#I'm finally done with school so i hope to have more time to draw

[swagpatrolkitten]

Back with more skk <3

[krazyyyyyy]

Forever Longing Solivan Brugmansia /Reader

Synopsis: A small glimpse into Sol's elementary life, where he abruptly meets the single most important person in his life...You

Warnings: Mentions of violence

Words: 2553

Notes: Don't know how many more of these I'll write, but I'm hoping to get around three more done if not a few more.

Hope you enjoy this short story <3

Children’s happy laughter echoed loudly throughout the playground, as they began to spill out of the school building; marking the beginning of their cherished recess time. Kids ran freely playing around with friends, swinging giddily on the swing sets, and continuously going up and down the slide.

Well, all the kids but one…

A young, small, and quiet Solivan stood far away from the other kids, staring at the ground at his feet, avoiding any eye contact with anybody within the area. He knew he didn’t fit in with the others, given his introverted nature, he was considered an outcast amongst his classmates. People tended to overlook him, barely acknowledging his presence even when they were standing right next to him.

He was used to it, though…. He had his drawing supplies and stuffed animals, the only things that really made him feel anything close to happiness. The stuffed animals would never judge him, and, they’d always be around to listen to him when he needed it, an idiosyncratic concept to him growing up in a loveless household.

A soft tap on his shoulder causes him to lift his amber gaze from the ground and into the familiar brown orbs of his teacher, Mrs. Baker. A woman with a skinny frame and curly auburn hair that just slightly exceeded her shoulders. It took everything within him not to scoff at her arrival. She was keen on pushing him towards being more sociable with the other kids, a goal that would always fail in his favor. So why couldn’t she just leave him alone?

 She crouched down to his height and spoke to him in her usual soft and steady voice, “Solivan, Why don’t you play with the others today? It seems they're playing a little game of freeze tag, doesn’t that sound like fun?” 

Solivan spared a short glance toward where the kids were running wildly at each other, while some others stayed frozen in place, showing signs of annoyance at being frozen; he retracted his gaze back to the ground shaking his head, mumbling a small “No”

Mrs. Baker smiled understandingly at the timid young boy before her, “I know it might seem scary, but give it a chance, you might like it more than you think.” She attempted one last time to try to convince the boy to open up, even if it was just a little.

The boy remained silent, having lost interest in the conversation completely and hoping that his teacher would simply give up and leave him alone for the rest of the recess period.

Thankfully, it seemed fate was on his side, as he heard his teacher sigh next to him before standing up and walking away to a different part of the playground to supervise a group of rather exuberant children. Leaving him alone at last.

The little raven-haired boy sat on the ground, back pressed against the steel fence that separated the playground from the busy streets that lay not far behind. Settling down, Sol pulled out a small sketchpad from his back pocket; a notebook that was filled page to page in his numerous doodles, which he usually did during class time to pass the time.

Pulling out a pencil, Sol began to doodle, head buried in the notebook; heavily embarked on the mini sketches that required his utmost attention. After a while, he finally cranes his head back to admire his work; his sketch was that of a small horse with a small sketched figure of him seated cheerfully on its back.

He beamed at the drawing, proud of his work. While marveling at the sketch, the notepad is quickly ripped from his grasp. Startled and confused, Sol snaps his head up to look at the culprits. Standing above him, were three kids, obviously much older than he was, possibly four grades above him.

Sol was quick to spring up to his feet to try to get the notebook back, but to no avail, as the blond boy who held the item towered over him. He held the sketchbook high above his head, so even if the little boy tried to jump for it, it would prove pointless in the end

“Give it back!” Sol shouted at the kids as he continued to try to reach for what he considered to be one of his only sources of comfort. All three of the boys laughed at him, “Aww, is the little weirdo gonna cry.” a boy with red hair teased, pointing at him.

“You drew yourself riding a horse? What are you, some kind of girl?” The blond boy jokingly flipped through the pages of the book, briefly observing its contents.

“Stop it!” When Sol tried to reach for his sketchbook once again, the blond boy laughed, before tossing the book over to another boy; then that boy proceeded to also flip through the book and laugh before also tossing it to the next boy. Sol found himself playing in this miserable game of monkey in the middle; a game where he could only watch as his book flew through the air above him, out of reach, with no hopes of ever reaching it.

Eventually, Sol got the courage to defend himself from these bullies, and with all the strength he could muster with his tiny form, he tried to shove the bully who had the sketchbook in his possession. But, the shove proved unhelpful, as the bully didn’t even move an inch.

Sol could barely catch his breath before he was harshly shoved to the ground. A sharp pain pulsed through his body as his back was met with the hard ground; Sol opened his eyes to notice that his sketchbook had fallen next to his body, the bully had more than likely dropped it in outrage at Sol’s sudden rebuke. Sol swiftly snatched the book off the ground and held it close to his chest, shielding it from the bullies.

Sol lay on the ground in a fetal position, with his back facing his bullies, arms still tightly wrapped around his sketchbook. There was a sudden sharp pain on his side as a bully directed a fierce kick toward the young boy; another boy directed a kick, of similar intensity, toward his other side, leaving the little boy only to whimper in pain.

The group of bullies continued to relentlessly kick the defenseless boy, not showing any hint of mercy toward him. Tears ran down Sol’s cheeks as he could only endure the endless kicks that the bullies threw at him. He closed his eyes and hoped the boys would soon grow bored with this and walk away, or maybe a teacher would notice this assault and interfere.

It felt like an eternity that the kicking would continue, he almost thought it would never end…

Until a loud voice rang out and suddenly the kick stopped.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” Sol heard the unknown voice shout at the group of boys. He peeked from his position to glance at where the shouting came from; upon opening his eyes, he was met with his saviors back facing him as they spread their arms out wide to shield him away from the sight of the bullies.

“Get outta the way Pipsqueak! Or you're gonna be next!” He heard one of the bullies shout at the person before him. Sol noticed the stranger's visible shakiness as they stayed rooted in their spot in front of him; they were just as scared of these bullies as he was, yet they still chose to throw themselves in the middle just to protect him. He felt a surge of admiration for the stranger; this had been the first and only time someone stood up for him… his heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.

“No! I-I won't l-let you!” The stranger's words came out shuddered and breathy as if they were holding back tears. Luckily, their voice had been loud enough to possibly draw the attention of others nearby.

The twisted grins on the bullies' faces faded at the realization, and they looked around the area to see if anyone had caught the drift of what was happening.

“Shit!”  Was the last thing Sol heard from them, followed by the frantic pattering of feet in the grass as the bullies quickly fled the scene. Leaving behind two frightened kids as a result. 

Sol, who was still lying on the ground, breathed heavily, the fear coursing through his veins still running wild. He flinched when a blurry object suddenly came into his vision. As his vision slowly cleared, he noticed that the object was the outstretched hand of his savior; they looked down at him with a concerned expression, tears still lingering in the corner of their eyes.

Hesitantly, Sol took the hand, which helped pull him to his feet. He stumbled a bit but managed to regain his balance with a bit of effort and help from the person next to him.

“Are you okay?” The stranger asked him, their voice a bit hoarse from all the yelling yet still holding a subtle gentleness to it. Sol looked at them for a second, before shyly shifting his gaze off somewhere else and slightly nodding his head.

They smiled, their gaze landing on the item that Sol continued to hold tightly to his chest. “What’s that?” They pointed out the sketchbook, which, unknowingly to them, had caused the whole ruckus that just happened moments ago.

“... It’s my sketchbook,” Sol murmured under his breath, keeping his gaze away from the person in front of him. He never did well talking to people, never mind kids his age, this person wouldn’t be any different.

Their eyes lit up as he spoke, “You draw?! I wanna see it! Can I see pretty, please?!”

 Sol was taken aback by their sudden interest in his sketchbook, his eyes were blown wide at them; he had never shown anyone his work before, nor had anyone ever asked to see it… this person was achieving a lot of firsts for him. He supposed he could show them, considering they had just saved him from a harsh beating.

“Umm… Okay.” Sol pulled the sketchbook from where it rested on his chest to hold it out between him and the stranger. He slowly navigated through the pages, properly allowing the person next to him to take in each piece of art. They were a bundle of excitement, commenting excitedly on almost every single little doodle in the book; it brought a small smile to Sol’s face, knowing that someone enjoyed his drawings just as much as he did.

“These are so good! You're so talented! Do you think maybe you can draw me something?” Sol felt his cheeks flush with an odd, unfamiliar warmth. They wanted him to draw something for them. Him? Out of all the people they could have asked? They wanted him to draw for them…

He fidgeted with the pages of the notebook in his hands, keeping his eyes glued to the ground, nervously. “Sure–”

“Wait! Before I forget, my name is Y/N!” They cheerfully cut him off, “What’s yours?” They talked a million words per second, which was a bit overwhelming, but Sol still found himself intrigued by them.

“My name is Solivan…” He spoke quietly, but loud enough for their newfound acquaintance to hear. “Solivan?” They tested his name out, “Well, Solivan from this day forward you are now my friend!” Sol stared at them dumbfounded. He never had a friend before, but didn’t think it would ever be this simple, yet here he was.

He didn’t get a chance to respond to their declaration when they continued to speak, “I’m thinking maybe a butterfly–No wait! A gecko… no…” They continued to list through a variety of animals, as Sol would stand and watch them in awe. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt some sort of connection to his new friend, it wasn’t unwelcome, but it was still strange.

“Oh, I got it! How about a dove? Mom says those are her favorite!” 

Sol raises an eyebrow at them.“Like the bird? Are you sure?”

“Yeah!” They cheer.

Sol only nods his head in response, but a smile remains on his face at their jubilation. He sees the opportunity to speak after your moment of triumph and takes it, “I-um… thank you… for helping me. Not many would’ve done the same.”

