that distance, it would be pretty easy to mistake him for Ladybug, even if he was taller than her.
“You could’ve stopped by, you know. I’m sure mom and papa would be happy to see you.”
He grinned. “Been talking about our visits then?”
“No,” she rolled her eyes, “but you are one of Paris’s superheroes, in case you forgot.”
“Oh, right.” When he was talking with Marinette, it was easy to forget that the mask was there. She didn’t need to know that, however. “Well maybe I’ll take you up on that offer one day. It is my favorite place to stop on patrol - such delicious smells!”
“You’ll have to give us some warning before you drop in, of course.” She bit her lip and pulled out her phone. “Here,” she said while unlocking it, “put your baton’s number in and I’ll send you a text. Then we’ll have each other’s numbers.”
“You want… my number?”
Slowly, very slowly, he reached out for her phone. It was such a small action, trading numbers. But it felt like so much more. Like it was a promise. A more lasting connection between them, being able to contact each other whenever they wanted. He knew he shouldn’t just go around giving his number out to civilians, but Marinette wasn’t just any civilian, was she? There was something else about her, and he was willing to take risks if it meant bringing her back into his life.
His confidence wavered only for a moment when he saw his name - his real name - right at the top of her contacts list. She’d still kept it, even after everything. There was even little heart next to it. Maybe…
No. It was best not to get her hopes up. Who knows if he could move on from Ladybug?
He entered his baton’s number and handed her phone back to her. Soon enough, a buzzing sound came from it and he added the number to his contacts.
“I hope Ladybug doesn’t mind,” he said with a sigh. “She doesn’t like me taking unnecessary risks.”
“Well… we could just not tell her.”
“Sorry, Marinette. I don’t lie to my lady, and I’m not about to start now.” He checked the clock. “Looks like I need to head back home. Good night, princess.” He bowed deeply to her and winked. “Hopefully next time I can hang out a little while longer.”
As he landed on the building opposite her apartment, he saw her lean her arms against the window sill and could just barely hear her whisper, “I hope so too.”
32 notes · View notes
mysticsparklewings · 4 years
Photo
Tumblr media
I’m Not Dead‪
I'm not laughin', You're not jokin' I'm not dead I only dress that way Out nowhere take me out there Far away and save me from my Self-destruction, hopeless for you Sing a song for California --My Chemical Romance, "Boy Division" ____ Have you heard?? Have you heard the news?? Well if not, I'm gonna tell ya: MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE IS BACK, BABY!!! :D On Halloween, we got the announcement that they will be playing a show in Los Angeles, California on December 20th. And just a few days ago we got the news that they're also going to New Zealand, Australia, and Japan which basically confirms to me they're doing so sort of tour, whether they actually call it that or not. There's still a lot we don't know for sure; whether this is just a one-time reunion tour or their official comeback tour, if we'll be getting new original music both at the shows and available for download/purchase or if they're just going to redo their existing music and covers, if it's only going to be the main four that were there at the end or if there will be some of the other members that were in and out over the years rejoining them...Where all they're going to go on this tour...the list goes on. But! The important thing, at least to me, is that they came back at all. Six years. Six years we've waited and hoped and prayed, been let down by false rumors and speculation...And now it's actually happening. I just... Hence why I had to make an art piece celebrating the occasion and as an excuse to talk about it. (I figure if I'm going to dump my opinions on the internet I might as well make some art to go with them. Sue me. ) Originally, I was planning on making something more along the lines of true fan art, as this is more pseudo fan art here, but I just couldn't settle on one good idea that I felt really comfortable pursuing. Although I am still considering doing an updated (or at least colored in) version of my Killjoys, Make Some Noise! (lineart) I did a couple of years ago...we'll see. Anyway. Since we did get the news on Halloween, it's worth noting that originally I'd been debating if I wanted to do any makeup this year at all or just slide on a mask since my only plans were going to Krispy Kreme, who was offering a free donut if you showed up in costume. But after the news broke, my decision was made for me. I had to. MCR isn't strictly associated with skeletons/skulls, as has become my preferred Halloween costume, but The Black Parade, their second album, does have a little skeleton as the leader of the marching band, and the band members did wear skeleton/skull inspired makeup during that time. Admittedly this year's makeup wasn't nearly as involved or elaborate as what I've done in years' past, but it beats last year's absolutely nothing. I ended up taking a few pictures to preserve the look, as I always do even though I rarely take photos of myself, and I would decide to draw one of them where I was trying to do this face that Gerard (the frontman and lead singer of the band) has made on a several occasions; this wide-eyed intense stare. Partly because this, I'm sure, is very close to my actual face when I heard the news that they're back, the makeup was inspired by them anyway, and also because it pairs very well with one of my favorite lines from my favorite song by them. Said line being, obviously, "I'm not dead I only dress that way," from Boy Division, as cited at the top of the description. If I'm being completely truthful, I can't even really put my finger on what it is about Boy Division specifically that makes it my favorite, as I've yet to hear an MCR song I truly do not like, but I think there's something in the lyrics of the full song that just sells it for me in combination with the high-energy music. But whatever the case, it is my favorite nonetheless. Beyond that though, it's really hard to place the rest of them in any coherent order because, at least to my ears, they're all really great. Anyway. So I went about drawing my face, erring slightly more on the realistic side than usually (but obviously not too much) in hopes of capturing the facial expression. Which, it's pretty good, but I do think it could've been a little better. I think my biggest problem was getting the eyebrows a mouth right, and I'm still not sure they're quite there since my real eyebrows are pretty translucent and the mouth was hard to balance between looking logical and more neutral than sad/angry. And I think maybe the proper expression was a little more apparent in the sketch, but it's pretty normal to lose some feeling between the sketch and the final product so that I won't discount too much. After that, I had to take a break from the drawing to think about how to color it in any style it and everything. I ended up transferring the sketch to Mixed Media paper after deciding I wanted to use alcohol markers as a base but not knowing if I'd need to adjust it with colored pencil and/or other mediums on top or not, and I did the lines with my Faber Castell Polychromos once I felt like just black lines would be too harsh and thinking colored lines would be better. Plus, the Polychromos are very non-reactive to water, so if I really wanted to I could add watercolor or something water-activated without having to worry about the lines getting messed up. I did not consider how the Polychromos would react to the alcohol markers, but other than one or two spots where the top layer of pencil kinda dissolved after some heavy layering (which was easily fixed by just going back over the lines in that area again really quickly), fortunately, it worked out okay. Although sweet sparkles I swear it took at least twice as long to actually do the lines as opposed to normal between having to apply enough pressure to get the right amount of color down and working on the differences inline weight.   