#but taking photo of pencil drawing is kind of ugly

[somedayslater]

in the future when haejoon comes back from work...

He helps eunyung memorizing his lines for his next show. its in a little theater from the neighborhood and eunyung likes it.

Eunyung was scouted and tried to be famous but it wasnt for him ; too much exploitation and humiliation, he was not respected. He couldnt keep his mouth shut while witnessing the unfair treatment of his comrades. The world of entertainment is cruel, especially in south korea.

Eunyung began to hate theater. He realized that being rich and famous just to make his parents regret abandoning him was not really productive, if it made him consider abandoning the only thing he managed to keep liking.

So he stopped, took an alimentary job (it pays better than being a rookie actor anyway). Now he plays in an associative theater as a hobby. they do unknown and strange plays that most people dont find interesting -but they have some success thanks to eunyung's previous popularity.

~~~~~~

Haejoon didnt understand why eunyung was throwing away his ticket at being famous at first. he was good at it, people were excepting him to do it, he could earn a lot of money. Just because of his horrible personality, eunyung was abandoning his dream ? he'll really never change.

But then haejoon went to see his shows in this little theater and he understood ; eunyung was having fun here. Haejoon did see how eunyung was miserable working in the entertainment industry. He thought it was normal, because everybody was miserable at work. Life is about finding its place, not about being happy. Happiness, it comes after, if youre lucky.

But here eunyung was shining. He enjoyed being here. That's what eunyung wanted. Haejoon couldnt really grasp that at first, but he began to enjoy going to his shows too.

Really thinking about what you want to do, not conforming to what you think people want you to do or say... eunyung could do that now. haejoon was a little envious.

He studied a lot because he didnt have anything else to do ; he went to a good university because he studied a lot ; he got a good-paying job at a reputable company because he went to a good university. What was the point of it ? he didnt know and he actually didnt care to not know. His mother would be proud, and that was the important thing.

But haejoon was happy when he went to see eunyung playing and that was good. he didnt always understand the plays, and eunyung would spent hours explaining to him the reason behind this light, this silence, this character's action. Haejoon tried to be interested in it ; he didnt always suceed. but he enjoyed seeing eunyung talking, and eunyung seemed to like explaining things to him anyway. Plus, he would often cook while talking, so if haejoon listened diligently he'll have a really nice meal after.

~~~~~~

( i think in the future haejoon wont really have an exciting life but a stable one, with good pay and a nice apartment. he goes by day after day without really knowing the purpose of it all but it is how it is.

eunyung will be the contrary. he's so happy to finally enjoy being alive that he wont loose his time in a place where he's miserable. he'll get by with shitty jobs, and he will find a purpose in doing as many fun things as he can.

I would really like it if they find a balance between them and live together. haejoon provides material comfort, eunyung provides excitement. haejoon is happy to witness the fun in eunyung's life and participate in it in his own way (helping him rehearse, lend a hand during the week-ends to set up the show scene). eunyung is grateful for haejoon to be here, to help during the months he's outta jobs and the rent is harder to pay.

they're not fairy-tale happy, but it's enough. the world isnt so menacing when they're together)

(id also love love it if both get involved in activism, so others in the future dont have to know whats it like to grow poor and ostracized. i really cant see haejoon doing that but eunyung i definitely can)

(im thinking and the dynamic will be something like, haejoon pays for most of the groceries and eunyung cooks. is it a somewhat sexist setup where long-haired eunyung is the wife and buff haejoon the husband then lol ? i also definitely see eunyung as dominant, choosing most of their mutual projects and the direction of their relationship. he also tops haejoon in bed and he enjoys making him cry. fortunately, haejoon loves to cry. outside sex, they hate hurting the other now though ! surprisingly, its a dynamic thats convenient for both of them.)

[junypr-camus]

part-time father

I've had a lot of time recently, so I've ended up reflecting on how I was raised and realizing that what I originally thought was a pretty unusual family arrangement is more common than I first imagined. So I wrote a narrative in two voices about it, a sort of collage of all the stories and experiences I've heard. My hope is that someone who's also experienced growing up with a mostly-absent father will read this and feel, like I now feel, that they aren't alone.

