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spinningwebsandtales · 1 year ago

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Imagine Going For A Joy Ride With Mirage

Mirage X Human FemReader

Rating: T

Warnings: Suggestive themes, Mirage is a jerk, teasing

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) Transformers Rise of the Beasts is taking over my brain. While Optimus is my absolute favorite and always will be. There’s other characters I adore and Mirage is being added to that list. He really made the movie and I loved some of his lines. He made me laugh. I’m sure I’m not the only one who would enjoy an imagine with Mirage so I had to write one. I had this idea and it wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it anyway. So enjoy my Transformers madness, there may possibly be more where this came from! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Mirage was becoming antsy the more he had to lay low. Optimus had given strict orders that they were supposed to stay hidden and with no human contact. Which was hard when all you wanted to do was transform and stretch your peds. Mirage became grumpy if he couldn’t have any fun and he blamed it all on Optimus, so many times he disobeyed orders. Finding secluded areas to transform and just disrupt his mundane existence. One night you really disrupted everything. Mirage had thought that he had picked the perfect place at night to enjoy some time of freedom, when he spied a figure in the shadows. What you were doing there had completely left your mind when you saw the large mechanical being. With a scream you tried to run away only to be caught and trapped inside the cab of a silver and blue Porsche. No matter how much you tried the handle or kicked the window you couldn’t escape, when the car talked and froze you in your panic.

That’s the night Mirage met you and you met Mirage. While you liked the Cybertronian he was more fond of you and actually having a friend to talk to. He was easy going and made you laugh, though he could be overwhelming at times when he was really wanting to do something. His favorite though was joy riding. Your screams and panicked pleas gave him that jolt he was missing when he drove by himself.

You had met up with Mirage in the same spot as usual. The mech was pacing back in forth, watching you intensely as you sat on your regular rubble strewn spot. You would either sketch or read while he cracked jokes and tried to butt into what you were doing. You could feel his optics staring straight through you, making it hard for you to concentrate. With a sigh you shut your sketch book and turned towards him. He perked up now that he saw that he had your attention.

“What is it Mirage,” you asked. “If you stare at me any harder you’ll melt me with your laser beams.”

“I don’t have those sweetheart,” he chuckled. “But it would be awesome I did!”

“Mirage! Focus please,” you couldn’t help but laugh as he shook his head getting back to the topic at hand.

“I want to go joy riding,” he knew as soon as he asked, you would refuse. Though he did have his ways to make you say yes. You were a sucker if he brought out the water works or the sad optics. You were such a pushover and he loved that about you.

“Absolutely not,” you shrieked. Before Mirage could say anything else, you bolted. He sighed at your futile attempts to escape him. He picked you up from the ground, your protests echoing through the ruined building.

“Relax,” Mirage held you gently. You kicked and fruitlessly tugged at a digit trying to loosen his grip. Mirage held firmly so you gave up while still glaring viciously at him.

“I don’t wanna go for a “joy ride” Mirage! I’m going to die of a heart attack one of these days with your crazy driving!”

“Hey,” he scoffed, “I don’t drive crazy.”

“Oh excuse me reckless then,” you snarled.

“Thank you,” Mirage paused. “Hey!”

“My species is on the verge of extinction every time you take to the road Mirage!”

“At least you’ll be safe.”

“Oh sure that makes me feel so much better,” you threw your hands up and huffed.

The mech didn’t continue to argue with you, wordlessly transforming with you still in his grip. He plopped you into the passenger seat, your seatbelt buckling itself around you with a little extra squeeze. Mirage’s tires squealed as he peeled out, causing you to grip the seat with fingernails dug into the material.

“Loosen up sweetheart you’re hard on the merchandise,” Mirage’s voice came over the radio. His tone echoing with happiness. You kicked the dash in retaliation.

“I’ll show you hard on merchandise Mirage!”

He chuckled darkly and sped up, the acceleration pinning you back into the seat. Despite his teasing, Mirage did go a little easier this time letting you enjoy the ride more than the other times. After the initial anger and fear had left you actually began to laugh. After Mirage made his way back, he did a few donuts before finally coming to a stop. Your hair was messy and your cheeks were flushed when he finally opened the door, letting you out. Your legs were wobbly and walking was rough until Mirage came to your side and you were able to rest a hand on him for support.

“Having fun,” he grinned.

“Oh yeah tons. I love having jello legs,” you snorted making him laugh.

“Wanna go again? I like having you inside of me, holding on tightly.”

“Please don’t say it like that,” you choked. “It sounds weird when you say it like that!”

The large mech knew what he did to you and he enjoyed making you flustered. He also liked making you laugh or hold on tightly when you felt a twinge of fear at his reckless driving. But in all honesty he could never bring himself to hurt you. He had felt so lonely until he found you and now you were making the days worthwhile until Optimus was ready to make a move. Until then Mirage would enjoy the moments he got to be with you. He watched you trying to tug a knot from your hair before scooping up your abandoned sketch book. You noticed him staring again, but this time there was no mischievous look in his optics or features. A touch of sadness could be seen until it melted into his usual cocky look. You shook your head but walked over to him anyway, looking up towards him.

“I’m glad I met you Mirage,” you spoke.

He nodded happiness welling in his spark, “I’m glad too.”

#Mirage X Reader #Mirage / Reader #Mirage #Transformers #Mirage Imagine #Transformers Imagine #Transformers Rise of the Beasts #TfMirage #Not My Gif #My Writing

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rainybubbles · 7 months ago

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Draw me, love me- Soap x reader

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

"Will you ever draw me, Johnny?"

His eyes fixed on me. With his pencil suspended, he stopped drawing.

"I don't think so, it's merely a pastime," he responded, his tone almost aloof.

"But you've drawn Lizzie, haven't you?"

"That's different."

My lips tightened, my gaze dropping to the ground. A knot of bitterness formed in my throat. If there was one lesson I had gleaned from Johnny, it was that he would never sketch me.

(Never would he love me.)

—-------------------------

-It's quite ironic that our friendship began amidst charcoal and erasers, in a small village lost in Scotland, the only art class for miles around.

-We were the only two students of Madame McGuire, a housewife desperately seeking occupation. Looking back, she was a failed artist. But my parents wanted to cultivate a passion in me, and when my rugby endeavors left me with more broken bones than joy, they finally realized that sports weren't my ally.

-So, at the tender age of 8, I entered that house feeling anxious, and there he was, covered in charcoal up to his nose.

-Seeing him laugh kicked off our sketches.

A stroke of pencil led by questions, followed by a few strokes of erasers as we got to know each other, and slowly our friendship sketch took shape in that decrepit house. Sheet after sheet, our sketches brought us together, his energy was indomitable.

"Hey, will you ever be an artist?" he asked.

It was the first time I was asked the question without disdain. No implication, no 'but think of something else.'

"I don't know," I replied.

That was a lie.

I knew.

I wanted to be, but I didn't dare to dream about it.

"I think you should try; you've got cute pigtails like artists," he said.

"Do all artists have pigtails?" I asked.

"They have quirky hair, my mom says so."

I paused, releasing my marker.

"In that case, my dad can never be one," I admitted sadly.

"Why?" John asked, curious.

"He's bald."

He handed me his favorite marker and resumed his coloring.

"Oh, that's sad for him," he sighed.

"At least he can look like Mr. Clean."

"Is he cool?" he asked.

"...not really," I replied.

"Mine isn't cool either," he said.

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

"When I was born, he left. And now he tries to knock on the door, but my mom won't let him."

"What do you do then?" I asked.

"I threw a bucket of glitter at him," he said.

"Did it work?" I asked.

"Yeah, but now I'm out of glitter for next time," he replied.

"Try charcoal, it stains. Last time, I was covered, and my mom screamed."

"I'll try that," he said.

They were ridiculous sketches, full of stick figures, houses with square windows, and purple-skinned people. But it was our art, our relationship.

_______________________

Slowly, during high school, I found myself gravitating towards the art club, which was slightly larger than Madame McGuire's classes, with a modest increase from one classmate to three. Admittedly, a four-person club crammed into the janitor's closet didn't boast much, but it held a special place in my heart.

Deep down, I harbored a hope that John would join us.

Yet, he opted for the rugby club, and gradually, we drifted apart. While my sketches remained monochrome, his days overflowed with vibrant social interactions.

I felt like a dull canvas, yearning for a splash of color. Meanwhile, he effortlessly embodied a lively watercolor.

Attempts to reconnect faltered. Our conversations in the hallway, the offering of sketchbooks, the inquiry about his artistic pursuits—all met with fleeting gestures, mere nods. In hindsight, I should have recognized my insignificance compared to his bustling world.

Thus, I embarked on a solitary journey from sketches to hues.

It was a daunting, lonely, and unattractive endeavor.

Progress eluded me.

My phone remained silent, notifications reduced to mindless spam, and evenings lingered in the quiet company of my parents.

Weekends became my sanctuary for artistic expression, while weekdays served as a means to evade familial interactions. The cycle persisted.

I found myself trapped in a cycle of sketching, erasing, and doodling, endlessly switching between pencils in a desperate attempt to breathe life into my ideas. Meanwhile, he effortlessly thrived, seamlessly integrated into his vibrant world.

I resented him.

(I resented myself.)

__________________________________

In our second year, Johnny left the rugby club.

No one quite knew why the golden boy, the one so highly touted to future recruiters, would do such a thing, but he did.

That was Johnny now.

No longer the tentative, hesitant charcoal sketch, but a permanent ink drawing.

So, one evening, when I caught sight of his silhouette at the art club, I realized he was back for good.

I didn't know how to take the news.

Embarrassed, I tucked my sketchbook under my arm.

"John," I greeted as I settled in.

"I wanted to apologize, y/n I- I didn't behave well."

"No, no. You've evolved, and that's normal, we can't always stay with the same people."

That's what I kept telling myself.

Adults say stuff like that.

My mom says it when my dad comes home too late, ignoring the scent of perfume on his jacket and the divorce papers in the drawer.

"But still, I missed you. I loved making you laugh and our moments together, and I let all that get to my head."

"...okay," I finally said.

Johnny smiled and handed me a blank page.

"For a fresh start."

"It's your history evaluation, but I appreciate the metaphor."

He apologized and offered another sheet.

That evening, I could finally sketch in peace, with him standing behind me, ink in hand.

Sure, I remained a hesitant pencil, but at least Johnny was there to catch every one of my missed strokes.

Finally back, I felt relieved.

_____________________________

In our final year, something shifted.

Johnny abruptly traded his black ink for bold strokes of red oil paint.

Nothing but red.

His once vibrant gaze darkened, leaving me puzzled by the change.

His aspirations for college faded into whispers, his focus elsewhere, perhaps lost in that obsessive red.

"You're painting a lot in red these days."

"It's my preference."

"Why not... try something else?"

"Are you really the one suggesting that to me?"

I hesitated, unsure of what more to add.

Sure, I remained within the comfortable confines of our village, with pencils, sketches, good grades, the compliant, quiet person, destined for college, but—

I knew.

My life wasn't a venture but a dreary routine.

Yet, why did he feel the need to emphasize it? To dismiss my art like that, to belittle it?

Tears threatened to spill, and I bit down on my lip.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I—things have changed."

"You said that last time too."

"But it's true, I— I'm enlisting, y/n."

Only later did I discover the passing of his military uncle. That's what had altered everything. Johnny sought to shield others, to mold his painting into a formidable barrier.

"I understand."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Would you prefer I voice my thoughts? About turning young lives into cannon fodder for people seated in diplomatic chairs? It's not wise, John."

"Y/n, it's not—"

"We don't see eye to eye on this, John. And we never will. So, best of luck, I suppose."

"Thank you."

It marked the first time I expressed my opinion without trembling, without yielding, without erasing it.

For once, I had wielded black ink too.

_________________________

Madame McGuire threw a massive party, a couple of years after we graduated. John kept texting me for New Year's, Christmas, and my birthday. I replied, and that was about it. Everything turned cold after he left. Despite the confidence I gained, I struggled to channel it into my drawings, which were buried at the bottom of my drawers beneath my college coursework. I had given up on art.

