#;; just a quick little grayscale thing i did

[heich0e]

dinner and a show - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 9 in the bff!osamu series tags: angst, childhood friends to pining, mama miya deserves a netflix comedy special or a nobel peace prize, sometimes home is a person and sometimes that person wants you dead, finally a bit of communication i was about to call in UN peace keepers, things r getting FEISTY FROM HERE FYI this chapter is the literary equivalent of the elevator ride at the beginning of the haunted mansion

Mama Miya has always loved variety shows.

For as long as you’ve been coming over to visit the Miya house, if the family matriarch was present, there was a better chance than not that the television in the living room was on and there was some kind of spectacle unfolding on the screen—the louder the better, in her opinion. 

She’d told you once that she just loves the way people laugh on variety shows, so loudly and freely, and that there’s nothing better than the sound of a house filled with laughter—and you know from lived experience that the Miya household had never been one that was short of joy, nor of it’s own chaos, in much the same way as those outrageous shows she loves so much. 

As you grew up, you came to invariably associate that particular type of television show with the woman who had raised you like a second mother; sometimes when you missed her—when you missed home—you’d put one on just to bask in the cacophonous familiarity. But watching a variety show alone in your Osaka apartment pales in comparison to watching them together in the tidy living room of the Miya home, tucked under the kotatsu, sipping tea and eating fruit and occasionally making jokes about which one of the handsome male celebrities joining that week’s episode as a guest would be a better husband—comparing their heights and their jawlines and their variously successful careers in the entertainment business.

But right now, you’re not looking at the dashing star of that new historical drama who’s trying to climb up a rock wall against a ticking clock.

Instead, you’re looking at Miya Osamu who is standing in the doorway to the living room of his family home, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

Though, in his defence, you probably don’t look much better.

Cradled in your palm, your satsuma rests unmoving—frozen in place just like the rest of you. It’s half-peeled to reveal the soft, pale orange flesh hidden beneath the pith, but you barely feel the weight of it as it rests forgotten in your outstretched palm. The scent—the one that just moments prior you’d been remarking was so fresh, so bright—seems duller now. Everything that isn’t Osamu seems to slip away to grayscale and to background noise; unremarkable against the stark contrast of his painfully familiar face.

Neither of you even blink. 

Miya-san had just gone to the market to pick up a few things for dinner, after repeatedly insisting that you stay for a meal and eventually wearing you down. She’d left you in the living room watching TV, promising to make her trip to the store a quick one, and otherwise ignored your offers to join her.

She was supposed to be coming back soon, at any minute really, but suddenly you’re poised to flee. Everything in your blood is telling you, urging you, to run as quickly as you can—to preserve whatever tattered shreds of your sanity remain after the past six weeks of hell.

The six weeks that had felt more like a year. A war. A lifetime.

The six weeks that had seen you finally seek refuge in Hyogo under the guise of housesitting for your parents, who had gone travelling abroad—as convenient an excuse as any to escape Osaka and the troubles that plagued you there.

Little did you know that the troubles would have the same idea as you.

Your eyes flicker momentarily in the direction of the rear door of the Miya home, the one that leads out into the backyard—the yard that backs onto a little wooded grove where you used to play as children, running carefree and wild. The grove where you used to take naps in the shade on sticky summer days. The grove where you had once broken your arm. It’s foolish, you know, to even think about leaving; your shoes and coat are at the door, with only slippers on your feet and a thin sweater on your frame. Your own childhood home may be only a few houses down and around a corner from the one where you currently find yourself, a five minute walk at most even if your pace is leisurely, but dashing out the back door and making a break for it would be inadvisable—not least of all because there is a woman due home at any moment, one who has loved and raised you like one of her own, who is expecting you to be here when she returns. A woman who wants to share a meal with you and hear about your life. A woman who doesn’t know why you had come crawling back to Hyogo. 

A woman blissfully unaware of how much unresolved tension is currently polluting every inch of her living room.

Your conscience is already heavy to begin with. You’d avoided Mama Miya for the past week—having faked a cold for a few days to buy yourself some time alone when you first got to town. She’d called you every day to check in, and she brought you homemade soup and medicine more than once. The very least that you owe her is a proper visit. You can’t possibly leave now.

Osamu’s lips part, his eyes—his deep, infuriatingly kind eyes—meeting yours.

“Ma doesn’t know I’m in town,” he says, and the first sound of his voice feels like a knife between your ribs. “I can go and come back later after… after you’re gone.”

He knows, you realize. He’s watched and understood every terrible thought that has raced through your mind since the moment he entered the room play out plainly across your face. You’ve always loved that about Osamu—how you hardly need to say anything at all in his company, and he still understands your mind and feelings just by reading the lines of your features.

Now it makes you feel sort of sick.

You mull his words over belatedly, having been too shocked to digest them in the moment at which they were spoken. Slowly you nod, the slightest little dip of your chin signifying your agreement to his offer. Accepting, tenuously but decidedly, his olive branch.

He seems to deflate slightly, a flash of hurt behind his eyes.

But it’s all too late, anyway.

“Samu?” Miya-san’s voice rings out through the house, incredulous but noticeably thrilled, the sound of the front door closing punctuating the eager call like a question mark. You hear rapid footsteps and the woman appears a moment later with a wide smile on her pretty face. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

She sets her shopping bags down on the floor at her feet, wrapping her son up tightly in her arms and rocking him back and forth. You watch as Osamu smiles against the crown of his mother’s head—a gentle, peaceful look on his face as his eyes flutter shut—and you avert your gaze, because witnessing the tender moment is strangely and inexplicably painful.

“Just wanted to come home for a visit,” he murmurs, and it takes everything in you not to dwell too long on the way his figure towers over his mother in your peripheral vision—tall and broad and strong now, just the way she raised him.

“Did you two plan this?” the matriarch asks. She looks between the two of you as she finally pulls away from her son’s embrace, though her palms still gently rest upon his forearms.

“Nah,” Osamu laughs lightly, and to his credit he’s doing a very good job at acting like just being in the same room as you is not one of the most hideously uncomfortable moments of his life. “I had no idea she was gonna be here.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Osamu’s mother questions you, visibly surprised. And she’s right to sound so shocked, because if this was any other day—or at least any day that didn’t follow what had transpired between the two of you six weeks ago—Osamu would have been the first person you’d have told you were coming home. Would have been kept up to date, nearly to the minute, with any stop you made in your hometown or any variety show adventures you embarked upon with his mother. Would have known exactly what the two of you were having for dinner, how it was being prepared, and he would have received a photo of the meal when it was finally time to eat just to make him jealous (and because you know he likes to feel included on the visits where he isn't able to join you.)

“Oh, he knew I came home for the week,” you lie quickly, meeting Osamu’s gaze and suddenly hoping above all else that your thoughts are as clear to him as ever. He looks more startled by the sound of your voice than you expect him to. “Just didn’t know I’d be here today, since I stopped by so last minute.”

Osamu swallows, then nods. “Yeah.”

Mama Miya smiles and clasps her hands together. “Well, this is such a nice surprise! Tsumu’s not hidin’ somewhere waitin’ to scare me, is he?”

“’S just us, Ma,” Osamu laughs lightly, and she reaches up to pinch his cheek affectionately. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker over to you when his mother turns her back.

You’re still holding your satsuma in your hand, but you no longer have the faintest desire to eat it.

“Needa hand with those?” you hear Osamu ask his mother as she picks her shopping bags up from the ground. You hear some rustling, and can only assume she’s elbowed him based on the way he yelps and then laughs. “Ow! I’m just tryin’ to help!”

“Ya hardly just got here yourself, bag’s still at yer feet and everythin'!” his mother chides him, but it’s full to the brim with love. “Just sit down and relax for five minutes, will ya? Yer lookin’ dead tired.”

His mother waves him over insistently in the direction of the kotatsu where you’re seated before she shuffles off towards the kitchen, the plastic bags in her hands swishing as she goes.

His mother is right: Osamu looks, without softening your words, haggard. He’s got shadowy rings under his bleary eyes, his skin looks dull, and his hair still has a faint ring indented around the circumference of his head from his trademark baseball cap. He looks like he did when he first set up his business—tired, stressed, wearing a little thin at the edges from the portrait of his usual self.

You wonder if you look the same in his eyes.

Mama Miya had remarked similarly on your own appearance when you showed up at her door earlier that afternoon, but you at least had the falsified alibi of having been recently ill to hide behind.

Osamu is watching you from the doorway, still hesitating to move any closer—like a man who stumbled upon a beast in the wild, and is equally parts fascinated and petrified.

You look away.

“Sit down,” you tell him, your voice quiet and slightly cold as you stare at the orange in your hands. “She’s gonna think something’s wrong.”

Something is wrong, you both know that truth all too well, but the last thing you want is for her to know that. This entire situation between the two of you is already bad enough without the shame of other people knowing. Without his mother, of all people, knowing.

Osamu nods, and then approaches the kotatsu slowly. When he lowers himself down to the floor, he takes the seat opposite you at the small square table instead of beside you like he normally would. Something in that contrast stings a little bit, though you’re certain you’d be more upset if he was any closer than he already is—you’re suddenly exceedingly conscious of the possibility of your legs brushing underneath the table, and it makes you shift nervously, drawing your limbs as close and compact to your body as you can.

Osamu is so still on the other side of the table that it’s almost uncanny. Statuesque in a way that might make you laugh if this whole mess wasn’t so harrowing, if the wound wasn’t still so fresh. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.

“Just… be normal,” you whisper, finally setting your forsaken orange down and reaching up to rub at your temples where you feel the beginnings of a tension headache thrumming beneath the skin. You sigh, long and drawn-out. “I don’t want her to worry.”

He nods again.

The television show continues to play on across the screen beside you both, and while your eyes may be on the screen, you doubt either of you are paying much attention to it. You roll your half-peeled orange from one hand to the other idly across the tabletop, occasionally picking away at the skin.

Mama Miya appears with more plates of fruit not long after, having taken time to cut them up for you both even though she’s already busy preparing a meal in kitchen—the sounds of sizzling and her knife against the chopping board having filtered down to the living room while she worked.

“Sure ya don’t need any help in there, Ma?” Osamu asks, peering up at his mother as she cranes down to set a plate of apple slices in front of him.

“I fed you and yer brother just fine for 18 years, didn’t I? I know how to make a meal,” she jokes, returning to her full height and wiping her damp hands on the front of her apron. She glances over at you, smiling knowingly as she rests her hands on her hips. “Besides, ya haven’t seen this little thing all week—I’m surprised you two aren’t hangin’ off each other like ya usually do.”

Your eyes meet her youngest son’s, and you both quickly look away.

You can’t help but wonder if the woman before you suspects something then, even if she doesn’t say anything and in spite of your careful attempt to conceal it. But with two boys like hers, her sense of perception has long been honed to a fine art—she knows when trouble is brewing long before it strikes—and it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest to learn that she’d known something was off even before that small slip-up. Maybe she’d known from the moment you’d shown up at her door that afternoon. Maybe she knew the second she heard from your mother that you were coming back to Hyogo.

Dinner is awkward. 

Maybe not overtly—there aren’t prolonged silences, or tense stares across the table, or any real moments of palpable discomfort—but it’s a careful balancing act between you and Osamu pretending to be up to date with each other’s lives, and neither of you navigate the steps particularly gracefully. You mention one of Osamu’s employees, asking how they are and what they’ve been up to at the shop since you’ve been home in Hyogo, only for Osamu to “remind you” that they had moved up to Sendai to go to school earlier that month. He mentions a project you were tasked with at work, and you awkwardly stumble when you explain that it had changed hands a few weeks prior. He didn’t know you were “sick”, you didn’t know he’d gotten a glowing review from a notoriously harsh food critic. Neither of you even try to mention Atsumu in fear of getting the wires of your falsified stories crossed. 

You try to keep quiet as much as you can, after that. You sit back in your chair, picking at your food and contenting yourself with watching the Miyas chatter away across the table before you.

Osamu and his mother eat the same. You’ve noticed it before, but now you have time to really dwell on the observation. They hold their chopsticks in the same slightly peculiar way, just a bit too far forward to seem comfortable. They pile food on their plates in the same order. They even occasionally reach to sip from their glasses at the same time.

How familiar it all is makes your chest feel achy like a bruise, because there’s an undercurrent of something being just slightly off. You’ve sat at this same dining room table a hundred times, shared meals just like this one too frequently to count them, but this time something feels different. 

Fortunately there’s plenty to drink to accompany dinner, and the alcohol helps balm the sting.

Mama Miya is pouring you another glass of sake when she asks, “So are you two drivin’ back to Osaka together tomorrow?” 

Osamu freezes with his chopsticks lifted half-way to his mouth, and the two of you share a glance from opposing sides of the table, trying to telepathically draft some kind of cover story. You had already told her that you were planning on heading back to the city tomorrow around noon, but you have no idea what Osamu’s plans are.

“Not sure yet,” Osamu says eventually, wiping at his mouth between bites of food. “We were plannin’ to play it by ear. I thought about stayin’ till tomorrow night since I made plans to visit Kita-san in the morning.”

Mama Miya accepts this lie easily, and the conversation continues on.

You resent how easy it is to slip into routine with Osamu. It’s been six long, terrible weeks since you last laid eyes on him, but soon you find yourselves finishing each other’s sentences, passing condiments across the table before even being asked for them, and filling each other’s glasses when they’re empty without thinking. It all comes back to you like second nature.

Because it is, maybe.

“Ya need a haircut Samu,” the woman at the head of the table says, her words a little slurred and her cheeks blazing bright pink thanks to the sake. Mama Miya loves to drink, but can’t hold her liquor for anything—it’s always reminded you of Atsumu.

“Do I?” her son reaches up and ruffles his hair absentmindedly, leaning back in his chair. “Got it under my cap so much I don’t really notice.”

His mother is right: Osamu’s hair is longer than he usually lets it get, as he tends to keep it short and easy to manage now that he’s working at the shop. It hasn’t been this long since you were in high school, and there’s a little tendril of dark hair that curls right beside his ear that you find you can’t stop staring at.

“Maybe I’ll buzz it all off,” Osamu finally says with a shrug.

You and his mother both make similar sounds of disgust.

“You and yer brother are my flesh and my blood, and I love ya more than anything,”—Mama Miya rests a hand across her chest dramatically, her expression somber—“but I’m telling ya right now yer heads were not shaped to sport buzzcuts.”

You can’t help but laugh into your hand at the impassioned remark.

“What about letting that little thing at ya again with a pair of scissors?” the woman beside you juts a thumb in your direction as she questions her son.

“Not a chance,” Osamu snorts, glancing fleetingly over to you.

You’d once cut gum out of Osamu's hair when you were both nine—a gift courtesy of Atsumu—and to the best of your recollection, you did pretty well for someone who wasn’t even tall enough to ride most of the attractions at amusement parks.

“I did a great job,” you gripe huffily as his slight.

“My hair was lopsided,” Osamu reminds you pointedly.

“Maybe I was going for something avant-garde, something high-fashion.” You roll your eyes as you reach for another piece of meat from the dish at the centre of the table—pinching it in two with your chopsticks and placing the other half onto his plate without thinking. “Guess I'm asking too much for a guy who wears that same baseball cap and cycles between three t-shirts day in-day out to understand my vision.”

Mama Miya cackles at the jibe, tipping her glass back to drain it. “Oh, you two crack me up.”

Osamu smiles a little, picking up the piece of meat you’d just given to him and popping it wordlessly into his mouth.

When dinner is done and the plate are cleared, Osamu washes the dishes and you dry them—assuming the roles you two have long claimed after sharing countless meals together. You work side by side at the sink in quiet, with just the clink of dinnerware, the sloshing of dishwater, and the sound of Mama Miya laughing along to a variety show in the other room to be heard between you.

She’s had enough sake now that you aren’t as worried about her picking up on things, so you can let the facade drop slightly—you can just exist in an uncomfortable quiet without fretting so much. 

You’re not sure which is worse: the pretend ease, or the very real discomfort.

“I’m gonna head out now,” you call to the woman laying on the sofa as you poke your head through the doorway to living room, all the dishes from dinner now dried and put away. Osamu shuffles past you to take a seat beside his mother on the sofa.

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head as he settles down next to her, her lips parting as her eyes remained glued to him.

“Aren’t ya walkin’ her home?” she asks, bewildered.

As kids, neither you nor the twins had been particularly concerned with walks home—or anything remotely close to etiquette. The three of you would stand at the corner half-way between your homes, exchange a few parting words and maybe an insult or two, and then go your separate ways—only to repeat it all again the next day. But that changed in your early teens, rather unexpectedly really, and the twins have never ever let you walk home alone since. 

It wasn’t always both of them accompanying you—sometimes it was just one or the other—but one of the two always made the walk alongside you, no matter how short it was, or how late it had gotten, or if the weather was unpleasant. One of the boys always followed all the way to your door and waited until they knew you made it inside, without fail. At first you found this strange development overbearing, and then humiliating when you found out that their mother had told them it was something they had to do, but over time you found that you were grateful for it. 

You grew up in a very safe neighbourhood. You never felt any real danger making the short walk on your own. But doing it with the twins’ company made made you feel cared for, protected almost—even before you knew about all the terrible things out there in the world that made women need escorts home in the first place.

Osamu is quiet at your side as the two of you shuffle along towards the corner where your streets meet. He stands nearest to the roadway, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket and his eyes on his feet. It’s the very same path the two of you have walked a thousand times in just the same way, no doubt your feet falling into the exact parts of the pavement they’ve already tread before. But the walk home has never felt like this. The two of you have never been so unsettled in each others’ company.

You stop when you reach the corner, your feet cementing themselves into place as solidly as the ground beneath them.

“This is far enough.”

Osamu stops, already half a step closer to your house than you are since he hadn’t anticipated your sudden halt. He looks at you, a furrow making itself known between his brow like your words aren’t quite registering in his brain. He’s never walked you just halfway before, and maybe that’s why he’s hesitating.

You blink hard a few times, then move to step past him and leave, already making plans to take an earlier train back tomorrow just to avoid running into him again. Your little neighbourhood is much smaller than Osaka, and Osamu’s presence is too loud here to ignore.

But you’re glad, at least distantly, that you made it through the evening relatively unscathed. Tender and bruised, certainly. But the wounds you’ve been trying so carefully to mend over the past six weeks seem, largely, to have stayed knitted closed.

You can see your house from the street corner as you step towards it, the windows dark and waiting for you. You’re looking forward to scrubbing the day from your skin and then crawling into bed, hoping you can forget all about—

“I’m sorry.”

Your body goes stiff, and your feet—without any conscious command—stop carrying you forward. You stand with your back to him, your shoulders rigid like raised hackles, but you know Osamu is still there.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Your teeth bite down hard into the flesh of your cheek.

You muster every shred of resolve that you can, and weave the iron of your will into your throat to make sure your next words ring firm. “Osamu—“

“No, I need to say this,” he interrupts you before you manage to say anything at all, and he sounds desperate. “It’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about fer weeks.”

You’re angry. Furious, suddenly. A white hot rage boiling up in your throat that tastes bitter and revolting and wipes away any lingering trace of sake on your tongue. All Osamu has been doing lately is whatever the hell he wants, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

You just want to go home. You just want to throw the meagre amount of belongings you’d carted to your parent’s house with you into your suitcase, hastily dump too much water into your mother’s houseplants to hopefully get them through the weekend, and then get the hell out of Hyogo.

You don’t want to be here.

You don’t want to hear this.

“I know I’m bein' selfish. I know that all of this is because of how selfish I’ve been. What I did that night wasn’t fair.”

You’re listening to him in spite of yourself. In spite of the fury ringing in your ears. In spite of the pain in your gut that feels like stitches tearing.

“I know what I did was fucked up. That it… That I ruined somethin’. That even if you can forgive me, everythin’ will always be a bit different now because of what I did—and I am genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, sorry for that.”

You find yourself softening. Or maybe wilting slightly—withering under the warmth of his words. 

“But I’m not sorry fer how I feel,” Osamu’s soft words sound remorseful only because he isn’t in the way that matters most to you. “I can’t be. I tried ‘n I can’t.”

You feel yourself shaking your head, intimating the dissent you feel but can’t bring yourself to voice. Your feet are still stuck, keeping you there. Trapped by your body against your own conscious will. You’re so nauseated you think you might be sick.

Osamu sucks in a breath that shakes on the inhale. “I’ve loved you my whole life, y’know that? I don’t even know what it feels like not to, so callin’ it that doesn’t even feel right most days,”—there’s a waver in his voice that cuts through you like a blade—“And maybe it used to be different, or maybe it’s always fuckin’ been like this, but I have been a god damn mess for the past six weeks tryin’ to think of a way that I can do this without you and I came up with nothin’, because there’s not a single part of me or my life that isn’t the way that it is because you’ve always been there.”

You’re choking. You’re choking now. You can’t swallow. You can’t breathe. Your throat is a vice that you can’t pry open, that you can force neither air nor words through when you need to. Your heart is lodged, firm and unmoving and worn raw, in the hollow of your throat.

You finally turn to look at him, but your sight is blurring at the edges.

His face is so pale that part of you—the part that has cared for him for as long as you've cared about anything—worries he might faint. His expression so grave he looks like he’s in the throes of mourning. It’s unfair that grief colours him this way. That even in this moment, under the buzzing streetlight, with the world shifting underfoot, that he should still be so handsome. That he should still look like your Samu.

“I know that this is a shitty situation that I caused. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed you to know how I felt—how I feel—because it was eatin’ me alive. And even without Tsumu’s party it would have happened eventually. Maybe it woulda happened better, or maybe it woulda happened worse, but it still woulda happened—because no matter how I went about it or what I’m fucking up by sayin’ it, it’s true.” Osamu squeezes his eyes shut tightly, swallows, and then opens them again to fix you in his stare. “I’m in love with you and I always have been.”

