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knjsagustd · 3 years

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and it’s a tragedy | myg 01

You can feel your heart breaking. You know, in your soul, that falling in love with this man would be easy. You’re already halfway there.

Part One | Part Two

→ Yoongi x OC

→ w/c: 4.6k

→ idol!Yoongi, soulmate au

→ warnings: discussion of mental health, mention of sex (not explicit), oc is bisexual, angst (a lot of angst)

→a/n: i just need people to know that the first draft of this was written in one sitting between one and three am bc i thought of the first line and couldn’t sleep. i wrote 3027 in that first sitting - which is probably more than i’d written outside of uni for the entire year - the re-drafting process added a further 1500 - so rip me i guess. basically i have no self control, and it shows in how unnecessarily specific i am in this. sorry.

You’ve always been fascinated by soulmarks. To a certain extent you think everyone is. It’s hard not to be when everyone has at least one. And some people are walking canvases, covered in the brushstrokes of their love. Everyone has words somewhere on their body, etched into their skin from the moment their primary soulmate’s birth. But no one has just one soulmate. That would be a stupid system. The words are the person you are destined to meet. It’s bond, usually it means love but platonic primary bonds exist. A bond that has been proven breakable. It’s difficult but primary soul bonds can be severed Usually they are broken only by death, but irreversible heartbreak or harm can do it too. There are whispers of people who specialise in artificially breaking primary bonds. Then there’s the secondary bonds - so called because they usually appear after the primary one. Not because they are any less important. Soulmates aren’t just born, they’re made. Chosen. If primary bonds are fate the secondary ones are freewill. Images blossom on your skin as you grow and create bonds. Platonic soulmates are just as important, legally as well as socially and spiritually, as romantic ones. But the secondary bond can also be romantic, usually in cases of death, betrayal or sometimes the primary bond just frays. Sometimes primary soulmates aren’t what you thought. Romantic secondary soulmates often occur when people find love again after a primary bond is fractured or broken, by death or life.

You are born, screaming, at 9:27 am on the twenty-fourth of January 1998 in Perth, Scotland. On the inside of your thigh there is a tight scrawl in an alphabet that is not English. No one in the room can read it. Largely due to the unfamiliar characters, but also because its tiny, squeezed onto a tiny stretch of skin. You’re a small baby. As the midwife looks you over your dad presses a kiss to your mother’s forehead. He is holding her hand with his right one and a bacon butty from the hospital cafeteria in the other. He had almost missed your birth to get it - this is something you never let him forget once you learn it. His words aren’t visible. They sit on his chest, right over his heart, in your mother’s boxy handwriting. They read ‘How is he?’. When you’re twenty, and home from uni for christmas, you find out that the first time your parents met your father saved your grandfather’s life. They never said anything because at that point your mother was engaged to another man. It’s not something they talk about. Your mother is crying with relief, labour is hard. Her hospital gown has slipped down her arm leaving her words, which are stamped on her shoulder, clear to see. ‘He’s stable’ is there in your father’s messy scrawl - he is the epitome of doctor’s handwriting. Your mother has a second soulmark, a watercolour willow on her left forearm - for her best and oldest friend, Amanda. Apart from that they’re bare. As you are handed back to your parents, gently placed in your mother’s arms with a whisper from the midwife calling you ‘perfect’, the door bursts open.

You have an older brother, Andrew. He’s two years and less than two months older than you. He toddles in with your grandfather in tow. Andrew has no soulmarks yet. His primary soulmate has not been born and two year olds with secondary marks is unheard of. Your Grandfather, though, has multiple soulmarks. You only see them in summer, the rest of them time he wears large, misshapen sweaters. There’s looping handwriting on the inside of his right arm, it’s not the deep black of most people’s words, but a faded grey. It’s in cursive and you never learnt to read it. But one day - when you’re old enough to ask - he tells you it’s your grandmother. She died a month before Andrew was born. Lung cancer. As you grow up each of your grandfather’s secondary marks become faded, any colours turn grey. The last one, a vibrant rose that looks like something out of a classical manuscript, fades a week before your twelfth birthday when Betty, his best friend, dies during a routine check up at the hospital.

Andrew’s words appear ten months after your birth. You can walk by then. There’s a video of you toddling around after the dog while Andrew sobs. Apparently receiving soulmarks hurts. His words are wrapped around his wrist, someone asking if he knows where the law section of the library is. They’re in English. When you’re fourteen you look into whether the placement of primary soulmarks means anything. You thought that having your thigh on your inner thigh felt quite intimate - it makes you uncomfortable. It doesn’t mean anything. Placement is completely random and meaningless. Less than a year later you feel like soulmates are too.

When you’re two years old you go to Disneyland Paris. And, once you’re home, your mother gives birth to your little brother. Adam doesn’t scream immediately when he is born, but he does have words. The midwife fixes the situation quickly. Within two minutes he’s crying, with healthy lungs that he doesn’t stop using for what feels like years. When you’re allowed in you crawl up the bed to look at your baby brother. He’s ugly. All squishy and red and swaddled in a blanket. But at least at that moment he’s sleeping. His words are just visible, finishing at his jaw. They’re in pretty handwriting. At this point you can’t read. Anyway, you think you prefer Disneyland.

You’re a curious child. Your parents teach you to read before you start school in an attempt to sate it. Largely it works. Distracted by books you’re less likely to ask people invasive questions - too caught up in whatever story sits on the page in front of you. But you’re still frustrated when nothing ever looks like the characters on your inner thigh. You’d ask around but you learnt very early on that it’s rude to just show people your words in the hopes of them recognising them. Plus no one in your limited social circle as a toddler speaks anything other than English. Let alone a language with a completely different alphabet. Your dad likes asian cinema, though. He sits in the living room watching samurai movies with english subtitles. He thinks they must come from around there - he doesn’t know enough to say more. You can’t really say because you can’t read and unless you sit with your face inches from the tv screen or squint from the sofa it’s blurry. At nine you’ll get your eyes tested for the first time and find out that trees have individual leaves.

At nine you change schools. It’s the first somewhat dramatic thing to happen to you. Andrew was moving to high school and the one your parents liked the most offered the last two years of primary school so they decided to move you too. To make the transition easier. In your first year there you meet Isla, she’s bigger than you and has just moved from South Africa despite being Irish. But she has a wicked sense of humour and draws you pictures during maths lessons. In the summer before high school you spend a week in the cottage her family has up north - on the, at this point unpronounceable, peninsula of Ardnamurchan. After a day of running amok in the village you wake up with a burning feeling where your neck meets your shoulder. When you check in the mirror there’s a stroke of soft blue paint there. Isla takes to resting her head there when you’re watching TV. A year after you meet her, Alexandra joins your class. She’s quiet at first but her and Isla know each other from swimming. You’re eleven and that’s more than enough reason to become friends. On her twelfth birthday, three weeks before you start highschool, you, her and Isla are sitting on her couch with a sugar high watching bootleg musicals. The burning sensation is on your arm this time. Next to you, Alexandra is hissing because it feels like someone is holding a cigarette to her ribcage. When you look down there’s a thin line art drawing of a mountain just above your left elbow. Alexandra lifts her shirt and there’s a small golden feather that shines when the light catches it. You know these are platonic bonds but they’re strong. Sometimes your fingers brush over them and you feel comfort and joy wash over you. You try not to touch the words on your inner thigh. That makes your chest tighten and your heart race. When you share space with Isla and Alexandra your group bond sings. It goes taught, you feel peaceful.

When you’re ten you start to learn guitar. This grows into piano and ukulele as you get older. You’ve been doing musical theatre as long as you can remember but you want to be able to make your own music. Plus you really like Taylor Swift, so logically if she plays guitar so should you. It makes sense to a ten year old. Sometimes you get frustrated because melodies and rhythms pop into your head but you just can’t make them happen. You sit on your bed with a third hand guitar, your uncle had owned it since highschool and gave it to you when you started showing interest, muddling through music that exists only in your brain. You feel like it has lyrics but you just don’t know them.

You work out the language marking your thigh when you’re fourteen. It’s the middle of a sweltering summer, you’ve gone inside to get a glass of water and the London Olympics are on TV. They always are, even if no one in your house is watching. Right now the Judo matches are being shown and you stop dead in your tracks as the gold medalist takes the stand. Because beside his name are characters that bear so much resemblance to the ones marking you. You pull your phone out of your pocket and begin googling.

Hangul - that’s the alphabet that’s been a part of you since you were born. It’s Korean. You beg your parents for lessons. They’ve always wanted the best for you, so of course they say yes. If this is how you find your soulmate then who are they to stand in the way. It takes a while to find them. Unsurprisingly, there is little demand for Korean teaching in Scotland. But there’s lessons in Edinburgh on a Saturday evening. You take the train down in the afternoon and stay with your grandfather until he takes you home on Sunday morning. He regales you with stories of his time in Japan. It’s not quite right but the heart is there. You feel like you’re on the right track. In the evenings you take to stroking the mark, or even just looking at it. That ache and breathlessness still come when you look at it. But it’s easier to ignore when you feel like you are halfway to solving the riddle. You are so full of hope.

Until you aren’t. The night before you start your fifth year of high school you finally feel confident enough to read your words. You sit with your Korean notebook on your bed and take a picture of the words. Peggy, your dog, is watching you from where she’s curled up at the far end of your bed. You can read Hangul, kind of, but you definitely can’t do it upside down. It takes a second, it’s a messy, chicken-scratch scrawl unlike your teacher’s handwriting or printed text. You have to refer to your notes a few times. But you read it. And you cry. At this point you haven’t mastered the art of silent crying - that will come with time. Your door is open from when Peggy nudged it open, and your mum hears you. She walks in, concerned. Peggy’s tail starts going at the sight of her. That makes you cry more. She gathers you into a hug. Through shaky breaths and hiccups you tell her,

“They don’t want me.”

The words on your thigh aren’t the stuff of soap operas, like you parents. They aren’t a meet-cute like Andrew. Adam has something everyday, innocuous. You have rejection. The words on your thigh say,

I don’t want this.

And there are a million options for what it could be. You mess up someone’s order in whatever minimum wage server job you get during uni. Or you’re canvassing for a charity or political cause. But in your, for lack of a better word, soul you know it’s a rejection. You are what your soul mate doesn’t want. That’s why touching your mark feels wrong. Why it fills you with panic and pain. You’re not good enough.