"Hey, y/n."

Or so I thought. But seeing him standing there, smiling at me, my only thought was to capture him on canvas so I could observe him every day.

"John."

I couldn't finish my sentence before he enveloped me in a hug. His arms had definitely tripled in size, and his hair was styled in a ridiculous egghead cut, a far cry from the mullet he once dreamed of.

"I'm trying to imitate your dad, it seems," he said, referring to his haircut.

"I bet you cried when they shaved it off," I teased.

"Maybe," he grinned.

It was funny; our exchanges seemed fluid again, our pigments blending once more in the waters of friendship.

"Are you... doing okay?"

Awkward.

He had a smile on his face, he hugged me, and yet, I knew the answer.

"I- yeah," he replied uncomfortably.

Maybe not so fluid after all.

"Are you still doing art? I mean, I heard someone from our village got into an art college on a scholarship, and it has to be you."

My smile faded.

No.

In reality, in high school, you were the art prodigy.

One stroke and everyone praised you, one hand movement and everyone was in awe.

But as you grow older, you're not alone anymore. You're not interesting anymore.

You're just an artist among hundreds of others.

I observed him, wanting to lie, to throw pigments in his eyes, to force-feed him acrylics as lies, but—

"No, y/n isn't frivolous, they chose a history degree," my father interjected.

Frivolous.

What burned with desire, with passion for a decade, the thousands of pages in my drawers, of pencils, of hours spent studying, of sleepless nights smiling.

My father summed it up in one word in the harsh reality of the working world.

A sheepish smile appeared on John's face.

"But you loved it," he said.

"Not so much anymore," I lied.

Because how do you admit to cowardly abandoning your only reason for living?

My heart clenched, my eyes avoided his gaze.

John was like me; he knew what art was, what it meant to be an artist.

I felt his hands on my shoulder.

My heart trembled, scared of the passion John could reignite.

"I refuse to believe that," he said.

"John."

"I kept going, you know, I— I still draw."

"Really?"

"In my journal, at least, I draw. If I don't stop, don't you either, y/n, please, promise me."

His promise was there, my feet at the edge of this canvas of friendship.

And without too much thought, I jumped right in.

"Okay."

________________________________

He sent me his sketches whenever he could. Forced to stick with pencil, his art lost its vibrancy. So, I compensated by using colors, paint. Slowly, confidence crept in, only to be shattered by doubt. But every day, I sent him a photo. And whenever he could, he complimented my art. I think that's what made me fall.

My art... it was me.

It was the essence of who I was — the part of me that didn't need words, that I could shape and mold into something beautiful. It wasn't about my body or my face. My art was my soul. So, his compliments, slowly, I took them for more. Our late-night conversations, from opposite ends of the world, I cherished them a bit too much. His laughter, the way he said my name, his hugs, everything was... him. He appreciated my art. So, I thought he appreciated me.

(It's false, I knew he didn't)

"You know, right now I'm in a desert."

"You told me that six months ago, John," I chuckled over the phone.

"In a different one."

"You should have been an archaeologist at this rate."

"I thought about it, you know, but no, I don't want to be chased by a mummy."

"I don't think that's likely, John."

"You haven't seen enough movies, y/n."

"Yes, actually."

A silence stretched.

"I'm getting promoted."

"Good for you," I smiled.

But the silence persisted.

"But I want to specialize first."

"...what do you mean?"

"I... I've always been good at math."

"Yes, but you don't kill people with equations, John."

"Yes."

"No, I don't— oh. Oh."

"I want to try bombs."

"So you're telling me you want to become Einstein at 4 a.m. in a desert over the phone?"

"My mom would have a fit, and I wanted your opinion."

"No, you don't want that, John, and you know it."

He didn't say a word before finally speaking.

"...it's true, I just needed to talk about it."

I was angry. Why tell me? I hated his job, his sacrifice.

"Damn it, human cannon fodder exploding, you—"

I stopped myself. John had made his choice, no matter my arguments. I was his friend.

"Are you happy?"

"Yes. Really."

"Then... go ahead," I murmured, already regretting it.

"Thank you, y/n."

Suddenly, I wanted to shove my sketches down his throat. To convince him. Being a simple soldier meant he remained accessible, but a promotion... A promotion left me alone, surrounded by his sketches of battles and soldiers.

__________________________________

"Sergeant Soap, looking ridiculous," I smiled.

In his uniform, he had just returned from the ceremony. His family couldn't make it, much to his mother's dismay, who had been calling every five minutes to apologize and had asked me for a hundred photos of her son in uniform.

"Soap is cool."

"Soap? Nah."

He grinned, beer in hand in my apartment.

"You must be charming a lot of people in uniform like that," I joked.

"I admit to my little success," he joked back. "But... there's one, at the moment."

"Thomas?"

"How did you know?" he exclaimed, sitting up.

I laughed.

"You send me sketches of him non-stop, it's your trademark, McTavish. You sketch the people you like."

"...in more ways than one," he added with a smirk.

"Ewww!"

He continued his story about Thomas, our laughter fading in my apartment.

Maybe at that moment, I should have remembered that John had never drawn me.

______________________________

In reality, experiencing unrequited love is quite peaceful.

Nothing pulls you in, life just goes on.

Everything feels dull.

And suddenly, you catch sight of your crush and everything changes.

Then everything goes back to normal.

After Thomas, I caught sight of the sketches of Valentine, Ymir, Julio, Shirley.

Their features all blurred together in my mind, their smiles.

Every evening, I observed myself, searching for a resemblance, hoping to attract him, to be captured by his pencil.

But nothing.

So I continued to sketch him without being sketched in return.

And when I finally asked him the question.

"Will you ever draw me, Johnny?"

"I don't think so, it's just to distract myself," he replied in an almost detached tone.

"But you drew Lizzie, didn't you?"

"That's different."

I understood that he would never love me.

_______________________

- You don't talk to John anymore?

I was at my mother's for the weekend.

In truth, I had stopped sending my sketches (my feelings).

John, on the other hand, continued with his (his friendship).

- Not much anymore. The distance makes it hard, you know?

No, it had never been a challenge for us.

- I see. I... you know, I thought he would help you.

- Help me with what?

- Art.

I paused in the kitchen, setting the bowl on the table before turning to her.

- Mom, it's not—

- I know that—I never said anything. I never opposed your father, but seeing you pursue a history doctorate while every evening, I watched your fingertips, gray with charcoal, I can't help but think what a waste it is.

- Dad has nothing to do with this. I needed a legitimate degree, it's not—

- T/p.

Her voice turned cold.

I met her gaze.

- Stop hiding, please. she murmured, tears in her eyes as she hugged me.

I couldn't move.

- Speak up, address the world. I'm sorry for asking you to remain silent for so long. I should have... I should have spoken up, pushed you further. Go ahead.

It was as if a wave suddenly crashed over me.

I collapsed, tears streaming, into her embrace.

- I'm sorry. I whispered.

I didn't know why I was apologizing.

- It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay. she reassured, tears streaming down her face

Tears flowed, my breathing grew ragged, my nose stuffed, my vision blurred. I felt numb. Dissolving into her arms, all I could do was sob.

- I thought I could handle it. I murmured.

Pretend.

Pretend to be happy in a career I don't want.

Pretend to be happy when he doesn't love me.

Pretend to be happy when I'm not there mentally.

_____________________

Three years had flown by.

Sketching was no longer just a step; I dove in without hesitation. It had been tough—financially, socially. I had no connections in the field, retreating back to my parents' home. Rejection after rejection, unpaid internships barely covering my food expenses. Student loans weighed heavily on my shoulders. The other students seemed younger, more talented. But I held onto my diploma, earned through hard work, even if it meant slaving away at a fast-food joint. I kept applying, day in and day out, until one day, I landed a job as an assistant for a small comic book company.

Back in the village for Christmas, I had done the grocery shopping my mother asked for.

"John," I greeted him, having lost touch with him. In fact, I had blocked him. I needed to move forward. So, I sent him a message, asking him not to contact me anymore because I didn't want that friendship anymore. It was pathetic, I know. I was a jerk. But I needed it, strangely.

"You... you look radiant," he remarked.

"Thank you," I replied.

"I... your message, that—"

"I'm sorry. I needed space at that time. I shouldn't have... done that like that," I apologized.

"I see," he said.

"Still... Sergeant?" I asked, noting his mullet.

"Yeah, I... I'm still drawing," he replied.

"I see, that's cool. I... I'm full-time into it now," I admitted.

His eyes widened. "Damn, you made it!"

"I... it's an assistant job for an adult comic, calm down," I clarified.

"Still, you make a living out of it," he pointed out.

"You could say that, yeah," I said with a smile.

"Can I hug you?" he asked.

I couldn't answer before he did. Instantly, I knew I was back to having a crush on him. This man who always loved my stick figures, smiling and loving. His scent was like paint fumes, comforting yet toxic.

"I missed you," he said.

"You too," I admitted, stepping back.

The silence returned. I don't know why I ended up admitting that. I guess I was trying to fill the void. To panic about the silence. So, this confession slipped out stealthily from my lips, hoping to break the silence.

"I loved you, you know," I confessed.

"I knew," he replied.

Damn joke. I bit my lip when I saw him rummaging in his bag. A sketchbook, barely presentable, lay there, the year of our high school was written on it.

"This... I never showed you because we weren't talking during that year, but yeah, you... you were my muse," he explained.

I eagerly opened the sketchbook. And there they were. Sketch after sketch, painting after painting of me. Smiling, in the hallways, in class, angry, sometimes from memory. There was... only me. And John drew people he loved.

"Damn irony, huh. We don't love each other at the same time. It's... sad," I murmured.

"Oh well, you know... art is timeless, right?" he tried to lighten the mood.

I furrowed my brows.

"Tell that to the art restorers who bust their ass on Leonardo da Vinci's paintings," I retorted.

"Y/n, I'm not talking about that," he clarified.

My eyes met his.

"I... I don't know if this is a good idea," I admitted.

"I think it is," he said.

"John, I—"

"I can love hard enough for both of us, give me a chance. Let me draw you again," he pleaded.

"What if... it fails?" I voiced my fear.

"Then it fails, but I'm a pro at bombs, and you're one, so no risk," he said with a wink.

A silence settled.

"...that was horrible flirting," I finally said, breaking the silence.

"It worked, didn't it?" he replied with a smile.

"Okay," I murmured, feeling a glimmer of hope.

And for once, that evening, our two faces appeared at the same time in our sketchbooks.

If you want more : my masterlist

#soap x reader #john mctavish x reader #johnny mctavish x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader

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yyawnjun · 4 months ago

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LOVE GUIDE (SAY YES)chap15

The "measurements" are perhaps the quickest and most fundamental moment you faced at the beginning of the year. You were with your friends, and you took the required measures to create an outfit for you to wear at your first fashion show in the new year. It was a quick thing, and with their help, you soon wrote the measurements that now lay in your portfolio.

The measurement notebook - part of your annual portfolio - now it's before your eyes, together with all your modeling photos taken during your university years.

In less than ten minutes, you'd have had to leave to meet with Hoshi to take your measurements...the ones that were already neatly put in the notebook. You knew it was rash to lie to him about losing it so you could have an excuse to see him. But now you had, and the funny chat that followed made the message worthwhile. And while you were still contemplating your decision, you had already taken off the pages with your measurements from the portfolio.

Now you'll truly need some new ones.

You took a deep breath, put on your headphones, and after checking three hundred times that the front door was closed, you headed towards school.

It was the end of May, and the heat was beginning to be felt. You regretted not wearing sunglasses, but you went under the shadows of rooftops and trees to avoid being blinded and feeling the heat too much.

You continued going till you reached the entrance to the university campus.

