#LETS GO ANOTHER GRAPHITE DRAWING DOWN

[0ne-eyed-ghost]

DAY 11 !!! I fell asleep before editing this n didn't feel like getting up onto my laptop to post so . THIS WAS . TECHNICALLY FINISHED....... Yesterday.... ANYWAY day 11 ; Night :] I am a sucker for theming ? Like. Massively. Smite me . I finally got new pencils that I can properly press down hard with on my paper without ripping it to shreds so :] I'm happy w how dark it turned out this time around !!!! If you don't know the order of the lyrics in the song this most likely makes no sense I apologize on that front - Hearts lines on either side [left to right] come first, the lines on Minds left next, and then Minds lyrics to the right, then the lyrics under Hearts positioning ! Also it sucks every time I have to take a picture because. its like. sideways or something like that ???? Angling of stuff :boom: Mind's holding his cane btw that's probably hard to see though w the funky lines IT TOOK SO PAINSTAKINGLY LONG TO DRAW MINDS HAIR PLEASE ENJOY MY EFFORT :sob: kicks the dirt w my arms behind my back uhhmm anyway yeah i'll get back 2 work i havent even looked at what prompt is for today yet im BEHINNDD :person_running:

[is-the-sky-blue]

OVERWHELMED: GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

Fluff, satosugu x reader, reader is called mom, papa satoru, dad suguru

You were overwhelmed.

The warm steam from the pot below you wafted up to your face, the obnoxious low rumble of the range hood sucking up the air as to not let your smoke alarm go off, yet again. The curry bubbled and you stirred the mixture of carrots and potatoes, leisurely. "Mom," it was a troubled call, you turned, facing the long haired child perched in a chair at the table behind you, her brown eyes glassy as she stared at the textbook in front of her.

You were quick to lower the heat, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before settling it down on the handles, placing the glass lid atop the stainless steel before shuffling over to her, fluffy socks adorned with a strawberry pattern, given to you as a little surprise from an ordinary grocery run, protecting your feet from the cool tile. "Tsumiki honey, what's wrong," you coo, taking a seat in the chair next to her, the girl's lips pouted in frustration as she pinched her brows.

"I dunno how to do this," she points, pencil led prodding at the textbook pages scrawled in graphite, loitered with jokes and absurd comments that your dear girl would never do, knowing that this, probably twelfth generation textbook's drawings, were presents from students past. It was a math question, simple algebra that she was only introduced to yesterday in class, and your ever keen student was quick to do her homework on Saturday as to not stress out tomorrow, as her Papa promised to take them all out on a fun day trip.

"Let me take a look," you murmur gently, offering a smile to try and quell her irritation as you stared at the notebook pages, neat handwriting full of numbers interrupted as she tried to answer question 6c, smudges of pencil rubbed away by eraser staining the paper and you reevaluate the problem, carefully repeating it onto the sheet. "This one is quite tough," you nod, hoping to show that her struggle was valid, "but basically you have to-" you start, ready to walk her through the steps to find an answer when yet another call drew your attention away.

"Mom!" this time it was a wail.

"Just a second baby," you pat the girl's hair, "I'll be right back," you promise, getting up from the cushioned seat to step towards the living room, crying children hidden behind the couch, as the open concept layout usually allowed you to see all your kids at once.

You spot the two twins, eyes glassy as Mimiko held a doll tight in her grasp, body shifted away from her sister as Nanako crossed her pudgy arms over her chest, tearful glare directed towards the former.

"What's wrong," you murmur, sore muscles slightly protesting as you pulled into a crouch assessing the situation. Your usually two well behaved girls who generally got along with one another were fighting for the nth time today. They were having a rough time, both irritated, grumpy and getting on each other's nerves consistently on this somber Saturday

"Mimiko won't share," Nanako cries, rubbing harshly at her puffy cheeks as salt rivers stain her face, falling in large droplets. You are quick to tenderly grasp her hands, careful touches wiping away the dew. You turn to face Mimiko, knuckles turning pale with the death drip she had on the pink haired doll.

"You two have loads of dolls though," you try to reason, plucking up a different toy, presenting it to the red faced girl.

"But I want that one," she sobs, hiccupping and you tried not to sigh too loud.

"Mimiko," you call, the child pursing her lips as she turned her body away in defiance.

"I want a turn," she huffs when you don't retract your scolding gaze, "Nanako's been playin all day wif her," she shakes the pink haired toy, glittery strands catching light and you don't know what to do. Nanako was crying because Mimiko had stolen the toy, and you knew the girl had been politely asking all day just to be denied.

It wasn't right that she took it, you know that, but it also wasn't right that Nanako hasn't been sharing. You didn't want to just take the doll away completely, even if a nagging voice said that a mere threat wouldn't hurt, but the high percentage that it'd leave both girls' crying already gave you a headache.

They were just tired. Bad dreams plaguing them last night, preventing them from sleep, they needed a nap but wouldn't settle down for one, not even after being cradled and read to. No matter how many picture books you pulled out, or if you just tucked them into their beds, neither agreed to your plan and now it was too late, settling for a nap now would only result in the inability to rest when it was actually bed time.

You bit your lip, their lack of sleep also resulting in your lack of sleep, achy limbs tired as you shut your heavy fatigue ridden eye lids as bawling tears continued to drip, "Nana-" you were about to start only to be interrupted yet again.

"Mom," it was raspy this time and you heed the call, facing a sleepy Megumi, his face florid as sweat beaded on his forehead, duvet you wrapped him in trailing along the hardwood floors as he pulled it onto his shoulders. His spiky hair was slightly matted, eyes a little red, nose running. 

"Megumi" you coo, your sick boy padding to walk into your arms, falling into your embrace eagerly as he nuzzled into your neck, his cold nose making you slightly cringe as he burned up in your grasp, fever overheating his tiny figure.

"m'sorry," he begins and you don't want to question what happened as you wrapped the blanket tighter around his little form, "I missed the bucket," he confessed, his fingers timidly grabbing at your sleeve, toying with the fabric and you knew what he meant, the little stomach bug beating up his organs had made you gift him a plastic container for all his vomit. "I didn't mean too," his voice wavers, you could feel your shirt begin to grow damp but all you could do was hold him tighter.

"It's okay," you try to keep the irritation ebbing away at you from your tone.

"Mom."

"Mom."

"Mom."

"Mom."

They all needed you, tears falling down fast as different anxieties permeated your house, home full of grief as they each battled with different problems. Tsumiki struggling with her homework, Mimiko and Nanako bickering yet again over something trivial but huge in their little world, while Megumi tried to fight off a sickness but was currently losing, and you trying to grapple every thing, your sanity quickly slipping as their sadness poured into you, the tired little smiles you kept up slowly fading away as you could feel your own anxieties claw up your throat.

All your children were crying, frustrated wails, and you were barely keeping it together, clutching your son tightly as you tried not to fall into a pit of tears yourself.

You were overwhelmed.

Overloaded with tasks and duties, you had to help Tsumiki finish her school work, settle this doll dilemma, clean up the little mess Megumi made and still finish up dinner. Your list was all consuming, trying to drown you as your house shook, trembled.

Your family was having a rough day.

Everyone was troubled and you-

You couldn't do it all.

You barely registered it, chaos consuming your leaden muscles as you did your best to organize your frantic thoughts, but when a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder the tension in your chest, weighing down on you eased. "Let us handle it from here love," a sweet murmur, his dark hair was messy, result of a tough day at work but he was quick to roll up his sleeves, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, soothing your berating mind and you could only nod, brain refusing to process an argument as he turned to the two twins.

"C'mere Megumi," your white haired counterpart now next to you, reaching out for the duvet coddled boy who merely nuzzled further into your grasp at the call and you can't help but keep him close, quicksand sinking limbs finding their way to cuddle him even further.

"It's okay Toru," your voice is laced with a slow molasses, tired dribbles as you mumble, blinking your stinging eyes, retreating tears falling back from your waterline, "can you just," and you bite your tongue, feeling a strange quiver form in your throat as an inexplicable lump formed, but he's cupping your face, squishing the fat of your cheek with his easy going toothy grin, pink lips parting to let an ever loving smile shine affectionately at your drained visage.

"Can do!" and he's popping to his feet, knowing your sentence without your words, upbeat aura exterminating the lingering gloom that held heavy in a foggy cloud from the ceiling. His call of Tsumiki's name is kind before he's taking the seat next to her, getting to work and slowly your growing checklist of tasks melted, shredding into tiny little strips as they rips apart the paper, taking a chunk to handle by themselves.

Your knees audibly crack as you stand, his warm cheek in the cove of your neck as he put up no fight to slump in your hold. "Let's get you a bath, yeah Gumi," you hum, body gently rocking as you pad down the hallway and towards the bathroom, light flickering on with a warm glow to paint the white tiles.

"M'sorry," he's murmuring again as you set him down, guilt ridden eyes swathed with remorse as you slowly began to fill the tub, squirting out some of the soap from a half-empty bottle of bubble bath, watching as white foam slowly floated to the surface, "I-I'll do better," he sniffles.

"You don't need to be sorry baby," you brush the strands of hair sticking to his forehead away, heat emanating from the slick sweat of his skin, dampening your fingertips as you gingerly peel the blanket off his body, pang of pity hitting your heart as he shuddered, "you didn't do it on purpose," you hum, "and all you need to do for me is drink lots of water, get tons of rest and get back to your strong and healthy self, okay my Gumi bear," you smile, watching the boy cringe at your little nickname.

"Don't call me that," he whines, voice nasally as you help him take off his clothes before settling him inside the water filled tub.

"Why not," you tease, turning off the tap but he could only puff out his chest, no reason coming to mind as he submerged his body into the water, steam slowly relieving his congested pathways.

"I- It's embarrassing," he tries and you coo with a sly little smile. 

"Are you embarrassed of me," you purse your lips in faux pain.

"That's not what I said," he rasps out, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumps his back against the porcelain, defeated.

