#I’m not back on the art grind. work doodles don’t count.

[scottpilgrim4everr]

I love the Scott Pilgrim art style so fucking much.

[lunashiba]

A bit of a redesign for Morgan, first posted on 7-13-2022. I was very, very happy with how this piece turned out actually! It was my first time using a binary brush, so I had a small bit of a learning curve with this one. I usually paint and render, so I feel pretty uncomfortable with cell shading (but this time, it ended up alright). I’ll put some processes and such below, along with some more backstory and thoughts, if anybody is interested.

A minion is dangling on her tail on the bottom right.

Above are the sketches and WIPs I had leading up to the finished piece. I really liked these sketches, but ended up deciding to fully draw out one. Morgan was actually one of my first OCs, but her design has changed a lot over time. Back when I first started to draw, I thought that OCs were a bit too far out for me- I only ever envisioned myself as a fan artist. Nowadays, it’s quite the opposite- I don’t think I’ll ever do much art of popular media and such except if it’s for friends. The friends I made when I first started drawing all had OCs though, and that was what eventually made me more keen to the idea of making one. In my mind, having a consistent character to grind out all the time would be helpful in building my consistency and speed, so it counted as something that would help me grind- not to mention all the art stuff that went into “designing a character”.

I used to be extremely into learning art in a very methodical, nearly academic way. Everything had to be very productive and effective- I had to make sure I was getting as good as I could, as fast as I could; otherwise I’d be wasting time. I think it’s pretty easy to see my mindset at the time being unhealthy, but I don’t know if I’d regret too much of it. I enjoyed finally having a “productive” hobby in my life. With my online art friends, we decided to altogether draw something of a banner, with all of our pieces lined side to side- with this opportunity, I decided to draw the first iteration of my OC, who had no name at the time.

3-4-2018

I think that this may have also been my first piece with color? Or at least, full page of color. I think I just referred to her as “the horn girl” or “the antler girl” and based it on some crazy deer stuff. I loved the little doodles I did to the side- It’s something I haven’t done as much. I used to make sure to always put a little scribble as somewhere as a joke for anybody who looked hard enough to find it in all of my pieces, but it started annoying me because I couldn’t ignore it once I posted the piece. After this, I tried to further work on my OC, opting for different colors.

4-5-2018

I liked this design actually, but it didn’t really fit my personality. I guess I don’t really vibe that well with smug characters. I like the outfit I designed for her, but I think it shows a bit too much skin- it wouldn’t really be something I’d draw nowadays. It’d take a bit for me to realize that NSFW art or anything slightly so wouldn’t really be for me either.

4-30-2018

Things started to get refined- I kept around the ponytail, and toned down her outfit. I remember being extremely happy with the satchel and the earrings, and I kept around the thigh highs. I still felt a bit unhappy, with the design, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

10-23-2018

If you look at the dates, you can see that it took a few months for this current design to come along. I actually extremely adore this design, and I don’t think I’ll ever fully shelve it. Disregarding the hair, this is pretty much the final design of this character. This is the Morgan that truly lives through to today. I remember drawing the shoes for over an hour- maybe two hours. I worked a long time on the line art, especially regarding the shoes, making sure that I’d get it absolutely correct in both perspective and in geometry. Nowadays I’m much less of a perfectionist in some ways (though more in others). Morgan initially had more brunette hair, but I gradually transitioned to a bit more of an anime red, and I brought back the horns that I really liked. A particular artifact of this era of art was that I used to draw little triangles above the eyes, to symbolize the little wrinkles in the eyelids. I know I didn’t make it up myself, but I’m not exactly sure where I got it from. Now, I just draw the eyelid folds. From here on out, it was more just personality growths than visual design changes.

3-6-2020

At this point, I had been accepted into art school and engineering school. I couldn’t give up either of them, so I doubled majored- as a result, what I had to give up on was time. I stopped doing as much digital art for a while, so most of what I have at this time period can be seen in notebook paper or scrap paper. I was a huge workaholic, and it started to affect my health.

3-8-2020

Morgan is gay. I came to the realization that I was pretty gay too, at around this time, and I guess I wanted to show it in my art too.

3-9-2020

The day after. She is very gay still. Here, you can see the absolute beginnings of a tiny doodle of Soone. She’d be developed later.

4-19-2020

I found my favorite marker. It wasn’t anything special at all- the tip was running dry, and it was completely blank- I couldn’t find any trace of a brand at all. The terrible paper with the texture of the marker made it extremely appealing to me however, and I fell in love with it. I don’t know where it is now, but I hope I’ll find another terrible marker at some point to fall in love with again.

Bonus Soone sketch idea. I really like this design, but overall decided to not use it- or at least, not all of it. I don’t think it’s fully gone yet though.

7-19-2020

Morgan’s character design is basically completed- She is very gay. I think at this point, she was also trans, though it was much more unspoken. It’s a bit subtle, but I stopped giving her as much indication of having “a chest”.

9-4-2020

I did a bit more work with Morgan’s horns here. It’s nothing that stays around too much, but who’s to say it won’t come back? I think I stopped drawing horns like this because I was a bit lazy with horn rendering. Also, it made the design a bit busy. This outfit is cute though, and I like it as a general vibe of Morgan. She also has a tummy piercing.

9-12-20

A little in-joke between friends.

10-7-2020

A Halloween drawing. She still has red horns. I used to always draw Sharingan on everything as a joke, but it’s faded out a bit now.

1-15-2021

I treasure this comic a lot. In a way, it helped me cope a lot, as it was based on a true story. I love this design for Morgan, kinda symbolizing an earlier Morgan, maybe a bit earlier in her transition. It somewhat aligned with my life, and the mental state I was kinda living in. I want to make more comics like this.

1-28-2021

Small doodles I had lying around on another blog.

3-29-2021

I forgot I drew this until writing this post. This Morgan was a bit of a vision of how a more confident, future Morgan would be like. Regarding her future, I think she’d end up enjoying being a professor, and I felt the vibes would be nice. Who’s to say if this is canon or not- or if there is a canon. I like having fun. Her horns are red and have ridges as well. I’d like to imagine that she’s the type of professor to have photos of her wedding on her desk, along with photos of her wife and her cats.

6-14-2021

This one was for Pride Month 2021. I should draw another piece next year, since I missed 2022′s. This is probably one of my proudest paintings ever, and one of my favorite Morgan Designs. I want to draw her like this again. I dropped the horns being red also, and moved to a more white/cream color.

8-18-2021

This one I made while I was very sad. It took a lot of coming to terms regarding my family, but this sketch helped me out a lot. I didn’t have the heart to color nor render it however, so I had posted it as is. I think for all of us, many things change, but some things may always stay the same.

8-24-2021

A bit of a happier time- a bitter sweet smile.

9-03-2021

I started to draw more of my daily life as well- this was inspired from my bus rides, where I’d constantly be stressed about school, but simultaneously wanting to draw. I’ve also transitioned from drawing wired to wireless earbuds. Technology evolving is great.

1-1-2022

Happy New Year doodles. I really like all of these designs. I don’t know what to do with this like though. I could always say “Maybe I’ll turn them into Twitch Emotes since I have space,” or “I should make some Discord stickers with them,” but I think I already I’ll be a bit too lazy to do so.

4-10-2022

This was inspired by two adorable mannequins I saw at the mall- I knew right away that I wanted to draw them in these outfits, so I took a picture right away and started a sketch I never finished. It’s around this time that I slowly started to approach the Adventure Time methodology to characters. In Adventure Time, the characters always had such varying hairstyles, clothing, and outfits that I adored- differing from episode to episode. I decided that any Morgan and any Soone will still be Morgan and Soone no matter how they looked, and actually focused on less of a central design (though I still liked the central design).

2-27-2022

A bit more of a “Realistic” Morgan and Soone. I think optimally, I’d love to draw Morgan like this more. Her design here as a more androgynous character is something I really wish I could do more often, instead of falling back on the easier to draw very-feminine Morgan. I based this design a lot on the Fate character Enkidu, whose androgynous design I’ve fallen deeply in love with (specifically, this one, which is one of my more memorable adored arts that I can think of).

4-01-2022

Morgan but ACTUALLY more real. I couldn’t get the colors right, so I left things as black and white. I’m still extremely happy with it though. I initially posted it for this year’s Pride Month, but then mentally removed it, since I felt I’d rather have a fully complete piece.

[------ END ------]

There are a few more Morgan pieces here and there, but maybe I’ll place out a few posts with them, so that I can put out the process and WIPs separately. As it stands, this post has run pretty long, and ended up being a lot more detailed than I had initially planned for. I ended up finishing the draft for this post at 4:40 AM, though I had initially posted it nearly 10 hours earlier. I ranted a lot, but I think it was nice to type all this out. Not sure who’d be interested in reading all this, but thanks for sticking through. I’m glad that I was able to write out so much for Morgan though. I also hope I can draw her more often, and post her everywhere. I hope that other people also like her as well. I hope everybody has a great day and night.

Thank you for reading.

Luna

[aquinoa]

My Muse | ft. Tsukishima Kei

-`,dedicated to @hinaaspanda​ for her belated birthday! ⹁՛-

muse

/myo͞oz/; noun

(in Greek and Roman mythology) each of nine goddesses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who preside over the arts and sciences.

a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.

something Tsukishima thought he’d never find, until you came along.

pairing: Art Student!Tsukishima x Art Student!Reader (female)

genre: Art School!AU, fluff, angst if you squint

word count: 6345

warning: swearing, drinking, like one instance of hinting at the devil’s tango

A shaky breath escaped your lips as you braced yourself for your class' relentless nitpicking of your latest painting. Group critiques were the one thing you dreaded the most about art school.

"Could you explain your reasoning for that type of brushstroke?"

"The message is intriguing, but I'm not so sure about the techniques you used for the foreground portray what you intended."

"The colour scheme seems random." It's been over a month into the semester, but you could never get used to being in the hot seat and facing the criticisms of your peers.

"It looks like a lame Cy Twombly imitation to me. Did you do this in, what— five minutes?" This comment from a certain classmate particularly bothered you. You turned to glare at the culprit.

"Kei Tsukishima! Constructive criticism only, please." The art professor gasped. "How about you go next for your critique?" Tsukishima sighed and shifted his easel, revealing to the class his assignment.

As always, his canvas contained a masterpiece. His technical skills were insanely advanced and the whole class knew it; they could not keep quiet it about it during his crit. His own explanation for it, however, was lacklustre. Most of his responses to comments were the likes of "I don't know," or "I just felt like it." To you, that might've been what aggravated you about Tsukishima the most—he was so gifted, but he treated his pieces as if they were mere doodles. If only you had even a percentage of his technical skills.

You ruminated in your thoughts, as other students continued with their critiques until class ended. In the midst of the class packing up and leaving the studio, your eyes glanced over to Tsukishima a couple of seats down. His eyes eventually meet yours as he passed by, noticing how irritated you still were.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"I'll have you know that painting took a long time to make." You began. "What you said during my crit stung a bit."

"It's called a critique, pipsqueak. What else do you want?" He rolled his eyes, turning his back to you and headed toward the exit.

"I'm not a pipsqueak!" You shrilled, jolting up from your seat. You took a deep breath. "At least be more considerate in my critique. Like—give me a specific thing to improve on?" The boy paused just before the doorway, his back still to you.

"Y/N, was it?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"Work on your hatching or something. Gives it more depth." He muttered before walking out. You glanced back at your piece for a second before tucking it away in your case and exiting the studio.

—&

Your body shivered from the evening breeze as you walked back to your apartment. As you rummaged for your keys in front of your door, a cheery voice greeted you from the next door down.

"Oi, Y/N!"

"Yamaguchi!" You beamed. Yamaguchi, your neighbour, was always a ray of sunshine. "How's your essay coming along?"

"Actually, I just submitted it earlier today! So, fingers crossed for that coveted C+!" The boy chuckled before he glanced at your discouraged look and raised a brow. "What happened to you? Rough day?" You nodded, letting out a sigh.

"We had group crits today in studio class. I was able to respond to the comments, but it was obvious what they thought about my work: my technique isn't good enough. God, there was this one particular guy in my class who was just so— so insensitive about it!"

"H-hey, don't mind the haters!" Yamaguchi butted in to calm you down. "He's probably just jealous of you." You raised a brow.

