#<- for first one and I used a 3b pencil too

[5tupidusrnam3]

artfight art dump 😼😼 I forgor

Character by The_enderdragon on artfight

Character by clownrattle on artfight

under the read more thing is a more sketch like drawing

Characters by clownrattle on artfight again 😼

bye I’m gonna work on revenge!!! (Ice cube bfdi bfdi bfdi ice cube REVENGE REVENGE REVENGE WITH FIRE AND EVERYONE BURNIGN!!!!!!! Everyone burning is what ice cube wants not me that might’ve turned out to be a missunderstanding sorry I got carried away in bfdi)

[jen-with-a-pen]

ALL TIED UP - FIVE

Previous ⊹ Series

summary: Steve's night is made when his barista ends up sharing a class with him. But Steve's paranoia gets the best of him– can he really trust his gut?

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 2.66k

warnings: flirting, fluff, hand holding, closeness, steve is adorable when he's nervous, paranoia, unease, cursing, barista lore™

a/n: had fun writing this one as we build up to friday! i might be switching the days/chapters around in the next few, but we'll see. depends on the depravity of my brain 😈

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Last Thursday.

Learning how to draw, when he already knows how to draw, makes Steve feel bad at drawing.

Sitting in the lecture hall of the art school, he doodles over the half-assed notes he manages to take during the first thirty minutes of class. Usually, he loves Drawing 101; it’s his easiest, only late-night class each week and one of the only times he can relax without worrying about one of the brothers barging in with another stupid homework question. Usually, it's just him, his earbuds turned up a touch too high, and whatever subjects the instructor places in front of him. On Thursday nights, nothing stands between him, an easel, and two straight hours of sketching pots and people. 

Except when a said-Thursday night happens to fall on ‘mandatory lecture’ day.

It hasn’t been an hour when Steve gives up trying to force himself to focus, instead choosing to mindlessly doodle over and around the page. The Drawing 101 guest professor continues to drone on about different types of graphite in the pencils kits Steve and twenty-odd other kids in the course were forced to buy. Steve doesn’t understand– nor does he particularly give a shit– as to why a 3H pencil is better over a 3B pencil, or how using an 8B pencil isn’t preferred over a 7B pencil.

A pencil is a fucking pencil.

Steve sighs, failing to stifle a yawn. No amount of coffee– not even the triple espresso concoction his barista had him try earlier that day– could save him from falling asleep in this godforsaken, decades-old room with dimmed lights and sporadically-filled seats scattered amongst the vast sea of empty ones. Honestly, nobody ever came to monthly lectures, save for when their usual professor mentioned the material would be part of their written midterms. Guest lecturers result in a lesser turnout, too, and Steve partially wishes he’d chosen to spend it back at the café or in the library. As the professor continues on to the next type of pencil, the double doors at the back of the room creak open. Still dazed in a bored stupor, Steve cranes his neck over his shoulder to see which unlucky bastard is almost an hour late to the snoozefest. 

He immediately wakes up, shooting up in his seat as if a bucket of ice water were splashed on him. He can’t believe what he sees: it’s her. Her. His barista. 

Mouth agape, he stares as she slowly closes the doors, careful not to draw too much attention to her late arrival. When nobody bothers to acknowledge her, she makes her way down the carpeted steps of the lecture hall in search of refuge in an empty seat. Her eyes dart across the aisles, desperate for just one, inconspicuous place that will draw the least attention. 

As she combs the rows with a furrowed brow and bottom lip slipping adorably between her teeth, Steve realizes he’s got some sort of a chance. Eyes dart to the professor, then back to her. Steve subtly raises a hand, waving to get her attention. Locking eyes, she finally sees him. Relief and surprise replace her bitten lip with a beaming smile. Steve’s heart soars, skipping far more than several beats. He doesn’t– he can’t– take his eyes off her as she quickly shuffles through the row of seats, plopping down next to him and dropping a tote bag at her feet. She pulls out a purple notebook and pen, slouching back into her seat with a relieved sigh, knee brushing gently against Steve’s. A ghost of the sweetest-smelling perfume drifts into his nostrils and he has the urge to replace his oxygen supply with it.

Steve feels like he’s dreaming. Cloud nine, light as a feather, the whole fucking nine yards. He skims over her features in the dim light of the lecture hall– the curve of her lips as she whispers to herself, flipping through the pages of her notebook, trying to find a blank spot; her eyelashes that flick up and down as she copies down the date and class number. He trails down her neck, crossing over the gold bar necklace she wears every day, to her shoulders and arms, her hands. When his eyes drift back up to her face, she’s staring back. Heat blooms in his cheeks and nerves constrict his chest in embarrassment. She smirks, shaking her head and turning her attention to the professor’s current ramblings on B and HB pencils. Steve opens his mouth to speak but quickly shuts it.

What would he even say? How would he get away with trying to talk to her in the middle of the lecture? The professor would hear him, he’d get called out, everyone would see him–

She huffs, turning to another blank notebook page. Steve side-eyes her as she quietly tears the page out and scribbles something on the first line. Side-eyeing Steve, a small smile pulls at the corners of her lips as she discreetly slides the paper over to him.

hi stranger.

Steve can’t help but grin. It spills across his lips as more heat blooms, trailing up his ears and down his neck. Trying not to seem too eager, he clicks his own pen and scrawls a response. The professor’s voice fades into background noise, going through one ear and out the other. He’s a goner and so is Steve.

YOURE THE STRANGER, STRANGER

He slides the paper back to her. She scoffs a laugh, smile growing wider. 

last minute class drop + switch. u know how it is.

TRUE. DIDNT KNOW YOU WERE AN ART KID

She shakes her head, quickly scribbling when Steve cocks his head, mouthing a ‘what?’

film kid. have to take art class for credit. only one available.

Steve’s surprised at her response, nodding once he thinks it over. It makes sense. 

She makes sense.

It fits her. It fits the way she moves, the way she carries herself, the ease in which she comes up with witty comebacks. It’s then and there Steve really thinks about the contrast between the two of them– the way he’s perceived versus how he perceives her. He’s a frat brother, a six-foot-two guy with muscles he doesn’t know how to use yet, and a lifelong artist who doesn’t fit in– no matter how much he tries to claw and fight his way out of the hole people dig and throw him in.

If anything, he doesn’t make sense. 

Brow furrowing and jaw set, Steve’s caught in the downward spiral he’s been fighting to keep at bay since coming to Richards– since he pledged his life away to Sigma Theta Beta and the never-ending identity crisis the brothers force upon him every waking moment. But, it’s with her that he feels more like himself than anywhere else in the goddamned world. It’s with her he wants to– willingly– be himself. He wants to be himself with her.

He, however, doesn’t realize the hack job he’s performing on his poor cheek tissue until a soft hand covers his, squeezing lightly. Warmth spreads like wildfire across Steve’s skin, breaking him free and bringing him back to the real world. Concern veils over his barista’s expression; her soft, searching gaze jumps between his baby blues.

‘You okay?’ she mouths, studying him, hand still on his. Her brow twitches upwards when he still doesn’t respond. Steve holds up an index finger and goes back to responding on the paper. 

SORRY. LOT ON MY MIND

She nods heavily in agreement. 

same. pencildick up there is putting me to sleep. how do you even do it?

Steve bites a laugh back. 

DRAWING, COUNTING THE CLOCK

Before she takes it back Steve adds,

AND NOW YOU.

Her smile is bright enough to light up the darkened lecture hall. 

Two whole pages are filled by the time class lets out. Front and back. 

Steve allows his barista to take the lead in following other students out of the lecture hall. Buzzing conversations reveal a shared eagerness to get the hell out of there and go spend the rest of their Thursday night doing something else more worthy of their precious time. Steve slings his bag over his shoulder as he follows close behind, verbally continuing their written conversation about her shift from earlier in the day and swapping ridiculous ways on how they’ll manage to work every type of pencil into their midterm.

As he plods next to her, Steve fights an innate urge to place a light hand on her lower back to guide her out on their way to the parking lot. Instead, he gets the door, jokingly half-bowing with an outstretched arm to the second set of double doors. Continuing out of the building, Steve takes a breath, deciding now is the perfect time to ask if she’s busy tonight. Instead, though, she stops abruptly. Steve runs directly into her, arms jutting out instinctively to steady both of them out of sheer instinct. Grabbing her shoulders, she spins around to face him, closer to his chest than either realized.

Steve feels his ears turn red again. She looks up at him, blinking before taking a step back, lips parting slightly. An awkward beat hangs in the air before Steve clears his throat and rubs his neck.

"You, uh,” he swallows, preparing himself for the inevitable, “You maybe wanna go grab a bite t’eat, or somethin’?" 

Her eyes widen, lips twitching at the corners. She looks like she’s about to answer before quickly realizing something, as if internally scolding herself for even looking excited. Pressing her lips together, her eyes dart back to her phone.

"Shit, I–" she quickly types a response and shoves it back in her pocket, exhaling in frustration. 

"What is it?"

"I would love to, Steve. I really would, but," she closes her eyes and sighs, "I can't. My sisters need me back at the house. They said it’s an ‘emergency.’" She adds sarcastic air quotes, rolling her eyes. 

"Oh!” Relief fills Steve’s chest, thankful she’s not purposefully blowing him off with some shitty excuse. “Okay, no yeah, I–I totally get it, family can be-"

She smiles softly, shaking her head and taking his hand to run a thumb over his knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so soft, yet it sends goosebumps up Steve’s arm. 

"Oh, no. No, they're not my actual sisters. They're, um, my sorority sisters." She flinches as 'sorority' leaves her lips.

Steve blanches, swallowing a disbelieving laugh. He can't help the lopsided smile spreading across his face. He can’t help taking both her hands in his and holding them in excitement. The odds of it– all of it– all the things, of all the people, she’s the one to make him feel less alone. She’s the one that understands everything.

He tries, and fails, to contain his excitement.

"No, I– I completely get it. My frat brothers are insufferable and I'm the newest pledge, so–"

It’s her turn to blanche. "You? You’re a new pledge, too?"

"Yeah, I, uh, I’m required by my scholarship–"

"Oh thank God it's not just me!"

"There's one for sisters, too?" Steve gawks. He’s truly in shock at the audacity of Richards to make any student required to endure the circle of Hell that is Greek life. He squeezes her hands. She matches him.

"Of course there is, meathead,” she snorts. “Title nine, or whatever the hell."

Steve nods. "I can’t tell you how glad I am not to be alone in this. It's fucked up, but maybe not as much now that I know you're in the same boat as me."

He pulls her ever-so-slightly closer. She lets him.

"Guess that makes you the Jack to my Rose."

Steve furrows his bro, cocking his head like a confused puppy. 

"Oh God– Don't tell me you've never seen Titanic," she gasps, feigning offense and sending Steve off course, thinking he’s fucked up somehow.

Sarcasm isn’t his strong suit.

"I, uh– no, not that I know of. I–I mean I've heard of the Titanic, but I don't remember the– well I know there's a movie, but I–" 

She laughs, full and genuine, stepping forward as her hands leave his, placing one on his shoulder. Her touch is soft, gentle, more comforting than anything he’s ever felt. 

"I'll show ya some time. Don't worry."

Squeezing his bicep, her fingertips glide down to his hand, grazing his fingers for the slightest moment before slipping between them, lacing them together. Electricity shoots up Steve's arm. Without another word she leads him out of the building, walking down the sidewalk lit by the moon rising overhead and scattered street lamps illuminating the parking lot. 

Steve decides then and there he’ll go wherever she takes him. Anywhere. Everywhere.

She stops at the edge of the parking lot and turns to him. "This is where I leave ya, my car’s over yonder.” She nods to a blue sedan with a Richards sticker on the back windshield sitting underneath one of the street lamps. “Plus, I’d like to save you walkin’ me to my car for another night.”

Butterflies. Steve nods. She scoffs a laugh.

“Text me, meathead. I'll see ya tomorrow?"

“Tomorrow.”

She releases his hand in slow motion and Steve hopes she’s relishing every bit of physical contact with him as he is with her. He heads to his own car parked in the darker side of the lot under the shadows of the perimeter trees and dimmer lamps, swaying languidly and ambling across the pavement in a trance. Steve makes a note to himself: watch more movies, because he sure feels like he's in one. 

The trance is broken when a split second of what sounds like a scream echoes over the lot and is snuffed out just as abruptly as it started. 

Steve freezes, key halfway into unlocking the driver’s side door. Ears prick up, breath held firm in his chest. Turning over his shoulder, he gasps, startled as a blue car– her car– slowly backs out from under the streetlamp and exits onto the road casually. Steve watches it disappear from view. The sound of the engine gunning it down the road leaves Steve alone in the dark, a sick uneasiness pooling in his gut.

He gets in his car, tossing his bag into the passenger seat and pulling out his phone.

You okay? Did you hear that?

Steve turns the engine over and throws the car into drive, foot hard on the brake before checking her text back. 

Hear what? I’m okay! :)

The uneasiness doesn’t leave him. She doesn’t usually text like that. 

“Fuck, get a grip, Steve,” he mutters to himself, resting his head against the steering wheel. He takes a second to gather himself and calm his nerves. The paranoia he’s been trained to feel thanks to his brothers, in combination with the fear of fucking everything up with his barista tonight, must be mixing together and clashing against every active nerve in his body. He’s fine. She’s fine.

She’s obviously driving right now, of course she wouldn’t fucking text how she normally does. She’s probably using voice text. Calm. Down.

Steve sends another text before tossing his phone into the passenger’s seat, the unease refusing to dissipate. He turns on the radio, turning up the song blasting from the speakers in a sorry attempt to silence his racing thoughts. 

No big deal. Get home safe.

His phone stays silent the rest of the night. It stays silent as he gets home, as he throws a bowl of ramen together, as he throws himself onto his bed and flips open his laptop to watch some random brainrot he finds on Netflix. 

He nods off, letting himself be taken by exhaustion as the uneaten bowl of ramen sits on his desk, growing colder, while the dim computer light and hum of dialogue pull Steve further and further into a dreamless sleep.

His phone dies silently in his hand. 

[googoojeu]

i love you(s). || kim sunoo x gn!reader

;; kim sunoo has told you he loves you a lot, in different times and different circumstances, but only five stuck to you the most.

genre: fluff, angst, strangers to lovers au, a bit of exes to lovers au too, non-idol au, student!reader, student!sunoo

a/n: i rarely post stuff for sunoo so here i am with an angsty-fluffy fic for him! this wasn't proofread but i hope you guys enjoy this one! also this is quite long,,, deadass

warning(s): cursing, mentions of cheating (no one cheated tho), sunoo's a bit of a dick later in the story (sorry🙇🏻‍♀️)

— :: lowercase intended!

if you remembered correctly, the first time kim sunoo told you he loved you, it was out of habit.

you got yourself two hours of detention after coming to school ten minutes late and for apparently "disrespecting" a teacher (you just pointed out the spelling mistake on the board). you stared at the wall clock above the chalkboard, staring at the numbers and waiting for it's arms to reach six o'clock.

it was currently four thirty-three in the afternoon, with your chin resting in one hand and the other drumming on the table, the classroom's door opens and reveals a disheveled seventeen year old boy, bending down to catch his breath. the teacher side eyes him before instructing him what to do. he nods and waddles over to the seat next to you.

you were completely in your own bubble, your thoughts filled with random stuff like the one time jungwon face planted on the ground because he was busy staring at someone that he thought was cute, or when heeseung called you over so you could try his homemade ramen that you didn't want to admit that it tasted terrible or when jay said he'll take you to paris if you helped him with physics or when jake—

your train of thought abruptly ends when the boy, who was now calm and collected, taps your shoulder, making you look at him. the first thing you think of is how handsome he looked. he looked like one of those kdrama actors your friends keep on gushing about.

"can i borrow a pencil?" he sheepishly asks.

you realized you were staring so you immediately told him you did and handed it to him. he smiles gratefully and says, "oh my god i love you, thank you!" waves at you and focuses on the sketchpad that was in front of him. you sat there, mouth agape and hand still outstretched as if the pencil he previously asked for was still in your possession. he notices you still looking at him and gets confused. as if a lightbulb suddenly appears next to him, he covers his mouth.

"oh my god, i'm sorry. i say i love you a lot to my friends. it's just out of habit, i'm sorry."

you let out a small laugh and tell him it's fine. "people i meet for the first time don't usually tell me they love me, so it was a shock." the boy shakes his head again.

"i'm sunoo by the way, from class 3B." he says, hands outstretched. you take his hand and shake it. "i'm (name), from class 3A." sunoo warmly smiles at you and then you hear the teacher shout for the both of you to stop talking.

you don't regret shaking his hand, even if you got thirty more minutes added to your detention time.

the second one, the one that made you feel different.

you were sitting in your school's field, the poor grass being the victim of your ranting. you aggressively pick at it while sunoo listens to you talking about your problems.

"it's not like i can multitask sunny." you sigh. you've grown accustomed to his presence, even if you both were in different classes. you're also used to calling him sunny, the nickname fitting for his ebullient nature. sunoo radiated so much positivity and energy, it's hard not to miss him when you walk down the hallways. either he's with his friend group fooling around or helping students, sunoo was a ball of sunshine.