They shake their head at him with a smile,“ Don’t mention it. You needed help…so I helped!”, the sincerity in their tone set Sol at ease. He wondered if had truly been missing out. If other kids acted just like Y/N, then maybe talking to others wouldn’t be so bad.

A mature voice suddenly rang out through the playground, catching everyone's attention, “Kids, recess is over! Start lining up with your class!”

“Aww man!” The child next to Sol groans, “Just when we were having fun, too!”. If their definition of fun was getting nearly trampled by a couple of older students, then Sol supposes he had the time of his life… Not really, though, but meeting Y/N was a nice surprise.

Children from all around the playground started to depart, moving to their designated class lines. Y/N started to make their way toward their line before they stopped to turn around to look at Sol one more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Solivan! Can’t wait to see the drawing!” And with that, the energetic second-grader gave him one last wave before running over to their class.

Sol gave them a little wave in return, watching as their figure got further and further away. It wasn’t long before he himself started making his way toward his own class, to continue the rest of his day. Of course, his attention wasn’t drawn toward that of his classwork, but rather that of the little dove drawing he spent the rest of the day drawing for that special someone he met.

~

Sol paid no mind as his art teacher rambled on and on about the importance of elements in art; his focus mainly on the small, worn-out sketch pad that lay open on his desk. He lazily drew his fingers along the delicate pencil marks of his old drawing from way back then.

Out of the drawings he had created during his entire childhood, that little dove that he drew for you in the second grade always held a special place in his heart. He remembers how bright your face lit up when he showed it to you the very next day; you insisted that he kept it in his sketchbook, under the circumstance that you get to view it anytime you want–which you would do on the daily.

He shifted his gaze from the paper to where you sat near the front of the classroom, trying your best not to fall asleep during the lecture. His heart ached for you to look at him the way you did when you were kids, now it was like he was a total stranger to you; another student who simply attended the same art class as you.

But with time, you’d eventually grow aware of his existence, you’d have too.

After all, you were his soulmate, just as he was yours.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Hi please can u write Edward Cullen x sick reader. Where the reader is stubborn and still shows up at school despite being sick. (I’m sick rn and can’t find any Edward fics) hope u have a nice day

Thank u :))

Nurse

Warnings: none really, sick!reader, potentially getting other people sick 😅, stubborn!reader, firm and patient edward, thank you for the request btw and sorry it took so long for me to get to it ❤️

Words: 1307

Edward knew immediately when you sat in the front passenger seat of his car that you were sick.

His brows draw heavy with concern. "You're-"

"I'm fine." You croak and buckle up. Moreso lying to yourself than to Edward. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and you were pretty sure a small fever was beginning to rise on your forehead. Like hell you were missing school that day. You'd studied day and night for your test; was finally confident that you were going to pass.

Reading your thoughts, Edward sighs and leans back into his seat. "(y/n), a test doesn't matter when your health is in question. Your teacher will let you take a makeup test. You need to go back to bed."

There was no energy in you to roll your eyes. "After I take my test then I can rest. I just want to get it over and done with."

"You won't do well if you're si-"

"Edward, please. I know my body. I can survive until second period." Arguing did nothing to help you feel better.

He could just grab you and take you back to your room. Doing that would further enrage you.

"You promise to let me take you home after second period?" The pleading in his voice softens you.

"I promise."

Exhaulting another sigh, Edward nods to himself. "Alright. I'm holding you to that."

A part of you doubts that you'll be able to make it to second period, but you would try to.

Edward may not have fought you more, that didn't mean he was pleased watching you struggle that morning. You were bumping into other students and walls as you lost your balance several times.

Alice pulled Edward aside, her honey eyes narrowed. "Why would you let her come to school like that? She's obviously sick, Ed!"

"I know. Believe me I tried. She promised to let me take her home after her test in second period." Edward lowers his voice, he doubts you can hear him. His gaze is on you as Jasper helps to steady you.

"I don't think she'll make it." Alice frowns and folds her arms in front of her chest. "I don't have to look into the future to see that."

"You try telling her then. See how easy it is."

She wouldn't even try, having experienced your stubborness before. You always wanted to appear tough to the Cullen family as you were selfconcious of being the only human among them. Compared to them you were weak. You compensated by doing whatever you could as a human to appear strong. Including refusing help when you were sick. Edward knew it would wound your pride greatly if he forced you home. So did Alice.

You didn't share first or second period with Edward. He kept tags on you via his mind reading to see how you were faring.

Struggling to stay up in your chair, your eyes were fighting every second to remain focused on the whiteboard at the front of the class. You don't remember much of what the teacher was talking about. Conserving your energy and mentally going over things for your test the following period. You were fading fast. Chugging water helped a little.

When the bell rang, finally alerting of the end of the first period, you were slow to get to your feet. If you tried to move any faster than your current pace, the world would slip from under you.

You use desks to coast your way to the classroom door. Barely making it to the door, there appears Edward. Frazzled when he takes in your flushed face.

Before he could object to you continuing the school day, you stop him by placing a hand on his chest. His mouth closes as he quietly surrenders.

Help me to my next class. Please. You ask him via your thoughts. Doubting you could talk without feeling vomit rise up your throat.

Edward breathes through his nose but doesn't complain about you overworking yourself when you needed rest.

Ever the gentleman, Edward cups your elbow and guides you.

"The moment the class ends, I'm taking you home." He whispers to you as he helps you through the scattering of students running late.

You'd smile if you could. I love you.

You catch the quirk in the corner of his lips and the brightening of his eyes.

It cost you the rest of your strength, but you did it. You fucking did it. All questions answered to the best extent of your knowledge.

There were few steps that were between you and the teacher's desk.

You suck in a breath and stand, hand gripping the edge of your desk for support. Navigating through rows of kids bent over their paper's, you focus ahead of you.

When your teacher notices you, she pauses at the waxen sheen of your face. The moment your test is on the surface of her desk you quietly croak "Can I go to the nurse's office?"

Edward was right outside the door, prepared to take you into his arms. You wanted to laugh.

The thought of a mother hen pops into your mind, making Edward scoff. "If I'm a mother hen so be it." You were unable to protest when he easily scoops you up and dashes to his car. Alice is waiting, rocking back and forth on her feet until she spots the two of you. There's a plastic bag in her hand that looks overly full.

"I'll tell the office." Alice takes Ed's car keys to opening the passenger door for you. Then she places the grocery bag in the back seat. "I googled what made people feel better when they're sick."

"Thank you Alice." You manage to get out as Edward opens the door with just one finger. He sets you down and straps the belt across your chest but not before tossing your backpack into the back seat.

Wondering what Alice had bought you, your forehead presses against the passenger side window, you momentarily fall asleep.

Only waking up when Edward is carefully picking you up from the car's passenger side. He's so careful with you. Always.

You realize when he opens the door that he's brought you to the Cullen house when the front door doesn't match your's.

"I don't want to leave you sick and home alone." He explained while hurrying up the stairs.

And. . .

"Ed. . ." Are you scared?

His jaw clenches. In his room he makes sure you're comfortable with whatever you needed. Water. Pillows. Blankets if you got cold.

Then he settles next to you. His face unreadable. You curl up closer to him and just that mere contact melted him.

"My mother and I. . . we were very sick when I became a vampire." This was something he'd told you a while ago. They'd become sick during the Spanish influenza outbreak. "I know the medical world is much more evolved than it was during my time, but it still terrifies me when you get sick."

"Oh Ed," You sit up even when Edward urges you to lay back down. "I should have-"

He furiously shakes his head. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. Sickness just reminds me how human and fragile you are." Rolling onto his side, you copy him. Head comfortably cradled by a pillow.

Rest.

You could finally rest.

His fingers brush along your brow, soothing your warm skin. You shimmy closer against him. Edward's much larger frame conforms around you.

"I know you won't die from this. Not that I'd let you die from illness." Adding the last part a bit under his breath, you still caught it.

For a second, Edward pulls away from you to retrieve a bottle of medicine from the bag.

"Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

[keeterz]

Time to make an updated post on the Guilty Gear artwork I've made up to this point!

First things, gotta include Bridget and Elphelt since these were made this year in 2023. Baiken, Testement, and Giovanna were done back in 2022. I think I'd like to do a Jack-O illustration at some point, and a friend of mine wants to help fund a Ramlethal print, so those might be coming up in the future at some point.

I've made some updates to the chibis as well to include a handful of the male cast! A few noteworthy mentions include an Axl that was inspired by an animation that my friend DoovadHohdan made, a Potemkin that works as a Pot Buster when you use it as a sticker on another sticker, as well as the husbandos in general being paired with plushies of their partners (well, missing Nago and Elphelt because that wasn't a thing at the time)

A little after the Elphelt illustration I also made an Elphelt chibi as well! This one will be double-sided once I convert it to a charm~

Finally, a sneak peak at something that isn't Strive related...well, not yet, at least (maybe). Here's a value comp for an ABA illustration I'm working on based on her Accent Core design! Hoping she makes it into Strive at some point.

I might want to explore doing some Accent Core related artwork in the future. Accent Core is a lot closer to the point of when I first got into the series in my middle school/highschool days, and there are some designs from the older games that are still hecking rad. Plus the music is awesome :D

It's kind of funny; I have to confess that I actually don't play Strive. Truth be told, the GGST movement and limited combo structure never clicked with me when the game first came out (and I was always more of a 3D fighter guy for gameplay with games like Tekken and Soul Calibur). And even though I am pretty sure I would actually thoroughly enjoy playing I-No and Elphelt with the season 3 changes, I just don't really do as much gaming these days since I'm more enamored with making art (and a few other things like biking). Plus I'm kind of just waiting for Tekken 8 at this point (dear god I hope the online is good just this one time god).