You miss the first day back. When you come in on the second day your registration teacher looks at you with so much pity you want to throw up.

Things change after that. It would be hard for them not to. Alexandra and Isla try to be there for you. In the beginning you don’t let them. They don’t get it. Isla has cute handwriting - the kind that dots their ‘i’s with hearts - swirling up her arm talking about what must be a painting. Alexandra has a cheesy flirtation on her collar bone. They have romcoms lined up for them. But fate gave you a tragedy. The mark you used to love so much has always marked you as a mistake. It’s almost Shakespearian. And as a teenage girl it’s so hard not to let that rule you.

You learn to put on a brave face. You’ve always been a quick study when it mattered to you, pretending to be okay is no different. You throw yourself into school. There are times when you make yourself sick with how ragged you run yourself. Either no one notices or they don’t want to bring it up. You get a B in Chemistry, and you barely sleep for a week studying to make it up. You never get another B. You’re a straight A student, in every show the school puts on, as well as volunteering and extracurriculars outside of school. If you can’t be wanted you will be remarkable. There are weeks when you’re up all night vomiting because you can’t keep food down. It’s just stress. You make yourself vibrant and extraordinary while people are looking, when they aren’t you wither. You fade.

At sixteen you realise gender isn’t factor in how you love. You fall for a girl, Callie. She’s one of your closest friends. One day you’re talking to some people, she pops her head between them and the whole world gets smaller. All you can think is ‘shit’. You think she likes you. She’s your first kiss - you’re both a little bit drunk at a party. It’s soft. You want more but another friend is rolling around on the floor, and seems liable to throw up, after having drunk nearly two bottles of prosecco within an hour. So you don’t. You help the friend, trying not to focus on the way Callie keeps finding ways to touch you. Something is making you feel sick, you don’t know if it’s how her hands keep ghosting over yours or the smell of vomit. You liked kissing her, you chased her lips as she pulled away. But there’s this weight in your stomach, guilt. And you hate yourself a little bit more. Your primary soulmate doesn’t want you but here you are. Part of you wants them.

On Monday you explain it to Callie. Her smile is sad but she understands. She hugs you. Her primary mark is on her hip, a sweet compliment. That’s what she deserves - not the broken husk you’ve already become. But you’re selfish, maybe that’s why your primary bond doesn’t want you. So you keep getting drunk, you keep letting her kiss you. Sometimes it goes further. But even as her fingers find ways to unravel you they never touch the words written on your thigh. Even as your lips discover her body you avoid dragging them over the characters on her hip. At twenty you haven’t slept with her in a year. But she’s one of your best friends, you don’t think you can remember a day when you haven’t spoken to her. You wake up on a Thursday, you have class in two hours, and it feels like someone is holding a hot coal to your back. You get your flatmate, Aodahn, to look at it. There’s a bright, almost glowing, constellation on your left shoulder blade. It’s pisces - Callie’s birth sign. When you check your phone there’s a series of video snapchats from Callie waiting. She’s half crying while she shows you your golden feather on her ribcage. You feel like crying. It would be so easy to love her. Not for the first time you wonder if fate made a mistake.

By twenty-one you are a collage of all the people you’ve loved. But it doesn’t matter because despite how many people love you, there’s someone that doesn’t. Someone fate decided to bond to you. Someone that will take one look at you and say they don’t want you.

You’ve developed masochistic tendencies. All those years of self-hatred had to lead to something. It’s the only explanation. You’re going to Korea. You graduated from a top university with a first class history degree and you felt stagnant. Trapped. It was paired with your paralysing fear of things going wrong, because everything seems to go wrong for you. You had a bit of a breakdown on a random Wednesday about it - you know, the usual. So you did the logical thing. You applied to be an English teaching assistant in Korea. It’s all Callie’s fault. You’d been speaking to her about how terrified you are of being normal and she floated the idea. She found her soulmate at a comic con six months prior and was on the blissed out high everyone you’ve known to find their soulmate stays in for the first year. Alexandra says you’re being dramatic. That maybe this is the right thing and maybe you need to find your soulmate, to get some sort of closure. She says this on facetime with her primary soulmate making dinner in the background, so you are not sure how much of an authority on primary bond heartbreak she is. But still, you got a TEFL certificate last summer. You applied during your final year of university and got a position in Seoul. You’re going to Korea in three days. You’re terrified.

It hurts, because you like Korea. No, you love Korea. You can see a life here. And it’s a shame because beauty is everywhere you look but all of it is tainted by the idea that anyone you walk past could be the owners of your words. You live in a small apartment in Itaewon, the school you're working at owns a few for its language assistants. When you aren’t thinking about the heartbreak etched into your thigh, your soul, you are some sort of happy. The people you work with are amazing, fun and different. It reminds you of the summer you spent working at an American summer camp after your first year of university. Except you’re not trapped in the same 5,500 acres for three months. You all hangout together. One of them, a girl called Ellie from Leeds, makes you listen to Kpop. You’d heard things here and there but once you found out the meaning of your words you avoided anything to do with Korea. Until you made the big, potentially masochistic, decision that brought you here. You find you like dancing around her tiny kitchen with her, singing along when you can. She makes you watch hours worth of content on youtube. Within a month, when she’s very drunk and you’re very not, she tells you the reason she got into all of this was because her words are in Korean too. Hers sit just below her right breast. They’re sweet. She says that she knows it’s silly and childish but sometimes she hopes that her primary bond is with one of her idols. You give her hand a squeeze. You hope that for her too. She deserves that happiness.

But it all comes crashing down.

Four months into your stay you’re walking through an almost empty park at two am. You’d run to a convenience store after Ellie had decided you needed ice cream but she didn’t want to move. So you had tugged the ratty sweater on she’d given you, because she’d spilt red wine on the one you had arrived in, and left. The rain had stopped about ten minutes before and the world felt new. You’d gotten the ice cream but decided to take the long way back, through a small park that always made you feel peaceful. There’s been this buzzing under your skin since you stepped out of the convenience store. As you walk further into the park your chest feels tight. You try to ignore it. Ahead of you there’s your favourite part of the park. It’s a fountain that lights up when night hits. You never get tired of looking at it. It looks especially beautiful tonight, the puddles around it reflecting back its lights. There’s a lone figure standing in front of it. Something about him draws you in. Your brain feels almost hazy as you come to a stop beside him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” you say without thinking. They all but fall out of you in English. For a second all you feel is awkward at the thought of randomly speaking to someone in a language they may not understand.

Then the air changes. You feel everything. For a moment you are everything. It’s electric, bolts of lightning sizzling under your skin. He doesn’t have to speak, you know exactly what’s just happened. What’s coming. You refuse to look at him, yet.

“I don’t want this.” It’s not how you thought the words would be said. You thought they’d come with a sneer as the person took in your every flaw and decided you weren’t worthy. But he seems sad, almost apologetic. His voice is a deep drawl, almost lazy. It reverberates around your chest, making you ache with an unfamiliar longing. And the worst part is you know the voice. Ellie has made you watch possibly hundreds of videos that feature it. It’s your favourite part of so many songs.

So you turn your head, because you have to be sure. He’s looking at you too. There’s a hollowness in his soft, brown eyes. He’s taller than you, though not by much. What you can see of his hair - he’s wearing a beanie and hoodie, is dark. Part of you yearns to brush away the locks that have fallen in front of his beautiful eyes. There’s a disposable mask pulled down to cup his jaw. You can feel your heart breaking. You know, in your soul, that falling in love with this man would be easy. You’re already halfway there. Millions have done it just from watching youtube videos. Your soulmate is Min Yoongi. You want to cry. You want to scream, because fate has been so cruel.

He stares back. You want to believe he’s committing you to memory as you are him. He takes everything in. Your choppy hair - last week you and Ellie drunkenly cut it with her kitchen scissors and you haven’t had the time to phone a salon. The day old, smudged eyeliner that you can’t be bothered to take off that’s hidden behind your thick rimmed glasses. The oversized sweatshirt - it almost starts a laugh out of you as you remember it’s Ellie’s AgustD one - over the top of some ripped up mum jeans. Everything about you is screaming at him that you aren’t good enough. You close your eyes for a second, gathering any strength you have. You’ve been prepared for this for seven years. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Do I get to ask why?” Your voice is smaller than you thought it would be in this situation. But at least it doesn’t shake. For a second it seems like Yoongi is going to reach out to you. His arm twitches, the hand moving towards you almost imperceptibly. It drops.

“You don’t want this either.”

The horrible thing is that he’s wrong. Because despite the fact that the first time he broke your heart was when you were fifteen and you decided then that you didn’t need a soulmate, you can’t not want him. No matter how many times you convinced yourself that you were better than the rejection that has always marked you. Or the amount of lies you’ve told yourself that it doesn’t hurt anymore. A part of you has yearned for what other people get. The little girl who believed in the enduring power of primary bonds never really died. You just painted over her. Like a crack in the wall.

“You don’t get to tell me what I want. You owe me an explanation.”

It’s taking every ounce of pride you have left to not cry. But your own anger and heartbreak aren’t the only things bubbling in your chest. There’s sadness and a sort of loathing that feels both foreign and familiar. You want to throw up. You’ve heard stories, read things, about how some primary bonds, the strongest ones, allow their owners to feel each other's emotions after meeting. Something about the words being said solidifies and strengthens the bond. And you hate it. Fate must be laughing at you, giving you such a strong bond to man that doesn’t want you.

“It wouldn’t work. I can’t give you what you’re looking for. I’d destroy you.”

“You already destroyed me,” You hiss. “I used to shine, you know, I lit up rooms with love and hope. I was fifteen when I learnt that I had been marked since birth as not good enough. You broke me and I’m still fixing it. Why would I look for anything from you?”