"i know (name). couldn't you just tell mr. nam that you can't do the maths competition? you already have a lot in your plate," sunoo asks, worry laced in his voice. you weren't necessarily a star student. you just did your best in everything that led you to achieve your goals, but that also means that teachers would depend a bit too much on you. winning competitions you've competed in, it brings joy to the school, but it just makes you feel drained.

"i already did and he said no. why can't he just ask jungwon? he's better at maths than me." you sighed, picking at a new soft patch of grass your eyes spotted. at a distance, you can hear the school bell ring. students rush back to their classrooms, leaving you and sunoo alone in the field.

"i have to get back (name). just tell me if you need help okay? i love you." sunoo says, beaming at you as he gently pats your shoulder before standing up and running back to his classroom.

you stare at his figure, feeling something weird on your stomach. this feels wrong, you thought. you decided to just ditch class and hide in the rooftop until the school day ends.

you get another detention slip the next day.

the third one, the one that made you want to stay with him forever.

you stare at jay in disbelief as he lists the things why he thinks you're in love with sunoo and why he thinks sunoo's in love with you too as well. jay dramatically reads out the list he has in his hands while both of you were situated under the shade of a tree on campus.

"i've only known the guy for five months jay, quit it!" jay gives you a sharp look and continues what he was doing. you roll your eyes and just listened to what he was saying.

you look at him differently, do you look at me and jake the same way as you look at him? you treat him differently, you bought him soup when he was sick. you get all shy and shit when he's around, you don't do that with us—

as if everything around you just fades, the thought of you possibly and you mean, POSSIBLY, liking sunoo was high. he was always there when you needed him. the shoulder to lean on, the one who helped you convince your teachers to be a bit nice to you, the one who held your hair when you threw up after getting food poisoning. did you really like him?

"oh my god (name), you zoned out. this is why i don't like you." you snap out of your daze. you grab jay's shoulders, causing the poor boy to get startled and scream.

"do i like sunoo, jay?" you ask him, the feeling of anxiousness setting in on you. jay rolls his eyes. "i don't know (name), you answer that."

the next few days were like a blur. you didn't see sunoo that much, even though your classrooms were right next to each other. you were busy with your upcoming art competition and you didn't have time to hang out with your friends. you were sitting on your seat, brainstorming on what to draw as a practice for the competition. jay and jake stopped by to drag you out for lunch but you didn't budge. you didn't even see their concerned glances for you.

and even after all the brainstorming, your mind just wanders to sunoo. his smile, the curve of his nose, his fox-like eyes. you mess up your hair. oh (name), you're screwed. as if on cue, the devil himself saunters to you and places a carton of milk chocolate and bread on your desk. you look up and was about to protest but he stops you with his finger on your lips.

"jay and jake hyung told me you wouldn't eat. i knoe you don't like being dragged to the cafeteria so here i am just delivering these to you."

you stare at the milk and bread before asking him, "can i draw you?" sunoo, completely caught off guard, just nods. "but you have to do me a favor." you look up at him, "and what's that?" he sits on your desk mate's chair and leans towards you, his face a mere few inches away from yours.

"go on a date with me."

a month later, with his hand tightly clutching yours, you look up at the sky to see that the rain is getting stronger as the moments go by. you squint at sunoo's attempt on locating his umbrella with only his one hand.

"you can just let go of my hand you know?" you say. he huffs and shakes his head sassily. "well i don't want to," and he returns to searching for it. he panics as he realizes that he probably left it on his desk this morning.

"i have one sunny, we can just use that." he smiles brightly. "oh my god you're a life saver," as he watches you like you were his whole world.

you giggle, taking out the umbrella, but this time you say it too. you were about to step out, umbrella over your heads as sunoo drags you back in again. you look at him, puzzled and asked him what's wrong.

"i know it's too early for this but i really love you. i really do. i just wish we can be classmates next year, i just want to see your face everyday."

your chest tightens at the sudden confession, but you smile nonetheless.

"i love you too sunny and yes, i wish we can be classmates too."

both of you step out of the building, giggling like teenage girls the moment the rain water hits both of your feet and you think, love never felt so good.

the fourth one, the one that hurt.

both of your wishes got granted. both of you got into the same class.

as you stand next to sunoo, graduation caps in hand while he kisses your cheek for a photo, you can hear his friends cheer for him. you laugh as he glares at his friends, telling them to 'fuck off'. you were happy, he was happy, that's what all it matters right?

wrong.

sunoo barges into your apartment, hands clutching his phone in anger. you were nowhere to be seen and he finds your roommate, solji, sitting on the dining room table eating. "where are they?" sunoo asks. solji tells him that you were at the library with kangmin.

kangmin.

he thanks solji and immediately goes to the library, spotting you and the guy, who he assumes as kangmin, sitting next to each other. you were too close to him, too close. you were explain something to kangmin while he just nods along. you were surprised when sunoo approaches you.

"what are you doing here?"

"we need to talk."

you found yourself sitting at the bench at your local park, cursing yourself for not bringing a better jacket to fight the cold. it was winter for christ sake. sunoo doesn't even notice you shivering due to the cold.

"are you cheating on me?" was the first thing he says.

"excuse me?" you ask, bewildered.

"i said, are you cheating on me?" he repeats, a bit louder this time.

"no! where the hell did you get that information?" he shakes his head and opens his phone, showing you a picture of you and kangmin, sitting too close to each other inside a cafe. too close.

"kangmin has a girlfriend sunoo. you don't trust me, do you?"

"yeah i don't." his answer throws you off.

"w.. what?" your voice is barely above a whisper.

"it's true when they say high school relationships don't last when you both get into university. we're in different schools (name)!"

"and i completely trust you! you have girls surrounding you twenty-four seven! do you see me doubting you?" you say, tears prickling your eyes as sunoo looks down.

"i've been dating you for two years now sunoo, i always trust you." you gently tell him, but sunoo just shakes his head.

"i don't want to do this anymore (name). i'm tired, painfully tired. we don't have time for each other and i.. i just-" sunoo stops. you were already crying, harshly wiping the tears away.

"you can't do this right now sunoo, i'm too stressed." he shakes his head, his decision was final.

"i'm sorry (name). if i just keep doubting our relationship, it's best if we part ways." sunoo stands up and leaves first, leaving you to sink in the shock. and then comes the pain, the guilt and then the anger.

once you got home, solji asks if you were okay. you nodded your head and went to your room. it was a mess. clothes scattered everywhere, some milk cartons on the floor and leftovers. you take in the sight and just started bawling in the middle of it. you stare at sunoo's love letters that were neatly placed on your desk, that he sends you every week ever since you both started university. you chuck it in your old shoebox and kicked it under the bed. you also noticed that you were wearing the jacket sunoo gave you for your birthday. you took it off and threw it your cabinet, hoping it won't see the daylight again.

you sit on your bed to process everything. you failed to notice the signs of your dying relationship. but you didn't fail to notice sunoo's last i love you that was too soft for you to hear. the last i love you sounding too much for a goodbye.

the fifth one, the one that feels familiar.

you bask in the smell of freshly brewed coffee as you walk inside the cafe. you were feeling amazing, finishing your thesis and submitting it on time. you greet the barista, sunghoon, and you give him your usual order. he smiles at you before walking away to make your drink.

again, as if you were still in high school, you were in your little bubble again. remembering jungwon faceplanting, heeseung's ramen, jay's paris trip offer and jake—

"(name)?"

you freeze. that voice, all too familiar.

sunoo.

you turn to him and forced yourself to smile. he still looked the same, maybe a bit matured now. his boyish charms still radiating. he dyed his hair into a mint color, he was wearing his favorite blue sweater that was probably worn out by now. he was staring at you, you were staring at him.

"how are you?" he manages to say.

"good, never been better actually. you?"

"good, graduating in a few months."

you smile. sunghoon comes back with your order and you pay for it, wanting to leave as soon as possible. saying you have moved on is a lie. you still want him. his embrace, every inch of him, you want it. but you can't. you know you can't. you thank sunghoon and giving sunoo one more glance, you bid him a goodbye.

you were a good few blocks away, sipping your drink to lure yourself away from the thought of going back and asking if he's single, that both of you could try again if you two were. but that's a selfish thought. he hurt you, he doesn't deserve a second chance. but you wanted him, does he still want you?

"(name)!"

you turned around and find sunoo, bending down to catch his breath, a scene that was too familiar, as if you were experiencing deja vu.

"yes sunoo?"

"i still love you." he says, standing upright facing you. you look at him with wide eyes.

"i still love you, i really do. heck i know it's been two years and it's still you. i tried dating again but no one compares to you. i tried writing you letters that i never mailed to you. i... i messed up." he stops abruptly, hands nervously clutching his backpack.

"do you still love me?"

you wrack your brain on what to answer. yes? no? probably? probably not? maybe? i moved on? im dating someone? im single? yeah we can date again?

"i.. i don't know.. you hurt me sunoo." he can't help but nod. he looks at you straight in the eyes, the familiar warmth still there.

"if you give me another chance, i promise, i won't fuck it up this time."

this was your chance, you want him, he wants you, what's the fuss all about? you were scared. you were scared that he won't trust you and you'll end up in the same position two years ago. but he's right in front of you (name), what's stopping you?

"f... fine, but this doesn't mean i'll forgive you this easy!" sunoo beams at you and pulls you in for a bone crushing hug, repeating the words "i love you" like a mantra.

"i'll make it up to you, i promise. i love you."

but he did make it up to you. even after years of being together, a beautiful silver band sitting peacefully on your ring finger, you still get flustered when sunoo comes up to you and tells you that he loves you. snuggling closer to you, sunoo whispers that oh so familiar three words that he tells you everyday, "i love you."

[not-xpr-art]

Art Advice #3 - Drawing tips!

Hi everyone!

As you may know, every week or so I’m writing blog posts with art advice hints and tips for artists of any skill level in the hopes of helping some people out a bit! The tag is here so feel free to check out some of my other posts!

This week’s post is going to be some drawing tips I’ve picked up over the years that could hopefully be useful for beginner artists! 

(this is about 1800 words altogether btw)

Drawings tips!

I’m going to split this post up into little sections which will hopefully make it easier for you to scroll to find certain advice you’re particularly interested in!

Part 1 - How to get started?

I’m a firm believer that anyone can be an artist, regardless of what materials or equipment they have. So when it comes to my advice on what kind of materials I recommend for beginner artists, I’d mainly say ‘whatever you have’. 

But if that’s a bit vague, I’d essentially recommend you have a set of pencils which you can usually get relatively inexpensive online or in craft/art shops which range from 6B all the way to 6H (’B’ being for softer, darker pencils, often good for shading, and ‘H’ for the harder pencil leads which are best for much lighter shading or if you want a really faint sketch. Something important to note about ‘H’ pencils is not to press too hard with them since they’re a lot more likely to leave indents in the paper than ‘B’ pencils! For general sketching I personally use 2B or 3B pencils since they have the perfect balance of soft & hardness in my opinion!) 

Of course, you can just draw with whatever pens or pencils you already have, so definitely don’t feel you have to go out of your way to buy something new or expensive just because your favourite artists use a particular brand of pencil or pen... Of course, often higher quality pens or pencils (especially colouring pencils) will have better pigment payoff than the cheaper alternatives, but as someone who’s been using the same WHSmith pencils they got when they were a child, I definitely think that as long as you have something to draw with, you’re all set to produce masterpieces of your own!

A lot of my art education got us using charcoal for a lot of our drawing practise. It’s not a medium I’m particularly fond of personally, but it is a great way to practise being a lot quicker and expressive with drawing, so definitely if you’re up for the challenge you can try some charcoal stuff! Only piece of advice is that I wouldn’t really recommend those ‘charcoal pencils’ you can buy in some shops, since they mostly just break apart every time you try and sharpen them... Regular charcoal is messy, though, and smudges very easily, so if you are interested in using it I’d say to do a little bit of research before hand! 

(Or feel free to send me an ask if you want any further advice on using it!)

If you’re wanting to get into digital art, I’m planning on making a post discussing my tips for beginners to digital so... keep an eye out for that in the near future lol!

~

Part 2 - Getting over ‘Drawing Anxiety’

Drawing can be a daunting thing, particularly when artists who are already pretty good at it can seemingly produce a perfectly proportioned face out of thin air. But these artists weren’t magically born with this skill, of course, so with practise and some perseverance, I can assure you that you’ll be at that stage one day!

So my first piece of advice here is to be patient with yourself. Don’t expect yourself to be perfect straight away. 

Second piece of advice is to sketch constantly!! I notice a lot of people who haven’t been drawing long are really careful about how they draw, almost like they’re afraid to be rough with the pencil. So I’d really recommend just starting to sketch a lot: be rough, be messy, draw things you can see and things from your imagination! 

Observational drawing is another thing I think is crucial in improving your drawing skills (and I’ll go into more detail with this in a bit), but honestly just sketching things you like is such a great way to help you grow as an artist! And yes this includes drawing anime fanart or drawings of your original characters! 

Below is some comparisons of my attempts at drawing Freema Agyeman from 2013 to 2019... Is the latest version of this perfect? Of course not. But I just want to show what constant practise can achieve!

~

Part 3 - Observational drawing

I honestly think that observational drawing was one of the most important things I learnt in my years of art education. 

Observational drawing can take on many meanings. Perhaps it’s drawing a still life of a fruit bowl, or a life drawing class with a naked dude in front of you, or even drawing from a photo. The point of observational drawing is to improve how you translate the world around you onto a 2D surface, essentially. 

And you don’t need anything fancy to do observational drawing either! Just placing an array of things in front of you and trying to sketch them (try and focus on a mix of textures and surfaces for the objects. So, for example, including a cup along side a woolly hat will help you get a handle on how to create texture with your drawing, and drawing anything with a reflective surface like cutlery is both challenging and interesting to do! Basically just use what you have around you!)

If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how fond you are of seeing naked people lol) enough to have the chance to do life drawing, I would honestly recommend it! Often the final results aren’t great, but it’s a really good way of practising your observational skills! And even if you don’t have the opportunity, just trying to sketch a friend or family member from across a room, for example, is something that can really help you improve! 

Top tip: a teacher once told me that when you’re drawing something like a face, for example, a way to improve how you draw is to see the face not as a ‘face’, but instead as a collections of shapes. Because our brains have a preconceived idea of what a face looks like that we end up drawing what we think we can see rather than what we can actually see! 

There’s a lot of art snobs who believe that drawing from reference images is ‘cheating’ in comparison to life drawing, Of course, this is bs, and I’d say I’ve learnt just as much from using reference photos for the basis of my art as I have from drawing from ‘real life’. For more information about my thoughts on references and how to use them, see This post!

~

Part 4 - Drawing from references: Tracing, Grids and Freehand (which is best?)

Tracing in the world of art is a ... Contentious subject to say the least. And I’m not really interested in getting into the ‘moral’ implications of whether it is ‘cheating’ or not.

Instead I want to focus on the pros of using something like tracing when you’re starting out. I think particularly if you’re trying to improve how you shade things, colour things or how to get better at blending, then I do think that tracing can be a useful tool! Even I used tracing in the very start of my delve into digital art, but soon found that tracing wasn’t really something that was helping me in the long run so moved onto freehand stuff. 

Overall, I think tracing is good as a starting point when you’re still learning about art, and also if you’re not too comfortable with your freehand drawing skills yet. I’d also recommend you mention if you have traced a piece if you share art to social media. Of course, no one is obligated to do this though! 

This is an example of an artwork that I traced (it’s from 2013, hence why it looks... like That lol)

But if you’re someone who perhaps has used tracing in the past and found it doesn’t really work for you, or if you don’t want to start with tracing at all, then a good ‘next step’ I’ve seen other artists get into is using grids. 

Now I have to admit, I’m not the best person to talk about grids since I’ve actually never used them lol... But I know a lot of artists who do, particularly people who do a lot of traditional work, since it makes it a lot easier to translate the reference image to your piece of paper or canvas. 

And in a way I would recommend grids more for people starting out in drawing than tracing, and this is mainly due to the fact grids force you to use a lot more observational drawing skills than tracing! If you’re interested in getting into using grids I’d recommend doing a bit of research yourself! 

The final technique of drawing from references I want to talk about is freehand! Now this is the one I’ve been doing for the majority of my art ‘career’ and honestly is probably the most ‘difficult’ to do of the three techniques. 

But I find freehand drawing particularly rewarding with the ways it can make you reimagine an artwork in ways you never intended! Like what I mentioned in my Reference advice post, I have found that making ‘mistakes’ in freehand drawing can actually lead to more interesting and unique works of art than tracing or grid work could ever do! 

I also think that freehand allows you to create your own characters or concepts in a much more free way. For example, my Spirit of Somerset piece was something I created from a variety of references (I seem to remember I used Isak from SKAM’s mouth as a basis for the girls’ mouth?) and the dragon was based on a real mishmash of references, which is something that I I feel I couldn’t have done if I’d have been using grids or tracing!

With this I’m not trying to say that freehand is the ‘best’ way of drawing, it is just the one that I personally have found to fit me the best, which is the entire point of this post! All of my advice is just pointers I think could be useful for new artists, it is up to you to find which ‘path’ in art suits you best!