"Jealous of what? It just felt like he was punching down." You looked down, letting out a sigh. "I put a lot of thought into this piece and I thought it would show."

"You're talking about that piece you worked on last week right?" You nodded, Yamaguchi's mouth gaping open. "Wait— that one is so good! I've seen art galleries where they feature a white canvas with a singular black line painted! If those can end up in galleries, you're absolutely fine!" You chuckled, before he continued. "The message behind the art piece is just as important as the piece itself, if not more. And Y/N, you put a lot of thought to the message behind each of your pieces, which is awesome! Don't be too hard on yourself."

"Thanks, Yamaguchi." You grinned. "I honestly am beyond lucky to have ended up with you as a neighbour."

"Hey, I feel like I'm the lucky one having such a talented artist as a neighbour!" The boy grinned back before bidding you goodbye. You waved back and stepped inside your apartment.

—&

"Alright, folks. Now that we're a couple of months into the semester, it's about time to talk about your final term project." The studio professor began explaining the logistics and requirements of the final project. It was essentially another painting but with higher stakes. "Keep in mind: while the technique is absolutely important, your projects also need depth and meaning. Otherwise, you are going to have quite a rough critique. Let me tell you, the other professors can be ruthless!" The professor chuckled. "Now, on with the class." You groaned. The only thing worse than being criticized on the spot by your class was getting criticized on the spot by a group of professors—actual artists. If you were gonna ace the final project, you were gonna have to grind hard.

In the middle of the period, you placed your brush on your easel to take a quick break. You took a deep breath and rolled back your shoulders before letting your eyes wandered around the class—from the wide window pane wall on your left as it welcomed the sunlight throughout the studio, to your classmates on your right as they either quietly worked on their next pieces or chatted amongst each other. Your eyes eventually fall on Tsukishima, a couple of seats from you, as he's quietly slouched over his canvas with a Filbert brush in hand.

"He's probably just jealous of you." These particular words from Yamaguchi left you baffled even after a few days since that interaction. Why would Tsukishima—that gifted asshole—be jealous of you? What could you have for him to be jealous of? Compared to his skills? If anything, you should feel jealous of h—

That was not a thought you wanted to finish. You must've stared at Tsukishima for too long, since his attention has suddenly shifted to you, with a puzzled look.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I—" You stammered, trying to come up with an excuse. "I...was just wondering if you could...share more brush technique tips...?" You grinned feigningly. The boy glanced over at your canvas then back at you.

"Figures. Looks like you really need it." He snickered, causing you to scoff.

"God, you are hard to talk to."

"Oi, I didn't say no." He rebutted. "I can't be bothered by explaining it to you, though. Since you're already slacking off anyway, just watch me." He adjusted his glasses before focusing back on his own canvas. You rolled your eyes at the ego of this guy, but was puzzled at his odd offer. You kept your eyes on his brush and took mental notes as he continued painting. You were fascinated by the advanced brush techniques he applied as if it was child's play. After watching his brush for a while, your eyes eventually wandered over to his hand. Then to his broad shoulders. Then to the pale nape of his neck. Then to his short, ruffled, blonde hair. Then to the golden-brown eyes behind his glasses, a little sorry that they a lack a glint to them.

"Tsukishima! Do you mind if I talk to you for a second?" The professor asked as she walked up to his easel. It was more than enough to snap you out of your gaze. You darted your head back to your own easel and continued to work away at your canvas, with your flustered confusion blocking out Tsukishima's conversation with the professor. Why did he leave you in such a daze just now?

When the clock signaled the end of class, the class began to pack up. As you put your paint away, you glanced over at Tsukishima once more as he quickly packed up his supplies. This time, he looked more annoyed than usual.

"Oi, Tsukishima." You called to him. "What did the professor talk to you about?"

"None of your business." He retorted without batting an eye as he grabbed his bag and walked out of the studio without another word. Quite rude, but he seemed in a bad mood, so you disregarded it. You grabbed your things and left the studio to continue with the rest of your day.

—&

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

You jolted awake from the knock on your door. You reached for your phone to check the time—it was noon. It was only mere hours ago when you finished pulling an all-nighter to work on an assignment because your inspiration apparently likes to strike at 3am. The knocking continued. You groaned as you sat up and grudgingly made your way over to the front door. You opened the door and peeked out to find a tall, familiar figure standing off to your left.

"Tsukishima?!" For the last few classes, your interactions with Tsukishima have been scarce. He'd somehow manage to insert an insult whenever you'd ask him a question. There were also moments in class where you swore you felt a glance coming from his direction, but when you turned your head to him, he was occupied with his canvas. Seeing him now at your doorstep was a surreal experience.

"Y/N?" He looked at you quizzically. "You live here? Whatever. What do you want?"

"What do you mean "What do you want?"," You mocked sluggishly. "You knocked on my door— what do you want?"

"Wait, you thought I knocked on your door? Dumbass." He snickered. You rolled your eyes and hit his arm.

"I'm too tired for this, Kei." You retorted, leaning against the door frame. "Who are you here to see, then?"

"I'm here to see a friend." He pointed over to Yamaguchi's door and—as if on cue—his door opened and a frantic Yamaguchi stepped out.

"S-sorry, Tsukki!" Yamaguchi shrilled. "My readings took longer than I expected!" He caught sight of you and waved. "Oh! Hi Y/N! I see you've met Tsukki…shima." He chuckled softly.

"Hey Yamaguchi!" You waved back. "Wait, you call him Tsu—that's so cute! I wanna call him that too!" Tsukishima furiously shook his head.

"No way I'm letting anyone else call me Tsukki. I only make an exception for Yamaguchi." He sighed, turning to Yamaguchi. "She's in my studio art class."

"Unfortunately." You muttered under your breath.

"Oi, I heard that." Tsukishima glared.

"Hey Yamaguchi, how do you know Tsukki?" You asked, teasingly emphasizing the latter name. Yamaguchi chuckled.

"Oh, I've been friends with Tsukki since we were young!"

"That's insane. You're way too nice to be hanging around Tsukki."

"Y/N, I will tell Yamaguchi you thought I was knocking on your door, if you don't stop calling me Tsukki." Tsukishima threatened.

"You just did though." You furrowed your brows.

"Wait Y/N, did you just wake up?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Yeah, Tsukki woke me up." You pouted.

"Serves you right, pipsqueak." Tsukishima scoffed.

"Oi, I'm no pipsqueak! It's not my fault you tower over everyone, you bean pole."

"I'd rather be a bean pole—if it means not being caught in public with those on." He pointed down at your panda slippers. You gasped theatrically.

"How dare you insult my precious pandas?"

"Alright, you two!" Yamaguchi finally chimed in. "I get it. You two fight like a married couple. Horribly, I might add." He chuckled, causing both you and Tsukishima to scoff. "Anyways Tsukki, let's get going and let Y/N get some rest." Yamaguchi bid you goodbye, while Tsukishima gave you one last glance before he turned around and followed the other. "Seriously, Tsukki. Just use the doorbell next time!" You chuckled, hearing your neighbour lecture the bean pole as they walked away.

When you stepped back into your apartment, you rubbed the nape of your neck. You've almost forgotten why you've antagonized Tsukishima so much. Aside from the rocky start and the constant teasing, he's never been inherently bad to you. It's almost as if he's nice to you in his own, subtle way.

Nah. It must've been the sleep deprivation talking. You let out another yawn and went back to get some more shut-eye.

—&

The deadline for the studio class' term project was approaching. For the past couple of weeks, you've often found yourself spending late evenings painting away alone in the studio after class. The warm, quiet atmosphere of the studio with golden rays shining through the window pane as the sun set was where you've lately felt the most motivated. One particular evening in the studio, you were stuck on how to execute a certain portion of your painting's foreground.  If you were going to impress the professors during your term project critique, you had to go above and beyond with your technique, considering your track record of your mediocre group critiques. You leaned your head back along with a sigh. You tapped the handle of your paintbrush on your temple, wishing for an idea.

"Y/N?" Startled, you turned to the familiar, baritone voice stood by the studio doorway.

"Tsukishima? H-how long have you been there?"

"Relax, I'm just here to pick up some paint that I forgot." You sighed and turned back to your canvas. He walked over to the supply shelves behind you to grab a few tubes of paint, placing them in his bag, before turning to you. After a while, you couldn't help but feel irked by the boy looking over your shoulder from behind.

"So—" You decided to break the silence. "It's still a work in progress, but what do you think of it?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" He snickered, causing you to groan. At this point, you've grown desensitized of his teasing.

"I'm serious. I want to do well for the term project. I'm just stuck on how to paint this part of the foreground." You motioned to the portion of the canvas before the boy stepped closer to take another look at your painting.

"Give me your brush." You reached out your brush to him without batting an eye, expecting him to take it. To your surprise, you instead felt his hand firmly gripping onto yours.

"Ts-Tsukishima?" You froze, bewitched by his sudden touch. His hand guided you and the brush throughout the canvas, using colour combinations and brush strokes foreign to you, but seemingly simple to him. Your eyes couldn't help but focus on his hand that was clung onto yours. You held your breath. At that moment, it felt like time stood still. When he finished, he gently released your hand. The warmth of his touch lingered on your hand—and on your mind—for a bit longer. He briefly explained the techniques he applied, when he noticed your still flustered reaction.

"Huh— oi, don't get the wrong idea. It was the only way I could've done it without you getting in trouble for cheating or something." He rebutted, seemingly unfazed by his actions. "Besides, you probably wouldn't have been able to do it if I just explained it to you."

"Whatever." You rolled your eyes, any flustered feelings you felt faded away. You looked back at the portion of your canvas just painted. As usual, Tsukishima's methods were impressive and helpful. "Thanks." You uttered under your breath, before continuing to work. He nodded before looking out the window.

"It's getting late. Shouldn't you head home?" He asked as he picked up his bag, about to leave.

"It’s fine," You shook your head, keeping your eyes on your canvas. "I've gone home later than this in the past. I have to work on this." The boy sighed and paused before reaching for your portfolio case.

"I didn't know you were this stubborn too." He dangled your portfolio case and made his way out the studio. "It's time to call it a day if you want this back." You turned to him as he slung your portfolio case over his shoulder with a sly smirk before stepping out the studio. You groaned.

"Oi! Come back here!" You shoved your supplies into your bag, slipped off your apron and grabbed your canvas before rushing out the studio to catch up to him as he kept his leisurely pace. Panting, you caught up to him and snatched your portfolio case back. "What the hell, Tsukishima?" He snickered.

"I'm heading over to Yamaguchi's place anyway, so I wasn't actually going to run away with it."

"You better not have. Wait— why are you headed to Yamaguchi's so late?"

"I'm staying over. My brother's bringing his girlfriend over to our house tonight, so you already know what's bound to happen." He shuddered. "Frankly, I don't want to hear any of that shit." You chuckled.

—&

A serene silence fell upon the two. Before you knew it, you found yourself walking back to the apartment complex together. As you walked, you leaned your head back and took a breath of the evening breeze. You turned your head to Tsukishima, who's engrossed himself in his music, a bit of which you could almost hear from his headphones. You felt your cheeks warm up. Walking beside him right now made you reminisce of the countless romantic scenes you've read where the boy walks the girl home. You shook your head. No, this wasn't one of those tales.

"Why are you looking at me this time?" Tsukishima raised a brow at you, slinging his headphones around his neck. "You've been doing that a lot lately."

"Oh—" You scratched your head. "I swear it's just a coincidence. Maybe you're just looking at me all the time." He rolled his eyes before another silence fell upon the two. A thought suddenly crossed your mind. "I was just wondering, remember when you stormed off after the professor talked to you?"

"Hm."

"What happened? Did she say something bad?" The boy suddenly grimaced. Your curiosity grew, but regretted asking him. He let out a sigh.

"She's concerned about how I'll do in the final term project. That my track record of 'shallow responses' during my crits indicate the kind of work I'll bring to the final critique. And that I didn't feel 'inspired' enough." He shrugged. "As long as I paint something impressive to my audience, I should do fine."

It dawned on you that he has the exact opposite dilemma as you. While you lacked the technique, yet strived in the depth of your pieces, he had insanely advanced skills, but struggled to find drive.