Anyway. I was a little worried about some of the shading/effects I'd be doing with the markers, but I think I did alright with it. This mixed media paper (Strathmore 400 series for anyone who cares) is nice and thick, so I had plenty of room to layer up and blend as I needed to get the look I was going for. This came in especially handy around the eyes and on the nose when I told myself to at least try and get the colors like the photo before cheesing it and just using straight (or nearly) black. The only area that I think came out a little rough is really the skin, mainly the forehead. But that has more to do with 1. There isn't much contrast on the face in the photo so I didn't want to take it too far in the drawing and 2. I think I may have started slightly too dark for skin this pale. I realize that's a weird thing to say, but when you're pale as a ghost like I am, you'd be surprised how easy that is to do. And to be fair, I probably could've tried to adjust that with colored pencils, and my original plan was to add some white pencil on top in the areas of the face where a highlight would naturally hit (forehead, bridge of the nose, cheekbones, etc.)  But by the time I got done with the markers, I honestly felt like it was nice enough without any additional pencil that I thought it might be best to just leave it alone. Since I still have the original drawing, my thoughts may change on that and I could update this eventually, but for now, my decision stands. On the other hand, I was actually pretty pleased with how the hair turned out once it was colored. That is until I scanned it in. I don't know why, but the darkest shadows in the hair were too dark and too bluish on the scan, despite everything else looking fairly color-accurate. I fiddled with the scanner settings for a few minutes to try and fix it, but it became quickly apparent there wasn't much to be done about it at the level. Which meant I had to try making the adjustments in Photoshop. Now, I've done my fair share of scan-fixing, photo editing, and just color adjustments on digital art, but for the life of me I could not get things to work the way I wanted them to here. It became to the point I'm starting to suspect if the actual true-to-life shades of purple of the drawing are just really hard or even impossible for computers to capture and/or create accurately. Fluorescent colors fall in that category, surely they're not the only ones. In the end, after more time than I bothered to document messing around with settings and adjustments, and firmly decided I was not going to essentially manually re-color/shade the hair digitally, I tried the only other thing I could think to do. I took the hair, as I had been for all my adjustments since the rest of the colors were fine, on a separate layer and took all the saturation out so I was left with just the gray values. And I noted while I was at that point that it didn't seem to be an issue of the contrast between the shadows and the rest of the hair. The transition looked perfectly acceptable in grayscale. Then, I added a color layer on top of that one, clipped it to only show up on the hair, and changed it to an "overlay" layer so that I would get the values from the gray layer, but colored purple. It did take a couple of tries to get the right shade of purple for the color layer, and I'm sure it's still not 100% accurate to the IRL drawing, but it's a heck of a lot closer than it was. And this gets even weirder when you consider that just a few days before I made this drawing, I made a different one for a friend where I used the exact same marker colors for the hair, blended in almost exactly the same manner, on the same paper, and it didn't have this problem when I scanned that one in. I have never in my life. Anyway. The accessories actually didn't give me much trouble in drawing or coloring. Admittedly, I did tone down how many feathers and stuff are actually on the tiny hat for my own sanity's sake, and while I did my best with the lace on the choker, I don't have a ton of practice with drawing lace like this so I'm sure it could be improved. Although I did decide to color both of those areas (what I didn't draw/fill in with the pencils at the line stage) with a super dark blue-violet instead of a gray or straight black for the purpose of not totally hiding the linework I'd put in and to make it just slightly more dynamic. Which I think was a good call as it seems to tie in pretty nicely with the grayish tones on the face. Other than that though, I did try to stay fairly accurate with my color choices, and I think I did pretty well with that, all things considered. (Despite having a much larger selection than I did just a few months ago, I do still need a wider selection of alcohol markers in some areas just for the sake of color accuracy and smooth transitions.) Once my face was done, then came the text. I searched for a while, hoping to find an MCR appropriate font that I could hopefully add by hand, but my search came up empty. I did find one I really liked the look of though, called "Miserable." So I scanned the drawing in and after the aforementioned hair struggles, I got to play with the placement and structure of the words. I knew I kinda wanted something that just has that "I'm a logo/t-shirt emblem" kind of feel, and in the end, I think I got that. But I do think I could've planned out the drawing itself a little bit better in terms of the space left to fit the words into. I really didn't do myself a lot of favors on that one.   It has its problems, but I'm still really actually kind of proud of how this turned out...and that's really all I have to say about it. Eh, maybe I'm just really happy because I know why I made it in the first place. Now if MCR can just come within 1-2 hours of my location so I can actually go see them...please... ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram
2 notes · View notes
acaseforpencils · 5 years
Text
Ivan Ehlers.
Bio: I’m a cartoonist out of the Los Angeles area. I’ve contributed work for MAD Magazine, The New Yorker, The Nation, Alta Magazine, American Bystander and The Weekly Humorist. And probably some other places that will feel slightly slighted for not having been mentioned.
Tumblr media
Find this print here!
Tumblr media
An excerpt from Ivan’s favorite Shouts piece which you can read here!
Tools of choice: I used to work with regular old pencils, computer paper, and pens you can steal from a restaurant. Now that I am a highly paid professional, I’ve upgraded to some tools that I really like a lot. Here, let me show you:
Tumblr media
Paper: Strathmore Mixed Media 400 Series. This is necessary, because I use a lot of ink and do watercolor washes. If you use lower grade paper, it will get ugly: the ink will run, the paper will warp, and you will be unhappy. Plus, certain nibs will really tear apart lesser papers. Unless that is part of your aesthetic, I would advise you pay the extra 17 cents for better paper. 
Ink: Ziller Ink - Soot Black. It’s the best ink out there, and believe me, I’ve tried at least 2 other brands. It dries fast, has a consistent consistency, and is waterproof. What else could you ask for? (Note: You can’t ask for the ink to make you better at drawing.)
Tumblr media
Nibs: I use an old fashioned dipping pen with a couple of different nibs. I enjoy a Gillott 1950 nib, because you can go all over the place with it, and mostly because Mort Drucker uses it. You can get wild with it and keep on going. Recently I’ve been sticking with a Gillott 303 nib because the line is a little thicker, and it feels a little sturdier. I’m fairly rough with my tools, and draw like an ape. It's never advisable to have a nib tip break off and fly in your eye. Unless you're into that sort of thing, and I'm certainly not here to tell you how to live your life, one-eye. 
Eraser: My lovely young lady, who is a fine artist, swears by the creepy gum eraser, but I find it too disturbing. I opt for the regular Pentel Hi-Polymer eraser. It’s pretty smooth, doesn’t eat up the paper and doesn’t make you feel like you’re playing with a rubber turd while you’re erasing. Plus, no one has ever tried to eat a Hi-Polymer eraser mistaking it for candy. 