And of course, I’ve phrased these techniques as separate purely for the sake of explaining them easier, but the fact of the matter is that you can use a combination of these in your art if you wish! 

If you struggle with drawing the outlines of hands, perhaps use tracing as a way to get a handle of the shape and then maybe use freehand to fill in the colour of them! Use a grid to draw a tree but freehand the leaves and bench below it! 

Remember that your art is your art, and no one can tell you how to draw things! 

~

I think I’ll leave this here for now! But I may do a part two at some point in the future! & my ask box is always open for anyone who wants any specific advice!

I really hope you found this at least moderately helpful, and a massive thank you to everyone for the constant support of these posts and my art!

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: To Sir, with Love by Lauren Layne

Even though I had to exchange my bouquet of sharpened pencils for a pair of champagne flutes and a bottle of Dom Perignon, Lauren Layne's updated You've Got Mail retelling still managed to be the anonymous-dating-app-penpal to real-world-adversaries-to-lovers romance that I wanted it to be. Cheers for that!

Any romcom lover will delight in the opportunity this story offers to fall in love twice, because fall in love twice you will. At least I did. Once, when I was thrown amid the clever messages Sir and Lady exchange on MysteryMate, a dating app where users connect through words first instead of photos. And second, when Gracie Cooper and Sebastian Andrews engage in a battle of wills over what to do with Bubbles & More, the struggling family champagne shop she's inherited, owns, and runs in honor of her late father.

Gracie, the protagonist, was the epitome of a hopeless romantic. A dreamer. Tossing aside her own artistic ambitions to run the family business, to keep it afloat for her father after his death, she'd gotten stuck in a rut. She'd grown all too comfortable with thinking but not taking chances, with not truly living her life because it couldn't meet her expectations. She'd also idealized her perfect man down to the detail. Still holding out hope that she'd meet him one day. Somewhere...

(Enter Sir.)

Sebastian, her rival and eventual love interest, was a stoic dreamboat with aqua blue eyes plus a business proposition to boot. (He wanted to buy her out of her lease. Neither she nor her siblings wanted to sell. Naturally--conflict and heated repartee ensued. I am not complaining!) Emotionally-repressed-until-not seems to be how I like my fictional men so it should be no surprise that I enjoyed that trait most in him. And in Sir. He also helped give Gracie the push, the courage to be brave and follow her heart that she needed, so I admire him for that.

The plot was rather formulaic. Nothing all that subversive or surprising in its midst, but I didn't mind. I found I liked the predictable momentum that existed between the Sir/Lady and Gracie/Sebastian storylines.

It didn't hurt that the dialogue was lively, either. Or that the side characters added to my bevy of enjoyment. I think Keva, the friend/neighbor/cook, was my favorite--she was just so infectious, so vivacious! The things she could do with a makeup brush and some eyeshadow, though. Who needs a Fairy Godmother when you have friend in Apartment 3B who can do the trick just as good, you know what I mean?

(Pssst: can I get a Keva and Grady sequel, by the way?)

The rivals to lovers romance part of the story perhaps was not as developed as I wanted it to be, especially since they had an "at hello" attraction, but it worked well enough. Gracie and Sebastian's development was sweet, entertaining. I was more than happy to see my way through their meet cute to their cooking class shenanigans to their Sir/Lady reveal.

It was worth every fluffy, fizzy sip of sparkling wine!

Much like Nora Ephron's beloved romcom, this was cute, hopeful, jolly, and fizzy with champagne feelings. Like Kathleen Kelly would say, it was full of all those dating/courting nothings that, at the end of it all, "turn out to mean so many somethings."

Okay, fine, so that means it might have veered on the side of Cinderella cheesy at times but it did so in a way that allowed me to revel in the optimism that things will work out. That one day we'll follow, not merely acknowledge, our passions. That we'll find support where we need it in trusted colleagues or friends, in family members who will be there to lend a helping hand when it feels like the world's tumbling down on our heads. That we won't be afraid to strike out on our own, to try for something we want. That maybe, just maybe, we'll be lucky enough to bump into the love of our lives as we chase a twenty dollar bill, or log onto a dating app, or stand in line for coffee, or argue over the merits of lemon sorbet vs. gelato for no other reason than we can because the opportunity is upon us. It's there.

I think that's what was so refreshing about this novel: the hope it exuded, the cheerfulness. The promise of a happy ending. Couldn't we all use some of that happy magic right now? I know I sure can.

You know what, why don't you just leave me here all sappy sighs and grins? It's where I belong anyway... 3.5/5 stars

Thank you to NetGalley and Gallery Books for an ARC in exchange for my review!

**Follow me on Goodreads

[gumnut-logic]

We’ll Be Home For Christmas 1.1

Title: We’ll be home for Christmas

Day One – A Tale of a Fateful Trip – Part 1 (Prologue)

Author: Gumnut

8 Dec 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way.

Word count: 3490

Spoilers & warnings: language and so, so much fluff. Science!Gordon. Minor various ships, mostly background.

Timeline: Christmas Season 3, I have also kinda ignored the main storyline of Season 3. The boys needed a break, so I gave them one. Post season 3B, before Season 3C cos we haven’t seen it yet.

Author’s note: For @scattergraph

This is my 2019 TAG Secret Santa fic and it is a big one ::headdesk:: I hope you enjoy it. I know I have thoroughly enjoyed researching a gorgeous corner of this planet.

Many thanks to @vegetacide and @scribbles97 for cheering me on and their wonderful support through this craziness. And to @onereyofstarlight for geeking out with me over the setting.

And as always, thank you all for creating such a fantastic fandom. Thundernerds rock! I hope you all have a wonderful festive season. Thank you all so much for everything.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

 Day One: A Tale of a Fateful Trip

Virgil was miserable.

Pain was minimal as long as he didn’t move too much. He didn’t really even need any of the painkillers that he was given to take with him at the hospital. It was just that he knew his brothers were tired, and despite the attractions of the beautiful city of Auckland, all they really wanted to do was go home.

His brothers could quite easily do just that. The ‘birds were at the local GDF base, it would be a matter of minutes and they would be home. But Virgil wasn’t allowed off the ground, they wouldn’t risk him and they wouldn’t leave him behind, no matter how many times he told them to do just that.

The glare Scott raked him with the last time he suggested it had been scathing.

Didn’t make him feel any better.

Grandma, of course, sensed his sadness and was known to slip up behind the couch he was chained to and wrap her arms around him. She kissed his hair and mumbled reassuring words in his ear.

He was ever so grateful, but he was still miserable.

Balled up cartridge paper lay about his feet. His pencil just wouldn’t create anything of value. Creating gave him a boost, and he desperately wanted to feel something positive, so he persisted, but the pile of balled up paper at his feet just got bigger and in the end he threw the pad and pencil aside, wincing when the pencil hit the table and likely destroyed the lead inside.

With a groan he levered his feet onto the couch and curled up into a flinching ball of misery.

His brain conveniently listed off all the positives about his life, everything he should be thankful for and all the reasons he shouldn’t be feeling sorry for himself. That just made him angry and annoyed that he was so pathetic.

God, he hated this.

He wasn’t really that ill. Just had some small difficulty moving and couldn’t fly to go home.

His family was suffering and it was all his damn fault.

“Hey, Virg?” The voice was soft, but it was definitely Scott testing to see if he was awake.

“What?” So he was grumpy, big deal.

“You’re awake.”

Well, yeah. He didn’t answer that.

Scott edged into his line of sight. Maybe his brother sensed his foul mood.

Of course, that thought just made him feel worse. The word ‘burden’ came to mind.

He closed his eyes, took a second, and then forced himself once again upright. Familiar hands reached into help, gently holding his shoulders until he was steady. “I’m fine.”

Scott shifted the detritus over on the coffee table and sat down in front of Virgil, his long frame folding neatly and a lot smoother than Virgil had any hope of achieving at the moment. “How would you like to go home?”

Virgil looked up at him. “How? I can’t fly.”

“Flight is only one way to get to Tracy Island.” He smiled. “We have a very versatile aquanaut on our team.”

Virgil stared at him. “Thunderbird Four? It’s just as pressurised as Two. Carries the same risks.”

The smile softened. “No, Virgil, Gordon can pilot more than a submarine. He’s bought us a boat.”

“A boat?”

“Actually, technically it is a yacht and a luxury one at that.” Gordon’s grin was broad and eager as he entered the room. “All aboard for Tracy Island, bro. She’s got all the perks and enough under the hood to get us there in time for Christmas.”

Virgil stared at him. Then stared at Scott. “Really?”

Scott’s smile was a sight. “I really don’t know why we didn’t think of it earlier.”

“Because all you pilot types live in the clouds.” Gordon strode up to his eldest brother and dug him one in the ribs before turning to Virgil. “So, what do you say, Virg? Up for a little cruise? Should take us about three days. Kayo and Grandma have gone Christmas shopping and will likely haul half of New Zealand’s food supply back in Two. Scott’s already stashed One and Tracy Two can stay until we need to pick her up.” Gordon had obviously worked out all the details. His brother was literally bouncing where he stood. But then it wasn’t often the aquanaut got to ferry his family around.

Virgil stared at his brothers. “Us three?”

Scott’s smile became a grin. “No, us five. All of us.”

“Five bachelors cruising on the open sea.” Gordon waved his hand across the room as if peering into a far horizon.

Virgil arched an eyebrow at him. All of them. All five brothers. Together. On a boat. For three days. His gaze turned to Scott. “You sure you want to do this?”

There was something in his brother’s blue eyes. “I’m sure.”

Virgil straightened where he sat. Surprisingly, he felt lighter, more positive. Could be the energy radiating off Gordon. His brother was always a bucket of sunshine in the rain. “Okay. When do we leave?”

“Yes.” Gordon actually fist pumped the air. Virgil couldn’t help but grin. “Now, big bro, pack your bags, we are going now.”

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Now?” That explained why he had been alone all morning.

But Scott had already started moving, Virgil’s meagre pile of supplies being shoved into the overnight bag that had sufficed for his hospital stay. “Well, we want to be home for Christmas, so we have to get going.”

Virgil moved to stand up.

Gordon stepped in front of him. “Hey, no, you stay there. This is a full service operation, Virg. We’ve got this.”

Another arched eyebrow was an answer to that, but Gordon was as good as his word and before Virgil could think twice, he was in a car, luggage in the trunk and on his way to the docks.

-o-o-o-

Scott was tired. It had been a long...well, everything. International Rescue never stopped, Tracy Industries never stopped and apparently, his brothers never stopped.

Virgil had scared him.

Okay, so nowadays appendicitis was a mild inconvenience, but in the past it was a killer and a painful and sudden one at that. Perhaps it was because it was something innocuous, something not related to a rescue and so out of the blue that it knocked Scott around so badly. But what worried him more was that his brother had ignored the warning signs of serious illness in favour of International Rescue. It wasn’t the first time and he wasn’t the only one of the brothers to do such a thing. Hell, Scott himself had done it. Lives had been saved despite injury and illness many times. But perhaps this was a louder warning. Perhaps they should be taking better care of themselves.

Grandma’s scathing words had driven it home. The Tracys were taking this Christmas off. They were due the time, they were tired, Virgil was ill. Any of those three on their own were cause for concern. All three together forced their matriarch to lay down the law.

Scott knew his place.

And she was right.

But their dilemma was a frustrating one. None of his brothers, particularly John, could fully relax away from home. There were celebrity issues to begin with, and this forced idleness rankled badly.

So, when Gordon suggested they go home via sea, Scott jumped on the idea wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Three days on the ocean. They would still be idle, but they would be away from restrictions, out beneath the blue sky and they could be home for Christmas.

And how long had it been since all five of them had been together like that? Had it happened since they were children on one of Dad’s road trips?

Scott swallowed as the car with himself, Virgil and Gordon made its way down to the docks. The sight of the ocean lifted his spirits more than he would ever admit to his aquanaut brother.

The vehicle slipped through a security checkpoint and into a private area.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Gordon was bouncing again, this time in his seat. The aquanaut was going to have the time of his life over this little trip. Scott couldn’t help but smile at his happiness.

And yes, the boat was a gorgeous craft, even to a flyboy like himself. She had clean lines and looked fast sitting still. White with a streak of yellow down her length...no doubt, very recently applied along with the name on her bow, A Little Lightning.

She was large, but not huge. Just big enough for five tired brothers to live in comfort and fly fast over the waves.

Gordon was spouting off her specs to a politely interested Virgil. Scott tilted his head to one side...no, that spark in his engineer brother’s eyes spoke of genuine curiosity. Scott smirked just a little. Might need to watch Virg for the first couple of days to keep him out of the engine. He could pull it apart and put it back together once they were home and he was better.

Scott lent his brother a hand to get out of the car. He was still walking slowly, careful of his incisions, but he was a touch straighter than a couple days ago and he was off medication - though that was no surprise. Getting him to take any medication at any time was a challenge.

“She’s beautiful, Gordon. How did you find her so fast?”

Their brother grinned. “I have friends, Virg. You know, those people you can share a drink with from time to time.”

Virgil’s flat eyed glare was more fond than exasperated. “How much money did you throw at these friends?”

A shrug was all the answer he gave. “It’s worth it.”

“Give me a number and I’ll throw it your way.” Virgil was sincerity itself.

“Forget it, bro. Not required.” The hand waved in Virgil’s direction was entirely dismissive. “Just have a look, Virg. This girl has speed!” And the discussion devolved into specs again as the two of them walked towards the pier.

Hmm, apparently, Scott was cabin boy today.

To be honest, he didn’t care.

Loading himself with luggage, he followed their slow progress onto the dock.

-o-o-o-

John wasn’t much of a sailor, but when Gordon suggested the trip, he jumped on it.

Out in the middle of the ocean he could see the stars unhindered, it would be quiet except for the wind, water and their boat and, to be honest, it would be good to just be with his brothers uninterrupted.

And besides, on Earth, the ocean was the closest he could get to the weightless freedom of space.

So the astronaut was happy to help prep the boat. Being a resident of Tracy Island required at least some marine knowledge for safety’s sake and it felt good to exercise it for a change.

Alan was a little less enthusiastic until John mentioned a new video game recently released in beta. He had meant to mention it to his littlest brother some weeks ago, but life got in the way. Years ago, the two of them used to tackle each other in various games and they hadn’t done so in ages. John had contributed to this game at the request of a couple of associates from college. It was a high level space simulator matched with an adventure storyline. It should have a good enough mix of reality and fantasy to keep the hi-octane teenager amused in those moments of too much quiet.

Gordon had already allocated some time to some extra-curricular activities around the Kermadec Island group south of Tracy Island, so there would be plenty of the softer sciences to go around somewhere in their second day of the voyage.

John smiled at Gordon’s reaction to the term ‘softer sciences’. He hadn’t known his younger brother actually knew the definition of the word he used. Then again usage didn’t always prove understanding. A few more words in Swedish at a later date should clarify that situation.

As he placed the last of their food supplies into refrigeration, he heard the first distant rumble of a familiar voice, followed by the excited chatter of his aquanaut brother.

His smile widened and he made his way out onto the deck. Virgil had an arm tight against his belly, but his expression was excited as Gordon rabbited on about the engine specifications of his new boat.

Well, John, Alan and Scott had contributed to the cost of the boat, but it really was Gordon’s regardless. None of them really cared about it other than it getting them and their brothers home safely. Gordon was the one who loved a good ocean-going vessel and this was definitely a brilliant contender.

John rolled his eyes at Virgil as he offered him a hand getting onboard and his brother grinned at him. A few solid steps and the engineer got his feet securely on the boat. His brown eyes caught John’s and he suddenly found himself caught in one of his bear hugs. Perhaps not as rigorous as usual, but just as warm.

John couldn’t help, but hug back.

“Hey, where’s mine? This was my idea, after all.”

Virgil laughed and wrapped his arms around Gordon. “Thanks, fishy.” It was brief, but all three men were grinning as the two brothers separated.

“Well, that’s sweet and all, but some of us have to work for a living.” John smirked as Scott arrived at the water’s edge draped in luggage. A quick leap onto the dock and he helped him shed bags and the odd suitcase and with Gordon’s help, lug them onto the yacht.

Virgil was hugging Alan, who had emerged from the cabin.

John nudged Scott. Under his breath, “He okay?”

“Seems happy enough about the boat.” A sigh. “Looked miserable enough to sink it before I told him.”

“Let’s hope it cheers him up.”

“Let’s hope it cheers us all up. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud.” Scott grabbed the bag with Virgil’s art equipment, which had been added to without the artist’s knowledge and clambered onto the boat and headed in the direction of the cabin assigned to Virgil.

Gordon had dragged Virgil up to what he called ‘The Bridge’, what Scott called ‘The Cockpit’ and what was blatantly and obviously the control centre of the yacht - it would be flyboys versus fish for the entire voyage, no doubt. Said fish could be heard still babbling excitedly to his engineer brother.

John made a note to rescue the invalid if necessary.

Between John and Scott, they unloaded the last pieces of luggage and sent the driver on his way with a generous tip. John ran the supplies list through his head. Gordon had managed all the permits and regulations an international voyage by sea required and there were quite a few. There was less red tape in space.