Words catch in his throat, all that comes out is a strangled noise. With that you nod, spin on your heel and walk away. You don’t cry. It hurts more than you thought it would. Whether that applies to meeting him, feeling the soul bond snap into place, or walking away from him you don’t know. Everything in you is betraying you, screaming to go back. There are moments, as you pause at the traffic lights, fumble with Ellie’s key when you reach her building, wait for the elevator to come, when you almost do. You’re in physical pain and there’s this foreign lump in your throat that you know is him. In the elevator you laugh, because the ridiculously shallow thought that you’ll never be able to look at the fountain again pops, unbidden, into your head. Then you cry.

masterlist

#bts soulmate au #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi soulmate au #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi #yoongi x oc #suga x oc #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #suga soulmate au #fic:aiat

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ojangel · 4 years

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the losers club + their favourite things

1. Mike - cats that stretch all across his thighs and listening to them purr; finding his old diary entries and reading them out like poetry to Richie and Ben; cooing over pictures of a stranger’s baby with said stranger

2. Eddie - sour candy and white chocolate on Monday afternoons; lingering at the end of phonecalls because he doesn’t want to say goodbye; holding hands w Richie as the moon looks down on them

3. Richie - new colours to dye the tips of his hair; flicking through old magazines in his dad’s office and texting Eddie relationship tips he finds in them; blowing out candles on his birthday cake before any of the losers are finished singing

4. Beverly - looking for new Netflix shows w Richie and Ben; the view from her science classroom’s back window; fixing Eddie’s hair for him when his mum cuts it up in messy clumps

5. Bill - perfect brushstrokes on a white canvas; arguing about what movie to watch w his little brother; the suffocating group hugs that the Losers like to spring on him at random times

6. Ben - choosing which candy to buy at the supermarket w Bill for sleepovers; mumbling random mythology facts during awkward silences with strangers; the losers asking him to double-check their maths homework

7. Stan - falling asleep with Taylor Swift’s music playing in his ears and waking up with the lyrics still in his head; the corridor between his and his parents’ bedroom; chewing on dark chocolate as Bev paints his nails in purple and white

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monster-bait · 4 years

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Monster Match: Ermir the Javelin Sand Boa Naga; M Naga x FTM Human, NSFW

Monster Match for @aime-801 I am a trans-male (ftm), looking for NSFW male match. I am fairly quiet and withdrawn, my hobbies are writing and drawing, and my passion in life is programming. I like to stay inside most of the time, but my favourite life experience was feeling the wind as I wrote the next chapter of a love story on top of a Welsh mountain I climbed. My ideal partner is someone who I can talk honestly to, who respects my quirks and interests that I'm self-conscious about.

The mountains were beautiful from a distance.

You found yourself staring at the hills often during the day, their uneven terrain looking lush and green from your seat in a lecture hall, or from your favorite window seat at the little cafe in town, tucked out of the way. You were able to lose yourself in a good stare, unworried about people thinking you were inadvertently staring at them, as had happened on more than one occasion previously, for the landscape was wide and inviting and perfectly worthy of your attention.

You were not enjoying climbing them nearly as much.

The flyer had been posted on the board inside the cafe’s doorway, alongside others advertising rooms for rent, used books, and private tutors. It had stood out amongst the others, catching your attention instantly: a silhouette of the mountains, rendered in long, graceful brushstrokes above a curling logo.

Stormwind Studios — Private study available

It was less of an ad and more of an announcement, and you liked the quiet confidence of the cornflower blue design. Snapping a picture of the ad with your phone, you left the cafe that afternoon with a sight spring in your step, heading home to the university flat you shared with three other students.

You’d been in Wales for two semesters at that point, although it may as well have been just a few days, for as social as you’d been. Tashsa was from Brixton, was loud and outgoing and, upon meeting her flatmates, had immediately decided that you and Benji, a quiet Glaswegian who kept to himself nearly as much as you did, were not worth her time. She stayed almost exclusively with her boyfriend, leaving your flat quiet, which suited you just fine. You preferred the quiet, liked staying indoors to work on your art or writing, enjoyed losing yourself in a videogame more than you enjoyed the prospect of a noisy pub.

Your parents had hoped university life would have brought you out of your shell a bit more, but if anything, it reinforced the reality that you were quite happy with your own company. Coming out to your family and loved ones had been hard, even though you suspected it hadn’t exactly been a shock to some of them. You’d never felt comfortable in your skin growing up, had always felt as though you were living someone else’s life. Since coming out as trans and taking steps to assert your new identity, things had been better, and moving away from home for the first time for university was a chance for a fresh start: a new you, the real you.

The real you was just as shy and withdrawn as the old you, it turned out, but you were happy.

The notion of private study in an actual art studio was wildly appealing. You loved art, loved to draw and paint, and wanted to improve your skills...but your major was your priority, and ate up the bulk of your class schedule, leaving room for little else. You loved computers, loved learning the language of data and machines, and were happy with your chosen field...but you wished you had more time for your creative pursuits. There was plenty of time on the weekends, when you weren’t joining your classmates on noisy pub crawls or house parties, you thought, and going to a studio might force you out of your shell.

“This is Ermir.”

You’d been unprepared for the rich, lightly accented voice that answered the phone, deep and dark like a particularly decadent chocolate, and stood dumbfounded and silent until he spoke again.

“Y-yes! Hi, um...hello. I-I’m calling about the ad? For the art studio?”

The reverberation of his chuckle could be felt through the phone, shivering down your back and heating your core. You sagged against the battered formica countertop as he continued, and tried to keep your composure.

“Ah, yes! You saw the flyer, I take it? I am offering private instruction in my studio, on Thursdays or Saturdays. Are you a beginning student?”

The cost he was asking was manageable, well within your budget with the money you saved by not going to the pubs, and you hung up with the promise to be at his studio at noon on Saturday.

“I am looking forward to meeting you,” he rumbled before the call disconnected. Your stomach was a riot of butterflies, your head reeling. It was a silly thing to be proud of, but almost nothing was as anxiety-building as phone conversations, and you were pleased with your accomplishment. You’d be working on your art and you’d be leaving the house to do so, meeting new people. Saturday was just two days away at that point, and you were simultaneously elated and terrified. It’ll be fine. You’ll go to the studio and work on some art. No worries!

Now though...now you were huffing and puffing, following the winding trail up the hillside, wondering what on Earth you’d been thinking. When you’d typed the address into your phone and the pin it yielded had been on the side of the mountain, you thought you must have transposed a number. Instead, the enhanced view showed you the small studio, the familiar logo visible in the satellite image. Set in one of the lower hills, the student drive would bring you to the base of the foothills, and from there you’d have to walk.

At long last, the curving trail showed you the studio front, and you paused to catch your breath and slow your heart rate before approaching the door. A tinkling wind chime announced your arrival. The small space was dimly lit, painted in a cool dove grey, and the walls were covered with canvases. You recognized the long, flowing brushstrokes immediately, but before you could take another step closer, a throat cleared behind you.

“Welcome,” he intoned, his voice even more lush and dark as it had been on the phone, sending a shiver up your spine.

The naga standing in the backroom doorway dwarfed you in his shadow. Thick, dark hair fell over a high, olive-skinned forehead, brushing a sculpted, square jaw. His cheekbones were high and his nose was long and straight, as though he were carved from the mountain itself. His reptilian lower half was thick and strong-looming, disappearing behind him...he was the most striking individual you’d ever laid eyes on, and you forced yourself to keep breathing when his smile displayed long, curved fangs. “I hope the journey up was not too difficult.”

You took the cold glass of water he held out, gulping it gratefully before shaking your head. “It-it was no problem at all,” you lied. Intense green eyes held yours, and you sipped from the glass again, grateful for the distraction. He wasn’t as old as you were expecting, maybe only five or six years older than yourself, but even standing there silently, he seemed to possess more confidence in his little finger—fingers which were long and graceful-looking, you noticed—than you could ever hope to boast.

“Let’s see what you can do, and then we’ll discuss what your objectives are.”

It was late afternoon by the time you left the studio, your giddiness practically carrying you down the mountain on wings.

“I don’t think I feel comfortable taking money from you,” Ermir had said seriously over the small pot of tea you had shared in the messy backroom.

Your stomach had folded in on itself in disappointment, even though you’d been expecting it. The time you’d spent in his company that afternoon had been more enjoyable than any occasion you could remember. He was impressed with your skill, seemed interested when you’d haltingly confessed to enjoying writing as well as drawing, and shockingly easy to talk to.

He’d rumbled that you would be better off in one of the university classes as he flipped through the work stored on your phone, while you took advantage of his momentary distraction to surreptitiously look him over. He was broad-shouldered and well built, his narrow waist tapering to his reptilian coils began. His scales were a mottled brown, bittersweet cacao giving way to light milk chocolate, and you had the idiotic supposition of what they would feel like beneath your palm, hypnotized by the way he subtly swayed in place. You’re too awkward, someone like him would never be interested in you...

“You’re hardly a beginner, you’d do well to take a few painting classes...but this was fun. Would you like to still come by to work in the studio? It's been nice having someone other than myself to talk to,” he admitted with a deep laugh.

The several hours spent in the small studio had been completely without stress or judgement, and despite how nervous you’d been to come here, you weren’t quite sure what you would do with yourself if you couldn’t come back to this cool room and his deep voice and sharp-edged smile.

“I-I’d really love that. That would be great.”

“Does this look too blue?”

You turned from your laptop to where he painted in the grey afternoon light. Ermir squinted at the canvas before him, swaying on his coils.

“Not at all, I think it’s perfect.”

He scoffed before turning his attention back to his work, continuing to mumble to himself and you shook your head, still smiling, and turned back to your screen. He liked to tease you over your preference for using a digital art program, and you teased him for painting the same thing, over and over again, but he never tired of capturing the mountains, and you never tired of watching him.

It had been three weeks since you’d journeyed to his studio, three of the best weeks of your life. Working in the art studio had turned into helping him digitize his business and giving the studio a social media presence, something for which he had little patience for or skill with, and you found yourself making the trip up the hills a few times a week, on your short class days. He was confident and composed, a complete opposite to your anxious shyness and tendency to babble nervously, and your dreams had become an endless loop of his strong arms and sleek coils and hot mouth. You were completely smitten, and you had no idea what to do about it. Pine forever, probably.

Ermir didn’t seem to mind that you were quiet, that you were more comfortable behind a computer screen than with people, for he was quiet as well. He asked after your classes and assignments, listened quietly as you talked about your family and your transition journey. You’d never shared your story with anyone else, had never felt comfortable enough to disclose your thoughts and fears, how you’d grown up feeling as though you were someone else and the dysphoria that still occasionally stressed you, but you did with him. In turn, he’d shared his story of emigration from a small town on the Balkan coast when he was around your own age, how strange Welsh customs were to him and the prejudices he still encountered, both as a foreigner and as a naga.