I was five when you left for the first time. Not the two-week business-trip and visiting-family kind of leaving. Not leaving for good, either. You were there one bleak morning, then waving goodbye to me through the security lines, steel-gray suitcase and backpack in hand, then gone. House empty. Peaceful.

At first, you and mother call every night. Then every week. Then almost never. The whispers become more like empty screams and I think I hear the phone ring, my mother not picking up, your voice calling for me, me not picking up. I don’t like hearing the screams. I can’t make out the words, but I know what screaming means.

We visited your Shanghai apartment that summer, and I remember the drip of chocolate-dipped ice cream cones, the fan thinly fighting the heat, the plastic covering of the bed that wasn’t my own. I dreamed that blood was pouring from every pore in my skin that night, into the fabric of a foreign-not-foreign country that I can and can’t call my home.

#####

I was seven when you made the business arrangement. Half your year here, with us, half your year there, in the country I knew in my blood but had never seen. Part-time father, my brother called it. I didn’t know what part-time meant. Or maybe he didn’t. 

I draw sketches of you from faded yellow photos, to give when you return. Mother says I’m quite good. A natural-born artist. 

#####

When you come back you bring a suitcase full of gifts. Snacks. I like the thin not-mint hawthorne candies and the rolls of fruit leather in little plastic packages with words I cannot read. You give me a pencil sharpener. It could sharpen a finger. I don’t know why it says “a little girl and boy” on it.

You take me to the department store, and I fidget through hours of escalator rides and check-out lines. You buy a cardboard “A” for me. For the race I am and the grades I am supposed to get — except you forget that I am in kindergarten and do not have those kinds of grades yet. 

#####

When you are home, you wake me up with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, and drive me to school before returning home to work. When you’re not home, my alarm forgets to wake me up on time. I arrive at math late and groggy. 

#####

While you’re gone, we find out that my passport needs renewing. You go to the consulate in Shanghai to get an affidavit notarized, except you’ve gotten my name wrong. It’s Emily, not Emma. 

My mom calls for the first time in weeks, and you make a second trip. I hope you’re properly embarrassed. 

#####

I learn to play the violin. You don’t like my drawings. 

#####

I am in middle school and have a poster of a NASA facility on my door, torn out from a magazine issue. I line my shelves with lego helicopters and 3D prints of robots I clumsily designed. You give me pink unicorn tape and an electric trash can whose lid opens so slowly like the jaws of a steel hippo at the push of a button. I can’t figure out how to turn it off and I don’t know why you couldn’t have gotten one with a pedal. 

You ask me what I want to do, and I say, “physics.” You tell me about your childhood, exaggerating your class ranking. I’ve stopped listening after the third time. 

You say the haircut I gave myself is ugly and my face needs washing. You ask me when I am going to get a boyfriend. Then you ask when I’m going to get married. I think you forget I’m in middle school. 

#####

I’m happy when you’re home, but I can’t pretend everything’s alright. You ask my brother how he enjoys tennis and forget that he is still recovering from a broken wrist that happened a few weeks after you left. He doesn’t say anything, but I can sense his retreat. He digs trenches and throws barbed wire around himself. 

#####

In the mornings, when you’re here, you make yourself a mug of overly-sweetened coffee, until the smell permeates every scrap of wood and I think I’ll never get rid of it. I try to avoid having breakfast with you, but I’m too tired to wake up early and too tired to deal with my mother being mad at me getting up so late. 

I don’t like dinner.

#####

My brother goes to college, and suddenly you’re awakened to his academic mediocrity. I guess you never realized that, with your absences, until he’s packing for a mid-level public school and you’ve become the joke of your ex-pat parties. 

The pressure’s on me, the only child in the house. Mother tries to shield me, but she can’t stop the barrage. Art is a waste, computer science is the only option. I'm dropped out of the painting class I love. Now it’s not good enough to play the violin. Now I have to be the best in the state. I play until my fingers callus, then bleed, then callus again. I didn’t even know that was possible. 