“I lost you both, Samu,” your voice is quiet and brittle when you finally find it in the knot of your throat and let it free. “I know that’s partly my fault, but I just couldn’t look at Tsumu and not see you. It hurt too much. Suddenly the two most important people in my life just weren’t there anymore. That’s not fair.”

Because this is bigger than just the two of you. It always has been.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu says to you, but his words are so faint they risk being lost in the cool evening breeze.

“Please stop apologizing to me,” the only reply you can bring yourself to utter reflects every bit of your exhaustion—your voice is flat and lifeless when you speak the words.

The two of you stand there on the street corner, the half-way point between your childhood homes, and it’s so impossibly quiet.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” you say as you pull your coat a little bit tighter around your frame, and for the first time all night it feels like the only time you’ve been truly honest.

Osamu looks at you, and if you sort through all the emotions in his eyes, you know you see the same feeling reflected back in his stare.

On Sunday evening, Osamu makes his way back to Osaka alone, and the house you grew up in is dark and empty when he passes it. As he drives back to the city, he can’t quite shake the feeling that neither of them—not Hyogo, not Osaka, nothing and nowhere in between—feel quite like home to him the same way that they used to.

[doggoartz]

I drew ochako again 💞💞

and this time you get a buncha words with it

so first, I drew a quick little thumbnail (this is a great exercise just to practice and stuff) and then I full sized it!!

Then, I blocked out two different color schemes, originally I was going to have this whole deep meaning behind it. Something about her first her suit representing vulnerability and foolishness or whatever but then I was like

“no, I wanna draw my girl with a visor for fun”

so I just did that

rough sketch (that’s all I have to say)

lines look I wish I had an explanation for this.

I literally sat down for like four hours straight and it was mostly just this, basically just a lot of mark making, slight erasing and then flipping the canvas (LIFESAVER) but I eventually ended up with something I liked. I wish I was kidding about the four hours thing im so hungry

flats + effects + gradient maps + grayscale + finishing touches

your girl (gender neutral) went all out for this one, pulled out a YouTube tutorial I saw two years ago. All for her 💞🪐

The visor highlight is my favorite!!

[onestepbackwards]

Saw the submas soulmate idea of being able to see colors once you meet your soulmate, and how in a situation where you are both Ingo and Emmet's soulmate meeting with Ingo only revels half the colors of the world. When I saw that I couldn't help but think of how that would make Emmet's reunion with his brother (and meeting their shared soulmate) rather interesting. So have this tiny fic/idea thing. I'm just picturing Emmet in Nimbasa all alone. His world is nothing but grayscale completely void of all colors. His brother is gone, and all of his searching has amounted to nothing. Most have given up on Ingo coming home, and while Emmet still has hope that one day Ingo will return that hope dies a little bit with each passing year. He hasn't even thought about finding his soulmate during this time. Finding their soulmates was something that the brothers has always dreamed of doing, but he can't bring himself to do it. He can't even find his own twin what hope does he have in finding his soulmate? Days blend together until one day he hears a voice call out to him. A voice he feared he would never hear again. "Emmet!" And when he turns around he sees Ingo there. Happy, and so clearly relived to see Emmet. By Ingo's side is you, and when Emmet gives you a quick glance suddenly his world explode into color. He can see the different colors that make up the evening sky and the setting sun. He can see the blue that makes up the Gear Stations symbol on Ingo's hat. He can see the flashing colors on the farris wheel of the distant theme park. While he's trying to process it all he can see his soulmate have a moment of startled realization, but while Emmet is still processing everything his soulmate recovers a lot quicker. "So you are my other soulmate," They say. 'Other?' Emmet can't help but think, but that thought leaves his head when Ingo runs to him and yanks him into a hug. Emmet melts into the hug, and clings to his brother. His brother is back. His brother is finally back. After clinging to each other for a while Ingo breaks the hug slightly although he doesn't let go. He only separates to gesture for Emmet's soulmate to come over. "Emmet," Ingo says. "This is my soulmate. Well, our soulmate I suppose." "Nice to meet you," They say. "It's nice to know what the color blue looks like now." Emmet didn't have a way with words. Not like how Ingo did, and in his overwhelmed state said skill might as well have been nonexistent. Instead of saying anything he only reaches out to them and gently takes hold of their hand. He gently pulls them toward both him and his brother, and once they were close enough he quickly included them in the hug. They quickly hug him back clearly understanding that he needs a moment. Ingo is quick to hug them both while Emmet clings to the both of them. His soulmate is here. His brother is back. There are questions that need to be asked. Things that need to be figured out. But they can worry about all of that later. For now Emmet is content to cling to his soulmate and brother, and just be happy to have both of them in his life.

THIS IS SO SWEET 😭😭😭💕💕💕

Thank you so much for the treat!! I am devouring this 😩🥰

[ask-team-misfit]

[ previous ]

Even upon getting there, he seemed hesitant to elaborate, instead being preoccupied with showing Pikavee around.

Lief: “So, uh. What do you think? This is the outside of my burrow.”

Pikavee wiped her eyes and glanced around. It was a small clearing dotted with flowers; a tiny meadow barely large enough for her to really lie down.

Pikavee: “It’s… nice.”

Lief: “Yeah. Should be about enough room for you to sleep out here.”

Walking up to the wooden cover of the burrow entrance, he tapped at it with his foot.

Lief: “I live right down here, in this cozy little hole. Of course it’s a bit of a mess right now, but uh…”

He trailed off, as if trying to think of something else to say to fill the dead air. His eyes darted anywhere but her face.

He was quick to pluck a berry from a nearby berry bush as soon as he noticed it.

Lief: “Oh and, food. There’s plenty of berries here and… stuff.”

[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Lief slightly angled away from the viewer towards the left. He looks shocked, or fearful. A couple of sweat drops are present on his face. His smile, resembling the “:3” emoticon, looks forced. Lief’s appearance is as described here. End ID ]

Lief: “Y-you don’t eat much, do you?”

Pikavee: “Um. It's… it’s fine.”

Any sort of enthusiasm he may have had, fake or not, began to vanish. He had even more trouble looking at her directly.

Lief: “You hate it here that much, do you… now I’ve done it.”

She didn't answer for a long while. She looked away with a murmur.

Pikavee: “I-it's… not really that…”

Lief: “Then what is it?”

Pikavee: “Why do you owe me an apology?”

Once again, he paused.

Pikavee: “Did you know, and didn’t tell me? O-or is it something e–”

Lief: “Alright already. I confess. I’m not good with this kinda stuff. How the hell do you expect me to be straight with you when you look at me like that?”

He wasn't looking at Pikavee anymore. He seemingly deflated, as his antennae and wings both drooped. More notably, his voice was a lot quieter.

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief similar to the previous image. He looks sad or concerned, appearing to have some troubling thoughts he's refusing to speak of. He's looking away to the right. End ID ]

Lief: “If anything, I was hoping to be wrong. Stuff goes around, I hear about it, but I don’t know everything. The Isle’s a big place. Honestly, that kid…”

At the thought of Fenninkou, he once again raised a paw to pinch his forehead.

Lief: “Ugh… I don’t know what I expected. You really didn’t need to see any of that, let alone know a damn thing about how townies feel about me. About us.”

Pikavee: “Wh-what do you mean?”

Lief: “You know how I said I don’t have the best reputation over there? Believe it or not, it’s not because I’m kind of a nuisance.”

He glanced at her for a moment, gauging her reaction.

She merely stared back, waiting for him to continue.

Lief: “Wait. You actually believe me?”

Pikavee nodded.

Lief blinked at her for another moment before scoffing.

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief similar to the previous image. He appears dismissive, glancing away towards the right with very narrow eyes. He's visibly flushed all over his face, with the blush shown in color. End ID ]

Lief: “Gods, you’re naive. No one else is that nice to me, you know.”

Pikavee: “I… know how that feels. But, kinda differently.”

Lief: “Enlighten me.”

Pikavee: “No one else I know has been nice to me, but I don’t really know anyone else but my human.”

Lief: “Huh.”

Some moments of silence followed.

Pikavee: “Did you… still wanna talk about it?”

Another pause, though only for a moment. He wasn’t even looking at her as he spoke up.

Lief: “It’s because I’m feral, Pikavee.”

Pikavee: “Huh?”

Lief: “Because I live out here, in the Wilds. Born and raised. It didn’t used to be that bad, but now? Townies look down on us like we’re just in the way. All because of that Treasure Hunting stuff.”

Pikavee didn’t look sure how to respond. She understood very little about the politics of this place; what Treasure Hunting even was. But that aside, it bothered her that Lief would be treated this way over his place of birth, of all things.

He continued before she could consider saying something, again with that bitter tone.

Lief: “They’re going to do that with you too, you know. And when you need them the most? Completely turn you away.”

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief similar to the previous image. His eyes are narrowed in an annoyed glare. His mouth is open, as if in the midst of a tangent. End ID ]

Lief: “So don’t think about helping them. Don’t even become attached.”

Pikavee: “A… a-are you sure?”

Lief sighed a little.

Lief: “Never been more sure. Like it not, you’re a feral, too. A misfit, just like me.”

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief similar to the previous image. He looks sad or concerned, appearing to have some troubling thoughts he's refusing to speak of. He's looking away to the right. End ID ]

Lief: “I know you don’t actually live here and all, don’t correct me. But where else could you possibly stay but here? With me…”

A lot of what Lief said still clearly bothered her, but she said nothing–she didn’t know what to retort with. She meekly rested her head against one of her forelegs, lying down to rest her throbbing head.

Lief: “If you ever wanted to in the first place, anyway. It’s the best I got, but if you have ideas, I’m all ears.”

[lumonafox]

Watching Van Helsing for the first time and I have thoughts and feelings

Disclamers first: My previous experience with the movie was clip of the masquarade on youtube and some Leather-Jackman encounters on my dash every once in a while. I only know Dracula and Van Helsing by name and at this point I can’t be bothered to memorize the rest. My taste in men is questionable and unapologetic, if fancy vampire Count kissed my neck and said he wants me to be his spouse, I would simply fold. Not entirely into the idea of laying clutches of cocoabean-like-gremlin-eggs for him, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it I guess. With that out of the way, let’s begin. Quick notes during the watch: 1 they gave Jackman machinegun-crossbow and he still can't hit shit with it 2 if Dracula got pegged every once in a while he might be a little less edgy and murdery which would make the world a better place overall 3 Catherine Zeta Jones got even more faisty, corsetty and not-catherine-zeta-jones-y, I guess the budget only had place for one big name 4-derpy little monk with his derpy little sunshine invention and derpy little forshadowing 5-Zeta Jones is surprisingly tan for a Transylvania native. 6-why does everyone seem to want to fuck everyone? To be fair... I too want to fuck most of them. Point taken. 7-if thes had stopped dropping their weapons for one second the plot would have been over in first 30 mins...you mean to tell me that trained killers can't keep a hold on their gun? 8-ofc the bro is the new werewolf but also does his transformation NEED to be such artistic spin-aroundy balerina style? (Also naming the werewolf brother Velkan is about as clever as naming him Remus, Lupin, Remus Lupin, Barker, Wolfer Mc Wolfenstein etc...) 9-nobody in this movie takes fall damage and Dracula has literal gravityhacks. It should be threatening but it is hilarious 10-young Jackman during night rainstorm looks like Orlando Bloom in Pirates of carribean (I refuse to elaborate, just trust me) 11-Vampire kids look like cocoa beans before they hatch. After getting tazed they turn into bat gremlins. Then they feed (?) and turn into hot-wife-in-grayscale material (?) Having larval and mid stage would imply that vampires are some sort of insect which makes them considerably more yucky 12-Gabriel? Is he also a vampire? Serving the church? Is he anti-vampire? 13- *little evil man voice* we have SUCH history Gabriel (we broke up during the crusades and I have gotten three wives to compensate) 14- funky little monk, sorry, a friar, and funky little loopholes 15- not to ruin your happy moment but the roof is still very much on fire and there is still mr Wolfenstein trying to kill you 16- can't turn into a werewolf it you already are one my dear Helsing, yknow. friar found the knight fighting gif... 17- Did she just MOAN? (lowkey same sis) 18- the whole masquarade thing is slightly disturbing but mostly hot 19- he just proposed to her 20- monsterhunter with few levels in rogue, undersood 21- sorry to break it to you love but you will not kill all of them vampires with one flail and rage 22- so he IS werewolferized? Shouldn't that be fixed by rubbing some wolfsbane on him? 23- the group shares one braincell, which is mostly with the friar, sometimes borrowed by van Helsing to keep them alive in the more pragmatic sense 24- so NOBODY touched any of them ‘inconspicous’ wall decorations or translated the latin text on the SUSPICIOUSLY large wall map even though they have been searching for clues for hundereds of years in the house...sure 25- password protected mirror teleport 27- say friend to enter...wait, wrong movie 28- the banter, the writing, god I love this (why should I not kill you? Uhmmm...) also (Cut off his finger...I'll cut off SOMETHING) 29- convenient amount of storms in the area 30- assuming they need a living matter to conduct the electricity couldn't they just strap a jellyfish in the box and be done with it? Does the matter need to be inteligent? If so, how much? Would like Eel level sufice? Was this tested or did he just go like NAAAH NOT DRAMATIC ENOUGH 31- conveniently placed ball of steel-melting acid in a glass jug 32- fidget-spinning-vampires 33- what method of conduction do they use ffor reanimation process? Nobody wants partly fried offsprings or an undercooked batch 34- nobody in this movie takes fall damage...except for poor Igor 35- after a brief pause, Dracula accepted Gabriel as a furry and tried to get back together with him 36- slowest clock ever, since the first strike, they managed to throw eachother around, Zeta Jones befriended the Frankenmonster, defied gravity, killed vampirewife, almost killed the friar, boys had some more toss-around and we’re still not done... 37- we could have been friends, partners, brothers in arms (no homo) 38- convenient cloud for conversation purposes 39- she dead? She dead dead? 40- *sad werewolf noises*(but seriously...after ALL THAT FALLING the thing that kills her is lying down a bit faster on a cussioned sofa??? Seriously?) 41-yep, she dead...lol

Afterthoughts: 1-so what exactly is Van Helsing? Apparently immortal yet neither vam nor were? 2-can't bring myself to care enough about the monster to dive deeper into his very much unresolved ending or story in general but big F for him 3-Zeta Jones got into heaven because Dracula died like three minutes sooner than she did, imagine if the timing was other way around. Gotta love contracts. 4- so is this like post-high fantasy?  Lost technology (teleports and cures for werewolfism) and ancient order with access to higher technological level than common folk (Helsing's spinning pizza cutters, machine-bow, the holy sun-granade)? It could also read as steampunk but there is not nerly enough cogs, brown and brass and too much horny, edgy and dark for that I think. 5- Faramir? In this economy? More likely than you think. 6- I couldn’t get the spelling of friar right, so I settled for calling him a fryer during the watch. It didn’t seem right but it looked wrong enough to be something christian. Spellchecked after and I’m glad I did. 7- The soundtrack slaps and the writing is solid, 10/10 would recommend

[arsonicversed]

Blank Period + Scars reference

[alessabriel]

Y/n Wayne!Venom! x Batfamily

Grayscale – Y/n Wayne!Venom! x Batfamily

Summary: [Name] was a shadow among his family, on patrol and only stands out from cameras outside, every important aspect of his life was gray in a great colorful work of art, even if he tried 200% he would never stop be monochromatic or so he thought until the destructive arrival of something.

Cw: blood, typical canon violence, mention of suicides, self-esteem and mental issues, parental neglect, if I missed any let me know.

...

↻[Name] Wayne was an idealized image of the perfect young man on camera, academically intelligent, with a quick mind and a wide range of both skills and abilities that further embellished the image of the Wayne family, the perfect golden Son of the family that every father and mother would like to have in their family nucleus. You are a natural of the cameras and benefit galas, focused on "strange" tasks of society such as mental health and awareness of it, motivating various causes related to the slums of Gotham.

↻ It was a hell carefully brushed by a very selected grayscale to give a cover to the real [Name] that was hidden in plain sight, a sleepy, perceptive, certainly melancholy, intelligent boy, with a photographic memory and capable of creating a thousand masks if necessary to hide yourself even from your own family.

↻ You couldn't complain about your lifestyle, your situation and your present because you didn't need anything, you had everything and you had a clear excess of resources at your disposal. Or so your father told you between the lines; Bruce Wayne when (in the past) you went to him for support, answers and fatherly love, very things that you accepted over time would never come because you were average.

↻Your brothers would always be 1000% and you would always be 100%, you didn't need verbal confirmations of it when Damian's or Timothy's events were more important than yours, when Jason's problems were bigger than yours and when Dick was always the perfect and self-sufficient older brother in the eyes of your Father. You, you were just an entity in Wayne Manor.

↻ You stood beautifully behind everyone, with your lips sealed so tightly that you could have sealed them permanently if you wished, and a perfect mask over your face masking everything about you, no matter how much you stalled for it.

↻ Now despite that indifference and abandonment, it affected you considerably when you were less than 10 years old where you wanted and yearned to be like your older brothers, like your father and make them feel proud of you. But now it was just a litany of childish nonsense that an idiot child wished for, and now all of that, although still burning, did not have the same effect as before.

↻ Painfully it no longer hurt like before, there was a perpetual numbness since the event of your eighth birthday celebration, your first birthday two years after the death of your mother about which you would never say anything and the one that would be celebrated as a family, the memory is nothing more than an uncomfortable thorn in your flesh.

|| The garden had been meticulously adorned by Alfred Pennywort who gladly brought his young teacher [Name] behind him, who cheerfully and happily helped as much as he could without ruining anything.

Alfred never remembered seeing him ruin something and that stung his soul, he knew the cause of such unnatural perfectionism.

The decorations of the celebration were in their place, the favorite foods that you adored and the vipers that you loved so much in their houses guarded by special caretakers. Little Wayne couldn't stop trembling because of the joy that his birthday caused him, his brothers would come and Father too, so everyone would eat cake and hang out outside the night patrols.

And Alfred could not feel sadder to see the guests arrive but not the ones [Name] wanted, he saw the sweet boy little by little stop smiling so animatedly to put on a polite and courteous smile with all the guests as much as his friends. The evening had been perfect and a satisfying birthday, despite the absence of the family.

But nothing, in all his years, would prepare him for what he would witness that night; before the patrol [Name] was still down so his performance had been low resulting in injuries and friction burns with many thugs escaping, which had set Batman's mood for the limitations of hell itself.

So when an innocent question emerged from [Name] in the healing process it caused a nasty surprise snatch from Batman, from Bruce Wayne father of [Name] Wayne, father who in his hurt and fed up euphoria had worsened the wound in the side of his youngest son's jaw, so much so that blood splattered and the skin split open unbelievably (scar you'd hate in the future), not like the older Wayne cared.

"Your birthday doesn't matter, what does matter is your poor performance on patrol, you could have died out there but you're still thinking childish and ridiculous thoughts" Bruce hissed putting aside the bloody tweezers, ignoring his youngest son's stinging tears, ignoring knowing the pleading look in those glaucous eyes and ignoring, in fact, he was just a child "Grow up for once, a birthday means nothing, you are only becoming more inept and incompetent since your mother's death, you do not improve in any"

Words that became heavy on [Name]'s body, clinging with lethal force to his flesh and with no sign of leaving any time soon. Perhaps Bruce Wayne had had a bad day, perhaps the words of his youngest son provoked him unexpectedly, there were fresh memories that were not from that night. Whoever it was left a silence after his crude words towards a boy who only asked if he remembered his birthday.

It all embedded so deep, taking root in bone and muscle, attacking a tender heart.

The cave never seemed as cold to the minor as that day, that day that [Name] saw his Father's back walk away with quick and furious steps, the same path from which he had no turning back. Only [Name] couldn't know it yet.

"Young Master [Name]-"

“Okay, Father was busy I shouldn't have asked. My mistake"

Words would never eclipse the bloody wound or the tears that burned in the open wound in the tender skin as in the heart.

That just opened a huge gap. ||

↻ After the event there was an apology and a new party with your brothers Dick and Timothy, you could quite easily remember walking on broken glass in the whole party that you didn't enjoy, a party decorated with colors that you hated to the point of feeling the bile in your throat, there was food that you did not like that you ate by force feeling disgustingly bad, you felt trembling when you saw the dogs that they brought as a birthday present and that terrified you so horrible but still you smiled, laughed and celebrated a birthday that no longer you liked it The events of that type continued to bring out their endless flaws in the field and you discovered the perfect way to run away from them, not be accountable, not talk about anything with them unless it was strictly necessary and live your life to your liking and way. .

↻ The masks became part of your life, your routine and your existence, if you disliked something but you knew you would be judged, you kept it deep in your chest and forced expressions according to it even if it made you more numb. Even if it hurt and you ended up not being able to recognize yourself in the mirror (because you didn't and that made you mad), even if you felt down because it didn't really matter.

↻ Thus your performance on patrols increased because you ignored your own well-being for the sake of the mission (just stared blankly at Timothy and told Dick to hell), your miss stats dropped to zero due to your recent inability acknowledging your own pain, your training was more rigorous to the point of being painful, centimeters away from self-torture, and Batman's praise became normal, but disgusting in your ears, because you didn't need a verbal acknowledgment because you knew of what you were capable of and what you achieved alone, of what you forced yourself to endure in order to put those feelings to sleep.