The closer you get there, with the music at full volume, the more you let your imagination and the beat of the song flow. Because it was early and lessons started late on those days, there were a few people at the camp. Subconsciously, you began humming your songs and moving to the beat. You walked to the rhythm, shook your head, and allowed your emotions to guide you. You were happy with the music, you were in your music theater, and no one could stop you.

No one except Hoshi.

Or perhaps not even him?

Actually, he didn't want to take away you from the comforting atmosphere that music took you to. He had seen you from a distance and was catching up with you as you arrived on campus. But suddenly he found himself getting closer to you, dreamy eyes sparkling at your joy on that late spring day.

As soon as you noticed him getting closer, you stopped in embarrassment.

He noticed the change in your movements, which he was mesmerized by. During those seconds, you continued to wonder about what you could have done to avoid an embarrassing situation. As he approached you, the perfect idea came to you. You removed your headphones and placed them over his ears. Before you could say hello, your music blared in his ears. His eyes widened in confusion, and his charming smile vanished for a minute in awe at your unexpected gesture.

You didn't know what song had just played in his ears, you knew it was from your playlist of happy songs. You also knew that whatever it was, you would be glad to dedicate it to him. Was it that feeling of lightness that Hoshi brought? Was that the feeling you were looking for?

Little, did you know that it was the playlist that Hoshi had dedicated to you (to which you had added other songs) that became your "happy songs playlist"?

Embarrassed, you tried to ignore the fact that he had seen you immersed in the world of music, but he couldn't stop thinking about how beautiful you looked in that moment. You began walking together toward the school entrance, and the discussion lightened as you talked about many things and complained about the excessive heat.

You soon arrived at the classroom, and it hit you that you were alone with Hoshi...after realizing your feelings for him.

You felt your heartbeat quicken as he continued to think about your beauty and how lucky he was to be in the same room with you.

Two turbulent lovers hiding their obvious love, what could be the story?

“Uh, first let me show you the sketches I drew!” he told you, taking out his portfolio.

The portfolio included a drawing of a tiger in the center and many more amusing drawings and comics around it; the background was dark green, and the entire portfolio was built on a dark color palette with strong contrasts to bright colors. After he permitted you, you spent some time flipping through his old sketches, and you were amazed by his talent. All of his traits were flawless, and under each model, there was a miniature comic that he used to rate his works. His cartoon figure wore a top with a tiger drawn on it and had the same distinctive expression as Hoshi.

All of his previous collections had the colors of forest undergrowth, but there were also bright colors that drew his attention right away. He was able to combine all of the opposites into outfits that could mesmerize anyone by using numerous accessories and layering techniques. You noted that there were female and male models, and their poses were the most different among the models. You realized his expertise even more when you saw the three sketches he had made for your project.

While you were captivated by his portfolio, he could only observe you and your reactions as you looked at his work. He nodded and silently thanked you for every compliment. He could have stayed like this forever.

“Hoshi, these sketches are amazing, I'm speechless.”

The first sketch was like a women's suit. The two pieces included long, loose trousers, which tapered below the knee but then continued to flare. The fabric looked similar to velvet, a black velvet that contrasted with the sand-colored accessories of the shoes. But the even more gorgeous part was the piece above. A brick red shirt, with puffed sleeves and a large lace decoration on the back, while the front left room for a corset full of sandy yellow spirals - like the shoes. Your décolleté was adorned with a pearl necklace with a large black diamond, and many small pearls surrounding it. It all ended with a sort of "red skirt", which thanks to a large slit on the front allowed the trousers to be visible. Furthermore, two more golden earrings with pearl decorations ringed her face, leaving her with minimal makeup and a braid in her hair.

The second sketch was inspired by Raphael's portrait from the late Renaissance to the early Baroque period. A long golden veil began at the head and formed a long train; beneath, a white pleated shirt could be seen, while a magnificent dress emerged from the cleavage down. The dress stopped above the knees, and a large skirt delicately surrounded the thighs. The decorations on the frame looked like spirals - typical of baroque decorations - they were golden, and all the jewels alternated between pearls and amber. The necklace was made of simple amber, while the shirt had curls at the top. The model's shoulders were bare and sleeves extended from just above the elbow to your hands. The sleeves were wide, tapered at the ends, and the same milky white as the shirt.

You were hypnotized by the wonder of the sketches that had been presented to you; you had a thousand compliments to give and a thousand curiosities to ask; not to mention that all the attention he had paid to the small details made you want to get up and do what you thought he could do to express his gratitude to him... maybe with a kiss. Resisting that temptation was quite tough, especially after viewing the last of the three sketches he had done.

Yet if you had only raised your head a little you would have given in and ended up kissing the face of that boy who was a few centimeters away from you. As you observed every detail of his creations, he observed every detail of you. And while you smiled at the beauty of the clothes he designed, he smiled at your reactions.

In that air that smelled of love, you ended up remaining enchanted for endless minutes watching the third sketch.

The third sketch illustrated the ability of Baroque sculptors to pay particular attention to the consistency of fabrics. And how they manage to bring the lightness of a feather from hard stone - for example, what Antonio Corradini did with "La Velata". And with this idea, Hoshi created a dress that clung to the body and appeared almost "wet". It was a dirty white and delicately accompanied the model's entire body. It was simple, with horizontal pleats and ankle length. It seemed to be able to be seen a lot, yet everything was graceful and not inappropriate. The central feature of that outfit was a slit in the back, which was hidden by two "angel wings" that stayed linked to the model's back. They were wings wrapped in white feathers, as was customary for baroque headdresses, with red and black gems that matched the heeled shoes. The wings were not large, but they were also not small. They were the appropriate size to not overpower the dress while yet highlighting all of its vivid decorations. Also in this case, the make-up was minimal, and the hair was wrapped with a thin thread band and brilliant gems.

How could one person create all of this? The ability felt almost inhuman to you, no matter how beautiful the three sketches were.

"Hoshi, it's an honor for me to be able to work with you. I feel like continuing to praise these outfits isn't enough, but I promise to do my best to show the world how brilliant they are. These sketches capture your talented soul and charm. Thank you for working with me."

"Yn, they were all created with you in mind - and, of course, the baroque theme. All I can ask for is to see them on you on a runway, and then I can die in peace."

WAIT, WAS THIS A CONFESSION?

chap14 // chap16 ; m.list

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　　　。

summary: It is clear to everyone that Kwon Soon-young has a huge crush on the model student Yn. But can Hoshi, a passionate and funny stylist make her fall in love in just a month? What if he followed a weird LOVE GUIDE, that he found in the school bathroom?

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　　　。

a.n. HEY GUYS!! that's the second written part of this smau, hope y'all like this pure sweet and gentle scenario. it's not over yet, i still have some chaps for this smau 🤭 but I am here for the biggest shotout to @sobun1est !! LIA MY FAV GIRL !! and best proodreader <3 this chap is here also thanks to her work and supportive comments😭 (1.8k wc)

#love guide (say yes)#k - labels #k labels #seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt #hoshi #hoshi x reader #seventeen fluff #hoshi funny #hoshi smau #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen smau #hoshi x yn #hoshi x y/n #hoshi x you

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come-away-with-me87 · 5 months ago

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The Art of Love Chapter 3

Chapter 2 here

******

"I was just about to sit with Eri and ask how her first day went. I'm assuming you are Mr. Aizawa that Mirio spoke of this morning?" He walked over towards you and bowed, "I am, but you may call me Shouta." You typically had the parents call you Miss L/N, but for some reason, you introduced yourself as Y/N L/N. "But you can call me Y/N." "It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N," he said as he still bowed to you. He finally rose up, and you got a better look at him up close. There was something about him that was...beautiful.

He made your heart beat fast; no one has had this kind of effect on you since Kento. You tried to shake the thought out of your head; you made a vow during Kento's funeral to close your heart off to anyone else. You weren't going to let these strange feelings get in the way. "Well, Shouta, it seems like little Eri here had a decent first day." You pulled out her colored mandala and showed it to him; she chose shades of purple, green, and black. "Interesting," he said quietly. You weren't sure what he meant by that, but he chose not to elaborate.

"Well, since I'm running late, I'll take Eri and get going. Thank you for staying with her." You nodded and smiled at him in return, and said bye to Eri. He took a still-beaming Eri by the hand, and took their leave out of the classroom. You couldn't help but look after him as he left with Eri. What was it about him that made him have that effect on you? Once again, you tried to shake your head of these thoughts, got your belongings together, and left for home.

When you got home, you couldn't help but think of Shouta's reaction to Eri's colored mandala; the fact that all he said was, "interesting." You wondered if the colors she chose had anything to do with her past. Maybe you would ask him when you could find the opportunity to. If he'd permit it, you would like a better understanding of Eri's past, so you know what brought her to your classroom. It would be hard to get to talk to him about it, though, during drop off or pick up. You'd have to be creative and think of a way of speaking with him while Eri wasn't around.

******

The rest of Eri's first week seemed to go by relatively well. She was very quiet and didn't interact much with the other students, but she completed all of her assignments as directed. You were a little concerned about the fact that she wasn't interacting much with the other students, however, it was only her first week. Perhaps she just needed a little more time. You would bring it up to the U.A. if it became an issue. For now, you were going to let it be.

Along with the rest of her classmates, you did a variety of activities with them. One day, you had them draw sketches of whatever came to mind. Another day, you had them paint rocks, and you all took a walk to the local park to leave the rocks around the park. Your theory for this was that through their paintings, they could bring joy to someone's day by finding the rock as they were walking in the park. Then another day, you bought a bunch of random magazines, and had them create collages using pictures, words, or letters from the magazines.

At the end of the day on Friday, you gathered up all of the students' drawings and collages, and waited for everyone's parents or guardians to pick them up. You felt your heart beat faster again at the sight of Shouta walking in to pick up Eri, but you tried to act cordial towards him like you did with the rest of the adults. You heard him ask Eri to go stand outside in the hallway and wait by the door while he spoke with you. Once again, your heart started beating faster when you saw him walking over towards you.

"Hello, Y/N," he said. "Hello, Mr. Aiza---Shouta, sorry," you said with a small grin. He looked up at you, "I just wanted to thank you for accepting Eri into your class. I know it's only been a week, but I wanted to see if I could set up some time with you next week to talk about her past, why she's here, and her progress." You looked over at him and smiled, "I think that would be a great idea." Shall we meet here in the classroom after school on Monday?" "That would be good," he replied, "I will bring a friend with me to take Eri back to the campus so I can stay behind."

"Sounds like a date!" you exclaimed, and you instantly felt the horror creeping up in you. Why did you just say that?! Your face must have been beat red because you could feel how hot your cheeks were. Shouta just looked at you curiously. "I'm so sorry, I don't know why I said that. I meant to say it 'sounds like a plan'." He just looked at you and slightly grinned, "it's no problem. I don't want to keep Eri waiting any longer, so I will see you on Monday?" Your face was still hot and you felt like an idiot, but you still replied, "yes, I will see you then."

******

To be continued...

******

Tag list: @lili-pond ; @jaguarthecat ; @big-denki-energy

#aizawa shota #aizawa #shota aizawa #eraserhead #bnha shouta aizawa #mha aizawa #aizawa shota x reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa x y/n #shouta aizawa x reader #shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #shouta aizawa #aizawa shota x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa x you #bnha aizawa #shota aizawa x female reader #shota aizawa x reader

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videogamelover99 · 2 months ago

Text

[Gravity Falls] Waking Days Ch. 7: Sarah Wheatfield

Summary: Bill Cipher is reborn, but not in the way he would have wanted. Stuck as a mortal and relying on those who brought his downfall, he realizes that maybe he didn't lie as hard as he should have. [AO3 Link] Characters: Bill Cipher, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Stanford Pines, Stanley Pines, Jheselbraum the Unswerving, The Axolotl Pairings: past BillFord Rating: T

A/N: Turns out I'm not skipping out on you this week! Yay! The plot thickens even more, Bill joins a Mystery Twins adventure, Nora learns the joys (and pitfalls) of human recreational activities. Thank you to @megxolotl and @nexstage for beta-reading. Enjoy!