"Don't you want to do more than 'fine', though?" You began. "I mean—isn't that the point of art? To express that of which your muse—let's say—has inspired you?"

"My muse?" Tsukishima raised a brow.

"Yeah, your muse! Something—or someone—that is a source of inspiration for you." He paused, gazing at you before he tsked.

"Odd."

"What do you mean 'odd'?" You furrowed you brows, mocking his tone. "You must have a muse. Something you like that makes you go 'I want to paint something based on that'?" He shook his head. "I don't buy it. Tell me, Kei. You like music, right? Doesn't it make you feel things and envision things when you listen to it?"

"I guess, but it doesn't make me want to paint it."

"Scratch that, then. How about, I'll give you an example of a muse of mine:" You pointed upward. "that."

"Huh—" He looked up as well. "The sky?" You nodded.

"I love the sky. It gives you something different everyday. From the glint of the stars out tonight, the funny shapes you make out from clouds, to the gorgeous colours that sunsets reveal—which is a personal favourite." You sighed in glee.

"Anyone can paint a sunset, though." He rebutted. "I just don't see how the sky would impress the professors. Wouldn't it make you a more worthwhile artist to show off the most challenging techniques you can pull off to succeed?" You gritted your teeth.

"It's not about what you paint—it's why you're painting it!" Your plead echoed around both of you. This took Tsukishima aback. You lowered your head, your heart sinking. It was as if every small, condescending remark he's said has piled up and overwhelmed you. "Not everyone is as gifted as you, Tsukishima." You whimpered softly. "I've always admired your talent." Silence fell once more.

"Y/N, I—"

"You know I have been practicing the things you've taught me. I know I'm not the best at them, but at least I'm improving. At least I'm trying." There was a shakiness growing in your voice.  "I don't know if I'm upset at you or at myself, but—" As you two approached the apartment complex, you turned to the boy one last time with a pained look in your eyes. "but can't you be even the tiniest bit considerate of me?" You turned your back to him and marched back into your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you.

Tsukishima lowered his head, gritted his teeth, and cursed under his breath as Yamaguchi let him inside as well.

—&

For the next couple of weeks, you and Tsukishima ceased talking to each other, not even looking at each other's way. It perplexed you why you've been as affected by him as you were that night. Maybe it was your confusion from how he constantly teetered between belittling you and helping you. Maybe it was your disappointment that you've invested yourself to him but he never reciprocated in the end, but never again. You've convinced yourself that he was nothing more but a mere classmate from studio class—always has been and always will be.  

The end of the term was nearly approaching and the stress continued to pile up. You've been dedicating much more time into perfecting your art pieces for the final project. One particular weekend, cooped up in your apartment while trying to finish up your painting, you hit upon some good ol' artist block. You scratched your head as you tried to find inspiration. You peeked out your window. Nothing but gray clouds today. You turned back to your canvas, frustrated at how you feel you're so close to finishing, yet so far. Eyeing the details, you noticed the particular spot that Tsukishima added that evening in the studio. Your flustered feelings began to creep back into your mind.

Nope.

You ruffled your hair furiously before wailing out a long, exasperated scream for what felt like forever. Once you calmed down, you leaned back onto your seat. Oddly enough, screaming helped you clear your thoughts and frustrations. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes.

The silence was broken by a sudden, frantic knocking on your door. You walked over and opened the door to find a concerned Yamaguchi.

"Y/N! I heard screaming. A-are you okay?" He asked frantically.

"Yamaguchi! I'm fine, sorry about that." You laughed nervously as you rubbed the nape of your neck. "I was just blowing off steam from the stress of school, I guess." Your neighbour sighed in relief.

"Man, Y/N. You scared me!" He complained. "It's getting that tense, huh?" You nodded. He took notice of your messy hair and your weary demeanor. "You sure look like you need a break. " He chuckled.

"Gee thanks, Yamaguchi."

"Oh!" His eyes suddenly brightened up before placing a hand on your shoulder. "Come over and have a drink or two! It's the weekend, you should let loose!" A drink was probably what you needed right now, anyway.

"Yeah, that sounds pretty nice." You conceded. Yamaguchi beamed in response. You closed your door and followed your neighbour into his unit.

"Make yourself at home." Yamaguchi made his way to the fridge. "I'll grab drinks. Any preferences?"

"The hardest ones you've got." You both laughed.

"Gotcha." You sat down on the couch and leaned back. You glanced around. You spot a familiar set of brushes and paints—the ones from the studio. You looked around once more until you spotted him sat by the balcony.

"Tsukishima?" You caught the blonde boy in the middle of ogling at you, seemingly somewhat buzzed already. His eyes widened the moment your eyes met, and quickly looked away. He placed his headphones back on and took another swig from his bottle.

"Sorry, Y/N." Yamaguchi chimed in as he headed towards you with two red cups. "I figured if I mentioned Tsukki was staying over tonight, you'd refuse to come over." You shook your head, smiling reassuringly.

"Don't worry, Yamaguchi. He didn't hurt me or anything." You sighed. "I overreacted a bit too." He handed you a cup and sat down beside you.

"Tsukki told me what happened. He regretted being so brash with you."

"He did?" Yamaguchi nodded, glancing over at Tsukishima.

"You want to know how he's gotten so good at painting?"

"Sure."

"The thing his professor told him—that he lacks inspiration in his work—it's not unfounded. It's something he's struggled with long before he started art school. He figured that if he explored more techniques—that if he got better—he'll eventually find something to inspire him. He's gotten so talented, but he rarely feels fulfilled from his work. It's made him feel like an inadequate artist, which is why he's resorted to teasing and such."

"Oh." You frowned. "I never thought of it like that."

"Don't worry! I believe he's recently found that source of inspiration. You should see the painting he's done for your term project!" Yamaguchi leaned back on the couch. "Tsukki's never been the best at being positive or open, so you'll have to forgive him. The teasing get annoying, surely, but he means well. He's teased me since we were kids, but I've come to realize that that's how he shows he's invested in someone."

"No way—I don't buy it."

"I know it's hard to believe, but it's true! You'll see." He grinned. "I'm not sure if you'll see Super Drunk Tsukishima tonight, but he can be quite sentimental." He chuckled.

"Now that would be a sight to see." You snickered. "What kind of drunk are you, Yamaguchi?"

"There's only one way to find out, right?" He snickered as you both clinked your cups and guzzled down your drinks.

A few drinks later, it didn't take long to find yourself drunk and beside a passed-out, mumbling Yamaguchi on the couch. Zoned out, you let out a couple of hiccups. You suddenly caught a moving figure from the corner of your eye. You sluggishly turned your head to find Tsukishima stumbling to grab another bottle from the fridge. You sneered loudly.

"Tsssukki—can I call you Tsukki? I'm gonna call you Tsukki—someone should cut you off."

"Cut me off? I paced myself—" The boy rebutted, flimsily pointing at you. He hiccuped. "unlike you. Take a look at yourself, Y/N. And look what you did to Yamagusshi!"

"Pffft. He did that to himself." You cackled. He groaned before opening his bottle and shuffling back, sitting down on the balcony floor. After a second, you decided to follow him out and plop down beside him. "Tsukki, I'm sorryyy—" You turned to him and pouted. "I yelled at'cha that one time. I didn't know y'were sad tooo." Taken aback, the boy furrowed his brows, pointing the neck of his beer bottle towards you.

"Why are you sorry? I'm the one who upset you." He pointed the neck of the bottle to himself, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "I'm the asshole here." Your drunk ass couldn't help but burst into laughter.

"Asshole! You said 'asshole'!" You continued to cackle, leaning back too much as you began to lose balance. Before you knew it, Tsukishima reached out, catching you with one hand grasped onto your wrist and his other hand wrapped around your waist.

"Oi, be careful." He gently pulled you back upward as you continued to giggle to yourself, still seemingly unaware of his actions. You finally realized what just occurred the moment you felt his hand pull away from your waist. Flustered, you looked away for a moment and grumbled.

"You sure are an asshhole, Kei." You muttered, trying hard not to slur your words. "Y'know—you i-insult me all the ti—"

"I know, and I'm sorr—"

"But y-you also do these things that make m-my heart skip a beat—"

"Y/N—" He stammered.

"A-and I get all confused about you, and I never know what to feel—"

"Y/N."

"I mean—w-why me? Why aren't you like this to other people?"

"Because I don't care about other people." Tsukishima's words finally cut you off. You gazed at him as the moonlight lit up his flustered face. You felt his grip on your wrist slide down as he gently held your hand. He locked his eyes onto yours. You hoped your flushed cheeks from the alcohol were enough to hide your blushing as he slowly leaned his face closer.

THUD!

You both turned your head back into the main room to find Yamaguchi on the foot of the couch.

"Tsukki..." He groaned. "Bathroom...puke...n-now..." Tsukishima sighed. He looked at you once more before he stammered.

"I should go help him..." You nodded, still flustered. He released your hand as he rose to his feet and clumsily headed over to Yamaguchi to help him. You gently hit your cheeks with the palms of your hands. You figured those two would be occupied for a while, so you decided to trudge back to your apartment without bidding them goodbye. You felt as if your emotions were at their limit, anyway. It was going to be one hell of a hangover the next day.

—&

You couldn't remember a lot from that night at Yamaguchi's place, but the feeling of Tsukishima's hand grasped onto yours still lingered on your mind. You weren't sure if you were imagining it or not—or if you just wanted it to happen. None of that mattered right now; there wasn't much time left before the end of the semester. For the remainder of the time, you focused solely on schoolwork, determined on creating the best final product for your studio class' final term project to your ability. You knew you still had ways to go, but you've surely improved your technique. You were grateful to Tsukishima, but you didn't have the time to entertain anymore confusion from your emotions.

"How could I have forgotten the varnish?" You grumbled as you paced your way to the studio one day, picking up some supplies. Right before entering, you took notice of the figures already in the studio: Tsukishima in front of a small panel of art professors. You gasped and hid behind the door. His critique for the term project must've been today. You peeked your head out the door to take a closer look inside.

Your eyes couldn't help but focus on Tsukishima, surprised by how much more devotedly he seems answering the professors' comments; a huge contrast compared to his previous demeanor during previous crits in class. You smiled. It was admirable seeing him like that. You glanced over to the painting he presented. It was a beautiful depiction of the sky at dusk: a gorgeous mix of colours at sunset with an ethereal sky of stars above. Even from a distance, it wasn't hard to appreciate his mastery of technique. Another detail of the painting caught your eye: the female figure in the middle whose presence was subtle, yet significant. As you pieced together her features, you slowly realized that the figure in his painting strongly resembled you.

"Hold on—" The sound of applause and chairs scraping on the floor interrupted your train of thought. You gasped as you hid around the corner, waiting for the studio to clear. You heard the voices fading off as they walked out of the studio and waited a few moments before deciding the coast was clear. You snuck into the studio, only to find one more person across the room.

"I saw you peeking, you know." Tsukishima remarked, packing up his artwork. "You're not stealthy at all."

"I figured." You sighed. "I'm just here to pick up some varnish for my project. How did your crit go?"

"I think it went well." He rubbed the nape of his neck. "I never talked this much during crits, but it was easier since I had some inspiration to drive me."

"Hey, that's awesome! I knew you had it in you!" You grinned. "It was a beautiful painting, by the way. It's funny—for a second, I thought the person in your painting sort of looked like me." You laughed awkwardly. The boy raised a brow.

"I painted Urania, one of the Nine Muses in Greek mythology. The Muse of astronomy. So yeah—don't flatter yourself."

"I guess you took my advice literally, huh." You replied, grimacing. You went over to the supply cabinet to pick up the varnish. The boy took notice of your change in tone and scratched his head.

"Sorry. That was unnecessary."

"it's fine." Silence fell upon the studio. Tsukishima finally cleared his throat.

"I mean—that's at least what I told the professors who she was. There's a hidden layer to the painting that I didn't mention."

"What do you mean?"

"What you said earlier—that you thought Urania resembled you. It's because I painted her to resemble you, and the way you admired the sky. Did you think it was a coincidence she looked like you in a painting where I also painted what you said was your muse?"

"W-why paint me, then?" You stammered. He sighed. You sensed a change in his demeanor.

"It baffled me how each crit in class, you're always so adamant on the message of your paintings. It was something I admire about you— and something I wanted to be able to do. Through you, I learned to find inspiration from even the most mundane things." He slowly made his way across the room to you. You grew flustered.