You tell me that I’m not going to waste my life partying and studying statistics like my brother. 

#####

There’s rats in the attic and leaking pipes in the walls but you’ve never bothered to ask how we’re fixing it. The house is your hotel. You walk on carpets with muddy shoes, leave the door open until the hallways are full of dust and flies, and leave us to clean up once you’re gone. 

Dinner conversations are empty. You lecture me on your successes in drugs to fight cancer but never remember the projects I’m working on. You think I should be a doctor. I know better. Look at what you did to my brother and sister.

You insist on salmon or steak every night, as if you’ve been starved in China. I grow tired of the dry flesh and lock myself in my room. I find solace in music.

#####

My brother’s pierced his ears, grown his hair long, and is taking a liking to sky-blue bomber jackets over hoodies and dyed hair. He looks different every time he comes back. I like it. You don’t. Mother blames you for it. Lack of a strong male presence and all. I think she wants a divorce.

Except I’m in the house still, and I’m too busy to waste time worrying. 

#####

We meet at a summer camp. You have no idea what we’re doing. You pretend you’re proud but we know you’re not. We track vanishingly faint asteroids in the sky and realize that we are not alone. Not in the universe, not in our predicament. We’re free. 

It’s a nice feeling. 

#####

It seems like as soon as I'm back from summer camp we move. I slam doors in this old-new house and when my mother asks me why, all I can say is that you keep me up at night, listening to videos without headphones in your study next door, stomping around. 

It’s true. It’s been true for a long time. I can’t really articulate why I hate you.

#####

When I return home and that beautiful, blessed freedom is taken away from me, I shut myself in my room and cry for a long time. I’m alone. I’m one single speck of dust dropped into the velvety black infinite. 

I keep in touch with my friends from camp. They know how I’m feeling. One contacts my mother, who tries to talk to me. But she can’t stop you. I hear raised voices. You think I can’t understand Chinese, but I do. And you say “divorce” in English anyway.

#####

You don’t know that it’s college application season for me, but you act like you’ve been waiting for it your whole life. Except the only question you ask is if I’m applying to an Ivy League. And the only response I can give is yes. 

You don’t know what my dream school is, and you don’t know that I got in. And I’m glad to be going a long, long ways away from home. 

He tells me that his mother’s made it final. She’s keeping the house. He’s been accepted. And he, too, is glad to be going a long, long ways away from home. 

[fangirleaconmigo]

It looks like she's using tempera paint, which is a water based and similar to H²O colour paint.

Paint is made from a few ingredients, pigment (the colour which usually exists as a powder before mixing), binder (holds the pigment suspended, in this case I'd assume it's gum arabic), and the vehicle which in this case is water, it gets the pigment+binder moving around (in the olden days egg whites or yolks were used as a binder, the Last Supper was painted in egg tempera!).

Tempera dries quickly, is pretty translucent, but is not that great for mixing paint directly on the page. Mixing on a pallet (wax paper it great!) then applying colours in layers and letting them dry inbetween will be a useful approach. A thicker paper might help with curling, cardstock or H²O colour paper.

If mixing two paints to get a desired shade it is way easier to mix little amounts of a darker hue into a bigger portion of a lighter one (mixing dark into light can get frustrating and takes a long time using a lot of paint!!). When building up your composition it's advantageous to paint the lightest areas first and gradually make your way up to the darkest ones at the end. Also the white of the page behind the paint helps makes colours pop!

Adding white to a colour makes it lighter but, it will also help to keep it on the more opaque side (a good trick for yellows if you're finding them too see though). Wrangling tempera can be tricky!! That's why I don't really use it. 😉

Drawing a light sketch in pencil can help immensely and get your niece's composition closer to her reference photo. I'd encourage her to look for the shapes she sees in the photo and try to draw those. Each area of colour could be a shape, e.g. the mountain is like a white triangle but the dark shadow makes a smaller trapezoid shape within the snowy peak. Looking at the shape of negative space around your subject helps just as much as looking at the positive space.