"Mhm I see how it is," you sigh dramatically, snickering at his pout before you lean to boop his nose. "Will you be okay on your own," you ask the boy, observing as he picked up a cloud of soap and squashed it between his palms.

"Mhm," he nodded and you grin, giving him an affectionate rustle of the hair before grabbing the slightly soiled clothing, lingering smell of vomit and sweat clinging to the fabric of his pajamas as you stepped outside the bathroom, leaving the door open just a smidge as you padded towards Megumi's bedroom, the door wide open, readying yourself to untuck his bedsheets only to find his mattress already bare.

"It's in the wash," he murmured against the shell of your ear and you lean into his warmth, resting your head on Suguru's lowered shoulder, "do you need me to take that too," and his hands are quick to take the clothing from your grasp.

You simply shut your eyes for a moment, listening to his breathing, "thank you," you hum out when you blink open, whirling around on your toes to face him.

"It's no problem baby," and he's pressing yet another calming kiss to your forehead, easing the worries that had begun to clamber up your chest, "you should go take a break, I can finish giving Megumi a bath," he murmurs against your skin but you shake your head as he pulls away.

"No, I can do it," you affirmed, the worried look in his gaze doing little to force your hand, "I want to do it," you reiterated and his shoulder's slumped as he acquiesced, letting you have your way yet again.

"If you say so," he's sighing, "but let me know if you need anything, alright, you've already done a lot today, don't push yourself pretty," and he's kissing your cheek this time, flashing you an understanding smile but you are quick to peck at grinning lips, withdrawing much too early for his liking.

"I won't," you reassure, patting his arm, urging him to go and he chuckles, retreating back to the laundry room as you go to grab another set of pajamas for Megumi to wear.

Your heart felt a little lighter, the happy sounds of an understanding Tsumuki echoing down the hallway before she was sharing a high-five with Satoru, a resounding, elating smack reverberating as you take a small peek down the hall, her once pinched brows no longer furrowed with stress as your white haired partner thoroughly explained the topic in a way she could understand, patiently answering all her questions and kindly nudging her along the right path whenever she made a mistake. The sight had you smiling, there were no tears, no yelling, the image much unlike your childhood, her ability to even ask for help showing you that you must be doing something right, after all you didn't want her to face the same struggle you had when it came for asking your parents for any kind of assistance.

Turning back to the bathroom you nudge the door ajar with your hip, spotting your little spiky haired boy with a rubber duck in his hand, pushing it along the water and he's quick to stare at you, meeting your gaze as you plop the fresh clothing onto the counter. "Mom," he calls and the word no longer burdened you with such despair as it had moments ago, of course you loved your title, the very words being attached to you giving you an indescribably joy as your little found family discovered comfort in you as a mother figure, but you couldn't deny that a few moments ago the very call of that label had you broiling with stress.

"Yes love," you hum, quick to pull the stool over, sitting near the edge as Megumi glanced up at you, bubbles staining his fingertips.

"Will Papa still take me on the trip tomorrow," he sniffles, dry eyes blinking up at you with worry.

"Of course he will Gumi," you reach a hand out, petting his hair before cupping his warm face between your palms.

"W-What happens if I don't feel good tomorrow too," he whimpers, eyes going glassy as his lips pull into a pout and you could feel a little tremor shake your heart, small fracture nicking away at it as you pressed a tender kiss to his scalp.

"Then we'll reschedule it baby, okay," you murmur, staring into his heartbroken gaze, "it'll be alright."

"But I don't wanna ruin it," he mumbles so quietly, guilt ebbing away.

"Honey you won't ruin anything," you assure, "no one is leaving you behind, and no one will be sad if we can't go tomorrow, besides it wouldn't be fun if you weren't there." 

"Promise."

"I promise my love," and you interlock your pinky with his, rubbing away a stray tear that managed to fall, "now how about we get you dressed and back to bed," you offer, a gentle smile accompanying your words and he grins, nodding.

You were quick, drying the boy before pulling the dog themed shirt on his head, helping his arms through the fabric before tugging it down. "Cozy," you muse, fingers lightly tying the drawstrings of his fuzzy pants.

"Mhm," he hums, fast to find solace in your embrace as you carefully adjust him to settle on your hip, standing up. You survey the bathroom, empty tub still slightly foamy along the edges, drain covered in bubbles that you didn't focus on, preoccupied with dressing the sickly boy, the blanket he had dragged around, abandoned on the floor, crumpled in a corner, the floor slightly imprinted with wet footsteps.

You purse your lips, rubbing small circles onto his back as his face burrowed into the crook of your neck, dark hair tickling the skin but you pay no mind, occupied with your disinterest on cleaning the space, you had left a slight mess.

Shutting your eyes you sighed, maybe you could just pretend it wasn't there for a moment, you tried to offer yourself, turning to head towards Megumi's bedroom only to spot that his bed was still bare and you were soon painfully aware that both pairs of bedsheets you had used for his bed were now soiled and in the wash, the first set vomited upon in the morning when he had felt the brunt of his ailment clawing at his stomach.

You could feel irritation clamber up your limbs, leaving an unsettling itch in your bones as you push your weight onto your toes before rocking back onto your heels, uncertainty bubbling beneath your skin as your frazzled brain wracked for a solution. "He can sleep in our room for a little while," and the bubbles faded into nothing, heat of the element reduced to zero in an instant as your unsettled waters no longer even simmered.

His hand is on Megumi's forehead, checking the little boy's temperature while the other lay relaxed on your hip, leaving an assuring squeeze, "do you want me to take you Megs," Satoru offers, knowing full well he'd be denied, and rejected he was, the boy merely clinging to you tighter with a pout.

"It's fine Toru," you hum, his hands slightly fixing your hair before pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

"Alrighty then," he snickers, and you barely have to turn your head to know he and Megumi were sticking their tongues out at each other, "I'll go clean up the washroom then," and he shifts his focus to you.

"No that's alright, you should go rela-"

"I should be saying that to you pretty," he quirks a grin, cutting you off, "now go on," and he's shooing you away, hands on your shoulders before lightly ushering you out, "let me work," he tsks, opening the door, letting you walk into your shared bedroom before quickly scampering off with a cartoony whistled song.

You can't fight off your smile before shuffling towards the messily made bed, the rumple of sheets a painful reminder of your inability to focus this morning, waking up to sobs, the idea of making the bed no longer at the forefront of your brain, and it still wasn't. You collapse onto the mattress, lightly tackling Megumi beneath your body.

"Get off me," he giggles, squirming, fists pushing at your shoulders.

"What, you don't want my love," you gasp dramatically, peppering kisses over his face until he's shoving you away, hoarse voice laughing as he wriggles, crawling towards the head of the bed but you grab his ankle, "don't make me fight you," you tease, pulling him back, his happy little shriek of, 'let me go,' making you grin before you lift him into your arms, wrapping around him tight before squeezing him, planting one last firm peck to his cheek, his happy face lessening all your lingering unease before pulling the both of you beneath the covers.

"You're silly mom," he's snickering.

"Oh really," you laugh, resting his head upon the pillow, laying on your side as he puts his hand onto your face, pudgy fingers squeezing at your cheek, contorting your facial expressions, "I think you're pretty silly," you muse, reaching out to smush his face, his lips puckering as you forced him to look like a fish.

"Nuh uh," he huffs pulling away from your grasp before using both his hands to try and force your face the same way, and he's giggling.

"Nuh uh," you mock, "what do you mean nuh uh," you tease lightly tickling at his sides.

"Nuh uh," he shrieks again, squirming before burrowing into your embrace, putting an end to your attack as he cuddled close and you couldn't help but reciprocate. "Mom," he's calling again.

"Yes," you coo, running your fingers through his hair.

"Can we go see a T-rex." 

"Hmm," you raise a brow, "where'd that come from," you ask, slightly perturbed by his out of the blue question.

"Yuji told me at school that his papa took him to see T-rex bones."

"Oh, is that so," you coo, rhythmically patting his back, "we can go to the museum and see dinosaurs together when you're all better."

"With Tsumiki and Mimiko and Nanako."

"Of course, we'll take Tsumiki, Mimiko, Nanako, Dad and Papa," you grin, "so make sure to get lots of sleep and drink lots of water, okay."

"Okay," he's murmuring and despite his prior burst of energy his eyes were closing.

"Goodnight," your kiss his scalp, gently rocking his body and even though he drifted off you continued to lay there, weary limbs finally relaxing.

"Wake up love," you don't even remember falling asleep.

You blink your eyes open, "You need to eat." 

"Hmm," you groan as you stirred, staring at both their figures and you suddenly realize your arm's no longer hold the weight of a child, "where'd Megumi go."

"Asleep in his own room," Suguru coos, helping you sit up, thumb running over the apple of your cheek.

"What time is it," you ask eyes trying to adjust to the bright light of the digital clock on the bedside table. 

"9:30ish," Satoru grins, taking a seat next to you, "the kids are already in bed."

"Why didn't you wake me up," you yawn, leaning your weight onto Satoru, "I could've helped."

"You've already done so much today," Suguru sighs and you hum into his touch, "wanted to let you rest."

"M'sorry," you murmur, suddenly feeling ashamed.

"Why are you apologizing love, we are the ones who should say sorry," and Suguru is settling down onto your other side.

"We left you home alone to take care of all of them, it must've been tiring," Satoru is holding your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles.

"You had to go to work, it's fine."

"Regardless," Suguru tacks on, "but you did a good job today," he praises and you find yourself melting, lip wobbling.

"No I didn't," and a surge of sadness washes over you, your emotions taking over, "y-you came home and everyone was crying, I was going to cry too, and, and I didn't know what to do."

"That's okay my love," and Suguru is pulling you into his arms, "you did your best."

"But still."

"Baby it's hard looking after four kids by yourself, you did amazing, it was just a rough day," and Satoru is kissing your forehead, "we should've come home earlier but even without us you did great."

"I should've been able to handle it."

"You did handle it."

"I got overwhelmed."