"Tsukishima..." You took a step back, getting backed up by the wall. He stopped right in front of you, towering over you. You felt your cheeks warm up. He took the jar of varnish from your hand and tucked it in his back pocket.

"I meant what I said back at Yamaguchi's place—that I didn't care about anyone else but you. So hearing what you said that night..."  A deep, golden shade of sunlight shone through the window pane and onto you as the sun began to set. You reached for Tsukishima’s shirt and gently tugged on it. He reached for your other hand and held it. He cupped his other hand on your cheek and tilted your head upward towards him. "You said you didn't believe I didn't have a muse, but I swore on it. Now—now it's different, because I've found you, Y/N." He leaned his face closer, your eyes fixed onto each other's. "You're my muse." He closed his eyes and gently pressed his lips against yours. You closed your eyes and kissed back. As your kisses grew deeper, you tugged on his shirt a bit stronger to pull his body closer to yours. He intertwined your fingers together, holding each other's hand tighter. This all felt right. Eventually, you lightly pulled away from each other, panting softly. You fixed your gaze on his golden-brown eyes once more. There was now a strong glint to them, unlike before. It made you happy.

"I'm honoured to be your muse, Kei." You softly replied, grinning widely. Hearing your reply, Tsukishima let out a soft laugh—it was the happiest you've seen him look. You liked seeing him this happy. He sighed.

"Here." He let go of your hand to reach for his back pocket and return the jar of varnish. "I’ll walk you home. I'm staying over at Yamaguchi's tonight." You took the jar and tucked it away in your bag. He followed you out of the studio and you began walking back to the apartment complex together.

"Your brother brought his girlfriend over again?" He nodded. "That's been happening more frequently. Doesn't it get annoying?"

"A bit. It's fine, though—" He leaned closer and whispered in your ear. "Soon enough, I might have to kick him out this time." He smirked. Growing flustered again, you gasped.

"Tsukishima, you pervert!" He sneered before speeding up his pace and leaving you behind. You scoffed, chasing after him. "Oi, get back here!"

—&

You gently slapped your cheeks with the palms of your hands—psyching yourself up. Your critique for your final term project is mere minutes away. You muttered to yourself as you paced back and forth in front of the studio.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this."

"You can do this." Tsukishima repeated, having your painting in hand. "You have nothing to worry about."

"What if it's not good enough?" You fretted.

"You've worked so hard this whole term. I mean, look at this." He took another look at the canvas. "It's both meticulous and insightful. They'll love it."

"Are you su—" He promptly handed you back the canvas, interrupting you.

"They'll love it." He repeated once more. He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. "There. Only because you can't reach me from down there." He snickered, while you rolled your eyes. You heard a voice from the studio call your name. "Go knock 'em dead." You smiled at him once more before stepping into the studio. A shaky breath escaped your lips as you braced yourself for the professors' relentless nitpicking of your latest painting. Group critiques were the one thing you dreaded the most about art school. However, now with better faith in your skills and in your muse, you figured you'll be alright.

[honeymoonjin]

the daily grind - jjk oneshot

A/N - 2k word count. No warnings needed.

Jungkook would love to ask out the cute girl that always comes to the coffee shop. If only she would actually look up from her textbooks.

Every uni student and their grandma had done a stint at a coffee shop. Most did it for some work experience and easy cash, ditching the job as soon as they found one where they could spend the shift sitting down instead of being on their feet for six hours.

Jungkook was happy to say he was different. Yes, he was doing the same-old coffee shop gig, but he really loved his job and had no interest in doing anything else until he graduated. He liked the coffee making process, sure, but one of the best things about this particular café was their bottomless refills.

If you ordered a black coffee at the Daily Grind, you could pay an extra two dollars for bottomless refills, and Jungkook would just pop out from behind the bar whenever he got the chance to come top up the drink for you. It meant that the number of actually difficult, elaborate drinks went down, and the number of easy customers who just wanted to stay wired in the most efficient way went up.

For being only a five-minute walk off campus, very few other university students actually came to study. Most were too entranced by the Starbucks on campus by the library to even think about outsourcing their caffeine.

There was one regular, though.

Jungkook figured she probably wanted a little more peace and quiet to get her work done, as she always had a bulky backpack filled with textbooks and stapled papers and stationery that she’d rotate through for hours at a time.

Maybe if the café was a little busier, Jungkook wouldn’t spend so much time thinking about her. But as it was, she was one of the only regulars that came in the afternoons while he was working, and over time he learnt more about her than he ever would have expected from a strange customer.

She was probably at least a year or two above him at uni judging by the long, super scientific titles of her engineering textbooks, and he had heard from his friend Jimin, who’s boyfriend was in third-year engineering, that by the time you got to that point, the pressures of good grades were heightened to the max, as well as the importance of trying to apply for apprenticeships and internships at a good company to get your foot in the door.

The stress of that whole situation certainly seemed to apply to her. He was pretty sure he could count on one hand the number of times she had actually looked at him when he came over to fill up her cup. She was either on hyper-speed, scribbling out equations and punching away on a calculator, or she was staring blankly at the page, half-heartedly doodling on a napkin to try and keep her mind occupied. Every few minutes or so, she rubbed her eyes gingerly like she had allergies or something.

That was another thing he had taken notice of over the several weeks she had been coming here. Her cute little drawings. Sometimes they were little blueprint diagrams as she worked out problems, but most of the time they were of a different style entirely.

Jungkook prided himself on having a good eye for art, seeing as he was two years deep into a photography degree at the fine arts school within the university, and he knew that she had a real gift, even though this was clearly the only practice she was getting. An empty cup with some dregs at the bottom; a shoe sticking out from behind a booth wall, a hand clasped around a coffee plunger handle that looked remarkably like his own. When she couldn’t think straight, she’d start drawing things she saw in the café.

One day, Jungkook noticed if she ran out of napkins she’d stop altogether and switch to impatiently drumming her fingers on the table and huffing. From that day on, he’d always bring three or four extra napkins every time he came over to top up her coffee.

The guilty pleasure of working here, one he’d never admit to but couldn’t help from doing, was that every time she left, he would dart over to her table and grab all the napkins for himself before the table got cleared by the cashier.

Whenever he found himself in a rut, not knowing how to photograph something original, he would take out those napkins and look over her drawings. He liked the way she saw the world. She focused on the details but made them look larger than life, in a way.

He would tell himself at 4pm every day of work, as he was tying on his apron, that today would be the day he’d work up the courage to talk to her.  He would create elaborate fantasies in his head, the way she smiled and blinked up at him as he spoke, like he was the only thing in the world to her. The way she would invite him to sit so that they could talk about their favorite classical artists and after his shift ended, she’d ask for his number.

But he could never do it. The pretty angles of her face would tense up with worry and stress the moment she opened up her hulking bag and dumped some more study material on the table. Her eyes never blinked up at him at all when he came over to her, and he didn’t even think she was aware of the extra effort he went to to provide her with drawing materials.

Jungkook just wasn’t headstrong enough to talk to her and risk a bad reaction. God, what if she got annoyed at him and left? What if she found another café where she wouldn’t be bothered and never came back?

He had gotten so used to seeing her four times a week while on duty that he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he messed that up.

So, he just refilled her coffees and kept giving her more napkins. Over time, as the middle of the semester approached, she was bringing more and more textbooks and practice papers, was typing more furiously into her calculator, and the soft, introspective lines of her napkin vignettes became aggressive chicken scratch of the ‘wet floor’ sign and the lines of electrical wires on the ceiling and her own massive calculator.

He had come to expect this dead-eyed, clenched-jaw version of her, and it came as a great shock to him when a man, still young but definitely older than Jungkook, opens the door to the café with a little bell jingle, and immediately paces over to the booth she’s tucked into, loudly proclaiming her name and sitting across from her.

To Jungkook’s complete surprise, it’s like the sun has risen inside the room. She looks up and beams at him, pushing the stack of work between them to one side.

As they chat back and forth like old friends, Jungkook can barely focus on the takeaway order he’s supposed to be making. Why did she never smile like that to him, even before things got so hectic? He suddenly had a desperate longing to have her look at him like that, even once. The way her eyes lit up as she listened to the guy wax poetic about his philosophy paper and scrunched up her nose a little when she told a joke. The light but hearty resonance of her laughter that pealed out through the shop periodically. All these things were completely new to Jungkook, but he knew he wanted more.

At one point, the man hops up and comes over to the counter. The cashier is on her break, so Jungkook takes the order.

“Could I please get a croissant and she’ll have a…caramel slice, please. Oh, and could I have a large chai latte? Thanks.”

Jungkook has to clear his throat to keep from freezing. Since when did she ever order anything else other than the one bottomless coffee? Was it a date? “Yeah, sure. That’s just twelve dollars, fifty cents.” The man pulls out a card to pay with, and as the order is processing, Jungkook can’t help himself. “You two are a cute couple,” he offers.

Thankfully, the man just laughs. “That’s nice of you to say, but we aren’t a couple. Old friends, actually.”

Jungkook nods and muffles his relieved grin, pulling out a takeaway cup. “Could I have a name for the drink, sir?”

“Namjoon.”

“That’ll just be a couple minutes away.”

The man sits back down and the two resume their lively conversation, but Jungkook tunes out, already planning what he can say to get the girl to smile at him the way she’s smiling now.

Jungkook doesn’t see the girl for five days. Of course, two of those days are a weekend, but she doesn’t come to the Daily Grind on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, and he can’t help but be saddened by the lack of her presence. Shifts seem so much longer, and for today, a drizzly Thursday, he is not looking forward to going back there.

For the first time since the start of the year, almost twelve weeks ago, Jungkook finds himself on the main campus, tasked with borrowing a book from the library about contemporary lighting techniques. The waitlist was thirty students long, but finally it was his turn.

The online catalogue told him it was on the fourth floor, so stairs were most certainly not an option. He gets in on the second floor, but to his shock, someone familiar is already in there.

It’s the girl from the café. His heart races as he stands next to her, but she doesn’t react.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I haven’t seen you drop by for a while?”

She starts at the sudden noise, her eyes blinking wildly as she looks him over. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Oh,” Jungkook sighs. “I guess you probably don’t recognize me. I’m the barista at the Daily Grind, I do most weeknights.”

Her face lights up, though her eyes are still a little glassy. “Oh, Jungkook, right?”

“Y- Yeah.” She knew his name? Then why the weird reaction?

“I’m so sorry, I lost a contact earlier today, so I’ve been wandering around like a zombie, trying not to bump into things.” She gives him a little laugh, and he’s struck by how different she is here than she’s ever been in the café. She’s acting almost as friendly as when that Namjoon dude came into the store.

“Have you, uh, have you found a new café to go to?” The elevator stops on the fourth floor, but he makes no move to get out, and the doors close again. “I haven’t seen you around recently.”

“Oh, no, no more bottomless coffees for me. I’ve been studying like crazy for the midterm for way too long, and now that it’s over, I think I need to give my body some time to filter out the percentage of caffeine in my veins. Thank you for giving me extra napkins, by the way. I’m sorry I go through them so quickly, nervous habit, you know?”

His heart beats so strongly in his ears it almost sounds like waves crashing. So, this whole time, she had noticed him. And she had kept on coming back. “You’re all finished with the midterm, then?”

More people file in to the elevator from the sixth floor, but she takes no notice, swiveling around so she’s facing him head-on. “Yeah, actually, I got it back this morning, and I managed to get an A-! Honestly, I have no idea how that happened, but I guess all the desperate cramming paid off.”

“That’s amazing,” he enthuses. The button she had pressed, floor eight, was steadily approaching. This was the chance he had spent way too long dreaming up. “You should celebrate all your hard work,” he begins, giving her a soft smile, “I know this great little café you might like.”

[hyunsracha]

home — seo changbin

word count: 2.8k

summary: you hated everything about your school. even the stupid galas your best friend forced you to go to.

You hated your school.

You hated the long, winding hallways that led to dull, lifeless classrooms. You hated the grey courtyard, meant to give students a place to be free, but only made you feel more trapped.

More importantly, you hated the people. The teachers, people who didn’t care and only wanted you to pass so you could get out of their face.