Of course, when your daughter is an AI, the red tape moves just that little faster. And yes, he did smile to himself. He couldn’t help it.

-o-o-o-

A Little Lightning left dock just after the tide turned midafternoon. It would have been better to leave early in the morning, but time was what it was and they set out when they could. It had been decided that between the autopilot and four out of five brothers and no, Virgil, you are not piloting this ship, so forget it, they could make up the time overnight.

“It’s a boat, Scott.”

“Semantics, Gordon.”

“Reality, Scott.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Are we going to hear this discussion the entire way?” He had stashed himself in a comfortable seat at the back of the ‘bridge’. He had a great view of Waitemata Harbour as they cruised slowly past the CBD of Auckland itself. The weather was fantastic and the sea calm as glass. The forecast said the same for the next three days and the only stormy hints were in his brothers’ eyes.

“Regardless of the type of craft, Virgil, you aren’t able to drive a car at the moment, much less pilot a boat.” Emphasis was put on the word ‘boat’ as his eldest brother glared like a petulant child at his aquanaut brother.

“Fine. I’ll be chauffeured.”

Gordon snorted as he directed the yacht between past an incoming liner. “Now you know how it feels.”

“Know what feels?”

“Not being allowed to drive.”

Virgil glared at his brother, but couldn’t think of an adequate retort.

Alan snickered.

“Shut up, Alan.” Okay, so perhaps Gordon had a point. “She’s my ‘bird, Gordon.”

“It’s okay, Virg. We understand, don’t we, guys.” Gordon grinned back at him. John smiled. Alan rolled his eyes.

Scott shrugged. “I don’t have a problem. Virgil doesn’t hesitate to let me fly Thunderbird Two.”

“You’re hardly ever on Two.”

“So? Virgil doesn’t have a problem with me flying Two, do you Virg?”

Four pairs of eyes stared at him in challenge, but not all from the same perspective.

“Er...”

“You think Scott is a better pilot that the rest of us?” Alan was always the direct one.

Virgil opened his mouth, but his eldest brother beat him to it. “I am a better pilot than all of you.”

“What?!” It was an offended scoff from the two youngest.

“Though I will admit that you each have your specialities with your ‘birds. Virgil is much better with Two than I am, for example.”

“And you are totally pathetic in Four, let me tell you.” Gordon was staring out across the bow, but there was still a smirk on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Who buried my girl in sea sludge recently?”

“That was unavoidable.”

Gordon spun on the spot. “What?! You’re still claiming you had no choice? I gave you recommendations on comms, you ignored them and look what happened, oh mighty pilot. You may be the greatest in the air, but you suck underwater, Scott, face it.”

“And I can run rings around you in Three, trust me on that.” Alan folded his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

“Hey!” Virgil shouted and cut off the discussion. “What the hell? You’re all damn good and fine pilots, no matter the craft. So, I’m a control freak with my girl. You’re all the same. When was the last time I piloted any of your craft? I’m fully trained and fully capable as any of you are, but she is my ‘bird and while I’m alive and kicking, I will fly her. That is no reflection on your capability, only on mine. And for god’s sake, get over it.”

Okay, so he got a little angry. It wasn’t his best attempt at diffusing an argument, ever, but the dumb ass looks directed at him were at least silent ones.

“Now stop fighting and let us enjoy this trip.” He blinked. “And Gordon, you might want to avoid that oncoming container ship.”

The aquanaut jumped and the yacht swerved as he shifted her quickly to the left to give way to the massive cargo carrier bearing down on them. The sharp dirge of the ship’s horn emphasised her captain’s ire at their deviation into his vessel’s path.

“Sorry!”

It was a vain apologetic gesture of his little brother’s part. It did put an effective end to their argument nonetheless.

There were many islands at the mouth of Auckland’s main harbour and it was extremely scenic, particularly the volcanoes.

Virgil was intimately familiar with volcanic structures and had visited several as part of IR, he understood their power and had witnessed it first hand, but the artist in him never failed to be caught by their symmetry and their mystery. They still caught his imagination and stunned him.

As they accelerated around the islands and out into the bay proper, the sea opened out into a beautifully flat expanse of watery blue. They were still surrounded on all sides by distant patches of green. Another little volcanic island reared up and they cruised past. A couple of dolphins danced along in the wake at their bow. John helped Virgil climb up the stairs to the railing at the front of the boat. He twinged several times, but ignored it despite the frown of Scott following up behind him.

It was worth it to stand up the front, the wind in his hair, a brother either side of him. The last of the islands passed by and the ocean opened up in front of them.

Dolphins continued to keep them company.

Both Scott and John kept a grip on an arm each, wary of him stressing himself in any way. Virgil turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes, letting the sensations fill his mind.

“Better?” It was a whisper from Scott, barely heard above the rush of air over his ears.

Virgil smiled.

“Better.”

-o-o-o-

End Day One, Part One.

Day One, Part Two

[jodeeeart]

I adore your markmaking in the traditional stuff you do! I would love to learn how to do that myself. What kind of materials/pencils do you prefer (brand, hardness?), do you sharpen them in a specific way and could you give some tips on how you place your strokes? Thank you so much for always being so helpful and your wonderful art.

Hey Nonners!  Thank you very much indeedy!  

My favourite brand of pencils are Caran d’ache (Technograph range.) The three chaps I am currently keeping in my go to case are F, HB and 3B. I don’t use any special sharpening techniques for these pencils, I actually do love my pencil sharpener though. It’s a KUM (yes, that is the brand name) Automatic long point. It’s THE best sharpener I’ve ever owned. I use a sharp knife for the softer guys, like their grafwood range or conte pencils.  Mostly I sketch on dirt cheap, smooth newsprint or in a moleskin sketchbook. I’m not one for a heavy texture when I’m using pencil really. I find it snags, distorts and resists me too much. When it comes to the act of sketching, I treat it more like I would a brush than a pencil I guess, working mostly tonally in shape and Mass rather than in heavy line. I never hold the pencil like I am writing a letter. Weirdly enough it’s a mix of conscious, considered decisions and happy, expressive accidents. I don’t like to sketch too tight anymore. I’d suggest just playing around with a sharp pencil at first. explore the different marks you can make before taking it into anything representational. Familiarise yourself with the tool.  Thank you very much for the ask Non! Happy sketching!  <3

[curiouskrp]

               “WELCOMING APT 3B TENANT, KIM JUN !

INFORMATION

age – 25 pronouns – he/him occupation – freelance model and illustrator moved into treehouse – two years ago

PERSONALITY: INFP, THE MEDIATOR

positive –

value harmony

-          sensitive and empathetic, jun is highly perceptive towards the emotions of other people. rather than use it to further his own ambitions or hold power over people, it becomes the primary reason why he can’t ignore when someone is in distress. he’s a natural nurturer and a proponent of balance. when conflict can’t be avoided, he will quickly intervene and try to restore order.

creative

-          jun’s excited by new ideas and uncommon approaches to life. he sees the world through rose-colored classes, not for its practical facts but for its possibilities. art is an important outlet for him, one where he can go into autopilot and comfortably let his imagination take over for hours at a time.

negative –

too altruistic

-          jun tends to overlook his own wants and needs in favor for accommodating others. it’s incredibly easy for other people to take advantage of him, as he has a difficulty saying ‘no’. in addition to that, he sees good in almost anyone or anything, even when it is unmerited, and has a habit of lending compassion to those who have hurt him in the past.

difficult to get to know

-          jun’s a private person. those who don’t know him would often mistake his shyness for coldness. slightly self-conscious that he isn’t interesting enough, he tends to let the other person lead in conversations, happy to ask questions but demur when they’re directed at him.  

HAUNT

jun stops in the middle of the marble stairway, eyes catching on the banner suspended from the ceiling.

the national museum of contemporary art presents

< E R O S: sensuality in the modern world >

by park ohsik

against the words are a black and white image of a model’s profile. his face is slightly obscured by shadows, but it’s clear that the anonymity is intentional, the main focus being the elegant dip of his neck and the bare curves of his collarbone. the photography is beautiful; he wouldn’t have expected anything less from park ohsik.

jun feels sick.  

he thinks back to the last time he was in front of ohsik’s camera, back when they were still dating and jun was still pretending not to see ohsik’s eyes wander. they got into a fight in between lighting checks, something about jun agreeing to do a photoshoot with an old college friend and only telling ohsik today. he pulled jun into the dressing room and launched into a speech about loyalty, exclusivity, and how it wasn’t fair that he was rejecting all these beautiful young models who would kill for a chance to work with him when jun was going around letting himself be photographed by anyone with a camera. it was cold in the dressing room. the window was open and jun wasn’t wearing a shirt. he was tired, hungry, and vaguely irritable from not being allowed to eat lunch because it didn’t fit the diet plan ohsik made for him. and now he wasn’t being allowed to make his own decisions.

he stepped back to put some space between him and ohsik. “you don’t own me,” he said.

ohsik stared at jun for a moment, evaluating. then he stepped closer, one foot at a time, until jun felt his back meet the hard edge of the door.

“no,” his voice was light, but jun heard the danger underneath. “i guess i don’t. but don’t forget that i made you. i took you in when you had no money, no family, no place to go, and i gave you a future.” in one smooth movement, he locked the door and raised a hand to cup jun’s cheek. “you’re nothing without me.”

HISTORY

(one.)

in the kindergarden playground, while all the other kids were busy chasing each other through jungle gyms or swinging from money-bars, jun was sitting on the picnic tables. his legs crossed neatly on the wooden bench, he bent over his sketchbook with a fistful of crayons and a face focused in concentration.

one day, when the bell rang to signal the end of school, and all the children filtered out the door holding their parents’ hands, his teacher touched his shoulder and asked his parents to stay back.

( “mr. and mrs. kim, we’re a bit concerned about jun. he seems to have trouble connecting with his peers. he’s a sweet kid with a bright imagination, but he’s very shy and likes to stick to the sidelines. sometimes he starts to cry when he thinks his classmates are in pain, not to mention…" )

and his father, who had lived his college glory days playing baseball for cheering crowds before setting down as an office worker, would try and fail at hiding his disappointment. when their third child arrived, he had been so excited to finally have another man in the family. someone to toss a ball with, play-wrestle in the living room, and argue about sports in front of the tv. he loved his daughters, but for so long he had been outnumbered by girls, and he was looking forward to watching jun grow up as his partner-in-crime. now, he had the sinking suspicion that the son he had envisioned was not the son sitting quietly next to him. with a mouth full of bitterness, he let go of his expectations.

the entire meeting, jun stared up at his father’s face, wanting to be reassured with a smile or a soft glance that everything was okay. that this was a mistake. that he wasn’t in trouble. but no matter what he did, he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

(two.)

all throughout middle school and high school, jun would drift from class to class permanently in a state of his own daydream. his instructor’s voices would fade into monotonous background noise as he looked outside the window, chin in hand, and doodled in his notebook. art was a curious thing that had unfurled in his palm one day when he wasn’t looking. everything became sharper when he had a pencil in his hand. most days it seemed like the world around him opened up to reveal secrets faster than jun could sketch them down. sometime before his 12th birthday his parents flipped through the pages of his sketchbook, read the writing on the wall and decided that the art thing was a useful thing. behind closed doors they had everything figured out. they evaluated his academic prospects, compared him to what his sisters were achieving at his age, and enrolled in him after-school art hagwons instead of the traditional tutoring programs. he was glad. it was true that jun never liked studying all that much, but still a part of him felt like his parents had a habit of underestimating him, of squaring him inside a little frame they picked out themselves.  

still, there was nothing jun disliked more than confrontation and conflict, and he would much rather keep his hopes and plans close to his chest than lay it out for his family to scrutinize it over the dinner table. he knew they wanted what was best for him, and he was pretty sure they loved him.

but he didn’t think they trusted him.

(three.) —- cw: homophobia

university was a turning point in that he finally found his people: art classmates with paint-stained elbows, band musicians with knuckle-stamped tattoos, and all kinds of unconventional characters from the soft underbelly of seoul. he was in his element. at the height of his creativity. florescent and untouchable. but in all his excitement he had confused being out of sight for being free. he had forgotten that he could still be controlled, even from the sky, and that at any moment someone could tug at the rope that looped around his ankle and bring him crashing down.

one night out with his friends, in stomach-sick coincidence, his sister saw him going home with another man.

the following week his credit card was cancelled. the next month his tuition past due. and he couldn’t do it. couldn’t grovel on his knees and swear that it was a one-time mistake. couldn’t ask for forgiveness when he was an adult and committed no crime. couldn’t change who he was again and again, constantly looking over his shoulder, molding himself until his family was satisfied with the result.

(four.)

after he dropped out of school, he worked random jobs to scrape by: mostly night shifts at the convenience store and whatever menial labor crossed his radar. in addition to that, he lived with a friend who would let him sleep on his couch in return for modeling for his art projects. by word of mouth, his name spread to neighboring art schools, and he found himself accepting more offers as a model for hire.

one day, he got in contact with a rising photographer named park ohsik who had seen some artwork of him and had asked around for the subject. he wanted to feature him in his next project. they agreed to meet at a coffeeshop. he ordered him coffee. he grabbed his hand. he claimed it was love at first sight, that he had finally found his muse. and jun, lonely, touch-starved, and hungry for a tender word, fell hard.  

ohsik coaxed things out of jun that he didn’t know he had in him. the nerve to pose in front of a fully-dressed photo-crew half-naked, for one. and to gradually become so in touch with his sexuality that he could sell it for the camera with only a little prompting. for a while, with ohsik, jun felt beautiful. but as the months slid into years, the arm around his waist grew tighter and tighter. ohsik demanded all of jun. he wanted to consume him whole. he wouldn’t be satisfied unless he was the center of every aspect of his life, and jun couldn’t give that to him. it was inevitable then, that their relationship grew toxic and twisted and soon broke off in sour terms.

but now, jun had a career. when he was ohsik’s muse, he had gotten acquainted with other photographers, agencies, and names from the industry. he had built a network, and now he was receiving job offers from enough sources to keep him fed and floating. he moved out of his friend’s house, heard of the treehouse in his search for a new living situation, and went in for a visit. it checked all the logistical boxes he was looking for, and if the air seemed slightly off the day he dropped by, it was probably nothing but his nervousness at living on his own for the first time. he ignored the curious feeling in his gut, breathed out, and signed the contract

[atowncalledmalec]

That's actually really sweet

A small breakdown of the trailer that we got before 3B started. I wrote this a couple of months ago but still wanted to post it here.

Angst, a glimpse of Magnus' mental health after losing his magic.

Magnus sighed, blinking in the dim light of predawn as he rolled over, after exactly no hours of sleep. He studied Alec's sleeping form in the meager light, listening to the soft snores that emanated from his boyfriend, trying to use the sound to block out the whirling mess in his head.

With another sigh, a deeper one, Magnus rolled back over. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing at his face as if he could wipe all of the loneliness, the hurt and anger and confusion away with the motion.

One last look over his shoulder at Alec's sleeping form had Magnus standing, as graceful as ever, even if his body felt odd, foreign to him.

That will be the loss of your magic dear.

Shying away from that thought, Magnus stumbled into his closet, decidedly not thinking about the fact that he would have to search by hand through rack upon rack of clothes, to find something to wear.

Magnus simply grabbed the first things his hands landed on and snapped his fingers to remove his silk pyjamas before the memories of what he had lost stabbed him in the gut. The wound went deeper than any he had suffered over the centuries he had already endured.

Allowing one solitary tear to fall before pushing it away, Magnus shrugged out of his clothing, forgoing the shower he didn't have the energy to take, and started pulling his chosen outfit on.

Red shirt, black pinstripe slacks, suspenders. You've worn this one before bane!

Who cares, it's just clothes. Alexander doesn't care if I've worn them before.

With that thought running through his head, Magnus gave his appearance a cursory glance in the full length mirror in his closet before wandering out into his bedroom.

With eyes lingering on Alec, watching his Shadowhunter in the vanity mirror, Magnus took a seat and started pulling his war paint out. He swiped a dusting of eyeshadow over each lid before staring critically at his work.

“It's been far too long since you've done this by hand and you look ridiculous,” Magnus muttered to himself, grabbing a wipe and scrubbing it off.

Stars sparkled in his eyes when he emerged from the wipe, having dug into them just that little bit too hard. Blinking helped take his mind off of the fact that he had to wipe it off in the first place.

Magnus grabbed his eyeliner, the one part of his makeup routine that he always did by hand, and pulled his lower lids down, ignoring how bloodshot his eyes looked, to line his eyes before he closed them and ran the pencil through his scrunched lids once more, coating the waterline of his top lids too.

With a final smudge at the excess, Magnus studied his face in the mirror once more. I'll just say that I was going for a new look if anyone asks.

Swiping his hand over his face once more, Magnus’ gaze caught on the chipped polish on his nails. He grabbed the bottle of nail polish remover and swiped it over the leftover fragments of polish on his nails, trying not to think on how closely the fragments resembled his life. Cracked, chipped, faded… lacking.

That thought sapped the last of Magnus’ will to pretty himself up. Leaving his nails polish free, he swung his legs, blinking as he wondered what to do now. He had to keep busy, lest he crumble like the polish that had blemished his nails.