"And that's okay," Suguru assures once more, "it's a lot of work and it's normal to feel that way, that's why we're here, okay baby, it's not your job to look after all of them on your own, we're a team, you can depend on us," he continues, soothing your anxieties, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. 

"My pretty girl had a long day," Satoru coos, lightly pinching your cheek, cracking a coy smile, "let's go eat yeah, I'll warm dinner up again," he grins, reaching for you, carefully picking you up. 

"I can walk," you protest, your arms snaking around his neck as he slid his arms beneath your bottom.

"And I can carry you," he sing songs, padding towards the door while Suguru quietly shushes him.

You were overwhelmed but Satoru and Suguru were quick to help you out.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Teach Me

Ch. 7

Test days

///////////////

God, she hated test days.

The mind-numbing minutiae of it.

The waste of time that could be better spent actually learning. 

The way she had to show up to do… absolutely nothing. 

Pacing an ambling line from one end of the lecture platform to the other, her eyes swept the darkened room before checking her watch again.

“You have thirty seconds left to finish your thoughts for this piece, and then we're moving on to the final slide,” Lexa called out, remembering to soften her tone so as to not make the more consumed writers of the class jump nearly a foot out of their desks.

Again.

The screen overhead flipped from ‘ The Column of Trajan’ to ‘ The Arch of Constantine’, and the clock on the wall ticked on.

A few more minutes passed in relatively dull silence as Lexa mentally flowed through the lesson plans she had presented thus far, combing the downturned sea of faces and mentally shouting what she hoped the students had taken from them. 

Because she wanted them to do well.

Because she measured her own success as an educator by her student's every success.

Because if she had to read one more essay this semester that contained the words “lit” or “potato quality” in reference to ancient carvings, she just might tear her own hair out.

She really hated test days. 

Mind buzzing with thoughts of stylistic contrasts between High Empire versus Late, and wondering who among her pupils would draw the correct conclusions for why each piece represented on the test was chosen, Lexa felt her pocket vibrate as she settled down on the edge of the table at the head of the room.

Fishing her phone out, she glanced down and froze at the preview that flashed bright across the screen.

“That is a very tight vest you have on Professor”

Schooling her face despite the heat that bloomed bright hot in her cheeks, Lexa checked the timer she had set and barely hesitated before opening the message.

“Shouldn't you be focusing on your test?”

“Just finished a minute ago. Now I'm wasting time until class is over.”

“Shouldn't you want to leave then?” she thumbed out. As if on cue, she pressed her phone to her chest and nodded as a student traipsed up to the front and deposited their test booklet on the table before slipping out of the lecture hall without a sound. “It's a beautiful day. Go enjoy it instead of pretending to look busy.”

“But the view's so good right here…”

Straightening up from her slouched position, it felt like a herculean task to keep her eyes from beelining to the front row and exactly two seats to the left. 

Instead she made another lazy loop around the dais, scanning the crowd for moving pencils (and any obvious signs of someone having fallen asleep.) 

The dull squeak of graphite on paper had her winding back around to stand behind the safety of her podium.

“That's highly inappropriate. Remind me why I let you sit in the front row?” she typed back the second her hands were out of sight. 

She snuck another glance out into the dimmed lecture hall and waited.

“Because I'm your very favoritest student Professor Woods,” she read when another message popped up right below it. “And because when I wear this outfit you can almost see up my dress.”

/////////////

Read on AO3

[your-local-bi-panic]

Part 2: Sculpt This, Griff

Final Part

Description: You’re peacefully sculpting in your dorm when you get swarmed by notifications on a TikTok live. Is the UConn team actually talking about your artistic abilities?

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your screen goes black as the live ends, leaving you staring at your reflection in the camera — flushed cheeks, clay-streaked fingers, and a slightly dumbfounded look on your face.

“…what just happened,” you mutter to yourself, tossing your phone down and flopping back on the floor.

One second you were sculpting in peace, the next you were going toe-to-toe with Aubrey Griffin on a live in front of thousands of people — and not just arguing. Flirting. Hard.

Your phone buzzes again.

A text. Unknown number.

[Unknown Number]

You’re a menace. But I’m kinda obsessed. 😌

You blink, heart skipping. Then another message comes in.

[Unknown Number]

It’s Aubrey btw. Don’t block me. Unless it’s part of your sculpting process or whatever.

You sit up, snort-laughing. Before you can even respond, she sends a third.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Seriously though. That was fun. We should actually do something. You, me, some clay… we can see whose “art has more depth.”

You type, pause, then delete. Then type again:

[You]

Only if you promise not to bring crayons this time.

A beat. Then:

[Aubrey Griffin]

No promises. I like to express myself in vibrant primary colors.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are already aching from grinning.

Then a final message pops in.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Saturday? You teach me how to not embarrass myself artistically. I’ll bring snacks.

[You]

Deal. But I take payment in coffee and humility.

[Aubrey Griffin]

Humility? That sounds fake. But I’ll try for you.

Saturday afternoon.

You hear the knock before you even finish tying up your apron. You wipe your hands on a towel and open the door to find Aubrey leaning against the frame, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair in a bun, and a cocky little grin on her face.

“You ready to lose?” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought the crayons, didn’t you.”

She pulls a jumbo pack out of her hoodie pocket like she’s presenting a rare artifact. “The deluxe set. With glitter.”

You snatch them, toss them onto your desk. “Disqualified.”

She laughs and steps inside, eyes widening as she takes it all in. Your dorm’s been transformed — shelves full of ceramic bowls, handmade mugs, a corner stacked with sketches, a massive canvas-in-progress propped against the wall. Half a dozen half-finished clay pieces sit on a table near the window, bathed in soft light.

“Whoa,” Aubrey says softly, turning in a slow circle. “This is… like, an actual artist’s studio. I thought I was stepping into a dorm.”

You smirk. “Yeah, well, some of us have hobbies that don’t include trash-talking on TikTok lives.”

“Bold of you to call yourself humble,” she teases, then nods toward the small easel you’ve set up. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Portrait time?”

You hand her a pencil and paper. “Try to capture the essence of my soul.”

She squints at you, dramatically. “Mmm… chaos. And maybe caffeine.”

Twenty minutes later, you're holding in laughter as Aubrey reveals what looks suspiciously like a stick figure wearing hoop earrings.

You hold yours up beside it — her, drawn in soft graphite lines, detailed and focused, somehow both casual and intimate. She stares at it for a long moment. “...Okay, rude. That’s actually good.”

You shrug. “Told you I’d win.”

She’s still looking at the drawing when she says, quieter, “How do you do that?”

You glance up. “Do what?”

“Make it look like someone’s… real. Like they exist on the paper.”

You pause. Then shrug your shoulders as a light blush makes its way up your neck.

Aubrey takes one more lap around your room, pausing in front of a painting with thick brushstrokes and colors that blend like storm clouds and sunlight. “You did all of this?”

You nod, a little sheepish despite the pride in your chest. “Yeah. I mean… I didn’t sleep much last semester.”

She crouches by a shelf of small sculptures — little bowls, abstract figures, a few animals mid-motion. Her fingers ghost the edge of a lopsided mug. “Okay, you weren’t kidding. You are the best artist at UConn.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an apology?”

She grins. “It’s a surrender.”

Then she turns toward you, head tilted just slightly. “Teach me?”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

Aubrey shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I mean… yeah. If you want. I’m not promising a masterpiece, but—”

“I didn’t think you could ask for help.”

Her mouth drops open in mock offense. “Wow. Clay to the face.”

You laugh and gesture to the little workstation by the window. “Come on then, art girl.”

She takes the seat beside you, knees bumping yours, her leg warm against yours even through jeans. You hand her a chunk of clay and she holds it like it might explode. You try not to smile too much.

“We’ll start simple,” you say, reaching for your own piece. “We’ll make a dinosaur.”

She blinks. “A what?”

You’re already shaping the base. “Everyone’s first clay animal ends up looking like a dinosaur anyway. Might as well lean into it.”

She laughs. “That’s fair.”

A few minutes in, she’s pressing too hard, fingers smushing the shape into something… vaguely tragic. You scoot closer, shifting behind her a bit.

“Here,” you say softly, slipping your hands around hers, “let me show you.”

She stills. Her breath catches just slightly when your fingers close over hers, guiding them gently over the clay.

“Less pressure,” you murmur, “just enough to shape it.”

Your voice is right by her ear now, and you feel her relax into the motion, shoulders unwinding under your touch. You keep your hands there for a few more moments, pressing your thumbs over hers to smooth the ridge of what might become the dino’s back.

Then you slowly let go.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back, “your turn.”

She keeps going, more focused now, tongue caught between her teeth. “I think he’s coming together.”

You nod approvingly. “He’s got character.”

“Wait—damn.” One of the legs starts tilting to the side, making the whole thing slouch. “Okay, rude. He’s trying to die.”

You lean in again, nudging the base gently. “Not on my watch.”

Aubrey’s hand bumps yours as you both try to fix it, your fingers brushing, clay smearing across her knuckle. She glances at you, something flickering in her eyes.

You raise a brow. “You’re messy.”

She swipes a streak of clay across your cheek without missing a beat. “So are you.”

“Ohhh. That’s how it is?”

The next thing you know, you’ve got a smear of clay-water on her jaw, and she’s laughing as she retaliates, a bit of clay landing right on your shoulder.

And just like that, it’s chaos.

Water drips across your apron, clay smudges in places clay should not be, and you’re both trying to sculpt and sabotage at the same time. But somehow — somehow — the little dinosaur makes it through.

He’s a little uneven, a little droopy, but adorable in the way only a battle-hardened clay creature could be.

Aubrey looks down at it, then over at you, grinning. “Not bad for our first kid.”

You laugh, the words slipping out before you can catch them. “We’ll put him on the fridge.”

She leans in, just slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d let me near your fridge?”

You meet her gaze, a little breathless. “Maybe.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, but she doesn’t pull back either. Your knees are still touching. Her hair’s falling slightly in her face, and there’s a streak of clay on her jaw you could definitely wipe away — if you weren’t afraid touching her would undo you.