Tumblr media
Stamps: It’s good to have stamps to save you time when you need to write your name or the word “RUSH.” If you had time to write out the word “RUSH,” you wouldn’t really be in a rush, now then would you? And then people wouldn't be wrong to call you a liar. And in this industry, you don't want that reputation following you around. Just get the damn stamp. 
Tumblr media
Watercolor: I use watercolor as an ink wash. Probably because I don’t know any better, but maybe because it looks rad. I go for Grumbacher Academy paint in those tiny tubes. It’ll last you some time.
Water Brush: A lot of people use a regular brush for washes, but I have been shown the light that is a Koi Water Brush and it is just too smooth. It's really easy to use and in my eyes gets the best of a brush and a pen in terms of handling and output. 
Tumblr media
Pen Cleaner: Speedball Pen Cleaner. It feels a bit foolish to bother with things like this, but running your nibs under water can lead to bad things that a scientist would have to explain to you. Some type of build-up that is undesirable. Cleaning your tool properly is not only for the un-circumcised. Make that your mantra. 
Digital: I use a Wacom tablet and Photoshop. I was a dyed-in-the-wool Luddite for ages, and only learned technology a couple years ago. I basically use it like I’m drawing on paper and am ill prepared to give you more information on the subject. It’s smooth to know computer stuff, but I’d advise learning to draw the old school way of drawing first. One can become over-reliant on programs and develop a lot of bad habits otherwise. But, maybe that’s just something we say at my senior citizen's meet ups. 
Tool I wish I could use better: My brain. It’d be nicer to be funnier. Or more elegant. 
Tricks: Keep your sketches loose before inking. If you over-render a sketch, it becomes increasingly hard to do it justice when inking. And then you feel a fool when you are coerced into telling your friends and employers, “It looked way better as a pencil sketch!” Then you’ll really hate yourself. Save that bit of discomfort and find the drawing at the inking stage. 
It’s also recommended to have someone with a good eye and a great heart that you trust to have a look at your work before you share it with the world. It’s quite an easy thing to delve in too deep in your work, and miss the forest for the trees.
Tumblr media
Ariel and Gloria
Misc: Draw all the time and don’t be a jerk. There’s so much information on the InterWeb that you can learn a lot and develop greatly if you put your mind to it. Pick what you want to do and really go for it. Study art from before you were born. 
Never give up. Until it becomes clear that you should have given up several years ago. At that point, pretend that you stopped doing it because it’s lame and everyone sold out and the scene got too commercial. Insist it was your moral compass that guided you to quit and nothing else. Never admit anything else until the next time you get really drunk and talk to a stranger at a bar. Wash, rinse and repeat.
Tumblr media
Website, etc: 
Website 
Shirts for Sale
Twitter
Instagram
New Yorker Link
Conde Nast Link
Editor’s Note: If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is a Patreon, and if you’d like to buy me a cup of coffee, there is a Ko-Fi account as well! I do this blog for free, and your support helps a lot! You can also find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram and Twitter! Thank you!
6 notes · View notes
quicksilversquared · 6 years
Text
A Musical Connection Ch. 4
In a world where soulmate bonds can range from a simple matching mark to timers to shared dreams, of course Adrien would get saddled with an inconvenient bond that keeps him from going out and living life- because whenever his soulmate sings, Adrien has to as well.
But the singing, as inconvenient as it is, presents another opportunity. Can Adrien use it to track down his soulmate?
(Ch 1)  (Ch 2)  (Ch 3)
(AO3) (FF.net)
"She's singing new songs. Her old show is over," Adrien told Max as soon as he saw the other boy again, a week after they last talked. It had been a long week, with more singing than usual. His soulmate hadn't stuck to just songs from musicals, but there was a definite pattern that had emerged. "Mary Poppins this time."
"Well, that means I can strike off any new shows," Max said, peering down at his spreadsheet. It was currently at two pages long and was completely confusing, but apparently Max could understand it. "We should be able to figure out which company your soulmate is in- or what university program she's in, I guess- and then we can get to one of their shows. Not all actors sing all songs, so that should help us narrow things down a bit to figure out who your soulmate is."
Adrien frowned as he thought about what songs his soulmate had sung. "Wasn't she singing all of the songs in the last musical, though?"
Max blinked and consulted his notes. He didn't let the new information throw him for long. "She may have been playing multiple parts or have been part of the choir."
"And her singing didn't line up very well with the show times," Adrien noted. His soulmate hadn't sung at all during the Paris university show, and only a couple times during the other show times. It was weird, and it made him question Max's methods just a bit.
He wasn't ever going to tell Max that, though. Adrien needed his help too much to risk offending him.
"Perhaps she's an understudy?" Max suggested. "She would have to know all of the songs but wouldn't be singing during the actual show unless she was needed."
Adrien groaned, barely resisting the urge to bang his head against the desk. He'd assumed that his soulmate was one of the actors out on stage. They had based their entire plan around that assumption, and Adrien wasn't sure how that plan would change if she continued to work as an understudy.
He would just have to hope that she would actually perform during the show in Mary Poppins.
"How are things going otherwise?" Max asked. "I just realized that all we ever talk about is your soulmate and while it's certainly a fascinating subject of conversation, I'm sure you have other things going on."
"Not much, since I can't really go out much, in case I start singing." Adrien thought back to the last time he had managed to get together with Nino and Alya, when his soulmate got on such a singing kick that they got booted out of the cafe they had gone to. Nino and Alya had found it hilarious, even joining Adrien in singing as they headed to Nino's family's apartment to spend the rest of the evening, but for Adrien it had been a reminder why he had to limit his outings. "I've had to start thinking about what classes I want to take next semester, which isn't going too well. There are a few things I'll have to attend in person, and there's no way to get out of them."
Max winced. "So we have a bit of a deadline, then? To find your soulmate by the end of the semester?"
"That would be nice, if it's possible." And yet again they had come right back around to the topic of his soulmate connection. It just showed how completely it was influencing his life. "But I've been paying attention to when I sing. It was mostly to plan when I could most likely do photoshoots without being interrupted, but it'll work for picking out what lab sections I take, too."
"To run the lowest risk of interruption," Max filled in, nodding. "Yes, that is quite smart. So what times-?"
It was Adrien's turn to wince. "Well, she doesn't like getting up early, I think," he admitted. Unfortunately, he also wasn't terribly fond of early morning wake-ups, but it was all he had to work with. "So all of the eight o'clock and nine o'clocks, basically."
Max patted him on the arm sympathetically. "Well, at least you'll be up and ready to go for the day?"