“What do you think of this?” you asked, sucking in what you hoped was an invisible breath as he turned. The logo you’d made incorporated his trademark painting of the mountain, along with rolling, windswept script. You said a silent thanks to yourself for having the foresight to take the breath, for when his giant hands landed on your shoulders, your lungs lost the power to inflate. Ermir was quiet but commanding, and the soft dominance he exuded never failed to thrill you.

He smelled like the mountains—crisp and clean, meadow grass and warmth, and you desperately wanted to turn your head up as he leaned down and press your nose to the side of his neck, to better breathe him in.

“That’s perfect, mišiću. Exactly what I wanted.”

Your heart joined your lungs in their cessation of movement when his hands squeezed gently, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive points at the base of your neck in slow circles. The pet name was not new. You had no idea what it meant, but it lit a fire, lower in your belly every time he addressed you in such a way. His voice continued to drone on, praising you in his rolling rumble for setting up and linking a collection of social media accounts, but the rush of blood in your ears nearly drowned him out. The rhythmic pressure of his thumbs against you, slow and steady, was all you could focus on. When they caught on a pressure point that occasionally caused you pain, you gasped, arching upwards into his hands for more contact, and his hum of approval nearly turned you to jelly.

When the phone rang, shrill and insistent, he released you, and your lungs screamed for the breath you’d evidently been holding.

Your mind could not account for how you were able to stay upright for the rest of the hour, for the next thing you knew, you were gathering up your things before you missed the last bus of the afternoon. Shrugging into your jumper, you took your backpack from him with shaking hands.

“Zip up, mišiću,” he murmured, looking you over with his wide green eyes. “It’s too windy for you out there, you’ll blow right away.” You loved the wind, loved the feel of it in your hair and against your face, loved how free you felt, free to be exactly who you wanted to be...but he was right. You could hear the way it whistled against his door and knew it would be cold, zipping the jumper up to your chin. He hummed in approval again, smoothing the fabric at your shoulders with a feather-light touch. “That’s my good boy.”

His words nearly turned you inside out. He couldn’t possibly know that you fantasized about a dominant partner, fantasized about him almost nightly; that his sparkling eyes and sharp smile were all you’d thought about for weeks, that you twisted in your bed, what those scales would feel like pressed against you.

“Go, before it gets too dark. Be careful, mišiću. I’ll see you this week.”

The storm blew in quickly.

Living in Wales wasn’t that different than living at home, not as far as the weather was concerned. The clouds had gathered ominously as the bus pulled away, and you gulped, hurrying up the path. The rain began to splatter the ground midway through your hike, the first rumble of thunder rocking the hillside once the studio was in sight. Ermir was there, his long tail moving in a serpentine as he paced in front of the door, exclaiming when he saw you, looking like a drowned rat.

“Mišiću, I was so worried!”

You found yourself swept into the studio space, your dripping coat removed along with the sodden jumper beneath. Before you could object, a towel was slung around you, and Ermir’s huge hands were pressing to you, drying you off. You’d never been so exposed before him, in just your thin t-shirt, always wearing some sort of jumper or a hooded sweatshirt as you always did. You’d had your top surgery more than a year ago, but the self-consciousness you’d carried for years had not left you. You could feel the great span of his hand, pressing to your ribcage, your sternum, to your collarbone, and as they pressed to you, you grew increasingly certain you were about to pass out.

Before it could happen, you were revived by the towel moving to your head, vigorously rubbing your hair dry. You cried out in protest and he harrumphed in response, continuing for another moment. When at last the towel was lowered, your heart tripped again to find him very, very close.

“What were you thinking, lovely boy?”

Your shrug was weak and heat moved up your neck, frozen beneath his emerald gaze. His eyes were always intense, seemed to glow with laughter or harden in seriousness when he worked, and just then they seemed lit by an internal fire, heat that seared into you, seeping into your skin. “I-I already said I was coming by today. I didn’t want to go home...I didn't think the storm would blow in that quickly.”

“You had me worried sick, mišiću.”

You were able to feel the heat of his mouth, so tantalizingly close, close enough to feel the whisper of his breath upon your lips. You wondered what path you would have needed to take in life to have been brave enough to close the miniscule distance and kiss him, and where you’d gone wrong—

—but it hadn’t mattered, because he was brave and confident enough for the both of you, and closed the distance without hesitation. On the second pass of his mouth, he captured your lower lip between his fuller ones, sucking it lightly until your mouth opened, intrigued by the sensation of his flickering forked tongue. Molten heat enveloped you then, and you realized his arm had come around you, crushing you to his front.

The storm picked up its intensity outside, as lightning lit the sky.

“I-I don’t think the busses will be running in this weather,” you whispered, wondering if he was able to hear the pounding of your heart over the din of the storm.

“I suppose you’ll have to spend the night, dragi moj,” he rumbled against your lips. When he trailed a hand up your back, you arched, and he took advantage of your upward momentum to catch your lip with his teeth. “But first we should get you out of those wet clothes.”

A grey mist enveloped the hills the next morning as you shifted blearily from your resting spot. Ermir did not have a bed, not in the traditional sense, but his coils were warm and supple and shifted with you, and kept you well supported throughout the night.

You’d never woken up with another person before, you realized, had never spent the night in someone’s arms. The weight of all that had transpired combined with the early morning left your head feeling heavy, and you dropped it against his shoulder once more, closing your eyes with a contentment you scarcely remembered feeling before.

The studio opened to a small backroom, which you’d been in numerous times, but the loft above had been new to your eyes. You were surprised at the ease in which Ermir moved up the narrow staircase, his long tail moving in a concertina pattern, chocolate scales shifting rapidly, until he’d cleared the top landing. The air had been warmer there, at the top of the small building, although goosebumps had still raised on your skin when he’d pulled the damp t-shirt over your head.

Your arms had been struck with rigor—thankfully—preventing you from raising your hands to conceal the scars on your chest. They would fade with time, according to the surgeon, but it hadn’t been long enough at that point. The ugly red of your post-surgery months had faded considerably, but you were still self-conscious for anyone to see them.

Ermir, you realized, was the first person who had.

The sharp tips of his fangs grazed the side of his neck before he gripped your waist and lifted you easily to sit on the edge of a low table. When his lips trailed down your neck, pausing to suck at your jumping pulse before continuing their downward path, you’d begun to tremble. Across your chest, and over your scars, his mouth moved across you slowly, mapping your skin. When they landed at the waist of your jeans, you shuddered.

“W-wait...I haven’t...I’ve only had the top done, and—”

Your protestations had been cut off by his lips, and his flickering tongue tickled at your ear. “Each of us are our own work of art, mišiću.” Letting go of your fears, you nodded, letting him make short work of undressing you fully.

Hormone replacement therapy had changed things, regardless of the surgery. Increased sized and a different sort of sensitivity, a sensitivity that had flared to life beneath his stroking tongue and sucking lips, relentless against your skin until you were a writhing, gasping mess beneath him, left limp as the room spun.

When he raised himself at last, shucking his own shirt, you got your first good look at his long body. You wanted to map his skin with your lips, as he’d done to yours; wanted to learn every peak and valley of his taught flesh, but that would have to wait. The two cocks that had unsheathed from a slit in his scales curved up to his flat belly, staring and thick, ivory up the shaft and capped with overlapping golden frills at the tip. He paused just long enough to allow you to grip them in turn, giving them each a pumping stroke as he groaned.

Your legs were stretched wide as he settled over you, guiding one of the thick lengths to your opening. When he slid into you slowly, your mouth opened in a silent scream. Thicker than you could have possibly imagined, he withdrew, surging forward again, over and over until the sound of your cries rivaled the sound of the storm, raging outside the studio’s walls as you came around him. His arms had been strong as he lifted you from the table, once he’d cleaned you of the shimmering release he’d sprayed across your belly, cradling you to his chest as he settled onto a large, plush sheepskin rug in the corner of the room, arranging his body to support you, and you’d fallen asleep almost immediately, lulled by the the sound of the rain and his deep rumble, murmuring into your hair.

When you woke again, the room was brighter. The mist had stopped, you realized as you carefully climbed from him, walking unsteadily down the staircase to the small bathroom. The sky was grey, but the rain had stopped, and the wind lifted your hair as you breathed into it, free to be yourself. You wondered if this was what it felt like to be in love.

“Are you slipping away already, mišiću?”

Ermir’s voice was heavy with sleep, and he squinted from the doorway as you laughed. It was a confident sound, one you scarcely recognized. A new you, the real you.

“I’m not going anywhere for a long time.”

“Good,” he grumbled, turning back into the studio. “I’m going back to bed, it’s natural to be up this early.”

You laughed again, turning to follow him back into the cozy studio. Going back to bed, back to his arms and his lips and warmth sounded perfect to you. The mountains and the wind would still be there later...and so would you.

#Exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster lover #Naga #naga boyfriend #monster match #monsterbait writes #monster x reader #monster x human

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ryukoishida · 6 years

Text

MDZS/GDC Fic: In which LSZ and JL confessed to each other.

Prompt: Confession; based on this audio. Characters: Lan Sizhui/Jin Ling A/N: Post-Canon. Short but hopefully sweet. I love writing awkward JL :’)

Jin Ling never really noticed it until now, but when Lan Sizhui remained eerily silent with his lips pressed tightly into a firm line, the usually gentle and soft-spoken young disciple of the Gusu Lan Sect could be intimidatingly scary.

“Oi, L-Lan Sizhui…” he tried, his tone tentative.

Especially when he was staring at him with such an intensely stony look in his eyes while he continued to carefully sprinkle crushed herbs over his injury on his left forearm. Since they’d split up from Lan Jingyi and the others, they’d found their way back out of the forest and were currently resting and waiting for the remainder of the group to return from their night hunt.

The medicine itched and stung, but it was incredibly effective, as expected from the exceptional healing properties of the Lan Sect’s refined medication. As soon as the powder got absorbed into his severed skin, the bleeding stopped and he could feel the damaged tissues tightening around the edges; Jin Ling grimaced slightly at the strange, radiating dull pain though he tried not to let it show on his face.