↻ Maybe because of that, maybe because of your self-confidence and an unfortunate series of events happened, it happened in the middle of a mission to dismantle a foundation that was experimenting on humans and you were clearly the best prospect to go to it, and you did. You ignored a concerned Alfred for your own good and made sure to come back safe, even if you did as little as possible to get back in one piece.

↻ Although your instincts told you no, that your being felt even heavier and your hands tingled. Because you didn't tolerate experimentation and you knew you would murder, you knew it and that stupid rule would be the noose around your own neck.

↻ Nobody cared about it, only Alfred but he had no control over it.

↻ And it happened, you managed to effectively dismantle the facilities and free the living while accounting for the dead, it was the moment you walked away from your older brothers and father that happened.

|| You needed to get as far away from the scene as possible and be able to smash your head against glass, against solid concrete and force yourself to disguise your expressions, because of your intense emotions you did not pay attention to the only open container that still contained life in it and that broke the glass with such force impacting with everything against your body whipping you against the wall.

You hissed in pain and with a force that you drew from the confines of your head you smashed your head against the wall with hate, with rancor and disgust. You had to control your emotions, your feelings and not let them see you, you wouldn't let them. The compliments disgusted you to the point of feeling the bile rising in your throat, the recognition that you didn't want made you vibrate with anger and your weakness made you angry.

Same anger and courage that made something bubble inside you, something you didn't recognize in time and no one could detect. ||

↻ Once the mission was over the changes started, you couldn't blame the teenage hormones because it never happened to you, it wasn't some sickness of old because you didn't get sick, it wasn't badly treated wounds and it definitely wasn't the stress of the arrival of your new younger brother Damian. It mattered little to you, you only inhabited the mansion to sleep and prepare for the missions, passing by his intense attempts to assassinate you, to emphasize to you that he was the favorite son.

|| Tiredness gave you the bill after continuous days without being able to fall asleep and constantly vomiting food, the backpack on your shoulders was heavy and the blade that you stopped with your bare hand only made you sigh. It was your new "little brother", another unfortunate child who would die following an outside cause. And that provoked you, caused you to drop that finely crafted and executed mask.

If you were paying attention properly you might have seen the green-eyed minor wince before your vacant eyes. Damian could only look at you and try not to let go of his grip on his blade, your expression intimidated him but he wouldn't let it show.

"Just to remind you that only I am the one who makes Father proud and I carry the Wayne blood" assured the youngest of the family.

Maybe the cigarette you smoked on that shabby dance floor with Adam didn't calm you down or you were fed up, who knows. But those words made you laugh at it, knowing that all children were only a kind of reusable and disposable soldier if what happened with Jason told you anything. They were grudges that you would take to the grave.

“If I could stop being a blood Wayne, I would. So get out of my way kid” you hissed snatching the blade from his hand throwing it until it was embedded in the wall next to you, that before you left “Get lost Damian”

And Damian's heart squeezed seeing such palpable but hidden suffering in your eyes, you weren't like the others and that definitely scared him as much as he liked it. However, little did you know that you inhabited the huge mansion just enough and necessary, even if you worried Alfred and Jason with it.

You didn't know that you caught Damian's attention with it, while you locked yourself in your room. ||

↻ In the days after the mission you couldn't even hide your discomfort, you couldn't and it was terrifying you. To your siblings alike and you tried to ignore your symptoms, you tried to ignore that everyone saw your pale and sickly complexion, your excessive perspiration and for no apparent reason, your sudden muscle spasms, your poor appetite, your nightmares and the voices that tormented you added to their own.

|| And in a moment of profound weakness, a moment where you managed to doze/rest in one of your safe houses in the immensely large bed all to yourself, you surprised yourself by waking up to the grotesque sound of chewing that hurt your ears, to your horror was you devouring the raw meat that was in the refrigerator. Your stomach turned instantly and you didn't hesitate to stumble to the sink to throw up, to stick your fingers deep in your throat to get that bloody meat out of your system, out of your body, you couldn't.

"That meat was delicious stupid human"

And that voice again made you fall back in terror, with a dull pain and in total panic, because in front of you, there floating and passing over your shoulder which you were afraid to see; it was a substance or a dark humanoid being with a smile of sharp white teeth, so sharp that for a moment you went blank. But your natural operating system, your instincts made you look for the gun hidden in your commando pants and when you found it, it seemed to snake menacingly.

That being did not expect that, it was fleeting and out of nowhere.

You shot yourself directly in the hundred but the pain was for a few moments, so negligible that you felt worse the cold of the floor when you hit and the blackness sliding down your extremities.

"What's wrong human imbecile!"

"What whores are you and why the hell are you leaving me?" you hissed with rage and pain, feeling worse than before, the taste of blood in your mouth was so disgusting and the pain in your head was deafening at a stratospheric level.

“I am Venom and now you are mine”

And that was enough to make you fall as a result of your days without sleep, of tiredness. ||

↻ The resolution that you had an alien parasite inside you added more disaster to your problems and burdens, his voice was sincerely deafening but reassuring in his existence because it made you ignore that putrid feeling when seeing your weapons near you, when passing through a rooftop or find yourself in danger.

↻ After a full week of hiding from your siblings and family because of Venom and his urges to eat humans or raw meat, you had to spend some time adjusting and your health seemed to improve as you got to know the alien parasite better, which you ended up liking.

↻ "I'm not a parasite, apologize!" It was the most normal phrase that would echo in your ears only to provoke your subtle laughter to the complete delight of Venom.

↻ They had reached an agreement or rather a bizarre coexistence, faster than the Symbiote had expected and that worried him greatly, no one in their right mind could accept that reality from one day to the next but you were also a human who he didn't hesitate to shoot himself like an animal instinct.

↻For Venom you were rare, a rare human, a bright being to the degree of the sun itself, you burned and did not allow anyone to get close to you, that he had managed to see in his days in silence inside you, your strange family and idiot brothers, You just seemed to start to like the little brown boy with the green eyes and catalog him as not food. You were strange but the most compatible being with him, you seemed custom made and the one created for your life. Venom found himself melting as he heard your rare laughs and saw what you treasured most, the activities you most loved to do and were passionate about doing. Every day he learned something more from you.

|| The darkness of the night precisely hid a young man who was transporting boxes in a van together with an unknown man. Venom found himself silently looking around through the wide hood of your commando jacket, they were hideous neighborhoods compared to the convenience stores you used to take him to for chocolate and salty chips. Although the whole city seemed gloomy and perpetually cold.

"Are you feeling alright [Name]?"

And Venom felt you tremble strongly from your chest to your entire body, but from a strange feeling of surprise. I could deduce that this man was important or he knew you.

"Recognized skill for a pimp to protect people from him, don't you think?" you returned with sleepy sarcasm.

The man just lightly tapped your shoulder and Venom could recognize that as friendship or camaraderie.

"I'm serious BatRed, your activity in the streets is more meticulous and sporadic, I miss even seeing you run between the ledges"

“I had to leave therapy”

Venom remembered, from your hundreds of memories being caught on camera visiting a good therapist and psychologist only to be branded as possibly insane in a matter of days and your psychologist as well as your therapist attacked from all sides. They were good women in your memories but you abandoned him and so, to his eternal pleasure, eternal talks began in the depths of your mind with him.

"Fuck man, I'm sorry"

"Any way at all"

And silence filled the cab of the truck, Venom instinctively urged calm in your racing heart and pleasantly received a soft caress where it clung to your biceps.

Venom couldn't have found a better host. ||

↻ The perfect symbiosis occurred in record time, Venom and you were one, you cared for each other in a sincere way and for the first time you both felt welcome in a place, like at home.

↻ The routine of both of you was tight and Venom got dizzy with so much you had to do, but you felt warm and it was nice. You liked your little brother a lot more than everyone else apart from Alfred (he made delicious chocolate) and Venom enjoyed your soft, deep and sincere humming when you carried Damian's backpack in one arm and equally with the other , there was so much warmth "It's warm" and you just responded with a soft affirmation.

↻ And life continued, with Venom's witty and rude words echoing in your ears and around you while the Symbiote enjoyed your sincere personality and attitude.

↻ Beautiful colors have been added to your gray scale; black and white

[writeforfandoms]

CONGRATS! Beeline for this ask: You see in grayscale until you see your soulmate and...Ezra! He feels like he would like the world to bloom into color. I like it so much I'm tempted to do it but I am backlogged to all hell so do me proud dear!

Find my masterlist

Ezra is very much impatient for his world to bloom into color. I loved working on this prompt, I really did. I had a lot of fun with it. Got a bit of sweetness, bit of angst, bit of hurt/comfort... I hope you like it! 💖

Ezra x gn!reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of loss, canon events.

Word count: 1.7k

Now presenting...

Traveler's Song

Ezra had always been a voracious reader, to both the relief and consternation of his parents. It kept him out of trouble, sure, but it wasn’t an easy hobby to keep, especially on pods where space was at a premium. And yet, Ezra insisted, and he got his books.

He devoured them all - literature, sci fi, fantasy, romance - it didn’t make a difference to him. He read all sorts, for all ages, from all ages. And the more he read, the more he wondered.

What did the sky look like? What color was robin’s egg blue? What about grass? Leaves in autumn, the reds and golds and oranges he’d read about?

He’d find out in time, his parents used to assure him. He just had to be patient.

He was patient. Well. He learned to be patient. It wasn’t something that came naturally to him, but after he took up prospecting, he learned. Better to be patient than ruin a haul.

He also developed the habit of looking straight into someone’s eyes, the first time he met them. No matter what other form of greeting (be it handshake or quick gestures with a thrower), he always made sure to meet their eyes. That was how soulmates worked, after all. You locked eyes and the world bloomed into color.

Supposedly, anyway. Ezra still hadn’t met his match, and he was beginning to feel impatient. But no. He’d find them. He had to. One day.

And so he continued through life in grayscale, learning how best to harvest aurelac, how to pick pockets without being noticed, how to charm his way into people’s beds and good graces. Harvesting was hard, long work, and he rather liked the creature comforts of life, despite his choice of profession. He had partners and friends and lovers. And he had his share of enemies and deals gone bad, too.

But the one thing he still didn’t have was a soulmate.

So, naturally, he found them just after signing up for a job out on the Green Moon.

He’d signed his contract, squared away his affairs, and had picked his books to bring with him. His books were precious things, and he chose very carefully now which ones he took on jobs.

Not everyone valued books the way he did.

The rest were packed into storage, to be kept safe until he returned. And this time, he hoped, it would be for good. He was not as young as he'd once been, after all. His knees complained. His back ached. His hands, though still steady, didn’t function as smoothly.

Nobody ever said prospecting was an easy job, after all.

He left his chosen bar for the night, his chosen conquest tucked under his arm and giggling, one of her hands pressed over his belly.

“My dear,” he purred in her ear, enjoying the shiver that went down her spine, “I’m afraid if you keep up this sort of behavior we won’t make it back to your place.” He nipped the shell of her ear gently.

She started to say something, but Ezra lifted his gaze when he spotted a pair of boots headed their way. His gaze traveled up, over their body, to their eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, the world fell away. Their eyes… their beautiful eyes, wide with surprise now, lips parted just a little. Ezra greedily drank in the colors, sure his own eyes were wide. He felt glued in place, the little thing under his arm no longer even registering.

And then time restarted when those beautiful eyes narrowed at him, and those boots marched towards him.

“You’re drunk,” you said sharply, though you did manage to tear your eyes away from your soulmate (your soulmate!) for long enough to glower at your friend instead.

“Only a little,” she pouted.

“Lee, I thought we agreed no more bringing people back without warning me first.” You planted your fists on your hips.

“I do apologize,” the man spoke, and your gaze slid back to him. His eyes were warm and sparkling with mischief, and you found yourself intrigued by the blonde streak in his hair. “I was unaware there were house rules, so to speak.”

Your ire didn’t quite die, but it did cool. “It’s not your fault,” you allowed.

Lee looked between you and the man, frowning a little, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t like you to look at a man. Or, really, anybody.

“I suppose we should discuss this,” you said, making a vague gesture between the two of you.

“Discuss what?” Lee asked, suspicious.

The man merely smiled and held out a hand to you. “Name’s Ezra.”

You gave him your name in turn, shaking his hand. You couldn’t quite stop yourself from giving him another look over, taking in the colors. “This way,” you told him, turning and marching back towards your apartment.

The building was blue. Huh. You never would have guessed.

Lee hissed your name, catching your arm as you swiped the three of you into the building. “What is going on?” she demanded.

“He’s my soulmate,” you told her. “I know you didn’t know. How could you have? But it does change things.”

For a moment she boggled at you, looking between you and Ezra. Then her face twisted into something a little jealous, a little angry, and she stomped off to the lift ahead of you two.

“She seems to have a bit of a temper,” Ezra observed, stopping when he was even with you. His shoulders were broad, making the space feel much narrower.

“She hasn’t found hers yet,” you said with a little shrug. “She’s just a little jealous, but she’ll get over it.”

Ezra hummed and slipped his hand into yours. His hand was big and warm and held you securely. But you didn’t feel trapped. You felt secure.

This was your soulmate, so there must have been a reason the universe decided to pair you with him. You intended to find out why.

By the time the two of you had gotten up to the apartment, Lee was in her room with the door shut. Apparently she’d figured she wasn’t getting laid tonight. Smart girl. You motioned Ezra to the kitchen table and grabbed water for the two of you. When you returned, you caught him tracing patterns in the wood-look table, one finger delicately tracing swirls and lines. You couldn’t blame him - you hadn’t known the color of the table would be so rich. It all looked so different.

“So.” You set a water down in front of him. “What now?”

He blinked at you, apparently momentarily nonplussed. “Ah. I had not… considered quite that far in advance, I must admit.”

You nodded. “I get it. Not like I expected to meet you today.” You sat, rolling your water between your hands. “I guess we should get to know each other?”

Something like alarm flashed across his face, and for a moment you felt your hackles rise. Then he swore softly. “I’m to leave on a freighter for the Green Moon in three stretches,” he told you apologetically. “I’m afraid that doesn’t give us a lot of time for getting to know one another.”

“Three stretches,” you mused, frowning, drumming your fingers against the table. Twenty one spins, all told. Less than a stand. Not a lot of time, indeed. “Well. Tell you what. If you’re interested, I’ll take a little time off of work. We can talk. And at least that way we’ll know each other better before you leave.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was quite possibly the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

--

You hadn't seen Ezra in a long, long time. It was long past when he was supposed to have come back from the Green.

You had been told, more than once, to give up and move on. He wasn't coming back.

But your heart couldn't extinguish that last ember of hope.

You'd moved out to your own place, and had taken all of Ezra's books with you when his storage rental was up. The books, and your memories, were what you had left of your soulmate now.

But you didn't look at anyone else, either.

You got home from work and shut the front door, leaning back against it. The comforting, soothing blue of the hallway met your gaze, and you let yourself soak in the color.

As brief as your attachment had been, you couldn't regret it.

You'd barely set your things down when there was a knock on the door. You paused. You weren't expecting anyone. But the knock came again, so you opened the door a little to see who it was.

And then froze.

Ezra stood in front of the door. He looked thin and worn and tired. But his eyes were still beautiful. Warm brown that still lit up at the sight of you.

You yanked the door open and grabbed him before he even had a chance to speak, hugging him tight. He was thinner than you remembered - his shoulders were just as broad but he definitely had less padding. Something you needed to rectify, clearly.

He hugged you back, one arm snug around your back, and you wondered where his other one was. You pulled back a little to ask him… and his right sleeve was empty, pinned up.

There was also a blonde girl behind him, a teenager, looking a little ragged herself.

"Ezra?" You asked, moving your gaze back to him. Your hands settled on his hips, keeping him from going anywhere.

His smile was wan and tired, but he still smiled for you. "There is much you don't know yet, about what happened while I was away on the Green."

"Well then. We'd better start catching up now." You tugged him gently to guide him inside, and snagged the girl to drag her in, too. You'd worry about getting the full story out of them later. For now, you just wanted to luxuriate in having Ezra home.

--

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[mionemymind]

Chapter 1: Code 10-15

Favorite Crime

Series Summary: Y/n L/n, daughter of the villainous group, “The Gisbourne”. They’re known to do the cruelest things around the world in order to get what they want. In order to stray away from her family, Y/n is the founder and sole member of the vigilante group, “The Robins”. She does what she can in order to assist those in need of help in New York City.

However, what happens when the Avengers are tasked with finally defeating the Gisbournes? What happens when they use their newest member, Wanda Maximoff, to get to the black sheep of the family? What happens if they both fall in love? But what if it was all a mission to Wanda? 

A/n: This story is told through different splices of Y/n and Wanda’s story. Italics are generally flashbacks. And be sure to read the lyrics of the story. It’s not in the same order as the original song but this is purposely done :) (Not my GIF) 

Warnings: Betrayal, angst, cursing, happy ending 

Word Count: 2.9k

Masterlist

Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Bonus

Know that I loved you so bad I let you treat me like that I was your willing accomplice, honey

“Guys, let me introduce you to our newest member of the team, Wanda Maximoff.” Heads turned as the brunette timidly walked into the room. She fiddled with her hands as she shyly mumbled a quick hello to the intimidating crowd. It was Natasha that broke the silence first. “Welcome to the team, Wanda.”

Soon introductions happened but Wanda had yet to say anything else. All she could focus on was trying her best to not read their thoughts. It seemed that Natasha was the easiest to sit by since her thoughts were surprisingly quiet. She found Tony and Thor to be the loudest while Bucky’s felt a little...damaged.

Nonetheless, Steve excused the two as he led Wanda to her new room. Opening the door for her, Wanda found herself to be in a spotless and minimalistic room. The colors were on the grayscale and everything smelled and looked brand new.

“Here’s your room.” Wanda walked in, enjoying the fact that she can finally have something of her own. But considering who she was living with, she felt a little overwhelmed at the possibility of the bed itself being worth more than her childhood home.

“Everything in here can accommodate your needs just as long as you know how to work one of these,” Steve said as he held up a small tablet for the room controls. Wanda laughed a little and jokingly asked, “Are you telling me you don’t?” Her voice was strongly laced with her Sokovian accent, which was something Wanda lightly cursed herself about.

This was a change. This was new. This was a place she could start a new page and maybe even a new Wanda.

Steve slightly blushed as he scratched the back of his neck. He placed the tablet back on the nightstand and said, “Well...let’s just say I’m not one with the current times.”

“So, an old soul?”

“You could say that.” Slowly backing to the door, Steve held on to the handle and said, “But, I’ll give you time to adjust. Also, before I forget, we have a talking robot in the building. So if you hear a very smart alek voice, that’s just the robot.”

Steve gave Wanda a comforting smile before closing the door. Looking around once more, Wanda noticed that she had her own flat screen in the room. There was a desk in the corner as well as two various doors. Going through them, one door led to her own luxurious bathroom and the other led to her own walk-in closet.

Wanda walked back into the main room and saw that she had glass doors leading to the balcony. Pulled in by the breathtaking view, Wanda slid out to the balcony and watched the scenery in front of her. It was night time yet New York felt as lively as the morning. “This really is the city that never sleeps.” And as Wanda continued to watch, she could only hope that this was the new beginning she needed.

“So you’ve been here a couple of months,” Clint stated as he and Wanda finished their training session. “How do you feel?” He tossed Wanda a towel which she caught with ease. While wiping the sweat off her face, she responded with, “I feel good.”

It was an obvious lie yet Clint didn’t manage to catch it. And if he did, he would’ve figured it was the nervousness talking. However, Wanda couldn’t help but think that she’s never felt so lonely till now.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Clint picked up the various items they used for training and started to place them back in their original places. “Heads up, I think Steve is going to give you your first big mission.”

Wanda was putting back the weights when she said, “Really?” For the first few months, she’s been shadowing the other Avengers during their missions. Sometimes they would ask for Wanda’s opinion on how she would have handled the situation and other times she would just watch.

“Yeah. The team is impressed. You learn really quickly.”

“I don’t want to let anybody down.” It was rather late for it because Wanda already felt like she let herself down.

“You won’t. I know you won’t.”

Looking down at the file given to her, Wanda first noticed how young the girl looked in the picture. There were tiny scars on her face but none looked prominent. The thing that pulled in the most was her alluring eyes. They appeared soft at first but Wanda had a feeling there was more to those tired eyes.

“So, her name is Y/n L/n and my mission is to get close to her?” Wanda asked. She couldn’t really wrap her thoughts on why she was needed on this mission. The girl didn’t seem like the type to know much combat. So it shouldn’t be too hard for the Avengers to get her.

“Correct. You’re tasked with getting close to her to the point she can trust you. Since not a lot of people know you’re a part of the Avengers, you can help us use her to get to her family.” Wanda sighed. She didn’t want to disappoint them on her first big mission but why did it feel like the Avengers were in over their heads?

Regardless of her anxiety, Wanda swallowed it down and said, “Okay, when should I start?”

Those things I did Just so I could call you mine The things you did Well, I hope I was your favorite crime

Natasha, Steve, and Wanda sat in hiding. They were currently waiting for their target to arrive at the designated location. Various S.H.I.E.L.D. agents hid with the scenery and the night had only aided in their secrecy.

As the minutes ticked by since Y/n’s last message, Wanda couldn’t help but feel nauseous from her actions. Here she was, standing with the good side of history yet she couldn’t help but feel so repulsed by her actions.

Doubt plagued her mind which only increased her anxiety. While fiddling with her fingers, Wanda could only think about her. She thought about everything that could happen to Y/n. From how the government could possibly treat her to the possible interrogation that she would have to go through.