Adrien groaned, burying his face in his arms. "Yeah, sure, that would be fine if that was all I had to do- but if my father catches on that I chose those times because my soulmate won't be singing, then he'll have me up to do photoshoots crazy early nearly every day- and can you say sunrise shoot commercials instead of the sunset ones? I don't want to get up that early!"
"We'll find your soulmate," Max promised seriously. "We'll have to wait until her show runs, of course, but I'd say that the chances of us being successful are very high."
That put a grin on Adrien's face. "Well, I hope you're right," he told Max. "So, do you want to play some Mega Strike while you're here?"
"Sure!"
  Adrien grinned when he spotted Marinette coming in through the front door of Alya's family's apartment. It had been too long since he had seen his friend, and he was eager to hear about how she was doing with her fashion degree.
"Sorry I've missed so many get-togethers," Marinette told them as she headed for the table. She exchanged hugs with Nino and Alya, and Adrien hopped up to get his own hug. Marinette's voice came out muffled as she talked into his chest. "It's just that work was going late recently."
"But it'll be back to normal for a bit now, right?" Nino asked as Adrien released Marinette from the hug. "You won't be working so late?"
"I won't have to, yeah." Marinette grinned, flopping down into an empty chair. "Which is good, since I have my own stuff I have to do for classes. I have three design sketches I have to clean up for one class, plus an outfit to finish sewing, and some studying for an exam, and an essay on the history of fashion in Russia, all to do before the end of next week."
Adrien let out a low whistle. "That's a lot. How close are you to finishing it all?"
"Well, I'm pretty close to done with the rough sketches, so all I have to do is figure out what I want to change," Marinette started out, pulling out her sketchbook. Adrien leaned forward to see the drawings, and- wow. Marinette had just grown more talented over the years, and while the designs were certainly practical, they also had a certain flair that would set them apart on the street.
He hoped that Marinette would get into men's fashion at some point, because he would love to wear something she designed.
Adrien listened as Marinette explained her designs and the things she was still struggling with, and then showed off her progress on her outfit for her techniques class. The draping was nothing short of gorgeous, and Adrien told her so.
"You'll wear that after it's done and graded, right?" Adrien asked, eyes skimming the lines of the top and skirt in the pictures Marinette showed him. "It'll look amazing on you."
Marinette looked pleased. "You think so?"
"I know so. Those lines will really compliment your figure." Not that much anything that was made well and thoughtfully wouldn't, since Marinette was slim and athletic, if maybe a little on the short side. But the draping would be really flattering, as long as Marinette was making it in her size.
"I'll try to wear it next time we meet up," Marinette promised. "Or the time after that, if my professor takes a while to inspect and grade everything. Sometimes she's really speedy at going through things, and other times it takes forever."
"Okay, enough chatter," Nino cut across before Adrien could say anything else. "Marinette, you promised that we would get to make that chocolate swirl bread, and I know that that takes, like, forever to rise. So let's get started!"
They swarmed into the kitchen and, under Marinette's instruction, started stirring up the sweet bread dough. Adrien kneaded the dough, then got it back into the bowl to rise. Across the kitchen, Nino and Alya started on their dinner, chopping spinach and getting rice started, and Adrien grinned.
Maybe a night in didn't sound that exciting to most people their age, but Adrien was glad that Alya and Nino had agreed to his request that they not go out in public again right away. He had told the two of them right after he arrived that he was well and truly exhausted of the soulmate talk- that was all that he ever seemed to discuss with Max, after all, and whenever he went in for a photoshoot, the first thing that the makeup artists and hair people and photographer asked him about was whether or not his soulmate had been active recently. As long as his soulmate didn't sing throughout the evening, maybe he could have a bit of a break from that for a change.
"So besides being busy, how's the job going, Marinette?" Alya asked after Nino finished telling them about some new music mixes he had done recently. "Are you enjoying it?"
"Most of the time, yeah," Marinette said, She had gotten the bread covered for its first rise and had joined Adrien in making a fruit salad for them to eat. "It's a lot of sewing and a lot of making sure everything stays organized, just like with last year. I've gotten the storage closets in much better shape than they were before, so everything is really easy to find."
"Oh, I remember you complaining about those before," Alya said, nodding. "The previous person wasn't very good at their job, were they?"
"The problem was that they just had random people putting things back before," Marinette explained. "And they would just stick stuff wherever there was space. But now it's easier to find stuff. The only problem is that I can't remember what's in there, just because there's so many different outfits."
Adrien listened, wracking his brain to try to remember if he had ever asked where Marinette worked. He really couldn't remember, and that was embarrassing. Even if he only infrequently saw Marinette now that their schedules seemed to conflict so much, she was one of his best friends and where she worked should have been something that he knew off of the top of his head, especially since she had been at the same place for over a year.
He wasn't going to ask her and admit that he had forgotten. Adrien made a mental note to ask Nino later, when the girls were distracted.
Even without knowing where Marinette worked, Adrien could get a pretty good picture of what she was doing. Somehow she must have managed to skip over a typical coffee-carrying internship to get a job in the sewing room and in the archives storage- or maybe she was working on organizing things behind the scenes in photoshoots, and was keeping the props room organized. He knew that his photographer often complained about the state of the Gabriel prop room, saying that it was impossible to find anything among the mountains of stuff that had accumulated over the years.
(Adrien had looked in there once, when a photoshoot in the building had been delayed due to a wardrobe malfunction and he had to kill some time. Younger him had gotten it into his head that maybe, if he did something about that particular problem, he would actually get some praise from his father.
He had taken one look into the room and the towering mountains of stuff and promptly decided that there was no way he was ever going to go anywhere near it. The shelves looked like they were either going to fall over or cause a landslide at any moment, and the other piles of stuff was no better. There had been signs of a recent topple only a few meters in. How anything found anything in there was beyond him.)
If that was indeed what Marinette had been organizing at her job, if it was anywhere as bad as Gabriel's, then Adrien had to hope that there had been someone keeping an eye on Marinette in case anything fell on her.
When their dinner went in the oven, Marinette returned to the bread to punch it back down, divide it, and roll it out. Adrien joined her, spreading the rounds with the chocolate spread that Marinette had brought with her. He was generous with the chocolate, and the small smile dancing around the corners of Marinette's mouth told him that it hadn't going unnoticed.
Adrien liked chocolate, so sue him. He would just go out on a run as Chat Noir tonight and work it all right back off, so it didn't matter what he ate.
"How is your degree going?" Marinette asked as they started to put the layers together. She adjusted a layer so it would line up more evenly, then gestured for Adrien to cover it in chocolate. "I just realized recently that I haven't heard about that in forever."