Still with an uncharacteristically indifferent cold expression on his face, Lan Sizhui began to wrap Jin Ling’s injured arm with a strip of clean, white cloth, his movements practiced and graceful, just like everything else that he did, Jin Ling thought, momentarily mesmerized by the ink black of his irises and the strands of hair that coiled slightly by his ear. His fingers longed to reach over and tuck that stray piece of hair behind the curve of Lan Sizhui’s ear, but he didn’t.

Or maybe he’d just lost too much blood and was feeling a little light-headed. Whatever.

The boundary of friendship between them had been fading and blurring in recent months whenever they met up, and Jin Ling felt that something had shifted between them. When Lan Sizhui smiled at him, or when his touches lingered on the back of Jin Ling’s hand while handing him a drink, everything appeared to have remained the same as always, yet he could feel the tips of his ears burning, and then he’d notice Lan Sizhui’s eyes lighting up just the slightest, too.

He knew why, but he couldn’t quite put it into words — not if it had the potential to ruin what they shared now.

“Ow! Owww, Lan Sizhui, what is wrong with you?” Jin Ling hissed when his injury flared hotly, and he was about to pull his arm back from Lan Sizhui’s sudden assault when the other young man held tightly onto his wrist and elbow, still entirely aware of Jin Ling’s wound as not to jostle his arm too much, but his fingers were unrelenting, skin burning a mark on Jin Ling’s arm.

“So, you do feel the pain,” Lan Sizhui murmured, lips pursed as he refused to meet Jin Ling’s eyes.

“Somewhat difficult not to when you’re tightening those bandages like you’re trying to cut off my circulation!” Jin Ling accused him.

“What did you promise me before the night hunt?” Lan Sizhui ignored Jin Ling’s complaint and asked as he continued to wind the bandage around the other man’s forearm, now with much milder pressure. His tone remained cold, each word like a droplet of water melted from ice and trickling down Jin Ling’s spine, making him tremble.

“I didn’t promise you anything,” Jin Ling muttered, lowering his head.

“Jin Rulan,” Lan Sizhui didn’t sound as stoic as before, and there was no hint of blame or rage either, which Jin Ling would’ve no issue dealing with, yet it was precisely the sad and disappointed tenor in Lan Sizhui’s quiet voice that had Jin Ling in a panic.

There had only been a handful of times when Lan Sizhui had called him by his courtesy name since he knew the young Cultivator disliked people using it, so Jin Ling knew the significance of the situation when Lan Sizhui did use it during the few occasions since they’d known each other.

“Fine, fine!” Jin Ling gave up and heaved a heavy sigh, “I said I wouldn’t go off on my own again, but that thing was about to go on a rampage, and you were directly in its path! What was I supposed to do? Just let it run over you?!”

“You shouldn’t have tried to fight it on your own regardless,” Lan Sizhui finished dressing Jin Ling’s wound, and carefully rolled the sleeve of his robe back down to cover up his arm. That should’ve been the end of it, but he enclosed Jin Ling’s hand with his own, his fingers tightening just a degree. “You are not a child anymore, A-Ling. You are the leader of the Lanling Jin Sect. You should not be acting so recklessly and out of your own individual accord; everyone in the Jin clan depends on you, so consider what would happen if you had been seriously injured. Who will take care of your clansmen then?”

Jin Ling knew he was right; Lan Sizhui was always right when it came to issues like these.

Finding no justification to defend his earlier actions, Jin Ling grew quiet. He was staring at their hands, still loosely linked, Lan Sizhui’s fingers curving protectively around his, and Jin Ling’s heart couldn’t take it anymore: the warmth that spread through his body whenever Lan Sizhui touched him, the feeling of contentment whenever Lan Sizhui was by his side, the thought of never wanting to let him go whenever Lan Sizhui said his farewells.

Jin Ling flipped his hand over and grasped Lan Sizhui’s hand in his instead, and Lan Sizhui was taken aback by the unexpected gesture.

“A… A-Ling?” Lan Sizhui leaned forward slightly, concerned, and Jin Ling froze.

“I…” Jin Ling started, and then feeling frustrated at himself for being so terrible at expressing his affections for the other man, he ruffled his own hair in agitation, making his already messy ponytail even more so. There wasn’t a moment, before now, when he hated his inability to articulate the emotions toiling dangerously, overwhelmingly, within his heart. It would only take one, small phrase to tell him, but maybe deep inside, Jin Ling was still afraid.

Of the unknown. Of the possibility of rejection.

Before getting to know Lan Sizhui and the other young Cultivators he’d met at Yi City, Jin Ling never had any friends and companions of his own age; he didn’t know how to act around them, and he was certain he’d offended a few of them several times when his mouth sprouted out words faster than his brain could process the consequences. But he’d like to think he’d grown out of that awkward, teenage phase that only knew to throw childish fits and let irrational rage take over his mind and body — that he’d matured enough to take on sect responsibilities and take care of the person who meant the world to him.

“Lan Sizhui, I—” Jin Ling’s heart was beating painfully against his ribs. It was agonizing just to breathe.

“A-Ling, I like you,” Lan Sizhui tightly held onto Jin Ling’s hand in both of his. It was firm enough that Jin Ling could feel the pleasant, familiar warmth of the other man’s skin seeping into his own, but not overwhelmingly forceful that Jin Ling couldn’t tug his hand out if he’d really wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

He wanted to respond to Lan Sizhui’s confession, and he wanted Lan Sizhui to never let him go.

“W-what!?” Jin Ling ended up yelping instead, his voice piercing through the darkness like a sharp blade slicing through the velvet fabric of the night. He immediately lowered the volume of his voice, but his eyes had widened somewhat comically, his cheeks and neck tainting deep red from blood surfacing to his skin, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words that’d came out of Lan Sizhui’s mouth. “You have the decency to… H-how dare you!”

“I apologize for my hasty and crude confession,” Lan Sizhui mistook Jin Ling’s perturbation as a furious rejection, and though the heartbreak hadn’t quite caught up with him yet, the least he could do was maintain a neutral smile and attempt to lessen the discomfort and awkward atmosphere as much as possible, “I completely understand if Jin-gongzi did not feel the same—”

He was about to retrieve his hands, but Jin Ling’s hold on him was verging on painful, desperate.

“No, no! Lan Sizhui — Lan Yuan, shut your mouth and listen to me. I merely—” Jin Ling swallowed back a sniffle — damn, was he about to cry?! — and continued in a shaky whisper, “I merely meant that… h-how dare you say those words before I had a chance to tell you the same!”

“Jin-gongzi…”

Jin Ling raised an eyebrow at the overly-polite title, and Lan Sizhui chuckled.

“A-Ling,” Lan Sizhui corrected himself, his smile warm and inviting, and somehow, the way he enunciated the syllables of his name made Jin Ling’s heart tremble and flutter in excitement. He reached between the small distance over to the other man, gentle fingers caressing Jin Ling’s cheek, cradling his jaw in his palm, his thumb brushing against Jin Ling’s lower lip reverently before he leaned in and asked in a soft tenor, his gaze as dark and enthralling as the resolute and elegant brushstrokes of an ink painting, “A-Ling, may I?”

It was hard to breathe, with Lan Sizhui’s face so close to his own that he could feel the man’s heated breaths against his lips, and it was so hard to think, too, but Jin Ling nodded in response to Lan Sizhui’s question because it was the easiest decision he’d ever had to make.

A touch of warmth against his lips, like the wings of a butterfly delicately kissing the petals of its favourite flower, and then it was over, but Jin Ling didn’t want it to be over so soon, no. With a discontented whine rumbling in his throat, Jin Ling grabbed onto Lan Sizhui’s lapels and pulled until his mouth was against his once more; this time, the kiss was messier, almost vicious though still a little awkward, for neither of them was experienced in matters of romance and physical intimacy.

But this was enough for now. Just being able to embrace each other, to feel the solid warmth of each other’s body, knowing that their affections for each other was mutual and returned.

When they parted, both of them were breathing slightly harder than before, but they were grinning, like two children sharing the guilt of a pleasurable secret.

“Will you accept this?” Lan Sizhui unfastened the knot of his forehead ribbon, and the thin, white cloth with Gusu Lan clan’s cloud pattern flowed down and fell into Jin Ling’s outstretched hands, the fabric gentle against his palms like the tenderest, most loving touch.

“Gladly,” Jin Ling said.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #gdc #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #lan sizhui #jin ling #zhuiling #bowie's crappy writing

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pioneeroverc-my-5000th-sideblog · 3 years

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plan from July:

-Drawabox lessons 4-5 (two weeks each - 2 pages of insects per day) ✗ finished lesson 4 except for the very last insect drawing

-finish 100 heads ✓

-studies for Shepard: textures, hands, draw mass relay, red/blue lighting ✓ (kinda - mostly focussed on hands though)

-study people interacting with everyday objects (hands) ✓

ACTIONABLES: use more references✓, plan out multiple light sources better✓, clean up lineart✗, reference faces/necks/hands in particular✓, figure out a less cartoony way of drawing eyebrows✗, try to define edges on faces more when painting✓, keep going with composition✗, try to do background in two sittings (?), study textures more (ongoing)✓, more figure drawing mannequinising stuff✓

Overview of August:

finished 100 heads challenge, nearly finished lesson 4 of DAB. Drawing all the insects has helped me analyse stuff better and also has improved my sense of 3D->2D space. Redid a few of them until they made more sense, which I think is probably a very important thing to keep doing at this stage of development.

Figure drawing improving. Need to keep trying to mannequinise them instead of falling back on ~the intuitive way~. Path of great resistance but great reward. Gave self permission to focus on interesting bits and not worry about finishing each figure. Thinking about 3D and hip/torso orientation is helping my unreferenced sketches too, which is nice.

Drew a bunch of hands but they were kinda too sketchy to actually help go to something more precise. Quality of hands in my finished art varied WILDLY this month, although they mostly look 'ok'.

Put the stuff I learned about head structure into practice with a painting - was good to actually try out defining nose/eye/lip planes. Need to keep practicing this, though, and not sure how much focus I'll be able to give it. aaaaa

During the painting, I also used lots of references (although my ability to use the information was pretty limited), tried to represent texture and learned how to blend in a more smooth way. Even though I'm not super happy with the way the finished thing turned out, I did get presented with a lot of new information - hopefully I'll retain some of that.