But as an artist? You bet your butt I hecking love coming back to Guilty Gear. I've been a fan of the series since the early 2000s (back when I stumbled across an abandonware PC version of Guilty Gear X and became sold on the series). The characters from this series check a lot of boxes for things I love to draw, from the way they are designed and all of their classic rock references all the way down to their zany personalities and backstories. And I feel like Guilty Gear is really special in this regard for me. Even though I'd rather play other fighting games (like Tekken or maybe even SF6), Guilty Gear is probably the one fighting game fandom I want to do art of the most.

If you are a Guilty Gear fan stumbling across this art collection post, hope you are enjoying the art! I will enjoy the series vicariously through you as I get back to working on some Tekken 8 artwork for Frosty Faustings, lmao. And if you're someone who is new to the series, give Strive a try! It's neat and the characters are great.

[the-ancient-dragons]

Two whole hours late: BurrowWings!!! The final fantribe for my Ventus AU.

Details, explanation, and closeups below. Next week I have something different because I probably will not have any time to draw anything (I barely did this week).

School tried its best to murder me (which is why this is so late). Sorry!

When designing the BurrowWings, there were already two tribes that embodied the major defining traits these dragons would have: MudWings and IceWings. Perhaps they are distantly related, or through convergent evolution acquired similar traits.

BurrowWings are the last tribe that came from the idea of tribes that could hide well enough from the SwiftScales. These dragons live in the tundra that covers the entire southern half of the continent. Only about the first quarter of it is actually hospitable, as anything past the halfway point becomes too cold even for these tough dragons.

Built for surviving the unforgiving southern tundra, BurrowWings are well-accustomed to the cold, though not completely impervious. They prefer to wait out the harshest winters deep underground, in caverns dug by their expert talons, where the wind doesn't cut down their endurance. The pads of their claws are so thick that when cupped they form shovel-like forms, perfect for digging through the unyielding terrain.

Their armoured wings can be quite heavy, however, so they prefer to rest them on large spikes protruding from their shoulders. They also serve as a great defence mechanism, as nothing wants to get close to a huge, heavy pincushion. A BurrowWings' scales are as rough as stone and as sparkly as permafrost.

Like the PineWings, BurrowWings shed their winter scales for summer colours of browns, pale greens, and purples or reds to mimic the flowers that decorate the tundra. This colouration doesn't last very long, the same as the summers, and then it's back to pure white.

As mentioned earlier, BurrowWings are expert excavators. Their front talons cut and scoop large portions of permafrost or stone, which their back legs push back for their tails to pat down and disperse. This way, a determined dragon can dig a proper burrow in a quarter hour.

Despite how much I talked about them, BurrowWings are probably the tribe I developed the least lore-wise, though a small attempt was made. I have since then done some thinking and have a little more ideas, though not enough. Right now they just kind of exist without a purpose and that isn't good story planning. I'm working on it, though, and excited for when I can finally write one of these guys.

Speaking of being hopeful for the future... My workload at school is determined to crush me, so I might have to stick to predrawn things from last Christmas. I'll have a break piece next week which I hope you'll like, and then after that I've got my attempts at making dynamic bases for the canon tribes. Stay tuned!

[foldingfittedsheets]

Hey! If you don't mind sharing, I'd be interested to hear more about your chronic illness diagnosis journey (I also get that it can be a private thing!).

I've been struggling for the last 5 or so years with chronic fatigue, muscle weakness, muscle pain and brain fog, and my doctors have checked a bunch of different things. EBV, thyroid, vitamin D, "are you sure you're not just depressed" and they've now gone for ME/CFS. A part of that just doesn't feel right to me because I feel like they should have done more tests or walked me through alternatives before settling! Especially because it fluctuates so much. Sometimes I can't leave the house, sometimes I have to borrow a wheelchair if I'm in a shop, sometimes I can walk 5000 steps??

Love and support for you and your gluten free adventure - potatoes, rice and polenta tend to be pretty good for me when I want something bready! (Doesn't quite hit the spot as well as buttered toast does though...)

My decline was really painfully gradual. I didn’t realize why things were getting so much harder. It manifested first with friction between my beloved because they were frustrated I was always too tired to run little errands myself. I went to the doctor and talked about my fatigue but was assured I was fine. I went on Chinese herbs and they buoyed up my reserves so I could keep functioning.

That went on for months, just getting more and more tired. I’d wake up sobbing because I wasn’t any more rested than I’d gone to bed. I went to a new doctor at that point. I got diagnosed with anemia until my blood work came back normal and then I was told I was fine.

Then I started fainting. My hair was falling out. I went to a different doctor. She ran my blood. I got told I was fine, but that maybe I had a food allergy. She slapped me with a full elimination diet that broke my spirit. I did feel some minor improvement but I wasn’t healthy by any means.

Finally, my good friend who is a doctor said that’s enough. She was in a different state but she was furious that I wasn’t getting any help. She ran my blood on a bunch of different ailment tests that were less well known. She tested for antibodies to EBV. If you have over 20 they consider you to have an active infection.

I had over 700 which is when they stop bothering to count.

I was so chock full of virus I was pound for pound virus by that point.

Then came the hard part. Knowing you’re bursting at the seams with a virus doesn’t make it easy to treat. The virus was living in me, in my cells. Too much of the medication and my body would start siccing it’s defenses against its own tissue.

I went on a bonanza of supplements. There was syrups to boost energy, pills to increase my immune system, antivirals, iron and vitamin D because those were kinda low. It was a three times a day regime of medicines.

My initial dose of antiviral was too high. I experienced a pain unlike what any mortal should bear as a result, dropping to the ground to writhe in agony when it hit. My dosage got lowered and my progress crept along.

I started school sometime in there and barely kept my head afloat above coursework. My stress load from school correlated to how much energy I had and I longed to finish my degree and just prioritize feeling better.

Then things got worse. My original doctor friend let her prescription rights for my state lapse, it didn’t make financial sense to keep them. A different friend from yet another state wrote my antivirals for a while but eventually I needed a new doctor.

I found another, this time a naturopathic doctor like my friends, hoping I’d keep receiving good care in that scope of practice. I didn’t. I had the most painful blood draw of my life in her office, writhing in agony, then didn’t hear back from her. I got ghosted by my doctor. When I pestered her for results she wrote me a script for antivirals but that was all.

I’d find out about eight months later when my health was declining and my friends demanded to see my blood work that my iron had been dangerously low but she hadn’t bothered to tell me. I got on iron supplements and staggered along.

Through precision time management I could budget my functional time into schoolwork then collapse to recuperate. It was working, but barely.

When my scrip on antivirals ran out I hunted once again for a doctor. This time I’d realized that any good care I’d gotten was when I’d made a personal connection with the doctor, a rare privilege not many people got. So I sought out a friend of a friend, someone I’d seen on occasion in the doctory social circle.

I have never been more happy with a doctor. She tested my viral numbers and pronounced herself satisfied that it was in check but was suspicious that although my thyroid numbers always looked normal that something was going on there. She ran more tests and lo. A thyroid imbalance.

Around that time I’d sunk into needing the chair. I stopped functioning, it was almost as bad as my first collapse. And yet again the fun part of getting my thyroid in balance was a delicate balance of making sure I wasn’t taking too much and hurting myself.

That balancing act took about a year to stabilize. I was still so weak from years of fatigue and inactivity. An able bodied person cannot imagine how hard it is to build up from ground zero on all your muscles. And the worst part was any time I felt tired I was terrified I was going to slip back down into the depths of exhaustion.

Then my beloved and I got Wyvern the puppy. And before we realized we had both somehow developed allergies to dogs and had to break our hearts giving him up, he saved me the last time.

Potty training meant I had to get up every two hours to take him out. I didn’t have to walk far but I had to do it consistently. Every single day I’d go to bed aching in every muscle, terrified to wake up. But every day I woke up with energy and was able to do it again.

It was like puppy boot camp, and I was able to go longer and farther every walk. By the time we realized we couldn’t keep him I was mobile again, I hadn’t needed my chair at all. When we said goodbye to him I promised I wouldn’t lose the progress he helped me make.

Now I finally, for the first time in six years, feel healthy again. I can go on long walks, I can run little errands for my beloved, I can fill my days with activity and wake up to do it again the next day. It’s the most amazing thing.

I hope you can stumble upon a doctor who can listen to you and help you. I know how hard things can get, but sometimes they can get better.

[mysticmellowlove]

pls needy!yan x ignoring!reader

note; feeling like an academic weapon in one class while being an academic victim in another is a harsh reality :')

warnings; fluff, so unserious lol, reading this back there is like a subtle yandereness whoops, it was cute though so i hope you still like it

There was one thing in this world that would never change. Work will always continue to be a part of your relaxing afternoons. As your fingers clacked on the keyboard, a riveting sound that had you considering if you'd buy one of those specifically clacky boards instead, the monotonous sound drowned out everything else.

A slow and exaggerated blink later and you realised that maybe two things would never change in this world. Your boyfriend, packaged in a small parcel of sugary sweet words and devious hands, was whining at you from the doorway to the office. If you were to look up from your computer and make eye contact there would be no escaping the resulting cuddle session.

Sometimes you wondered how he even survived without you before... though you'd never actually ask him that as he would most definitely say that he was basically dead. Your boyfriend really was just a funny little guy.

"Baby.... you've been working all day." A sigh came from the corner of the room. You schooled your expression as you took a sneaky peek from the corner of your eye, he was no longer at the door. You flicked between pages on your computer and tried to get back to your work.