The air between you shifts, thick with something unspoken.

And yet… she just smiles. Picks up the dinosaur gently and sets it on your desk like it’s sacred.

“Same time next week?” she asks casually, like she didn’t almost make your heart stop.

You nod. “Yeah. For sure.”

She starts to stand, but not before brushing her fingers over your wrist, feather-light.

Then she’s gone.

And you’re left staring at the door, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, with clay on your cheek and a little dinosaur on your desk who saw everything.

Next Saturday, late afternoon.

You’ve barely set your brushes down when there’s a knock at the door. You already know who it is — your stomach’s been doing that thing all day. You open the door, and there she is: Aubrey, paint-stained hoodie, curls loose today, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a tiny plastic bag in the other.

“For our son,” she says, wiggling the bag.

Inside? A mini paint set and a tiny foam brush.

You blink. “You got him his own supplies?”

“Excuse me,” she says, stepping inside, “but if he’s going on display, he needs to pop. I thought we agreed he was gonna be a star.”

You close the door behind her, already grinning. “What did you name him?”

Aubrey sets down the supplies and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Blorbo.”

You stare. “Blorbo?”

“It’s his vibe.”

You lose it, leaning on your desk as you laugh. “Our child is doomed.”

But before long, you’re both seated side by side again, paint pots open, paper towels laid out (not that you’ll use them), and Blorbo the Dinosaur front and center like a king about to get his royal paint job.

“He’s going blue,” Aubrey announces, dipping the brush into the paint. “Because he’s cool under pressure.”

You snort. “That’s your reasoning?”

“Also it’s the only color I know how to use without making a mess.”

Five minutes in, you’re already laughing because Blorbo looks like he’s mid-makeover and panicking about it. Aubrey’s trying to do clean edges but keeps overdoing it.

“Careful—you're giving him a racing stripe,” you tease, reaching out to smooth the paint with your brush. Your hand brushes hers again. She doesn’t move away.

You both freeze for half a second, eyes flicking up to meet. Then—

“I meant to do that,” she says, too fast.

“Sure you did.”

She dabs a light blue dot on Blorbo’s back, smug. “Highlight. Boom. Natural talent.”

You tilt your head. “That’s actually not bad.”

“Say it louder.”

You roll your eyes and reach for the spot she missed. She moves closer to see better, and now her shoulder’s pressed against yours. You don’t say anything about it. Neither does she.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs as she watches you work, “if this whole sculpting prodigy thing doesn’t work out, you could always start a custom dinosaur business.”

You raise an eyebrow. “With you as my business partner?”

“Obviously. I’m the branding.”

You lean back, inspecting Blorbo. “Okay. He’s kind of adorable.”

“He’s thriving,” Aubrey says. Then she dips her brush in water, looks at you mischievously, and flicks it—just barely—so a drop hits your cheek.

You gasp. “You did not.”

Her grin is dangerous. “You looked too clean.”

Without thinking, you swipe your brush across her forearm — a streak of blue, bright and bold.

She blinks. “Okay. War.”

The next few minutes are a blur of laughter and chaos — water splashes, streaks of paint, and somehow a dab ends up on the tip of your nose. Aubrey’s laughing so hard she nearly knocks over the water cup, and you end up both trying to catch it, your hands colliding.

You’re both breathless now, flushed, still too close. Paint clings to your skin, your clothes, your shared little world of brushes and ceramic dinosaurs and unspoken tension.

She looks at you — really looks — and something shifts again.

“You’ve got…” She reaches up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. “Paint. Right here.”

Her touch lingers just a second too long.

You swallow. “So do you.”

You press your thumb gently to her jawline, wiping away a smear of pale blue. Neither of you move.

You could kiss her.

You could.

But instead—

“Blorbo’s judging us,” you say, voice soft and teasing.

She grins, leaning in a little closer. “He’ll get over it.”

And then… maybe she doesn’t kiss you.

But it’s damn close

——

Blorbo is officially complete.

He’s a little shiny from the sealant, his ocean-blue body dotted with careful light blue spots, and he looks like the proud, paint-covered child of two artists who had way too much fun arguing over how many dots was “too many.”

You both sit back, admiring him from across the desk.

“He’s a masterpiece,” Aubrey says, brushing dried paint from her wrist. “A little lopsided still, but that’s personality.”

You nod solemnly. “Like his mom.”

She throws a paint-stained napkin at you. “Rude. I’m the artistic one.”

You snort. “Right. You painted the left eye crooked.”

“He was blinking!”

Still grinning, Aubrey leans forward, resting her chin in her hand as she looks at Blorbo. “Okay, real talk… can I take him back with me?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Joint custody. But he should stay at my place first. First artistic child and all.”

You pretend to consider. “Only if you promise visitation rights.”

“Obviously. You can see him weekends and holidays.”

“Mm. Every other Wednesday too.”

“Deal.”

Back in Aubrey’s dorm.

She carefully places Blorbo on her dresser, centered like he’s royalty. She even adjusts a lamp slightly to give him better lighting.

“Look at him,” she whispers to herself. “Our perfect son.”

Before she can revel too long, the dorm door opens and in come a few of the basketball girls — KK, Nika, and Aaliyah, loud and laughing already.

“Aubreeeyyy,” KK sings. “Where’s the masterpiece?”

“I brought him back,” Aubrey says proudly, stepping aside.

They crowd around the dresser.

“Wait,” Nika says, squinting at Blorbo. “You made this?”

Aubrey shrugs casually. “Yeah. With help.”

“With a lot of help,” Aaliyah adds, eyeing her.

KK squints. “No way you did those details. You can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Excuse me?!”

They don’t buy it — and before long, KK’s already pulling out her phone. “We’re going live. People need to see this.”

Live on TikTok.

The comments explode instantly. People remember the last live. The teasing. The tension. The energy.

KK turns the camera toward the dino. “Everyone, meet Blorbo. Aubrey’s son. Also maybe the real star of the show.”

Nika leans in. “He’s like… actually cute. Which is sus.”

“Suspicious because there’s no way Aubrey made something this good,” KK laughs.

“Okay,” Aubrey defends herself, stealing the phone, “first of all, rude. Second of all…”

She turns toward the screen with a smirk and hits accept.

The screen splits. Your face pops up.

The comments go feral.

There’s no greeting. Aubrey just holds up Blorbo dramatically. “Say hi to your other parent.”

You blink. “Is this a custody check-in?”

KK howls off-camera. “YES! We’re trying to figure out which one of you actually made him!”

You shrug innocently. “He has my brushstroke genes.”

Aubrey gasps. “He got your chaos. That was your light blue splatter!”

“He thrives in that environment.”

“Hmm,” she smirks. “Well, just so you know, he’s sleeping on my side of the dresser. You get him next weekend.”

“Oh, we’re doing weekends now? What about mid-week playdates?”

Aubrey grins. “We’ll set up a calendar.”

The team in the background is living for it — loud, dramatic reactions, fake sobs, KK pretending to officiate a custody hearing. And the fans? They’re already clipping the live, comments pouring in faster than anyone can read.

“BLOBRO FAMILY SUPREMACY”

“just kiss already omg”

“when’s the custody swap vlog??”

“@UConnWBB pls give them a reality show”

“this isn’t about a dinosaur anymore is it 👀”

Aubrey looks back at the camera, her smile soft now. “Okay, but like… for real. He turned out so cute.”

You nod. “We did good.”

She catches your gaze through the screen, just a little longer than needed. “We really did.”

“I think he'll need a sister though”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you have any requests please fill free to send them in. 😁😁

[kats-fic-recs]

Kat's Ultimate MUST READ All time Favorite Ushiten Fic Rec Extravaganza

I don't know what it is about these two that has me in a chokehold, but I'm so in love with their relationship. I love a good weirdo x weirdo dynamic, and Ushiten checks off all the boxes for me. I feel as though I've read every single Ushiten fic on Ao3, and so I figured I'd put all of my favorites together in one list for easy access. I've read all the fics below multiple times, and yet they continuously haunt me because of how well written they are.

Canon High School Fics:

1. An Unremarkable Proposal

It's a completely unremarkable Thursday afternoon, and Tendou would have been happy passing the day making out with his boyfriend and never remembering a single thing about it. You know, if Ushijima hadn't suddenly declared that he wanted to marry him.

2. For Luck

the squeeze of a shoulder before a match becomes the brush of hands becomes the soft whisper of lips on a cheek becomes the wet warmth of lips sliding against lips.

“For luck.”

Or, the lie that the kisses are for luck can only last so long.

3. Tending to a Wounded Heart

"Now, Iwaizumi-san, while I am flattered by your interest and must admit you’re very attractive, I must inform you my heart belongs to another, and I’m not sure your dear captain Oikaw-“ Satori wasn’t even able to finish his jest, as a fuming Iwaizumi interrupted him. A blush blooming from his hairline down to his neck.

“I’M NOT HITTING ON YOU, DUMBASS!”

...

After being discovered in the midst of breakdown in the bathroom of Seijoh, Tendou Satori strikes up an unusual friendship with Iwaizumi who seems keen on helping Tendou navigate his own unrequited feelings, despite ignoring his own.

All the while Tendou's teammates are becoming more and more concerned with their blocker's new behavior and mysterious texting buddy.

4. Unforgivable Acts

All Ushijima has to do is apologize for punching a rival school kid in the face, and everything will clear up. Unfortunately, that would require him to admit that defending Tendou was wrong, and he will not do that.

5. Monster

First year Tendou has braces and a lisp. Ushijima is very gay.

6. rainwater

If rain brings Tendou joy, then Ushijima’s happy for him. It’s not something he’ll ever come to personally understand, and he’s certain that he’ll never share the same enthusiasm for water falling from the sky. Rainwater serves a few good purposes, namely helping plants grow and offering moisture to dry land. But Ushijima doesn’t need to be watered. Maybe Tendou does, though that wouldn’t necessarily make sense to Ushijima.