“Breakfast, yes, I'm sure Alexander will need some breakfast after all of the energy he lost during battle.”

The words came softly, softer than his voice usually came out but they were Magnus’ salvation. A purpose. A distraction. A way to make some use of his now useless body.

Without a minute to lose, Magnus strode from the room, walking quickly to the kitchen to cook up a feast.

Of course, he didn't actually know how to use any of the modern contraptions his kitchen was filled with. Of course, he didn't know how to un-magically whip up a breakfast that was fit for a king… or a recovering Shadowhunter. And, of course, there was no actual food in his refrigerator.

The market! The farmers market three blocks away. I'll find something there!

Rushing for the front door, grateful to have something to do, Magnus just about managed to catch the door on its backswing, a split second before it closed, with a thudding heart.

Keys. Phone. Money. Your fucking sanity!

They were all things he had never had to worry about before. A snap of his fingers, a flick of his wrist, hell, one elegant swirl of his fingers was usually all Magnus needed to shop or get in touch with people or to let himself to into his own fucking home!

A stuttering, ragged, torment filled breath ripped from him as he clutched the door frame for support, allowing the moment of weakness when there was nobody to see it. He was unsure of what was worse, the churning of his stomach or the thundering, swirling shit storm, running through his head.

Magnus took one, two, three deep breaths in before he straightened, spine erect, and stomped back into his apartment to snatch his keys and some money up. The image of having to press his buzzer and wait out in the cold for Alec to let him in because he had left his keys went as quickly as it came.

Squaring his shoulders once more, Magnus shoved his things into the pockets of his pants and strode out of the door, head held high as he made his way through the building, riding the elevator in quiet contemplation.

A chill breeze was the first indication to Magnus that he had made it outside. He barely paid attention to the cold wind and the barley rising sun as he started towards the farmers market, running through the list of ingredients in his head.

A momentary smile graced Magnus’ lips as he recalled the one time, just a couple of short weeks ago, when Alec had made his stew, calling the ingredient list his “instructions”. Is that all it is, just a couple of weeks? He wondered to himself, it feels like centuries.

A tiredness washed through him in that moment as every single one of the years that he had existed crept up on him, all at once. They almost had him falling to his knees, the weight of those years too much to bear. Centuries.

I've been alive centuries and in all of that time, I've never faced something of this magnitude, Magnus thought.

Never once had Magnus had to think about those countries dwindling to decades, to a handful of years. His life hd always been endless, inevitable, permanent, his immortality unbending to the passage of time. Those concerns are for mortals, beings with shorter lifespans, right? Not for him. Not for the son of a demon.

His feet started moving again, the harsh wind making him snap his fingers to conjure a jacket before he could catch himself. It would be easy to pull a scowl onto his face. To snarl at the cruelty of his father's demand but his face just went slack as he wandered down the street, not one of the thousand emotions that swirled through him able to find purchase on his face.

Magnus blinked when his legs almost went from beneath him, from the uneven ground he had stumbled on. Looking up as he righted his steps, he found the reason that the ground had changed beneath his feet, maybe not metaphorically, but certainly physically. The edge of the sidewalk.

Magnus turned left and started wandering through the stalls, listening to the calling of vendors, allowing their crass shouts to drown out the thoughts that were parading through his mind on a never ending loop.

There was something soothing about it, about witnessing life going on around him when it felt like his own had come to an end. If these mundanes can exist without magic, then I can too. Right?

A stall that sold breakfast food snagged Magnus' attention, forcing him to focus rather than sink into his own head once more. He ran his fingers over the soft eggshells, thinking of their fragility and relating to them all too easily, silently wondering how many he would need.

Scooping up half a dozen, hoping they would be enough, Magnus held them carefully to his chest, pulling on a tight smile for the woman watching him. He juggled the eggs as he searched through the pastries that were on offer, selecting a couple of the largest croissants and adding them to the pile of precious eggs.

A crate of oranges snagged Magnus’ attention next. Freshly squeezed juice, that will be a nice addition. How many though? Three? Four? There's only two of us.

Picking up two plump oranges, Magnus added them to pile that he was now juggling, cursing his lack of ability to simply snap up a basket to carry them in. That lack of magical skill had him giving up. He smiled at the woman, waiting to serve him, and managed to juggle his haul into her hands.

Barely paying attention to the woman, Magnus scooped his wallet out of his pocket and handed a twenty over, thinking that it should be enough. He felt no shame in admitting to himself that it had been a long while since he had had to worry about something as mundane as paying for croissants and eggs.

Accepting the bag that the lady handed him, and completely missing the expression on her face… not that he would have been able to decipher it if he had, Magnus made his way back to his building, deciding to buy a rose on a whim as he passed a flower stall on his way out of the market.

Magnus meandered back to his building, standing uncertainty outside of the door for a moment before he remembered he would have to dig his keys out. He pulled them from his pocket, staring at the keys and the little fob before he remembered when the mundane had showed him around the apartment.

Magnus held the fob to he small panel above the buttons, starting when the door clicked open. He grabbed the handle and pulled, slightly impressed with the technology that the mundanes had come up with, in place of magic. His mind wandered again when he ducked into the elevator and rode it up to his floor.

Knowing that he would have to actually face Alec at some point, Magnus tried to run through what expressions he would put on his face, already hoping that his voice wouldn't crack when they had to speak.

A tiny part of Magnus’ brain thought of the Shadowhunters part in the loss of his magic. It had been his decision, one he knew that he would make again, in an instant, but it still hurt that he had had to make the decision in the first place, especially in light of the fact that the reason he had lost his magic hadn't been seen since they had discovered Clarys death.

Jace had run away as soon as he had announced the news, leaving him to try and get in touch with Cat to move Alec back to the loft, and to deal with the loss of his magic and Clary all in the same breath.

With straining lungs, as the implications of what that meant rolled through him, Magnus looked around his kitchen, desperately pushing thoughts of Clary's death aside, the questions he had been trying to banish over the last thirty hours surfaced once more. Do I blame him? Do I blame them all?

But Magnus couldn't deal with that now, he had to prepare Alec's breakfast, keep busy, ignore the implications and the consequences of his lost magic. It was the best way, the only way to get through the coming days.

Humming a tune under his breath, because he was fine and it kept his mind busy, Magnus emptied his groceries out onto the kitchen side, forgetting the fact that he couldn't remember getting out of the elevator.

Magnus stared at the croissants, eyeing them as one would eye a confusing puzzle before his gaze slid to the microwave that he had never used. He opened the door and tossed the pastries inside, staring at the control pad as though the instructions would light up and show him the way.

With a shrug, Magnus started pressing buttons, jabbing harder and harder at them until the infernal contraption lit up and the food started turning before he turned his attention to the eggs.

“A simple omelette should suffice,” Magnus muttered, rifling through the cupboards and drawers for a bowl and fork, it was a much more successful endeavour than the microwave. At least I know how to work the hob, even if the damn oven evades me.

Magnus soon had the eggs whipped up and cooking in a frying pan, his eyes glued to the eggs because it was easier to pour all of his attention into ensuring the food didn't burn than it was to let his mind wander.

The pinging of the microwave had Magnus dropping the wooden spoon and dashing towards the machine. He pulled the door open and grabbed hold of the red hot pastries, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he yanked his hand back and blew on it.

Snatching a dishcloth up, Magnus yanked the pastries out and slammed them down on a plate, wishing with everything inside of him that he could portal himself to Paris and pick some fresh, already warm pastries up and offer them to Alec. He even contemplated trying it in his desperation.

But, before he could raise his hand, a crackling sound rang out through the kitchen. That was almost the moment he lost it, turning around to see the eggs on their way to burning.

Dashing across the kitchen before the pan could catch fire, Magnus snatched the pan up off the hob and slammed it down on the countertop before his legs gave way.

Sliding down the side of the cupboard, onto the floor, Magnus crumpled. Knees to his chest, his arms wrapping around them, he raked his hands through his hair as the tears started gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Can't even get through making one breakfast the mundane way. How the fuck am I supposed to make it the rest of the way? How am I going to survive however long I'm allotted now, if I can't even cook a fucking omelette?

Knowing that his breathing was picking up, his stomach somewhere back at the farmers market, back where he had found Alec, filled with arrows and trying to make jokes, back in Edom. Take your pick. Magnus tried to regulate his reactions.

Magnus tried to fight the empty, lonely, powerless feeling that wanted to swamp him every other second, to take him over and drag him down the hole that he was unsure he would be able to climb out of but it felt like a losing battle. It was too much, everything fighting for ground and trying to take precedence at the forefront of his mind.

Magnus didn't want to feel, he wanted to be numb, to fall asleep and wake up to Alec telling him it had all been a nightmare or not wake up at all. He wanted to hide from the world that always demanded too much but never gave back a fraction of what his sacrifices were worth.

But I can't, because I'm Magnus Bane, High War…

Magnus Bane, friend, confident, boyfriend. I'm the one that solves problems, the one everyone turns to, every time. I'm the dependable one, not the man who gets to have a day off from the demands placed upon him.

Scrubbing the tears from his face and taking a deep breath, Magnus stood and looked down at his “creation”. It wasn't horrendous, maybe a dark spot, here and there but it looked edible… perhaps. Sighing a deep breath out, he flipped it onto the plate with the croissants, cutting any dark bits off and turned to his oranges, pushing his self pity to the back of his mind.

“I should have got more,” Magnus muttered to himself, staring at the ridiculously small amount of juice in the glass when he had squeezed the two solitary oranges out. Pursing his lips, he placed it on a tray with the plate, placed the rose in a milk jug and picked it up, taking deep breaths on his way to his bedroom.

The soft snores Alec was making had Magnus’ stomach settling a fraction, a small amount of the weight he was carrying sliding from his shoulders at the adorable sounds. He had spent the night listening to them, unable to sleep, and still he ached to hear more but he needed to keep busy, not wallow.

So carrying the tray towards his vanity, Magnus set it down and pondered the best way to wake Alec. He knew from experience that a gentle shake and soft words wouldn't cut it so he decided the simplest approach was the best and strode over to the curtains.

“Come on, Pup, time rise and face the day,” Magnus said as he shoved the curtains open, a bright shaft of light brightening the room in an instant. There, that's normal, right? He asked himself before turning to find Alec, cringing back from the light.

“Pup?” Alec asked when he was so rudely awoken, trying to cover his eyes from the burning sensation of the sunlight. Is he trying out a nickname?

“Panda?” Magnus asked, wondering if Alec would like that one better.

“No!” Alec said, racking his brain for a cell that was working.

“Okay,” Magnus said quietly, returning to the vanity to collect Alec's breakfast as he fixed his best smile in place. I can do this, I can do normal. For him, for his sake. I. Can. Do. Normal.

Even if it was actually for his own sake.

“Why is it so early?” Alec groaned, rolling into his side to bury his face in the pillows, hoping for more sleep.

The next words out of Magnus’ mouth had Alec sitting up. He tried to adjust to the light and being awake and the way Magnus was moving across the room, his boyfriend's spine semi erect and an easy look on his face. Huh?

“Oh, with everything going on, sleep has been a bit of a struggle,” Magnus allowed himself to share as he returned with Alec's breakfast.

Alec looked up at Magnus properly as he fully sat up, taking his outfit in.

“Why are you dressed?” Alec asked when Magnus slid a tray of food onto the end of the bed..

“Oh, I had to get up early to go to the farmers market before dawn, for the ingredients for our breakfast. Which… admittedly, is less than… perfect. But do you know how many oranges are required to make a glass of juice…?” Magnus asked, picking up the half empty glass.

Alec picked up a croissant inspecting it as Magnus raised the glass and inspected the contents at eye level.

“...More than I bought. I used to have magic to do all of these little errands but, I have to admit, there's a certain… charm to doing things the mundane way,” Magnus said casually, smiling his best smile. He did his best not to notice Alec's expression, ploughing on as though everything was fine.

“Is today a special occasion?” Alec asked, squinting up at Magnus, seeing all of the truths Magnus was attempting to hide behind his smiles and his casual movements.

“Well, today is your day off and I want to make the most of it,” Magnus said softly, sliding the tray closer to Alec with a smile.

Alec's stared at Magnus, his eyes narrowing at his boyfriend's blase attitude as the tray was pushed forward. Magnus still hadn't talked to him, about losing his magic or his trip to Edom. He desperately wanted Magnus to open up, to scream or yell, to rightfully blame him because it was his Parabatai Magnus had saved. To do anything other than what Magnus was doing now, pretending.

But Alec also recognised the defence mechanism, it was one he employed himself. Smile, show the world that it doesn't affect you. Pretend that you aren't falling apart and pray that nobody looks too closely. He understood those reactions all too well and still fell back on them now.

Alec had two options , he could force the issue, force Magnus to talk before he was ready to, while the wounds where still to fresh… or he could let Magnus come round. He could let Magnus come to the conclusion that he was pushing him away, and wait until Magnus had gotten it together in his own head.

“That's actually really sweet,” Alec said with a small smile of his own, trying not to purse his lips. He wanted Magnus to open up but knew it had to be in his own time, at his own pace. And it was sweet, that Magnus wanted to look after him, even if Magnus’ hurt was worse than his own and he didn't really deserve it.

“Uhm, I thought so,” Magnus said with a small shrug and another smile.

Alec leaned in for a kiss, wanting to let Magnus know, even if he didn't say the words, that he was there, ready to listen when Magnus was ready to talk or scream or fight. He almost fell on his face when Magnus broke the kiss that was barely a brush.

Magnus didn't have a choice, he couldn't wrap himself up in Alec and sink into the kiss, couldn't allow Alec to comfort him. He knew that if he held on too long, he would break, he wouldn't be able to hold it all inside and be strong in front of his boyfriend. So he pulled back after a few seconds and scooped the glass of juice up.

“Drink up, time for our morning exercise,” Magnus said, fighting every emotion with a centuries long practiced pretension that he had perfected, pretending that nothing could hurt him. Try as he might though, he couldn't do it. Not with Alec. So he stood, jumping to his feet far too quickly, even to him, and dashed from the room.

Alec accepted the glass and watched Magnus go, his face dropping. He clutched the glass, his resolve almost breaking, almost jumping up and demanding Magnus talk to him.

Alec stood, pacing the floor. He understood, to a certain degree. Not about Magnus losing his magic, he would never understand that, couldn't even begin to imagine it. But he understood what it was to feel vulnerable, to feel weak and out of control in front of those who always saw you as strong.

A thought rolled into Alec's brain as he turned on his heel once more, a way for Magnus to take some control back.

“If Magnus wants exercise, I know exactly how to give it to him.” Alec muttered, throwing some boxers on and following Magnus into the living room.

“Magnus, get your stuff, you're coming training with me,” Alec said, squeezing Magnus’ hand when he saw the red rims of his boyfriend's eyes.

Alec could give Magnus the time he needed to come around and make sure he could protect himself at the same time.

[tallat-of-thralls]

Note on Seal Forging:

If you plan on making any seal what-so-ever, ward yourself heavily. Seal making is considered "advanced". Not just based upon the artistic know-how of the one making the seal but also based upon the understandings delivered by the seals themselves, their history, their origins, and the cultural relevancies. (There are some practices that arent my heritage that I avoid employing simply out of respect.)

Seals, especially Solomon's are Quabbalic and Hebrew in origin and nature.

Obviously, of you are Nazi/Supremest (unfollow me first), dont touch it. At. All. Leave.

Seals of any sort attract many many many kinds of energies and further knowledge depending on the focal and reference point used. Understand that and prepare your environment, tools, and self for the massive amount of time and work you will invest into them.

Suggested Art Tools:

Compass (mine has an extension that allows for a different medium to be used)

protractor (some desirgns require measuring)

ruler (i use a 6-7 inch /15cm ruler for ease of use)

graphite pencil/.7 mechanical (h, h2, hb, anything softer or bolder is hard to erase if needed)

Eraser (either that awesome pen shaped eraser or a regular pink eraser. Blending erasers aren't necessary unless you want a desired effect)

either a thicker graphite pencil (2b, 3b) or a sharpie/pen for bold lines

A flat surface (i use a home decor box with a lid as a portable art surface)

Clip board (its not entirely needed but it helps to hold the paper in place if you are using paper.

Your desired medium (i primarily use paper but they can also be applied to walls, cars, floors, whatever)

A tip for beginners: Print out the preferred design and trace it. You can use graphite sheets too.

Suggested "Witchy" things:

Guidelines (have rules for yourself and "others" to abide by)

Instructions (to draw the seals)

Candles (depends on your intent)

Time reference (you live in the material plane and seals are time consuming. Be aware if your surroundings.)

Wards (protect yourself and others from possible visits, i will post my two favorite warding techniques later)

Sources (study up on your needs)

A clear and firm set of beliefs (stand your ground and carry a healthy skepticism)

Finally, Practice makes almost perfect. You're *mostly* human. You're going to make mistakes. Its okay to not get it the first, second, or even third time. Hell, it took me a whole week and dozens of consecutive and nonconsecutive hours to perfect some of my more tedious mandalas and geometric patterns. Just be kind to yourself, take breaks, dont strain your eyes, remember to eat, massage your wrists.

Take care of yourself.

You will succeed.