---

High on Gravity Peak, Ford tried to add the finishing touches to his sketch in the dim lighting of his lantern. The sky had long since descended into darkness, clear and perfect for viewing the local constellations. Even the sky in Gravity Falls was undoubtedly unique. Well worth the grass stains on his pants, or the chill that pierced through his coat.

It had been two years since he’d arrived in this town, and one year since he’d met the most important being in his life. He didn’t know he could be this happy.

“Heya, Brainiac!”

Bill’s habit of sneaking up on him did not falter even when he’d brought it up. Ford startled and dropped his journal, having to pick it up and brush off the wet stains from the grass.

Bill, at least, had the decency to look sheepish. “Whoops, haha, whatcha got there, buddy?”

“Oh.” Suddenly Ford felt a lot more embarrassed by what he’d just drawn. He tried to hide the journal, only to realize what a mistake that was – there was nothing that could stop Bill from finding out what others wanted to hide.

Ford was much the same way, really, his curiosity often got the best of him. It’s just that Bill’s curiosity was insatiable.

“Come on, you’re not gonna show me?” Bill floated circles around Ford, trying to take a peek. Despite his nosiness, Ford couldn’t help but laugh at his antics.

He quickly muffled his laughter, eyes darting to the tent where he knew Fiddleford was sleeping

“Relax, you’re in your mind.” Bill tapped him lightly on the forehead. “You fell asleep right in the middle of your writing session.”

Oh. That wasn’t good. Ford could feel the crick in his neck he would have when he woke up. “I should go to bed,” he said, thinking of his insulated tent.

“Sure. After you show me what you’re hiding,” Bill manifested half a dozen eyes all around him to stare him down.

Ford sighed. “I was just sketching the constellations,” he said, feeling his face heat up.

“Oh.” The eyes vanished, leaving only Bill with a bored look in his eye. “You got stage fright for your drawings? That’s-”

“It’s not that…” Ford showed him the page. “I noticed one I thought you might like. I named it after you, actually.” Now he felt the shame creep in. Was this too much? Should he ask? He didn’t know what he was doing.

Bill stared at the page for a while longer than necessary. William, the constellation Ford had pointed out, was still hovering above them. Observing.

“Is this too much? I know the statues were a bit much, I just thought-”

Bill giggled and flicked Ford on the nose. Ow. “You? Too much? You’re a real flatterer, Fordsy, you know that?”

“I am?”

Bill fluttered his eyelashes, which Ford would’ve found ridiculous if he wasn’t so flustered. His muse settled down on Ford’s shoulder, small enough to fit comfortably and flop one spindly black arm in Ford’s hair. “Sure you are! You really know how to get my good angle!”

“Technically, it was the stellar masses that make up-”

“Learn to take a compliment, kid, yeesh.”

Bill stroked Ford’s hair, and Ford couldn’t help but close his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“Weird though, huh?” Bill said suddenly, quieter than Ford knew him to be. “Bill’s short for William? Shouldn’t it be Billiam? Who made that up?”

“I could find out,” said Ford. It would only take a few days of research. “But there’s better nicknames, I suppose. Like Will. Or Liam, both of which are part of the name.”

Silence. Ford frowned. “Bill?”

Concerned, Ford gently took Bill off his shoulder and held him in his palms. Bill’s eye, known to flash symbols and images, was blank, not unlike the static of an empty television channel. His arms and legs were hanging limply from his frame. Ford’s concern grew. “Bill?”

In the year Ford had known him, never had he considered the possibility that Bill could be harmed. He was so above any physical concerns, and so on top of any conversation or intellectual activity that Ford had assumed Bill being harmed by something was a ridiculous notion.

He didn’t think so now.

“Bill!” He shook him gently, not knowing what else to do.

Then Bill blinked, once, twice, and the static was gone. “Huh?”

“Are you alright?” Ford almost reached out to check Bill’s “forehead” temperature, like Ford’s mother had done when he was little.

“Uh, yeah?” Bill looked at him incredulously, hands on his sides. “What were we talking about?”

Ford had the thought then, that they did not need to rehash the conversation. “Nothing important.” He assured his muse. “You don’t remember?”

“Eh, it happens sometimes.” Bill looked completely unconcerned.

“This happened before?”

“Hey, don’t make a big deal out of it! When you live as long as I do, you’re bound to pick up a few hiccups. What are those compared to infinite knowledge?”

“I-I suppose…if you don’t think it’s a problem-”

“Sure isn’t! Anyway, where was I-” Bill scrunched up his eye in thought, staring hard at the grass under them. “Oh yeah!” He floated above Ford’s head, and put both hands on Ford’s cheeks, stroking his stubble with a finger. “Learn to take a compliment!”

—

“Soos! Put ‘er there,” Stan reached out with a hand, only to pull Soos into a bear hug when he got close enough. Predictably, the kid made a noise that was almost like crying.

“Wow, this place hasn’t changed a bit.” Behind them, Melody set her suitcase down by the cash register, where Wendy was, as usual, slacking off, reading a magazine. “How have you all been?”

“The usual,” Wendy said, not looking up from her magazine. “Except…” She shot a look at Stan, who returned it with a shake of his head and a scowl bigger than what he normally wore.

“Something wrong, Mr. Pines?” Soos asked.

“Nothin’,” Stan said. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“You can’t not tell them.”

“No one asked you for advice, Wendy.”

“Geez, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“If it’s anything serious, you know we can handle it,” said Soos. “There are things I’ve seen that no man has seen before.”

“Ugh,” said Stan.

“You want me to break it to them?” said Wendy.

“Hey, anyone seen one of those brush sticks you humans have for your teeth?” As if summoned by a curse, which wasn’t too out of the question, Bill strode into the gift shop and started searching the place. “I was gonna build an effigy that would put a curse on that lady with the ostrich hair. You know the one. Hey, Red, what’s with the face? Question Mark, long time no see! How’s your banal existence been treating ya? I’ve been, well, dead! But you knew that already. What? What’s with the stares?” He finally quit his search and leaned against one of the clothing racks, grinning. “Did ya miss me?”

“Soos,” Melody said. “Is that…?”

“Oh hey, that guy sounds just like the Triangle Dude.”

Everyone was eerily silent.

“...Wait a minute.”

—

“So, he’s-”

“Yep.”

“And you’ve been-”

“Yep.”

“And now he’s-”

“Yep.”

“Wow,” Melody stared into her cup of CALMING, HERBAL TEA! CURES ANY CRISIS!, a box Mabel had gotten for this exact occasion. Soos promptly made an excuse to see his Abuelita and, quote, make sure she’s not a chair or anything. Haha, wouldn’t that be crazy, dudes? Melody, being the only one who wasn’t there for Weirdmageddon, now sat with Stan at the kitchen table and listened patiently as Stan explained what had happened. “I get it.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t get me wrong, this is a lot to process, but I’ve seen my fair share of weird, you know? You’ve never-” She paused when her phone buzzed in her pocket and scowled as she dismissed the call.

“Don’t you wanna get that?”

“No.”

Yeesh. Not gonna pry into whatever that is.

“There’s another thing,” Stan said, just as the door to the kitchen opened, and his brother headed straight for the pot of coffee on the stove.

He was, well, a mess wouldn’t cover it. With disheveled hair, eye bags so big he could carry something in them, and patches of his lab coat burned off or stained, Ford resembled a zombie more than a normal human being. It reminded Stan too much of how he was 30 years ago when Stan had first stumbled upon his brother’s paranormal mess.

“Stanley, we’re gonna need another order of potassium, have the university- oh, Melody! Good to see you again.” Ford poured the leftover coffee into a chipped mug. It had a sticker on its side that read certified nerd on it, along with a smiley face wearing glasses. “How was your trip?”

Stan and Melody watched as the coffee in Ford’s mug overflowed and started dripping onto his shoes. Ford didn’t seem to notice. “It was, uh, good? Are you alright, Dr. Pines?”

“Never better! Of course, there is a new calamity on the horizon, and everything we know and love might dissolve before our very eyes, but nothing a good amount of problem-solving can’t handle.”

The coffee started to form a small puddle on the floor.

“Sixer?”

“What is it, Stanley?”

“You’re making a mess.”

Ford only then realized his shoe was soaked through. “Oh.”

“Leave it,” Stan said when Ford’s bloodshot eyes searched for a towel to clean it with. He stood, and gently took the mug from Ford’s hands. “Listen, I get this is the fate of the universe and all-”

“Multiverse, Stanley.”

“But I think you could use a break right about now.”

“We can’t stop, not when we haven’t had a breakthrough yet. But with the new materials, I’m sure-”

“I’m sure you’ll figure all of it out with your magical fortune-telling buddy of yours after you sleep for at least like, eight hours. You look like hell, Pointedexter, even I can see it.”

Ford stubbornly lifted his chin, before his shoulders slumped, as if he was too exhausted to even hold them up. “Maybe I should take a break.”

“Stanford?”

A fourth visitor of the kitchen made herself known. Nora walked in, her nose in a set of notes. “We should try with Potassium-40, the radiation might counter the unstable effects.”

“Right, of course!” Whatever ground Stan had covered in the conversation they just had vanished in an instant. Ford grabbed the cup, chugged down the lukewarm coffee, and reached for a wireless phone. “I’ll order it right away.”

Whatever insanity had overtaken Ford clearly had a source, because Stan spotted the same unyielding tide wave of energy in Nora as she and Ford catered off into a debate on…something so scientific and technical it almost sounded like another language.

Before Stan could say another word, the two vanished from the kitchen and back into the basement, where he didn’t doubt, they were blowing something up.

“Fate of the multiverse, huh?” said Melody.

—

Dipper might’ve gone overboard with the conspiracy board. Just a little. He stood back and read the words in the center over and over again as if that would get him any closer to the answer. Who was that mysterious entity that talked to him? Why did she reach out to him, of all people? What did she mean when she said reality was splitting at the seams? And did it have anything, at all, to do with Bill’s code?

His phone buzzed. Which meant that the forum thread he started was updated. He grabbed it and eagerly opened his browser.

It wasn’t easy, running Gravity Falls’ sole supernatural blog. Not just because the town’s desire to sweep everything under the rug meant a ridiculous amount of censorship and takedown notices. It was mostly because no one except him sent anything in.

But there it was, a post, from Anonymous37. Dipper opened it and read the contents.

Hi there!

Didn’t know who to reach out to about this. Recently I had this strange encounter that I couldn’t explain. It was like a visual distortion and looked a lot like TV static, but I swear it wasn’t just in my head! If there’s anyone who knows about these things who can help me sort this out, please come and talk to me! My name is Sarah Wheatfield, and I’m a manager at the Sort It Right clothing store.

Whoever you are, admin, please help.

This almost sounded too good to be true. Dipper had waited so long for this, for his work to finally be recognized. He needed to meet this woman.

Dipper found his sister on the front porch, busy adding to her scrapbook.

“No way,” Mabel read the post and her face lit up. “This sounds just like what happened to Waddles!”

“Exactly,” said Dipper. “If we find there’s a connection, we can help fix him!”

“Then we gotta go talk to this Wheatfield lady.”

Suddenly, a pine cone landed on Dipper’s hat. He heard familiar nasal snickering and looked up.

Bill sat on the rooftop's edge, his feet dangling back and forth like a little kid’s. He seemed unnervingly cheerful. ��Pine Tree! Hey! Over here!”

“Bill’s been giving me advice on some of the scrapbook designs,” Mabel said.

“I still think page 22 should have a lot more dead ants!”

“Some of it’s even been helpful!”

“You have some nerve,” Dipper said to Bill. “I heard what you did to Soos this morning!”

“Hey, hold on! I didn’t do anything! Question Mark can’t handle a blast from the past, that isn’t exactly my fault, is it?”

“Of course it is!”

“Did ya figure it out yet?”

Dipper froze at the question. The code. Reluctantly, shook his head.