"It's going," Adrien said ruefully, spreading a generous amount of chocolate over the dough. "Still online, at the moment. I'm learning interesting stuff, but it's a lot of theories to memorize. Theories and biological processes and chemicals with strange names and..." He let out a long breath. "It's a lot. And since I'm doing everything online at the moment, I've been putting off all of my lab classes and whatnot, which is going to be a pain later." It was going to leave him with a huge load of courses in the later part of his degree, and if he didn't find his soulmate, then everything would have to be done right away in the morning. He was considering taking some courses over the summer just to spread them out a little bit more, but that would depend on how well the next semester went. "But I'm not having any trouble with understanding things, which is nice. It was something I worried about when I started taking the courses online."
"Well, you've always been smart." Marinette grinned over at him, and Adrien relished in the praise. "I'm not surprised that you would be able to adapt to other ways of learning."
"It's not as fun," Adrien admitted. "I hear these two talking about the friends they've made in their classes all the time, but it's hard to meet people online. I'll have a few things where I'll have to go in in-person next semester, though."
"Oh, nice!"
Adrien hummed a sort of agreement, wondering if perhaps Marinette hadn't heard how much trouble his soulmate bond had been giving him as of late. Maybe she thought that it was still like it had been at first, with only a few scattered songs now and then. Alya and Nino must not have told her about how their last get-together was interrupted.
He wasn't going to bring it up, not today. Not when he had had to push his lunch break off for three hours because his soulmate's singing had put them behind schedule and the manager for the photoshoot had insisted that everyone else take their break while he was still singing and unable to eat. Not when he had had enough talking about the bond.
"Dude, put in a little chocolate, will you?" Nino exclaimed, peering over Adrien's shoulder. "You know that you don't have to pile it on for us to taste it, right?"
Adrien grinned. "Yeah, but more chocolate is always good. And I need chocolate, with the marathon fittings I have tomorrow."
"I would have thought that you would want to have less chocolate, then, if you have a fitting!"
Adrien finished spreading on the last layer of the chocolate, then licked the knife off while holding eye contact with an amused Nino. Once it was clean, Adrien placed it back down on the counter. "Nope."
"Let the boy have his chocolate, Nino," Alya ordered jokingly. "And I approve of that amount of chocolate, by the way. It looks fabulous. I can't wait to eat it."
Adrien had to agree.
  Despite her worries, Marinette finished her assignments with plenty of time and aced her midterm exam easily. With those out of the way, she threw herself into the second half of the semester and into her work in the theater. She got to meet up with her friends a few times, too, which she enjoyed while she could. She knew that once it got closer to the end of the semester, she would once again find herself with absolutely no free time.
But for now, everything was good, and Marinette could afford to relax a bit as she worked, adding trim to a dress for Mary Poppins. She could hear the rehearsal going on up on the stage from her backstage sewing area, bits of dialogue and the occasional song drifting back.
While the cast definitely weren't ready by any means- after all, the roles had only just been cast and rehearsals had only just started- she could already hear things starting to really improve, lines delivered with more emotion and conviction now that they weren't reading off of the scripts quite as much as they had at the start. Some of the actors were out on stage, while others- the understudies, and the main actors that weren't in the current scene- had split up, working through their scenes out in the hallway and in the nearby classrooms.
The cast weren't the only people there. Several people from other departments had been brought in to work on the special effects that were needed for some of the scenes. They already were hard at work with a projector and a screen, which would replace some of the painted sets for when the scenery had to change faster than the sets could be switched. From what Marinette could tell, they would project from behind the screen and the picture would show up bright so the audience could see it. There were still some bugs, of course- even though they had been brainstorming and working on their special effects even before the show was cast, the timing still had to be perfected and they had to find exactly where the projector had to be for the least distortion and brightest picture.
One of the special effects people had already shown Marinette what they had in store, and it was absolutely amazing, magical and spectacular and enough to entrance any kids that they got in the audience.
Of course, the play was a little less interesting in terms of costumes. There was very little design that Marinette could actually do, since the play took place in a very specific time period and she had to stick to that aesthetic. Marinette had been plagued by visions of having to make endless boring dresses and suits for an entire weekend before she dove into the costume closet and found plenty of outfits that would work perfectly for the play. Some would need altering, others would need mending, and a couple could do with some sprucing up, replacing trim and lace that had faded and discolored over time. She could add a bit of her own flair there, replacing dowdy lace with some that was actually attractive and making some other switches.
Not too much, though. She had to keep in mind how people dressed. This was a play, not a runway show, and most of the characters weren't exactly crazy rich and on the edge of fashion at the time. She could take some liberties with Madam Banks' costume, of course, and with the outfits for the fair scene, but otherwise?
Blah. Good-looking blah, but blah. She was a seamstress for this job more often than she was a designer, but she wasn't going to let that affect her enjoyment of the job.
"Are you already almost done with the outfits, Marinette?" Tikki asked in amazement as she watched Marinette finish attaching the trim and set the dress aside. "Wow! You'll have loads of extra time this time around!"
"Not exactly, Tikki," Marinette said with a laugh. "I need to make Jane and Michael's outfits, and once I assign dresses and suits, I'll have to do little alterations. There might be some drapes for the set, and then I might end up being recruited to help with scenery painting. And there's always other plays going on in the other stages that might need me to do some work on outfits for them."
"Or maybe you'll be doing special effects!" Tikki suggested excitedly. "Because you've made cool stuff like that before, right?"
"I don't even know where I would start with that," Marinette said with a laugh as she hung up the dress and rearranged the rack. "Besides, we have actual engineering students working on those things. No, if I have extra time, then I'll work on getting a good floor map of the storage rooms made so that I won't have to dig through everything in the future to find what I need. But only if other people can't use my help. And if I don't have any schoolwork that needs to get done."
Tikki giggled. "So organization is the last thing on your list?"
"Ugh. I know I did most of the work on that last year, but I'm still sick of it."
The little kwami only giggled harder.
As the director out on stage called for a scene re-start, Marinette returned her attention to the racks of outfits around her and the clipboard that Miss Bella had provided with all of the outfits needed. She started checking outfits off, counting dresses and suits and making notes on those that still needed some work before they could be used. There were enough outfits and then some- enough that in case something happened to one of the outfits, there would be backups.
"And now you label them, right?" Tikki asked as Marinette checked the last of the dresses. "So you know which of the pieces you're going to fit to each performer?"
"Right!" Marinette returned to her desk and started drawing out labels, cross-checking clothing sizes of the actors and actresses with what she had available and starting to scribble names on the labels. "Then I can start pulling people in here for fittings as soon as I get the last of the repairs done. We'll get more permanent labels on later on, ones that won't rip off as easily."
"I can make some!" Tikki volunteered, swooping down and grabbing a short bit of pencil. She paused, looking uncertain. "Uh..."