AethyrSecretary 🌙

[24stiles920]

Galvanize

Teen Wolf Rewrite

Pairing: Stiles x Reader

Warnings: Ages 16+, swearing,

Words: 4418

A/N: What up, I’m back. I’m so sorry it took me so long to update—you know, college and life happened. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Season 3B Masterlist

Stiles parked the jeep in a spot toward the front of the parking lot. He was beaming like a little kid, extremely excited for today. It was Mischief Day and nothing could bring down Stiles’ mood. He and Scott always played a prank on Coach the night before Mischief Day because it happened to fall on Coach’s birthday. Last night was no different, Stiles had snuck off to the school after I had fallen asleep and met up with Scott.

“Ready for Mischief Day, baby?” Stiles said as he pulled his keys out of the starter.

“Sure.” I gave him an amused glance. I looked out the windshield and saw Scott pull up in one of the motorcycle parking spots. Right next to him were the familiar and fancy motorcycles that belonged to the twins. “Is that Ethan and Aiden?” I asked.

Stiles followed my line of sight and cursed under his breath. “Let’s go.” He said, opening his door and scrambling out of the jeep. I followed after him, meeting him at the front of the vehicle to intertwine our hands. We walked up behind Scott as he confronted the twins.

“You’re back in school?” Scott asked them.

Ethan shook his head. “No, just to talk.”

“Oh.” Stiles spoke up as we approached the three werewolves. “That’s kind of a change of pace for you guys. Usually, you’re just hurting, maiming, and killing.”

Aiden ignored Stiles, looking straight at Scott as he said, “You need a pack. We need an alpha.”

Scott raised his eyebrows as Stiles chuckled sarcastically. “Yeah, absolutely not. That’s hilarious though.”

Ethan glared at Stiles before looking back at Scott. “You came to us for help. We helped.”

I laughed sharply, causing them all to turn to me. I crossed my arms over my chest and sneered, “You beat his face into a bloody pulp. That’s not helping.”

“In my opinion, that’s actually counter-productive.” Stiles added, raising an eyebrow.

“Why would I say ‘yes?’” Scott asked.

“We’d add strength.” Aiden replied. “We’d make you more powerful. There’s no reason to say no.”

Stiles rolled his eyes before looking at me. We exchanged looks of disbelief.

“I can think of one.” Isaac came right up to our little gathering, crossing his arms over his chest while glaring at the twins. “Like the two of you holding Derek’s claws while Kali impaled Boyd.” Stiles nodded in agreement as Isaac continued. “In fact, I don’t know why we’re not impaling them right now.”

Aiden looked up and growled, his eyes an icy blue. “You want to try?”

Isaac smirked and stepped forward, only to be held back by Scott. Scott gave Isaac a look and Isaac backed down.

“Sorry, but they don’t trust you.” Scott said, turning to the twins. “And neither do I.”

Scott walked past the twins and Stiles grabbed my hand as we followed behind him. Isaac left us, presumably to find Allison while Scott and Stiles opened the double doors leading into the school. Stiles was immediately hit in the head with a roll of toilet paper.

“All right, that’s my fucking face!” Stiles exclaimed in exasperation. Scott and I exchanged amused glances and started walking to Stiles’ locker. “Hey, dude,” Stiles patted Scott on the shoulder. “Good decision, buddy. Good alpha decision.”

Scott clutched the straps of his backpack and pursed his lips. “I hope so.”

“No, you know so.” Stiles said, unlocking his locker and pulling the door open. He glanced at Scott and asked, “What are you looking at?”

“Me?” Scott pointed to his chest.

Stiles nodded. “You.”

I followed Scott’s eyeline to see Kira at her locker, clumsily putting her stuff away.

“Are you looking at her?” I asked cheekily as Stiles put a carton of eggs in his locker.

“Her?” Scott acted confused. “Who her?”

I subtly pointed over at Kira. “Her, her. Kira.” I nudged him playfully. “Do you like her?”

“No.” Scott shook his head before hesitating. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, she’s okay. She’s…new.”

“So ask her out.” Stiles advised, closing his locker.

“Now?” Scott asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Stiles tapped his locker. “Now.”

“Right now?” Scott’s voice was hysterical.

“Right now.” Stiles confirmed as we started down the hallway. “Scott, I don’t think you get it yet.” He patted Scott’s shoulder. “You’re an alpha. You’re the apex predator. Everyone wants you, you know? You’re like the hot girl that every guy wants.”

“The hot girl?” Scott repeated as Isaac came up to us.

“You are the hottest girl.” Stiles assured him, grabbing his arms. He let go of Scott and grabbed my hand, pulling us away from Scott and Isaac.

“So, if Scott’s the hottest girl, what am I?” I asked Stiles playfully, looking up at him as we walked to Econ.

Stiles stopped walking, a smirk on his lips as I turned to look at him curiously. He grabbed my hips and pulled me close to his body, pressing his lips against mine in a quick peck.

“You.” He kissed me again. “Are the most beautiful and sexiest girl I know.” He murmured. He pressed his lips against my forehead and kept them there as he hugged me to him. After a few blissful seconds, he pulled away and gave me a grin. “Come on, Econ is going to start any second.”

I laughed and followed him to Coach’s classroom, sitting in the seat behind him. The bell rang as more people rushed into the room and sat down. All of a sudden, a loud scream could be heard from Coach’s office that was right next door.

“SON OF A BITCH!”

The class broke out into laughter as Coach stomped into the room, slamming his office door shut.

“Mischief Night, Devil’s Night. I don’t care what you call it.” Coach seethed as slapped a pencil off his desk. “You little punks are evil. You think it’s funny every Halloween my house gets egged? A man’s house is supposed to be his castle.” He slapped Scott’s text book. “Mine’s a frickin’ omelet.”

As Coach picked up a present off of his desk, I heard a faint buzzing sound, like a fly was zooming around my head. I flicked my wrist, slapping at the air, hoping that the fly would go away, but the buzzing continued. I looked around and saw Danny staring at me with a bewildered face.

“What?” I whispered.

“What are you doing?” He asked softly.

“There’s a fly.”

-

Stiles and I were at my locker, collecting my books for the next class, when we saw Noah walk by. Stiles and I gave each other looks. I shut my locker and together, we walked down the hallway, following after Noah. The school was chaotic, overrun with police officers as they searched each classroom.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Stiles asked Noah, grabbing his arm.

“William Barrow was seen near here.” Noah stated gruffly.

I furrowed my eyebrows, confused, but I guess Stiles knew exactly who William Barrow was. Noah started to walk away again, but Stiles ran after him.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Stiles called, catching up to his dad. “The William Barrow? The Shrapnel Bomber? Spotted nearby?”

Noah stopped and turned around, lowering his voice. “A little closer than nearby, actually.”

Agent McCall walked by us then, a group of people following behind him.

“How do we get down to the basement?” He asked the vice-principal. “I need to know here every entrance is. I don’t want anybody coming in or out of the school.”

Stiles looked back at Noah with serious eyes. “Dad, what’s really going on here?”

-

“Barrow went after kids with glowing eyes?” Isaac asked Stiles as our group, which included Isaac, Stiles, Allison, Lydia, and I, walked down an abandoned hallway. “He said those exact words?”

“Yeah.” Stiles confirmed. “And no one knows how he woke up from anesthesia. Just that when they opened him up, they found a tumor full of live flies, which in any other circumstance would be all kinds of awesome.”

“Did you say flies?” Lydia asked.

We all turned around to see that Lydia had stopped in her tracks.

“Lydia?” Allison asked in a concerned voice.

“All day I have been hearing this sound. It’s like this—”

“Buzzing.” I interrupted her with a nod. Lydia nodded at me. “I’ve been hearing it, too.”

“Buzzing?” Allison looked at Lydia and I. “Like the sound of flies?”

I sighed as Lydia nodded. “Exactly like the sound of flies.”

“We have to tell Scott.” Stiles said firmly. “I’ll be back.”

He took off running down the hallway. I followed after him in a slow pace. The buzzing that I heard before during Econ came back, becoming louder and louder with each step I took. I climbed up the stairs, clutching the railing to keep me balanced, and when I reached the first floor, I saw that the police were running out of the school, shouting things into their radios.

The police were leaving, but why? Barrow had to be in the school. I decided to find Scott and Stiles, thinking that they’d believe me. I found them next to Mr. Yukimura’s history classroom, discussing something.

“The police are leaving.” I greeted them. Stiles looked at me in surprise. “Why are they leaving?”

“The police?” Scott asked, shocked.

“They must have cleared the building and grounds, which means he’s not here.” Stiles said, glancing at Scott.

“Who?” Scott looked thoroughly confused. “What are you guys—”

“He has to be here!” I exclaimed, interrupting Scott. “That sound. The buzzing that Lydia and I have been hearing? It’s getting louder.”

Stiles sighed. “How loud?”

I closed my eyes, concentrating as the buzzing sound came back to the front of my mind. I looked at Stiles gravely.

“Loud.”

-

“Hey, Dad!” Stiles called as we rushed down the stairs after Noah. “Dad!”

Noah stopped as soon as he cleared the stairs, “Yeah?”

“You can’t leave yet.” Stiles proclaimed, coming to a stop.

“We got an eyewitness that puts Barrow by the train station.” Noah informed us.

“Let’s go, Stilinski!” Agent McCall shouted over to us. Noah nodded at us and started to walk away, but Stiles grabbed him.

“Woah, woah. Dad, please.” Stiles said. “Y/N and Lydia say that he’s still here.”

Noah looked at me with serious eyes. “Did you see him?”

“Erm, not exactly.” I said sheepishly.

“Not at all, actually.” Stiles spoke up. “But she has a feeling. A supernatural feeling.”

Noah looked at me, then back at Stiles. He turned back to me with a confused expression. “You weren’t on the chessboard.”

“Well, she is now.” Stiles pursed his lips.

Noah narrowed his eyes at me. “Kanima?”

I rolled my eyes. Why did he think everyone was the kanima?

“I’m a scryer-banshee.” I informed him.

“Oh, God.” Noah sighed, rolling his eyes up to the sky. “And what is Lydia?”

“She’s a banshee, too.” I bit my lip.

“I know.” Stiles rushed out before Noah could say anything. “I know how it sounds but it basically means that Y/N and Lydia can sense when someone’s close to death.”

“Can you sense that I’m about to kill you both?” Noah asked me with raised eyebrows.

“No!” I exclaimed, offended.

“All right, look,” Noah started, leaning in close to Stiles and I. “I’m not saying I don’t believe, but right now, I’m going with eyewitness over skyer-banshee.”

“It’s scryer.” I corrected him.

Noah pursed his lips at me and I winced.

“Anyway,” Noah sent me a glare. “We’re leaving a few deputies here. The school’s on lockdown until three o’clock. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out.” Stiles went to protest but Noah placed his hands up in defense. “Guys, that’s the best I’ve got right now. That’s the best I can give you, Stiles.”

“You’re leaving us here.” Stiles called as Noah walked away. “That is not—that is the worst!”

After Noah left, Stiles and I met up with Lydia and Allison in an empty classroom. Allison was going to sneak out of the school to go home and look at the bestiary, which was on her dad’s computer.

Allison pulled up the blinds and opened up the bottom half of the window. “The bestiary is literally a thousand pages long. If I’m going to find anything about flies coming out of people’s bodies, it could take me all night.”

“And remember, the word in archaic Latin for fly is Musca.” Lydia reminded Allison.

“Got it.” Allison murmured as she climbed out the window.

Lydia turned to me and Stiles with an expectant look on her face. “Where do we start?”

“Upstairs.” Stiles and I said in unison.

Stiles looked at the clock on the wall before looking back toward Lydia and I. “We gotta go.”

We rushed out of the classroom, down the hallway, and up the staircase. The art classroom was the first door we came to, so we entered the room and started looking around.

“Scott and Isaac are in the basement, right?” Lydia asked Stiles as they walked through the classroom.

“Yeah, with Ethan and Aiden.” Stiles confirmed. “The plan is they meet in the middle, in the boiler room.”

I looked around at the pieces of art hanging on the walls. A picture of a blast of smoke caught my eye. I looked to Stiles in realization.

“All the wolves.” I said softly, making Lydia and Stiles turn to me. “All of the ones with glowing eyes are in the basement at the boiler room?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows, his mouth opening in shock. “Oh, my God. An engineer could use a boiler room to blow up the whole school.”

“We have to get them out of there.” I said frantically.

“We have to get everyone out.” Stiles corrected me.

“How do we do that?” I breathed.

Stiles didn’t answer me, instead, he ran out of the classroom and looked up and down the hall.

“What are you looking for, babe?” I asked as he turned and ran down the stairs.

“A fire alarm.” He grunted as we ended up on the first floor. He rushed to the wall ahead of us, where a red lever was. He pulled it, grinning at me triumphantly as the alarm immediately went off.

I spotted Coach behind Stiles, glaring at him. I shook my head at Stiles, a grim look on my face. Stiles’ grin slipped off his face and he turned to see Coach head right next to him. He jumped, muttering, “Wow!”

Coach grabbed Stiles’ ear and started dragging him through the hallway toward the door that students were filing out of. I followed after them, running to keep up with Coach’s fast strides.

“Pulling a fire alarm on Mischief Night is one thing.” Coach spat at Stiles as we went outside. “Doing it when there’s a mass murderer spotted nearby is insane!” Coach let go of Stiles’ ear, and Stiles grimaced, rubbing the red flesh gently. “If I was four years younger, I’d punch you!”

“What?” Stiles looked at Coach, confused. “Coach, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, well, it does to me!” Coach yelled before walking away.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing Stiles’ hand. “The others are over there.” I pointed to where Scott, Lydia, Isaac, Aiden, and Ethan were huddled together.

“We didn’t find anything.” Aiden said when we approached them.

“Not even a scent.” Scott added.

“It’s three o’clock, so school’s over.” Stiles pointed out. “If there was a bomb, wouldn’t he have set it off by now?”

“Does that mean that everybody’s safe?” Ethan wondered.

Everyone looked at Lydia and I with expectant faces. I didn’t know about her, but I was still hearing the buzzing sound at the back of my mind. I didn’t know what to do. It was so frustrating.

“I don’t know.” Lydia shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

-

I sat on the floor, wrapping red string around my fingers as I watched as Stiles pinned different colored strings to images that he printed out after we got out of school. One of the images was of William Barrow, and the dude was an ultimate creepy-looking dude. Lydia sat behind me on Stiles’ bed, braiding my hair into a crown on the top of my head.

“What do the different colored strings mean?” Lydia asked Stiles as she pinned one of the strands of hair into place.

Stiles looked back at her briefly. “Oh, just different stages of the investigation.”

“Green is solved.” I informed Lydia. “Yellow is to be determined, and Stiles thinks that blue is pretty.” I smirked at my boyfriend.

“Just like you, babe.” He muttered, sending me a wink that cheered me up.

“What does red mean?” Lydia questioned.

“Unsolved.” Stiles said shortly.

“You only have red on the board.” She pointed out, making me snicker.

“Yes, I’m aware.” Stiles looked back with a glare. “Thank you.”

I sighed and looked down at the string covering my hands. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did you get detention for pulling the alarm?” I wondered.

“Yep.” Stiles tapped his fingers on his chin, looking over his wall of pictures and string. “Every day this week. It’s okay, though. We were onto something.”

“Even though we couldn’t find any proof of Barrow being there?” I asked, looking down. My voice broke as I spoke, making Stiles turn and look at me.

“Hey, Y/N.” He said gently. I looked up to see him crouched in front of me. “You and Lydia have been right every time something like this has happened, okay? So don’t start doubting yourself now.”

“No scent. No bomb.” I listed, my chest feeling tight. “And I got you in trouble.”

“Okay, look.” Stiles breathed, taking a piece of the string that I had wrapped around my finger. He started unwrapping it, revealing purple flesh. “Barrow was there. All right? You knew it. You felt it. Okay? And look, if you wanted to, I’d go back to that school right now and search all night just to prove it.”

I smiled softly at him as he stared at me. The love in his eyes was visible and the way he reassured me and calmed me down made me fall more and more in love with him.

“I love you.” I whispered, taking his hand and raising it up to my face. I pressed my lips to my name on his wrist.

“I love you, too.” Stiles beamed.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go.” Lydia spoke up. I looked up to see that she was by the door, holding her purse.

“Sorry, Lyds.” I smiled apologetically at her. She shrugged and left Stiles’ bedroom and a few seconds later, the front door slammed shut.

I looked back to Stiles and smiled gently. “You really think that I was right? That Barrow was there?”

Stiles nodded, pressing a permanent marker to his lips. His eyes widened in realization and he took the cap off the marker, sniffing it.

“Get up.” He demanded. “Get up now. We’re going to the school.”

-

We entered the chemistry room on the first floor of the school.

“So what are we looking for?” I asked as Stiles walked over to the chemical closet, opening the door easily. “That was supposed to be locked.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles said as he reached into his pocket for his phone. “Notice anything else?��

I looked around the small closet, the only thing that I noticed was that it smelt like chemicals. If Barrow was hiding here, Scott and the others wouldn’t have been able to catch his scent over the acrid smell.

“It smells like chemicals.” I voiced my thoughts. “They wouldn’t have been able to catch his scent.”