“Gotta be honest, I was expecting a little more from Gravity Falls’ ‘best detective’.” Bill did the air quotes as he said it.

“It’s nonsense!”

“To limited minds, maybe.”

“Boys, boys,” Mabel put her hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sensing some tension.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Dipper muttered.

“And it’s nothing that some bonding time can’t fix! Bill should come with us.”

“Mabel! No way!”

“Who said I want to.”

“Come on,” said Mabel. “You!” She pointed at Bill. “You’re bored out of your mind, admit it! Your jokes didn’t leave me as half disturbed as they do on a good day!”

“Or you’re developing a tolerance,” Dipper muttered.

“And you,” Mabel said to Dipper. “You and Bill have like, a ton in common.”

“No, we don’t!”

“You’re both super into codes!”

“That’s like, one thing!” Dipper rubbed his temples. “Why do you want everyone to get along with Bill so badly?”

“Oh, so we just sit around being mad at each other all day? He’s not going anywhere.”

“True!” Bill piped up.

Dipper looked between Mabel’s pleading face and Bill’s devious one. “Fine. This one time.” He mustered his best Grunkle Stan glare. “But if he tries anything, I’m pushing him into the Bottomless Pit.”

—

Ford drained the coffee in less than an hour. He came up the stairs a second time, debating on whether or not to steal the entire coffee maker, albeit temporarily, when he came face-to-face with his brother, blocking the entry to the kitchen.

Melody stood next to Stan and gave Ford an awkward smile.

“Alright, Pointdexter, this ends now,” Stan pointed a stern finger at him. Ford was jarringly transplanted into 1968 when his father stood over both of them with the same expression after the twins had broken one of the display cases in the pawnshop while treasure hunting.

The sleep deprivation must be getting to him.

“What, exactly, are you referring to?” he asked. “And why are you dragging Melody into…whatever this is?”

“Actually, I’m uh, helping,” said Melody.

“With what?”

“With the intervention. That’s happening starting now. You’re taking this day off, and that’s final,” said Stan.

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have time for this. “Does the ‘potential end of the world’ not hold any weight to you?”

“Nice try, but we already had one of those, and we turned out fine!”

“This isn’t like Weirdmaggedon! This is infinite times worse!”

“I don’t care!” Stan snapped. “The end of the world can wait a few hours, can’t it?”

“Stanley-”

“Um, if I can say something,” Melody started. She pulled a few pieces of paper out of her pocket. “We have all these free bowling tickets and Soos and I never got to use them. Mr. Pines thinks you should take your mind off things for a little while, and I kinda agree with him.” She waved the tickets in the air.

Now, this was a problem. Because back in the day, the Stan twins had held the Glass Shard Beach strike record for several years before it was briefly interrupted by some kid from NYC. They were ridiculously good at bowling.

Stanley knew exactly what he was doing.

“I can’t just leave Nora on her own,” Ford gave one last attempt at resistance.

“Oh easy, you’re not.” Stanley grinned. “Fortune Telling Lady’s coming with us.”

—

As they walked to the bus stop that would take them to Gravity Falls’ shopping mall, Dipper briefly pulled Mabel aside, keeping a wary eye on Bill.

“What’s up, Bro-bro?” Mabel asked.

“I’m worried about you,” said Dipper.

“Whaat?” Mabel laughed. “What’s gotten you this time?”

“Bill,” Dipper snapped. “I don’t understand why you’ve been so buddy-buddy with him since he came back! You know he’s still the demon that tried to kill us and our family, right? You said you wanted to snap him like a corn chip!”

“Pff, that was before he got all human and pathetic. Duh.”

“So you pity him? Is that it?”

“I told you why,” Mabel lost a bit of her cheer.

“Right. You think you’re the one who brought him back. Still, I just don’t get why…What if he did something to your brain? Last year or maybe even now?”

“Dipper,” Mabel said, all cheer gone. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m treating Bill like a person because he is a person now, okay?”

“Did you forgive him that easily?”

Something flickered in his sister’s gaze. She laughed it off. “I just don’t like holding grudges for too long! Besides, he’s been pretty well-behaved.”

They watched Bill find a beetle under his shoe and slowly step on it. There was a long and painful crunch.

“For the most part,” said Mabel.

Dipper watched his sister skip back over to the demon and playfully admonish him for the poor bug. Bill must’ve said something less offensive than usual because Mabel laughed and punched him lightly on the side.

If anyone saw them, they would assume they were friends.

A lump settled in Dipper’s throat. Something was wrong, he just knew it.

—

“Breathe it in, folks!” Stan took a giant, gaping breath just for the effect. Ah, the scent of freshly polished lanes, overpriced bowling shoes, and cheap fried foods. Gravity Falls’ Bowling sat in the back of the shopping mall, too intimidating for Stan to face without his twin by his side.

“This is a rather nice place,” Ford remarked. He already looked more relaxed than he did in the car on the ride over.

“What did I tell ya?”

“Wow, check it out, dudes,” Soos said behind them. “Pretty sure that guy’s only facing one direction.” Melody followed his gaze, her hand clasped in his.

“Charming family moment and all,” said the fifth member of the party. “I still don’t quite get why I’m here.”

Stan had been worried his brother was going to try to jump out of the car or something on the way here, having changed his mind, but Ford turned out to not be the one he should’ve been worried about.

In the middle of throngs of people in squeaky, smelly rental shoes, Sixer’s space alien girlfriend looked out of place and uncomfortable.

“You don’t like bowling?” Soos asked.

Nora looked annoyed by the question. “I understand Stanford’s human body needs rest, but I don’t have that issue. It would be best if I-”

“Learned how to have some fun?” said Stan.

Something flashed in Nora’s eye. “I know how to have fun.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan pulled down a pair of bowling shoes, ignoring the indignant cry of the clerk. “Prove it.”

—

The clerk handed them their shoes like he wanted to get rid of them as fast as possible. Soos kept trying to see the man’s right side, and the attempts were skillfully avoided. Giving up, Soos took his position next to Nora and Melody. It was the three of them against the Stans, which Stan thought was pretty unfair. These kids didn’t stand a chance.

Stan was up first. “Strike!” They watched the little television up above display an animated bowling pin getting brutally flattened by an angry-looking bowling ball. Stan did a little victory dance Melody stealthily recorded to send to Abuelita later.

“Isn’t that bad?” Soos asked.

“That’s baseball, hun,” Melody whispered.

“Oh yeah. Sports!”

Melody took her position when her phone buzzed. She impatiently silenced it and picked up the ball. Her swing didn’t have great form, but she managed to get roughly half of them. Which wasn’t bad. At least it wasn’t in the gutter.

Ford came up to the starting line. “I haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted. “30 years, to be honest.”

“Stop whining and throw the ball!” yelled Stan. Some of the other patrons looked back at their party.

“If it makes you feel better,” said Nora. “I already know how this ends.”

Ford didn’t seem to feel better at all. Still, he picked up one of the bowling balls. Then another, testing its weight.

“Oh, come on!” cried Stan.

“We believe in you, Mr. Pines!” said Soos. “Even Mr. Pines!”

“Give me a minute.”

Ford brought the ball over, trying a practice swing. Then another. Stan opened his mouth to yell at him some more when-

“Strike!”

“Yeah! Whoo!” Stan threw up his arms, ignoring the glare the clerk sent him. “I knew you still had it in ya!”

“Yes, that was…nostalgic, to say the least,” said Ford. He was smiling. As far as Stan was concerned, his mission was over.

When Nora came up to the lane, Ford offered her one of the lighter balls. “You need to make sure there’s a curve in your wrist-” He tried to demonstrate.

“Stanford, I know how bowling works,” said Nora.

She threw the ball.

It sailed out of her hands, over their heads, and into the group next to them.

“Augh! My spine!”

“Right. Two eyes,” Nora said calmly.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

“Welp, it’s been fun!” Stan steered the four of them toward the exit, smelling a lawsuit. “Who’s hungry?”

—

It wasn’t hard to find the store Sarah worked in. It was the same one Mabel and her friends had taken Bill a week or so prior. Hopefully, the staff didn’t remember them well.

“Out!” The store clerk, a pale man with far too many wrinkles for someone in his thirties, pointed to the exit. He was sitting behind the cash register, a few wrappers hastily crammed into his pocket.

So much for not being remembered.

The goth girl they’d seen previously spotted them from behind a pile of clothes she was carrying. She waved. Mabel and Bill waved back.

Dipper quickly pulled them away before there could be another incident. “Okay, it looks like this one will be harder than I thought.”

“Please, they haven’t even called security,” said Bill.

“...So, we’re gonna have to break in.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bill. And walked back into the store.

“Bill!” Dipper whispered.

Bill pretended not to hear him. We sauntered over to the counter, leaning against it like he owned the place. The clerk squawked and shut the cash register. “I told you, sir, we don’t need any more trouble.”

“I know you don’t, uh,” Bill squinted at the clerk’s nametag. “Dave? Can I call you Dave?”

“That’s…my name?” said Dave.

“Sure is! Great name, simple and sweet. Listen, bud, you think I don’t get it? Standing on your feet for 10+ hours, getting penalized for your bathroom breaks, wondering when Joane will call you back, worried she knows your ‘well-paying job’ is a minimum-wage soul-sucking boulder up a hill of sweaty, loud teenagers and moms buying underwear for their kid’s birthday. We’ve all been there!”

“Oh,” said Dave.

“Retail sucks. Also, is that a new hair gel? Looks fantastic, anyone tell you that?”

“Yeah,” said Dave. He looked a lot less confrontational, and a lot more confused. “I mean, no…but I’m still gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“No, I get it, I get it,” Bill looked away as if debating something. “I also get if I, you know, didn’t see you for a few minutes. You were in the back! And if, you know, you came back with one of those pretzel dogs.”

Dave stared at him.

“You’d deserve it,” said Bill. He winked.

“...I would deserve it,” said Dave, as if it was a divine realization. “Okay. You sound like a cool guy, last incident aside. Please don’t touch anything.”

“Atta boy,” said Bill as he watched him go. Dipper and Mabel walked over.

“How’d you know he wanted a pretzel dog so badly?” Dipper asked.

Bill picked up a greasy wrapper from the floor and flicked it. It landed on top of Dipper’s hat.

—

Sarah Wheatfield was a middle-aged woman with braids in her hair and a mole over her lip. They found her in the back of the store, sorting clothing without really looking at it, which was either impressive or evidence of a troubled psyche. Dipper couldn’t tell which yet.

Dipper came up to her first. “Ms. Wheatfield?”

Startled, the woman dropped a few of the t-shirts she was sorting. “You’re not supposed to be here! How do you know my name?”

Dipper pointed at the nametag. Sarah looked down. “Oh. Right.”

“You sent in a post recently, to Unnatural Sightings Anonymous?” He held up his phone. “I uh, I run that blog.”

Sarah squinted at the screen. “I don’t remember sending this.”

Oh. Something wasn’t adding up.

“Heh, might’ve been a prank! Probably from someone you know. Guess it’s nothing,” said Bill.

“No, I…” she looked back at Mabel, then at Dipper. “Wait, aren’t you those Pines twins?”

“Y-yes!” Dipper said, a little too loudly. “Yes, we are!”

“Hi!” said Mabel, “I’m Mabel Pines. We’re like, super on top of all this mystery weirdness stuff. You can tell us anything!”

Sarah looked at Bill. “And who’s this?”

“That’s Willard,” said Mabel, and Bill made a noise between a growling protest and a squeak of rage. She patted him on the arm as if pacifying an angry cat. “He’s helping.”

“I see,” said Sarah. For a moment she looked hesitant. She checked that the door was closed, before turning to them once more. “Well, it’s not nothing. My husband must have sent it in. Or maybe I did, I’ve been…forgetting things lately.” She looked at the three of them in turn, her voice nervous and small. “I know it sounds crazy, but everyone knows your family deals with crazy, so, just…” She made up her mind. “Follow me.”