Marinette giggled. "I think I need to figure all of these out on my own. But could you go grab a few more pieces of paper from the first drawer in my desk? I don't think I have enough here."
While Tikki zipped off to grab more slips of paper, Marinette gathered up the labels she had so far and strapped her pincushion on her wrist, getting up to start putting them on the outfits she had assigned so far. If she could get those set aside, then it would be easier to see what all she had left to work with.
Outside the door, a prerecorded backing track started up and voices floated through the door as the cast started to sing. Marinette perked up and started to sing along as she pinned the labels to dresses and suits hanging on the rack, feeling more cheerful than she had even only moments before.
"Oh, it's a jolly holiday with Mary..."
120 notes · View notes
brokenmusicboxwolfe · 5 years
Text
On a photo of a not exactly human face I sculpted....
labratbren said:                                                                                                                            What do you do with them when they are done? Do you ever post pictures of the finished product? 
Ah, well, um....short answer? Nothing.
Here’s the longer answer (VERY long)....
While I was always drawn to sculpting, I really didn’t sculpt growing up. 
I mean, I tried to use clay I dug out of the ground, drying it in the sun, when I was tiny. Naturally it crumbled except for this lump of a head I still have. In Kindergarden the art teacher had his own kiln and let us use the scraps left over from the pots he had us make. I still have a loop armed alien and creature head I made, but he left with his kiln the next year. The dough art they had us make in second grade was gone by the next year, ‘cause this buggy and humid climate doesn’t agree with it. My parents gave me modling clay, but I hated it. I wanted something that would “stay”. 
But everyone acted like sculpting was hard, so maybe I wasn’t missing out. 
Then one day, when I was 19 or so, my hands got bored. Anyone would have laughed if I’d said I was bored right then. I had a book open to one side of me, a magazine on the other, as I went back and forth reading both. I was also  listening to music AND watching the movie The Brothers Karamazov at the same time. I have this problem where I always feel like I should be doing more, and when I am doing something I get itchy to be doing something else. Like my brain isn’t fully occupied even if I’m really enjoying whatever. That day my hands needed something to do, and there was this block of clay left over from a project one of Pop’s projects (a river system display, I think) It was just sittin’ there on the porch so....
And it turned out sculpting was easy! I mean, maybe not art bit doodling around having fun making faces. Do NOT be intimidated by sculpting! It comes so much more easiy than trying to convert our 3D world into some 2D drawing. Seriously, try drawing a nose head on! But toss on any wedge on a sculpted face and you have a nose...
Ok, maybe I just am bad at drawing! But I really do wish more people would try sculpting.
Anyway, the clay was another dead end, but it did inspire me to hunt for something I could “make stay”. And that something was sculpey. 
Whenever I was certain I would have the place completely to myself for a full hour I’d go stand out on the ramp behind the house and sculpt. It wasn’t too often, what with the house also being the office of the family business and my family being the sort of close one that did everything together. I couldn’t sculpt and be watched. All I needed was an our because I sculpted quickly. In an hour I’d have a little bust, rough as heck but with some detail I liked.
But then I ran out of places to put my busts in my already overstuffed bedroom. I solved this by just slicing the faces off and just baking them. I could glue magnets to them and line all the edges of my metal bookcases.
I did dabble in other things. I tried a full figure and made a few little stick figures. I sculpted something from Babylon 5 for my brother, mixed my box painting (I used to paint boxes when I had a table) with sculpting for a Discworld box for Mom, Easter bunnies for my parents, magnets for everyone, Christmas ornaments...
When she saw the Christmas tree ornaments my cousin Katharine, dollhouse collector, roped my into making her a doll. She had specific requirements for a 6″ tall Beast in what I gathered were Regency era clothes from her decription. In my ignorance I assumed the doll would have to have a jointed body, fabric clothes and furry fur, which kinda drove me nuts! But somehow I pulled it off! I sculpted a few more of those little dolls (no sewing on these!) as gifts for my parents and brother, as well as a bit of goofing around for myself (I liked my little  Sleestack a couple decades late for little me). But that was that.
Then the weirdest darn thing happened: I was suddenly stricken with a full imaginative block!
I stopped sculpting. I stopped painting boxes. I stopped writing stories. Worst of all I stopped dreaming! I still remember how upsetting that was, this sense of loss. It was like having a part of me paralyzed.  
It lasted years. Terrible years.
When my father became sick right after my irreparable rift with my brother, as I was facing the most terrible external loss of my life, something woke back up in me. Constant, vivid dreams, elaborate epics spiraling through night after night, images and stories that writing didn’t full  satisfy the need to express. I started painting miniature boxes again. Box after box after box....
But no sculpting.
I dunno why I still didn’t sculpt. I just didn’t.
Then my father died.
Pop’s death was a devistating moment. My father. My best friend. When Pop was sick I told him he couldn’t die because I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. There is a lot of truth in that.  I love Mom dearly, but our brains work very differently. Pop might have been smarter, and his depth of knowledge was certainly mind blowing, but our mental wiring followed a similar eccentric pattern. That said, somewhere along the line my parents and I had become a sort of unit, functioning as one. Think one of those anime giant robots made of smaller ships, Voltron or something. Then imagine it functioning with the head section missing. Five years later we still feel that void.
So anyway, Pop was dead, the family business gone with him, and I was unemployed with no qualifications in a rural area with few job opportunities anyway. This was, and frankly still is, not a good situation. And my cousin Katharine thought she had a solution.
Katharine sent me a letter suggesting I make dolls. She’d shown the doll I’d made her to a dealer who said I had talent, and she sent me a copy of Art Doll Quarterly to show me that my “weird” stuff might have a market...
Honestly I felt inspired by this. I immediately seriously considered it. I’d work a bit bigger than 6″ scale, sculpt the clothes instead of the stress and tedium of sewing, and figure out a way to do ball joints. Because each thing would be unique (until I could teach myself mold making) and letting go of something I make is soooo hard for me, I decided to use the story of one of my painted boxes as inspiration. I’d make wolf people, which I figured would create enough sameness to help me let go, but enough variety to keep me from being bored. I quickly sketched out a reasonable design and got to work.
Obviously things didn’t turn out to be so simple. Sculpting ball joints by hand is fiddly to manage. It would need a bit of experimenting. I could do a head on day, casually. I could do the upper body, arms and waist joint  with a lot of effort another day. A third day would be waist and legs. Fourth day was the hellish threading. I wasn’t set up for safely storing unbaked work in progress, so I had to do these marathon one sitting sculptings on the bodies. Then I’d rest up a few days and just sculpt a few heads.