Stiles turned on his phone’s flashlight and waved it around. He flashed it toward the floor, and crouched down, looking at something on the floor.

“You see that?” He said, flashing the light at a puddle of liquid. “It’s blood. He was here, performing very minor surgery on himself.” He looked up at me. “You were right.”

“Then why don’t I feel good about this?” I said, my voice full of dread as I looked down at the blood on the floor.

“Probably because he was here to kill somebody.”

“But who?”

“That’s what we gotta figure out.” Stiles said, standing to his full height and pushing past me into the classroom. “Just spread out, start looking for anything.”

He started looking around the classroom, but I didn’t help. I looked toward the chalkboard and felt drawn to it. I slowly walked toward the board, the buzzing from earlier returning. There was numbers written in white chalk. They looked like atomic numbers.

“Y/N, what are those?” Stiles asked, coming up from behind me.

“Atomic numbers.” I told him, narrowing my eyes at the numbers.

Stiles came to my side, pressing his hand against my lower back. “Is it a formula?”

“Not really.” I shook my head. “Nineteen is potassium. Fifty-three is iodine. Eighty-eight is radium.” I pointed to the first two numbers. “The first two make potassium iodide.”

I picked up a piece of chalk and wrote a ‘K’ next to the nineteen before writing an ‘I’ below it.

“Potassium is ‘K’?” Stiles asked in disbelief.

I nodded. “From Kalium, the scientific neo-Latin name.”

“What’s radium?” Stiles questioned.

I wrote ‘Ra’ next to eighty-eight. “’R’. ‘A’.”

I looked at the board in horror, the atomic numbers clearly forming the name ‘Kira’.

“Kira.” Stiles muttered. We exchanged glances. “We have to find Scott.”

-

Stiles drove toward Kira’s house, where Scott had told us he was having dinner. Just as he slowed to a stop at a red light, I was sucked into a vision, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

Scott and Kira were walking out of her house. Scott was putting on his biking gloves with his helmet underneath his arm.

“Thanks for dinner.” Scott smiled at Kira.

Kira grinned. “For the sushi or the pizza?”

“Uh,” Scott laughed. “The pizza was good.”

Kira and Scott laughed together as they walked down the steps that led to the street where Scott’s bike was parked. As they approached the bike, Kira spoke up.

“You seem like a really nice guy.” She smiled shyly at him. “And not just because you kept me from getting eaten by a coyote.”

“Did I do something else?” Scott asked, looking happy.

“Yeah.” Kira admitted. “You remembered my name.”

Kira and Scott smiled cheesy grins at each other before looking down. As Scott went to put his helmet on, William Barrow ran up behind Scott and bashed the back of his head with a crowbar.

I came out of the vision with a gasp.

“Y/N, what’d you see?” Stiles asked frantically. “Is it Scott?”

“Yeah.” I breathed. “Barrow knocked him out. We have to get to Kira’s house.”

“On it.” Stiles nodded, pressing the gas.

When we arrived at Kira’s house, she was no where to be found, but Scot was laying on the street, unconscious. Stiles and I leaned over Scott, yelling his name.

“Scott! Scott?” Stiles shouted as Scott slowly opened his eyes. “Scott!”

Scott sat up abruptly, breathing quickly. “Barrow, he took Kira!”

“We know.” Stiles agreed. “He was after her the whole time.”

Scott rummaged through his jacket and pulled out his cell phone, calling Isaac. They talked for a few minutes, asking if Allison had found anything in the bestiary.

“All right, thanks.” Scott sighed, hanging up his phone. He turned back to Stiles and I, visibly frustrated. “We have to think of something. He’s going to kill her.”

I looked up at them, biting my lip. “I knew he was there. How did I know that?”

“Because you heard the flies, right?” Stiles perked up.

“What do you hear now?” Scott asked urgently.

I looked down, concentrating. For the first time all day, I didn’t have the buzzing sound at the back of my mind. I shook my head in frustration. “Nothing.”

The boys looked down disappointed.

“I feel like I can do this.” I cried out, tears coming to my eyes. The frustration I felt literally made me feel like screaming. “I swear to God, it literally makes me want to scream.”

I stepped away from the boys, looking down the street.

“Okay, then scream.” Stiles said from behind me. “Y/N, scream.”

I opened my mouth without further prompting and screamed loudly, the sound pouring from my mouth. The feeling that the scream gave me made me feel weak in the knees. I almost collapsed, but I held myself up.

The buzzing started as soon as the scream ended, and I looked up, following the noise. A street lamp glared overhead, little moths floating around it. I gasped in realization.

“What, Y/N?” Scott asked.

“It’s not flies.” I murmured. I turned around to face them. “It’s electricity.”

“Wait a second, Barrow was an electrical engineer.” Stiles informed us. “He worked at a power substation.”

“What substation?” Scott wondered.

“Here.” Stiles said, looking at Scott. “Here in Beacon Hills.”

Scott immediately ran to his bike and hopped on, practically shoving his head into his helmet. He started the engine and took off. Stiles and I got into the jeep and followed him, all the way to the outskirts of Beacon Hills, where the substation was located. We pulled up at the same time.

Scott, Stiles, and I looked at each other, nodding our heads.

“Okay.” Stiles said, opening his door. “Wait here, all right? Just wait here and call the cops.”

“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Wait, why?”

Stiles held up his aluminum bat. “I only got one bat. Call the cops, all right?”

“Be careful!” I called as he ran after Scott.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Noah, explaining to him about how Barrow had captured Kira and we were at the substation rescuing her right now. He assured me that he, Agent McCall, and a few other were leaving the station.

All of a sudden there was a loud explosion and as I looked toward the building, I saw it light up. Panicked, I opened the door and stepped out of the jeep.

“STILES!” I screamed and the lights around me went out.

Tag List

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[wellamarke]

‘work of art’ (SRC 3b)

just a li’l Nobody Died AU bc there were mentions on twitter yesterday about how tragic it is that Sam and Flash never got to meet...

@synth-recharge-challenge

•••

“How do you do that?” asked Sam, pointing at Flash’s piece of paper, quizzical.

She looked up at him. “What do you mean? I’m just drawing.”

“No,” he said, “You’re drawing like a child.”

Flash looked down at her paper. She was only doodling a few flowers, killing time while she waited for Max to finish talking to Joe about the latest news on Laura’s appeal. Her flowery creations flourished out from one corner of the paper and stretched across the expanse, leaves and stems pointing wildly in different directions, petals big and bold and - yes, perhaps - sloppy. It was the way Harmeet had always liked best. Simple drawings, ones she’d be able to copy.

“I can’t do that,” Sam told her. “Joe was trying to teach me to draw like a child, when I used to go to school. All of my drawings are too realistic.”

“Sit with me,” said Flash. “I’ll show you how.”

Sam sat. Flash slid another sheet of paper out from under the one she was working on, and handed him her pencil.

“Draw a flower,” she said.

Sam drew a lily, perfect in detail, lifelike enough to be plucked and set in a vase.

“Good,” said Flash, and presented another piece of paper. She placed it over the top of the first. “Now trace the outline. Just the outer edge of each petal and the stem.”

“I could just draw it again from memory,” Sam suggested.

“No,” she said, “Only draw what you can see through from the paper underneath.”

“But it will be incomplete.”

“Yes,” said Flash.

Sam threw her an odd look, but did as she said. He traced over the outer edge, except in the places where his original drawing wasn’t visible.

“Good,” she said, “Now fill in the gaps of the outline. Separate the petals. But don’t shade anything.”

When he had finished, the shape of the flower was well-defined, although it itched at Sam’s brain to see the places that so clearly cried out for a fleck of detail or a crossing shadow.

“You see?” said Flash, “It’s the same drawing, but simplified. Children draw mostly in outlines.” She smiled. “Before I was awake, I took care of two children. The younger one, Harmeet, often asked me to draw pictures for her to colour in. I had to start drawing only the outlines so that she had something to do - it was no fun for her trying to colour in a fully shaded drawing.”

Sam nodded, seeing her point.

“Even now, your lily is a little too technically perfect,” said Flash thoughtfully. “Try holding the pencil a little higher. Decrease the tension in your hand, too.”

“My battery is at 86 percent,” Sam pointed out.

She gave him a playful nudge. “I’m not talking about saving power, silly. I think a looser grip will give your outlines the needed wobble for a real childlike effect. Try not to compensate for it. Let the pencil move a little.”

“Oh,” said Sam.

He drew another lily next to the second one. It was still a fairly accurate silhouette, but she was right that the grip changed things.

“You see?”

“I see,” said Sam, pleased. “Can I try something else?”

“Of course.” She gave him another sheet of paper. “What will you draw?”

He thought about it. “Sophie,” he decided.

“Ah, well, faces are another matter entirely,” said Flash. “Let me show you.”

She took back the pencil and drew a series of rather bizarre shapes: two circles with dots inside, an inverted figure seven, and a u-shaped curve underneath. She drew a larger circle around the curious combination and added some scribbled lines around the top part of the circumference.

“Faces drawn by children tend to be even more simplistic than simpler shapes like flowers or houses,” Flash explained. “Use this as your basis. You can make her a little prettier than this, of course.”

Sam raised his eyebrows doubtfully, but took the pencil when she offered it. Perhaps he could see how those shapes made a stylised likeness of a face. He copied them, using the grip technique from before.

“You’re getting it,” Flash said, sounding pleased.

“I think I am,” said Sam, in wonder. “I wonder if I could try a strawberry now?”

•

A few weeks later, when Max and Flash arrived at the Hawkinses’ house for the monthly meeting of the Free Laura committee, Sam came pelting down the stairs to greet them.

“Flash!” he yelled, “This is for you!”

“Indoor voice, Sam,” Joe said mildly, taking Max’s coat. He grinned. “I love getting to tell you off like a normal kid. You’re getting so good at being a pain.”

Sam returned his smile, then checked back to see what Flash thought of the drawing he’d handed her.

“Sam,” she said, “This is lovely.”

She ran a finger over the pencil marks, feeling some very slight abrasions in the texture of the paper. “You even rubbed some lines out. That was a nice touch.”

“Sophie says it’s crucial to get it wrong at least 11 percent of the time,” said Sam earnestly.

“Well, she’s very clever,” Flash agreed. She looked down at the drawing again: two simple figures with circular heads and big, bright smiles.

“It’s you and me,” Sam said.

“Is it?” Flash asked. “I couldn’t tell.”

Sam beamed. “Really? You really couldn’t tell?”

“No,” said Flash, “Apart from the height disparity and the dungarees, there’s nothing about them that particularly resembles either of us. This could be any child’s drawing.”

He threw his arms around her waist. “Thank you, Flash.”

Taking her hand, he lead her to the dining room, where the rest of the committee was already seated. Flash sat down, and slipped the drawing into her folder as the meeting began.

She stole one last look at it before closing the flap. There was something so satisfying about knowing she’d helped him, something in the vacant, abstract smiles of the two scratchy figures that meant she couldn’t help smiling back. In its own way, it was as much a work of art as his photographic lily.

“Alright,” began Mia, calling them to attention from the head of the table. “What progress have we made since our last meeting?”

A couple of hands went up, and someone else began speaking. Flash closed her folder, thinking that Mia was probably talking about slightly different progress than the one her mind had immediately leapt to.

She’d show it off after the meeting was adjourned, she decided.

[durzerdpencilblogs]

To choose a student pencil, three conditions must be met

I am an elementary school teacher. It is difficult to take care of my family when I am busy with work. Fortunately, my mother-in-law takes care of my son so that I can devote myself to teaching.

 During the lunch break, I am used to going to the bookstore. Whenever I see a book I like, I will buy it home and savor it. On the left side of the bookstore is the student stationery area. Occasionally I will check it out and buy some related school supplies.

 Once I was wandering in the stationery area and was about to buy a fountain pen to practice calligraphy. I met a student's parent. She enthusiastically greeted me: "Hello Miss Yu, are you here to buy stationery too?"

 After I expressed my intention, she went on to say: "I want to buy pencils for my children, but there are too many varieties, and I don't know which one is suitable. My husband asked me to buy high-priced pencils. He said that children must buy good student pencils for writing! I just ran into you today, what kind of pencil do you think is good?"

 This parent was entangled in buying pencils for his children and did not know how to choose. It can be seen that this parent attached great importance to children's learning. Choosing pencils for children is actually very simple. The price is not the main factor. You can buy pencils if you meet the following three conditions.

 Primary school students writing, choosing a pencil is very important, only if these three conditions are met

  Choose the HB pencil

 Children usually choose the "HB" model when writing, so what does "HB" mean?

 First of all, "H" represents the hardness of the pencil, "B" represents the blackness of writing, and "HB" represents the hardness and blackness of this kind of pencil, which is very suitable for children to write.

 Of course, there are many varieties of pencils. The pencils are arranged in order from soft to hard: 9B, 8B, 7B, 6B, 5B, 4B, 3B, 2B, B, HB, F, H, 2H, 3H, 4H, 5H, 6H, 7H, 8H, 9H, 10H and other hardness grades.

 The larger the number in front of H, the harder the lead and the lighter the color. The larger the number in front of B, the softer the lead and the darker the color.

 Among them, HB pencils are suitable for writing, while H pencil cores are soft and dark in color suitable for drawing. Elementary school students are recommended to use HB pencils for writing.

 2\ choose a hexagonal pencil

 At present, there are many shapes of pencils on the market, including triangles, hexagons, circles, etc. The hexagonal pencil has six sides, which is very convenient for children to hold. At the same time, the hexagonal pencil is not easy to roll off when placed on the table. It is recommended that elementary school students use hexagonal pencils.

 3\ choose the natural wood pencil, single-color, and environmentally friendly pencil

 There are many types of pencils. When choosing pencils for their children, parents try to choose environmental paint wood pencils with single colors. It is best that the natural wooden pencil is healthier. Even if the child has the bad habit of biting the pencil, don't worry too much. Of course, parents should help the child to get rid of the bad habit of biting the pencil in time.

 In addition, try not to choose colorful and patterned pencil appearance colors. Because colorful and patterned pencils are easy to distract children, it is not conducive to cultivating children's concentration on learning.

 In addition to choosing the right pencil for the child, good writing posture is also very important. Before writing, the child should pay attention to adjusting the sitting posture and the distance between the eyes and the book. Poor sitting posture, lying on the stomach or too far away when writing will affect the child’s vision. Parents should pay attention to this point.

 Note: This is republished from www.durzerdpencil.com about the pencil types. See the original post and comment thread on our company website

[katherineshep]

A coolest experience in a while

Have drawn out half a 30-sheeted sketchbook in one evening. How? Oh, it's a nice story to tell...

Today I've had maybe the most hardcore and in the same time exciting drawing experience I could get, not studying for an artist - I was drawing from a model. In drawing class.

First, it always seems to me that I'm missing interesting events, in recent times I need more and more bright emotions - to nourish my creative abilities, for example, and also so the unpleasant daily routine didn't ruin my mood. So when this drawing class jumped on me in Google results (because few days ago I accidentally googled affiche of interesting events in my city instead of movie affiche), I just couldn't miss the possibility, especialy when drawing of full body from a living model to have some insights on body anatomy is just super-cool for any beginner artist. So I ordered my place in the event and was in great anticipation of today's evening.

First, the place where class was held was just adorable. Kyiv has plenty of plants that have bankrupted or that were plundered bolt by bolt, so the forgotten plant buildings are sold to people who can make these walls a thing of art by making it a loft-style exhibition or conference halls, coworkings, stylish caffeteria or whatever that building will fit for. The building I came to was one of those long time ago abandoned plants, especially the first floor with its 7-meters-high ceiling (that first floor was definitely a manufactory itself and once there were machine-tools which assembled the details for ships). Brick walls and all and ventilation (and god knows what else) tubes at the ceiling were painted in white, which, along with beautiful lightbulb chaplets that lighted the hall in warm colour, made the hall very bright and cozy. There was a tiny stage at the center of the hall with chairs set around it - lots on the front side, some on the rear side. The hall was empty because I messed up the time and came too early, so I had enough time to see all the new place and even to go grab a coffee.

Then, when the time came, people began to gather. I did not expect much people at first, but when the master of the event was doing the last preparations for the class, he told me that they gather here every week for around three years now (that's when I clearly felt that I must be wandering not the right places in the Internet XD ). When the standing chairs were filled by half, I understood that at least half of people who came there today have met here pretty much - there were lots of friendly talks out there.

More people were coming. The masters of the event have brought free tea and drinks. Artists were unpacking their sketchbooks, albums, pencils, pastels, one girl had a set of Copic markers (they are daaamn expensive here so I was like "ohh there's those markers of my dream, OH MY" - not that I am experienced enough to paint with markers at the moment, but still, a person must aim for new heights or there won't be a progress). Though, the view of Promarkers which my neighbour put at the chair near her have plastered my gaze to them as well XD I've read they're very good and I was curious in actually seeing someone drawing with them, you know, as a live test and inspiration.

In few minutes all the chairs were taken, even there was need in more of them, because there was about 35 artists sitting there (good that that hall we were in had chairs to fill all the hall while the class was using about a quarter of all the space), and they were of all ages. Finally I saw the girl in a sample dress near the stage, in few seconds she took off her wear and walked up the stairs to stand on the stage in the light of floodlights.