Unsurprising, because not much about Tendou makes sense to Ushijima in the first place. He supposes it doesn’t have to; he appreciates his friendship regardless, but he does wonder sometimes what it must be like to occupy the same headspace as him.

7. Imperfect Facial Symmetry

Tendou Satori has learned to live with the fact that he doesn't have what anyone would consider an attractive face. This wouldn't normally bother him, except now detail-oriented, perfect Ushijima is analyzing his face and producing every overly apparent, crooked flaw in precise graphite strokes.

Ushijima has learned to live with the fact that he doesn't have the ability to read faces, attractive or not. But there's something about Tendou's that he can't put his finger on. He simply cannot get the drawing right.

8. You're really pushing it (but you're going much too slowly)

"Ow, my fingers." Tendou's face contorts into a mock expression of anguish, but there's too much amusement in his brows for Wakatoshi to be fooled. He doesn't let go and instead half-drags the blocker off to the side. But Tendou is not so easily thwarted.

"Wakatoshi-kun! Ow! That hurts!" he squawks evilly, playing dirty by getting Coach Washijou's attention.

"Ushijima! What are you doin' over there?"

Wakatoshi lets go like Tendou's hands are on fire. "Nothing. Sorry."

Post - Canon:

1. bonjour, notre paradis

“You’re telling me,” Tendou says, once Wakatoshi finally gets him on a video call, “that you got drunk as hell, asked Hinata Shouyou—of all people!—if you should go to Paris immediately after announcing that you used to hate him, somehow managed to correctly book a flight despite your clearly impaired decision-making, and then shut your damn phone off after texting me?”

Wakatoshi nods. “That about sums it up.”

//

Japan loses to Argentina in the Olympics. Ushijima Wakatoshi loses—and finds—his way forward.

2. Just Wanna Get A Little Bit Closer

When Ushijima agreed to the photoshoot for a sportswear brand he favors, he didn't think he'd be modeling with his ex. They haven't seen each other in years, not since he broke up with Tendou in an airport and sent the other man back to France, both nursing broken hearts.

(He also didn't think he'd end the day fucking his ex in a bathroom, but no one ever called Ushijima a prophet.)

3. The Elusive Blush of Ushijima Wakatoshi

The first time that Tendou made Ushijima blush was before they started dating.

The second time that Tendou made Ushijima blush was two years after his unplanned confession.

The third time that Tendou made Ushijima blush was on accident, half a decade after his previous success.

.........................................................................

In the entire time that he had known him, Tendou Satori had only managed to make one Ushijima Wakatoshi blush a total of 5 times.

A story of the 5 times that Tendou made Ushijima blush + 1 time that he didn't need to.

4. All For the Love of An Energetic Redhead

Hinata is in Brazil. Tendou is in France.

Kageyama and Ushijima get drunk and make bad decisions about it.

5. polaroids & proposals

Wakatoshi pauses with the huge gift in his lap, hand hovering above its crudely tied bow.

“Wanna guess what it is first?” Satori rocks in place, cross-legged on the floor.

“Hmm,” Wakatoshi looks down at Satori from his spot on the chair, then back at the gift. His eyes are narrow in deep thought, “is it the set of luggage we saw at the store last week? I believe I mentioned needing a new set.”

“Oooh, maybe~” Satori bites his lip, anticipation giving him a slight stomach ache, “guess you’ll find out!”

It’s definitely not a set of luggage. Not even close.

6. the language of belonging

After the camera crew and interviewer bids them goodbye, Satori takes them back to his apartment.

“Why do you feel bad?” Wakatoshi’s hand settles against Satori’s thigh. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. “You have many friends, Satori. To you, our friendship is likely not as important. To me, you were the first person who wanted to know me, save for, perhaps, Sakusa. You made me feel …” He seems to struggle with his words for a moment, before he dips his head a little. Satori marvels at the clear sign of embarrassment. “You made me feel less weird. I never had many friends, and I still don’t. You were my first best friend.”

Suffice to say, Satori is speechless.

Outsider Pov:

1. The Mystery of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s Chocolate-Making, Paris-Living Boyfriend

Ushijima having a boyfriend who lives in Paris and makes chocolates isn’t impossible.

But it is a little unbelievable.

Or, five times someone asked about Ushijima’s love life, and one time no one needed to.

2. The years shall run like rabbits

Ushijima’s mother is not sure what to make of the man her son brings home: he’s too loud, too particular, too fond of her son in a way she thinks is rather inappropriate.

Or, Ushijima Akemi watches her son’s relationship with Tendou change over the years and finds herself changing with it.

Alternate Universes:

1. a lesson in vulcan mineralogy

Tendou is sitting in the captain’s chair.

2. died in my dreams

If anyone asked Ushijima how it came to this, he wouldn’t be able to formulate a proper answer

Or, Ushijima likes his quiet, his order, and his solitude.

That is, until a loud, talkative and a little chaotic cyber tech convinces him that that's just plain boring.

3. Executive Excursion

Tendou is fun, quirky, and interesting.Ushijima is none of the above.

It's no surprise that Ushijima is drawn to Tendou's magnetic personality. What's surprising is that Tendou seems to like Ushijima, too.

With a little support from his coworkers, Ushijima decides to take a chance and ask Tendou on a date. The results are better than expected.

4. Tendou's Bakery for Wayward Soulmates

According to common knowledge—and quite a few highly reputable textbooks—there exist in the universe three kinds of soulbonds: those that manifest spontaneously, those that people are born with, and those that stay hidden until their potential is revealed.

Some soulmates connect easily and instantaneously. But other soulbonds prove to be more stubborn. These bonds require a bit more effort…a certain amount of coaxing before they finally appear.

For those unruly, obstinate souls, there is Tendou’s Bakery for Wayward Soulmates.

5. say what you mean (I wanna be with you)

Good morning, Wakatoshi-kun! Isn’t it such a beautiful autumn day today?

They chatted every day before class; Tendou vivid and excitable, Ushijima muted, but still enjoying himself. Except today, when Tendou had sprinted into class just moments before the lecture began, his cheeks flushed with exertion. He flashed Ushijima a bright smile as he slid into his seat, opened his mouth to say something, and was promptly cut off by the start of the lecture.

Not to be deterred, Tendou had written a note instead.

Ushijima feels silly. It takes him a while to decide on a response that doesn’t make him feel even sillier.

Yes, it is a nice day.

Or: 5 times Ushijima couldn’t make sense of the notes Tendou wrote to him in class + 1 time when it finally clicked.

6. The Tendou Incidents

“Where...have you come from?” Ushijima manages.

“Paris.”

It’s not the answer he expects. Though, somehow Paris seems to fit his expectations of the man standing in front of him. “Mm. That is very — ”

“ — Exciting? Glamorous?” the redhead prompts, obviously proud of his globetrotting accomplishment.

“ — Far.”

The man falters for the first time, like he finds Ushijima’s answer odd — despite being even odder himself — and laughs, infectious and hearty, like Ushijima has made some sort of joke.

One fateful day, a colorful, painfully extroverted young man named Tendou Satori moves into the unit above Ushijima's apartment. He's odd, presumptuous, and — most egregious of all — he's shockingly noisy. And the quiet, scheduled routine Ushijima Wakatoshi lives is forever altered.

7. Consecutive Failures

The moment Tendou presents as an omega he knows Ushijima is the one for him, he just has a few issues telling Ushijima that.

Or

The five times Tendou fails to confess and the one time Ushijima does.

8. everything was red

Ushijima brings it up to his mother exactly once, the strange boy who appears in his room at night.

She tells him that it sounds like he has an imaginary friend, and that at nine years old isn’t he a little bit old for this kind of thing?

He doesn’t bring it up again, though later that night he tells Tendou and Tendou’s eyes go bright, his smile sharp and pointed like a shark.

“Do you think I’m imaginary, Wakatoshi-kun?”

9. Don't bother checking my work (i've never cared for math anyway)

It isn’t until Shirabu’s back at LOCCENT that it really sinks in. Forty-eight wins? An impressive number, true, and a definite sign of Ushijima’s strength, especially compared to Tendou. But in anyone else, an unbalanced score like that would indicate a depressingly low chance of drift compatibility.

Drifting with Ushijima was simple statistically, but potentially deadly realistically. And drifting with Tendou? A veritable nightmare. If not for Washijou’s insistence, Shirabu would have dropped him long ago.

Still, something is calling to him. Something beyond numbers and data projections.

Because Ushijima may have knocked Tendou down forty-eight times. But that means there were forty-nine times he got back up.

10. Day Shift (Night Shift)

Every day, Ushijima Wakatoshi sits down at his nondescript, generic grey cubicle, ready to do sports education work for the JVA.

Every day, there is a letter waiting for him from someone who works on the night shift.

Ushijima doesn’t know who it is. But he always writes back.

11. ENDINGS/BEGINNINGS

New beginnings come only at the cost of other endings. The two cannot survive together. It is not a symbiotic relationship; it is a mutually destructive one.

On the cusp of achieving all of his dreams, professional volleyball player and one time Olympic medalist Ushijima Wakatoshi goes down. One wrong landing, one torn ACL.

In the blink of an eye, his future collapses. His volleyball career ends.

His coach tells him: it’s all over.

His father tells him: Nothing is meant to last forever. Once you learn to let one door close, another will open.

Now Ushijima, aged 24, has to somehow learn how to begin again. He doesn’t know where to start, or if he even wants to. That's where Tendou Satori comes in.

If you've reached this point, I am very impressed lol!