The ball jointing drove me nuts. So I gave myself permission to not worry about wolfheads, but just sculpt whatever head happened. From the backlog of heads I’d just pick one to experiment with body making. In just a couple months I was making progress.
The first discouragement came with an art show. The county has a sort of art society and they were having a sculpture show. I was scared silly to show my work to anyone, since at that point it was 2014 and I wasn’t even on Tumblr. No one had seen them. Still, when I went to see about entering the lady there was encouraging. I was soooo nervous and tentatively hopeful when I went to the grand opening with Mom amd my cousin Shirley. I was soon deflated. No one seemed to notice my figures. My work was the odd one out anyway in a sea of found object sculptures, colored paper masks and ceramics abstractly suggesting the figural. Also, everyone there knew each other and so no one was talking to me. At one point I did this really sad thing of hovering near my figures in case anyone came near so I could sorta maybe get them to notice them....
When the show ended a few weeks later the lady very nicely said at least a couple school children had liked weird figures, ‘cause, you know, kids like that fantasy stuff.  I definitely should sculpt a lot bigger and maybe use terra cotta instead....
Yeah. I felt my stuff was crap. I was crap. Why had I ever thought anyone would like my crap? Heck, I’d thought I’d at least find a club I could join, belonging, friends....
But, I kept at the doll making experimenting, crap or not. That winter it was too cold for much sculpting in my unheated house, but I could work on trying to figure out how to paint them....
Then life happened don’t ya know. At first I thought it was a temporary break while I dealt with crisis after another. I kept sculpting heads, strictly sculpting a head a day (still just an hour each)....until the spreading collapsed floor situation forced me to move the box I’d made for storing the bodiless heads out. And that was that for doll making.
Still, I kept sculpting. I went back to just the faces....
And that’s where I am now. I gave up sculpting every day, because I no longer have time. I watch a movie and sculpt. I bake the face and take pics I post on here. I wrap ‘em in tissue and put them in a storage container....
And that’s it.
I don’t do anything with them. I’m not entirely convinced there is any point anymore. My life isn’t going to include free time. Or tables to work on. It has been years after all, and it gets less and less likely I’ll make anything more than a few boxes full of chipped up sculpey faces for the nephews to find when I die. Well, unless they follow my brother’s advice and throw them out unopened! LOL
I sculpt just ‘cause I sculpt. I post pics of them on Tumblr, ‘cause Mom isn’t really all that interested in looking at them. They aren’t ever going to be anything, but I guess if I enjoy making them and someone out there likes looking at them that’s okay. They may be nothing, but that’s something.
3 notes · View notes
dictionarywrites · 5 years
Note
okay but???? i loved the one orian/zach fic you wrote--could you write more for them? as a couple or individually, i don't really care which, i just really appreciate your dexterity with both of their voices and would like to see more of them in your style. :) maybe something with orian and crosby? i dunno. they just fascinate me!
My Ao3 | Send requests | Tip jar!
It’s, uh, it’s six months into this whole thing with Zach. Six months in, and Orian, he, uh, he introduced the kids to Zach four months ago. Let them come in of the morning and find Orian paging through the news on his tablet as Zach cooked him breakfast, and Zach, he’d--
God, the way he’d looked at them. 
He kinda wishes he’d had a camera to take a photo of it, of his face: Zach stood in his clothes from last night, the spatula in his hand, and he’d just looked so surprised, and something else, too. Excited. The kids had already been dressed for school, and they’d each stopped to peer at him, examining Zach.
“I thought all your brothers were dead,” Miranda had said, in a tone that implied disapproval. 
“Mmm, no, Zach is no relation,” Orian had replied, without looking up from his tablet. “He’s, uh, the latest piece of ass.” Zach had dipped his fingers in his glass of water and flicked some into Orian’s face, and Orian had laughed, leaning back and looking at Zach with amusement. 
“You kids want some eggs?” Zach had asked, and just like that, the kids had sat down, had begun to cautiously make their weigh-up of this man Orian had invited into his bed - Miranda had called both of them narcissists, and then said they were incestuous, and had then implied in a tone of great delicacy that Zach, she assumed, must be bought and paid for. Zach had laughed, and said, “Oh, no, sweetheart, I’m a cop.” And when Miranda had gone pale, he’d laughed at her, and put some more bacon on her plate.
And that, well, that had been it.
He’d shown his dominance over the queen bee at the table, and the kids had respected him for it, at least a little. Even now, they sometimes mess him around a little, but Zach, he can hold his own, and honestly, he’s good with the kids. He can tell when Miranda’s just being nasty when she can, or when she’s genuinely in a mood; Rachel actually talks to him, which is more than she does for Orian half the time; and Cros... 
Cros, he’s a funny thing. When he was very young, Orian had been soft with him - he’d wanted to carry Crosby wherever they went, had fussed over him, and gosh, when he’d been, uh, when he’d been just a baby, Orian had just delighted in the smell of his hair, how warm he’d been when Orian had held him to his chest.
But the kid--
You know, the kid, he’s a pussy. Such a weakling of a thing, jumps at loud noises, keeps wriggling out of coming out to the gun range with Orian and the girls, only seems willing to do the bare minimum of the exercises Orian encourages the kids to do, and just wants to stay inside and draw all day. And he’s a good artist, Orian will give him that - he’s a good artist, and his grades are good, but he’s just such a milksop. 
Orian isn’t all that patient with him. He feels bad for that, he really does, but it’s just so frustrating to be dealing with him, at times, and yet, Zach, he... You know, he’s gentle with Cros. He’s patient. And Orian doesn’t know why that’s, uh, why that’s so sexy, exactly, seeing this guy talk with his son or fix his hair or make him breakfast, but--
It’s pretty sexy.
And today...
Mm. Well.
When Crosby comes into the door late, and crying his eyes out, Orian is ready to fly off the handle, because his son has a new shiner blooming on his eye, and he’s trying to talk, but Orian isn’t inclined to wait for the answer - he wants to go out and have whatever fucking boy did this to his son killed, now, immediately--
He’s pacing as Zach sits Crosby down, tilts his head back so that he can get a better look at the bruise. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Cry ‘til you want to stop.” He says it very quietly as he holds out his hand, and Rachel passes him an icepack. “You feel dizzy?”
“No,” Crosby says.
“And the vision in your bad eye, it’s okay, right? Not blurry, doesn’t hurt to focus on me?”
“No,” Crosby says.
“Good,” Zach murmurs, and he gently sets the ice against the changing colour of his skin, making Crosby hiss out a cry of pain. There are tears wet on his cheeks, and Orian sets his jaw.
“What’s the kid’s name?” he asks, sharply.
“You can’t kill a kid, Orian,” Zach says.