Oddly enough, she hoped that it wasn’t Natasha that could have a chance of doing that. Because if it were her, Y/n would end up in two ways. Beaten and bruised or hopelessly enamored by Natasha. Both ways made Wanda more anxious for this outcome. As sick as it was, Wanda would rather have Y/n be beaten and bruised than the latter. Jealousy was an ugly look on Wanda as well as betrayal.

“Do we really have to do this Steve?” Wanda could feel her hands start to shake but she quickly pulled herself together. Steve was right beside her. At any chance he felt that she was distracted, he would have her immediately escorted out.

“It’s the only way, Wanda.” The lack of doubt in his voice made Wanda shiver. She felt hopeless yet she was the only one to blame. She practically led Y/n to slaughter.

“But she’s nothing like them. You see what she does on her own.” Although Wanda knew there was no chance of pleading her case to Steve, she still tried because this was Y/n for fuck’s sake.

“I’m sorry Wanda but one good person can’t make up for what her entire family has done to many.” Looking back to the entrance of the tunnel, Wanda could only think about the good things that Y/n has done with her. Because to her, one good person was enough.

It's bittersweet to think about the damage that we do 'Cause I was going down, but I was doing it with you Yeah, everything we broke, and all the trouble that we made But I say that I hate you with a smile on my face

Wanda and Y/n were hanging out at an abandoned playground near the boat docks. Surprisingly, things were still intact despite the wear and tear they’ve been through. Y/n hung upside down on the monkey bars as she watched Wanda swing closely by her.

Maybe it was the way her hair flowed through the night breeze. Or maybe it was the way that she still shone through the darkness of the night. Or maybe it was this new happy look she had on her face. Or maybe - no - it was just the way she was - always is. She’s Wanda Maximoff. With all the blood rushing down to her head, and this overbearing feeling in her chest, Y/n said, “You know that I love you, right?”

Wanda stopped swinging and looked over at Y/n. There was a small bewildered look on her face but she didn’t look disgusted by the question. “What?” There was suddenly a rush of blood pounding in Wanda’s ears. She hoped that her mind wasn’t playing tricks with her especially now.

“I know it’s crazy - I haven’t even taken you out on a first date or anything but,” there was a glint to Wanda’s eyes and that confirmed everything that Y/n was feeling, “...I do.”

Y/n pulled her body upwards and replaced her legs with her hands on the monkey bars. She swung back and forth to get her blood flowing in other directions besides her head. She looked at Wanda and saw this doubted look on her face. So Y/n quickly added, “Yeah, I love you.”

“And what makes you say that?” Wanda had various answers in mind to her own question. Y/n could possibly be on drugs or she hung upside down for far too long. Or maybe, Y/n is just out of her fucking mind. But still, Wanda only hoped that Y/n would reassure her that she heard correctly. That she does love her.

Thinking about it for a moment, Y/n suddenly found the right words to say as she swung forward and landed right in front of Wanda. She placed her hands on the ropes of the swing, her face lowering down Wanda’s, little distance between them as Y/n said, “Well, you see me as my own person. Not somebody that’s the daughter of something. Just...me.”

Wanda’s breath was caught in her throat. Suddenly her senses were filled with anything about Y/n. Her ocean scented cologne, the hair pomade she uses to style, and the way her face looked so beautiful as if it was constructed by Michelangelo.

“Anyone can do that Y/n,” she whispered. Her eyes showcased her heart as she kept looking down at Y/n’s lips. But the way Y/n’s masked made her eyes looked constantly made Wanda look back up.

“I wouldn’t call you anyone,” Y/n said cockily. “You’re Wanda Maximoff. The girl that sees the best in people and the girl I so happen to be in love with.” Love. It was so easy for Y/n to say to Wanda despite everything she has been through with her family.

No one taught her love yet when she looked at Wanda, all she could do is feel it. “You feel so comfortable saying that around me yet I haven’t said it back,” Wanda joked. By now, her breath caught in her throat with how close they were getting.

By now, their foreheads touched as Wanda’s grip on the ropes of the swing tightened. “Well, I have a feeling that you will someday. And if you don’t, at least I got it off my chest.” And someday would be today.

Slowly, the two were leaning in when - RING!

The annoying alarm that blared through Y/n’s beeper made her groan. Now, someday would be in the future. “Uhhhhh - duty calls,” she said in distaste, however, Y/n had so badly wanted to stay with Wanda. Surprisingly, Wanda felt the same way. But vigilante duties were important to Y/n. So with another kiss on Wanda’s cheek, Y/n saluted goodbye. “See you Wands. You better practice saying those words now.” Y/n left with a wink and a smile on her face.

The room was tense as Y/n stood before her family. Sharp eyes looked into Y/n’s soul as they beckoned her to finally say her peace. “I don’t want to be a part of this family anymore.”

This type of tantrum was nothing new with Y/n. Everyone knew she didn’t like being part of this family but it never got this intense. “You don’t know what you’re saying Y/n,” her Dad reasoned but frankly, he was getting aggravated by this whole shenanigan.

“No, I do know what I’m saying.” She knew her family wouldn’t treat her seriously. They never did and she was hoping that they would once more because, after this fight, she would never come back.

“You’re throwing your life away, over what? Some girl?” The whole thing was quite pathetic to them. How could you throw the whole world away for somebody they believed Y/n hardly knew?

“She’s treated me better than you,” she countered. However, her family simply rolled their eyes at her statement.

“Oh yeah? Go ahead with your little friend then but don’t come running back when things go south.” The cigar in his hands was placed into the ashtray nearby. Y/n’s parents hardly looked when they heard Y/n’s footsteps leaving the room for they truly believed their daughter would come back. Because in a family like theirs, blood is the only thing you can trust.

Perched up on the balcony, with the breeze of the night flowing past them, Wanda and Y/n were laughing at the various things their powers did. However, the night turned with Y/n teasing Wanda endlessly. “I hate you,” she said as she slightly shoved Y/n as she smiled. “Sure you do,” Y/n replied with a smirk plastered on her face.

“I seriously do,” Wanda said as she noticed Y/n look at her lips. The two leaning in closer to each other. “Okay, and what are you going to do about it?” Y/n licked her lips as she could feel her heart explode with how little space was between them.

“Thi-,” the moment was cut short was Wanda’s phone rang. Their foreheads touched at the obvious annoyment to the interruption. Y/n had to physically remember to breathe as Wanda gave her a sorry smile. “Duty calls?” Y/n said to lighten the mood.

“Duty calls.” Seeing the frown on Wanda’s face made Y/n want to kiss her even more. “God, her lips must be soft,” she thought loudly. Wanda blushed at Y/n’s words but Y/n hardly noticed. All she wanted was to remove her frown. So she settled for the next best thing. She kissed Wanda’s cheek, letting it linger for a couple of seconds.

“See you later Maximoff.” Feeling overwhelmed with joy, Wanda shoved Y/n off the building as Y/n saluted her goodbye. Smiles were still plastered on both faces.

The ringing still went as Wanda saw Y/n successfully swing away. She picked up her phone with a sigh, having to remove all her flustered emotions as she answered the call. “Hello.”

“What the hell was that, Wanda?” She knew it was coming especially since the team had a very close eye on this mission. Failure wasn’t an option. “It was called acting, maybe you should try it, Tony.” She could already feel his eye roll from a mile away.

“You’re lucky I called when I did.” Luck...if it was luck, then her heart shouldn’t have ached this much. “Yeah...thanks, Tony.”

Y/n arrived at their place in huffed breaths. The adrenaline from breaking away from her family still running through her veins. “Wanda?!” She yelled out. The tunnel echoing her voice. “Wanda?!” There was still no response.

Before Y/n could call out again, the sound of combat boots echoed through the tunnel. Y/n sighed in relief knowing that Wanda was here. “Love - I think we can still make it before my family finds…”

Slowly, the figure stepped into the light provided by the moon. His chiseled jaw and god-like physique caused Y/n to go into a defensive mode. Y/n didn’t need to see the shield in his hand to know this was Steve Rogers aka Captain America.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Wanda?” Steve didn’t respond as he pressed his fingers onto his comms. “Target is here. Move forward.” Suddenly, Y/n could feel something latch on to her back, a spread of electricity shooting through her body.

Y/n dropped to her knees, groaning in pain as she still looked at Steve. A hard boot to her back made her face roughly connect to the dirty concrete. The electrifying feeling intensifying more than ever.

As they cuffed her arms and legs, Y/n couldn’t help but focus on how much her body was on fire. She thrashed and struggled in their hold and all she could think to yell out was, “Wanda!” Screams of pain and helpless begging for Wanda’s presence echoed through the tunnels.

And as Y/n slowly faded in and out of consciousness, Wanda stood at the exit of the tunnel, hearing the love of her life begging for her to save her.

Chapter 2

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[the-evil-duckling]

And now that Pride Month's over, Let's Talk About Pratchett.

The companies have taken down their flags. The marches and rallies are fading away. Rainbow colours are melting back into grayscale. And now that all the hubbub is dying down, let's talk about an author who did perhaps more than any other to introduce gender-and-sexual minorities to the public (and not just as a cute oddity to be cooed at from a distance, either).

Let's talk about an author whose works are perhaps the most representative, hard-hitting, and wholesome, in all of well-written English literature.

Let's talk about Pratchett.

Before we dive into the lovely little nitty-gritties, I want to just take a quick look at what Pratchett's writing really is, and what makes it so very exceptional. It's pretty simple, really.

He's funny.

That's the "secret" formula to Terry Pratchett's success across the global; he's funny everywhere, everywhen, across multiple generations and multiple decades and multiple geopolitical borders. You don't have to read Discworld with a lot of effort, thinking deeply after every line about the message the author is trying to convey. You don't have to analyze every character and every situation to see how the author is sculpting a crystal-clear mirror and holding it up to the face of Society. When I'm feeling down (cause college and life and pressure and dreams) and wanna start gouging out my forearms with my nails, I can just curl with one of my comfort books (like Men At Arms, or Unseen Academicals) and laugh and chuckle and just feel better. You can just enjoy it.

Now, I think, I can get to the fun stuff; analysing all of my favourite characters and the roles that they represent in mirroring Pratchett's view of People. (I should mention at this point that I am mainly going to be focussing on the Sam Vimes novels, and what I will be writing are my own thoughts and opinions. Anyone who knows more - or has just read/interpreted the books differently - is of course free to add their own musings.)

Fred Colon: Sergeant Colon is that rarest and yet most typical of things: Fred Colon is an ordinary person. He is no hero, or genius, or leader. He is not evil or even mildly malicious. And that is the very point that needs to be understood. People (most people) are not deliberately evil; they are, on the whole, fairly decent people who treat their friends well and try not to make enemies. It is just... petty selfishness, petty prejudices, petty apathy... all summated in every single member of the populace, and suddenly everyone knows that dwarfs are just money-grubbing bastards who'd bite your kneecaps off for a copper coin and trolls are dumber than the rocks they're made off but they'll as soon smash you to pulp as look at you and you can't trust a vampire cause they're too dead to be alive and-

Carrot Ironfoundersson: Captain Carrot is a cliché. Captain Carrot is a cliché wrapped inside a trope hidden in a Mary Sue, all turned on its head. Captain Carrot, rightful heir to the throne of Ankh, leader of all manner of beings, man who once beat Detritus in a fistfight... is not the hero of this story. In any other series, the story would have been of a brave new cop (who is also the king) standing up to the corruption and lawlessness of the Patrician while taking advice from his grizzled old half-drunk commander who dies four chapters into the first book with some vaguely portentous words that the hero remembers at the very last minute to give him the tools/strength/motivation necessary to keep fighting. But this is Pratchett. And the hero of the story, if there is one, is very much the grizzled old commander. Two other points have also always struck me about Carrot. The first is the matter of identity. Biologically, Carrot is very much a human, but in all other ways that matter he is entirely a dwarf - his name is Kzad-bhat, and even the deep-down dwarfs do not question his dwarfishness - and yet that does make him any less a human. In this is reflected the multiplicity of identity (not just of gender, which is what most people immediately jump to, but all identities). The second point is of the relationship between Carrot and Angua, which seemed to me a representation of a healthy dom/sub relationship. Unlike the twisted shit we find on ao3 (and in some published books that I don't feel that I need to name), Angua is at no point portrayed as lesser, weaker, incapable, dependent, or deferent. She is her own person, and the two of them just happen to have this kind of chemistry.

Samuel Vimes: Ahhhh. His Grace, His Excellency, The First Duke of Ankh, Blackboard Monitor Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch. The protagonist, if not quite the hero, of the series. He is not perfect, not even close. He is casually discriminatory (species-ist?) and thoughtless in most of what he says. his saving graces are that his discrimination is universally applied at all beings living and dead, and that he has never, not even once, allowed his personal feelings of prejudice stand in the way of justice (which is at times, all that separates him from Fred Colon). Does that mean that it's all okay, and everything is now fine and dandy and hunky-dory? No. Not even fucking close. Words matter and actions matter and even how you feel deep inside - all of it matters. Prejudice is prejudice, and it is always wrong. there are no mitigating circumstances, no 'yes, but...' that can make it acceptable. But only an idealistic idiot would say that it is not better than the alternative. And this is the reason that Vimes is one of my favourite protagonists; he is not a hero. He is real.

Leonard of Quirm: A parody of the public perception of a genius (perhaps of Roundworld's Tesla and da Vinci), I have loved Leonard as a character ever since I realised he was gay. Allow me to elaborate. As I was recently re-reading Jingo, I noticed a line that went something like 'He started drawing how The-Going-Under-The-water-Safely-Device could be improved, piloted by a muscular man who was not overdressed'. And just like that, a couple dozen other off-hand comments slotted into place and I realized the homosexual truth. And I love this portrayal of homosexuality, because most books or movies or tv shows or fanfictions with a gay MC (or even sidekick) tend to have a storyline roughly equivalent to 'hey my name is [insert name here] and I'm GAY and I have a destiny to save the world and my family and my GAY boyfriend whom I'm dating cause I'm GAY and before I go outside I have to pick my outfit really carefully better go with salmon-rose-flutter pink cause I'm GAY and now I'm outside and I'm not very popular and this is my tragic backstory cause a lot of people don't like me cause I'm GAY and-' Yeah. This is not good writing. By barely mentioning anything, Pratchett somehow still managed to emphasise that a) homosexuality is one of your identities, not all of them and b) just because a story has a character who is gay doesn't mean that the story becomes about a character being gay.

Trev Likely: One sentence. Just one sentence. 'Hating people was too much work.'

If you actually made it this far, you are obliged to reblog. I'm sorry, but I don't make the rules. (Please?)

[izzy-hands]

Hi you are a big inspiration for me🥺💛 could you please explain (in as less time as is convenient for you I hope I'm not being a bother) how you got the honey comb gifs together in this amazing set ? (Like the template+ the gif size settings)

https://lamberts.tumblr.com/post/652817593863913472/much-or-little-i-inquired-too-well

Thank you so much I will be eternally grateful💛💛💛

ooh, boy, ok. this ended up a little long, so putting this under a cut -

so, let me first start by saying that while i've been using photoshop for the better part of 20 years, it by no means says that I have any idea what the hell i'm doing. 🤷 literally everything here is just my own silly way of doing things, and i'm like 99% sure that there are far better, more efficient ways to get this done.

now that's out of the way, ok! so let's start with our base gif -

I wasn't really sure where I wanted to add the honeycomb or how I really wanted it to look, so I started by adding a bunch of them.

there's quite a few ways of doing this. I personally took a shortcut using Illustrator - I did a quick google image search for ‘honeycomb pattern’, copied one of the results and used illustrator to convert it into a vector (paste the image onto illustrator and click ‘Image Trace’)

after doing that, click ‘expand’ - and you’ll get a mass of vector objects (some representing the white background, and some the black hexagons). double-click the image, select the white vector, and remove it. then, you are left with a bunch of black hexagons which you can copy into photoshop as a vector.

a lot of the times illustrator is my go-to when it comes to a bunch of things that you can do almost as easily in photoshop just because i’m used to working with it when it comes to drawing/vectors. if you don’t have illusrator, or simply want to do this is photoshop, you can just draw a hexagon using the polygon tool: (hold down shift while drawing to make sure it stays aligned)

then, you can simply duplicate the original layer and start placing them however you like on the gif -

once you have all the hexagons you want, paste the smaller gif you want inside them on top of your existing gif. copy the same number of frames you have in your current gif from the new gif, and click ‘paste frames’ in the timeline panel context menu (blue arrow). select all the layers you just pasted and put them in their own group (red arrow) -

move that new group around (or resize it as well, if needed), and put it sort of on top of the hexagon you want to enclose it (you can still move it later, don’t worry). using the magic wand tool, select the hexagons you want this gif to appear in -

click the ‘add vector mask’ icon -

and... that’s pretty much it! keep doing the same thing with as many hexagons as you want (you can keep some blank, like I did here) -

if you didn’t place the smaller gifs exactly where you wanted them, you can simply unlink the layers from the vector mask (that chainlink icon between the group icon and the mask) and then you can move just the layers behind the mask, with the polygon staying in place -

since all of the little hexagon gifs have their own groups, you can edit them all differently in any way you like. if (like me), you wanted them all to have kinda the same look (in this case, I wanted them all to be grayscale as well, and give them slightly different coloring than the original, bigger gif), you can then create another group and put all the hexagons groups inside that, and add whatever adjustment layers to color it. you can then select all the hexagons, and use them as a mask for this new group -

and lastly, hide the layer with the white hexagons - and you’ll be left with whatever adjustments layers you put into that new master group leaving these pretty hexagon cutouts on top of the original gif -

and done!

hopefully I explained this properly? I had to skip over a few parts in the screen shots in order to stop this from being like 50 images long, so let me know if something needs to be explained further. <3

[plush-rabbit]

Soulmate AU - Sako Atsuhiro

Request: Ooooo all this Compress stuff has me yearning!! Can I request a little something for him that’s a soulmate AU - the one where when you touch your soulmate everything blossoms into color? And he’s being chased by the authorities and bumps into a bystander and sees color? He’s so shocked and frazzled he just marbles them and steals them away on the run? Then when they’re safe he’s romantic and also yandere? Pleeeaaase!!!

A/N: Headcanons because I think I wanna play with it since soulmate aus tend to be kinda story heavy, might do a story for this later if i think there's more to be said

-

It’s due to his own need to be the center of attention and announce himself that he is currently running away from the authorities. No matter what he throws at the oncoming heroes, he can’t escape them. His legs are starting to grow tired and he’s unable to properly think as he turns a corner, touching his body and transporting himself into a marble. While it’s difficult to gauge whether the heroes have passed, he holds his breath for a few moments before returning to his size. Just as he’s about to turn, he bumps into you, his hand coming out to steady you- he may be a villain, but he’s still a gentleman. His bare hand clasps around yours, gripping onto you tightly and pulling you close to his chest.

Just like that, in the same moment he held your hand, color blooms into his life. His head aches and his eyes burn, color seared into him and a flood of it overstimulating both you and him. You hiss, and close your eyes and while it be an innate thing for you to curl onto yourself, you curl onto him, resting our head against his chest and holding onto his hand with such a tight grip that it’s starting to sting a bit. Color is around him, painting the alley that was in a grayscale into something much livelier, something so full that it causes his chest to feel tight. You try to pull away from him, tears in your eyes- such a lovely color, he thinks to himself, he wonders if you think the same for him. It’s a bold world, one where you occupy such a small space, in soft colors that flower over you. Whether it’s the rush of color that suddenly filled him or you, tears well in his eyes.

In the distance, he can hear sirens. Whether it’s for him or someone- or something- else, he can’t be bothered to truly care about the significance. All he can truly care about is that you’re standing in front of him, living and breathing and holding his hand. You call him mister, trying to pull your hand away and he shakes his head visibly. The sirens approach closer and he simply can’t leave you there. He just met you. You’re in his hands- quite literally. The sirens grow closer, ringing in his ear and making the headache form that much sharper.

He only has a moment to think, and in a hasty thought process- that he’ll attribute to the headache- he wants to take you. You’re already in his hand- your sweet face looking up at him, the color in your eyes reflecting his own mask, the dim, orange light glowing against your pupils. He can’t convince you to run away from him, no doubt you have your own life, but he also can’t risk letting you go. It was hard enough to find you and who knows how it’ll be if you decide to leave him. He apologizes to you, his hand squeezing against yours. You gasp, and suddenly you’re in the palm of his hand- a pale blue marble looking up at him and finding its way to the center of his palm.

Panic courses through his veins, echoes in his heart and makes him unable to think properly. All he knows is that he has to be alone for the moment. Alone with you. He makes a quick stop at the League of Villains main hideout, stopping in and dropping off the things that were needed. His hand never leaves the inside of his pocket where he rolls you between his fingers. Worry must be evident on him, because right before he’s supposed to leave, a hand grasps onto the arm that holds you. He turns, pulling away quickly and grasping his hand around you. He just can’t be here. Something important came up- something he can’t exactly explain but he’ll be back, he promises to the League who can only watch in a mixture of concern and judgement.

A part of him worries that they believe he might be double-crossing them, but he shakes his head. They know him, they know he wouldn’t run away and betray them. In the same moment, he receives a message telling him to be safe from his friend. Once he’s in a safe place, he places you down worry making his lips raw. He needs to release you, he knows that. In a simple touch, you’re pulled away, flat on your back and looking around the dimly lit room with scared eyes. He calms your worry, his voice coming out in soft hushes, his hands raised as he hovers above you, pleading for you to relax. He won’t hurt you- how could he? He’s your soulmate and you’re his. His mask slowly starts to slip, his charismatic face coming off and revealing a spiral of knots and interconnected webbing that makes him lose focus and his charm. He’s frantic, pleading for you to stop crying.