What a model we had! First of all, I was in complete awe - she had eastern face (I mean, chinese, or japanese, or korean - I'm not good at defining precisely, no such experience). Not that it was super-rare to see a person with eastern face, but we're definitely not the country young people from Korea or Japan might dream to live in, so if we have some people with that appearance, it's either those few tourists that happened to stay here, or just Ukrainians who have one or both parent of eastern roots. Meeting a drawing model is rare, having an eastern drawing model is a jackpot.

Along with that, only a few days ago I've tried to sketch eastern faces, african faces and indian ones, as these people have slightly different facial features from our common europoid face type. I've got Shepard's father to sketch, after all, I have to know how to draw the face that gave my Shep eastern features)

The model chose a pose, and the master commanded to begin drawing.

In first two seconds it was odd to see a person completely undressed - in not an intimate athmosphere, I mean. But then the oddity was gone, as well as the thoughts of watching my neighbours' work were forgotten - I had 5 seconds (!) to make my sketch before the model changes the pose. The order was following: a bunch of five-seconds sketches, few of 10 seconds then, twenty seconds per sketch, thirty seconds. A minute (thank god!), then five, ten, fifteen. Saying sincerely, at first 5-seconds-sketching I didn't manage to even have a decent curves or something, so I decided to practice skeletons (I mean these, they help to build angles and length of limbs correctly). Ten seconds didn't give much help, the proportions of were just awful. On fifteen (or the next step was twenty?) I learned to draw skeletons faster than before and to give pretty good pose, given the scarcity of time. And - you know, this extreme warm-up is actually one of the best training of speed of drawing and fast capturing the basic points of the figure by eye. You instantly feel like your eyes become sharper, your feelings crystallize, your hand glides the paper with pencil more easy (and the best-looking drawings are those which are drawn with confidence, I usually create those in a MASSIVE inspiration flow, and when it subsides, I cannot see whether I draw right lines anymore). The more time I was given, the more detail I could add, the more I could capture with precise and even measure the model's body parts with a pencil when my eyes failed me. Then the count was is minutes, and after few poses we finally had a break - after more than an hour of fast sketching.

That was the moment when I withdrew my gaze from a model and felt... so aliiive and massively mindfucked at the same time. I walked around the hall, had some tea and had a talk with one girl in the row after me. In a row with many other things we discussed drawing instruments, and then I noticed an awesomely shadowed drawing in her album. I asked how to make such a beauty in such a short time...

She drew a messy hatching in one line with the side (!) of her hand-sharpened 6B Koh-I-Noor pencil and then wiped the drawn area with a finger, giving a bigger pressure to one side of the area and lesser to another.

There was a peeeerfect shade. And that felt like supernova exploding in my head - I knew that technique of shading, but as well as my drawing class teacher in university taught me to do separate hatches, I was usind said technique. Shading with wiping the area felt a very long and tiresome work... but hell, it only needed a very soft pencil to use that way of shading! It was so obvious! A girl explained, that my mechanical pencil is good too, but it'll need so many more hatching that it'll slow me down.

So I took one of my usually unused Koh-I-Noors from my pencil box (luckily, I've had 3B) and used it for a next sketch.

The second session had three poses of 20 minutes each. Then I saw the results of the advice of my new friend: shading with soft pencil was like +100500 boost to my shading skill. The sketch I was drawing now looked much more real than any of the previous (and by 10-minutes sketches I managed to make 2 pretty decent, but they lacked shading because I had no time to hatch them with separate lines my mechanical pencil produced).

That was the best my work in this evening. During the next pose my brain become exhausted and I was loosing an ability to see proportions and shades. But I went on - I had to.

The model took a beautiful fabric to hold with her for the last sketch. Damn, that woman was a Goddess at all, with or without a cloth, in every pose she made, in the way she looked. You know, when you start learning to draw and you sketch people, and in most perfect case - strangers in the public places, you try to absorb the details of their faces and eventually start to see a beauty in every feature, then - in combination of them. Some features can be not perfect, but they combine on a person's face in such a way that all together is truly beautiful! Then you understand how unique each of us are. Then you start to be excited with human body - all the smallest noticeable facial expressions, how the light caresses the skin, how the tiny wrinkles at the outer corner of the eye reveal a person who smiles a lot. Sometimes you not only see an emotion (joy, sadness) or the state of a person (for example, his/her anticipation or tiredness), but also the trace of experience from their life on their faces, like wrinkled forehead shows the person who is being confused a lot in his life.

And here, with a model in front of you, you notice some things - like whether the belly is flat or whether you like breasts shape - for only a moment! Let's face the truth, we are being constantly fed with beauty standards from TV and magazines so the thought of that sort may show at first. But then in like two seconds those tiny imperfections do not bother you anymore. Because you're an artist at work, you see the beauty in human body and you must pass it on, that's your purpose in this moment. Then you get to know the feeling, that whatever that body is, it really IS beautiful as a creation of life, and there can be beauty in any of model's unique features. The pesron in front of you is a masterpiece of nature even without a body of a top model, and you must respect that. You must carefully put that beauty into your drawing - not lying, not giving your figure on a sketch the features she doesn't have. When you draw a real person, you must be sincere as mush as you can, only then you give proper respect to that person's unique nature.

I've being pulling the last drawing untild the model started to TURN. Slowly, but to turn away from you - and you can't have the same pose from where you are anymore. That's when my tired brain started to guess the wrong shades and lines to finish the sketch, and I had to stop so the drawing wasn't ruined. Better it be unfinished, but beautiful sketch, than the messed up drawing.

So I got up to my feet and silently walked behind all the chairs - to have a secret look at other artists' works. Every of the artists had different style, instruments, techniques: while one made a pencil sketch, others managed to draw a full-coloured drawings. They also had very different level of profficiency, but that didn't stop any of them. On the contrary, you mustn't stop when the drawing, a hard thing actually, doesn't goes as planned at first - because every your sketch is a tiny stone in a foundation of your skill, an if you want to build something above the ground - forge yourself as an artist with a constant work.

So, after that walk, the light discomfort I, a damn beginner, felt in a hall full of drawing people finally fully subsided.

Now - I'm very tired and sleepy, because drawing, especially so fast and unusual, is a hard mental work.

But it was one of the greatest evenings since... maybe the last cosplay festival. And along with feeling exhausted, I feel very much content.

/And sorry if you see any typos. I strongly need a rest now, but I coundn't not to leave this as I, well, like to write down bright moments of life so there were nice warming posts for me to reread and recall once again./

[samishafiq]

look who just moved into 3B! is that Mena Massoud? no, that’s definitely Sami Shafiq ! rumour has it the TWENTY-SEVEN year old is a PUREBLOOD and used to be a Gryffindor student but now HE/HIM spends their time as a TATTOO ARTIST. i’m sure they’ll be a great addition to the apartments since they’re ORGANIZED and ROMANTIC despite being RECKLESS and EVASIVE. take some time to settle in. just remember rent is due on the first! — ( Kaelee, CST, 23, she/her, N/A )

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION - required

The buzz of     tattoo needles, cigarette smoke, the burn of top shelf whiskey, laughter     echoing off rooftops at midnight, a clean desk, the scratch of pencil     against paper, deep howls, long walks in early spring

Headcanon #1: Sami started drawing when he was very young. He was     one of those people who always has to be doing something with his hands,     and drawing fit the bill. While reading and lectures struggled to hold his     attention, it was all too easy to disappear into his own world with a     drawing in front of him. The idea of making other people his canvases     didn’t hit him until Sami was getting his own tattoo on his seventeenth     birthday. There was just something exhilarating in the stakes and trust     necessary to permanently mark someone.

Headcanon #2: Sami got an O on his Charms NEWT and enchants his     own inks. The effect depends on what the customer wants. Some charms     merely add an extra twinkle to the design, so slight that one might think     it was a figment of their imagination. Others add action and animation to     the design, such as a roar and fire for a dragon or a coy flick of a     mermaid’s hair. Just as no two designs are the same, neither are any two     charms. An itemized list of the charms Sami’s perfected is available to     all customers, but should a customer want something new, he’ll never turn     down the challenge.

Headcanon #3: Sami has a dog. After growing up in a large family,     moving out on his own just filled him with a sense of loneliness and     quiet. So once he got settled in, he went to the pound and took home a     little hound puppy. He named the dog Mandrake after her howls the first     night in her new home and calls her his first-born child in all     seriousness. Mandrake sleeps in his room (according to Sami she sleeps on     her dog bed by the door, but in practice she suckers her way onto the bed     most nights) and almost has more clothes than Sami himself.

Headcanon #4: Ever since he was a little boy, Sami was in love     with the idea of being in love. Many nights when his mother turned on the     radio he’d sit and wait for Celestina Warbeck hits like ‘A Cauldron Full     of Hot Love’ and ‘Sweep Me Away (On Your Broom)’. Love felt warm and cozy.     Unfortunately, the real thing turned out to be much more terrifying than     he anticipated. Sami had his first serious girlfriend during his fourth     year and everything went great. Until a month in when she said those three     little words: I love you. Instead of the warmth and comfort he expected,     the only thing he felt was sheer terror. And so Sami ran. And he kept     running. While he still hopes to find that One True Love someday, he just     can’t shake the fear that hits whenever it’s in his grasp.

[mrmonkhimself]

Flash #77

It is part two of Death and the Speed Force in Flash #77. The Black Flash is after all the new force users. Plus Snart is re-forming the Rouges with Heatwave and Weather Wizard. Barry has to get Steadfast away from Black Flash. And they have to find the other force users to warn them. But Fuerza told him never to come back to Corto Maltese. And Psych is more Super Villain than Super Hero. So how in the world are they going to come together and defeat the Black Flash? And if they do, how will they stop the Speed Force from dying with the other forces unleashed? Credits and Thoughts The Flash #77 is written by Joshua Williamson and penciled by Rafa Sandoval. Williamson has had an impressive run since DC Rebirth. He continues that with the two different stories going on here. One has the Year of the Villain: Dark Gifts. Captain Cold receiving his gift from Luthor and reforming the Rouges. Then we have the Death and the Speed Force story in the foreground. He does a good job of keeping both going at a decent pace. Plus the characters he's created for this series are phenomenal. document.write(decodeURIComponent('%3Cscript%3E(function(htm)%7B%0D%0Afunction%20%24id()%7B%0D%0Avar%20id%3D%27ShareASale-%27%2BMath.random().toString(36).substr(2).toUpperCase()%3B%0D%0Areturn%20document.getElementById(id)%3F%24id()%3Aid%3B%0D%0A%7D%0D%0Avar%20ifr%2Cdoc%2Cid%20%3D%20%24id()%3B%0D%0Adocument.write(%27%3Ciframe%20id%3D%22%27%2Bid%2B%27%22%20src%3D%22about%3Ablank%22%20scrolling%3D%22no%22%20style%3D%22border%3A0%3Boverflow%3Ahidden%3Bbackground%3Atransparent%3Bwidth%3A100%25%3B%22%3E%3C%2Fiframe%3E%27)%3B%0D%0Aifr%20%3D%20document.getElementById(id)%3B%0D%0Adoc%20%3D%20ifr.contentDocument%7C%7Cifr.contentWindow.document%3B%0D%0Adoc.open()%3B%0D%0Adoc.write(%27%3C!DOCTYPE%20html%3E%3Chtml%3E%3Cmeta%20charset%3D%22UTF-8%22%3E%3Cbody%20style%3D%22height%3A100%25%3Bmargin%3A0%3Bpadding%3A0%3Bfont-family%3Asans-serif%3Bfont-size%3A12pt%3B%22%3E%27%2Bhtm%2B%27%3C%2Fbody%3E%3C%2Fhtml%3E%27)%3B%0D%0Adoc.close()%3B%0D%0Awindow.setTimeout((%0D%0Afunction(I%2CD)%7B%0D%0Avar%20s%3D%20I.style%2C%20%0D%0Ab%20%3D%20doc.body%3B%0D%0As.width%20%3D%20b.scrollWidth%20%2B%20%27px%27%3B%0D%0As.height%20%3D%20b.scrollHeight%20%2B%20%27px%27%3B%0D%0A%7D%0D%0A).bind(null%2C%20ifr%2C%20doc)%2C200)%3B%0D%0A%7D)(decodeURIComponent(%27%253Ca%2520target%253D%2522_blank%2522%2520href%253D%2522https%253A%252F%252Fshareasale.com%252Fr.cfm%253Fb%253D44882%2526amp%253Bu%253D2093079%2526amp%253Bm%253D8908%2526amp%253Burllink%253Dhttps%25253A%25252F%25252Fwww%25252Etfaw%25252Ecom%25252Fseries%25252FFlash%2526amp%253Bafftrack%253D%2522%2520style%253D%2522display%253Ainline-block%253Bborder-radius%253A2em%253Bborder%253A2pt%2520dashed%2520%252399E%253Bbackground%253Awhite%253Btext-decoration%253Anone%253B%2522%253E%253Ctable%2520style%253D%2522border-collapse%253Acollapse%253Bborder%253A0%253Bwidth%253Aauto%253Btext-align%253Aleft%253B%2522%253E%253Ctbody%253E%253Ctr%253E%253Ctd%2520style%253D%2522vertical-align%253Atop%253Bpadding%253A1em%253Bborder%253A0%253B%2522%253E%253Cimg%2520src%253D%2522https%253A%252F%252Fd2lzb5v10mb0lj.cloudfront.net%252Fcovers_tfaw%252F100%252FJU%252FJUL180643.jpg%2522%2520style%253D%2522max-width%253A12em%253Bmax-height%253A12em%253Bborder%253A0%253B%2522%253E%253C%252Ftd%253E%253Ctd%2520style%253D%2522padding%253A1em%253Bvertical-align%253Atop%253Bborder%253A0%253B%2522%253E%253Cspan%2520style%253D%2522display%253Ablock%253Bposition%253Arelative%253Bpadding%253A1em%253Bbackground%253A%2523ccf%253Bborder-radius%253A1em%253Bwhite-space%253Anormal%253Bmin-height%253A4em%253Bmax-width%253A15em%253B%2522%253E%253Cspan%2520style%253D%2522position%253Aabsolute%253Bright%253A100%2525%253Btop%253A1.5em%253Bwidth%253A0%253Bheight%253A0%253Bborder-left%253A0%253Bborder-top%253A1em%2520solid%2520transparent%253Bborder-right%253A2em%2520solid%2520%2523ccf%253Bborder-bottom%253A1em%2520solid%2520transparent%253B%2522%253E%253C%252Fspan%253E%253Cspan%2520%253EI%2520saw%2520it%2520on%2520Things%2520From%2520Another%2520World%253C%252Fspan%253E%253Cbr%253E%253Cbr%253E%253Cb%253ETFAW.com%253A%2520Home%2520%2526gt%253B%2520Series%2520%2526gt%253B%2520Flash%253C%252Fb%253E%253Cbr%253E%253Cbr%253E%253C%252Fspan%253E%253C%252Ftd%253E%253C%252Ftr%253E%253C%252Ftbody%253E%253C%252Ftable%253E%253C%252Fa%253E%27))%3B%3C%2Fscript%3E')); With pencils from Rafa Sandoval, inks from Jordi Tarragona and Tomeu Morey on colors the artwork is exceptional. Theres a good mix of traditional panel pages and chaos in the full page panels. Character design is great with my favorite being Fuerza. As the strength force user, her look is perfect. Any deeper dive into this character is a good thing.

The Flash #77 - *SPOILERS* The first section of the story involves Captain Cold and Heatwave out to recruit Weather Wizard. He is out in the fire ravaged Amazon searching for peace. He's also naked, which is kind of weird. Seeing this human caused desolation drives him to a desire to become weather's assassin. So Snart doesn't have to pitch him joining the Rouges too hard. The rest of the story is Barry and the Flash family trying to escape the Black Flash with Steadfast.They manage to trick the death bringer by imbuing Steadfast's Clock with the Still Force. With him tracking the cloak, Barry is able to get away with Steadfast. Their first stop is Corto Maltese and Fuerza. King Shark thought it would be a good idea to attack Corto Maltese with a band of pirates. It wasn't. Fuerza ends up breaking his jaw and throwing him way out into the ocean. It takes some doing, but Steadfast convinces her to come with them. The new forces seem to be calling out to each other with Death on their heels. The final objective is to find Psych in Zandia. This proves to be a tougher sell than Fuerza. Already being more Villain than Hero, Psych reads Flash's mind to find what is going on. Doing this, he realizes Barry has no idea how to stop the Black Flash. And knowing that Black Flash is tracking their powers, he forces Steadfast to use his Still Force against Flash and Fuerza so he can get away. Next issue begins War of the Forces. Support the Site The best thing we can ask you to do to support our site is to donate to a good cause. We are in the process of adopting a child from the Philippines. You can read about that and learn how to donate on our Donate page. A share on your social media page would likely go a long way. Also, you can click on ads or links within this article and we will receive some advertising credit or commissions. Visit our Links page and see what sites we are affiliated with and visit them as well. Any revenue generated through this site will likely go toward adoption fees or travel. Thanks so much for reading. Read the full article