[thefaiao]

seeing your clowns made me go feral since my fixation is cringe and clown flavored

Who let you cook like that who let you cook AUTHHFFH UR ART IS SO COOL IM BEING DRAGGED AWAY

You’re hatching is so fucking inspiring since it’s soMETHING I try to do in my own work I LOVE UR ART

would it be fine to ask what brushes you use? I love ur values also, you’re so so good at shapes and form WAAAA I LOVE UR STUFF. I did dig up an old ask you made iirc, but I’m not sure if it’s changed

Hey! Thank you very much. I'll go through the brushes I use for each program: Drawpile

From what I understand most of these are MyPaint brushes... but I only know them as drawpile brushes because that's what I use. Main ones I've used lately is Irregular Ink and a default brush for coloring

I don't really change the size of irregular ink much and the pressure doesn't matter that much. It has high stabilization which I haven't changed, but I'm sure you could get away with lowering it. For the other brush I'm pretty sure it's a default one that I slightly tweaked (drawpile is a bit bad about communicating what brush exactly you are using to you.) I quite like it because it feels like playing with clay, makes it easy to map out the volume. I use it for those lineless pieces I do from time to time too. I change its size a lot while drawing. I've also used these two, one of the pencil brushes and a second one I stole from Jokioro that I have no idea what is called

I used the first one for the D'arce I did a while ago and the recent VTMB piece. It's great at emulating sketchy graphite pencils, I like layering it to do multi-colored hatching rendering. The second one I don't know how to use super well yet but it's probably my fourth most used as of late. It works very weirdly so if you wanna figure out how to make it work I recommend looking at how Jokioro draws. Clip Studio I bounce around a lot with all the brushes, but I use a loooot of stuff from the Frenden pack. Mainly Meeko Leako for lining and even coloring, it has a great texture to it, very fun

This has been my most used brush for years. It's great for super straight lines and produces a great difference in value between quick lines and thick lines. I haven't used it as much since I picked up drawpile more recently, but it's amazing! Other than that I use the default G-pen when I just want simple lines without much texture

It's a bit ugly at a glance but I think if you lock in it's great for super clean lines, just trying to get the point across without much noise. I also like coloring with it at times, when I'm going lineless. SAI Binary pen. Use the binary pen. It's the best brush ever made

It just feels super right to draw with it, it's so simple but it makes your lines look super slick, and it's just a binary pen. I guess they just got the behavior down perfect for it. But yeah, love this brush. IRL I've always used these archival ink pens in different sizes for basically everything I've done traditionally, and of course just a simple number 2 pencil for sketching and such. I've used a bit of charcoal recently, and been wanting to deep into darker pencils for detail, but this is still the default. I also will probably try out dip pens sometime

That's all I can think of immediately, but I always like to mess around to try and find another great brush, and you should do the same even if you end up using these a lot.

[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.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I read over the neat handwriting scrawled elegantly onto my exam paper, a vivid red ink curling into the praise of 'good boy'. Giddy feeling of accomplishment aside, the ink seems to call to me. The letters are sharp, clean, deep. My hands simply itch to acquire such quality.... I recall the many different pens sprawled over my desk, back at Ramshackle, having bought them after discovering the many stationery and art brands of this foreign world. A few professional grade inking pens, a couple of brush pens, simple, smooth ball point pens...

But wow, this pen looks so good. I need to see it decorating my sketchbook!

"Professor, may I ask something?" I decide to (meekly) approach him one day in the hall. "what type of pen do you use for writing? It's so nice!"

I'd assume at this point most staff would be aware of my love for art, if the doodles I mindlessly draw on the sheets are anything to go by.

If you’re wondering, I used this irl luxury fountain pen as reference for the pricing on Crewel’s. It costs 1,255 USD (/thaumarks), which translates into roughly 125,500 yen (/madol).

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

“You know fine craftsmanship when you see it.” Crewel folded his arms. “However, I’m afraid that particular writing implement is beyond your budget. Providing the name will do you no good.”

“It can’t be that bad,” you protested with a pout. “It’s okay! I’ve buckled down and dined on cup ramen for weeks and weeks before just to save up enough cash for stationary items!”

Crewel’s brows pinched, then loosened, pulling back to their original positions. He tangentially knew of your endeavors, the fruits of your labor tracked in ink and graphite doodles on every homework assignment and exam you turned in.

Those nuggets of gold, diamonds in the rough. The highlights of his busy work days.

He cracked a small smile and indulged your request.

“Very well, let’s see… This item comes from a specialty shop in Fairest City. For another fountain pen of this make and brand, that would set you back about 125,500 madol.”

Your jaw dropped, your eyes threatening to pop out of your skull. “D-Did I hear you correctly?! 125,500 madol?!”

“Yes,” Crewel replied nonchalantly. “I warned you it may be impractical to purchase on a student’s meager allowance.”

Your heart sank, face falling with it. “Urk! I didn’t expect the price to be that steep…”

There’s no way I can afford that on the monthly money the headmaster gives me! If I budget well and save for a whole year, that only runs me about…

Your fingers twitched as you attempted the mental math. Noticing it, Crewel chuckled.

“You’ve plenty of time to enjoy your school days. Someday, you’ll be that fine adult who can afford all the luxury pens they desire,” he advised with a brief pat on your shoulder, “so do not rush to grow up.

“If you inquire at the Mystery Shop, I’m sure Sam can recommend a number of affordable yet high-quality brands. He is sure to have something comparable to the fountain pen I use.”

[twoheartedfool]

hi I have a Scott miller x artist reader request

she enjoys sketching him and likes to chat with him but he’s super cold to her sometimes and blows her off even tho he likes her he’s just oblivious to her feelings and after Javi and Tyler point out how much she likes him he confesses his feelings to her

Heyyyyyy. So sorry I fell off the face of the earth. Really hope this still finds you and you enjoy!

Silly Drawings

Scott Miller x Reader

Artist reader goes down a more “responsible” path and is an intern with StormPAR.

CW: mentions of alcohol, mostly fluff, disgruntled Scott

"Is this all the data from this morning?"

"Yea," you casually tossed over shoulder-

"WAIT!"

Scott's eyes bulged as if you grew an extra head as you lunged at him, hands going to the small book on the bottom of the stack.

"Not- not this one," you clutched the sketchbook close to your chest. Scott followed your fingers as they tightened around the red canvas bound booked. It wasn't larger than 5"x5", frayed at the edges from years of use or maybe just from being carelessly tossed from van to van. Graphite dust smeared across the cover.

He didn't have to speak for you to know what he was saying.

What the fuck?

You responded with a sheepish smile and gestured towards the rest of the papers.

"It's good- the data. This morning gave us good data." Your throat resisted as you swallowed nervously.

Scott stared for another moment, his eyes flicking from yours to the book, back to yours. Then, with a curt nod, he was off.

"Goodnight!"

Your face contorted into a pained wince as you leaned against the van. The sketchbook made a dull thud against your forehead. Find a way to directly tell your brain that you needed to be more careful where you left it.

——

"Yo! Mr. Scott. Have you seen our favorite StormPAR intern?" Boone skidded to a halt in front of Scott just as he was about to enter his motel room. Tyler was following not far behind.

He didn't need to confirm your name to know who they were referring to. All the times he had seen you chatting with one of them over breakfast. Waving when you crossed paths on the road. The frequent interactions often made his skin bristle.

"Yea," he huffed. "She's-"

No longer by the van.

Tyler bit his tongue watching Scott's eyes now scanning the crowded motel parking lot with the subtlest pout. He knew that look. The edge that crawled up someone's spine when the safety of the person they cared about was now unconfirmed. It was instinctual, protective, not possessive.

It was sappy.

It was funny as hell to Tyler.

"Aw, damn," Boone pouted as he clocked Scott's face now, too. "We were supposed to go over mockups for our next t-shirt."

That made Scott look back down. Why were you doing merchandising with another team? Why were you doing merchandising?

Tyler stepped forward before his questions could be answered.

"Hey, let me ask you something."

Scott waited with a blank face.

"How long have you known her?"

"She started interning this spring," Scott replied with a quirked eyebrow. This was common knowledge. You were graduating with a Bachelor of Science. You had taken a few years off after high school. This was your first job on the field, gaining more experience before applying elsewhere. Despite the lack of experience, you were a good addition to the team. You were diligent, capable, beautiful—

Common knowledge.

"Really? You just seem like you've known each other for longer. You ever..." Tyler's voice trailed off and Scott's jaw ticked. Tyler's hands immediately went up in innocence, his charming laugh echoing. Even he couldn’t help but be rattled by the cold chill that erupted from Scott's stormy gaze.

"Didn't mean nothing by it. You just fit well together is what I’m saying. She’s clearly likes you.”

Something else brewed underneath the stormy gaze. Scott’s grasp tightened around his papers before adjusting his hat.

“That’s not- She’s- No.”

Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. A bark of a laugh exploded from a few feet away. Javi stood by a cooler, blatantly eavesdropping as he opened a beer.

“Relax, man,” he called over.

“She’s just doing her job,” Scott justified lowly.

“Yea, I don’t think the way she looks at you is a part of her job,” Javi retorted. “She doesn’t look at me like that.”

Scott simply shook his head. “I’m going to bed. And you should, too.”

The conversation ended with the slam of his motel door.

——

Your heart lurched the next morning at the knock of the side of the truck. Then lurched again when your eyes met blue ones. You had your feet up on the dash, doors open, and sketchbook in your lap.

“Scott-“ you gasped.

“Morn-“ his voice caught when he glanced down at your lap. A very realistic drawing of very familiar eyes caught his attention first. Then the nose. The same jawline he saw in the mirror this morning peaked through your fingers as you tried to casually hide the image.

“Is that me?”

You looked down at your trembling fingers. With a shaky laugh, you moved them to reveal more. No use in hiding it now.

“Um, yea. It is. Scott-“ He was pulling the book gently from your lap. “Scott.”

He cradled the book in his large hand, more delicately than you had ever seen him. He flicked through the previous pages. Other members of the team. Renderings of coffee cups and barns. Him. More him.

“You did these?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t want a scared animal to run off.

“Yea,” you whispered. You barely heard it over the blood rushing in your ears. “You’re kind of beautiful, you know that?”

There was a lull of silence between you. His eyes met yours and you excepted to see annoyance, rejection. But instead it was a softness, clouded slightly by the calculations whirring through his head. Calm slowly started to ease back into your body. He tilted his head down, breaking your gaze, before he spoke again.

“What are you doing here?”