You just need to understand that he couldn’t just leave you. He couldn’t let you just walk away from him when he was right in front of you. It takes quite a while before you stop to cry and even longer before he’s able to approach you. Your hand slips to the pocket of your jeans, and in that same second, he marbles your phone, throwing it into a small velvet sack where it’s lost with other items he’s collected and forgotten. You just have to understand that you can’t leave him. Not when he’s taken you with him. Not when you still haven’t calmed down and embraced him. He’s your soulmate. He won’t hurt you. You can sleep away from him, keep your back turned toward him. You can do whatever you want, as long as you’re comfortable. Your trust is something that he has to earn, he can deal with that.

Perhaps that’s why you both are soulmates, because like you,his trust is something to be gained as well. He can’t leave you alone when he’s going to go get you food, he has to marble you. He debates whether telling you that people are actually searching for you, but when you thank him for the meal, letting his hands rest over yours for a moment longer, he decides not to. When you start to cry, he’s quick to hold you, running his hand down your back and making sure that your arms are pinned between the two bodies. A warm feeling blooms in his chest when you stop fighting against him, when you finally lean into him. You finally start to face him, to reach out to him with cold hands, whimpering about how you can’t seem to fall asleep. Your hand will graze over his jaw and he can feel your breath. You’ll start to muse about the outside world, mentioning how if you both had met under different circumstances, he wouldn’t have been forced into doing what he did.

Time is ticking. He has to go back to the League eventually and he’s already promised you that he wouldn’t put you in a marble without your consent. Now, he simply can’t leave you. He can’t just toss you back into civilization with the simple promise of you keeping in contact with him. It’s easier if you stay with him. But while you may be more relaxed in his presence, he still knows that you want to be free. You still sleep with your back turned to him, your body curled in on itself. You don’t fully trust him. You don’t fully love him. His tongue brushes over his lips and he knows what he has to do. When you awaken, he’s rough, gripping you by the shoulders and trying his best to scare you. Despite you crying and having it break his heart, he doesn’t relent. It’s safer with him. People haven’t even searched for you. Your stuff isn’t even in your home- it’s been packed and shipped to some warehouse where it can collect dust. There’s no heroes that are prowling the streets, no missing posters- you’re a ghost, vanished in the dead of night by a man who would never stop searching for you if you disappeared. All you have to do is stay with him, let him protect you.

Atsuhiro is your only means of human contact. He’s the only one who’s shown you love and care despite stealing you. It’s safe being around him. Nice, even. He holds you and gives you the biggest portion of the meal, he keeps you warm and hasn’t actually harmed you. All you have to do is accept him as your soulmate, to view color and be with him. He’s sweet enough, a bit eccentric, but he hasn’t ever actually harmed you. It’s easy to accept his offer of a relationship. To offer yourself to him and beg for him to take care of you. His touch is gentle, pressed against your temple, his eyes a warm chocolate brown with hints of a velvety red. He holds your hand, his smile sweet like honey and he tells you that he’ll be your soulmate for as long as you’ll have him.

[felassan]

Dragon Age Library Edition Volume 1 annotations & additional pages/art compilation

Dragon Age Library Edition Volume 1 is a hardcover collection of some pre-existing Dragon Age comics that was released in 2014. It comprises of all issues of The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak and Until We Sleep. In places, it includes additional annotations/commentaries by the illustrators and authors, as well as a few additional pages with additional art. iirc these additional annotations and pages/art aren’t featured or available anywhere else (in the franchise I mean; other people have probably put them online at some point I’m sure).

From what I can see at least, Library Edition Volume 1 is no longer in print, and as such listings for it on resale sites etc are.. price-inflated & prohibitively expensive (~£100+, which I’m sure we can all agree is just not reasonable or accessible to most people). Due to this, I’ve compiled the additional annotations and pages here in this post. Thank you and credit to @artevalentinapaz, who kindly shared the material with me. This post has been made with their permission. The rest of this post is under a cut due to length.

These commentaries are in the context of The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak and Until We Sleep. If you notice any errors or annotations missing, or need anything clarified, just let me know. I think the annotations are in chronological order. In places I elaborated in square brackets to help explain which part of the comics an annotation is referring to. A note before you proceed further: some of the topics referenced in the annotations/additional pages are heavy or uncomfortable. The quotes here are word-for-word transcriptions of dev/creator commentaries, not my personal opinions or phrasings.

(Also, I do recommend always supporting comic creators by purchasing their comics legitimately. I own each issue of these comics having bought other editions of them all legitimately. The reason I put this post together is because this specific Library Edition volume has been discontinued and the consequently-inflated cost is so high, rendering the additional material inaccessible to most.)

-----

The Silent Grove annotations

Illustrator Chad Hardin: “I used to be an environmental artist for video games, so I built a 3-D model of Antiva City using the program Silo. Many of the buildings are simple cubes, but a few are more detailed. Overall, I spent the better part of a day building it, but I used it again and again throughout The Silent Grove to maintain continuity in the backgrounds.”

Script Writer Alexander Freed: “Even working with David Gaider, it took me several drafts to find Alistair’s voice. His narrative had to convey his humor and self-doubt from Dragon Age: Origins while suggesting a newfound weariness earned during his years on the throne. For readers familiar with the character, he needed to seem like a changed Alistair - but Alistair nonetheless.”

Chad Hardin: “If you read a lot of comics, you might wonder why the majority of the heroes wear skin-tight suits. Well, I can tell you: they are easy and quick to draw. In video games, you build the model once and then animate it, so details don’t slow you down. In comics, everything has to be rendered by hand. Varric and Alistair’s outfits were quite detailed. It took me a long time to get used to them, and even longer to memorize the designs until drawing them was second nature - Varric’s knee armor in particular! Oy vey!”

David Gaider: “One of my favorite scenes in the entire series [when Varric and Isabela are disarming traps and picking locks together while Alistair looks on]. Isabela and Varric, doing what rogues do. I had a suggestion for how to put it together, but Alex managed to make it fit and did a great job with it.”

Chad Hardin: “I never used to keep any of the artwork I created for comics. I would just hand the pages over to my agent to sell. This page [when Alistair, Varric and Isabela are in a tavern together, with hookah in the foreground] I kept for myself. I love the hookah-smoking elves in the second panel and Isabela’s face in the last panel. I rendered the first four chapters of The Silent Grove in grayscale using ink washes, gouache and Copie markers.”

David Gaider: “For a little while, Varric [in these comic stories] was supposed to be Zevran from Dragon Age: Origins, which would have made sense, Zevran being Antivan and all. I know that some fans would have loved to see him, but the dynamics of the group just didn’t work as well. Then a planned cameo later had to be cut for space. Ah well, Zev, another time.”

Alexander Freed: “Isabela at her most dangerous [climbing up the side of the cliff]. This scene - featuring a scantily clad, dripping-wet woman who tends to flaunt her sexuality - could easily have come across as exploitative, but Chad did a lovely drop portraying Isabela as purely focused and deadly.”

Chad Hardin: “Isabela rising out of the water and scaling the cliff with the knife in her mouth is one of my favorite parts of The Silent Grove. It is one of those moments where the writing really inspired the art. Hats off to Alex and David. This is another page I kept for myself.”

Colorist Michael Atiyeh: “This is one of my favorite Dragon Age pages. Chad is such an amazing artist; I feel very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with him.”

Chad Hardin: “I love that this page [when a guard spots Varric and shouts ‘Intruder!’] made it in uncensored. So many times in comics, I draw something and some stuffy lawyers come out of the woodwork and tell me to tone it down. Dark Horse and BioWare always let me have fun, and this turned out to be one of my favorite pages with Varric and Bianca. Any guesses to which word he is mouthing in the second panel?”

Alexander Freed: “Note the simple decency of Alistair as he gives his cloak, without comment, to Isabela. For all his flaws, he’s genuinely kind at heart - a rare enough trait in Isabela’s world that I think it’s much of what she values in him.”

Chad Hardin: “I love the opening panel to this chapter [the opening panels to Chapter 3, when the team are on a ship at sea]. It’s the image I use on the homepage of my website. This page was a gift to my cousin Wendy, who loves pirates. Seascapes with sailing ships might be clichéd in fine art, but for me it was a first.”

David Gaider: “I wanted to have this story center on the group travelling to a Witch of the Wilds other than Flemeth, and originally I had set it somewhere else - until I remembered a Codex entry from Dragon: Age Origins that offhandedly mentioned a witch in the Tellari Swamps. Brilliant! It’d look like I planned it all along. I didn’t.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love opportunities where I can show a change in the time of day as you move from panel to panel [when the ship heads towards and the team arrive in the Tellari Swamps]. I feel the palette of each panel is very distinct and beautiful.”

Alexander Freed: “Why did Alistair choose two people he barely knows to be his companions on this quest? We never make this explicit, but of course Varric is on the right track. Alistair wants to surround himself with people who don’t know him and won’t judge him, yet it’s Alistair’s idealism that Isabela and Varric work to preserve.”

Chad Hardin: “Another page where the writing inspired the art [when the group suddenly encounter a dragon]. I love the dragon bursting onto the scene and Isabela’s stare. Some writers will try to cram six or seven panels on a page like this and the pacing just doesn’t allow the artist to give each moment the right punch. Can you imagine if the first panel was crammed into a single square inch?”

Chad Hardin: “Yavana was one of the only characters that we did no preliminary sketches for. I don’t know how that happened, but thankfully it worked out.”

David Gaider: “I love how Yavana looks like a cross between Flemeth and Morrigan. Flemmigan? She’s totally Chad’s design, and it’s great. Typical for these witches, she never says things straight. In my mind, this Alistair is the one who did the Dark Ritual in Dragon Age: Origins - and I was half-tempted to have him lose his cool in this first scene [opening panels of Chapter 4] with her. Too early, though.”

Alexander Freed: “Through this whole sequence [the page when Varric aims Bianca at Yavana], Yavana is dropping cryptic hints and Alistair is refusing to play along. He’s met Flemeth and Morrigan - he knows Yavana won’t give him a straight answer, and he won’t give her the satisfaction of asking needlessly.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Sometimes it’s the little things on a page that spark my interest. Here [when the team navigate vines and mud to get to the temple], the sunset panel came out great and the mud looks really thick and gooey. It’s fun to focus on these details and make them stand out.”

Chad Hardin: “I hated drawing this scene [when Isabela gets kicked] where Isabela gets the boot to the face. Call me old fashioned, but I was raised to believe that only a coward would ever hit a woman (even a battle-hardened pirate adventurer). I draw at home, and my girls often watch me work in my studio. This was a page I didn’t want them watching me draw. I do like, though, that Isabela gets up, yanks the arrow out, and then soldiers on (and later extracts brutal revenge).”

Michael Atiyeh: “Poor Isabela. It seems I gave her more bruises and black eyes than any of the other characters. [when Isabela is yanking the arrow out]”

Chad Hardin: “It’s always interesting to go back and look at artwork because it reminds me of what was going on in my life at the time. I inked this page [opening panels of Chapter 5] at a ‘draw night’ session at an anime convention in St. George, Utah. I was one of the special guests, but I missed the first day because I was at my grandfather’s funeral in Las Vegas, Nevada. Seeing this page brought back those memories.”

David Gaider: “‘Bianca says hello.’ [quoting the panels being referenced] I adore Varric. I was tempted to have him narrate the entire series [in reference to these three comics], but then again I liked the idea of having each series center on one of the trio’s viewpoints. This book belongs to Alistair, but that doesn’t stop Varric from getting all the best lines.”

Alexander Freed: “Claudio, of course, is not a terribly sympathetic figure. But I wanted to emphasize that he takes this fight as personally as Isabela - he sincerely loved Luis and blames Isabela for the man’s death. I think it’s important to give every character, even the most loathsome, some dignity. [when Isabela and Claudio are fighting]”

Chad Hardin: “Payback! Here is where Isabela extracts her revenge on Claudio [when Isabela stabs Claudio]. I never enjoyed killing off a character so much. I particularly enjoyed putting the look of shock in his eyes. He had it coming. There is something satisfying about killing a ‘made man’.”

Chad Hardin: “Every now and then when drawing comics, I wish I could animate some panels and watch them as a cartoon. It would be great to see this sequence [when Yavana catches Claudio’s soul] in full motion as Yavana snatches Claudio’s soul, makes it reenter his corpse and then extracts information from him until he bursts into flame. It was a very Hellboy-ish moment. I enjoyed the movie that played in my mind while drawing this scene. Hope everyone liked the result.”

Chad Hardin: “As I mentioned on page 17, I rendered the first four chapters in grayscale, which made the black-and-white art look great, but had a neutralizing effect when it came to colors. By the time I drew chapter 4, I had seen the effect it was having and decided to stop using the grayscale so the colors would pop. When I saw this page [when Alistair says to Yavana ‘And we helped you find it’] in print, it confirmed to me that I made the right decision. I honestly feel this art was the best of The Silent Grove.”

Chad Hardin: “I practically painted these pages [when Yavana says ‘It is permitted. Tonight and only tonight’] in thumbnails hoping it would help me choose how to render them in ink. It is so hard trying to figure out how to get a full range of value out of just black and white. There are some artists and inkers that make this look easy. Mark Schultz comes to mind. Michael saved my bacon. Colorists really do so much work when it comes to rendering; this page came out awesome because of him.”

David Gaider: “Here we reveal the existence of Great Dragons (as opposed to High Dragons), and also that Yavana was the source of the return of dragons to Thedas after their departure for so many centuries. But why? There’s the rub, and not even Alistair can trust that she’s telling him the truth.”

David Gaider: “Here’s the controversial scene [Alistair killing Yavana]. I think some fans don’t like that Alistair did this, and have said they consider it out of character. I don’t. From his perspective, Flemeth and her daughters have been toying with the world for reasons that can’t be trusted. They dragged Maric away from his family, from him. One might think his judgement foolish, but considering what Alistair was capable of deciding even back in Dragon Age: Origins, it’s certainly not out of character.”

Chad Hardin: “[same scene as above] This was a controversial page, and there were a lot of people who thought it was out of character for Alistair to kill Yavana (I didn’t see it coming - I mean, you just don’t kill a Witch of the Wild), but here is the thing: this page is Alistair acting as a king. Yavana has been manipulating him, trying to play him like a pawn, and he just can’t allow that. There’s too much at stake, for himself and for his subjects.”

Alexander Freed: “The end? An end, at least [the trio walking off into the distance]. The series needed a note of closure while leading into Those Who Speak (which wouldn’t arrive until many months later). David tweaked the ending in the outline several times, and I did my best to balance resolving Alistair’s emotional journey without resolving the quest. It’s not as clean as I’d have liked, but fortunately, now it’s all in one volume...”

Those Who Speak annotations

Alexander Freed: “Capturing Isabela’s narrative voice was much easier for me than capturing Alistair’s - partly because I’d already written The Silent Grove, and partly because of my own writing proclivities. Rereading now, I wonder if I laid on the (mild) profanity a bit too thick. I’ll leave you to judge.”

David Gaider: “I like the additional detail Alex and Chad put in, letting us see more of Qarinus and more of Isabela’s crew. Alex wanted to give her crew more of a presence, and let her first mate have some face time, so they weren’t just parts of the scenery. Good call on his part.”

David Gaider: “I’m really fond of the formal getups Chad made for the party. Isabela’s actually comes from a concept we didn’t use from the cancelled Dragon Age 2 expansion, if I remember right. And Maevaris came from me asking for ‘someone who looks like Mae West’ - with the wonderful outfit all Chad’s doing.

Chad Hardin: “Maevaris. I love Mae. When David and Dragon Age art director Matthew Goldman spoke to me about designing Mae, they wanted her to be fully female with the exception of her biology. They told me to think ‘Mae West’. Well, when I think of Mae West, I think of her... womanly shape. So, drawing Maevaris was always walking a fine line between portraying Mae’s identity and her biology. The process endeared her to me.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Just like in The Silent Grove, we are introduced to another gentleman from Isabela’s past [when the team meet Lord Devon and Isabela threatens him]. As was the case with Claudio, he will meet his fate at her hands.”

Chad Hardin: “When I was drawing Titus, my kids asked me why I was drawing ‘angry Jesus’ or ‘evil Jesus’. I can’t remember which term they used exactly, but it made me chuckle. I was going for a mix of Rapustin and Joe Stalin, but ‘evil Jesus’ would do.”

David Gaider: “I’m not sure it’s apparent here [when Alistair says ‘I’d really rather not’], but Alistair was supposed to be using one of his Templar powers on Titus (that’s why Titus recognizes what he is on the next page) and disrupting his magic.”

Alexander Freed: “Isabela is witty and charming enough that it can be easy to forget that she’s not, in fact, a nice person. Even after finishing the outline, David was concerned about making her too unsympathetic - but I loved his approach in this series. The dark deeds Isabela commits - this murder included [Isabela killing Lord Devon] - are what make her guilt tangible and no easy matter to overcome.”

Alexander Freed: “I thought the notions of Isabela’s pride in her captaincy and dedication to her crew were some of the most interesting aspects of her character in David’s story. In scenes here [when Isabela is on her ship saying ‘Keep them focused and keep them sober’] and elsewhere, I did my best to emphasize their place at the core of Isabela’s world.”

Chad Hardin: “Most of the time I draw from imagination, but because of the complexity of this page [Qunari trying to board Isabela’s ship] I decided it would work better if I had photo reference. On this page are my nephews Jared (Varric) and Adam, my niece Melissa, my kids Erica, Tasey Michaela (Isabela) and Chad (Alistair), my friend’s daughter Amy, my wife Joy, and the neighborhood kids as Isabela’s pirate crew. (The crew member mooning the Qunari is out of my ol’ noodle.) I paid their modelling fee in pizza and root beer. Also, I had originally drawn cannons on Isabela’s ship, so if there are parts of it that look slightly wonky, chances are there was a cannon there.”

David Gaider: “Ever since the BioWare artists finally did a concept for female Qunari, I’ve been itching to include one in the game. It’s always slipped through my fingers, so I was going to be damned if I’d have a Qunari plot in a comic - without the same technical limitations - and not have one present.

Chad Hardin: “I had no idea this was the first time anyone outside of BioWare had seen a female Qunari.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I really like the lighting in this sequence [Isabela in her cell thinking ‘I haven’t eaten in days’], especially the strong white light and the characters in shadow.”

David Gaider: “The entire sequence of Rasaan interrogating Isabela was something I plotted out in detail when this series began. Here they discuss names - something treated in a manner peculiar to the Qunari, considering how much importance they apply to what things are called (and not called), because it forms the core of their identity. Isabela brushes it off, but as we find out later it’s also at the core of her identity. I liked that parallel.”

Alexander Freed: “To balance out the relatively static talking pages elsewhere in the issue, I hoped to make the interrogation and flashback sequences beautiful and full of information. I proposed an approach to Chad, and he wisely reshaped it into what you see here [the page with the scene where Isabela says ‘I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes’]. Anything that succeeds on these pages should be credited to him; anything that fails is my fault.”

Chad Hardin: “Probably the most challenging spread I have ever done. My friend Stacie Pitt was the model for Isabela on this page, and my wife Joy was Rasaan. I saved these pages [around the scene when Rasaan says ‘Mistakes can be corrected’] for myself.”

David Gaider: “Sten from Dragon Age: Origins becoming the new Arishok of the Qunari was something we'd planned even during Dragon Age 2. This was a great opportunity to show that, and also to show that Sten didn’t acquire horns even despite the makeover the Qunari received in DA2. Hornless Qunari are considered special, and Sten is no exception.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I think that David, Alex and Chad handled Isabela’s flashback [to when she was sold by her mother] in an interesting way, and it created a nice flow to the story.”

David Gaider: “This was a controversial scene [what happened to the slaves Isabela was transporting], the end result of a lot of discussions between me and Isabela’s original writer on the team, and it went through a lot of revisions over that time. It needed to fit with the story Isabela told the player in DA2, but fill in the blanks of what she didn’t tell. We didn’t want Isabela to be someone who became who she is because she was ‘broken’ but instead as a result of her own actions - yet also not be completely beyond redemption.”

Chad Hardin: “These were hard pages [as above] to draw. It was difficult knowing that events such as this are part of human history, such as the Zong massacre in 1781, where the British courts ordered the insurers to reimburse the crew of the Zong for financial losses caused by throwing slaves overboard when faced with a lack of water. Horrifying beyond words.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Here, Isabela visits here crew, and I wanted to play up that she was in the light and they were in a dark cell. The light streaming through the bars gave me the opportunity to highlight Brand, who also had dialogue in the scene.”

Alexander Freed: “I struggled to find a way for Varric to contribute to victory without distracting from Alistair and Sten’s big fight. I’m happy with the solution: a brazen lie seemed appropriate to the character without taking away from the main show.”

David Gaider: “I believe my original plan had Isabela’s and Alistair’s fight scenes happening separately, but I like how Alex intertwined them in the script and I especially like how this ends up highlighting the differences between their characters when their fights are resolved. Isabela is defiant, revealing her name not because Rasaan demands it but because it’s her choice. In both cases, mercy is strength.”

Michael Atiyeh: “The brush I created for the clouds really gave them a nice watercolor effect here [on the deck of the ship, Sten calling Alistair ‘kadan’]. That brush has become a staple in my toolbox.”

Alexander Freed: “With the strong theme of names running through these issues, I liked the notion that Isabela had outgrown being, well, ‘Isabela’. When her name comes up in Until We Sleep, it’s largely played with ambiguity.”

Until We Sleep annotations

Alexander Freed: “The story of ‘Arthur’ is one of my favorite minor sequences [Varric infiltrating and fighting his way into the fortress]. It tells us something about Varric and it delivers plot information - and it’s also a reminder that our heroes kill an awful lot of people during these series and cope with it in their own ways. In general, writing Varric let me skirt the edge of metacommentary, which I greatly enjoyed.”