September plan:

finish DAB Lesson 5 (multiple pages per day if possible so I don't lose momentum)

study whatever the next step in the Radiorunner curriculum is

do 30min figure drawing/other studies at least 15/30 days

finish that damn comic

sketch out/thumbnail every prompt fill for October prompt lists

probably a busy month, but I got this!!

notes and improvements from finished stuff:

orochimaru: hands SUPER off and ended up being 'eh, kinda looks like a hand, whatever', forearm connection is kinda fucked, lines too messy/pointy to look graceful, hands don't really look like they're interacting enough

good points: tried several iterations on a difficult pose, arm movement is relatively clear, sense of energy

kylo: values WAY off & look washed out (I THINK because the background has more contrast??), hand is completely fucked up (too wide and lighting doesn't make sense on it), glove doesn't look like leather, mouth too low, cutout effect isn't done well (+ it isn't obvious whether it is a flat graphic effect or a physical sheet in front of him - drawing a thin shadow on his face didn't help here), level of messiness in foreground/background and kylo is uncomfortably different

good points: I really do like the colours (hues) even though the values are messed up, nice sense of energy from brushstrokes, the detail fadeoff in the shadows looks intentional (I mean, it was)

femshep: shadow values went too dark too quickly bc I wasn't sure how to handle multiple light sources, sunk-cost fallacy w/ left eye and/or nose (facial features are in different perspectives), overall shapes not interesting, neck connection to body is wrong, near shoulder looks dislocated even though I took a photo reference (possibly related to the neck being wrong - or maybe the strap going across her chest is oriented wrong too & flattened out), background looks messy, composition is boring, clothing folds aren't realistic, shading is too soft

good points: at least there IS some texture to everything, I LEARNED HOW TO BLEND, facial features are overall painted pretty well, nice transition between lightsources on face, hair texture and placement of texture looks really good, somehow the hand came out looking 3D with minimal effort, tried to do a lot of things I had 0 experience with and learned a lot

ACTIONABLES: CLEAN UP LINEART, reference/learn about neck-body connection & shoulders, mannequinise figures, take own clothing reference photos for exact pose instead of trying to abstract existing images (not skilled enough to do this yet), draw hands, study leather texture in particular (since it's a common material), start drawing in greyscale again

#end of month #spiders #insects

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mrsdaredevil · 6 years

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“This is how we know that this was love. We left and came back for each other. More than once. More than twice. We tried to go on alone but we could not. Life makes no sense without either one of us.”

Lukas W. // Life makes no sense without you

Merry Christmas @hoeskookmintz ! Here I am, your very mysterious Secret Santa for @mattelektrasecretsanta! I really hope you like this, I got the feeling most people were doing fic but this is more my style. I thought the quote matched the idea that you always end up with the one that’s meant to be, and tried to include the “favourite mattelektra moments” you sent me.

Anyway, here it is! Hope you had a very happy whatever holiday you celebrate and I wish you a happy new year to you and everyone who took part in the Mattelektra Secret Santa, especially to @fadedtoblue and @significantowl for all the work they put into this!

[id: set of mattelektra graphics from stills from DDS2 and TDS1.

First image: Cropped close up of young Elektra with her head tilted back and Matt’s hand on her neck from DD s1e05, background of loose red brushstrokes with images of painted orchids and ther flowers. First part of the quote: “This is how we know that this was love”

Second image: Frm the same episode, young Matt and Elektra very close looking at each other, background covered in reddish brushstrokes and larger painted orchids. Quote: “We left and came back for each other.”

Third image: Matt praying holding the hand of Elektra who is wounded in his bed from DD s02e08, more red brushstrokes over both of them, more faded and softer on Matt’s side, blood-red and violent on Elektra’. Quote: “More than once.”

Fourth image: A very dark image from DD s02e13, Matt in his Daredevil costume, without the mask, holding and touching foreheads with Elektra’s lifeless body, overlayed with messy inkblots in darker shades of red. Quote: “More than twice.”

Fifth image: Cropped images of Matt (wearing the scarf) and Elektra fighting from TD s01e03, over a background of a big red inkblot. Quote: “We tried to go on alone”

Sixth image: From TD s01e05, Elektra on the left looking conflicted as Matt lifts his hand from the right to touch her face over a background of dark red brushstrokes covered in a pattern of orchids. Quote: “but we could not.”

Seventh image: From TD s01e08, mid shot of Matt and Elektra kissing as the building collapses, overlayed with loose bright red brushstrokes. Quote: “Life makes no sense without either one of us.”]

#mattelektrasecretsanta #mattelektra #matt murdock #elektra natchios #the defenders #daredevil #graphics #quote #mrsdaredevil #my graphics

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burgundymistress · 6 years

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"I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people." -Van Gogh

We measure the distance with time, X number of miles until your voice is no longer a call I pick up, but a breath against my ear. Y number of days until your name is no longer a word I've been painting onto my lips, but a body next to mine. I keep living a life picking apart the petals of every day in order to find a color equivalent to the tone of your voice and all I've managed to do is make a mess, but if messy means coloring outside the lines then let's make a masterpiece out of a love with no bounds. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but nearness makes the heart grow stronger and I've been saving all my I love you's for you and only you— the only truth I want to inject into my veins, the only truth I want to know. I want to piece you into my art— a mosaic made of sweet nothings and shared laughter. I want to share with you the brushstrokes that covers this heart of mine so when I let you in, you'll understand my grey spots are only spaces for your words. I want to paint your smile into a flower so that when it finally blooms you'll understand the parts of you I find colorful. I want you to be more than my Starry Night, Van Gogh only got it half way right. I want to share my life with you so that when I finally come home it'll be a masterpiece we made all on our own. I think that if any love was overflowing with art, it'd be ours. We can go anywhere from here, and I'll know I got it right.

#poetry #quotes #spilled ink #love #h.k. ♡

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zoemurph · 6 years

Text

to have a friend, chapter four: $80

on ao3 1 | 2 | 3

fun fact i actually finished this like.....tuesday at 4 am cause i died for a bit between like 10-1 and then couldnt sleep. i have edited it since then tho so i promise its not too much of a disaster!

warnings: implied past self harm, discussions of mental health, depression/depressive episodes, some suicidal thoughts. let me know if anything else needs to be tagged

enjoy!

From: Evan To: Connor Just go t home Hope things ar eok with yoru family

Connor stares at the texts for a few moments before he falls back onto his bed.

Who knows how his family is.

Actually, he knows. A fucking mess. That’s what his family is.

He can hear Zoe practicing in the room next to him, forgoing headphones and using her amp because she wants to piss him off more. Larry had slunk back to his office, and Connor was sure he did as soon as the opportunity presented itself. His mom is in the kitchen, probably aggressively cleaning dishes like a sparkling plate will fix her shattered family.

Connor stares at the ceiling.

Why did he think he could do any of this?

He lifts his phone and looks at the screen again. Evan is trying. Which is just ridiculous. Evan is trying with this family. What the fuck.

From: Connor To: Evan cool they never are but thanks i guess

He tosses his phone to the side and debates doing homework. There’s not really much of a debate — he’s not going to do it — but the fact that he considered it is probably worth something.

It’s not that late yet, which is frustrating. He wants to go to bed, but he’s also too high strung for that. Usually he’d be exhausted but—

Connor studies his ceiling.

He’d been angry. So angry. Burning and explosive. He had been on the edge of his rope and about to break— and then he’d been doused in a shock of cold water. He’d been standing outside the bathroom, insides blistering and turning to ash, and then he’d heard Evan’s unnatural breathing and all of that had just stopped. The fire was gone and he was left with only mild panic that made his mouth taste like metal and an icy chill of not knowing what to do or how to help.

Somehow, sitting on the floor of him and Zoe’s painfully childish bathroom with Evan had been the most real part of the night. It felt the most solid, most tangible. Handing Evan one of those silly cups his mom kept buying, their fingers brushing as Evan took it with shaking hands, that was the most grounded he had felt in days.

Fucking weird.

There’s a knock on his doorframe.

Connor sits up to see Cynthia standing there. “Oh. Hi.”

She smiles, sadly because that’s the only way she smiles nowadays, and takes a step into his room. “Did Evan leave?”

“Uh…yeah. It’s not like he could hide in my closet or anything.” They both look toward the disaster that is Connor’s closet. The doors won’t shut and clothes are piled up on the floor. There was a time where Connor liked things to be neat and orderly. Now he doesn’t have the energy. “He wasn’t feeling great.”

She makes a concerned noise.

“He, uh, gets sick really easily. He’ll probably be fine tomorrow.” Connor curses in his head. Better jot that down so he can tell Evan that Cynthia now thinks that his immune system is shitty. Because she’s probably going to shove all sorts of vitamins and health drinks at him the next time she sees him. If there’s a next time.

God there better not be a next time.

Cynthia sighs. “I’m sorry about tonight, sweetie.”

Connor shrugs and swings his legs off the side of the bed. “It’s not like it was going to be any different than usual.”

The expression on her face is so pained that Connor has to look away. He can’t even be mad at her. He’s pissed at Zoe for her snippy comments. He’s mad at Larry because he’s always mad at Larry. He’s upset with his mom— the most he can be upset with her for is for not trying harder to stop things from getting out of hand. But when has she ever been able to stop it once it started?

Mostly Connor is just mad at himself.

The only reason Evan was here was because he gets paid twenty dollars a week. It’s not like he has any other obligation to be here. Or to hang around Connor. If there was ever a chance that Evan would actually like Connor, that just went out the fucking window.

“Are you hungry?” Cynthia asks, softly. Not as forced as usual. Not as pressing. “You didn’t eat much.”

“I’m fine,” Connor mutters. He tugs off his sweatshirt and throws it on his desk chair. He tries not to notice her eyes going to his arms and then flicking away. “I’ll grab something if I can’t sleep.”

She sighs again. She does that a lot. Sighing. “Okay. Okay, just…” She steps forward and brushes hair away from Connor’s eyes. “Apologize to Evan for us, okay?”

“Why?” Connor asks bitterly. “Because we can be better?”

Cynthia doesn’t say anything. She just stands on her toes and presses a kiss to Connor’s cheek. “Sleep well, honey.”

Connor stands in the center of his room after she leaves. He hates not having a door. It’s like his entire life is out in the open for his entire family to see and judge. Which is some bullshit.

He looks around his room, open and exposed, and thinks that he should clean. Or something. He’s living in a dump.