And the students. Greedy, monstrous little demons who hold each other’s secrets like playing cards, ready to whip them out and ruin each other’s lives at any given moment.

You could only stand two people at your school, and one of them graduated last year. His name was Bang Chan, and he took you under your wing when you were a freshman, guiding you through the halls in a way that kept the hardwood floors from eating you alive.

And you did the same to Lee Felix the next year. He was a new freshman, and his shaking doe eyes made your heart cry. So you took him under your wing, showing him where to go and where not to go.

Chan made you tough, teaching you to stand up for yourself against the assholes on campus.

Felix made you soft, teaching you compassion and empathy for those other than yourself.

They meant everything to you, and you couldn’t really be bothered to deal with anyone else.

But now Chan was gone, and you were a senior, and Felix was a junior.

You always thought that your grim perspective would tear Felix apart, but two years later, he still glows like the sun.

Even when the two of you are sitting in the basement of the school, a cigarette between your lips as you doodle on your math homework.

“Y/N….are you even listening to me?” Felix whined, his brown eyes somehow still sparking under the shitty yellow lamp lighting.

“No, you know that.” You pulled the cigarette from your lips’ hold, exhaling smoke and raising your eyebrow at your friend.

“I was talking about the gala. They’re doing a super cheesy theme this year: Paris. Fun, right?”

You gagged, “Of course they would do something like that. Sounds awful.”

“But Y/N!,” Felix pouted, “We have to go! We go every year. And it’s my last year with you…”

“D-Don’t give me those eyes...Felix! Fine.” You sighed. Damn Felix and his stupidly pretty eyes.

You checked the time on your phone, a soft curse leaving your lips as you put out your cigarette. You were going to be late, and art was the only class you cared about.

You loved your art class. Your teacher didn’t really care what you drew, exclaiming that, “art is everything! Even your breath is art!” And you liked drawing; it was quite soothing. Plus, the teacher loved you and said that you works were “inspired,” so the ego boost is much appreciated.

You were feeling tired today, so your drawing was simple. Just made of pencil, you drew a bedroom scene. Of course, the bedroom was much nicer than your actual one at your house, and you would much rather be in your art’s room. You sketched a bed, big and warm. You sketched a nightstand, paintings on the walls, a dresser, etc.

Your teacher stood by your side, draping a comforting arm over your shoulders, “Missing home?”

Home. A funny little word. This bedroom you drew wasn’t home, and neither was your bedroom where you lived. You didn’t really have a home.

“Yeah. Just tired today.”

—

Felix was part of Anime Club. He had Anime Club every Tuesday and Thursday, so you spent Tuesday and Thursday afternoons sitting in the back of the classroom the Anime Club kids used, getting a quick power nap. Then you two would walk home together, the sounds of your shoes clacking against the hardwood floors making you even more tired.

“What are you gonna wear to the gala?” Felix asked, the faraway look in his eyes signaling his excitement.

“I dunno...clothes, I guess.”

“Nice clothes, Y/N.”

“Fine. Nice clothes, I guess.”

Felix lived three streets away from you, which you thought was weird because you had never seen him before he was a freshman. Those last three streets were your least favorite to walk through, because they brought you closer and closer to the place you didn’t want to be.

There was nothing wrong with your house. On the outside at least. It was quite pretty; it even had flowers in the front yard. But there was nothing growing on the inside.

The air inside your house was suffocating. Your throat felt clogged as you took your shoes off.

“Y/N.”

“Mom.”

“How was school?”

“Fine. How was work?”

“Fine.”

And you were in your room.

Your mom was never the same after your dad left.

You remember that day like it was yesterday.

You were seven years old. Your mom was out at work, so it was just you and your dad. He had spent the whole day coming in and out of the house, but you didn’t know why. You had been in your room, playing with your toys, so all you heard was the door. Around 3:00, he came into your room and scooped you up into his arms. His tears were wet in your hair.

“Daddy? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” You had asked. He sat down on your bed, setting you on his lap.

“Y/N, you know I love you very much, right?”

You had giggled, “Yes, Daddy! Of course I know that!”

He kissed your forehead before setting you back on the ground, “I’m going out for a bit, okay?”

“Okay!”

And you never saw him again.

When your mom came home at 5:00 to a house without her husband, she had asked you where he went.

When you replied with, “Out,” she broke.

She spent days in her room after that, refusing any of the little snacks you brought her.

When she did finally come out, something had changed. She was much more reserved, and the light had drained from her eyes, almost like she was just a walking corpse.

When you were old enough, she explained to you why she was so sad all the time.

You never had crushes on boys after that.

Her job was hardly enough to keep you two afloat, so you sold a lot of things. Your house was almost bare, only having a couch and a tv on the floor. Your room was like that too, the only furniture being your bed and dresser. When you turned 16, you got a part-time job, and almost all of that money went to paying bills.

You flopped down on your bed, immediately curling under the blankets. You never really bothered with doing your homework. You’d just do it the next day and get an A on it. It was always like that with you.

—

Time passed quickly. Too quickly. Two weeks had already passed and it was time for the gala. You were dressed in the nicest outfit you owned. Felix had come home with you and raided your closet, claiming that you needed his fashion expertise.

“Why don’t you have any nice clothes?”

“Felix I have no money.”

“Well neither-”

“You live in a mansion, shut up.”

But you cleaned up nicely, at least that’s what Felix said. You also had to promise him that you wouldn’t smoke at all that night. He gave you those stupid eyes again, so you agreed.

You thought the gala was even more boring every year. You only went as a freshman because Chan said you needed to have the full experience of New Haven Preparatory School. You didn’t know that meant having to watch all your peers grinding on each other, alcohol and God knows what else in their systems. One thing you didn’t know about prep schools before attending one: the kids were much more rebellious. Something about being so confined made them act out even more. You heard 3 different couples hooking up in the same bathroom when you just wanted to pee.

This year might’ve been the most boring. The way overdone theme made you want to gouge your eyes out. There was a cardboard Eiffel Tower and the lights were hung up to look like stars. If you squinted, it was kind of pretty.

Felix was having a good time though. While you leaned back against the wall, sipping on a punch you were 99% sure was spiked, Felix was living it up on the dance floor. Sometimes you forgot that Felix was a dancer, as he never really talked about it much. But when you saw him dance, you remembered all of the recitals you’ve gone to for him.

You become 100% sure that the punch is spiked when Felix holds out a hand, beckoning you to the dance floor, and you accept. You don’t know if you can dance, but you’re assuming you can’t based on the amused look on your best friend’s face. You two clumsily move to the beat of Top 50 pop songs, giggling whenever one of you trips. You were tipsy, and Felix was just a clumsy guy.

The gym hushes when the doors open, revealing someone you could care less about.

Seo Changbin.

Seo Changbin was practically made of money. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Changbin could literally get away with murder. You assumed that was why everyone liked him so much.

After a moment of gaping silence, the party continued. There was more chatter, mostly from people with huge crushes on the senior.

“God, he’s so hot. Do I look good enough for him to talk to me?”

You just laughed listening to their conversations. Felix must’ve heard them, too, as he rolled his eyes.

You didn’t care about Changbin. He had never been mean to you, but he was never nice to you either. So you just didn’t care.

You cared so little that you merely shrugged when he tapped on your shoulder, taking your hand in his and dragging you away from your best friend.

You cared so little that you couldn’t be bothered to push him away when he pulled you into the janitor’s closet and suddenly had you pressed against a wall. You didn’t push him away when his lips connected with yours, with a fire you weren’t aware his possessed. In fact, you cared so little that you kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him even closer.

You weren’t sure how long you were in that closet, or where your shoes were, or how many hickeys were on your neck, but you didn’t really care. You just went and found Felix, telling him that you were tired and wanted to go back to your house. And Felix walked you back, the knowing smirk never leaving his face, even after he dropped you off.

—

Seo Changbin was a complicated guy, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

People called him a player, and from most angles, he looked like one. But he swore he wasn’t.

But he never really talked about his feelings.

“Dude, you’re a fuckboy. Just deal with it.” His best friend Minho had said when Changbin tried to explain himself. His other friend, Seungmin, nodded from his spot in the corner, where he was reading a manga.

Seungmin was a junior, and sometimes Changbin thought about knocking his teeth out. But Seungmin could pay to get new teeth in a day, so what was the point?

He has tried to knock Minho’s teeth out once. He doesn’t really remember what they were fighting about, but he punched Minho in the mouth and got a beating in return. They’ve agreed to never fight again.

But Changbin swears he isn’t a fuckboy.

Seo Changbin, although rough on the outside, was soft on the inside. All he wanted was someone to fall in love with. Someone to hold at night and someone to make breakfast with and someone to kiss and hug and just…someone to love.

Seo Changbin was a strong believer in fate and soulmates, and believed that you would know who your soulmate was the moment your lips touched theirs.

So he spent his whole high school career trying to find his soulmate. So he’s kissed almost everyone at school. That’s actually how he met Minho...and Seungmin.

It took him four years to find his soulmate. He couldn’t understand the energy that passed through him the moment his lips touched yours. It was like someone had lit a match inside his body and set all his organs on fire in the best way possible. When you left, it was like all of the warmth in the world had been taken away from him, and he was left in the cold.

You were Changbin’s soulmate. He was sure of it.

Now all he had to do was make you his.

—

School had gotten weirder after the gala. Everyone looked at you, which is something they never did.

“Felix,” you whined, back in the basement, “why was everyone staring at me?”

“Oh, I don’t know Y/N, maybe it’s because you hooked up with Seo Changbin in the janitor’s closet.”

“We didn’t hook up! We just kissed for a little. I have self-control, asshole.”

You heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Your eyes widened as you put out your cigarette, making sure your foot was covering it as the person showed themselves.

“Seo Changbin, fancy seeing you here.” Felix sent a knowing glance your way, not even trying to make his wink secretive.

“I...I just wanted to give this to Y/N.” Changbin pulled out a single rose from behind his back, shoving it into your hand with a shy smile.

“You...you didn’t fall in love with me because of a kiss, did you?” You laughed awkwardly, setting the rose down next to you.

“I did, actually.”

Oh Jesus, you thought.

“Oh Jesus.” you said.

That wasn’t the last you saw of Seo Changbin that day. He walked you to your art class, then he walked you home, with Felix trailing behind. He wasn’t the worst person to talk to, and you actually found yourself laughing at a few of his jokes.

Changbin couldn’t even describe the joy he felt when he heard your laugh.

And this continued for the next few weeks, as the end of winter transitioned into spring. You could predict Changbin’s lines at this point, and it was pretty amusing.

“The flowers are so pretty today.” Felix mused.

“Like Y/N.” You and Changbin said in sync, sending each other sly grins afterwards. You hadn’t really noticed that his hand was holding yours. It happened a lot, and you didn’t mind it. You didn’t care.

You cared so little that you let him kiss your cheek as he left to go to his house.

You cared so little that you blushed when he said, “See you tomorrow, my darling Y/N.”

You cared so little that you walked home in a daze, hardly able to hear Felix’s teasing laugh.

“Mom.” You had said once you entered the house. Your mother jumped, not used to the lightness of your tone.

“Y/N.”

“I love you.”

A smile broke out on her face, the first one you had seen from her in years, ��I love you too, my baby.”

And she hugged you, and she cried, and you cried. Your house felt a little bit more like a home, and you thought you should thank Changbin. He was always bright, bringing a new perspective of optimism into your life.

The next day, you decided you would thank him.

You took his hand in yours on your walk home, startling him enough to make him stutter. You watched him as he spoke, and you told him that he looked nice that day. By the time you got to his house, he was a blushing mess.

“B-Bye, Y/N.” He turned around to go to his house, but you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his torso from behind, trying to pour every ounce of adoration you held for him into this hug. His eyes watered as he placed his hands over yours, immediately understanding what you wanted to tell him. He knew you well enough to not say anything, only turning around and pressing a kiss to your forehead before going home.

Home wasn’t a building. Home wasn’t a person either. To you, home was a feeling. A feeling of comfort and safety. That feeling started following you everywhere, leaving you feeling at home in your own skin.

You still hated your school. The hallways and the classrooms and the courtyard and the teachers and the students. But you still felt at home there, as your home was anywhere you went.