David Gaider: “Varric, as always, is my ‘voice of the narrator’. Here he’s expressing some of my own amusement at Alistair’s growing list of peculiarities [‘Your majesty is quite the special snowflake’]. To think, back at the beginning of Dragon Age: Origins he was just the player’s goofy sidekick who grew up in a barn.”

Michael Atiyeh: “By the third series, Until We Sleep, I really started to have a complete feel for what I wanted the final art to look like. As an artist, it’s important to continue to evolve and grow. The close-up of Sten’s face [same page as above] is a perfect example of how I wanted the rendering on the characters to look.”

Alexander Freed: “David’s outline called for a short, somber reveal of the Calenhad story by Sten. Fueled by my desire to avoid ‘talking heads’ sequences, I scripted it as a full-on storytelling flashback. David made sure the history worked (at least from the Qunari point of view), and Chad did a beautiful job handling it in a mere two pages.”

David Gaider: “Blood is important in Dragon Age, as a theme. Here we tie in the dragon blood that was mentioned all the way back in The Silent Grove and explain what it means at last. I was a bit hesitant to tarnish the legend of Calenhad the Great in this way, but I comfort myself with the knowledge this tale is but a viewpoint and not necessarily the entire truth.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Titus melting the attacker is a great example of classic comicbook storytelling and exactly what made me fall in love with the medium.”

David Gaider: “I was really happy with how Chad handled the reveal of Mae as transgender [the scene with Mae in the cell]. My worry was that Varric finding her disrobed might be potentially titillating, but I think he handled it nicely. I only wish there was more time to have Mae properly respond to being exposed in this manner, even to a friend.”

Chad Hardin: “I originally drew Mae as female [same scene as above], then changed her anatomy, so the psychological violation and humiliation she felt would be the focus. Hope that came across.”

Chad Hardin: “When in doubt, have Bianca shoot it [Varric shooting the artifact].”

David Gaider: “This scene [Varric and Bianca the dwarf] with Varric was one I wanted to do for a very long time. We’ve hinted that Varric’s crossbow was named after a real person, someone he never wants to talk about. Now I finally had the chance to show why.”

Chad Hardin: “Of all my Dragon Age pages, this scene was hands down my favorite, because Varric is my favorite. It was awesome to get to draw Bianca in her dwarven form. These scenes give you a glimpse of the love Varric and Bianca shared. It doesn’t tell you the whole story, but you can assume plenty from what is shown. You get to see Varric mostly naked (you’re welcome), but most of all you witness Varric’s heartbreak. I felt privileged to draw it. I got so obsessed with drawing this page I did an entire watercolor painting based on the last panel [Varric gets up to leave, ‘This isn’t right’ - ? or perhaps the scene where he opens the door to leave].”

Alexander Freed: “Unreliable narrators are always tricky - done wrong, they can just confuse the reader. But I’m fairly happy with Varric’s lies throughout this series, most of which are used to downplay the emotional cost of events rather than whitewash the events themselves.”

Michael Atiyeh: “This palette worked perfectly [Varric standing in front of the doorway/portal in the Fade proper], but I can’t take all the credit because BioWare provided reference for the Fade. I added the hot orange energy for the doorway, which looks great with the sickly green sky.”

David Gaider: “This scene [Isabela’s Fade nightmare] was actually inspired by a fan named Allegra who did a cosplay as a Qunari version of Isabela. I knew I wanted something like this for Isabela’s Fade section of the comic, but it didn’t really solidify until I saw the cosplay.”

Chad Hardin: “Isabela is more affected by her encounter with Rasaan than we were led to believe. A portent of things to come?”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love this shot of Mae in the fourth panel [on the page where Isabela is affected by vines]. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention what a great character she is in the series, and Chad captures her beautifully in this shot.”

Alexander Freed: “I saw this issue as a sort of downbeat victory lap. Over the course of the previous series, our protagonists largely came to terms with the inner demons the Fade confronts them with here. The fact they’ve come so far lets them win this last battle... but they still have scars that will never completely disappear.”

David Gaider: “Maric was in the first two novels I wrote for Dragon Age. Seeing Chad’s rendering of him as a regal, grown-up version of Alistair made me incredibly nostalgic. Some characters you just never let go of.”

Alexander Freed: “I feel Varric’s lines (‘tell yourself the stories you need to tell’ but ‘never live your own lies’) are the natural endpoint of all the exchanges he’s had with Alistair, starting from the end of Chapter 1 of The Silent Grove. And of course it plays off the story of ‘Arthur’, as well.’’

Chad Hardin: “I’m happy with the way Titus came off in these pages [Titus attacking and saying ‘The last magisters of Tevinter were so close’]. He looks threatening and powerful when fighting Alistair, Isabela and Varric, but genuinely confused by his inability to defeat Maric. Bye-bye, evil Jesus.”

Alexander Freed: “I can’t help but feel for Titus. He was unthinkably corrupt, but I see him as genuinely motivated by Tevinter’s glory. (The fact Alistair reads zealous ideology as a lust for power says a lot about both characters.)”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love the seamless transition of color from Titus’ magic to the dragon breath and then back into the orange remnants of his magic in the smoke. This was a really fun panel to color [Titus saying ‘Die by what wrought you’].”

David Gaider: “‘You are not the dreamer here. I am.’ I always have a scene or a line that’s in my head when I begin a tale, and this line of Maric’s was one I wanted all the way back when I started working on The Silent Grove.”

Chad Hardin: “I love this page [Maric and Alistair clasping hands]; Mike’s colors are spot on. We get to see all our heroes in an ideal state for the last time. This is the last Dragon Age page I saved for myself.”

David Gaider: “This scene kills me [Alistair destroying the Magrallen]. I knew it needed to happen; I knew I wanted it to happen even back when I began the story. Alistair lets Maric remain in the Fade rather than dragging him back to a world which has moved on. Alistair’s ready to move on, but forcing him to give up that hope... it makes me feel like a bad person.”

Chad Hardin: “Heartbreak for Alistair as he realizes that once again, as a king, he must kill: this time, his own father (granted, the Magrallen did most of the work). I really like how Maric crumbles away in the end. This was my last page, and the emotions on the page and in my studio were very final. Altogether, this was a year of my life in the making. On my last page, I wrote a thank you to everyone involved, the crew at Dark Horse and the crew at BioWare. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank them again. It was a thrill. Finally, a huge thank-you to the Dragon Age fan community, whose support was overwhelmingly awesome.”

Michael Atiyeh: “As the story came to an end, I knew I was going to miss these characters. Writing these annotations reinforces the fact that I hope to work with this great creative team again one day. Many thanks to Dark Horse and BioWare for the opportunity to work on Dragon Age.”

Alexander Freed: “The tension between the art and the narration on this page [the one with Alistair sitting on his throne while nobles argue] is something you can only pull off in comics. Neither tells the full, bittersweet story alone. Similarly, these issues wouldn’t have been possible without everyone on the team; thanks to David, Chad, Michael, and everyone I lack space to list!”

Additional pages / art

Library Edition Volume 1 also came with some additional pages, with additional art and commentary. These are as follows (I’m including them for the sake of completion, click the links to see):

1. Alistair and dragon concepts

2. Rasaan and Maevaris concepts

3. Sten, Titus and Yavana concepts

4. A series of cover pages 1

5. A series of cover pages 2

In case anyone has trouble reading the notes that accompany these images, I’ve transcribed them below:

1. Dragon Age Sketch Book

Alistair Concept 

Dragon Age / Dark Horse

Chad Hardin: “The headshot of Alistair is from a finished sketch with a rejected armor design. In order to save time, the redrawing was completed on the computer, where tweaks and changes are quick and easy, if somewhat less glorious.”

[Dragon] Head #1 / Head #2

Chad Hardin: “Everyone liked this dragon sketch so much that Dark Horse printed it for signings at conventions. You can see I did multiple proposals for the dragon’s head. It was more effective than drawing the body over and over.”

-

2. [arrow pointing to Mae’s sleeve] concealed [I think that’s what it says anyway] daggers / shurikens?

Chad Hardin: “When designing Rasaan and Maevaris, I wasn’t exactly sure how their roles would play out in the series. Maevaris’ outfit was inspired by brothel madams of the Wild West. I thought it would be cool to have some weapons concealed in the formal wear. These never came into play in the series, but they were there in my mind.”

-

3. Chad Hardin: “Although we only see Titus in his battle garb in one issue, I really liked the design of his armor. The sketch of Yavana was done on the fly and served as both a rough preliminary sketch and as a panel layout. You have to work hard and smart in comics to keep up with the deadlines.”

-

4. Cover Artist Anthony Palumbo: “This was my first assignment for Dark Horse, and I was both excited and nervous. I drew pencil sketches of the main characters, scanned them and played with different arrangements, poses and color schemes in Photoshop.”

-

5. Anthony Palumbo: “Fellow illustrator Winona Nelson helped me by sitting for photo reference. I created the mock-jewelry with gold-painted Sculpey. That’s a quick photo of my own gaping maw, to help with the image of Varric.”

[ignisnocturnalia]

Hehehe I lied, but it is here now! Had a crisis about being done with my Band director's bull and wanting a grade on something really bad, did the former and decided to simply disintegrate once Friday hit. Drifter HCs will follow this, also may I say Caiatl. That is all.

Nokris x Reader

“You are a child reaching for a flame; the Taken Queen would not have you burnt.”

You were on point during the Strange Terrain strike, but you had never thought you would run into Nokris again. Granted, you realized, his death was on the physical plain while his Throne World still stood. Considering he never directly addressed you, you assumed that he either didn’t remember you or he chose not to, as oddly disappointing as that would be. The timbre of his voice unsettled you, but it was not as wracking as Xol’s; in fact, it was rather pleasing to hear.

The proposition itself was unexpected, and against Eris’s previous warnings you stopped to listen to what the Hive heretic had to say. Trekking quietly along the broken path of the distorted realm, you stopped occasionally to stare at blights littered over walls and floating in the air to see if you could catch a glimpse of the desecrated prince. The telltale sign of Taken emerging from their portals filled the air, and you genuinely prayed that you’re next decision was a wise one. 

Your ghost was probably screaming on the inside as you placed your guns to the floor, bringing your hands into the air while staring into the gleaming eye of a Knight. Grabbing your arm roughly, it tugged you through a massive doorway leading to a room that was strikingly similar to the Court of Oryx back at the Dreadnaught. The portal at the center of the room shimmered invitingly as the bony bastard himself came out; even in death, he appeared to be in his prime.

“I see you have heeded my advice; come, hope of the Light, see the Darkness.”

His claws are cold as he grasps at your shoulders despite the solar flame surging over his arms. Feeling bold, you let your own solar light extend past your body, lying comfortably across his neck with a warm glow. As a creature who worships the Darkness facing a servant of the Light, he reasonably withdraws with a hiss at your gesture

You won’t say it out loud because he obviously carries himself with extreme pride, but you can’t help but feel bad for him. How can one person be an exiled son, heretic, servant, and now puppet?

“I won’t serve Savathûn. But I think I wouldn't mind spending time with you.” Before he can question you, you are promptly pulled from the realm by Eris.

Cue Vanguard interrogation once you return to the Tower. The talk is so egregiously long you make a move that would make Cayde damn proud: “GuArDiAn, We’Re NoT yEt FiNiShEd WiTh ThIs DiScUsSiOn!” Hopefully your shining reputation will save you from any dire repercussions...

Tracing your steps back to where you first met, you look around suspiciously following the lack of noise inside the Hive breeding grounds. You had cut your comm ages ago, the constant ping of Commander Zavala’s hailing grating your ears. The ground beneath your feet crunched wetly with every step, and distantly you heard the first Hive screech. Turning in a guess to the source of the sound, you set off in a quick pace, gun in your hand.

Upon entering a new chamber, you froze in surprise as you saw Nokris lifting a Knight by the throat. Taken magic pooled in his palm and raced over the armor of the smaller Hive, the bone turning black and a bright white glow shimmering across its legs. Still gripping the soldier, Nokris slowly angled his head to look down at you.

“Little. Light.” Dropping the Knight with no grace, his imposing form closed in on you with haste. Before you could take a step back, his claws came up to close around your jaw and upper neck. The rough of his talons dug into your armor, and for a moment you worried he would pop off your helmet and let your blood boil throughout your body in the harsh atmosphere. Instead, he pulled you closer to his face and brought up his free hand to grasp your forearm.

Nokris easily dwarfed you; even if you stood on your own shoulders you wouldn’t be taller than him. Passively, your thighs rubbed against each other at the realization. A detail he decided he would catch. Teasing mirth danced in his three eyes, hidden malice swimming just behind small organs. Internally, you were probably going to pop your helmet off yourself if you got kink shamed by a Hive prince of all things. 

You squeaked quietly in surprise as he lifted you off the ground, the hand on your lower face readjusting to your hip. His hand, quite literally, engulfed your midsection as he brought you closer to him for inspection. This close, you could see every imperfection on his face. Second hand leaving your arm, you shivered as the prince ran a digit up the side of your leg and continued his way up, stopping thoughtfully at the junction of your jaw.

Staring into the glowing green embers of his eyes, there was no mistaking the murderous glint in them. At the same time, curiosity had made its home among his more dangerous faculties.

"You found me once, you came to me twice. Find me again, at the other side in the field of ash under the dark tower.” Letting you to the floor, Nokris turned his back and departed to Traveler knows where through the portal with the long forgotten Knight. Sinking to your knees in stunned silence, you looked down as a nearly imperceptible squeal broke the quiet. In front of you, was a Hive worm.

“No.” Before you could even speak, your Ghost gave its earful. 

“I can’t not take it! I probably need it to find him. Either way, I told you one of these worms would be coming home eventually, look at its wittle face.” Your Ghost made gagging noises as you fawned over the wriggling creature you held between your hands. Tucking the three eyed larva under your arm, you set out to find the way back out.

____________________________________________

The next week felt like hell. The worm continued to get bigger with every mission you went on and keeping it a secret from the Vanguard was close to impossible. You had been wracking your brain for the answer to his riddle, and to be completely honest, it made you feel inadequate that you couldn’t figure it out. You knew the other side meant the Ascendant Realm, but what was the dark tower? Where was the field of ash? You had initially thought it was at Skywatch, what with the Hive ship jutting out of the ground and the small pile of chitin inside the cave not too far away, but there wasn’t enough ash for it to be a field, nor was it under the ship point.

It wasn’t until a light snow dusted the Tower one evening that it all clicked. He didn’t mean ash ash. He meant snow! 

In a rush to the hangar, you waved a hasty goodbye to Holliday and transmatted into your ship, pulling out a layer of blankets to reveal your now cat sized worm. The grub squeed and reached its head up to your palm, crawling sluggishly into your hands. Holding the worm to your chest, you settled down in the pilot ship and gave your Ghost to plot a course. There was only one place on Earth constantly coated in snow with a structure that could be considered a dark tower.

“Ghost, set course for the Plaguelands. He’s at the Doomed Sea.”

You hadn’t been to the ravaged lands since the Siva Crisis; the whole territory gave you heebie jeebies. And yet, you were returning because one of humanity’s imminent threats wanted a chat that, realistically, ended with your head rolling on the floor.

The closer you got to your destination, the more restless the worm in your arms got. In fact, you could swear it was whispering something. Your skin crawled for a moment as you felt the phantom brush of his claw up your leg.

The moment your feet touched the ground, the world around you stuttered as the colors faded into grayscale, giving way to the Ascendant landscape. Below you, there was no mistaking the keen whispers of the worm. Its words were encouraging in a macabre way, praise and blatant lies; speaking of how well you fed it, talents being wasted on a god that heeds you not, urging you towards the ominous building looming over the shoreline.

Dust swept across at a rapid pace, as usual, in the warped realm. Coming up to the alcove, you saw him with his back turned to you. In a smooth turn, he faced you at last. Beautiful, blazing emeralds.

Relationship HCs

His idea of a relationship has wildly different parameters than any normal human would put up with

No matter where you are, or what you're doing, you can feel him at the back of your mind like a fog; it's a bit disconcerting to hear him talk in your head at first, but it becomes normal and he's actually quite helpful when you're out on missions

He expects you to help him study thanatonautics since you can die and be brought back within moments, but that's up to if you have enough charisma to convince your Ghost to let your bone boyfriend crush your skull repeatedly to see what you can learn about death

The relationship feels more like a symbiotic one rather than a romantic one, but you occassionally catch him practicing human gestures you've seen couples perform in public if he's feeling particularly good on a day

You're probably the only person who listens to him talk about all of his schtick and is able to give viable feedback; he is more thankful than he will let on about this fact

He does not like it when you try blocking him off from your thoughts and will demand to know everything you've done in the day when you see him again. In his perspective, he thinks you're trying to leave him behind like everyone else has

Will not handhold, because his hand can literally fit around your torso and because he thinks it's weird. He will, however, carry you places if you're going the same direction

He also thinks kissing is weird, but will (surprisingly!) actually let you give him kisses on his teeth; the sensation of soft flesh on his cold bones is unusual, but something he finds utterly riveting. Not that he'd let you know

Also doesn't like the amount of straight barbarity you inflict on the battlefield, but can appreciate your efficiency with your job; this is him silently worrying about your safety but refusing to acknowledge his crush on the flame throwing ape

His communication regarding affection is terrible, and if you couldn't tell shame on you. His favorite thing about you, that you will never hear from him or anyone else, is your face. He likes the way it changes into different expressions, the life in your eyes, and your lips because Hive physically cannot emote as expressively as humans do; you are an open book he has yet to read, adding new pages everyday

Nsfw 👁👄👁

First off, however you get the size difference to work, congratulations. His height over you is something he enjoys immensely when you two get into it, and it goes without saying he also likes how you "hug" him

He will fuck anywhere, literally anywhere. The floor? Yes. Against the wall? Yes. Hope you're somewhat of an exhibitionist, because he is not ashamed if any of his or Savathûn's troops walk in on you and will keep going

He bites a lot, and is not afraid to make you bleed because your Ghost can just patch you right up

Likewise, he will scratch you everywhere but he does stop to play with the softer spots

He is rough and fast, going after his own release rather than yours; however, he has high stamina so chances are you'll be overstimulated before he finishes

Absolutely a dom, he will not meet in the middle about anything of sexual nature

If you don't actively fight for your life during his build up, he will take that as the go ahead. He may be a Hive heretic, but he has standards

You don't really have the opportunity to find his sensitive spots as he usually restrains your arms, holding them above your head or pinning them down at your sides

He rarely makes actual noises, but he does hiss lowly whenever he makes particularly hard thrusts

He knows that copulation won't result in little Hive/Human hybrids running around with his blood in their veins, so 9 times out of 10 he will hilt himself and come inside you

Fluff

Uhhh, a w k w a r d

Anything that's fluffy is strictly delivered by you, and occasionally returned by Nokris since he doesn't get the point of such pleasantries

If you're fast enough, he will never get upset if you can sneak up on him for a smooch

Whatever he is doing, if you are available he much prefers having you by his side to have an extra set of eyes to help him observe (at least that's what he says)

Since his physical marks are healed quickly, he gifts you odds and ends from old planets his people have pillaged and little items you can wear on noticeable places

Hides it very well, but is extremely thrilled when you come to him when you want to do or learn something new

When you're particularly frustrated by something, he will comb his claws through your hair to his best abilities

Whenever you're with him, his demeanor is typically calmer; Savathûn's presence and influence over him is highly diminished in the face of your Light

The one thing he will willingly do with you that's remotely romantic is stargazing; not because of the romantic element, oh no, but because he wants to catalogue any changes and is very invested in teaching you about space faring

Has nicknames for you like Little Light or >Insert any game seal<

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 1: Logince

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 1: Your soulmate’s name is on your wrist.

Content: Flower/Tattoo Shop AU, background character death (unspecified cause, none of the sides), that’s pretty much it, it’s just soft Logince.

Word count: 2.7k

A small ding from the store entrance pulled Roman out of his thoughts, and he groaned softly. It was nearing the end of his shift, almost closing time, and another customer at this time would probably mean he was staying after hours again. All he wanted to do was go home and watch cheap reality TV in his sweatpants while shoveling handfuls of hot cheetos into his mouth. So sue him, it had been a long day. But nooo. Someone else had just walked in, probably someone with a very specific style that was out of season and they would argue for half an hour, no matter how many times he explained that tulips aren’t blooming right now, Vanessa! 

Sure, usually his customers were great. Nervous first anniversaries, eccentric brides, all that romance stuff. He loved it. And they were usually all too willing to give him a budget and a color scheme and let him go wild, which was the best part about his job. He was good at it, too. His boss had seen his eye for style and almost immediately gave him solo shifts, which meant decently good pay and hours alone to belt out songs amongst the flowers and daydream to his heart’s content. It was a small enough business that the only mandatory part of his outfit was a green apron, so he could wear whatever he wanted, and he didn’t need a pesky nametag. Those had always weirded him out just a bit. So yeah, he loved his job, but right now, he knew himself too well. He had awful luck. 

With a forced customer service grin, he poked out of the backroom and began his usual spiel of, “Thanks for coming to The Rainbow Bouquet, what can I get started…” 

His words died in his throat at the mere sight of the man before him. Never had he been so equally attracted and frightened at the same time.

He was tall, probably just taller than him, but he held himself in a way that made Roman feel miniscule. Both arms were covered in tattoo sleeves, the left one a flurried mix of black and white and color, beautiful strips of pink and blue galaxies blending with grayscale skulls and clocks. The other had more order; shadows of a forest growing from around his wrist, shimmering mist curling up over his bicep and ending with a full moon stamped on his shoulder like a crest. A corner of something peaked up around the collar of his torn vest, and if Roman had to guess, there were most likely plenty more tattoos that were covered by his ripped black jeans and blue Nasa shirt. Not that his mind was going there at all, no siree. 