To get your paintings to imitate nature, you often have to break things down in an unnatural feeling way. It all comes down to experimentation and every experiment holds value! Even if you hate the result and think it's ugly don't throw them away, it's really useful to refer to and see what worked or what you want to try different next time.

And I find a lot of times an experiment will come out better than even your original idea. I feel it's the accumulation of 'happy accidents' which can grow and bloom into your own completely unique style!

End of ramble <3

Thank you so much! That makes so much sense. I don’t really know about the different kinds of paint but knowing how they behave differently helps.

I’m thinking about finding a video tutorial for the kind of landscape she wants, buying whatever paint they use, and and following it.

I think as long as she gets to do a pink and blue sky with snow in the frame (she kept calling it a polar sky) she’ll be happy.

I have the suspicion that I’m also gonna learn to paint a thing or two from this process. It just hurts my heart to see her so upset by her own work. I’m like…you’re a kid! This is supposed to be fun! But I also get it. And hopefully a little improvement will encourage her.

It took me this long to realize that anyone can learn pretty much anything with guidance and practice, and hopefully she can learn that sooner than I did.

[lucylyall]

Something I've really enjoyed about the last year is not needing to express myself.

Now, to be clear, I've created more stand-alone art pieces in the last ten months or so than I have in the past decade. I've worked with pencils, inks, markers, watercolours, digital painting, photography, all sorts – it's been amazing. But it's all been pretty much representational or educational – I've been drawing from life, recreating photos, making colour charts, things like that. There's been emotions in there, but I've not been trying to express my internal world beyond maybe 'I really like this plant, this show, these faces, this place', and it's been so … relaxing.

I love that art practice gives this opportunity, to just take a break from the Big Feelings. Working on comics always involved telling a story, and telling a story always involved saying something – having an opinion, making a statement, trying to express something about my world-view, even if it was very small. And I absolutely love doing that, but god it got exhausting sometimes. Trying to figure out what I wanted to say, whether I was saying it clearly, whether it was worth saying it at all, even whether it was actually downright wrong.

When I called this tumblr '4LS is taking a break' I think that's really what I've been taking a break from, though I didn't really understand that at the time. I just knew I was tired.

So this year, I've been able to make stuff like .... a painting of two onions and a potato. Maybe I'll look back in some years time and think 'I could do that so much better now' (actually, I kind of hope I will, because I'm actively trying to improve) - but I have full confidence that I will never look back at this and think 'What was I thinking saying that about onions?!' And people look at it, and they say 'That's a good painting of two onions and a potato', and I say 'Thank you', and that's … kind of the end of it. There are no opinions in there, and I've found it very restful.

I've been thinking about this now, mainly because I actually am trying to express myself again. And once again I'm up against thoughts of 'Is this right?' 'Should I be sharing this?' 'Is it saying what I want to say?'. The thing I'm making is very personal, and it's pretty ugly. In fact, it's ugly on purpose. I thought I was going to do a horror zine, and instead turning into a zine about my mental health. After ten months of trying really hard to make things that look good, I'm finally getting back into self-expression by vomiting up this ugly art baby that I'm not sure anyone else will like. And it's not relaxing like drawing onions … but I'm having fun, though. I'm remembering what I like about expressing my internal world on paper.

[winzenni]

didn't mean to make you cry (lee donghyuck)

Summary: when your design project partner’s joking criticism unintentionally makes you cry, how will he fix it? after all, you’re his crush...

Genre: hurt/comfort?, fluff

Pairing: donghyuck x artist!reader, high school!au

Word count: 1.5k

When you were paired up with the outgoing, edgy, purple-haired boy in class for your design assignment, you thought your final grade was done for. The purple-haired class clown, Lee Donghyuck, who wears leather jackets and looks like he plays with fire in his free time, but actually has a kind heart and warm aura. 

You thought Donghyuck would ditch you in the very beginning, dumping the entire assignment onto you and opting to hit up the local night market with his friends instead, but he had surprised you. Throughout the month, Donghyuck had stayed on task in classes and been very attentive to your vision and goals for the project. Together, you were assigned to create a design layout that would display students’ artwork and be printed in the school newspaper.