“You fucking serious? Are you-- Honey, are you, uh, are you telling me how to parent my--”
“Shut up,” Zach snaps, and there’s a ringing pause in the room as Orian feels a sudden thrum of excitement in his chest (mmm, inappropriate to the setting, but hey), and also indignation. Nobody talks to him like that, not in front of his kids, not in front of people, but-- “Tell me what happened, honey.”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Crosby says plaintively. “I was just... I was just sketching on my phone on the bus, I wasn’t drawing him - I was drawing from a pose you did for me, I just didn’t have it open on my phone because I was trying to draw it from memory and--”
“What did he say?” Zach says, and his voice is quiet and calm. Miranda and Orian are both pacing now, at opposite ends of the room, and while Orian has a more casual saunter, Miranda is stiff, her hands clenched at her sides, her jaw held stiffly, her shoulders hunched. Rachel is standing still, her hands in front of her stomach, staring powerlessly at Crosby and Zach on the sofa. “Tell me what he said, honey.”
“He said I shouldn’t... That I shouldn’t draw him, and I said I wasn’t, and he said-- He called me a...” Crosby looks between Miranda and Orian, and then back at Zach, looking down at his chest instead of his face. “And I said I wasn’t a-- That my dad was gay, and that he was a weakling for being frightened of someone just because they might be different, and he laughed, and he punched me.”
“And this was on the bus?”
“Yeah,” Crosby says. “But the bus driver didn’t see, and I ran off before he could ask what had happened, and I walked the rest of the way home so that--”
“Why’d you do that?” Zach asks softly. “Why’d you run off the bus? He could have helped, the bus driver.”
“No,” Cros says. “He would have made me sit at the front of the bus, and then Ad-- and then he’d think I was a pussy, and that he’d make me a target.”
“What is his--”
“Orian, I swear to Christ, if you say one more word, I’m gonna cuff you to the stairs.” Mmm, and that, God, that just sets Orian’s skin on fire.
“Zachary, you are on very, very thin ice.” Zach looks back to Crosby, and Orian exhales. He doesn’t know what it is that keeps him still, what makes him not just reach out and grab Zach by the hair - if anybody else spoke to him like this in front of his kids, Orian would have them killed, but... It’s different, somehow. He doesn’t know how, but it is. 
“So, what’s the plan?” Zach asks, softly. “How are you gonna fix it?” Crosby hesitates.
“I don’t want to kill him,” he says. See, this is the problem. Pussy of a kid, frightened of violence, he’s just--
“Okay,” Zach says in a light tone. “Why don’t you want to kill him?”
“Too suspicious,” Crosby says. “And all he did was punch me, and I don’t want to kill somebody for something that-- that unimportant.” Crosby looks down, and he mumbles something, and Orian hears Zach laugh quietly.  
“Yeah, hot-headed is right,” Zach murmurs, evenly. “So, what do you want to do, if you don’t want him killed?” Crosby sniffles, shrugging his shoulders, and Zach reaches up, gently touching through Crosby’s hair, and Orian feels his heart ache, because somebody hurt his son, and he just wants to rip them limb from limb, hot-headed or not...
“Make sure he knows not to mess with me,” Crosby says. “But it can’t be... It can’t be violent in a way that other people see, or I’ll get too much attention.”
“Very true,” Zach says, adjusting the set of the ice against Crosby’s brow. 
“And I can’t do anything online because it’s too traceable.”
“Mmm hmm,” Zach hums.
“You could have me and Rachel deal with him,” Miranda says, quietly. “We can, uh-- We can rough him up, instead.”
“But then I’m a pussy who needs my sisters to protect me.”
“You are,” Miranda says, and Zach throws a cushion at her. “What? He is!”
"Except that you’re not helping him be independent, Miranda - you’re just making his situation worse! He’s saying he wants help to figure out a solution on his own. Why don’t you help him, huh?” Miranda stares at Zach for the longest moment, and it’s odd, seeing that expression of mixed indignation and upset on her face, because Orian doesn’t think he ever looks like that, and she looks just like him. 
Slowly, Miranda takes a step forward, and sinks down next to Crosby: immediately, Rachel does the same, dropping down onto the couch on the other side and taking the ice pack from Zach’s hand, supporting it against Crosby’s brow instead. Zach leans back on his heels, looking between the three of them, and Orian watches as he doesn’t say a word, as he just lets Miranda and Rachel talk through it with their little brother...
Zach steps back, and when Orian gestures for him to follow when he steps outside, they look at the pool. Zach doesn’t say a word: instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks out over the yard, not looking at Orian, until he says, “You can’tmow all his problems down for him.”
“He’s a kid.”
“So? Would you have done that for Miranda and Rachel? Kill any kid that looked at them funny?”
“No, but-- They’re stronger than he is, Zach, you know that. The kid’s soft.”
“He’s soft because you make him soft!” Zach retorts, crossing his arms over his chest a little more tightly and giving him a glare. “How’s he meant to get any better with you and Miranda both breathing down his neck, stopping him from doing anything on his own?” 
“You saying it’s my fault my kid’s a pussy?” Orian asks in a low, dangerous voice, and Zach laughs.
“Yeah, honey, I am,” Zach replies. “And going around killing kids for fighting, uh, forgive me, is a sign of you losing your head because he’s your baby and you don’t want anything to happen to him, not of you being smart about protecting him.”
“You think you can do that?” Orian asks in a hiss. “You think you can come in, and tell me how to parent my kids? You haven’t got kids, have you? Huh?” Orian shoves Zach in the chest, and Zach grabs his hand, interlinking their fingers and squeezing his hand. “I don’t want you holding my hand, you--” Zach lets go of his hand to grab him by the throat, and he squeezes tightly.
“Orian,” he whispers, and he squeezes so hard Orian feels himself choke. “If things go the way I want them to, they’re gonna be my kids too.” Again, there’s that sudden burst of heat in Orian’s chest, the one he always feels when he sees Zach being good with Crosby, and he heaves in a breath when Zach lets him go. “You want to go back inside?”
“No,” Orian says, and he grabs Zach by the front of his shirt, crushing their mouths together in a biting kiss. 
                                                    ---
Orian doesn’t know what Crosby does to Adrian Begley, but when he sees them at parents’ night, he scrambles out of their way and rushes into a corridor. Orian feels himself smile at Crosby’s expression of tight satisfaction, and when he turns to Crosby’s English teacher, he pats Zach on the hip, and says, “This is Zachary.”
He doesn’t bother attaching a label to it - it doesn’t matter if they assume Zach is Crosby’s uncle or his cousin or what. 
But he goes around with them, and when Zach tries to bring it up at dinner, makes some light comment about it, Orian ignores it completely. 
6 notes · View notes