Sarah led them down a set of musty stairs and a locked door. She pulled out a key, fiddling with the lock as she turned to them. “We use this for storage and breaks. Or, we used to use it for breaks, before…well, before. Now it’s just storage.”

She turned the key and opened the door, flipping on the switch in the corner. The room was illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lights. It was big, about the side of the Mystery Shack gift shop, with rows of shelves taking up most of the space, filled with cardboard shipping boxes of what was probably stock. In the back corner was a table, a couple of coffee cups, and a curtain that was…glowing ominously.

Bill shivered, and whether it was out of excitement or because the room was cold, Dipper wasn’t sure. The room was more than cold, though. It felt tilted, like the space around him was drawn with the wrong perspective. It was vibrating with an energy that Dipper could feel in the tips of his fingers.

It didn’t help that the edges of that curtain were turning into pixelated static.

Sarah cautiously approached the curtain. “Just don’t freak out, okay?” she said.

She pulled away the curtain. And Dipper was twelve again, the high of beating some alien robot with this Great Uncle Ford shattered as the sky above him ripped apart at the seams.

“That’s the rift,” Mabel said next to him. Dipper was still trying to find his voice. “But that can’t be the rift. Why’s it so small? Why’s it underneath the mall?!”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Sarah answered. “Also, don’t look directly at it. That’s how the memory problems started.”

They had seen remnants before. Ford had taken them to help track down dimensional vortexes and eldritch horrors that were still lurking around. But this was nothing like that. This was the rift.

The entity’s warning still sat firmly in Dipper’s mind. Reality was splitting at the seams. This was what she was talking about, wasn’t it?

Dipper tore his eyes away and instead glared at Bill. The ex-demon was grinning ear to ear, not caring about the warning as he stared at what could only be a remnant of his apocalyptic takeover.

“Sorry,” Dipper said to Sarah. “We’ll just be a minute.”

He practically dragged Bill outside by the sleeve of his sweater, Mabel not far behind.

“Hey, what the heck?!” Bill tore his arm away. “Get your sweaty hands away from me.”

“What did you do?!” Dipper snapped.

“Nothing!”

“That doesn’t look like nothing! That looks like a rip into your dimension!” Dipper shoved a finger at Bill’s chest. Bill stumbled back, scowling. “Was this human thing all part of some scheme? Answer me!”

“Hey, hey, hey, easy! I didn’t make that thing! Well, okay, technically I did make that thing, but only through a direct causality. So did Sixer, by the way, by building that portal. So did Stan, by turning it on, so really, if you think about it-.”

“You’re the one who tricked Grunkle Ford into building that portal! Are you kidding me? Do you really think I’d believe a word you’re saying, after what you’ve done?!”

“Guys, come on!” Mabel stepped in between the two of them. “Let’s not fight, okay? We don’t know why it’s here, so if we just-”

Dipper gaped at his sister. “Are you serious? Are you really defending Bill right now?”

“I’m not defending him! I’m just saying, maybe if we hear him out…”

Something obvious suddenly clicked into place. Dipper laughed. How could he not see it before? “Bill Cipher ended the world. He manipulated our uncle and drove him to insanity. He locked you in a dream prison. He tried to kill us, Mabel. Multiple times. Did you seriously just forget all that? Because you feel bad for him?”

“That’s not…” Mabel hesitated.

That’s all Dipper needed to hear. He climbed up the stairs, not wanting to look at his sister. He didn’t want to see her face and confirm what he already knew was true.

---

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#gravity falls #bill cipher #flat dreams #pengychan #human bill au #fanfiction #the book of bill #vee's writing #a different form a different time #waking days reboot #doodledrawsthings

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searchingforserendipity25 · 1 year ago

Note

Just to be a little mean, how about Gwindor/Finduilas with #34 for the Ship and a Number game?

Thank you for the prompt @eilinelsghost! This was a tricky one to pin down, but here it is, and I suspect it is also a little mean.

To Pretend

Gwindor's fingertips brushed near the flowers of a carrot, not quite touching; Finduilas saw that they shook with fine tremors, the strain upon his nerves making him ever unsteady.

“I had forgotten,” he whispered. “How great your work is, lady. Or perhaps I never did know it, as I ought to.”

“I am certain you did,” Finduilas said confidently. That much she had never doubted, for all of Gwindor's flattery had been sincere, and in that laid its charm.

But Gwindor did doubt - his mind, as well as his body, had been wounded in the horror of defeat, and captivity, and thralldom. “You it was who often came and sat by me as I sang the seedlings into growth, and brought me many seeds when your duties with the guard took you outside the city.”

Gwindor sketched something like a smile. “That I do recall. Felagund teased so when I made friendship with the growing herbs so they might gift me some seeds to bring you.”

How strong his voice had been, once! Finduilas had warmed through and through, curled her toes in her slippers when she heard him across a wide room.

He spoke without passion. And of Finrod he spoke without effort, or even grief, though they had been friends, once, and rode often together. Grief was a privilege of the free, and Gwindor did not trust Nargorthrond, or Finduilas, or much of anything.

Finduilas could see it was a bravery even to share the name of the dead, to him; she knew it. If only that courage were enough! Her heart was moved, but not towards love renewed.

He was so changed. Finduilas' laughing champion had grown grim in captivity, and the shadow through which he saw the world did not relent, though his mattress was soft and his plates were full, the halls filled with the song and voices of his kin. If it were but the injuries -

Finduilas felt herself to be selfish merely to think it. What kind of faithless wretch would she have to be, that her heart and ardour should wither coldly in her chest? Her betrothed was returned from horror. She ought to hold him constantly - to be wed already in the joy of relief, to be a tender bride.

But Gwindor was changed. He walked through the rows of her saplings, his face shadowed still with great weariness, though the green nursery was well-lit by many and well-made lanterns, to coax life from the many rows of water-fed plants.

Among the watercress and spinach, the tall shelves where clever engines fed and watered the loving pantry of the city, Gwindor's gaunt cheeks were no less smudged with weariness, but at least he reached out, sometimes, and touched a damp leaf.

He looked at the plenty of Nargothrond with a foreigner's eyes. Finduilas did not wish to feel it as a betrayal in her heart.

It might have been easier, perhaps, if he spoke resentfully of the dark and boiling air of the thralls where many who had walked these carved walls crawled now.

Or perhaps it would have been worse - certainly it would be cruel to speak of it when he did not. Finduilas did not know. How strange, not to know what to say to him, her dear quick-speaking friend!

It felt like a cruelty even to stand so near, when Gwindor was stiff with the terror and discomfort of proximity, and ashamed of his own fear - but he had offered his good arm to her, and for an instant it had been the easiest thing in the world to slip her own through his, the most familiar comfort.

And then she had seen the white of his cheeks, felt the tautness of his shoulders. But it might harm all the more to step back, and neither of them, in the end, wished to harm the other.

So it was, the first time they met again by the great stairs for a walk, after Gwindor’s - return. And the day that followed, and the one afterwards. As had been their habit - as if the their warm companionship were a thing that could be picked up, a love to be raised up like an artist’s work, set aside for a moment and picked up again in time.

Finduilas had thought it might be so; had longed to hold the arm that cringed form her now. Gwindor was grown fearful of intimacy, but even more so of great gatherings, of anything like too much nearness; the closest to pleasure Finduilas had seen in him since his return was in the green nursery.

Finduilas had the duty of the cave-gardens and the green nurseries, the long galleries where the grasses and vegetables and flowers and fruits of Nargothrond grew in many high shelves, down many wide corridors. Felagund had trained her for it; there were times now when she wondered at what manner of premonition might have lead him to it.

But in truth Finduilas after Tol Sirion had been restless and imperious, eager to make her own place and have her own will, though she knew not where it might be and what exactly her heart willed. She had been covetous of every parcel of knowledge all through apprenticeship with the singers of the city, followed the gardeners of the city in their singing rounds through the green nursery before she was strictly allowed to be there.

How many times they had spent there, in their courting days! The lanterns of Finduilas' domain were wrought to compel growth and vigour, and in their gentle light they had laughed their way through courtship, kissed for sweet eternities, overfull of delight in each other.

She would take his arm, smile down at him from her tall height, show him her seedlings, the new crop rotations, speak of - O, everything. Their friends, their people, the year’s harvests and the upcoming recitals. Their dead, and their memories of the dead. It had been such a balm to Finduilas, Gwindor’s slow and careful attention as she spoke of Tol Sirion; such a gift, to receive his stories of Lord Aegnor and Dorthonion in return.

They had wept, together, on occasion - laughed together far more often, at things that seemed impossible to smile at by one’s self, as seen through the mist of grief.

They spoke very little now. Gwindor had nothing joyful to say, and enough heart not to darken her with his thoughts. Finduilas' thoughts were dark enough on their own; she slept ill, these days, and rarely for long.

At the end of the circuit he bent, as ever he had, and kissed her hands chastely. That much he remembered well - bitter, bitter chance, that Finduilas wished he did not, and did not raise up the illusion of the past in kindness!

Gwindor hesitated afterwards, for a moment. Finduilas almost dreaded it. With every daily farewell she felt the distance between them grow, an inevitable winter with no thaw; and though she trapped the despair inside her rib-cage, and let none of it show in her face, still it grew keener with every repeated meeting.

The stranger whom she had loved looked at her. For a moment she thought to hope he would say "Lady, I release you. There is another whom you love, yet that is not why you love me not as once you did."

She wished not to wish it. But neither did could she linger so, on and on, walk upon walk through the false greenery, pretending at liberty, and love, willing herself not to feel as bitterly alone and bereft as she had been when she wept in hiding between the fruit-bearing trees for her lost betrothed.

Finduilas took her hands away. Once, she would have lingered, would have stepped nearer, and bent down to kiss Gwindor's scarred, gentle mouth. As she had, yesterday, and the day before, since they had sought each other out to start once more the habit of love.

He never did not flinch from her, bound tight to the same pretense, and that was always worse.

Finduilas could not bear to feel his dutiful stillness once more; she was not so kind, nor so capable at guile. She, too, had her own kind of small courage - enough to step back, for once, for the last time.

His eyes were weary upon her face, more weary than sorrowful, and not for a lack of sorrow.

We will never try this again, she thought, and a chill swept through her all the way through her. That was their farewell; and nothing else needed to be said between them.

"O, let us go away," Finduilas said instead. She touched her own cheek, but she knew she was not weeping. "Let us leave the sapling to their slow business, and the flowers to their beauty, and make for somewhere less damp. There is nothing new of much worth to show you here; and we would do better to rejoin the rest, or find ourselves a quiet respite."

"It would be sweet," Gwindor said quietly; but not as if he accounted the sweetness for himself.

They did not touch as they went; not even the swishing skirts of their robes, not even the corner of a careless elbow.

#finduilas #gwindor #finduilas/gwindor #the silmarillion #silm fic #my fic #angst #thank you!#tw: trauma; grief; some internalized ableism

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pearlsephoni · 1 year ago

Text

To Paint a (Still) Life

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: T

Fandom: Psycho-Pass

Pairing: Gen

Characters: Tomomi Masaoka, Nobuchika Ginoza, Akane Tsunemori

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: In a world that grows bleaker with every passing year, Masaoka does what he can to immortalize the little joys.

A/N: This was written for In Time: A Psycho-Pass 10th Anniversary Tribute zine. It was such an honor to be included amongst so many incredible creators in this tribute to an incredible series! Thank you to the mods @/temporarilyunstable and @/shikkokans for organizing everything! The zine site went live on November 12, 2022, and this fic was originally published on AO3 on June 26th, 2023. Further author's notes can be found on AO3.

———

Every good still life must first have a subject.

The flowers on the bedside table were starting to wilt, the edges of their petals turning brown and brittle despite the still-vibrant colors clinging to the rest of the satiny surface. Masaoka let his fingers brush the dry edges, a wry smile curving his lips.

“I’ll have to remember to bring you new ones next time, hm?” he asked.

He received no response, nor did he expect one. These visits usually found him speaking into the air, his words falling on unhearing ears.