Though your peers in class all opted for a traditional newspaper design, with serif fonts and boxy modules, you wanted to break out of the norm and create a futuristic vibe, with circles and vivid motifs, to emanate a clean aura in your work. When you were paired with Donghyuck, you feared he would shut down your creative vision, but instead, he had been extremely supportive and helpful in the project, even offering insight to improve the layout and refine the modern look of the pages.

For fun, you had put some close-up photos of your old sketches and drawings in the background. You thought Donghyuck would have called you self-centered for putting your own personal works on the page, but he had proven you wrong by complimenting the design afterwards. Together, your smooth black pen lines and colored pencil textures created a personal, diary-like feeling to the design, while the minimalistic modules and white space kept the clean modern vibes. 

His willingness to cooperate and kindness to you and your ideas had truly shocked you, and erased the bad boy/lazy rebel image you had thought of him. He seemed like someone you wanted to get closer with, maybe.

“Donghyuck and Y/N, time for your evaluation.” the teacher called you two up.

“Hm, this corner of the page is a little crowded. It’s hard on the eyes,” Ms. Kang says. 

“It’s because y/n drew the picture there,” says Donghyuck. “It’s ugly, right?” He says it in a joking manner, and you know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the words stir up some insecurities you’ve suppressed for a long time.

Ms. Kang laughs along with him. “Donghyuck, don’t be mean. Her drawing looks fine…”

--

You know he was joking when he had called your drawing ugly, but you couldn’t help but think that maybe he truly meant it. People were always like that to you.

In elementary school, your parents had loved your art. Your scribbly golden retrievers, your painted landscapes, they had praised each one and hung them up on the refrigerator, and you were so proud to have a talent that they were proud of. 

In eighth grade, your hyper realistic self-portrait earned you a ticket to New York to have your art displayed at a museum’s exhibit highlighting children’s artworks. You began to think this talent could take off and become a career, but your parents disagreed.

“Art doesn’t make money, y/n. Do you want to starve when you grow up?”

As you grew older, your art got better but your parents’ support decreased. Though you could draw a golden retriever 100 times better than before, your parents weren’t praising you.

“It’s ok, y/n. It looks kind of ugly.”

“That’s supposed to be you? It’s ugly-”

“Why did you draw me so ugly-”

Ugly was such a short word. But why did it hurt so much? Whenever you saw your parents’ faces, you just thought about your ugly, meaningless passion: art.

--

The bell rang. 

“Ah, I barely noticed the time. We’ll finish grading your design next class.” says Ms. Kang.

“Cool, thanks seonsaengnim,” Donghyuck responds. “Y/n, what did you think? She really liked the-”

You stand up, grabbing your bag and leaving for the cafeteria. You couldn’t hear Donghyuck’s words over your parents’ criticisms ringing in your head.

“Are you dumb? You’re NOT going to art school.” “No more art, y/n. It’s meaningless.” It had been a while since the word “ugly” had come up when talking about your art, your hobby, your talent, no -- your sole passion in life that gave you a purpose. You didn’t even notice your eyes watering up.

“Y/n, didn’t you hear me?” Donghyuck catches up beside you. “Ms. Kang said -- wait, are you crying?”

You’re taken aback, looking up to the face on your left. Concern flashes through his eyes as a sense of embarrassment pierces your chest. He thinks I cried because of a dumb joke he made, you think to yourself. He thinks I’m too sensitive and weak like that.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, taking a u-turn to seek refuge in the bathroom. 

At lunch, you plop your tray beside your friend Renjun, taking a seat.

“How was the project evaluation?” He asks. 

“Renjun, you’re gonna laugh when I say this. I cried for no reason in front of Donghyuck,” you reveal.

“Why? What happened?” He asks worriedly.

You explain the purple-haired kid in your class, the design project, the thoughts that had rushed through your mind after Donghyuck had jokingly called your art ugly. Renjun, who you had first met in art class and hoped to become an art student himself, was one of few people who truly understood your insecurities about your future in art. 