Connor picks up a sweatshirt and stuffs a few books onto an overflowing bookshelf. Under papers from junior year that he just needs to throw out when he gets the chance, he finds a watercolor sketchbook.

He pauses with four old plastic water bottles in arm to flip through the sketchbook. It’s old as hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he used watercolors. Or did any art that wasn’t just shitty sketches in his notebook when he didn’t feel like paying attention.

He looks over his shoulder at the light in the hallway.

Connor isn’t entirely sure where his watercolors are. Probably somewhere under the trash and clothing covering his floor. He looks from the watercolor sketchbook to his bed.

He dumps the water bottles in the space between his wall and his bed and starts digging. It takes him almost twenty five minutes to find his watercolor palette. It’s old and dusty, the red is cracked and the purple is almost gone because he always really liked using purple for some reason, but it’s usable.

It takes him a little longer to find brushes. He’s definitely missing some, but fuck it, he never actually knew what the different brushes were for. He just used whatever ones he felt like.

He washes out an old mug that was on his desk from god knows when in the bathroom and fills it with clean water, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the hallway closet. Then he pushes the clothes on his floor into a pile against the wall so he can sit on the floor, because there is no way in hell that he’s cleaning off his desk for this. He fishes his earbuds out of his backpack and plugs them into his phone, turning on some random music that he’ll let fade to into background noise and pulls his hair up into a really messy ponytail.

Connor can’t remember the last time he actually paid attention to art. He doodles a sketch that’s kind of messy but fine enough because it’s not like anyone is going to see this and then just goes for it. He doesn’t exactly remember how to do this, but he’s never been one for doing things the right way. There’s a reason he stopped taking art classes after freshman year. There’s something weirdly calming about the way the water spreads on the page and something familiar in the brushstrokes. Even when he fucks up and uses way too much water and he knows that the paper is going to be wavy and warped.

He puts down the paintbrush to skip a song on his phone. He has another text from Evan.

From: Evan To: Connor Im sorr y YOu should nt feel that way abou tyour family

Connor rolls his eyes. Evan really does try.

From: Connor To: Evan its whatever, im used to it mom says sorry about tonight. shes embarrassed but seriously dont worry about it

He skips through the songs until he finds one that feels right, slower and almost more gentle, he really needs to pick up better watercolors because he’s going to need that purple, before putting his phone back down on the floor next to him.

All things considered, this isn’t the worst piece Connor’s ever done. He studies it as he takes a sip from his mug.

He yanks the mug away from his mouth, gagging. He rubs his mouth with a grimace.

That was paint water.

Connor doesn’t really leave his room much over the next two days. He eats because his mom wants him to, he doesn’t talk to Zoe, and he argues with Larry and wishes he had a door to slam.

Then he sits on his floor and fills pages and pages of his sketchbook with shitty watercolor paintings.

He splashes colors across the pages, sometimes not even trying to create a coherent image. He just needs something to do.

He’s almost out of purple.

Connor waits by Evan’s locker Monday morning, folding and unfolding the twenty dollar bill in his pocket. Zoe needed to be early today for some band thing, so that means Connor is early which just sucks.

This school seriously needs a color palette that isn’t drab and depressing. Connor wears almost exclusively black, but fuck, tone down the gray.

“Oh! Hey, you’re…already here.”

Connor looks up from his phone. “Zoe,” he says. “Band shit. Fuck if I know.”

Evan nods slowly and then reaches for his lock.

“Wait.” Connor grabs Evan’s wrist.

Evan freezes, wide eyes darting to Connor. “W-what?”

Connor leans a little closer. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he whispers. Evan furrows his eyebrows. “My family is the fucking worst, you shouldn’t have to deal with that shit.”

“I-it’s fine!” Evan stutters. “I don’t— no this is. This is okay.” He slowly pulls his arm out of Connor’s grip.

Connor clenches his jaw and leans against the next locker. Evan doesn’t say anything as he opens his locker and starts taking out books. An unfairly loud part of Connor’s brain wonders if Evan is only doing this because he’s scared.

It’s not that far fetched.

“B-besides,” Evan adds, “Jared is— he’s already asking too many questions and if we just stopped now—”

Connor frowns. “He is?”

Evan gives him an exasperated look. “He hasn’t texted me about non homework things in forever and he’s just been sending me ‘is it a sex thing’ for a week.”

“Wow I hate him,” Connor says before he can stop himself.

Evan laughs in surprise.

“He’s a douche!”

Evan ducks his head. “He’s not the worst person ever, b-but he can be…himself.”

“And that’s pretty bad,” Connor mutters.

Evan pauses and then closes his locker. “Do— are you still okay with…with telling him?”

Connor shrugs. “Sounds like we have no choice.”

Evan tugs on the hem of his shirt. “Are you…free today?”

“I literally have no life or friends, Hansen,” Connor reminds him. “I’m always free.”

“Okay, right, okay.” Evan takes a short breath. “Can we— today?”

Connor stuffs his hands in his pockets. He hasn’t gotten harassed by Kleinman about this yet, but if they wait, the chances of that happening increase significantly. And if it’ll get Jared off Evan’s back— “Yeah sure. Where?”

“My place?” Evan asks. Connor pulls open the door to the stairwell. “I-if that works?”

“Sure thing.” Connor’s voice echoes uncomfortably loud for this conversation. “Better than being at home anyway.”

Evan glances back over his shoulder at Connor. “Are things…bad?” He says it slowly, like he’s not sure what word to choose.

“They’ve been worse,” Connor admits. “But it’s not a party.”

Evan stops at the stairs where Connor has to keep going down to get to chorus. “I’ll— I’ll text you? About the time?”

Connor nods. “Sounds good, Hansen. See you then.” He steps forward and hands Evan the twenty that has been floating around in his pocket for too long. “Forgot to pay you back for food last week,” he says when Evan’s eyes dart toward people walking past.

Evan gives him a half smile and takes the bill. “I-I told you it was fine. I can pay sometimes.”

Connor shrugs and turns toward the stairs. “Too late.”

—«·»—

From: Evan To: Connor Im s o s rry just ignore him or block him he grabbed my phon e Serious ly blockign him mihgt be the best opti n

From: Connor To: Evan ??????

Connor probably shouldn’t be texting in class, but the class is astronomy and also when has Connor ever given a fuck. He stares at Evan’s messages, trying to decode them while he waits for the lunch bell.

It turns out he doesn’t have to wait that long to figure out what they mean.

From: (522) 101-5414 To: nerd, emo sup fuckers

Connor doesn’t even have to ask who it is, he just tries not to groan and texts Evan.

From: Connor To: Evan seriously??

From: Evan To: Connor Im sorry !!! Hes being a d ick Also does like 3 work?

Connor huffs and glances to the clock. That’ll give him about an hour to kill after school before he can show up at Evan’s. Whatever, he’ll figure something out.

From: Connor To: Evan thats fine tell kleinman if hes being a dick i will hurt him

Evan’s response is almost immediate.

From: Evan To: Connor I wouldnt blame you but ma y be dotn hurt the one pe rson whos gonna knw about us

Connor snorts and puts away his phone. He’ll do his best, but only because Evan asked.

—«·»—

Connor texts Evan as he walks up to the house. The door is open before he can even knock. Evan looks slightly panicked, but also somewhat relieved. Connor lowers his hand from where he was about to knock.

“He here?”

Evan nods and grabs Connor’s sleeve, tugging him inside.

Connor takes off his boots while Evan rambles on about Jared being in his room and talking about something, summer camp? Maybe? And then there’s a tangent about cars? Connor isn’t sure but he puts down his boots, straightens, and puts a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Breathe,” he interrupts. “You’re going to pass out and you really don’t want to leave Kleinman and I alone together.”

Evan takes a slow breath. “Right. Right. He’s… Come on.”

He shows Connor up the stairs, gesturing vaguely to a bathroom as he moves toward his room. Connor didn’t really notice how small Evan’s house is the last time he was here, but now he feels too large in it, like he’s taking up too much space. But it’s also comforting in a weird way, less empty space for thoughts to echo.

Jared spins around in Evan’s desk chair when Evan opens the door. “Man of the hour!” Jared announces, opening his arms in Connor’s direction.

Connor flips him off.

“Okay, rude. I can work with rude.”

“Jared,” Evan says warningly.

“I know, I know.” Jared spins back and forth a little in the chair. For some reason, Connor thinks giving him a chair that turns may have been a bad idea. “If I’m an ass you won’t give me pizza.”

Connor scoffs. “You bribed him?”

Evan shrugs helplessly. “I just— can we not talk about this?”

“Yeah,” Jared agrees. “I was promised juicy deets on whatever the fuck this is.” He motions between Connor and Evan. “Cause uh,” he laughs, “guys, what the shit?”

“We aren’t friends,” Connor says flatly.

Evan twists the hem of his shirt in his hands.

“Yeah no shit, Sherlock.” Jared grabs the arms of the chair and leans forward. “Wait this is a sex thing, isn’t it! Evan you said—”

“It’s not a sex thing!” Evan shouts. “It’s a—” He looks to Connor with wide eyes. “A…fake friend…thing?”

“Excuse me?”

Connor explains before Evan can flounder any more. “I give Evan twenty bucks a week to pretend to be my friend.”

Jared stares at them.

Evan shifts uncomfortably next to Connor. Connor kind of wants to leave, but Evan wants to do this, so…

Jared snorts. “Are you fucking serious?”

Evan cringes. “Y-yes?”

“This is—”

“We know, Kleinman,” Connor snaps. “But we need your help.”

Evan looks at Connor in surprise. ‘We do?’ he mouths to Connor. Connor nods. Spur of the moment thought, but he literally can’t keep dealing with Zoe bugging him about Evan. Who gives a shit if they never hung out together around school, even if that is a lie. He needs some sort of proof so she shuts up.

Jared spins slowly in his chair. “How so?”

“Evan said we emailed each other,” Connor says. “But my dad checks my email. So this email account would have to be ‘secret’.”

Jared raises his eyebrows. “That’s—”

“We know, Jared!” Evan interrupts. “C-can you just—” He glances toward Connor. “We need…emails from over the summer?” Connor nods. “Can you just, like, show me how to fake the timestamps o-or something?”

“Oh yeah, that’s super easy,” Jared says. He leans down and unzips the backpack leaning against the desk and pulls out a laptop. He opens the laptop and types something out. “Secret email account is very—”

Connor grits his teeth. “Just do it, Kleinman.”