"Have you forgotten about me?" A sulky tone seemed to drift closer, he was on the move again. A small laugh bubbled up, was he seriously doing this? You two had date night only yesterday, a whole night dedicated to taking him out and swamping him with affection.

In a matter of moments, you jumped as he launched himself onto your lap, his arms winding around your neck. He seemed to sink into you, his body instantly relaxing as you pursed your lips, a soft sigh leaving your mouth.

Still, you continued to work as he fiddled with the hair at your nape, twisting it around his fingers and slowly tugging at it. The urge to simply stop what you were doing and take a nap was high, but there were things you had to get done.

It began to get substantially harder when he began to pepper kisses on your neck, using his intimate knowledge of your sweet spots to try and drag your attention away from your computer. Willingly or not you felt your body relax as he lightly sucked on your skin, drawing it into his mouth.

"I'm busy." You muttered as you swapped your screen to the graph you were working on in excel, the numbers looking even more annoying than they did ten minutes ago. His smile seemed to spread as he pressed his face into your shoulder.

"But wouldn't it be better to spend time with me instead? You can finish this later." He whispered, his voice low and seductive as he peeled himself from your body. You dodged his gaze as he looked at you, an exaggerated pout on his lips.

"Let me take care of it, let me take care of you." He drawled as he leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose, then your forehead and then the side of your mouth. A huff of air left you as you leaned to the side to see the screen better.

"Babe." A certain tinge of harshness leeched into his voice for only a moment before he was kissing your eyelids, forcing them to close. An exasperated sigh left you as you finally let your hands clasped around his waist.

"Go sit on the couch, let me save this first and then we'll spend time together, yeah?" Despite the annoyed look on your face you couldn't help but melt under the cheesy grin he gave you.

"Of course! Love you baby!" He cooed as he jumped off of you and skipped over to the office door. You rolled your eyes as you hit the save button on your computer and went to stand up.

You spoilt him too much...

[daintyys]

needy

MDNI - fem!reader x coriolanus snow, 1k words, angst, swearing, non-descript masturbation, needy coryo, intentional lowercase, lmfao i hope its not obvious but i need to reread the book

an: this is literally AWFUL but i needed to post and i didn't want my first post in a while to be smut. i'm taking asks for coryo and sejanus! if u want me to write anything just ask me!

he's into you. he hates to admit it, but its true. when you're assigned as partners for a project, coryo doesn't know how to act.

coriolanus snow had a problem: he was too observant. whenever you were around, he couldn't stop himself from watching your every move. he disgusted himself, honestly. how perverted he was, being obsessed with a girl he hardly knew. how even more perverted he felt as he rushed home from the academy, straight to his bedroom, needing to fuck himself to the thought of your face. you were too pretty not to think about, he had to rationalize with himself whilst cumming on his sheets.

the professors at the academy were being tough on their students, as the end of term was drawing near. coriolanus constantly found himself buried in projects, textbook readings, and presentations. he wasn't worried though, his grades were perfect, he had exemplary attendance, and had never turned in a late assignment. all he had to do was get past his exams, and then it was all over.

history class was no exception. professor demigloss assigned an 8-page essay analyzing cassius heath, the winner of the first hunger games, and it was to be done with a partner.

demigloss was notorious for not letting students pick whom they wanted to work with, so it was no surprise as he began to read out the pairings for the essay.

coriolanus was bored. he knew all about the first games, and certainly didn't give a damn about cassius heath. he was 8 when the games happened, his father had just been killed, and he understood they were made to punish the districts.

what finally got his attention was hearing your name, along with, ironically, his. he looked up quickly, turning his head toward where you were seated. you stared back at him, flashing him a smile. fuck, coryo thought. just his luck.

the essay was to be done outside of class, so coriolanus gathered all his courage to stop you in the hall after history.

when the bell rang, he ran straight for the door, and stood outside it to wait for you. he clutched the strap of his satchel, palms sweating and knuckles turning white.

you exited the classroom, and coryo's breath hitched. he'd never been this close to you before, even if it was just 10 feet. he cleared his throat and you looked up. "y/n." he greeted, sounding colder than he had intentioned.

you approached him and smiled, reaching out to shake his hand. coryo quickly wiped his palm on his jacket and took your hand in his, shaking it. "i'm afraid we've never actually spoken before." you noted, taking your hand back. "you seem to be right." you answered his agreement with a nod. this was awkward.

"so, y/n, when should we plan to do this essay?" coriolanus queried, running a hand through his unruly hair. you cocked your head. "tonight? my place?" you proposed, opening your satchel to retrieve paper and pen to write your address.

coryo nodded, feeling his neck begin to sweat. "great," you affirmed, handing him the paper. "just come over after class lets out." with that, you walked away, leaving coryo dumbfounded.

he had been quiet, cold, and he was disgustingly clammy. stupid, nervous, guilty, girl-crazy coriolanus.

when school let out, it felt to coriolanus like it had been days since he'd seen you. he took out the paper with your address, admiring your handwriting. your hand had been small and soft... he wished he could touch you again.

covering the growing bulge in his pants with his satchel, coryo made his way to your apartment.

coriolanus deeply regretted all those times he'd jerked off to the thought of you. he never thought he would actually have to talk to you, and yet here he was. how could he look you in the eye? he hardly knew you, and you hardly knew him.

you lived in a nice building, and your apartment was close to the top floor, with a fantastic view of the city (which wasn't really much to look at). coriolanus knocked at your door, pushing his hair out of his face.

you opened the door after a moment, out of the academy uniform and wearing an adorable floral sundress. "coriolanus!" you smiled, opening the door further for him to enter. he walked into your apartment, admiring the interior.

"you have a very lovely home, y/n." he complimented, placing his satchel on a bench next to the door. you blushed at his remark. "it is lovely, isn't it, but it's quite far from the academy. speaking of which, you didn't walk all the way here, did you?"

coriolanus paused. neither him nor tigris had a car, so there was no way for him to be driven somewhere, and he hated asking for favors. "i like walking," he lied. "i get to see the city." you smiled, guiding him to the study. "there really isn't much to see." you joked.

the two of you sat close to each other at the desk, legs brushing against together every few minutes. you both read your textbooks, compared your finds, and drafted the essay.

you found yourself admiring coriolanus. everything you'd heard about him seemed to be true. he was a genius, sickeningly handsome, and one hell of a writer. every time you made eye contact with him, you could feel your heart pounding in your throat.

there was definitely tension between the two of you, your bodies grazing each other, feeling the other jump every time you touched. coriolanus struggled to focus on the task at hand, resisting the urge to kiss you. you noticed this change in him.

"coriolanus, do you like me or something?" you joked, eyes skimming your textbook. coriolanus paused. "i tolerate you." he deflected, face burning. "well you hardly know me!" you giggled, eyes bearing into his.

"that's why it's easy to tolerate you, y/n." he smirked, blue eyes glistening. you rested your head on your hand, studying his features. coryo pretended not to notice, his heart beating rapidly as he acted like he was reading.

you smiled at him, and bit slightly down on your lip. you hardly knew this guy, so why were you trying so hard to get his attention?

coriolanus met your gaze, looking from your eyes to your lips. "i want to kiss you, y/n." he ventured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "oh do you?" you giggled. "yes, i do." coryo sat up straight, turning his body towards yours. you looked up at him longingly, mouth slightly ajar.

he gently cupped your face, rubbing your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "i need to kiss you." coryo clarified, his cock straining against his pants. "then do it." you purred.

so he did.

[prim-and-rotten]

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃 girls night

pairing: (fem)yandere!bestfriend x reader

summary: during a relaxing sleepover with your best friend, you try to cancel the next in favor of a new guy.

a/n: not sure I like how I ended it but ill post it anyway. a tame one for my first

warnings: implied stalking and murder at the end

delicate fingers draw random shapes around your back. jasmine is humming softly to her playlist in the background, a private one, tailor made to suit both of your tastes. it's melodies are blurred and distant, dulled by the heavy blanket of exhaustion enveloping you.

your nights spent together always come to a close like this. Next to two emptied wine glasses sitting at her bedside table, you're now both laying on the softness of her queen sized bed. skincare done, another matching set of glossy polish sticking to your nails, dressed in warm matching pjs she bought a few days prior for the occasion, and hair put up in another heatless overnight curl hack you found online.

"are you falling asleep already?" you can hear the cheeky grin in her voice. the sun is down and the lights are dim, the clock at her bedside table reading 23:36. "It's friday, sleepyhead... i was hoping we'd stay up a little longer." with a quiet snicker, her hand is now resting flat against your back, and it takes a stupid amount of strength in you to not whine and ask her to keep going. really, how could she blame you? she always goes out of her way to make you as comfortable as possible and then acts confused when your eyelids start feeling heavy.

"what else did you have planned for tonight?" you stay still, knowing that if you get her talking and focused on something else she'll go back to aimlessly drawing shapes into your back. and she does. "i was thinking we should watch another scary movie." a sigh escapes you. "you always pick the worst, it's gonna keep me up all night." she snickers again, a bit louder this time now that she knows you're not asleep. "oh no, you'll have to spend more time with me. how terrible!". her hand is on your arm now. "come on, you know that's not what i meant."

a silent beat passes, and her comforting touch almost lulls you back to sleep. almost.

"fine. then before you sleep, let's pick out a recipe for sunday's dinner. you should come over earlier so we can make it together, it'll be fun. i'm getting tired of takeout." she's playing with your hand now, admiring her work and already thinking of what color she should paint your nails next once they start chipping.

sunday. you have your sleepovers on fridays and sundays. sometimes when your schedule allows it, you have them on saturdays too. it's something you've been doing together since high school, and while your schedule now is a little more busy due to school and your part time jobs, you still try to stay consistent with your established routine. you have to pick up your coworkers shift tomorrow, so the next one should be on sunday. wait... you changed plans for sunday. right, your date. you never told her about that. shit.