“He probably thinks I’m weird and too sensitive now,” you say.

“Maybe,” he says. Renjun was never one to lie, even if the truth hurt a little bit. “It’s okay though, you probably won’t see him ever again after this year.” He puts a hand on your shoulder, patting it comfortingly.

“You’re right,” you laugh, scooping up another spoonful of rice.

--

How can she be laughing so much after crying less than twenty minutes ago? Donghyuck asks himself from across the cafeteria. Did I do something wrong?

“Donghyuck, what’s on your mind?” pipes up Jeno. “What are you looking at?”

“Hm? Oh… Earlier in class, that girl over there cried after I said something but I’m not sure why.” Donghyuck answers.

Jeno raises his head to look over at the girl in question. “Oh! Y/n? She’s so nice though, how did you even make her cry?” “I don’t know! That’s what I want to know!” Donghyuck defends himself. “Who’s sitting next to her though? She was just crying last class, why is she laughing already?”

“Oh, that’s Renjun. Why don’t you just ask him? He seemed pretty chill in math class last year,” Jeno suggests. 

-- 

When Donghyuck sees Renjun turn into the boys’ bathroom before class, he follows.

“Renjun!” he calls out.

Renjun turns around to see the owner of the unfamiliar voice. 

“Why did y/n cry? Did I do something wrong?”

Tilting his head to process the sudden interrogation, Renjun notices Donghyuck’s bright purple hair and makes the connection.

“Oh, you’re Donghyuck,” he remarks.

“Please, Renjun, tell me if I did something wrong. I need to know.”

“Why do you care so much?” Renjun asks. “Don’t worry about it, she’s not mad at you.”

“No, please. Please tell me. I-” Donghyuck starts. How can he admit his crush on you to a stranger right now? He can’t miss his chance. “I-I like y/n. I need to know if I did something wrong. I want to fix it. Please, Renjun.” 

Donghyuck had loved your drawings. He had loved your designs too. And loved you too. He loved how concentrated you focused when designing the layout, how your fingers gracefully pushed hair behind your ears when it fell in your face. He loved how your passion and dedication shined through in everything you did, whether it was your voice in a presentation, or the speed and concentration of your fingers on a keyboard. You were his crush, but also his role model. He couldn’t live with himself if he had made you cry.

Renjun explained your situation, your art, your parents, your self-doubt to Donghyuck. “Shoot your shot, Donghyuck. I think maybe y/n likes you too,” he said before pushing the door open and leaving quickly to hide his growing smile.

Alone in the bathroom, Donghyuck breathes a sigh of relief.

--

The next day in class, Donghyuck slides his backpack on the desk beside you, instead of his usual seat in the back. 

You look up, unsure how to face him. Should you explain why you cried? Or pretend like it didn’t happen?

He slips a folded pink piece of paper onto your desk, nodding at you to open it. 

You unfold the paper to see a doodle of a girl and boy, painting the sky together under some clouds. Amongst the clouds read “Your art is amazing. And you are too.” in a neat script. On the bottom of the paper: “Wanna come with me to the night market on Saturday?”

You look up at Donghyuck, searching his eyes to see if this is some pitiful joke or attempt to amend. Instead, you just see a glazed, lovestruck gaze in his eyes.

“I promise I won’t make you cry this time,” he says.

[gabrieldrawsstuff]

Aight fellas, I'm doing a list of canon descriptions of dw characters for future reference, might do a second part with more minor characters

SPOILER ALERT OBV

STRANGER

-THE JOURNAL : "Somehow I'm wearing a coat, so I must've changed my clothes on my way here. I don't recognize myself anymore. I can barely hold this pencil. Has my body changed?"

-DOCTOR : "I see you haven't regained your speech. You need to find another doctor."

-SNAIL : "Your face... What happened to you?

The snail's jaw falls so low, it almost detaches itself from the rest of the body.

You scared me... You barely resemble a human... You should cover yourself..."