[cosmichobi]

art lesson ii (m)

in which you begin to accept that as long as taehyung is around, you’ll never have a normal art lesson

Member: Taehyung

Word Count: 2.6k

Whenever people asked for an interesting fact about yourself, you always told them that you once managed to give three people food poisoning in as many days. Knowing this, your friend had every reason to be hesitant to try your cooking.

“Don’t look at me like that, just try it.” You waited with baited breath as she took her first bite, and you silently hoped she didn’t drop dead.

“Holy shit, this is really good!” You knew her surprise wasn’t uncalled for, but you still weren’t sure whether to be offended or pleased. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“The only thing I don’t have in me is consistent dick. Other than that, I’m full of surprises.”  

“Shut up!” Your friend snickered when you frowned at her. Sexless wasn’t exactly the right word, but she had no idea about what happened that night with Taehyung. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed by it, far from it. In fact, you wanted it to happen again, and again, and again.

You just wanted it to be your little secret for now.

“Taehyung!” It was hard to tell if your friend’s voice sounded so loud because you had been lost in thought, or if she was genuinely screaming at the top of her lungs. Your eyes narrowed once you had processed what she said, and you wondered why she said his name. The confusion on your face must have been obvious, as she began to explain herself. “I need to get him here, he’s not gonna believe that you can actually cook.”

“Why wouldn’t he believe I can cook?” He probably knew about the food poisoning.

“I told him about your past experience with poisoning your loved ones.” There we go.

“Do you two like to talk about me behind my back?”

“We do actually, he’s always asking about you.” You didn’t know how to take that information, but you said nothing as your friend left her apartment to knock on Taehyung’s door. It had been 3 days since that night, and neither of you had contacted each other. It didn’t sound like much, but 72 hours was a long time. You had contemplated sending him a text, but you weren’t sure what to say. You assumed he had a lot more experience with these things than you did, so you wanted to wait to see what he would do.

He looked good as ever when he walked in, his fitted black shirt confirming that yes, he had been working out. You tore your eyes away from him, choosing instead to tap your fingers against the table.

“I hear you’re a top chef now.” He sat opposite you, his tone as teasing, as light, as typically-Taehyung as possible. “Can I try some?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’m scared the food might do that to me.” It wasn’t even funny, but you laughed. You handed Taehyung a fork, and he hesitantly tried some of your food. His eyes widened in pleasant surprise, to which you tutted.

“You guys have no faith in me, I swear.”

Your friend’s phone rang, and she backed away into the living room to answer it. When she had left, Taehyung moved so that his chair was next to yours. You pretended to not be affected, but your heart race soared. “Is there a reason you’re sitting so close to me?”

“Is it a problem?” his gaze flickered towards your lips as he asked. You blinked up at him, to which he shrugged. “I was wondering if you wanted any more art lessons, I’m free tomorrow night.” You looked back to check that your friend was still busy on her phone before you responded.

“And what exactly do you mean by art lesson?” If the way he tried to fight the growing smile on his face was any indication, his thoughts were going in the same direction yours were.

“You want to improve your art skills, and I want to help you. What else could I possibly mean?”

You both knew exactly what else he could have possibly meant, which is why you were prepared before you went to his apartment. You had put on your favourite lingerie, which you didn’t get to wear very often, and hid it under a large white t-shirt, and nothing else. It wasn’t often that you left the house in just an oversized shirt, and so you dashed across the road to his apartment building before anyone could see you. God, it would be Taehyung having you acting a fool, wouldn’t it?

Music was already playing when he let you in, and the windows were creaked open slightly. It seemed as if he was truly setting the scene. The canvas you used last time was set up, and you giggled at the lack of progress you had made.

“Is that really all we got done last time?”

“I think it was worth it.” Ignoring the heat that rushed to your face as a result of his comment, you followed Taehyung’s lead and took a seat. “Okay, I thought maybe I’d try a different approach this time to see what level you’re at.” You didn’t think he’d actually given this art lesson much thought, and it warmed your heart more than it should have. Taehyung loved to appear carefree, but you knew he cared and thought very deeply.

“I draw like my three-year-old niece.” He laughed out loud at this, not doubting you for a second.

“I want you to draw what you’re thinking about. Whatever’s on your mind, put it on the page.” You thought for a moment. He wasn’t sat as close to you as he was last time, but still close enough for you to smell his cologne. He looked down at you, eyes searching your face. “What are you thinking about?”

“A lot of things.” You paused before putting pencil to paper, and smiled at your (incredibly basic) sketch once it was complete.

“That’s a penis.”

“Well, you asked what I was thinking about.” You giggled at him when he shook his head at you.

“It can’t be mine, I’m bigger than that.” You gasped with laughter, not expecting the words to leave his mouth. After some more doodling, in which you decided to draw some ice cream since you had been desperately craving it, you headed to the kitchen to get some water. You had to settle, since Taehyung didn’t have ice cream for whatever reason.

“You keep your cups under the sink, right?” you asked.

“Yeah, to the left.” Taehyung looked back into the kitchen and gulped at the sight. You were bent over, reaching inside the cupboard for a cup, and he got a perfect view of the lingerie covering your ass. He felt himself harden slightly, and he had to close his eyes.

You were going to be the death of him one day.

He got up from his chair and strolled into the kitchen, a hand in his pocket. “You know, I’m starting to think you don’t want proper art lessons.” You turned off the tap just as he finished talking, turning around to face him with your now-full glass in your hands.

“What makes you think that?” he didn’t answer, but instead watched as you took a sip. He brought his thumb to the corner of your mouth, wiping away some water. He set his hands down on either side of you. When he leaned in to speak into your ear, his voice was low and demanding.

“Can I take you to the bedroom to get a closer look at what you have on under that shirt?”

“Did you see something you liked?”

“I think so.” Setting your water down, you took his hand as he led you to his bedroom. You had no way of knowing what it looked like normally, but it was a lot neater than you expected it to be. Taehyung had you backed against the wall before you could think of anything else. His hand found its way to the back of your neck, and he brought his lips down onto yours.

The way he kissed you had your head spinning. All coherent thoughts evaporated as you acted purely on desire, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to pull him closer to you. If he could get any closer the two of you would have melted into each other, and that was just how badly you wanted him. His hands traced your body, starting from your neck and making their way down to the hem of your shirt, which fell halfway down your thighs.

He managed to get the shirt off in one swift motion, not bothering to stifle the appreciative groan in his throat once the shirt had hit the ground.

“Every inch of you is fucking perfect.” Under any normal circumstances you would dispute that, but the way he said it had you believing him. He led you onto the bed, where he hovered over you before pressing his lips against your neck. “I didn’t get to taste you last time.” As he spoke, one of his hands cupped your sex. “Can I taste you?”

He must have realised by now that you’d say yes to anything when he growled like that into your ear. You managed to nod, the thought of his tongue on your core making heat rush to your abdomen. He took off his shirt before sinking down between your legs, putting a hand on either thigh to spread them apart.

His face was a wonderful combination of focus and pure desire as he slowly pulled the lace down your legs, he was perfection. You let out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding when he licked you slowly, working his way up to your clit. You hissed when he swirled his tongue around your sensitive spot, his tongue moving in a figure of 8. He switched up the pace, his tongue beginning to lap at you as he looked up at you. The pleasure was written all over your face, your eyebrows were furrowed and your lips parted as the moans flew out of your mouth. You were beautiful.

“Oh my god, Tae, you’re so good at this.” Your voice was strangled, but he thought you made his name sound amazing.

“Only the best for you.” You began to grind up against him, your desperate whines filling the air. Noticing your need, he reached under your legs to cup your ass, lifting you slightly off the bed and closer to his mouth. You continued to grind against him as his tongue danced on you.

At one point, he took his lips and sucked gently on your clit. Your moans got louder, developing into cries of passion. There was a strong, strong chance that one of his neighbours would hear you but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when he made you feel like this. Removing a hand from your ass, he couldn’t help but reach into his own underwear and stroke himself, at this point he was painfully hard and needed some sort of relief.

“Fuck, yes, play with yourself while you eat me out.” Your words made Taehyung moan against you, and the vibrations were almost enough to send you over the edge. Taehyung took his other hand and slid two digits into you, curling them skywards as you continued to grind. He switched things up, fingering you slowly as his tongue picked up some pace. You lost control right then and there.

The orgasm rocked your entire body as you repeated his name like a mantra. You had to take a second when you were done, blinking repeatedly to bring yourself back down to earth. Taehyung climbed back up on the bed, took your face in his hands and kissed you again. When he pulled away, your hands flew to his trousers, which you were desperate to get off. Your hands were jittery from the orgasm, so he made your life easier and took them off himself. You could see how hard he was through his underwear, and you twitched in anticipation.

You dragged his underwear down and put a hand over him, and he inhaled. Using his precum as lube, you slowly ran your hand up and down his shaft, watching as he threw his head back and groaned. He looked down at you as you stroked him, torn between wanting to have your hands on him forever but also desperately wanting to be inside you.

“I need you.” He moaned, reaching over to grab a condom. You removed your hand from his dick, instead choosing to lay back in anticipation as he got ready to enter you. He’d been thinking about this ever since you left his room 4 days ago. It was almost embarrassing the amount of times he had got off to the thought of you in the time since, but now he finally got to have you again.

He pulled you by your thighs so that you were underneath him, and he slowly slid into you. You were still so wet, the crude sounds of him pounding into you joined the mix of your moans and groans.

You were more sensitive after the orgasm, and he felt better than he had done before. His hands were tight on your hips as he controlled the movements, slowly moving in and out of you. He wanted to savour every second of this, every second that he could say you were his.

“No one has ever fucked me like this before,” you breathed. The words encouraged Taehyung to keep going as he picked up the pace, and you couldn’t help but grind against him. Sex with him was intense, even when his gaze wasn’t on you, you felt it burn another part of your body.

You wrapped your legs around his back, allowing him to go even deeper inside of you. He brought a thumb to your clit, rubbing around it as teasingly slow as he could. The sounds you made were guttural, the pleasure beyond anything you’d ever felt before. “I’m gonna cum again,” you announced, and he brought his free hand behind your neck, forcing you to look at him.

“Look at me when you cum.” He instructed, thumb still circling you. You couldn’t make any promises, but you tried to keep your gaze on him when you came again, walls clenching tightly around him. He held you as the orgasm soared through you, you shook against him. You didn’t bother to keep yourself under control or understand your movements, he had you in his embrace and you weren’t going anywhere. He continued to plunge into you, picking up the pace when he was close.

“Cum for me, Tae.” Still in his arms, you wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your head against his shoulder, whining lightly in his ears. You gently bit down on his earlobe, and he thrust into you one last time. His grip around you only tightened as he throbbed and twitched inside of you. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

Your hands shook as you cleaned up, and it wasn’t until the two of you were resting in bed that you returned to a stable state. The art lesson had been long forgotten, but it was never really the point.

“Your bedroom is really neat.” Of all the things you could have said, you weren’t sure why you chose that.

“I only cleaned it because you were coming.” This inspired the same feeling inside of you that you felt when you learned he’d actually tried to plan the art lesson.

“And you knew we’d use the bedroom?” he shrugged, tracing shapes on your arm with his finger.

“I had a feeling.” 

There was a question about where you stood with each other on the tip of your tongue, but you let it dissipate as you fell asleep in his arms.

[caveartfair]

How Painting Helped a Wrongfully Convicted Man Get out of Prison

Fulton Leroy Washington, Deteriorating. Courtesy of the artist.

Still from the documentary Mr. Wash, 2018. Photo by Sean Mattison. Courtesy of WeTransfer.

When Fulton Leroy Washington, also known as Mr. Wash, began serving a life sentence in prison in the late 1990s for a crime he did not commit, he started drawing. Doodles and sketches led to striking figurative paintings. Art helped him get through 21 years behind bars—in California, Colorado, Missouri, and Kansas—and eventually, to clemency.

Washington’s story is now the subject of an affecting new documentary short, Mr. Wash. Co-directed by writer Marisa Aveling and filmmaker Sean Mattison, and supported by WeTransfer, the film touches upon larger issues of mass incarceration and prison reform, while honing in on Washington’s personal experience—and, in Mattison’s words, “creative expression and its redemptive power.”