“Look, Scott, I’m sorry. I won’t waste anymore time with my silly drawings-“

“No.”

You blinked at him. He was looking at you again. He had the same look of stubbornness he usually did when something wasn’t right and he knew it.

“You do good work here. That’s undeniable. But this…"

He shook his head as if the words failed. Scott, so intelligent, so articulate, could not find the words to describe the sketch he held in his hand.

“What are you doing here? Why be out here chasing tornados when you should be clearly doing something else?”

“I tried,” you shrugged. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“That is not-“ your eyes widened slightly at the growl in his voice. He restarted with a deep breath. He shook his head again, chuckling at an unspoken joke before handing the sketchbook back to you finally.

“I’m not going to pretend I know shit about art. But if I know anything it’s that you’re good enough.”

You’re perfect.

There was another comfortable lull as your ears went red at the intensity of his gaze. His tongue flicked over lips in a nervous tick. Before you could register what was happening, his lips found your cheek. Gone quickly but the tingle on your skin remained. His large frame filled the truck’s doorway as he leaned over you.

“Ride with me today?” He asked.

“Sure. I’d like that,” you responded with a coy smile. The corner of his own mouth ticked upward in a lopsided grin. He leaned away with a short nod and he was gone.

[smootnytechnik]

"It was never about the banner" - fragment

A short & sweet Treebark comfort fic for y'all! Enjoy

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61971067

Martyn groaned in frustration, tearing out another page from his notebook. He crumpled it into a tight ball, then tossed it away, not even watching where it landed. He pulled the notebook over his map of the server, then began tracing the lines of the most important bases. It was better to roughly sketch over the area, add his own notes, and fiddle with it until he was confident in his plan. If he started drawing on the map right away, he would've had to toss it away ages ago. 

"C'mon... Think, think, think..." He hummed to himself, chewing on the unsharpened tip of his pencil. He still had an aftertaste of graphite in his taste after he bit into the wrong end once. After roughly tracing the locations of Dogwarts, Crastle and Monopoly Mountain, he began sketching over it. "Okay, okay, we can't go straight to Crastle... Unless we could trap it, somehow... Ugh, but we don't have the numbers! If there were six of us, four could chase them towards the desert and two could lay down traps... Stupid Impulse, I hate him so much..."

"Me Hand?"

"Okay, okay, no traps then... And no dividin'... I guess it'd be easier to begin from the desert... Still, that'd be three against four, and if the Crastle folks get us from behind..."

"Hand...?" Ren carefully approached Martyn, trying his best to not startle him. The knight was clearly on edge, and anything that looked even slightly like an attack would probably trigger his fight or flight response. And at that point, he'd probably go straight to fight.

"Unless we bait them out, somehow... Ugh, but how...? Okay, wait, let's start again..."

"Martyn?"

Upon feeling a soft touch on his arm, Martyn's whole body entered a panic. His instincts immediately kicked in. He grabbed the hand that touched him and threw his supposed opponent over his arm, then grabbed his sword and immediately put it up to their neck. It took him a second, before the startled whimpering of the 'enemy' hit him - and he saw his king's scared, but simultaneously impressed eyes peeking from over his sunglasses. Why did he not take them off even during the night? Martyn gasped and immediately released his hold on the other man.

"Oh my word! My lord, I'm so sorry!" He took a step back. "I- I didn't mean it, I swear... I was too focused to notice you..."

"I can tell, lad" Ren chuckled, still quite dazed by the knight's swift reaction. "You scared the life out of me..."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"It's fine, really!" The king pulled himself up, fixing his glasses which slid off his nose upon the impact. "I just wanted to check up on you, man... Are you okay?"

[autumnlikeabreeze]

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57571189

Tim lets out a harsh breath, fiddling with the cord of his earbuds as the announcer proclaims their flight delayed by another three hours.

Damian looks up from his sketchbook, eyebags carved into olive skin as he shares a long-suffering look with Tim.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, none of the usual haughtiness in his tone. The kid is clearly exhausted—three flights from New York to San Francisco wearing away at his patience and leaving the bare-bones of his pride in its wake. Tim would poke fun if he wasn’t so dead on his feet himself.

“We can go get fries at one of the food courts?” He offers, because in the last thirty-six hours they’ve been traveling he swears he hasn’t seen the brat eat a single thing.

Damian ducks his head, sleep tugging at the corner of his expression as he sets down the graphite pencil in his hands. He’s drawing a sketch of Dick, smile lines and all. “I’m not hungry.”

[pony-central]

Crying TV Tropes That Apply to My Comic Characters

Berserker Tears - Sick Boyfriend started crying these while breaking up with Sick Girlfriend upon discovering that she never really liked him.

Bleed 'Em and Weep - in the Lost Media comic "Confronting Yourself", Sick Boyfriend started to cry once he unintentionally murdered his Anti-self

Crocodile Tears - Sick Boyfriend once did this to convince his teacher to let him skip his final two exams in school. This plan of his worked. DrugFriend also picked up this skill when he was convincing his dad to let him go Trick or Treating when he was five

Cry Into Chest - "Confronting Yourself" had SBF sob into his mums chest. The same thing happened at his 17th birthday party. DrugFriend also cried in Sick Boyfriend's chest after being fired from his job at FFFFE

Cry Laughing - Sick Boyfriend usually sheds tears of laughter whenever DrugFriend is called 'Drugsy Wugsy', often wetting himself afterwards

Crying a River - once Sick BF cried a fountain of tears because he had developed stage fright at the age of nine. Boyfriend is also no stranger to doing this

Crying at Your Birthday Party - see "Cry Into Chest". Sick Boyfriend once cried at his 17th birthday party upon waiting for his dad to show up

Crying Critters - the Lost Media comic called "Pet Daze" had Mrs Snickers crying once she was sent back to the pet store she came from

Everybody Cries - so many times where multiple people cried. One mega example is when Sick PonyCentral was crying over the possibility of dying to Nathan's demented father, as seen in Love at First Bite The Sequel. This caused Naughty PonyCentral to cry, and Boyfriend also started crying as well. Another example is when 95% of Parodies Town were crying over The Titanic movie

Heartbreak and Ice Cream - it was shown in VoreTober that Sick Boyfriend was crying and eating strawberry ice cream

Inelegant Blubbering - Sick PonyCentral, Sick Boyfriend, DrugFriend and a variety of characters do this, most often followed by sniffling

It's OK To Cry - in Mother's Day Mayhem, Freund tried desperately to hide his tears from PonyCentral during a therapy session. It didn't take long for him to burst into tears on the spot

Manly Tears - James Matric (Panchito Boyfriend). Whenever he sees a sad movie, he sheds a single tear

Men Don't Cry - heavily subverted.

My Eyes Are Leaking - most of the characters are subject to this trope

Ocular Gushers - Sick Boyfriend whenever he's reminded of DrugFriend in the remastered version of "A Boy Gotta Work". Sick PonyCentral also does this in LAFB TS after she found out that Sick Patrick was held hostage by Mr Files

Prone to Tears - Sick Boyfriend, based on my AU of him. He will resort to crying in distressing situations. DrugFriend and Sick PonyCentral also tend to start crying at the drop of a hat, and it also doesn't take much to cause Naughty PonyCentral and Nathan to cry as well. In fact, everyone in the PonyCentral universe, including PonyCentral herself, will all start crying for different reasons

Puppy-Dog Eyes - happens whenever begging is optional

Running Away to Cry - DrugFriend after he got fired from his job at FFFFE

Single Tear - James Matric (Panchito Boyfriend). See Manly Tears for the explanation

Tears of Awe - in "Love at First Bite Part 7", Naughty PonyCentral cries these after giving birth to a baby girl. In the bathtub. With the water still in the tub. It's a miracle that the baby survived

Tears of Fear - Sick Boyfriend whenever he sees a needle. Or gets scared of lightning

Tears of Joy - Sick PonyCentral once she sees her newborn baby girl for the first time

Trying Not to Cry - Freund whenever someone asks him about his mum

Your Makeup is Running - whenever Sick PonyCentral cries, her mascara spills down her face

Unable to Cry - Steven Graphite, AKA The DoodleBob Boyfriend. Makes sense since he is a sentient 2D drawing

Tasty Tears - Benedict Gumballs. He is a sentient Popsicle, so his tears are blueberry flavoured

[annawayne]

Hi Anna!

*Slides u a paper in secret*

2,5,10,11,12,15

(Not sure how many I can ask but u can chose from there 🫠)

Hi! Thank you so much for asking! :3 And, oh, don't worry, if you're interested, I could answer all of it, it's okay! Thank you for interest. 2. Share your favorite part of your first ever fic

It's Bury me in the shadows of spring, 1920's AU, and I also answered it here! But I would like to add another moment, from chapter 3:

Her palms are the same - small fields of late winter when the snow is already gone, but nature hasn't bloomed with the variety of green yet, exposing to the view all the naked ground worn out from chilly breath. All her palm lines are like the trodden trails on the field of someone determined to reach their goals.  They are the same, and she couldn’t help but wonder how they managed to draw like this.   How?  She couldn't master a simple outline, and now she was facing the canvas, flooded with various marks of her drawings. The swollen colorful pastel forms, the confident strokes, and yet light like the feather cast a shadow in the gentle morning light, the timid charcoal touches, everything told the story of the intimate, self-esteemed abandon- hers or his, the question still wonders in the air. All the sketched figurines of him fuse with the intensity of the arduous honesty, foremost- before herself. Now Annie has witnessed the sense of what she's capable of - truly, unclouded by the bad-mouthing of others and rotten self-doubt. But how? An untamed hurricane of stormy lines flexed in spontaneous places as if all her buried desires turn into the idealized forms of nature itself - savage, agile, and independent. The color melody of simple graphite pencils, the intense dark from charcoal, and the slight touches with the vibrating gold, deep purple, and russet oranges from pastel, create so little space to breathe for his painted version in the narrow space of the canvas, that she felt almost a little guilty she didn't spare some air to continue for him to be in this pure form of sensations.  Annie couldn't tear her gaze away from her sketches, and wild goosebumps ran down her skin with frightening excitement.  When did the short lines become so sensual? When did the charcoal blending become so carnal?  When did the pastel intensify the fury of devotion? 