“Yeah, yeah. Watch the monkey dance,” Jared mutters to himself. “That’s super fun.” He pauses. “If Evan gets twenty bucks a week for this, what do I get?”

“The gift of life.”

Evan shoots Connor a look.

“Awesome.” Jared types for another moment. “You know,” he says, “twenty bucks seems pretty cheap.”

“Are you trying to be difficult?” Connor grumbles.

“Always.”

“I-it’s fine,” Evan stutters. “Re-really, Jared?”

“I’m just saying,” Jared says with a shrug. “You should totally charge more for more complicated stuff. Twenty for faking friendship, forty for hanging out, sixty for being around the family.”

“What?!”

Connor glances to Evan out of the corner of his eye. Evan is protesting, but it’s not the worst idea. Especially after the dinner that Evan suffered through. Connor is going to have to ‘borrow’ more money from his parents’ wallets, but hey, at least it’s not for weed.

“I really fucking hate that I’m saying this,” Jared and Evan look over to Connor, “but that’s not a terrible plan.”

Jared smirks. “Nice.”

Evan gapes. “W-what?”

“If you spend a few hours dealing with my shitty family, that probably is worth more than saying hi to me in the hallway.” Connor crosses his arms. “I should probably pay you more when you have to deal with more bullshit.”

“N-no, that isn’t— you don’t have to—”

“Let him give you money, Evan.” Jared types rapidly on his laptop. “I’m making you two up a fucking price chart for reference.”

“Jared—”

“One condition,” Connor says. “If we’re doing this it’s only ten dollars a week, if that’s okay,” he directs the last part to Evan. “I’m not a goddamn millionaire.”

“Annoying but valid,” Jared says. “The weekly flat rate is ten dollars then, nonnegotiable.”

Evan sinks down into the other chair that someone had pulled up to the desk.

“I think the first step up is hanging out outside of school.” Jared glances to Connor.

Connor nods. “Three for outside, five for my house.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Evan asks weakly.

“Nope,” Jared says, popping the ‘p’. “If hanging out involves the fam, I say it’s an instant five more.”

“How about two added on to the location fee,” Connor argues.

Jared scoffs. “That’s three dollars, man.”

“Try to remember we’re high schoolers,” Connor says flatly.

Evan wimpers.

Jared pats Evan’s arm. “Okay. Extended family is another three. No arguing that one, extended family is bullshit. Twenty bucks flat for a sleepover. Like on top of the weekly ten.”

Evan’s eyes go wide. “What?! No!”

Jared looks to Connor.

Connor shrugs. “Fine.” He doesn’t think that will be relevant but whatever. If it gets written down it’s not the end of the world.

Jared smiles to himself and starts to type quickly.

“W-what are you doing?” Evan asks, leaning closer to try and get a look at the screen.

Jared elbows Evan away. “Shh I’m working.”

Connor raises his eyebrows.

“Aaaaaand…done.” Jared spins his laptop to show Connor.

Connor squints at the list Jared has made on the document.

This is the Worst Plan I’ve Ever Heard But Have Fun You Friendless Losers created by Jared Kleinman

$10 — weekly flat rate no matter what

—

Casual Shit:

$3 — hanging out outside of school $5 — hanging out at the Murphys’ (+$2 to location fee if it involves other Murphys) (+$3 more if it involves any extended family) $20 — sleepover

—

Romance Shit:

$25 — date $5 — hug $15 — kiss $200 — Full Boyfriend Package™

(FFBP™ decreases all things in this section by $10, except for dates, which drop to $20. No, you do not get paid for hugs, hugs are just free now. Congrats, you just paid two hundred fucking dollars for a free hug)

Connor rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking hilarious,” he deadpans.

Evan pales as he reads it once Jared has turned the screen toward him. “Uh…”

Jared snorts. “It’s called a joke, dude. Learn to take it.”

“J-just delete it,” Evan stammers. “That’s not— we were supposed to make emails.”

“Okay.” Jared highlights the romance section and deletes it. “It’s gone.”

Evan sighs. “Thank you.”

Jared does a keyboard shortcut. “And it’s back!”

“Jared!”

“Gone! And back!”

Evan’s ears turn pink. “S-seriously?”

Jared just wiggles his eyebrows and deletes it again. When he starts to hit undo, Connor leans forward and grabs the laptop out of his hands.

“Dude!”

“We aren’t fucking five,” Connor says. “Can you help us with these emails before my sister tries to call a fucking private detective on me or are you just going to be a dickhead?”

“That’s no way to talk to someone who’s helping you out,” Jared says. But he holds out his hand for the laptop, and when Connor gives it back, he spins around, puts the laptop on the desk, and opens a new tab.

Him and Connor set up a new email account and then Jared has Evan open up his own email. As Jared sets up faked emails that Evan and Connor will fill with mindless shit, Connor looks around Evan’s room.

There’s a window with two small succulents sitting on its windowsill. There are pictures scattered around the room in mismatched frames, a lot of Evan and a woman he assumes is his mother, more than a few of Evan and Jared when they were younger but less and less as they get older until there’s none, and one small picture of Evan with a man that looks vaguely like him that sits on the corner of Evan’s desk, a stack of books obscuring it slightly.

Connor remembers Evan saying something about his dad and looks away.

Evan’s room is much smaller than Connor’s. It’s cozier and cleaner, but still untidy. The books in Evan’s shelves are piled up and tipping over, there are a few sweatshirts draped around the room, and there’s a terrifying looking pile of papers on his nightstand.

“Yo,” Jared says, holding out his laptop to Connor. “Work out what you want these to say with Evan so I can finish this. While you do that I’m going to find some snacks.”

“We’re out,” Evan answers almost immediately from where he’s bent over his laptop.

“I’m going out to buy snacks,” Jared corrects. “See you in a bit, losers.”

Connor stares at the blank form that Jared has pulled up on the screen. How many of these things is he going to have to do and is this going to turn into a school assignment?

“It’s probably easier if one of us starts,” Evan murmurs. “And then we just go back and forth and respond to whatever the other says.”

“Like actual emails.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, just faster.”

“Sure. Let’s keep the things that can mark when this shit got sent to a minimum, okay?” Connor’s summer is a blur. He spent probably too much of it high and another big majority of it just doing nothing. Looking back at it, it all just blends together into a mess of shitty and shittier.

Evan nods. “Mhm. I’ll start if you want.”

“Go wild.”

As Evan types, Connor clicks through the other tabs Jared has open. One for the email account, a few google searches, a coding thing Connor doesn’t understand, and the price list. Jared put the romance section back.

Connor makes a note on the document that just says ‘youre a dick’ and clicks back to the dauntingly blank form.

An hour later, Evan has finished his sixth email, Connor is typing out a shitty response, and Jared has shown up with enough chips to feed a small nation. They figure out how to space the emails they’ve already written and Jared gets to work on finishing up the ones they’ve got written.

“Should we do the whole summer?” Evan asks.

Connor shrugs. “I don’t care, Zoe will probably buy it with one or two.”

Jared spins back and forth as he adds all the timestamps. “Someone order a pizza, I’m dying.”

Evan checks the time. “Jared it’s only—”

“Yeah? And?”

“You just ate like an entire bag of chips.”

Jared looks up at Evan. “When has that ever stopped me from eating an entire pizza?”

Evan shakes his head. “W-whatever. The usual?”

Jared shoots him a finger gun as he types with one hand.

“I’ll go with,” Connor says. He follows Evan down to the kitchen to see another twenty dollar bill in the center of the table. “Want me to call it in?” he asks.

Evan nods. “Jared always gets a supreme. If he doesn’t finish he just brings it home.”

Fair, Connor would do the same if he cared more about eating. He can only handle so much of his mom’s cooking. Connor places the call and then waits with Evan at the table. “Does your mom have you get takeout a lot?” he asks, looking at the bill.

Evan follows his gaze. “Uh… I-I mean…yeah. She works all day at the hospital, she’s a nurse, a-and then takes night classes at the college,” he gestures vaguely toward the street and Connor assumes he means the community college that people who are ambitious like Alana Beck go to to take summer classes so they look more impressive to admissions, “so…she doesn’t really have ti-time to cook and I’m— I’m not very good at it,” Evan mumbles. “I can do…ramen? Um…mac n cheese. Instant stuff. Other than that I can make like…pasta and grilled cheese and that’s…sort of it. But she doesn’t have a lot of time to go to the grocery store and I, uh, don’t like going so. Takeout is…easier.”

Connor nods. “I get that. You can’t go wrong with ramen noodles. One day we’ll both be living off them,” he jokes.

Evan looks to him in surprise. He smiles a little. “Y-yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Connor suddenly realizes that he talked about the future casually. About college casually, because he can remember one time when he was little and sick and Larry made ramen noodles for him and Connor had decided that they were the best thing ever and Larry had ruffled his hair and said that he’d get sick of them when they were all he ate in college. It’s uncomfortable. It settles wrong inside him. Because outside of the context of that one quip, the future doesn’t feel real. It feels like some untouchable abstract concept.

Thinking about it makes his stomach turn and makes dark thoughts creep in from the corners of his mind.

He shakes them away and listens to Evan talk about how he’s ruined soup before. It’s better than thinking about a future that hardly exists, one that he’s ready to cut the string on at almost any given moment in time.

Evan buries his face in his hands as he tells Connor about the time Jared tried to make eggs in the microwave and almost set fire to the house. Connor laughs and pretends he’s okay.

When the pizza arrives, Connor pays the delivery person while Evan goes and gets Jared. It’s too early for dinner, but Jared doesn’t care and eats two slices before going upstairs to grab his laptop and then eats another. Evan eats breadsticks and lets Jared carry most of the conversation, about half of which is about how weird Connor eats his pizza.

Evan makes Connor take a slice of pizza back, because he ends up missing dinner at home, and Connor just rolls his eyes and takes the plastic tupperware and promises to give it back at some point. Evan shakes his head and tells him not to, because they have too much and they can never find lids that match. Connor figures he’ll just slip it back into a cabinet the next time he comes over.

Next time. Connor doesn’t think in next times. Weird.

#connor murphy #evan hansen #jared kleinman #deh #deh fanfic #my fics #to have a friend #welcome to Hell

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