The camera follows Washington in his native city of Compton, California, as he cannily reflects with family and friends on his art and his time in prison. He began serving time in 1997 after being wrongfully convicted of three nonviolent drug offenses (allegations against him claimed that he had purchased chemicals for making PCP). Mandatory minimum sentencing laws led a judge to deliver a life sentence, due to three prior nonviolent convictions.

“Sadly, Wash��s circumstances aren’t that extraordinary, but what makes him really special is his artistic talent,” said Aveling, who first met Washington while writing a February 2017 article on the individuals whom President Obama had granted clemency. “I don’t know whether Wash would say that art help to liberate him,” she continued, “but in a way, it kind of did. It helped him escape the physical confines of prison, and also, what his art did for his fellow inmates is pretty significant.”

Washington’s fellow inmates were the first to notice his artistic talent: He’d draw on postcards and envelopes that they’d send to their families. His first attorney, Karen Smith, also noticed, and asked him to draw from memory a witness who could corroborate his innocence. The resulting sketch was so accurate, his legal team was able to find the person, who was brought to trial in 1997.

While it didn’t ultimately help his case, the experience was enlightening. “From that day on, I continued to draw little sketches and tried to share my art, and teach other people to do it, as well,” Washington recently told Artsy. Through prayer, he explained, he’d surmised that this was God’s plan—that he should pursue art, teach it, and share it with inmates and their families. Washington was also convinced that it was art that would get him out of prison.

Fulton Leroy Washington, Emancipation Proclamation, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.

Without any prior lessons or training (he was a welder and worked in construction before being incarcerated), Washington signed up to work in the prison’s hobby room, so he could try painting. “They’d give you space outside of your cell where you could get away from everybody and just sit there and paint, make ceramics, get some yarn and knit—they have a room full of guys knitting hats and scarves and gloves,” he recalled. He ordered paints and brushes from a catalog of pre-approved supplies, and worked from instructional painting videos.

Other inmates watched as Washington became more and more deft with a brush. He took to creating slick portraits of his peers, including scenes inspired by the paths that led them to prison. He accepted commissions, painting from photographs or based on verbal descriptions. “I pride myself on the ability to take whatever’s in your imagination and turn that into reality in a painting,” he said.

Washington would also paint complex narrative pieces based on news and current events, as well as developments in his own case: Every time he was on trial, he’d make a painting to illustrate it. And as his own talent flourished, he also taught fellow inmates to paint.

Still from the documentary Mr. Wash. Photo by Sean Mattison. Courtesy of WeTransfer.

Given the limiting size of the hobby room, Washington had to convince prison staff to dedicate another space to painting classes. He learned as much as he could from videos—how to mix colors; how to render landscapes, water, animals—then shared the techniques and exercises with others. His job assignment was to keep the room clean. Washington spent most his time there, managing to paint up to five or six hours per day.

The nascent artist became prolific, creating between 50 and 75 works every year on average; he says he stopped counting after 900. In 2014, he made perhaps his most consequential painting, titled Emancipation Proclamation. Modeled after the 1864 Francis Bicknell Carpenter painting entitled First Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation by President Lincoln, Washington painted a scene in which President Obama was granting him clemency. Where Lincoln was in the original, he had placed Obama; where there had once been generals, he inserted government officials like then-vice president Joe Biden and attorneys general Eric Holder and Loretta Lynch. Washington also integrated his own lawyers and family members into the composition. The vision, he said, came to him through prayer. “I just saw it as a way of telling the story about my effort and what I was going through trying to get out of prison,” he explained.

Fulton Leroy Washington, Mondaine's Market. Courtesy of WeTransfer.

Fulton Leroy Washington , Rolls Royce Tears. Courtesy of the artist

But it was also prescient. He’d created Emancipation Proclamation after applying for clemency. When the piece was finished, his legal team sent a photograph of the painting to White House counsel Neil Eggleston. Later, Washington learned that President Obama would be commuting his sentence in May 2016. That June, he moved out of prison and into a halfway house.

When documentarians Aveling and Mattison caught up with Washington to begin filming, he was staging his first solo show in Los Angeles and celebrating the occasion with family. But, Mattison noted, the artist is still feeling the injustices of his wrongful conviction; Washington is in the midst of trying to officially prove his innocence, and is angling for a settlement, as well. He’s also still required to report to a probation officer. “When people get their sentences commuted, they can’t just go back to life as usual,” Mattison said.

These days, Washington has to juggle the daily grind of paying rent and insurance, buying groceries, doing laundry, and changing car tires. He looks forward to having the time and headspace again to paint regularly.

Fulton Leroy Washington, Compassionate Release, 2013. Courtesy of the artist.

“It’s strange—in prison, you had none of these obstructions. You just get up, go to your job assignment, clean that area, sit down, paint,” he said. “Whereas now, I don’t have the freedom of mind to get up in the morning and just start painting. I’m still trying to adjust to that.”

“I feel that God has blessed me; that he has delivered on his word; that through faith, patience, and hard work, you’ll inherit what you deserve—I believe in that,” Washington reflected. “A lot of times I wanted to stop. I wanted to do what everyone else was doing [in prison]—like watching TV or getting into a bodybuilding program. But I had to help inmates and their families, to create a bridge with art, to try to hold those families together.”

from Artsy News

[theliteraturenerd]

Getting Unstuck, Writers’ thoughts on writer’s block. Illustration by Caitlin Hazell, Article originally published on Rookie

Fran Lebowitz

(From an interview on Bullseye With Jesse Thorn)

I have only one fear in life, and that is of writing.

Up until the point that I got my first actual writing job, I loved to write. I wrote all the time when I was a kid, and when I was a teenager. But the second I got my first $10 writing assignment from a tiny, tiny newspaper, suddenly I hated to write. Part of it is that I just hate work. I am by nature a sloth—I am really lazy, and I really don’t like to work. I have never had any work that I’ve enjoyed.

I’ve spent most of my life reading, and I have probably never read without feeling guilty. I always feel that I’m supposed to be doing something else—and I always am supposed to be doing something else. When I was a kid, I was supposed to be doing homework; as an adult, I’m supposed to be writing. If I tell myself, “Fran, you have to write,” I will not do it. I am so resistant to authority that I am resistant to my own authority.

Writer’s block is painful. There are painful things in our lives that we don’t seem to be able to fix. Things that you know the origin of, you have a high chance of fixing. Obviously, if I knew exactly what this was, I would fix it. I do not know what it is, exactly. I have my theories, but I don’t really know. However, I do not believe that I will never write again. And since no one would ever accuse me of being a cockeyed optimist, probably I will.

Joss Whedon

I wasn’t sure how to start this, so I did anyway. I’ve faced plenty of writer’s block in my time, though maybe less than some. I’ll lay out whatever rules for dealing with it that come to me. I think I’ve already laid out the first.

Control your environment. No one comes or goes. You’re alone, with enough time not only to write but to fall into the place of writing, which can take a while. No internet, no phone. Play music. It can amp the mood and separate you from the people on the other side of the door. (I listen to movie scores when I write. Nothing with lyrics—too distracting. Modern movie scores are very drone-y, in a good way for writers. Just sustained emotion. Hans Zimmer, Rachel Portman, Carter Burwell, Mychael Danna…there’s tons.) Make sure your desk faces the right way. (I have to face the room, not the wall.) Not too much clutter…it all matters.

Start writing. You can overthink anything. You can wind yourself up into a frenzy of inertia by letting a blank page stay blank. Write something on it. (Don’t draw something on it. The moment I doodle on a page I know nothing else will ever go on it. The blank page is scary, but it’s also sacred. Don’t mar it.) Anything can be rewritten—except nothing.

Be specific. You want to write something. Why? What exactly are you going for? Whether you’re at the beginning or the middle or the last damn sentence of something, you need to know exactly what you’re after. Verisimilitude? Laughter? Pain? Something that rhymes with orange? Whatever it is, be very cold about being able to break it down, so even if you walk away, you walk away with a goal.

Stop writing. Know when to walk away, when you’re grinding gears. This is tricky, because it’s easy to get lazy, but sometimes straining for inspiration when it’s not there is just going to tire you out and make the next session equally unproductive. I believe that Stephen King once likened it to kissing a corpse. But then, he would. Walk away, relax, and best of all…

Watch something. Watch, read, listen—it fills the creative tanks, reminds us why we wanted to write in the first place, and often, it’ll unlock the thing that’s missing. That doesn’t mean you’ll see something and subconsciously steal from it (though it doesn’t 100% NOT mean that), it just taps into the creative place a blocked writer can’t access. Very often I’ll see a movie that’ll completely inform what I’m writing, which will bear no resemblance of any kind to that movie. I’ll just know how I want to feel when I’m writing it. (Episode 10 of season three of Buffy: totes indebted to The Last Temptation of Christ.)

Have a deadline. I would probably never get anything written if it weren’t shooting next week. I’m a terrible procrastinator, which means the adrenaline of last-minute panic is my friend. (It’s all that kept me afloat in school, I’m sad to say. My attention has a disorderly deficit. There was no acronym for that when I was little.) But you can create deadlines of your own. Friends are good for this. Make yourself mutually accountable—you have to deliver such-and-many words by this-or-then time, as do they. You might not always (or ever) hold to these, but they can help you remember that your writing may matter to someone besides yourself.

Have rewards. I’m talking about cookies. Actually, I’m finishing with cookies. What matters more? Earn them, then enjoy them.

Malcolm Gladwell

I deal with writer’s block by lowering my expectations. I think the trouble starts when you sit down to write and imagine that you will achieve something magical and magnificent—and when you don’t, panic sets in. The solution is never to sit down and imagine that you will achieve something magical and magnificent. I write a little bit, almost every day, and if it results in two or three or (on a good day) four good paragraphs, I consider myself a lucky man. Never try to be the hare. All hail the tortoise.

Susan Orlean

1. If you think you are suffering from writer’s block, stop writing immediately.

2. Walk away from your computer.

3. Remember this: writer’s block doesn’t exist. What does exist is a condition in which you don’t really know what you’re trying to say, and therefore are having trouble saying it.

4. Don’t try to think of what you’re trying to say—yet. Go do something other than writing or thinking, preferably something where you’ll sweat (running, weeding the garden, walking the dog) or be pleasantly distracted (cooking, going for a drive).

5. When you’re done with that diversion, start thinking about what you still need to learn before you know what you’re trying to say. Don’t start writing yet.

6. Usually this will require making some phone calls, or doing some research. DON’T START WRITING YET.

7. Once you’ve done that additional research and thinking, start composing in your head the idea that got you stuck.

8. Find someone whose opinion you trust. Explain to her what you are writing. Listen to yourself as you’re talking. You’ll be sorting out your thoughts as you’re talking.

9. NOW sit down and try writing that down. If you’re still stuck, maybe you still don’t know what you’re trying to say. Repeat steps 1 through 9. If necessary repeat again. And again.

10. Celebrate getting past a hard part of your writing!

Adrian Tomine

The worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced struck when I was 14, before I’d actually written anything. I knew that I wanted to be a cartoonist more than anything, but thanks to a childhood spent reading superhero comics and science fiction novels, I’d gotten it in my head that you needed not only an idea, but also a plot and even an entire fictional “universe” before you even started, so instead of actually writing or drawing, I sat around wishing I was writing or drawing. And when I did eventually stumble upon what I thought was a suitable idea (e.g., Elric of Melniboné mixed with Neuromancer, only it’s set in an alternate, futuristic version of the 1950s, and all the characters are robots…or are they?), it was so ambitious and convoluted that I would get frustrated and give up before I had completed a single page.

Fortunately, I soon discovered comics by people like Chester Brown, Harvey Pekar, Julie Doucet, Seth, and Joe Matt—people who made comics about themselves, about everyday life. At first I was like, “You can’t just do a story about waking up and making a can of soup for breakfast!” But then I’d find myself thinking about that story for a long time after I’d read it, and going back to those comics and rereading them, trying to figure out what made them so compelling. I wasn’t smart enough to work up any big theories about the true nature of art or anything like that, but I did feel, admittedly arrogantly, that if they could do stories like that, so could I.

I felt like I’d been trapped behind a massive roadblock for years, and suddenly I was able to just hop right over it. I could write and draw about anything, even the most mundane occurrence in my generally mundane teenage life. The ideas had been there all along, I just didn’t realize that they counted.