5. Write about Armin and Annie's first meeting! Could be in canon settings or any other AU Hm, let's try the canon! Since they met (non-directly) as i child I won't cover this point, so my headcanon in their Training days is that they didn't speak at the first, but looking at each other from the distance for several reasons (Armin - admiring Annie's strength and observing her unique technique (and also I guess he didn't miss how gorgeous she is), Annie - observing him and considering as a threat due to his intelligence and attention to details, but also admiring his guts and bravery). But the first direct interaction I headcanon as their accidental meeting in the library in the barracks, where Armin read a book and Annie wanted some peace too. This meeting became a little routine for both of them then, where they talked, talked, talked and discovering more about each other :3 10. Write about their first kiss!

Answered it here :3 11. What annoys you the most about your own writing habits? 12. What's a trope you'd never write? Why?

Also answered it here and here!

15. Write a hurt/comfort/angst moment between them

I'd go with hurt/angst moment, but let's try something new (lol) and comfort! So I headcanon that Annie gave Armin her ring before parting ways before the final battle (yeah-yeah, in anime we see her ring after they separated, but HEY I can dream). I tried to explore it in this oneshot one of the possible scenarios, but also I could imagine it happening right on a ship deck, after their confessions, or, maybe, at the night in Odiha (that's even better) :3

[capesandquills]

Tale 20- The Box of Dreams

 The Traveler arrived in a quiet area of a town, where a man was watering some flowers from behind a gate, the girl stopping to observe him. He was focused, and careful with the method, trying to make sure each bud got the nourishment it needed in equal amounts, not too much, not too little. He then turned, noticing her, a smudge of graphite on a perfect painting, and gently smiled, giving her a warm greeting. Shyly, she gave a nod, before staring down at the flowers, the man opening the gate to let her take a closer look. One of the buds suddenly sent its petals flying toward her, where they landed atop her hood. Gently, the man plucked one off as she brushed them away, and stared at her. “A chrysanthemum. Commonly associated with death.” he spoke, before handing the petal to her. She felt its soft texture on her palm, and rubbed it between her fingers- it was little, but held a world of meaning, much like her book. The man then finished watering his plants and headed toward  a small shed, unlocking it with one of the keys attached to his belt, before another fell. Rushing to help, the Traveler picked it up- it was strange, shaped like a sun and cut extremely precisely, different to a regular door key. The man turned, gently taking it from her. “This key is special…” he mused, before motioning her to follow him inside the shed, ready to tell the tale of ‘the Box of Dreams’

‘Years ago, long before the birth of our generation, a couple came into possession of a box, a deep purple box with mosaics and carvings intricately decorating the outside. The couple were happy together, and filled the box with dreams that they shared, keeping them safe by locking the box. However, as they grew older, and had a child, these dreams became forgotten, replaced with thoughts of more worldly ideals and affairs. Eventually, the child’s parents died and he was going through their items, choosing what he could sell and what was sentimental, and came across the box in a corner of the attic, finding the key and opening it. The dreams were dissipating, due to their owners having died and failed to cultivate them, and soon disappeared altogether. The boy, now worried about the box being empty, almost put his own dreams in the box for safekeeping, before realizing the counterproductivity of that action. Instead, he used the box to store items he used to make his dreams come true, one at a time, such as his gardening tools, and thus was far happier and successful at pursuing his dreams by, quite literally, thinking outside the box.’

The Traveler looked down as he unlocked the box, pulling out a small shovel, before giving her a smile and passing her a quill, just in case she ever needed a replacement. Surprised and touched by the gesture, the Traveler tested it on a spare piece of paper, drawing a chrysanthemum and placing it inside the book, so she would never forget the kindness of the gardener. Departing, she closed the gate behind her, and took one last look at the man as he began planting new seeds. New plants, and perhaps, new dreams, would soon bloom.

[sadgirllbbadgirl]

Process Note (part 2)

I think another way that I could have clearly displayed it would be a graphite drawing of someone with colorful tears or something of that nature, something more simple with a direct idea whether it is basic or not. When it came down to organizing the tumblr page I was quite lost at where to begin. I don't know how it should be separated best for the audience. Just so I don't over complicate things I did it within sections. I dont think it's the most aesthetically pleasing but if they go in order from the start of the blog to the current post they will come to an understanding of my argument. Rather than everything benign sectioned off into their own separate post with information about the objects and articles separately. During this process I realized I had an improper link for one of my scholarly articles. When I had imputed it into one of my posts it didn't load through. That is when I realized I had incorrectly copied it over. So I had to spend more time researching for the article that I had lost. Thankfully I was able to find it and add it to my Scholarly Articles SEction. I really do wonder if there could've been a more appropriate way to organize my tumblr age and if my is seen as disorganized. Since there isn't a direct concrite direction. Next time if I could change some things that I did during this project I would begin by being more on top of the research and start of the project. I had gotten sidetracked within my other work and Certain aspects of the project that had to be completed slipped my mind. Which overall could have affected the quality of the peace. Next would be to try to come to more classes just so I have the opportunity to engage with  my peers and even if I'm not directly talking to them, hearing the questions they have about the project can always be beneficial. I think I let a lot of my nervousness and personal life and self conflicts get in the way of everything and rather than facing the issue head on I've been pushing it away to the side. I want to be more involved next time to ensure the best quality of content I know I can produce.

[artleaguemdcnorth]

DRAWING CLASS - ASYNCHRONOUS THURSDAY 10/26/23

This class will review the instructions for the Midterm on Tuesday of next week.

For today, choose 4-5 objects from the selection of objects you will be using for the midterm.

You are working on a preliminary study of what will become the possible composition for Midterm that will begin next week.

This is just a study to analyze the narrative and the composition.

Use a light source to emphasize the direction of light. And work with graphite pencils so you can get used to it.

We will discuss at large the information below next week on Tuesday.

For now , read the instructions below , write down questions you might need to ask next week in class.

Bring the study to class on Tuesday so we can review and critique your study.

Materials for Midterm, see below:

Choose between buying handmade paper below or using Bristol

Bristol or

Arches handmade paper , 22x30 , hot press 120lbs.

Graphite pencils ONLY .

Kneaded eraser.

MIDTERM ASSIGNMENT - Review

This assignment is going to take many hours of work beyond class time.

A good assignment starts with a good prop.

I have been trying to instill that idea on all of you since the first day.  

There is no reason to have a pop tart box in your midterm assignment or an olive oil bottle unless you are making a statement about nutrition or genetically modified ingredients in foods.

There are two components to your assignment this time, narrative and technical skills.

Narrative relates to your critical thinking skills and technical relates to your ability to define form through value.

You need to find a lighting condition that can let you express form. Adding a lamp or directional light will help you create a dramatic effect.

You will be using graphite pencils that range in value from HB to B8 .

Using a pencil requires that you use the side on the lead and not the point.

You do not want to scratch the paper , you want to render soft values that are blended as you work.

Smudging the paper is not a solution to developing values.

Value is developed by using various pencil grades.

HB is middle tone.

B1 is lighter than B4 but darker than HB.

I suggest you do some value charts with your pencils on your sketchbook .

Get in the habit of testing your values as you work.

Another tip that I can share, is that you use a tissue paper so that you do not smudge and stain the paper as you work.

This assignment will be graded at 30% of your overall class grade.

It is important that you treat the execution with outmost care.

I  included below an A grade assignment from a previous student for you to consider as you begin your assignment.

You will have time to work on this beginning Thursday Nov.2 through Nov. 20 at 5 pm,  TO COMPLETE THIS ASSIGNMENT.

You will be working on this assignment at home on your own. 

I will look into giving you class time on to also work on it.

You will also need to work on this assignment during Thursdays and homework time .

Tuesday 5/21st , bring the completed assignment for a class for a critique.

The work by Lorena below took 40 hours to get to that stage of development. You can not work on this assignment for 40 hours at a time.

It will require a slow and methodic engagement of many days and weeks to complete this.

Do not procrastinate, pace yourself, it can be done.

Homework time after class beginning today :

Make sure to post progress on your Tumblr for each day you are working on this assignment. i want students to show progress of assignment from the first day to the last.

Include a photo of your still life reference only on for the first day of this sequence , meaning today.

This is a Midterm Exam grade worth 30% of your overall class grade and you have to do it on your own.

I can not give you suggestions , I have already given you two examples of what an A grade assignment looks like.

This assignment can not look like your class work.

It needs to be superior in quality and content.

I have provided you with tools, artworks, history and other information to assist you in doing a good job.

Now you need to rise to the occasion to meet this challenge.

IMPORTANT NOTES AND TIPS :

1) Unless you are a shoemaker you should not include shoes in your drawing.

2) You should not include objects that are larger than the rest of your objects (footballs, basketballs, guitars, golf bag).

3) Your Still Life needs to be in a proper pedestal , table or platform with a backwall and proper lighting source.

4) I will include a video above of how to make a shadow box to improve your lighting and your imagery.

It is up to you if you want to use it or not.

This is a tool used by artist to create an atmosphere and lighting ambience for drama.

The shadow box can not be included in your drawing is just a tool to help you see shadows and value contrasts.

5) You cannot use charcoal pencils only Graphite Pencils.

6) Your objects cannot float so you must include reference to the horizon line , that is were your platform and the wall meet.

7) There are other students in this class, reach out to them. Feel free to seek peer support from each other back and forth. Share suggestions and photos and process of your work .

Tuesday is the day to ask any questions during class.

Bring all questions at that time.  

Please see student work below:

Excellent Artwork

Good set up but with an unfinished background.

A

B

C

Remember today you are doing what we call a preliminary study using only 5-6 objects and studying how light shapes the forms.

Bring your work to class on Tuesday.

MATERIALS FOR NEXT TUESDAY :

BRISTOL PAPER

BLACK INK

BRUSHES