"actually, i can't do sunday.." she pauses. "why? I thought you're free," the dissatisfaction is clear in her tone. you already know how she's going to react once you tell her, but you can't come up with a lie on the spot. so with no choice left, you finally turn to her and hesitantly begin to explain.

"do you remember seth from last week?" her eyebrows furrow. you met seth after she regrettably left you unattended for a quick trip to the bathroom at the frat party you dragged her to last week, one she really, really did not want to go to. if there's one thing jas hates, it's sweaty frat boys making moves on her and worst of all you. she couldn't care less about making new girl friends either because she already has you, and in her eyes you're all she really needs.

"no." that's a lie. yes she remembers, unfortunately so. when she saw you two tucked away at a corner a little too close for comfort, she almost gagged. she walked, no, practically ran to you to drag you away from his filthy hands. what could he possibly have said to you to put that smile on your face? it's not the kind you give to her, it's cute and shy and your cheeks are red and she can't tell if it's the alcohol in your system or him who made them bloom into that pretty color. seth, whose name honestly rolls off her tongue like shit. seth, the greasy frat boy with the ugly mug. the one you're somehow actually interested in. great.

"you don't? i don't remember you drinking that much." your voice is quieter, like you're trying to tread lightly. because of course you are, she's doing a pretty terrible job at hiding her disgust, and at this realization she tries to tone it down for your sake. "yeah I don't, remind me." so you do. just in case you drop some details about the conversation you had at the party, so she doesn't have to ask outright for all the details and out herself for being obsessive. but you don't add anything new about the party, instead, you tell her you had been texting for just a few days now. he has your number. yuck.

"you've been texting and you didn't tell me?" she can feel the tension in the room now, the same room that was previously occupied by nothing but warmth and comfort. she's trying to backtrack now, putting away the face of slight disgust she had put up and replacing it with a smile of disbelief at an attempt at making you feel less guilty. she knows why you wouldn't tell her right away, this isn't the first time she's reacted to this kind of thing negatively. this is not a habit she wants you to form, so she needs to do some damage control. to make you feel comfortable with talking about your love life again. how is she supposed to protect you from these greaseballs if she doesn't know you're speaking to them in the first place?

so she brings back the playfulness that was there before. she's playing with your hand again to put you at ease, so that you hopefully start rambling about him, and luckily you do.

he approached you at the party and you found him funny so you exchanged numbers. you've been texting back and forth for the past 4 days. you think he's cute and charming. he asked you out 2 days ago, and your schedules only allowed for the date to happen on sunday. you're really looking forward to it. how unfortunate.

"isn't it a bit early? i don't really trust him." you let out a chuckle at that, "i could count the amount of people you trust in one hand." touché. "i'm just looking out for you." you sigh. "i know, but you don't have to. i can handle it." she raises an eyebrow at that, and you know exactly what she's about to say. "don't forget who was left picking up the pieces every time you got stood up. I don't mean to be a dick by bringing it up but i'm the one who's left having to take care of you, and i hate seeing you cry over the same breed of asshole over and over again." there's another beat of silence.

shes right of course, so you can't really come up with another rebuttal. "you know where to go if something happens," and you do. every last date you've gone to ended with you spending the night at her place, the one place you feel comfortable going to for anything, with puffy eyes, a box of tissues and a big headache. the conversation ends here.

it's silent again, and all you can hear is the music playing and the air conditioner whirring. it doesn't take long for you to fall asleep, you've turned to your side and jasmine continues to play with your back until she hears the telltale sign of light snoring. she can't join you just yet, not until she's done with her research.

not until she knows his schedule and has a plan laid out. the guilt of being the sole reason you keep getting stood up does eat at her at times like these, because she knows it makes you insecure. what else are you supposed to think? but it's okay, because at the end of the day it's always her you come back to, and she's pretty damn good at bringing your confidence back up if she does say so herself. it's her you seek out for comfort, and if she can't have you for herself, she'll do anything to keep it that way.

[suuuupernovaaa]

Taxi Cab

Hobie Brown x f!Reader

She would never hurt anyone. He would hurt anyone for her.

Before Hobie, nothing very eventful ever happened in my life. I grew up in a happy home, went to a good school, and decided to become an art teacher. I got good grades, I made life long friendships with people similar to me, and I kept my head down and minded my business.

Though it's been nearly half a year since he came rocketing into my life, I still can't put my finger what exactly drew Hobie to me. We don't have a lot in common. Where I am passive, Hobie is active and fierce. Where I am lenient, Hobie is harsh. Until Hobie, I had never listened to punk music, considered anarchy, or pierced a single thing on my body.

Well, I still haven't done the last one. Besides my ears. Needles are too much for me. Sometimes I get nervous that the spikes on Hobie's wardrobe are going to stick me.

Hobie is a force. He's dangerous, he's passionate, he's larger than life. Being near Hobie is addictive. He has a gravity around him that draws people in, but it tends to spit them out at much the same rate.

For some reason, I've been able to hang on. Sometimes it feels like clinging for dear life, until he reminds me how much he cares.

Even though he can do that in odd ways.

Like tonight.

Ever since I met Hobie, trouble seems to follow me around. I've been mugged twice, had my tires slashed, and even had to move because someone broke into my apartment and trashed the place.

My parents are becoming increasingly alarmed, only satisfied in the fact that Spider-Punk always seems to be nearby. They don't necessarily approve of Spider-Punk (I mean, most don't), but they do at least appreciate that he seems to be looking out for me.

Which is so weird! Hobie can't figure it out either, but he says Spider-Punk is a narcissistic asshole who only saves people to get attention for himself.

He might just be mad that I said I thought Spider-Punk seemed like he'd be cute, under the mask.

I was hoping my luck had turned around and I wouldn't need to run into Spider-Punk again for a while, but I guess that was just silly optimism. On my way to Hobie's with two large bags of groceries in hand, I'm stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk when a taxi cab crashes directly into a fire hydrant.

The fire hydrant lets loose a typhoon of water in my direction, and I scramble to the right to get out of the water, but it's too late. I'm soaked.

"Oi!" I hear the unmistakable sound of Hobie yelling. He was heading my direction after I told him the bags were getting heavy, and arrived just in time to witness the crash. He wrenches open the door of the car and pulls out the taxi driver. He seems unharmed, a little shaken up, with heavy bags under his eyes and a wobble in his step.

Drunk or high.

"You could've killed someone!" Hobie is shouting, looking over at me and then back at the driver. "I ought to kick your fucking arse." He pushes the man against the side of his cab as the water continues to spray. I drop the groceries, mostly ruined now, and approach Hobie.

The man is muttering something under his breath, and as I reach them, I can smell the liquor coming through his pores.

I grab Hobie's arm. "I'm okay. Come on."

"No, I saw it, he nearly killed you, Y/N. Just a few feet over, you'd be gone. Then I'd have to fuckin' kill him!" Hobie slams him against his car one more time, and I pull on his arm harder.

"But he didn't. The cops are on their way. Let's go. I need help carrying the groceries, and it's too cold for me to be all wet."

Hobie looks at me finally, really looks at me, and then with one more burning glance at the inebriated taxi driver, gruffly releases his collar and turns to me.

Effortlessly, he scoops me up into his arms, bridal-style, and I gasp. He strides with ease over to our drowned groceries, and bends down, picking them up in his hands.

"Jesus, have you been working out?" I ask.

His face is too tense for a smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. Despite my protests, he carries me into his building and up three flights of stairs, only setting me down once we are safe inside the walls of his apartment.

Without me asking, he goes into his room and brings out a pair of leggings I've left here before, and one of his t-shirts. I change in the bathroom, drying my hair as best I can with a towel, before going back to the kitchen to see what can be salvaged of the groceries.

"I think I can still do something with this! The bread is gone but, homemade bread crumbs aren't like, necessary. They're just fancy." I turn to see Hobie leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, still scowling. "Uh, or I can go to the store, if the homemade bread crumbs were like, important."

I let out a yelp of surprise when Hobie pushes himself off the counter and strides towards me, grabbing me by the shoulders and bringing me to him for a rough, passionate kiss.

In moments, I meld into him, wrapping my arms around his waist as his fingers find their way into my hair, and his tongue enters my mouth.

This kiss feels different. Urgent, feverish, desperate. He holds me tightly, pressing me so close to him it feels like he wants us to be one person, like he would climb right into my skin.

I pull away for just a moment, gasping for breath. "Are you okay?" I say on an exhale.

Hobie stares down at me intensely, his hands still in my hair, his eyes wild and the corners of his mouth turned downward.

"I would do anything to keep you safe," he says flatly. "There's no limit to what I'd do."

I bring my hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks, nodding. "I know, Hobie."

"I would have killed that man if you hadn't stopped me."

I know he's exaggerating to make a point, but a chill runs up my spine a the way he says it so calmly, with no hint of irony. I remember his chest heaving, the wild look in his eyes as he held that drunk man up against his own car.

He looked out for blood.

"I'm okay, Hobie. So are you."

"Move in with me. You hate that new place. Stay here."

We've only known each other six months. We're barely adults. I make no money as a new teacher and I honestly haven't figured out how Hobie seems to make so much money off the gigs he plays. It's too soon to move in together. It's not smart.

But I love him. And he loves me. We haven't said it yet, but I don't know that we need to. I can see it in his eyes, feel it while he holds me, taste it on his lips.

He loves me.

"Okay."

"Today. Like, we can get your stuff later, but don't sleep there anymore. Stay with me."