Once Roman’s brain had screeched to a halt back in his body, he spoke again.

“What can I get started for you today?”

The man swallowed with difficulty, taking in the rows and rows of flowers surrounding him. He definitely didn’t look in his element.

“I need an arrangement for my mother. She’s in the hospital.”

Ah, the part of the job that Roman didn’t enjoy. Probably half the orders that came in were for sick people or funerals, and those were always a lot harder to arrange. It was always hard to find joy in creating for something so dismal.

“I’m sorry to hear. Did you have anything specific in mind? Does she have a favorite flower?”

“Daisies. She likes Daisies,” He murmured, still admiring the space around him. Roman couldn’t help but smile at the man’s expression. It was just a little awe inspired, a little bit of childish wonder, under that rough exterior. It was a gorgeous shop, that’s one of the reasons Roman had started working there.

“That’s good, it makes it a little easier for me to design something when I have that to go off of. Do you have a budget, or…”

He shook his head weakly, finally turning to look at Roman. “Price isn’t an issue. This is one of the last things I’m going to be able to give her.”

“Oh,” Roman whispered, slowly putting down the pen he’d been writing with, “I’m so sorry.”

“It can’t be changed. There’s no point in losing sleep over it.”

“Just because it’s going to happen doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. You’re allowed to be sad about it.”

The man narrowed his eyes, giving Roman a once over before lifting his chin slightly. “I don’t need advice from a stranger.”

“Of course you don’t,” Roman quickly corrected, remembering he was still at work, “My apologies. When did you want to pick it up?”

“I’m visiting her tomorrow at noon. Could it be ready by then?”

“You bet. Can I have a name for the pick up?”

“Logan.” Roman’s pen skittered over his notepad, almost falling through his fingers. 

Having a common name on your wrist was a curse in and of itself. And poor him, the hopeless romantic that he was, had met countless “Logan’s” in his day, and consequently fallen for most of them at first introduction, only to figure out quickly that they weren’t destined for a “Roman”. As inconspicuously as possible, he tried to glance down at Logan’s wrist, only finding a mass of swirling tattoos covering his skin. Dammit. There were some people born without soulmates, or had their soulmark fade to nothingness when their person passed away, and he tried not to think too terribly hard on which one Logan was. He tampered his rush of excitement as quickly as it had arisen and turned back to his notes, ignoring Logan’s raised eyebrow at his sudden stop.

Roman scribbled down the name and phone number as it was given, setting down the notepad with a customer service smile. The man spent no time dawdling, immediately starting towards the door, only to hesitate before walking out.

“Her favorite color is yellow.”

Roman nodded, the fake smile slowly morphing into an authentic one. “I can work with that.”

It was now a week after Logan had picked up the bouquet, a somewhat awkward interaction filled with small compliments towards the arrangement and Roman nearly dropping the flowers as their fingers touched while passing it over. As he was ringing up the total, he’d been able to uphold a brief conversation where Logan revealed he was a tattoo artist (no shock, considering he showed more inked skin than plain), and Roman showed off his rose tattoo on his upper arm. It would have been fine if the conversation ended there, but no, Logan had to reach up tentatively to brush his finger along the edge of the piece, commenting off handedly about how the color had started to fade.

“How long ago did you get this done?”

“Probably ten years, give or take.”

“You’re what, mid twenties? There’s no way you were legal ten years ago.”

“Who said I was?” It was said with a small wink that made Logan pull his hand away, an action that immediately dampened Roman’s mood.

“If you ever want it touched up, come by the shop. It’s just down the road.”

Roman had promised to consider, pulling the collar of his long sleeve shirt back up over the rose and bidding the man a good visit to his mother. Even now, a full week later, he couldn’t help his thoughts that were so centered around the tattoo artist. So maybe that was why Logan walked back into the shop the following Wednesday. I simped so hard I summoned him, Roman thought weakly as the gorgeous man strode straight up to the counter, leaning on it like he owned it. 

“I have a question.”

“What’s your question?  

“A client asked me yesterday to design a tattoo for her. A bouquet, seen from the top, and all she specified was it should feature hydrangeas, and she asked me to, quote, ‘go nuts’.”

“This isn’t sounding like a question so far.”

Logan sighed apprehensively, adjusting his glasses, “I was hoping you could give me some ideas on how to start. All the tips I found online contradicted each other in some way or another, and the arrangement you created for my mother was so well done…”

He trailed off, giving Roman a look that clearly said I need your help but don’t make me ask for it. Chuckling slightly, he leaned onto the counter as well, his face inches away from Logan’s. For the first time, he could see the small piercing on the man’s tongue as he sighed again. God, that’s hot.

“I’ll help you. On one condition.” 

“Being?” 

“Help me design my next tattoo.” In full honesty, he hadn’t even considered a second tattoo until that second. 

“Deal.” There was no hesitation in his answer, and he took Roman’s offered hand, barely shaking it in the small space between them. 

“Alright!” Roman pulled back, satisfied but disappointed as their hands separated, “Let’s talk flowers!”

And talk they did. For hours, in fact. It started with Logan’s tattoo dilemma, and Roman’s skillful eye and creative mind solved that problem in a flash, crudely drawing out a bouquet idea that fit all the criteria. The tattoo artist took it from there, using the notepad paper and Roman’s sketch, along with a quick round of the shop to see what the recommended flowers, fillers, and greens would all look like, and drew out a detailed piece that put Roman’s own art talent to shame. After explaining that his shift was done at the parlor and he had the rest of the afternoon free, Roman invited Logan to stay for a while longer, seeing as his day had dragged on customer-less so far, and he was bored. Plus, now was as good a time as any to pay back the favor. Two mugs of breakroom coffee later, the two were huddled around the counter, Roman describing his ideas and Logan sketching them like there was no tomorrow. Maybe half way through the brainstorm, the conversation switched to Logan’s mother (which he talked about hesitantly), then to Roman’s family, slowly changing to the absurdity of satin couch cushions, then to their favorite foods, and finally ending with a loud debate on whether pineapple deserved to be on pizza.

“It’s a fruit, Logan! Why the hell would you put fruit on a pizza?!”

“All I’m saying is that the sweet flavor of the pineapple balances out the tanginess of the marinara sauce, and adds more to the plain crust!”

“That doesn’t make it right!”

Logan had to go soon after that, wanting to visit his mom before visiting hours ended. He left with a begrudging smile on his face and a promise to come back another day, drawing an ear to ear grin from Roman. He’s just a friend, he reprimanded himself sternly, all the while sliding the drawing of his next possible tattoo into his phone case with startling reverence. No use getting attached to some who wasn’t his soulmate. 

Yet, he still couldn’t help but feel saddened as a week passed again, then two, then a month. His job had returned to it’s boring normalcy, with only the flowers and no cute boy to keep him company. Even when he sat at his little desk next to the counter, hands working effortlessly to string together order after order, he couldn’t help the occasional glance at the door. The hope that his prince charming would waltz back in, piercings and ripped clothing galore, never faded. 

A month and a half later, the little chime above the door dinged, and Roman glanced up from his handful of Baby’s Breath (seriously people, there are other fillers). Immediately a huge smile pulled at his lips and he dropped the half finished bouquet onto his table.

“Logan! What took you so… long…” His expression morphed into one of worry as he took in the other’s appearance. Gone was the usual grunge attire he was so prone to wearing, replaced with a black hoodie and beaten up Vans. His eyes no longer held that dangerous glimmer that had intimidated Roman so much when they first met. He just looked… small. Logan had never looked small before.

“My mom died last month,” He whispered.

Roman was over the desk in a second, pulling the man into his arms before he could protest. It took Logan a second, a long, awkward, stiff second, before he let his arms wrap around his waist, allowing his forehead to rest on the florist’s shoulder. 

“I thought I’d be okay when she died… it was inevitable. It was her time… so why does it still hurt so bad?” The desperate whisper shattered Roman’s heart. 

“You’re allowed to feel sad, Logan.” He felt him merely shake his head in response, but he said nothing to push the topic further. 

Logan didn’t cry as they stood there, though he clung to Roman almost desperately. If he had to guess, the poor man was probably already cried out. He looked exhausted, and his unusually slumped posture only weakened more when Roman tightened his arms ever so slightly. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. You were probably waiting.”

“Hey, no apologizing.”

“I just… didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“So what changed your mind?”

Logan shrugged, still not pulling away, “I couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it. And I needed someone who wouldn’t laugh at me. If our few interactions were anything to go by, you were that person.”

Roman decided to ignore the blatant implication that Logan didn’t have anyone except a practical stranger to go to. They could talk about that later, if he decided to stay for a while. Roman really hoped he did. 

When the tattoo artist finally pulled out of the hug, many minutes later, he pushed his sweater paws under his glasses to scrub at his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t cried, but he sure was close to it. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I don’t even know your name, and I-”

“It’s okay, stop-” Roman reeled back slightly, eyebrows shooting into his hairline, “Oh… sweet Zac Efron. I never told you my name! Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

“It felt too late to ask,” Logan smirked subtly despite himself, letting his hands fall back to his side.

“Oh, my sweet summer child.”

“I am none of those things.”

Roman sighed in soft exasperation, smiling at the barely perceivable glimmer in the other’s eyes. Ah, there it is. “My name’s Roman. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

He was instantly concerned with the way Logan’s face fell into one of total shock. Shit, what did he do wrong? The fear was quickly replaced with understanding, however, as the artist’s hand drifted to his right wrist. 

“What are the chances that your wrist says my name on it?” Logan said it like he was scared to be hopeful, like a happy ending was just not imaginable for him. Roman couldn’t comprehend all the emotions he felt at one time; elation, shock, fear. He answered in a choked voice, smiling all the while. 

“One hundred percent.”

The both upturned their arms in near harmony, Roman pulling his gardening glove down to reveal the name. He squinted at Logan’s wrist, finally noticing the small writing that just barely stood out underneath a grayscale (anatomically correct) heart. No wonder he missed it before, it almost blended in with the outline. 

And then Logan did cry, but so did Roman, so it was a little more okay. He seemed more confused than anything as Roman pulled him back in, holding him even tighter than before.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I’m so unused to… well, feeling. I’m not usually like this, I believe I’m just sleep deprived and worn out from-”

“You never, ever need to be guilty for feeling, you absolute punk stereotype.” Roman pressed a long kiss to the other’s temple, letting him unwind in his arms. “We’ll work on that together. I promise.”

A muffled affirmative hum was all he got in response. He pressed another kiss to the top of Logan’s head as his crying slowed, breathing out heavily into the man’s hair. Together. That’s all that mattered.  

Peep this gorgeous art piece for this fic

[yawnjunie]

so you’re the artsy type, huh ❦ cbg (1)

Genre: fluff, university au, crack (get ready for a bad take on comedy)

Pairing: broke artist!reader x art sponsor!beomgyu

Word count: 7k

Summary: After spending way too much time chasing after an impossible dream, you weren’t too sure you wanted to continue with your lifelong passion— art. One eventful day at the museum steered you onto a road full of twists and turns, and you unexpectedly found yourself wading deeper into murky water with your new employer.

A/N: a huge thank you to @noiaeu​ and @halohyuka​ for being my beta readers! anyways here is a long overdue fic that was a 20k+ word monstrosity but is now a series. happy reading!

— blu and struz

You tapped your feet absentmindedly against the grimy tiles of the cheap burger chain as you waited. The atmosphere that usually felt bustling and welcoming now felt stuffy as your stomach churned each passing second. The waitress walked past your seat as she served the customers behind you, the fragrant aroma of the burgers on her tray prompting a vicious growl from your stomach. Sighing, you checked the time on your phone: 8:52pm. Scrolling past the inactive conversations with your “friends” (you didn’t really know what to call them because you tried to ask them out and got rejected; you’d kept those conversations anyway because you were too attached to them), you sent a quick message to a number you wish you didn’t need to text today. Without a second thought, you picked up your belongings and left the small burger shop.

Thank goodness, you knew just the perfect place to drown your sorrows in.

You called for the nearest taxi to the small food shop by the name of Mrs. Lee’s Mandu House.

“What happened this time?” A stout lady with an apron asked, peeking her head out of the kitchen, setting down a large bowl of dumplings in front of you. She made her way to the condiments shelf. “Kimchi?”

“Yes, please. I got stood up again.” You grumbled, stuffing a large dumpling into your mouth ravenously. Then, speaking through mouthfuls of food, you continued. “Maybe I should just stop trying altogether. Change my major to agricultural studies and move to the countryside while I’m at it.”

Food had never tasted so good! The savory filling of the dumplings literally melted in your mouth, and soon the blaring sound of the old AC and the sound of the kdrama from the TV had just blended into the background. It was nice not having to listen to anything.

“Aw, don’t say that.” The woman replied as she set down a pot of kimchi and a plate of kimbap on your table. The friendly ahjumma took her seat across from you and set down a bag of melon seeds. “Trust me, it’s going to be hard. You’re just in your first year of college! You’ll get there someday.” Then, she continued on to tell you about other people she knew who had it harder than you, but all that faded into the background noise, along with the AC and the TV. That sentence was the only thing you heard, and although there weren’t any lemons in the soup, everything that you ate suddenly started tasting sour. Sometimes, even the best food cannot drown out the bitterest words.

You’ll get there someday.

Foomp. You flopped onto your bed with a small grunt as your back met the soft mattress. Throwing off your glasses to the side, you massaged your eyeballs and then looked at the ceiling. It was grey. The same grey that you saw before going to sleep at night, the very same grey that greeted you when you awoke in the morning to another unexciting day. The more you stared at it, the more the popcorn ceiling looked just like a grey mass with a few monotone specks here and there.

You were always told to look to the future and stop dwelling on the past. And that was a long shot, given that all you saw in front of you was a blurry ceiling.

What is this feeling? You let yourself sink a little deeper into your mattress, lazily shifting your gaze to the left, where you saw your huge Gabriel Garcia Marquez poster taped to the wall. Solitude. Looking back, you supposed that was how you’d been living your life thus far.

Doing jobs here and there, never really achieving anything big.

Single as hell.

It was days like this that made you feel not quite sad, but just really demotivated. A reminiscent smile flickered on your face as you turned your head to stare at the wall, unto which the light that peeked through the overcast sky cast a faint shadow. Words like “lonely” and “outcast” didn’t mean a thing to you. The fact of the matter was, you didn’t have anyone, and the universe sure didn’t put an effort to sugarcoat that fact.

Rolling lazily to the edge of the bed, you finally sat yourself up. You walked over to your desk, pulled out the wooden chair, and turned on the lamp. Then, you took a moment to tie up your hair before looking down at what was lying under the spotlight of the lamp.

Amidst the blizzard of eraser shavings and the familiar scent of freshly shaved wood stood the lead outline of a girl. Shoulder-length hair up in a high ponytail, a soft, rounded nose, chapped lips, and blank, unsuspecting eyes with dark circles hanging below them. Looks like she’s never seen a day of joy in her life. Looking into the mirror standing to the left on your desk, a very tired girl with a dark face stared right back. Dusting off the eraser shavings into the trash bin next to the desk, you commended yourself for the superb self-portrait. 

At the insistence of the tightness in your right wrist and the crick in your neck, you set the pencil down and extended your arms to stretch your back. When your eyes fell upon the drawing once more, a wave of disappointment washed you back onto the shore of frustration. Yet another addition to the ever-growing pile of wasted white paper. A part of you argued that art was not a waste, which was true enough. Art made by you, however, was a different story.

What happened to me? All that time, effort, and energy never really amounted to much. After all, you’d only seen the world in black and white. It was as if someone took a giant paint tube and squirted an awful lot of grey paint everywhere.

After all, who’d ever heard of an artist who couldn’t tell orange from blue?

–––

Even the song playing in the background mocked you with every word.

♪ I see trees of green,

red roses too ♪

♪ I see them bloom,

for me and you ♪

♪ and I think to myself

what a wonderful world ♪

You glanced around tiredly as you saw your classmate’s boyfriend carry a stack of canvases for them. For someone who, one: saw the world in grey, and two: had never gone on a date, the world was anything but wonderful. You felt your eyelids drooping despite the hard, wooden stool jutting into your buttcheeks. Drowsily, you turned your gaze to your art pieces. Noticing the other students coming in to set up their pieces, you straightened up your back and set your bag down on the stool. You took a deep breath and swung your arms nervously in an attempt to garner a sense of purpose and hope. You got this! You whispered encouraging phrases to yourself under your breath, smiling at the students who bothered to greet you first.

Today was your first time participating in a student exhibition. Although it was quite unconventional for first year students to be showcasing their work in the advanced exhibition, your teacher had been nice enough to make a spot for you. Well, it was more like you practically begging her to consider you, because of your current family situation. You terribly did not want to sound like that broke college student™, but sometimes, a little bit of courage to fight against the stone cold reality was useful. And of course, Ms. Kim, being the benevolent soul she was, granted you special rights to participate.

This year, the exhibition was being held in the empty room at the Museum of Modern Art. Attendance of the students was optional, but a good handful of them came, hoping to get a professional review, or even a sponsor for their art. The moment you walked in, you held your breath—the entire room was empty, all six surfaces painted white. It was the brightest room you’d ever been in, yet the temperature seemed to drop 100 degrees.

It’s fine. This time, things will be different, you told yourself in an attempt to shake off the dread that settled in the pit of your stomach. Fifth time’s the charm, after all.

It may have been your first time participating in a college exhibition, but you’d participated in countless art competitions as a kid. You were like a wildfire, and there was no award for a competition you entered that you didn’t win. Now, it felt like you were back to base one. After all, who has that easy of a life? Those days of your easy childhood life were long gone.

You tried not to think much as you sat uncomfortably next to your paintings. For the first hour or so, you made a point to look each passing person in the eye, a wide smile plastered on your face. The second hour, the corners of your mouth started to twitch beyond your control. By the third hour, you found yourself staring at people’s shoes more often than their faces. As the minutes ticked by, you kept your eyes trained intently on the floor, mouth pressed firmly closed. Glancing around the room, you tried to take your mind off of your worries. But you couldn’t help but be envious of your classmates, who were getting noticed by the professional guests.

That’s okay, there’s always next time. Guess today just wasn’t my day.

It was beginning to feel like no day was your day. A warm sensation pricked at the corners of your eyes when a voice pulled you out of your thoughts. 

“Ma’am, excuse me.” A woman in a worn out blue outfit approached your stand. 

Being as desperate as you were, you hastily wiped away your tears from all the yawning and slapped a smile on your face, mustering up the peppiest voice you could manage. “Hey! How can I help you? As you can see, I work exclusively in grayscale, and I mostly do portrai–” “Miss–” the lady interrupted, “it’s closing time. Could you please pack your things?”

Upon processing the sight of the tattered mop in her hand, realization hit you like a truck, and not just any ordinary truck— it was a Belaz 75710 filled with 496 tons of rocks and sharp glass. That was a fun fact you stumbled upon while scrolling on Instagram; the fact that you somehow retained this useless information made you silently curse yourself. Your smile was frozen in place as you gave a series of curt nods. “Oh. Okay, I’ll start packing.”

The kind woman nodded back and started to walk away, but stopped and turned just a few steps away. “Don’t feel too down. Sometimes, life just doesn’t go the way you want it to. It’ll get better, trust me.”

“Yeah.” You replied coldly, not bothering to mask your sadness. Attempting to muster a small smile in gratitude for her kind words, you gave her a thumbs up before she left the room. It kind of hurt, getting pity from the janitor. But in a way, you felt a little comforted. At least you knew you weren’t the only person struggling. Robotically, you placed the canvases onto your utility cart one by one, then started folding up the easels. When the janitor’s footsteps had faded away, the only thing disrupting the silence was the rain. 

Plip. Plop. With the accompaniment of the beating of the raindrops on the rooftop that rang in your ear like a dull symphony, it only seemed natural for your tears to fall. And this time, there was nobody to interfere with your sob session. 

And on that afternoon, in the empty art hall, you cried your heart out. There was only one question that gnawed at the back of your mind relentlessly, like a famished dog on a bone twice its size. Should I just give up on art? The thought of it just made you cry even harder. Art was your everything.

From the moment you’d grasped the thin body of the paintbrush on your doljabi, you’d fallen in love with art. Throughout your childhood, you’d spent your days drawing. From drawing on plain computer paper to painting entire murals on your bedroom walls - you did it all. Everyone was sure you’d become an artist when you grew up. You’d even kept a money jar by your bed, which you’d used to store money for new art supplies and eventually, art school. You were happy. You had a good eye for color. 

Thunder crashed outside as that memory resurfaced in your mind. Back then, you drew like there was no tomorrow when you could see colors. Until the world became dark when your colors, your precious colors were taken away. And the world remained dark ever since. They all pitied you, sending a sigh your way in condolence for your loss. You didn’t need or want their pity, of course. All you’d ever wanted was an answer, a reason to why they left your eyes. 

You wanted to blame it on something, but what could you do? Every night you prayed, praying desperately for your colors back. But every morning, the ceiling remained grey. So did the sky when you walked to work. Pushing your shabby cart with a loose wheel down the hallway full of eccentric art pieces, you didn’t even spare a glance at them. Well, other than to avoid being noticed by the few people who were still in the museum, to which you hid your swollen face in the opposite direction and choked back your sobs. Well, what can you do now, y/n? It’s not your first time participating in an exhibition anyway. There’s probably someone out there having it harder than you, so suck it up! Everything will be better once you get back home… 

Just when you were nearing the entrance of the museum, you heard a different pair of footsteps from your own behind you.