But still, he came. There was no fixing their family now, he knew that, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do…something to ease the damage. And he wasn’t the only one.

“I wonder where Nobuchika found these tulips,” he mused, his fingers wandering back to the red petals. “They’re awfully pretty. I’m glad he still appreciates beauty in the little things.”

A soft sigh came from the wheelchair parked at the large window. The sound drew Masaoka to its side, where he took a look at his wife’s—former wife’s, he corrected himself sullenly—blank features. To his surprise, there was an almost-imperceptible upward curve to the very edges of her lips. The small difference was enough to bring some light to her face, and for a single bittersweet moment, she looked like the vibrant woman he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

“You always did love red flowers,” he murmured, unable to resist the urge to brush a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. “I never would’ve expected him to remember. Our son is more thoughtful than he likes to let on.”

Another soft sigh, and the feeling of her leaning just the slightest bit into his gentle fingers. “He got that from you, Sae.” There was a hitch to his voice, almost imperceptible to his own ears, but the sight of her thumb tracing a small curve along the back of her clasped hands told him she’d heard.

His eyes wandered from her gentle features back to the flowers, the source of her quiet joy. Perhaps he should immortalize them somehow.

———

Draw your chosen objects onto a canvas, taking care to get their shapes accurate.

“Ah, Ginoza.” Masaoka tried and failed to keep his surprise out of his voice. He had more success in biting back the smile that nearly rose to his lips at the sight of Ginoza’s mouth twisting. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“No honor, just news.” Ginoza’s green eyes flickered over his shoulder before snapping back to him. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

That was more like it. Masaoka never knew what to do with the brief glimpses he caught of his son’s deep-buried insecurity, and the quiet manners it brought out. This, though, this show of superiority and power that he’d put on ever since he entered the PSB as an Inspector, was something Masaoka was much more familiar with. “Of course. Come in.”

He didn’t wait for Ginoza to step in, simply left the door open behind him as he made his way back to the windows, where he’d set up a new canvas and his sketching pencils in front of a chair. He sat just as he heard the door clicking shut and Ginoza following him. “Well then,” he said as he took his pencil back up, “what is this important news?”

Silence fell where he’d expected a curt answer. He looked over his shoulder, and found Ginoza staring at the photo of Sae’s flowers that Masaoka had taken and was now projecting from his communicator. “…Ginoza?”

“Ah.” Ginoza blinked as though he’d been dragged out of a dream. Masaoka could easily read the way he shoved his glasses back up his nose, knew that it was a way to stall, but he didn’t say anything. He simply turned back to his canvas, and sketched.

“…Our division has been issued a new Inspector,” Ginoza finally announced. “She will be starting in a month, after she has completed her pre-work training.”

“I see.” Masaoka finished sketching out the petals of the second tulip. “And have the other enforcers received this news?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Ginoza’s voice sounded tight, and Masaoka almost felt bad about his gentle teasing. “What matters is that you will all know when she gets here, and you will all treat her with the respect that a superior deserves. I’ll have enough on my hands showing her the ropes as the only other Inspector. I don’t need to worry about your basic manners.”

With his face safely turned to his canvas, Masaoka finally let a small grin pull at his lips. “Understood, Inspector.”

“…Good.” Another beat of silence, then the sound of business shoes clicking back to the door.

“I’m sure she’ll be an excellent Inspector,” Masaoka suddenly spoke up, just before Ginoza reached the door, “especially under your instruction. You don’t have anything to worry about, Nobuchika.”

“I don’t need an Enforcer to tell me how to feel about this,” Ginoza bit out, “I know I’m capable of doing my job.”

That was about the response Masaoka expected to get. What he didn’t expect was the soft, “…I’ll see you Tuesday,” that came right before his door opened and closed.

His small grin broadened into a smile as he sketched out the smaller branches of leaves. “You’re welcome, kiddo.”

———

Paint in the base colors, working from the darkest colors to the palest.

Akane Tsunemori proved to be a little bundle of contradictions. Where Masaoka had expected a no-nonsense Inspector, he saw the walking embodiment of nerves and an eagerness to please. Where he anticipated her to crumble under the pressure of having such a gruesome first case, she instead stuck to her morals and shot down their most intimidating Enforcer. And where he expected her to flee the PSB after a hellish first day, she instead dug her heels in and worked to adapt. And she did so remarkably well. He just wished that didn’t include her stubborn attempts to understand one Shinya Kogami.

It was unnerving how much she reminded him of both Kogami and Ginoza when they first began working as Inspectors. She was determined to make a difference, wanted her work to be for the greater good, and not just the preservation of Sibyl. And just like before, Masaoka could already see the signs of their work hardening Akane’s skin like armor.

But there was something else. She wasn’t becoming tough to the core. Somehow, she still held on to her sense of justice, still wanted to believe in the inherent good of both the people and the system she worked to protect. Her determined optimism was achingly familiar to Masaoka—he remembered seeing it light up his son’s eyes when he was first assigned to the PSB, remembered seeing it flicker behind Kogami’s smile back when he was still an Inspector…remembered feeling it burn hot in his own chest when he was still a detective with a happy wife and a newborn son.

It never lasted long, not in this line of work, and especially not with Sibyl breathing down their necks. He knew it was only a matter of time before it faded from Akane as well. And yet…he still found himself wanting to protect it—protect her—for as long as he possibly could. If that meant discouraging her from lingering too long on her fascination with Kogami, then so be it. He’d seen first-hand the way Kogami’s dangerous mix of charisma, intelligence, and focus could tempt those around him into the same destructive habits.

“If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,” he told her, only to earn furrowed brows and a small frown in response. Ah, he realized, she really is cut from the same cloth. It didn’t matter what he said to her—she’d already made up her mind. Her wide eyes and gentle voice couldn’t hide her fierce curiosity and immoveable stubbornness.

Well…if he couldn’t convince her to protect herself, maybe he could find some way to keep her safe himself.

———

Add details to the foreground and background, deepen the shadows to add more depth. This will help your subject stand out.

The door shut behind him with a soft click. Just like that, he was alone, isolated in his own home—or, cell…he really couldn’t tell the difference anymore—and left with no distractions from the mess he’d just made.

He’d thought he was so much older and wiser, thought that he had left behind the wide-eyed idyllicism that had drawn him to this god-forsaken career. But here he was, down one pistol and one set of keys to his safe house. He had just sent Kogami on what was essentially a suicide mission, and now he would have to face Tsunemori and Nobuchika and all the others, and watch them figure out what he’d done.

He knew giving Kogami a gun and refuge was a mistake. He knew it. And yet…he couldn’t find it in himself to feel any regret. The fool was always going to pursue Makishima, no matter the personal cost. At least Masaoka could tell himself he’d done what he could to lessen that cost, just a bit.

His eyes burned with exhaustion and his stomach burned with bourbon, but he didn’t move towards his bedroom. He instead found himself wandering into the moonlit living room, flicking on a lamp on his journey to the easel that was still set up by the windows. There was no way he was going to sleep. He might as well get some other work done while he could.

———

At last, you can add the final details to your piece, such as brighter highlights. But be careful—less is more.

“Thank you for helping me with this.”

“Of course, Ginoza-san.” Akane was growing used to the grief that had settled in her chest like a rock. It felt like her days were a never-ending parade of sorting through the things her loved ones had left behind—Kagari’s vintage tech collection, Kogami’s books, and now, whatever secret interest Masaoka had stashed away.

And yet, for all that she was getting “used to” the process, she still felt her eyes sting when she stepped into Masaoka’s old living quarters and breathed in the familiar scent of bourbon and paints. She could see the effects of being surrounded by his father’s presence weighing on Ginoza, and no amount of wry grins could keep her from noticing his curved-in shoulders.

“No need to use ‘-san’ with me,” he chuckled as he led her further into the salon. “You’re the superior, now.”

“I still learned everything about this job from you.”

“Not just me.”

The quiet words pulled her eyes from wandering around the room back to Ginoza. He was standing by a covered easel near the window, holding up one edge of the fabric to peer at the painting underneath with a small, sad smile. “He never finished.”

“Finished what?”

“This.” It was surprising, seeing how carefully Ginoza unveiled the painting, but not as surprising as what awaited underneath. Akane’s breath caught in her throat—she...she knew that painting. She could distantly remember watching Masaoka lay down the base colors so many months ago.

And the strangest thing was, it looked finished to her. The vase looked almost real from how detailed the reflections were, and the flowers looked like they could bloom straight from the canvas. “It looks done to me.”

“It’s not. The flowers, they…they look too alive. They were starting to go brown at the edges when he started painting them.”

“How do you—?”

“I gave these flowers to my mother. He must have taken a photo of them and painted them to let her enjoy them forever.” Something around his eyes hardened, and his fingers tightened in the fabric he was still holding. “He…he had plans and projects and now—”

His voice broke. The next thing Akane knew, the fabric was fluttering to the ground as Ginoza pressed his hands to his eyes, shoulders drawn up tight around his ears.

Akane had never seen anyone in the PSB cry. In fact, the last person she’d seen cry was Kaori at Yuki’s funeral. So she did what she’d done for Kaori: she stepped up to Ginoza, gently wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and didn’t let go, not even when she felt him stiffen. “Don’t,” she murmured firmly, “don’t apologize. We have to grieve for him. We have to remember him. We’re the only ones who can, Ginoza-san.”

He was frozen for a moment, his only movements coming from his shaking sobs. Then, like a drifting boat in search of a mooring, his hands fell from his eyes and clutched at the back of her shirt as his forehead came to a rest on her shoulder. “...Thank you, Tsunemori,” he whispered, his voice rough from his tears.

“Of course.”

Ginoza gave himself a few more breaths before he pulled away, granting Akane a look at his reddened eyes. “Um,” he murmured, rubbing at the lingering tear tracks on his cheeks, “would you…be willing to help me take this to my mother? I don’t know how well she remembers him, but…I think he was painting this for her in the first place. She should be the one to have it.”

“Give me the time and place,” Akane agreed with a smile. “I’ll be there.”

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t00thpasteface · 2 years ago

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maybe the drama in this fandom isn't anything special, but i think all the love and creativity really IS!! i'm so touched to see all the marcien votes in this poll— not because of what it means to win (or nearly win) a simple poll tournament on tumblr, but because each vote came from another person i reached out and touched with my silly art.

i started drawing marcien art after a really ugly breakup with my first and only boyfriend. i gave a lot of things to him, all my firsts, and he took it all from me and left me a hollow shell. in the aftermath, i was just coming into my long-repressed identity as a lesbian and hardly even knew who i was. and my first way to explore that was to make make my hok, suzy, a lesbian just like me, and refuse to ship her with either of her two best friends... since then i've had a lot of men i thought were my frends suddenly refuse to acknowledge my presence after finding out i was a lesbian, or worse, demand explanations and take my identity as a personal offense. suzy is a lesbian who doesn't have to suffer like i did. she will never have to bury her identity by forfeiting her heart and body like i did. this idea grew into something far more frivolous on the surface, but that seedling sprouted from a dark place, which is why it means so, so much to get all this love for it.

it may not look like it, but i pour a lot of heartache and worry and regret into my work. my goal has always been to rise above it all and bring smiles to people of all stripes with my cartoons, and even after being an active online artist for easily over half my life at this point, every nice comment, kind reply, and excited tag still makes me literally squee out loud with happiness. i can't articulate how amazing it is to know how many lives i've crossed paths with and brought at least a little joy to.

i'd like to to channel that gratitude to give another warm thanks to @incorrectskyrimquotes for running this poll and braving so much psychic damage in the process. thanks for bringing us together and inspiring us to write, draw, and cheer for our blorbos.

i'm going to be going off to college for my second bachelor's degree this autumn, and in the middle of all the nervousness and fear surrounding that decision, it's no exaggeration to say that ALL of you guys— the ones who reblog every post, the ones who leave wacky tags, and even the ones who just likespam and never reblog— are giving me the resilience and resolve to keep studying and working hard, and giving me something fun to come back to once i've set my textbooks down for the night.

so hey, cheers to marcien!!! and cheers to everyone reading this. i'm so lucky to have yall and i hope i'm making it worth your while with every doodle, sketch, and comic. STAY MINTY!!!!!!