I nod and lean forward, pressing my forehead to his chest. His hands finally leave my hair, and wrap tightly around my shoulders. I listen to his heartbeat - rapid at first, but as we stand there, silently clinging to each other, it begins to slow down.

He's pressing soft kisses to the top of my head, humming quietly, and I've never felt more in love.

I've never felt more cared for, more loved in return, more safe.

Six months or sixty years. I don't think it matters.

[the-writer-ofthe-fandoms]

Silent Cosmos (Edward Cullen) (Ch. 3)

Pairing: Edward Cullen x GN! Mute!Reader

Words: 2.8k+

Warning(s): Two gross dudes, sexual verbal harassment (not towards reader), swearing,

A/N: omg chapter 3 is finally here. I apologize for the wait. I thought my semester this time around would be forgiving but NOPE. I had so much to do and read, I could hardly write for fun or draw either. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I last posted. I want to try a new method when writing series. I tried with my kpop writing blog, and its where I write a few chapters at a time then periodically post them. Helps keep the flow and motivation going, but that may have been a one off there.

Series Masterlist

-------

"O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, And I am strong again... The Star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Light of Stars"

-------

Edward hasn't been in school for the past few days.

You admittedly felt a little lonely without his presence, though Emmett and Alice have made it their mission to become your new best friends. Jasper tried but he still kept his distance from you, which you didn't mind. Rosalie helped when no other Cullen was around, although she kept a lot of conversations at a minimum, which you also didn't mind.

Alice had told you Edward had gotten a bad cold, so he is staying home. You had offered to bring him your notes the first time so he could copy them down, but Alice told you their father has him basically on lock down until he is deemed healthy. So, after you've done your homework, you've been making copies of your notes to give him when he comes back.

It's the start of a new day and once again, Edward wasn't there. You were at your locker with 15 minutes to spare. You placed the spare folder with Edward's notes on the shelf while your mind went back to that moment you two shared at the welcoming party for your uncle. You felt happy telling him all the stars and constellation you could see, and even happier when he seemed thoroughly interested in your rambles. However, you feel an inkling of guilt when you remember he gave you his jacket. Maybe he got sick from that?

"Dude, I got this weird spot on my dick."

Well, there goes your musings of guilt. You glance to your left and see two guys near you, just chilling against the lockers. You've never met them, though you do remember sharing a class or two with them separately.

"Are you really airing your business out when someone is standing right their?" The shorter one, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes gestures to you.

"Relax, Mark. That's the deaf student." The taller one with deep brown eyes and brown hair says with a laugh. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and choose to just focus on the inside of your locker. Maybe you should get more decorations- "Anyways, I have this weird spot on my dick. It almost looks like I have a weird mole there. I'm hoping it's just a new mole and Cindy didn't give me something."

Gross.

"I'd get that shit checked out then. You don't want it to turn into something worse if it is an STD." Mark says with a sigh. "I told you not to sleep with her, Tony. She made my balls itch like crazy. They still fucking itch."

"I think its just a weird mole. You wanna look?" He cackles while his friend fake gags. They both push off the lockers and walk away to who knows where.

You let out a deep sigh and close your locker. At least the ignorance of other allows you to hear some gossip.

"What's with the sigh, Tiny?" Emmett calls out as he and Rosalie approach you. He has very quickly taken to the nickname Tiny for you. You suppose anyone shorter than him would be considered tiny in his eyes. Rosalie simply opened her locker as you and Emmett conversed.

"Oh, just overheard two people talking about something that should have been a private conversation." You respond with a slight shrug.

"Gah, Forks High is full of a bunch of weirdos, huh?" He grins and raises his brows a few times, crossing his arms while leaning on the locker next to you. You silently chuckle and nod, though you wondered if there was an underlying joke there.

"No Edward today?"

"Nope. Carlisle still hasn't cleared him." He sighs with a sympathetic smile. "Between you and me, Tiny, Edward is still shitting his brains out." He signed that last portion to you.

You gave him a scandalized look and playfully slapped his arm with a small chuckle. You were surprised to feel just how hard his muscles were.

"What was that for?" He gripped where you slapped and pretended to be hurt. "It was a private conversation, no one else here except Rosalie knows sign."

You roll your eyes and shake your head with a smile. You could always count on Emmett to get you to smile.

"C'mon, Rose and I will walk you to first period, like always." He grins and gestures you to follow him. Rose simply came along since she and Em were in the class next to yours. You nod and follow, happy to have good company.

---

It was a passing period and it was just you and Rose at your lockers. You grabbed a new pen and pencil since the last two you had broke and ran out of ink. Rosalie was fluffing up her already perfect, blond hair in the mirror of her locker. She and you didn't converse much, but you still liked her presence. Like the rest of the Cullens, she didn't tiptoe around you or treated you differently. She acknowledged your presence and would answer you if you had questions.

You were about finished in your locker when you heard two familiar voices keep up their gross conversations behind you.

"Dude, Rosalie has the hottest ass." Tony practically jeers, his voice intentionally loud. You glance to the blond next to you and she still keeps fixing her hair, though you can see her brows are a little more furrowed and her lips are more in the shape of a frown.

"Her tits, man, her tits are where it's at." Replies Mark and when you shift just enough to see him in the corner of your eyes, you see him make an obscene gesture.

You hear the slight creek of metal and when you look to Rose, you see her grip is so tight on her locker door that her fingers made indents which made your eyes widen for a moment. She closes her locker and you can see by her side profile she is pissed, and rightfully so.

So, you do what you think would make her laugh at the expense of those two guys.

You tap her arm to get her attention and she looks at you with a glare. You don't let it faze you. If those two are going to be gross about your friend, you'll just air out their business that they so willingly aired out by you this morning.

"You know those two jackasses?" You intentionally look to them as you sign and look back at her. "Well the brown haired one has a spot on his penis that he isn't sure if it's a mole or an STD. And his buddy likely doesn't wash right since he's had prolonged itchy balls."

Rosalie looks almost scandalized until her eyes widen for a moment as she looks at the two dudes and then back to you. She covers her mouth as she laughs when she realizes what you're trying to do.

You were about to sign some more when the two dumbasses approach.

"I know you were talking shit. What the fuck did you sign?" Tony glared, pointing an accusatory finger at you. He gets in your face and you swear you hear Rosalie growl.

You swallow thickly and decide to open your mouth. Your aunt always said you got your stubbornness from your mom.

"I said..." You try not to wince at the pain in your throat, your voice sounding hoarse. "You had a weird spot on your dick and your friend... has itchy balls." They looked at you with wide, horrified looks. "Don't talk about someone's body if you don't want yours talked about either."

"You little shit." Mark hisses and Rose steps closer to your side, an arm just barely in front of yours.

"What's going on here?" Emmetts voice grows louder as he approaches, his usual, carefree smile no longer on his face. He looked scarier than you've ever seen him. Mark and Tony looked at each other before slinking off.

Once they were gone you let out a dry, painful cough. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand and quickly grab your water and drink, soothing your throat. You could taste a tiny bit of iron in the back of your throat as you drank.

Rosalie calls your name softly. "Are you okay?"

You nod in response and take another sip of water. You didn't catch the look they gave each other or Rose gesturing for Emmett to speak.

"What happened, Tiny?" He asks in a quiet tone. You close the cap of your bottle and place it back in your bag. Your throat still ached but you knew the pain from using your larynx will linger.

You start to sign to him everything that occurred, from what you overheard in the morning to him approaching. You can see a flash of anger on his face but he goes back to that small smile. Once you explained your words to Rose and why you said them, a huge grin breaks out on his face.

"I didn't know you had it in you, Tiny." He laughs and pats your shoulder a little too firmly.

"Come, I'll walk you to class." Rosalie said with a soft tone. You nod and wave goodbye  to Emmett. You both start heading down the hallway, the blond next to you tense.

When you got to your class a pale hand stopped you. You look to Rose with a questioning look while her gold eyes avoid yours.

"I just wanted to say thank you for earlier." Rosalie says, the tense look she had fades into a small smile, her eyes meeting yours. You see some vulnerability in her usually guarded gaze. She gives your shoulder a squeeze before dropping her hand. "You didn't have to do that. I'm... admittedly used to that."

"No need to thank me, Rosalie." You smile back at her.

"I do, because not many would step up like that." She softly sighs and her smile grows a bit. You felt her words had more meaning to them, but you decided to not linger on them for now. "I know I've been slightly avoiding you but I have a hard time trusting hu- new people. But, after today, I think I want to open up a bit and be friends."

"I'd like that too." You beam. "Alice has been begging me to do a shopping trip, maybe the three of us can plan a trip soon."

"I'd... I'd like that." She almost looks like she is relieved and less guarded.

"Is your hand okay?"

"What?"

"Well, I saw you grip your locker and you dented it."

"Oh. Yeah, it's fine. I work on cars and my grip is strong. It's nothing." She holds out her hands and you saw just flawless skin. "Well, I will see you soon. Class is starting."

"Talk to you later." You wave and go to class. You sit down at your usual spot and start preparing. You sigh, irritated at the way those two spoke about Rose so loudly. But you also felt happy you and Rose were close now. Her bending the locker was suspicious... there were many things off with the Cullens that you've picked up, however, you don't linger on it. They have their quirks much like you have your own.

---

Edward lounged on the couch reading, back from his trip up to the Denali clan to clear his head. After witnessing that nightmare from you, he needed a moment alone to sort his thoughts. He wasn't sure what he felt afterwards but once he took some time to sort out his thoughts, he came back to Forks. None of the others knew what happened. He didn't tell them those details of your life, as none of them were privy to it. He wasn't either but that bridge has been crossed thanks to his ability and curiosity of the galaxy protecting your mind.