SNAIL : "You're so ugly, I feel like puking... You barely resemble a human being..."

THE CRIPPLE : "You, lad. You've got your hands and legs. Strong arms. I beg you!"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Can't you speak? Did someone take away your voice?"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Your gob looks like that because of this fiendish air, do you know? I bet you can't speak, because you didn't keep your mouth shut when walking through the woods."

MAMA ELEPHANT : "(...) I know you want something, you leper demon."

MUSHROOM GRANNY : "(...) But you're young and strong."

CHICKEN LADY : "Whaddaya need, poor soul? Hungry, eh? I'd give ya some stew, but what good will it do?"

(I think in polish version it was closer to 'how will you eat it' although I can't be sure)

MIRROR : "You are one ugly bastard. I guess you got what you deserved."

MUSICIAN : "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are!"

MUSICIAN : "You're not af-fraid of anything!"

WOLFMAN : "Even from afar I can smell your putrid stench. Be glad I don't have an appetite for carcasses, Meat"

WOLFMAN : (after the church dream sequence) "Meat, what's with the big eyes? Hehe... Scared?"

WOLFMAN : (when you nod to a question if you're making a joke of him) "You're a brave piece of meat... and what's more important, one with a sense of humor. 

WOLFMAN : "Are you pretending to be human, or are you just cracking jokes?"

WOLFMAN : "You look tired, Meat. Busy night?"

WOLFMAN : "Have fun, Meat... Just remember to hide that disaster of a face or it's no dancing for you"

WOLFMAN : (when you spare the sow) "My heart sings with joy when I see such selfless kindness. Tell me the truth, Meat. It was you, wasn't it?"

vvvvv

TRADER

-A man, roughly my size, is standing before me.

I can barely make out his disturbingly familiar features through the matte visor of his helmet...

The massive helmet is covered with an old sack and seems to be an integral part of the unnaturally pale body.

-The man reaches out to me with his black hand. It's covered in charcoal... There's something written on his worn, woolen glove.

-Visibly struggling, the man drops the sack from his back and bends in half, as if out of breath. He shakes the dust off his clothes, then rolls up the sleeve of his, seemingly too small, jacket. 

-The old sack covering his body slides down, revealing his chest, covered in horrid growths. It is fused with a porous helmet, pulsating to the rhythm of his breath.

vvvvv

WOLFMAN

THE JOURNAL: "If I'm not delusional, the man whom I met... had the head of a wolf."

FIRST ENCOUNTER: The figure hides its face under the hood. It smells of wet soil and fur.

WOLFMAN: "(...)I barely believe my beautiful eyes... (...) The Wolf smiles, revealing a row of sharp teeth.

AT BARN RUINS: The Wolf makes a quick leap and, bouncing against me with his swollen belly, he puts his paws on my shoulders. He ostentatiously licks his face. (...)

-I notice fresh bloodstains on his fur and feel streaks of his saliva dripping onto my coat. 

-The Wolf takes two steps back. I can only see a row of filthy, sharp teeth underneath his hood.

-The Wolf squeezes my arms and starts licking my face. Once from the left side, once from the right side. (...) His breath stinks of rot.

WOLFMAN: "Thanks to you I feel fulfilled! I got my girl, my sweet little lady back."

-Suddenly the Wolf sends me back with a powerful push and reaches into his coat pocket.

WOLFMAN: "(...) and then nothing wil keep you from getting the fuck out of my part of the woods! Do you get me, Meat? You will pack your bags, dive into that stinking hole of yours and dissa-fucking-pear!"

-Finally he snorts, his thick, yellow spit landing on the photo.

-The Wolf grabs the box and starts sniffing it from every angle. I could swear I've heard his tail moving under his coat.

WOLFMAN: "And what am I supposed to do with it? Bite it until it opens? Your brain must be rotting if you think I will break my fangs for this shit."

WOLFMAN: "An electronic game, eh? About a wolf stealing chicken eggs... hehehe. Good one!I've a soft spot for games, how about you?"

-As I produce the key, the Wolf's pupils widen with excitement.