#shebbz shoutz #sketch #I LOVE YOU GUYSSSssss waaaaaa

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maestro-of-clockwork · 1 year ago

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Darkness was the first thing they registered when they awoke from their heavy, heavy slumber. Neither of them could remember what happened, but despite not being able to see where they were, they immediately felt the oppressive air of somewhere they weren't supposed to be.

Remembering wasn't at all as much as a priority than figuring out what was going on. It didn't help matters that they seemed to be chained down to chairs at a table...

"H-hello?" Sketchbook hesitantly whispered out.

"Sketch?" came another voice from right beside her.

"Larry!" Sketchbook called out his name in a relieved sigh, but it was soon overshadowed by the unmistakable tremble of fear. "Wh-...where do you suppose we are...?"

"I don't know," he replied, "but I have a damn good feeling of who brought us here."

To their surprise, another voice shortly cut in:

"You're so smart, Leonard."

At the utterance of that last syllable, the lights came to life, revealing both the room and the gravity of their situation.

The room was big, and not unlike a basement built from concrete. The chairs and the table they sat in were steel, just as the chains that bound them. However, nothing about this was more horrifying than what was in the center of the room.

Strapped tightly to a metal platform that was adjusted vertically...was Colin. He looked unconscious, so he must have been given heavy sedatives...both Sketchbook and Larry were mortified into silence until Antonio strode in from behind the mechanism that held their best friend.

"You fucking bastard!" Larry yelled, "Let Colin and Sketchbook go! They didn't do shit to you!"

"Larry, no!" Sketchbook plead, terror in her eyes as she snapped her head to Larry's. "No! I'll stay here, you can't put yourself in danger-"

"Oh, now, now, children, quit your bickering..."

Antonio strode towards them, mania in his eyes and teeth on full display in a grotesque grin.

"None of you are going anywhere! Not any time soon..."

As soon as Sketchbook's eyes locked onto him, she fell into a dead silence, stuck in a thousand-yard stare.

Sensing Sketchbook was too afraid of Antonio to speak, Larry didn't hesitate to interrogate the man in her stead. "What do you want from us this time, you fucking freak?!"

"Oh," the word was drawn out in an excited shudder, "we're all going to play a very special game this time!"

Antonio gave no room for a response, continuing on, "I want to see just how strong that bond of yours to each other truly is! I want to see how far you would go!"

"I want to see if you would rip each other's eyes out and claw your own organs out just to keep Colin safe!" The frantic joy tightly held their tormentor's voice in a chokehold as his body visibly shook with near-madness.

"But first," Antonio stopped in front of the table before his gloved hands abruptly crashed down onto the metal table as he loomed over them. He smiled wider when they jumped. "First, I'm going to tell you the rules!"

Larry bared his teeth in a snarl, "No. We're n-"

"LET. ME. SPEAK."

Antonio's sudden and demented aggression immediately wiped the scowl off of Larry's face. He quickly realized that the blight upon his friends' lives was much more erratic and dangerous than usual. He'd have to force his rebellion aside and tread carefully this time.

"Your friend over there is completely unconscious, and will be for a while! I found a way to shut off his mechanical brain entirely. But," Antonio interjected, "I ensured that I did no harm to any of his memory, drives, motherboards or processors..."

"Now, what I want you two to do, is follow a series of little challenges I've made for you! You have a time limit to complete them...and every time you run out of time or refuse to play along..."

He leaned in closer, "...I'll corrode a bit of his brain. Once it is fully corroded, your poor cyborg friend will die...and I won't revive him."

Sketchbook broke into heavy sobs and Larry actually found himself shaking in disgust and terror at the prospect.

"You're fucking sick!" he screamed, the fear and panic on full display as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Oh, shh-shh-shh-shh..." Antonio gave a sickening chuckle, "That's only if you misbehave, my darling! If you play my game all the way through and correctly...I will let all three of you leave."

Larry's soul ached with agony as he heard Sketchbook weeping during the half-minute of silence that followed...so, he continued to speak when she wasn't able.

"How-...how many challenges do we have to do...?"

It twisted Larry's stomach to see Antonio's expression gain a hint of hedonistic satisfaction.

"However many I decide. Am I understood~?"

Larry looked towards Sketchbook, who tearfully nodded, still hiccuping through her crying. Larry looked back to Antonio and nodded shakily, his agreement tumbling out, "Okay...fine. Anything for him..."

Antonio stood upwards, "A wise decision, dear friends!"

"Ah, one more thing," he added. "We will also have an audience...would that be alright with you~...?"

Antonio didn't wait long enough for a response before he let an unhinged laugh escape him, turning his back to them and starting to walk away.

"I'm only asking to be polite, of course. I don't care if it's alright with the both of you or not~..."

Sketchbook was trying her best to quit the tears and patch up her resolve while Larry did his best to emotionally support her in his sympathetic silence.

"I'll give you a day's grace period before we start," Antonio chimed in again, opening the exit to that hellish chamber.

"Savor it while you can."

The heavy door shut and a sturdy deadbolt locked it in place.

As soon as he was gone, Larry leaned on Sketchbook's shoulder.

"It'll be okay, Sketch. The three of us have survived him for this long...who's to say we can't survive this...?"

Despite Larry's encouragement, he sounded unsure of himself, but Sketchbook appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"You're right. I-...I just hope we satisfy him enough for him to let us out...all we can do is try," Sketchbook replied feebly.

Although they were terrified out of their minds, all Sketchbook and Larry could do was hope for the best...and their care and trust for one another was already deep enough for them to know that they'd do anything it took to save Colin.

#[[ ooc ]]#event: pulling the strings #from the typewriter. {{ t e x t }}#tw gore mention #tw death mention #[[ so idk if i'm gonna feel terrible or not tomorrow so let's just pretend whenever the next post is is the day after in canon ]]

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kindheart525 · 11 months ago

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He wasn’t one to share his troubles with anypony, but Igneous Rock was having a very difficult year. His strength had passed its prime ages ago, but only recently did it become difficult to do even the most basic of chores. His wife and daughters had the feeling something was wrong, but so far Igneous was hiding it well enough that they didn’t think it’d be so soon.

Of course, Igneous would be a hypocrite if he tried to grind through despite his aching bones, considering how he never let his family work through their injuries. That wasn’t the case at all, he just didn’t want to worry them more than he had to.

But despite everything, there was one thing that didn’t change, and that was the Hearth’s Warming family reunion.

Igneous had managed to limp down to the crystal caves where everypony was carving their rock dolls, but that just about drained his strength for the day. He’d definitely need a wagon ride back up when they were done. In the meantime, he laid on the ground with his rock before him, shakily gripping a pickaxe between his teeth.

He wasn’t sure if he could manage this.

After what felt like an eternity, he mustered up the strength to swing the axe firmly into the stone, but that much effort only broke off a small chip. There was no way he could break through the whole thing.

Never mind it, Igneous wasn’t that concerned about a Hearth’s Warming doll. So he set down his hat and watched the rest of his family dutifully chip away at theirs.

“Howdy Grandpa!”

Mountain Peak, his youngest grandson, called out in his familiar prepubescent twang as he flittered over to where he lay. A proud smile was plastered across his face, with an object guarded tightly behind his forelegs. Igneous couldn’t make it out until he finally held it up to him.

“Look! I already finished mine!”

“Already? Good heavens.”

Igneous humored him, but he was seriously impressed at the colt’s work. It was of typical quality for a foal his age, but he had never seen anypony finish their doll this quickly.

The older stallion didn’t have to ask how he did it for Mountain to answer him anyway.

“I brought a pencil down here with me and drew my shape on the rock, then I carved around it just like one of Grandma’s sewing patterns! Made it a whole lot easier!”

Some ponies might have called this cheating, but Igneous wasn’t too concerned about that. Mountain Peak had already proven himself a hard worker. Even with what little he was able to do at his age, he did it diligently and thoroughly. It didn’t matter if he wanted to do things easier sometimes.

“Mind if I sit by you?”

Igneous shook his head no, and Mounty sat right down to watch the others with him.

“Mom’s doll is awful big, almost as tall as her! Don’t you think it’d be easier if she did a little one like the rest of us, Grandpa?”

Mounty started to commentate on the rest of the family, like the talkative little colt he was.

“She does a mighty good job on her dolls! Don’t you get me wrong! I was just thinking…”

“She has a grand personality and it shows in her labor.”

Igneous offered his own two bits.

“Yeah, you’re right! It seems everypony has a different way of doing it!”

“Mmhm.”

His grandpa mumbled in agreement, and they went back to watching the others quietly for awhile. Until Mounty noticed something.

“It looks like you haven’t finished your Hearth’s Warming doll!”

“I couldn’t do it right.”

Igneous explained as briefly as possible. Mounty was unfazed by his shortness.

“We all have those days! Mind if I help you finish it?”

He only had to nod once before Mounty took the rock and pickaxe from him and got right to work. Igneous watched as Mounty pulled out a small pencil from under his bow tie and concentrated on sketching a shape in his likeness, just like a painter studying their subject.

The colt had an infectious joy about him and was a pleasure to be around, along with being such an eager worker. The most dedicated to the rock farm out of all his grandchildren, in fact. Igneous would be long gone by that point, but he wondered to himself what the farm would eventually look like if Limestone were to choose Mountain Peak as her heir.

In fact, Igneous’ days were already numbered. As he took part in the family’s Hearth’s Warming festivities, as he laid there and listened to his grandson, he quickly began to realize he would probably not have another moment like this. It would be nothing short of a miracle if the God Mother allowed him to see another Hearth’s Warming.

Igneous wasn’t much of a talker, but there was plenty of wisdom yet he hoped to share with his grandson before he left this world…not that Mountain seemed to know how fast he was declining, and he didn’t want to break the poor colt’s heart. But still, now was a better time than ever for once last talk with him.

“I give great thanks for thy assistance, young one. Thy work ethic is wholly admirable, and will carry thee far in thy lifetime.”

“Thanks, Grandpa!”

Mountain Peak smiled gratefully but humbly, still focused on the task before him.

“I’m always mighty glad to help out. Making Hearth’s Warming dolls is real fun to do!”

“I am glad to hear it,”

Igneous couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at his enthusiasm.

“But, thou shall see, I speak of thy work the whole year round. Always greatly eager to carry out the tasks of the day. For, thou knowest, everypony has an important role to fulfill on this farm. Thou, thy mother, thine aunts and cousins also. Should thou keep up thy work and care for thy kin, as do thee, the farm and family shall flourish.”

Mounty didn’t realize this would be one of his last conversations with his grandpa, but still he pondered his words. It made him feel really useful to hear from the head of the family himself that he had an important role to fill! To hear that his work ethic was admirable. He wasn’t able to do as much as his mom and aunts yet so sometimes it didn’t feel like it.

“I’ll do my very best, Grandpa! You can count on it!”

“I have no doubt that thou shall. If Providence serves me right, thou shall be an asset to our family.”

“Ooh! By the way!”

The colt pushed something towards his grandpa, seemingly getting distracted even though he’d taken every word to heart.

“I finished your doll!”

A deep sense of pride swelled up within Igneous as he beheld his grandson’s creation. It was not unlike something he would have made in his younger years, a jagged likeness of himself carved into stone. It touched him to know that Mountain cared so much to give him this gift, that his heart was as strong as his will.

Igneous didn’t dare let his eyes mist up, but his voice was thick with emotion as he choked out,

“Good work, young one. A job very well done.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Previous: Clear Quartz Next: Bedrock

#KindsArt #auraverse #the future’s foundation #mountain peak #igneous rock pie #rock farm #story piece #next generation #my little pony #mlp fim #mlp g4

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