He felt guilt initially when he realized he deeply invaded your privacy. Then, despair and immense sadness followed when he recalls back to your nightmare, your past. Edward had seen many horrors in his long life, he even committed some when he'd hunt those men. However when he witnessed what you went through, he couldn't help feel a spark of protectiveness. You were nice. He found you a joy to be around despite it not being long since you transferred. He doesn't want anything bad to happen to you.

Edward couldn't help but smile when he thought back to you and him outside the fire station. It was a peaceful moment. He couldn't help but linger on the sight of you in his jacket, pointing out the stars and constellations. It was silent other than your internal thoughts. And when he got to witness your galaxy so at peace? He also felt a sense of tranquility he longs for.

Edward quickly put those thoughts away and resumed his attention his book when he heard his adoptive siblings come in. Alice and Jasper pass without saying to him, which he was slightly thankful for. However, Emmett and Rosalie lingered by him.

"How can I help you both?" Edward sighs, snapping the book closed as he looks at both of them.

Rose crosses her arms. "You need to come back tomorrow."

"Why? Did something happen?"

"Yeah, Tiny happened." Emmett grinned and gestured to Rosalie. The blond sighed and let the memory replay of you standing up for her so Edward can see what happened today. He furrows his brows, setting his book down. He stands up from the couch and looks between the two.

"My guess is those two will probably retaliate against our friend one way or another." Rosalie says softly. Edward chooses not to point out how she said 'our friend.' "You spend the most time with them, they'll need you to stick around them the most."

Edward nods slowly. He recognizes Mark and Tony, and he knows they each have a class with him and you. He's heard the thoughts that spew from them both like garbage and he knows they aren't above getting back at someone.

"I'll come back tomorrow." He confirms. He wanted one more day to himself, but tomorrow is good as ever to face you again. He knows how you lost your voice and how you ended up living with your uncle and aunt now, but you don't know he knows. And he'll have to keep that in mind.

Although, Edward couldn't help but smile at the sound of your voice in Rosalie's memory. It was rough and hoarse, and it caused you pain, pain he doesn't want you feeling again... but it was nice hearing that voice that matches to the one in your head... when that space of yours is dropped.

---

You make your way to your locker first thing in the morning. You get yourself situated, grabbing the things you need for your classes before lunch. You set aside the folder where you kept your copies of notes for Edward down on the small shelf. You huff softly, throat still feeling sore from using your voice.

A familiar voice calling your name has you spinning around quickly, a smile instantly growing on your face. Edward approaches you with a small smile, looking the same as he did the last time you saw him.

"Glad to see you're feeling better." You grin, your mind flashing back to what Emmett signed to you in regards to Edward's health. You catch your friend's eyebrow twitch, a flash of annoyance on his face that he quickly recovered.

A Cullen quirk, you muse to yourself.

"Yeah. I'm doing a lot better now." He replies softly, standing  a little closer to you than usual.

"I have something for you." You see his eyebrow quirk as you turn back to your locker. You pull out the black folder and hand him it. "Notes for the classes we share."

Edward stares down at the folder before chuckling. He looks up at you and gives you brilliant smile, one that makes your heart flutter for just a moment. "Thank you, I really appreciate it."

"Of course."

Suddenly, you feel hand on your back. Edward was standing much closer to you with an expression akin to a scowl as he stares off a little. He looks to you and smiles softly, though you can still see the tension on his face.

"We should get to the classroom. I'll probably have questions about what I missed." He says in a low voice. You nod, a little confused by his demeanor. You finish up with your locker and let him guide through the hallway, his cold hand still resting on the middle of your back.

You weren't aware of Tony's and Mark's presences until you both were walking by them to your first period classroom. You paid them no mind, keeping your focus ahead of you. Doing this, however, has you missing the deep and threatening glare from Edward towards the both of them.

As you both walked through the hallway, Edward felt that his non-existent blood boiling at the degrading, violent, and nasty thoughts those two were thinking. He knew they both weren't the best that Forks has to offer, their thoughts sometimes louder than others.

That protective urge he felt after witnessing your nightmare? It's working overtime now and he isn't completely sure why.

What Edward does know that he won't let them try anything towards you.

------

Taglist: @buckybarnes-1917​, @trawberry-fire​ , @dreamy-caramel​, @urgirlfriendspage @azazel-nyx @stinkii-boii @vanessalovesonedirection @sunnyisntthere @theatrenerd101601 @awesomebooklover17 @esposadomd @whichwitchisthebitch @bofadeezs @gons-dad-is-gon-e @kathsuhki @aoi-targaryen @srh-006 @onlyheretosimp

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography 

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta. 

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done. 

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for. 

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation. 

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for. 

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him. 

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing. 

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.” 

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?” 

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.” 

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out. 

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.” 

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.” 

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?” 

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?” 

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.” 

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?” 

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it. 

She might be. 

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—” 

“Hey.” 

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.” 

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else. 

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class. 

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on. 

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—” 

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.” 

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.” 

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.” 

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home. 

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.” 

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours. 

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream. 

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old. 

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways. 

But it’s not up to you. 

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel. 

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating. 

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome. 

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts. 

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking. 

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.  

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for  most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged. 

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him. 

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.” 

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull. 

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack. 

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy. 

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take. 

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding. 

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating. 

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed. 

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal. 

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all. 

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him. 

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself. 

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy. 

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it.. 

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you. 

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat. 

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?” 

“What?” 

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?” 

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to. 

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?” 

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself. 

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why? 

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away. 

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.” 

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.” 

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous. 

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.” 

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more. 

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench. 

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.” 

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear. 

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other. 

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun. 

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?” 

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.” 

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?” 

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?” 

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?” 

“So you can get his number.” 

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes. 

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.” 

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.” 

And then you’re alone again. 

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed. 

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous. 

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing. 

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet. 

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind. 

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now. 

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion. 

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind. 

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time. 

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement. 

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip. 

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable.  He’s going to be a problem.

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Celebration: 88,978 Words in One Day!

Just yesterday, a few other LU writers and I, Hot Cheeto Hatred, hosted our first ever monthly (hopefully) Write-a-thon! This event ran on June 4 from 12 am EST to 12 am EST, with one goal in mind---write as many productive words within that day as humanly possible. Words included in the final marathon count ranged from storyboarding, fic writing, editing, answering comments, journalling and homework---basically, any words that furthered yourself, the writing community at large, or your stories. We utilized either the Discord Sprint bot or self-reporting to collect the numbers at the end. Everyone involved gave it their all, with most of them being present for most if not all of the run time as they were able, and I'm so proud of their dedication towards their craft. Anyways, here's the final breakdown of the numbers below, as well as the awards and titles earned by each participant, as decided by the discord server (and myself at random).

Now onto the awards:

I am pleased to report that @not-freyja (Freyja above) won the "Writer of All Time" Award, pulling ahead with 20,565 of our total words. What an accomplishment! Freyja participated from dawn to well, dawn, and they absolutely deserve all praise and awe.

I'm giving myself, @hotcheetohatred (Cheeto), the award "Writer of Some Time," as I fell behind our lovely Freyja by a mere few hundred words fifteen minutes before the clock struck midnight. Next time, Freyja, next time...

The "Actually A Writer" award goes to @marcusdoodlesalot (Marcus), who, despite the name, DOES actually write, not just draw! Who would have thought. Not Freyja, that's for sure.

The "Early Bird" award goes to @lerikwrites (Lerik), who solely sprinted in the wee hours of the morning (my time, at least). Terrible. Good job.

"Star Commentor" goes to @elle-rosewater (Eliot), because I stole most of her words for the count from my own comment section in the BDOR Prologues. We love you, Eliot :3 Can't wait to see you next month.

"Cheerleader" goes to @la-sera, who gave us much encouragement throughout the day. I stole your 19 words from you saying you were excited to read Estelian's work. Hope that's okay, because I really wanted to include you---you provided a lot, even if you didn't write with us this time <3.

@whumpitywhumpitywhumpity (Dowsemaxxer) earns "Spirit-ed Storyboarder" for all of his lovely, informative talk on Spirit and just what makes him so great as a rather underappreciated LU boy.

Two awards next! "Chief Editor" and "Most Student" both go to @unexpectedstormy (Stormy) for faer work on getting. stuff. done. Fae did a steady amount of work, so proud.

"Editor (of Word Count) in Chief" goes to @tashacee (Tash), who, at reporting time, was scrounging up 100 and 200 word bits like spare change while I desperately tried to do math. I love you, never change.

The title of "Specter" goes to @somer-writes (Somer), who logged in very few sprints, but participated with the rest of us and pulled up at the end with a whole 7.5K words and a bunch of fics to post at the end, with a lot of it being Ghost AU! He's amazing.

The award "Better Late than Never" goes to our resident artist and recently turned fic-writer @estelian-01 (Este), who joined only in the last half of the marathon but managed to pull a whole 4K! Pictures might be worth a thousand words, but Este wrote a couple more anyway.

@across-violet-skies (Riv) gets the title "Mover and Shaker (of Blorbos)" for managing to participate and get quite the hefty wordcount only a DAY after moving. They're a trooper, that's for sure.

@anime-obsessed (Vio/Nene) earns the award "Most Old School" for writing with pen and paper for most of the day. Please go rest your wrist after all of that.

The award "Head in the Clouds" goes to my bestie and beloved beta reader @needfantasticstories (Skip), who spent the day listening to music and writing Skyloft drabbles. I am nervous/excited to see if those drabbles turned out fluffy as a Loftwing, or perhaps into something more angsty.