“Hey.” You jumped out of your skin at the tap on your left shoulder. Caught by surprise, you found yourself stumbling backwards into your cart. You lost your footing and down crashed your rear end. By attempting to hold onto the cart handle for balance, your art pieces now seemed to fall in slow motion, the cart suspended in the air as your mouth hung open in horror. You reached out to grab it, but unfortunately, you were an aching 2 centimeters short of saving your artwork. The cart toppled on top of your canvases with a comical crack, wooden splinters flying everywhere. The empty utility cart squealed defeatedly as it toppled to its side, a loose wheel still spinning.

You felt your head spin even faster, as you grew increasingly frustrated by your inability to comprehend what had just happened. Holy shit.

Strewn across the floor, battered and broken, lay hours upon hours of your time, your hard-earned money, along with the last strains of your hope of becoming an artist. F*ck!

Eyes wide and mouth agape, you turned to face the perpetrator of the tragedy. 

This is the part where he apologizes and promises to make it up to me, then gives me his contact info and we go on a date and he falls for me and we live happily ever after. Or so you hoped, you thought. The thought was so ridiculous that you could have burst out into laughter if it hadn’t been for the fact that the fruit of your blood, sweat, and tears was now a bunch of broken wood and torn cotton on the floor. F you and your last brain cell, y/n. Get yourself together and snap out of it. You were convinced that you were so sleep deprived from your K-drama binging session this morning at 4am that you’d convinced yourself that you were living the next episode.

Chances were low that the two of you would get together and live happily ever from an offense like this, but even so, he would have to compensate for the damages somehow. Now that you came back to reality, you realized that you couldn’t even make out what the guy in front of you looked like. “Okay, but what if he’s like, your next patron or something.” You don’t know if you muttered that out loud, but your odd behavior was really annoying you today. Shut up, it's not like he's Song Kang! Stop it! Nevertheless, you bet on the Balenciaga slides that he was wearing that he would pull out a business card the next moment.

You stared into the boy’s eyes expectantly and he met your gaze. You felt your pulse quicken as he opened his mouth to speak, eagerly awaiting your compensation. Hello hello, my next patron. This is the moment that marks my upgrade to a better life.

“I am so, so sorry about this.”

“You should be.”

As he spoke, the boy pulled his cap lower and threw on his hood. “Not just about me breaking your paintings, but also this.” Dammit, what have I gotten myself into?

And then he bolted.

🏃 💨

“Wha– hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

He slammed his body against the glass door and ran into the rain while you followed in close pursuit. However, after a few wobbly steps, it occurred to you that you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion, so you took off your heels and continued the hunt barefoot. 

Still, even under normal circumstances, you weren’t much of a track star. Wearing a blazer with suit pants and no shoes wasn’t helping your chances either, and the weather didn’t seem to plan on making things any easier.

The two of you ran through the heavy rain like cat and mouse. Clenching your teeth and your fists, you chased after the boy. He ran about two blocks before you caught up to him. As your calves grew sore, you considered hurling one of your heels at him.

The boy slowed down for a couple of seconds, looking around frantically. Mr. Kim.....! I told you to wait for me out here—!

Heaving a sigh, he turned around and began to run in another direction. And although he'd hate to admit it, today was one of the days where he had no choice but to admit that his choice of footwear today was a fatal flaw.

Somehow, despite the odds against you, you weren’t the one who ate the pavement. The boy tripped over the curb and slammed into the sidewalk, bellyflopping straight into a gargantuan puddle. Those Balenciagas did not help him run through the rain very well. You laughed in triumph and squatted next to his almost-lifeless body. 

“Gotchu now, you jer–” 

Boom! The world went white for a second, illuminated by the blinding clap of lightning. In an instant, the downpour increased tenfold, the raindrops now feeling like bullets against your skin. 

“Okay, maybe this isn’t the best place to have a conversation.” 

–––

The two of you trudged through the rain—or, more accurately— you dragged the boy through the rain, your grip on his hoodie sleeve iron-tight. When you finally reached your car, you opened the passenger door and he went in obediently. From an outsider’s point of view, you might’ve been mistaken as an undercover cop. In fact, you were sure feeling like one as you apprehended the criminal.

You went around to the back and opened up the trunk, where after rifling through months' worth of empty bottles, fabric bags for shopping, and a variety of other car junk, you finally found your stash of somewhat clean clothes. After careful consideration, you chucked a worn hoodie and the swimming shorts you’d worn to the beach last year over the seat. Just in case, you also tossed your first-aid kit over. You threw your heels in and swapped them for a pair of nylon flip flops before slamming the trunk closed. 

You went back to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Taking in the figure of the drenched and bleeding boy, you kind of felt sorry for him. Which was stupid, considering he had just wrecked your life’s work and made a run for it. You tilted your head back and sighed, trying to sort your thoughts out. 

With all of your best art pieces now reduced to splinters, it was a cold, hard fact that you weren’t going to get a sponsor. Besides, even before they’d been smashed into smithereens, nobody had been willing to give you a chance. The probability of you finding a sponsorship was like the graph of the height of a ball thrown from a cliff at sea level, or the number √-1. It was not just in the negatives, but it was also imaginary.

Taking a sharp inhale, you talked as quickly as you could. “Listen. I’m going to go get what’s left of my art from the gallery. Just change your clothes and patch yourself up, then you can leave.” You paused to dig out a few crumpled dollars from your wallet, which you promptly threw at him. 

“Here, take this to get a taxi. I don’t know how far you live, but that’s all I have. Don’t get me wrong– I still think you’re a massive schmuck. And there’s nothing you can do to fix the damage you’ve caused.” Despite your best effort to remain composed, your voice cracked a little at the end. You stopped talking before you were to break out into tears again.

Without waiting to hear what the douchebag had to say, you slammed the door closed and strode through the rain back to the gallery, where your pieces still lay broken on the ground where you’d left them. A part of you was hoping that maybe, by some magic or miracle, the whole thing had been a dream, and nothing really happened. 

But reality was as cold as stone, and you were powerless to change it. So, as you always did when confronted with the unchangeable, you picked yourself up and carried on, struggling against the current. 

By the time you wheeled the broken canvases back to your car, the boy was long gone, all traces of his presence vanished except for the dampness of the left side passenger seat. You buckled on your seatbelt and tuned into your favorite radio station, then sped off into the summer storm. The storm, your artwork, it was all so out of the blue– well, in your case, grey.

The situation on the freeway was like a stuffy nose: irritated and congested. In fact, it would’ve been faster to moonwalk down the road. To make matters even worse, instead of music, the radio station was streaming ad after ad. Is this even legal? Exasperatedly, you tuned into a different station, then another one, but to no avail; all of them were on ad break. 

It was frustrating enough that the gallery was a complete flop, not to mention that your best art was demolished in a hit and run and that you were sitting soaking wet on a leather seat stuck in the middle of traffic. Now, even the radio had turned against you. You shut it off and sat in silence.

Thump. You sighed and leaned your head back against the seat, willing the migraine that was building up in your head to f*ck off. After craning your head to check the backseat one more time, to your vexation, you found that the asshat hadn’t even bothered to close the first aid kit.

Muttering obscenities under your breath, you reached for the kit, cracking your inflexible spine 4 times in the process. You rummaged through its contents, straightening them out, counting how many were left, and you were about to slam the lid closed when you saw the note. 

XXX-XXX-XXXX

“Well, gee, that’s REAL helpful.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the ten numbers scrawled on the note. Your half a brain cell told you to quit being stupid and toss that note out the window.

The rest of your stupid self told you to call it. I mean, why not? You cursed yourself for how your brain worked– or rather, didn’t work– sometimes.

You licked your lips in brief contemplation before punching in the numbers in. The person on the other end picked up immediately. 

“Hello, welcome to Papa John’s Pi–”

You hurled your phone into the backseats and ripped the note up, throwing the scraps into the air like confetti before continuing the wearisome ride down through the rain. 

–––

It took an eternity, but you made it back to your apartment, where you promptly crashed onto the couch. As per usual, you spent the rest of your waking hours scrolling through baking videos, even though you had neither the ingredients nor the time to be making any of the confections. At around 8pm, exhausted from crying and the events of the day, you dozed off without having a bite of the frozen pizza that’d just finished baking in the oven.

Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Your dreamless slumber was disturbed by the vibration of a string of text notifications and the glow that lit up the dark ceiling. Still half-asleep, you blindly felt around for your phone and attempted to read the message through bleary eyes.

It was from an unknown number.

Rubbing your eyes to clear out the nasty gunk, you sat up and read the message again, this time with clearer vision. 

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] Hello, sorry for ruining your paintings today. I will make it up to you.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] Thanks for bothering to call, let’s meet at this address to talk about your compensation. My parents can’t know that I did this so it would be great if you could keep this a secret :(

What the f*ck. You muttered under your breath, eyes half shut. Did I call anyone? In your half-asleep state, you didn’t bother to recall. For a second, you considered blocking the number. But just in case this was just one of your dumbass friends who changed their number, you decided to give that person a reply.

[You] hello? is this papa john’s?? i would like a cheese pizza

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] oh sorry the voicemail was a prank for someone else

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] i’m the guy from the art museum earlier, remember

[You] okay why do you have my number

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] because you called me

[You] right. okay, what do you want

[You] unless you want to pay me back for all those damages back there, no i am not interested in anything else sry i’m a very busy person you know

You hesitated a second before pressing the send button. You’d just sent a lie; in fact, you weren’t really that busy. Apart from your part time job at the boba shop, you were actually quite free most of the time. During the summer, at least. In fact, your screen time had gone up by 42%, your daily average now totaling to a whopping 12 hours. After a minute or so of silence, you threw your head back onto your pillow and let out a loud sigh of relief. Peace at last! It also made you quite happy that the person who texted you was in the least, not some weird scammer. 

Ping! You celebrated too soon. Reaching for your phone groggily, you read the new message.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] okay then i was going to ask if you were free tomorrow

Am I being asked out? You squinted at your bright phone screen in the dark. You might have been nearsighted, but you weren’t illiterate in pick-up lines.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] i want to return the clothes you lent me

[You] it’s fine, you can keep that

Oh good, he was talking about the clothes, not anything else. Your millisecond of relief ended quickly when he sent another message.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] oh also it would be great if we could meet up anyway? i want to talk to you about something that i had been meaning to say for a while

Oh, god. I knew it wasn’t just about the clothes. Lonely as you were, you would shoot yourself in the foot if you got into any relationship without landing a stable job or having any money. Scoffing amusedly, you stared at the screen as he continued to type. But dating someone like this? Never in a million years. Turning over to your other side, you thought about the many ways you could reject him.

[You] no sorry :(

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] we should set a date at the cannoli restaurant to talk about your compensation costs. i’m extremely sorry for ruining your beautiful artwork, and i know that my apologies will do nothing to change your current situation. since this is my fault, i’m willing to pay any amount you request (and i’ll pay to the best of my capabilities)... i’m assuming $50,000 would be enough to cover the costs for most of the damage? if monetary compensation doesn’t work for you, we can discuss other forms of compensation as well.

[You] i know it may not seem like it but i’m actually caught up in too much work to have time for dating anyone. you see, it’s just that i have lots of work on the side so i can’t really spare time at the moment. please don’t take this personally haha i’m sure you’ll find someone,,, like i don’t know how to say this but yeah…..you don’t wanna be w someone like me, it’s me not you

Huh? Just as you sent your message, another message popped up before yours. And if your life had a background narration, this very moment would have been “and in that moment he knew. He fvcked up.” 

Fml.

With just one single message, you perhaps have ruined the only god-given opportunity to turn your life around ever. He’d just offered you money to cover the costs of your broken paintings... now that you thought about it, he could even be your patron! You couldn’t even get a patron even if you went out of your way to look for one on Craigslist, pestered Ms. Kim for any news from the Art Teacher’s Association, or even begged random people on the street in hopes one out of the million people would be willing to promote your art. Now, someone was asking to compensate you with tons of money, and you’d just rejected him in the most embarrassing way possible. 

[You] oh shoot

[You] i mean wrong chat, uh can you please stay on hold, i will get back to your compensation offer, yeah i will see you at the restaurant sometime thanks

XXX-XXX-XXXX is typing…

You did not bother to see what he had to say. Hurtling your phone onto your carpet, you let out a guttural scream of “I AM SUCH A DUMB@$$$” before pulling the strings on your hoodie tightly. And for the second time that day, you cried.

———

Leaving behind the upsetting events from a couple of days ago, you listlessly shuffled through the entrance. It was Saturday morning, and that meant groceries. The local Asian market was one of your favorite places to be; breathing in the familiar blend of spices that hung in the air was a cathartic feeling. The corners of your lips were turned slightly upwards as you bent to grab a basket.

First stop was the meat section, where the bugged-out eyes of dead fish followed you as you walked down the aisle. Cooking raw animal flesh wasn't really your thing, so you simply picked up a package of pre-cooked chicken and went on your way.

Next came the produce section where you felt up all the tomatoes, only bagging the ones that felt the right amount of firm and soft. You also added a pack of bok choy and mushrooms, perfect for cooking up a lazy soup.

Now that you were nearing the end of your expedition, it was time to head into the best part of the store: the snack aisle. Sometimes, when you were feeling more down than usual, you would blow the whole sum of your weekly grocery savings on off-brand shrimp chips and chocolate banana Pocky. One by one, you were doing all the things your mom had told you not to do when you moved out, from coating the entirety of your insides with nothing but sodium and sugar to shifting your sleep schedule by 15 hours. 

What was next, the-no-dating-boys-until-you’ve-gotten-your-Master’s-and-have-a-7-figure-job rule? You scoffed and rolled your eyes. Even if your stomach was totally trashed and your sleep schedule was nonexistent, you would never let yourself fall that far.

As you stepped foot into the chips aisle, you beheld the holy grail. From Hello Panda to rice crackers, wasabi peas to Yan Yan sticks complete with a chocolate dip, cream wafers to dried seaweed, you were in a sea of temptation. Being that broke college student™, you just gulped and kept walking. I can just feast on these goodies with my eyes.

Your initial plan had been to just walk through the aisles to admire and drool over snacks you knew you couldn’t afford, but you were stopped in your tracks when you reached the instant noodles section. 

At the end of the aisle, the shelf was bare except for a single lone pack. Even from a distance, you recognized it, all right; there was no mistaking the outline of your favorite instant ramen brand. 신라면. More like 神라면 (it’s more than just spicy noodles— it’s noodles made by the gods) you thought, eyes already tightly clutching at the packaging from 5 feet away.

From many a sleepless night of binge-watching third-rate rom-com dramas (though you cringed thinking back on it, this was an integral phase of your dark “past”), you knew where this was going–– but you weren’t going to sit around and let yourself fall into some overused trope. You gripped your basket tight as you swiftly made your way over to the shelf, just about setting a world record for speedwalking with a basket.

Sure enough, if you had been one second slower, you would’ve been ensnared in a sticky situation. Just as you were snatching up your prey like the pterodactyl you were, another figure was rounding the corner. Another broke college student™, it seemed, judging by the state of their hoodie, which was pulled over their messy hair, the strings tied in a bow to make sure the hood wouldn’t fall. Even though their face was concealed by their hood, you could see their reaction as they connected the dots from the bare shelf to the ramen pack in your hand.

“Hey–” they started, reaching towards you, but you promptly dropped the pack into your basket, spun on your heel, and noped out of the aisle before you could be confronted. You felt sorry because you could sympathize with their situation, but you were in no place to be kind to others. Not in this dog-eat-dog world. To survive, you’d have to stay on top of the food chain.

You were about to fall in line when you remembered that you were all out of Sriracha sauce. You could deal with giving up your Pocky and shrimp chips as long as you had your favorite condiment in stock; no matter how down you were, scrambled eggs with a heaping squirt of Sriracha always took you up to Cloud Nine. If you were going to leave something behind, it would never be the Sriracha sauce.

After grabbing a bottle from the condiment aisle, you scanned the checkout desks for the shortest line. Luckily, a new checkout desk had just opened on the left, so you scampered over and placed your basket onto the counter. The clerk was a kind-looking old woman, but was surprisingly agile for her age. As you waited for her to bag the large span of items that belonged to the grandpa in front of you, you opened up your phone to check your budget. You eyed the message app with two unread messages temptingly before going into your bank app. This was a lucky trip~ thankfully ramen isn’t too expensive. Even if it wasn’t on my grocery list, a few cents won’t make too much a difference. I think I can spare enough to get a Pocky next time.

At long last, the grandpa shuffled away with his cart filled with some veggies, a thick stack of newspapers, and an unusually large stash of rice crackers. While the clerk scanned and bagged your items, you continued to fiddle with your phone until she cleared her throat. 

“Would you like a single receipt, or two separate ones? Because there’s a divider between your items.”

“Excuse me?” “You and your boyfriend. By the way, you guys look really cute together, especially with your hoodies~ are you on a date?”

You spun around only to come face to face with the broke college kid from the ramen aisle. Well, that’s awkward. The cashier must have been blind or deaf (or both) because you didn’t even interact with that boy. You stole glances of the customer through your peripheral vision, trying to see what he looked like. Hmm, do I know him? He looked uncannily familiar. Just then, another realization dawned on you. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad one. Your expression quickly changed from one of confusion to one of pure shock.

Surprise, surprise. It was the douche from the art gallery. And he was wearing your old hoodie.

“I-I don’t know him.” Before he could open his mouth to say anything, you quickly looked away, feigning ignorance. Unfortunately for you, the old clerk had seen much in her day and your little ruse wasn’t going to slip past her that easily. 

“From the flushed look on your face and the stammer in your voice, I’m pretty sure you do. And I’m sure he would agree, wouldn’t you, lover boy~?”  

And… cue to the horrified look on lover boy’s face. The conflict that was playing out in his mind showed on his face; he knew that if he answered this wrong, he would be facing your wrath.

“Uh, well, the thing is…” He shot you a nervous glance, but your features were stone cold. At a total loss for what to say, the boy just trailed off and turned his eyes to his basket. Following his gaze, you looked over his items and immediately recoiled in disgust. 

Not a single leafy green (grey) in sight, no meat, no rice, not even one of the food groups necessary to sustain life. Strawberry ice cream mochi, Taiyaki, strawberry Melona bars, Choco Pies, strawberry Hi-Chew, strawberry Chocorooms, strawberry Pocky–– it seemed that strawberry was a recurring theme among his groceries.

Even though the sheer amount of sugar made you gag, a pang of jealousy flashed across your face. That was the life you’d longed for ever since you finished high school: living off of nothing but sugar and carbs, looking like a bum and not giving a damn about it, just chilling. 

Unfortunately, with the number of failures and setbacks that stained your past, a carefree life was something you could no longer afford. 

“Yeah, okay, we’ve met,” you cut in, saving the boy from the tricky situation. Skeptic, the clerk stared into your unblinking eyes for what seemed to be a solid 15 seconds before shrugging and handing you your groceries. You snatched up your fabric bag and went on your way, walking fast. The color in your cheeks was probably the same as a tomato. Your least favorite fruit.

Why him, of all the places? Why, universe? Where did I go wrong? You were about to drop dead from embarrassment. As you closed your eyes, you could see your tombstone: “Rest in Peace y/n, died alone and patron-less.”

However, what you didn’t know was that your day was about to get worse. A whole lot worse. It all started when you felt a familiar tap on your left shoulder. I swear– You took a deep breath in and let it out slowly to compose yourself and answered without turning around. 

“What in God’s good name do you want. And why are you wearing hobo clothes.” My clothes, you realized, a tiny bit weirded out.

“They’re comfy,” he pouted, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his newfound hoodie as if to show off. “Anyways, how come you didn’t check your phone earlier?

“Oh, uh,” you felt the pressure in your head rising as you recalled how you threw your phone down in embarrassment and cried. “Sorry, I was feeling kinda down because a certain someone sorta trashed my life’s work and my only chance of being successful in the industry, sooooo yeah. My bad.” 

Sniff. You looked up, startled, only to find that the boy in front of you had tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. His mouth was clamped closed, but his bottom lip was quivering and his eyebrows were turned up, resembling a small child trying to keep himself from bursting into tears after falling and scraping his knee on the pavement. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

Well shit. There were two ways you could go about this: one, let your superego do the talking like a good person and prevent the boy from having a total meltdown in the middle of the sidewalk. The second was letting your id run rampant, taking full advantage of his feelings of remorse and overall just being a jerk. Maybe you could be distant and lacking in empathy, but you weren’t an asshole because you wanted to be one. 

“Listen, I’m sorry for calling you a schmuck. A schmuck would not have bothered to keep in contact and a schmuck would not be on the verge of tears out of guilt. ...I accept your apology.” You were going to say that what he did was unforgivable, but you decided no to say that. After a pang of guilt jabbed into you, you bit your lip and softened your tone. 

“I know you feel bad, but you don’t need to cry; there’s no way to turn back time. So instead, let’s move forward and keep looking up. I’ll start.” Smiling slightly with a tilted head, you held out your hand. “Hi, my name is y/n. I know that we’ve technically met, but this is the first time we’ve met met. So, nice to meet you.”

He wiped his tears away with the butt of his palm and tried to return the smile, though his was more watery. “Nice to meet you, y/n. I’m Beomgyu.” You noticed the corners of his lips curl upwards in a small smile as he took your hand, shaking it firmly.

There was a pause of awkward silence as you let go of his hand, wiping your sweaty palm on your sweatpants. Well that was the most awkward introduction I’ve ever had in my life. Clearing your throat, you spoke again to clear the tense atmosphere.

“About my compensation.”