Then, of course, I was faced with the realization that making comics was about so much more than just coming up with an idea or a story. Contrary to what I’d believed when I was sitting around endlessly brainstorming (“I’m an amazing cartoonist…all I need is an idea!”), I was terrible. It was obvious that I had a lot of practice and learning ahead of me. But I was actually, finally, writing and drawing; and I was surprised to discover that once I started making comics, those elusive ideas came to me with much greater ease than when I was sitting there staring at a blank sheet of paper. They weren’t high-concept blockbuster ideas, but they were stories I was eager to tell, and that’s a great feeling.

Julie Klausner

Writer’s block is hardly ever a symptom of having nothing to say. It’s usually just your dumb lizard brain beating yourself up because you’re afraid of (in this order, at least for me):

1. Discomfort/ boredom 2. Not knowing exactly what it is you want to say yet 3. Failure

If you can push through the squirminess and clock the hours at the computer like you’re doing brain cardio, puking out whatever it is you MIGHT want to say in a fixed period of time, you’ll be OK. Because once you get ANYTHING on the page, you’ll be able to return to it later and make it better. If you leave and you have nothing, you’re not being very nice to your present OR future self.

The good news is that, even if you’re judging yourself while you barf out that crappy rough draft, what you write is usually not as bad as you think it is! Just make sure you sit on it for a little bit of time before returning to it and editing the shit out of it. It’s always easier to shape something from something than to make something from nothing. So try as hard as you can to blurt something out, even for 10 minutes, and know that once you’re done, the hardest part is behind you.

Writer’s block isn’t magically ordained, or sent down as a decree from God or whatever. It’s not external—you’re the only one doing the blocking! So please try to be gentle to yourself. Being hard on yourself is the #1 cause of misery and wasted time and keeping yourself back. I’ve never heard of anybody who’s bullied themselves into being more prolific or successful.

Give yourself the gift of letting yourself put something down that isn’t perfect. You will return to it later and make it wonderful.

Vanessa Davis

The hardest thing for me has always been the beginning of a project—just getting started.

I went to painting school, and I learned all about how to stretch canvases in all of the olden-times ways, with hand-made stretchers and millions of layers of rabbit glue and sanding (so much sanding). All of this fussy craftsmanship shit. I’d think about painting, but the idea that everything had to be perfect and gorgeous and “right” had been drilled into my brain, and I wouldn’t even be able to start. Any ideas I’d have would immediately be second-guessed (by me) and would evaporate.

After college I decided to make comics, but at first I didn’t really know “how” to make comics. I’d never thought of myself as writer—I didn’t know how to structure a story. I didn’t know how to plan out my pages. I didn’t know how to draw my characters.

I thought back to a painting teacher I had when I was 16, who did one tiny painting a day, just as a way to always have something going. Like a diary. When our class visited his studio, he had thousands of paintings on his wall—the last five years of his life displayed all at once. It was so moving, so cool. I decided to do something in my sketchbook every day. I told myself I wouldn’t to show it to anyone. It could be big or small, a cop-out or an ambitious project.

There’s always something that happens in a day, something worth remembering or noticing. Putting those moments together started to form a story, without my even trying to write one. It was reassuring, but also humbling—it meant that I didn’t always have control over everything I made. And you don’t, either. Sometimes what makes something good is something you improvised, or something you weren’t even conscious you were doing, or something you thought was a bad idea. If you go into a project demanding perfection, you’ll never have a chance to be pleasantly surprised by those lucky “accidents.” But if you leave yourself room to figure things out as you go, you’ll not only have an easier time starting a book/poem/article/diary entry/whatever; you might also end up with a better end product.

I did eventually show people my sketchbook, and those sketches became my first graphic novel, Spaniel Rage. Since then, my process has changed—I found that I do like to do some pre-planning now. But when I just don’t know where to start, I stop and look around, and write and draw whatever I see around me, whatever I’m thinking about. It’s my start button. You can find yours, too.

(Also, I have put a waterproof notepad in my shower. All those good ideas you get in the bathroom go right down the drain if you don’t write them down!)

Jenny Zhang

I have been telling stories and making up nonsense words for as long as I can remember. But around the time I started high school, I started to realize that for me, writing wasn’t just a hobby. It was my freaking life. I knew I wanted to write and not just wanted to write but wanted other people to read what I wrote and not just wanted other people to read what I wrote but wanted other people to read what I wrote and like it and not just wanted other people to like my writing but wanted other people to read it and like it and be transformed by it.

Do you see how if you go down that path you will (a) seem full of yourself and (b) scare yourself into doing nothing by placing outrageous expectations on your writing? So let’s you and I take a step back, and try to remember a time when an afternoon of writing was something to look forward to, not something that caused us crippling anxiety and agony. Here are some tips to get you there:

The internet is not your friend. The internet wants you to do excessive online browsing. The internet wants you to scroll through Tumblr until your wrists hurt. The internet wants you to read other people’s writing. The internet wants you to have 30 tabs up at once that you can’t possibly close until you’ve read every single link from the Wikipedia page on zombies. You have to peel yourself away from the internet.

You could do what Miranda July does here, or you could download an app like Freedom or Self-Control, both of which block you from going online for whatever amount of time you specify. I personally prefer Self-Control, because even if you restart your computer, you still can’t get online as long as you are under the time limit you’ve set for yourself. Also, the app allows you a “whitelist”—a small number of websites, pre-ordained by you, that you can still access. I like to keep one tab open for Dictionary.com and one for Poetry.org, so I can look up words and poems as little breaks between writing bouts.

Give yourself small assignments and projects. I’m the first one to resist any kind of writing exercise because I’m all like, I am far too complex to submit to a lowly writing exercise. I will come up with my own inspiration, thank you very much. And then I go online shopping and spend three hours finding 45 items to add to my shopping cart until I have the equivalent of a down payment for a house in the ol’ cart. So, no, I am not too far advanced, and, yes, I do need a kick in the ass sometimes. So kick yourself. Tell yourself that whenever you get a paper receipt from a store, you will, by the end of the day, write a poem on the back of that receipt, or the first few sentences of a short story.

Take an old book that you don’t care about and a black Sharpie and make an erasure poem, which is where you delete entire chunks of text to create a new poem. It’s way more satisfying to do it to an actual, physical book, but if all of your books are precious, you can check out Wave Books’ online portal for creating erasure poems here.

Keep a notebook at your bedside, and every morning write down whatever you remember of your dreams the night before. If you don’t remember your dreams, make them up. Dream up your dreams.

Go to a café and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. Write down what you hear, then go back over it and scramble it up, take stuff out, add what you want, and turn it into an absurdist play.

If the physical act of typing or using a pen on paper is somehow a block for you, get a recorder and record yourself telling a story. Transcribe it the next day.

Be curious about other people. You know who has a million and one stories to tell? Your parents. Your grandparents. Your weird uncle. Your weird aunt. These are people who have lived through a lot of shit, and what’s more, they know other people who have lived through a lot of shit. Yes, some of the stories are boring, and some are about how cute you were when you peed yourself at the movies, but there are also amazing, incredibly sad, and incredibly hilarious stories to be uncovered. Gabriel García Márquez’s inspiration for One Hundred Years of Solitude was just sitting around his kitchen table listening to the women in his family gossip. He turned that gossip into gold. You can too.

Read, like all the freaking time. I meet young writers all the time who don’t read, and I’m always like, “What are you doing? Stop writing so much! Read more!” Be a better reader before you start worrying about being a good writer. Reading George Saunders in college inspired me to write better short stories; reading Kafka and Babel and Gogol and Kharms inspired me to write with more imagination. Reading Chelsey Minnis in grad school got me writing poetry again. Ariana Reines’s first book, The Cow, encouraged me to keep writing poetry and eventually to emerge from my writing hole with my own book of poems. Read other writers. Develop your tastes as a reader and eventually, just as Ira Glass says in this video, your writing abilities will catch up to your high standards as a reader.

Dreaming counts! We’re all told that we’re supposed to be “productive.” There’s a glut of things to know about, memes to forward, hashtags to create, instagram photos to take, etc., etc., etc. There’s not a lot of time in our lives to dream. But being a writer is saying that you want to see beauty in places that other people often overlook. So give yourself a day or a week off, or even a few months off, to daydream. But don’t let your brain get comfortable. Make it spin. Give it time to gather strength from ideas.

A lot of writers swear by routine, but I swear by chaos. There’s enough fucking routine in my life. Every day I have to brush my teeth. Every day I have to smile at strangers. Every day I have to worry about money. Every day I want something I can’t have. Every day I find some way to go on! I know that writing every day for an hour would help me tremendously with writer’s block, but I also know that I need an element of wildness in my writing. I need to know that writing is something I do because it sets me free. It makes me feel golden with confidence. It gives me the gift of gab. I feel like a god. I feel like an entertainer. So write when you damn well please.

No one is going to die if you don’t write. The world will find a way to go on. But you might find your soul shrinking the longer you go without writing. The thing about writer’s block is that sometimes it’s real, and sometimes it’s just your brain taunting you: What if you’re not a good writer? What if once you put the words down on the page, it becomes evident that they are not so brilliant after all? And then there’s the fear that if you do write the most perfect story or poem in the whole world, will that mean you won’t ever have another good idea? What if you run out of ideas? Well, then you…

GO OUT AND LIVE YOUR LIFE, BECAUSE AS LONG AS YOU DO THAT YOU WILL NEVER RUN OUT THINGS TO SAY. The best way to avoid living your life, as a writer, is to spend your time worrying about writer’s block. So, live your life for a while. Your talent and your instincts as a storyteller won’t die, I promise. And then when you’re ready, hole the eff up, and write, write, write.

Etgar Keret

“Writer’s block” is a term invented by very spoiled and whiny writers to refer to periods in which they do not feel inspired. The assumption hidden behind this term is that creativity is an everlasting, full-powered fountain, so that if at any given moment we wish to write but nothing exceptional comes out at the other end of our keyboard or pen, there must be some malfunction obstructing the natural cycle of everlasting creativity.

I’d like to offer an alternative perspective. Creativity, very much like love, is a gift. And you don’t get to get gifts all the time. If you go on a date and you don’t like the guy or girl you are meeting, you are not experiencing “lover’s block”—you simply don’t love at that moment, and if you’re patient enough you’ll experience love in the future (probably in the place and the time you’d least expect it). If you don’t write well, keep writing bad stuff (don’t worry, bad writing is completely ecological—it doesn’t damage the ozone layer or give you cancer). If it gets too frustrating, stop doing it—move on to badminton, collect airplane models, or do all those other things that people who don’t write do. But mostly, wait patiently. (Patiently as opposed to impatiently, or angrily, or bitterly—because those kinds of waiting don’t breed future good writing. Patience does.)

Writing isn’t a habit. It’s a unique form of expression. And nobody owes you that special experience on a daily or a weekly basis. But if you make an effort, when it’s gone, to keep living your life and experiencing new things, it will eventually return. And when it does, enjoy it as much as you can, before it goes away again.

Ayelet Waldman

I had writer’s block today. Here’s what it looked like:

I woke up late and sluggish, a result of having spent last night watching a six-episode marathon of Say Yes to the Dress. Too logy to work, I lingered over my oatmeal and tea, reading the New York Times on my phone despite the fact that the actual paper paper was lying on the kitchen table, next to the sugar bowl. Convinced that I would never be able to focus on work without a dose of endorphins, I headed to the gym. An hour later, I was far too physically exhausted to even contemplate opening my computer, let alone work. Ever the taskmaster, I forced myself to it—and spent an hour pinning wool blankets and linen throw pillows to my Pinterest wall.

Then I was hungry. So I ate lunch. Afterwards, I considered what a challenge it is to concentrate on a full stomach, but I forced myself back to the computer. Isn’t it remarkable how an hour of web surfing passes in the blink of an eye? Before I knew it, it was time to pick up the kids.

Another day lost to the torment of writer’s block. Right?

No. Wrong. There is no such thing as writer’s block. There is only procrastination, and laziness. Had I just turned on Freedom and sat the hell down, I could have written at least 1,000 words today. They may not have been good words. In fact, they probably would have sucked. But that’s not the point. The point is not to produce lyrical perfection—that’s what rewriting is for. The point is to sit your ass in your chair and write, even if all you write is a paragraph about what a lazy cretin you are.

Writer’s block is a myth. Get to work.