@noorahqar (Qar), my lovely fragile Victorian wife, earns the title "Chatty." You know why. But you were there nearly all of the run time, and so engaging and encouraging throughout---a blessing to us all. And even then, you managed to pull so many words. I'm impressed.

And finally, @rosehipandroots / @rosetintedtears (Rose) receives the titles "ndskanefnre" (self chosen) and "Birthday Santa." The first was borne of panic of being asked to choose a title---the second of her relentless effort to get her birthday fics done. Great job.

I'd like to thank everyone that I tagged for participating in the write-a-thon, and thank all of you for helping me draft this post as well. If I messed up any word counts or details or pronouns, you want to request a title/award change, or I missed someone, please DM and let me know! The next Write-a-thon will be held on July 1 from 12am to 12am GMT, and we'll be trying to beat our record. Can't wait to see all of you then!

[rangerelizabeth]

So, I don’t think I’m dying, or anything, and it’s probably not that serious, but... I’m kinda bleeding. A lot.

Lol this one's a bit of a mess, but these prompts are great because they make me write things outside of what I would usually do! Have a fun little post-war domestic Clegan for your Wednesday night :) Thanks for the ask anon! I hope you enjoy it.

Prompt: "So I don't think I'm dying, or anything, and it's probably not that serious, but... I'm kinda bleeding. A lot."

Word count: 892

After dismissing his undergraduate class for the day, Gale begins the ritual of packing his materials into his worn leather bag when his doctoral supervisor pokes his head into the classroom.

“Gale, there’s a phone call for you in the main office. Seems urgent.”

A jolt of anxiety shoots through Gale. No one ever calls him at the school. Hastily, he crams the remaining papers into his bag, for once not caring if they crease. He hurries to the office where the secretary nods towards the phone, prompting him to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Buck,” John’s voice comes through the receiver, steady yet tinged with a slight urgency that spikes Gale’s panic. His hand grips the phone tighter, knuckles turning white.

“What’s wrong?” Gale cuts straight to the point.

“So, I don’t think I’m dying, or anything, and it’s probably not that serious, but... I’m kinda bleeding. A lot,” John says.

“What?” Gale’s voice rises in anxiety, drawing a concerned glance from the secretary. He winces, trying to soften his volume when he speaks again. “Bucky, what the hell happened?” 

“Cut my hand by accident. Tried to stop the bleeding but it won’t quit. I think I might need stitches, and I would drive myself but you’ve got the truck,” John explains, sounding impossibly calm.

Gale’s racing heart steadies slightly, reassured that John isn’t actively dying, but the thought of him alone at home with a profusely bleeding hand still unsettles him.

“Jesus, okay. I’m leaving right now. Just… keep putting pressure on it and don’t bleed out before I get there,” Gale says, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“Don’t count on it,” John teases lightly.

“Not funny, Bucky,” Gale huffs. “See you soon.”

Replacing the receiver, Gale stumbles out a hurried explanation for his abrupt departure, then practically sprints from the building to the parking lot. He drives well above the speed limit, exhaling in relief when he finally pulls into their driveway and sees John sitting on the porch. He’s got a rag wrapped around his left hand that looks far too blood-soaked for Gale’s liking. 

Once the truck stops, John stands and makes his way to the passenger seat, greeting Gale cheerfully despite the circumstances. Gale’s glad John’s so calm, a stark contrast to his own internal worry. Of course, they’ve both seen worse injuries during their time together, but Gale thought they had left such emergencies behind with the end of their service.

“You doing okay?” Gale asks, reaching over John to secure his seatbelt for him, considering his hands are a bit full at the moment. As soon as it’s done, he throws the truck in reverse, backing out of the driveway to head for the hospital.

“I’m fine, Buck. It’s barely a scratch,” John reassures him with his usual bravado.

“Right. A scratch that had you calling me at work to come drive you to get stitches. No big deal,” Gale retorts, rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly, sounding slightly chastened.

“Hey, no. I’m glad you called,” Gale hurries to reassure him. “Just scared me, is all. Never gotten an ‘urgent’ phone call to the main office before.”

At the hospital, John receives eight stitches across his palm. Gale stays by his side throughout, John gripping his arm tightly during the more painful moments. As he works, the doctor questions the nature of the accident, and John reveals that he accidently cut himself while handling a knife. Then, he wraps John’s hand and assures him he’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks.

Driving them back home, Gale can’t help but ask, “So, what exactly happened? I thought you knew your way around a knife without almost chopping your hand off.”

John looks sheepish, fidgeting in his seat. “I uh, tried cooking us dinner.”

Gale arches an eyebrow. When they had moved in together, it quickly became evident that John’s culinary skills were severely lacking. After a series of less-than-successful attempts, they had mutually agreed that cooking would be Gale’s domain.

“Okay,” Gale says slowly, confused.

“Did you realize it’s been a year since we’ve been home? Since we moved in together?” John asks suddenly, his tone softer. 

Gale’s heart warms, the pieces beginning to fall into place in his mind. John’s next words confirm his suspicions.

“I just wanted to do something special for you, especially since you had to work all day. I’m just sorry it ended with you driving me to the hospital,” John sighs, his voice tinged with regret.

Gale smiles warmly at him. “Well, you know what they say. It’s the thought that counts, right?” 

John huffs out a laugh, leaning his head back against the headrest, shaking it in amusement at the entire situation. “I guess so.”

“Anyway,” Gale continues playfully, extending his arm over the console to rest a warm hand on John’s thigh. “I can think of plenty of other ways you can make it up to me once we get home.” 

The implication catches John’s attention immediately, prompting him to sit up straight in his seat. He raises an eyebrow at Gale. “Oh, is that so?” he replies, his tone teasing in return.

Gale simply keeps his eyes on the road, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

“Hey, Buck?” John says suddenly, causing Gale to glance over at him curiously.

"Yeah, Bucky?"

“Drive faster.”

[0heartangel0]

AAAAAAHHHHH!!! I hate not being able to focus!! It's even worse when I'm on a deadline (I should've prepared first...)

Anyway, here's day's 3 and 4. I hope to have the last three done tomorrow (although, they will be rushed...)

Day 3: Dress-up/Unlikely Duo (Decided to combine the two prompts together to add a little fun. I've wanted to do PQ2 for one of these at some point to be unique (and not just do Strikers for all of them), so decided what better one than a pairing up category for Hikari? As for who she'd be paired up with, I went with Akane, since she's also...a school girl?? (I have not played PQ2, just own a copy, I promise I'll play it at some point) Anyway, I thought it'd be cute to do a clothes-swap (thus, the dress-up prompt), and I think it came out rather decently (I could've done better with Akane, but what can you do?)).

Day 4: Battle (FINALLY DID A TACTICA ONE! I thought it'd be cool to do a more dynamic one this time (if you can call this "dynamic"), and I think aside from line art and the background (as per usual), I think it came out decently. I had to pull up a reference photo of a guy holding a shotgun because I couldn't for the life of me draw the angle or hand position, and it came out okay. Could've done better with this overall).

[loudclan-clangen]

Fierce x Silt would be an ABSOLUTE POWER COUPLE and you are welcome to ship them all you want (as always) but in cannon Fiercestripe would never, even for a moment, consider taking another mate. If Wildfirecry dies before her she will wait that shit out cause she's not single, her husband is just in starclan. I honestly think that even without Wildfirecry in the picture she's just too much of a caretaker/mom friend to ever be in a relationship with someone younger than her. Fiercestripe needs her mate to be the one person in her life that she is not worried about if that makes sense? She'll help find Silt a nice new boyfriend who is not 48 moons older than her and they can be crochety grandparents in the elder's den together.

No. <3

Thank you! And do not be sorry because YES! You're so right! She's seeing herself in the stars and so she doesn't look any farther into it but it's just an image she's projecting, not something someone is showing her. She also doesn't put any thought into the fact that in order to walk amongst the stars she would have to pass away so, she's literally seeing a future where she dies due to her own inflated self image and it just inflates her self image more. It's a self fulfilling prophecy and it makes me love her and her story so much!

It was not intentional as I haven't watched centaurworld, but upon listening to it I see what you mean! It definitely fits in with what I was trying to reference, which are those kinda ominous lullabies (hush a bye baby was the specific one that came to mind while drawing), but to be honest with you it's a relatively minor detail in the overall comic. What the character is saying is a lot less important than what the character is about to do so i didn't put a ton of thought into it.

Thank you! I am also shocked by how little time has passed in story like what do you mean we aren't even at two years yet? Eklutna wasn't even here for a moon? How is that possible?! I know that Moon 21 brought and is still bringing a LOT of people to the blog and I am so grateful for that! Loudclan gained like 200 followers over my break and that's AWESOME but also a little bit terrifying tbh. Don't worry I also got attached to Mothtree and I was like lying in bed thinking about the fact that she dies for like three whole months while I and everyone else drew cute art of her.

Thank you! I'm so happy to be at a point where I'm happy with my art and my process and that has a lot to do with all the support I've gotten from you guys! You're an awesome community who has encouraged my growth at every opportunity and I couldn't be luckier! All that said I hope you get to enjoy a minor version of the same process all over again as I get back in the routine of drawing cats again after my break lol.

I mean... they are kinda yellow... could that mean... PACKMAN IS THE BABYDADDY?!?!?!

I did really enjoy my break! I got to go to Greece and Germany with some of my best friends and then I came home and cracked down on school work (which wasn't necessarily fun, but feels good to be done with), and now I am rested and relaxed and ready to get back into it!

Thank you! I try to put a lot of thought into them! Things like that are generally the first thing that I envision when I'm formulating a comic page and then I build the rest of it around that original idea which I hope helps to make the pages more dynamic and less repetitive.

Thank you, I can't wait to finally drop Part 2! Only 5 more days!