WOLFMAN: (about villagers) "Those selfish, deceitful wretches! They think they're superior, because they have human gobs. They treat us like lepers! But you know what? Fuck them. We're buddies, aren't we? And them? They deserve to be punished, Meat..."

-The Wolf pierces me with his look and grins. A string of saliva lands on his hole-riddled jacket.

-The Wolf puts his paw on me. I can feel his claws puncturing my skin.

WOLFMAN: (about piotrek) "Meat! Fucking hell, seen that? Hahaha! Seen that? Hahaha! Off he flew, didn't he? OFF HE FUCKED!!! Hahahaha!"

WOLFMAN: "If you wish to spend some more quality time basking in the striking, yet natural beauty of my features before you head off to the Silent Forest, you will find me in my camp in the Dry Meadow."

vvvvv

DOCTOR

THE JOURNAL: "What I do know is that the insane fucker took my key. My only chance to get out of the woods. He also tore out all the pages from my journal."

THE JOURNAL: "The doctor has escaped. So be it. He would only be a hindrance anyway."

CHICKEN LADY: "My sisters! Where did ya find it? It's all that godless quack's fault - devil brought him! All he did was prescribe this and that, scribble this no-good drivel! To hell with them papers!"

-I can feel the doctor's cold hand grab me by the jaw, (...)

-He removes his dirty glasses with a trembling hand and freezes.

DOCTOR: "First they begged for help, now I need to hide from them! I'm just an ordinary doctor! How the fuck was I supposed to help them?! How?!"

-With shaking hands, he reaches for the cigarrete butt between his yellow teeth.

DOCTOR: "I used to come here to treat people. I pulled out kids' milk teeth, delivered babies... (...) Last time I came here was three or four years ago. Then the trees blocked the path."

-The Doctor is visibly pleased with himself and his theory. His hands are no longer trembling. He produces a hand-rolled cigarette and lights it.

DOCTOR: "(...) I have no idea where it leads. I'm a shitty diver. (...)"

-The Doctor stares right into my eyes. Mud drips from his face. He hasn't blinked in over a minute.

- (...)His glasses are so dirty, I barely see the eyes hiding underneath.

-A chunk of mud falls down on his exposed tongue. He chews it slowly and swallows with satisfaction.

-The Doctor puts the muddy hand into his mouth, grimaces and pulls out a yellow tooth. He puts it into the pocket of his torn trousers. The tooth falls through a hole. He does not notice this...

-Slowly he bends down and grabs a thick branch from the ground. He starts biting the bark off of it. He swallows the bark with an effort, but also great satisfaction. He places the stick among other ones sticking out of his mud-covered head.

WOLFMAN: "Well, well. I know this quack. A nonentity, a third-rate witch doctor. Useless fucking clunker... But he still managed to screw you over with that key. Eh, comrade?"

MUSICIAN: "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are! He helped me. He is helping all of us! He gave me this beautiful mask, so I could be healed of my afllictions. Maybe you could have one too..."

vvvvv

vvvvv

MUSICIAN

THE JOURNAL: "I met a boy in the village. He told me that the "Chicken Lady" keeps the "Pretty Lady" locked in her house. The boy really wants to see her, but the old woman won't allow it."

THE JOURNAL: "I decided to give the key to Chicken Lady's room to the little boy. He thanked me and asked me to bring him his mom's violin (it's hidden behind the wardrobe). He's afraid to go himself, as his parents are supposedly angry with him."

THE JOURNAL: "The boy sure was happy to see the new violin. (...)The kid also told me I should visit him in his parent's home someday."

CHICKEN LADY: (after musician's death) "Maybe it's just that me ears are getting worse, but it's been a while since I've heard that monster outside me windows..."

CHICKEN LADY: "Holy Mother, this creep again! May the devil take him and his blasted violin!"

MUSICIAN: "The Pretty Lady? S-she's... the most beautiful lady in the w-world! I w-watch her through the cracks in the window. S-she ch-changes when I watch her... g-gets more beautiful. I p-play for her... I want her to be h-happy..."

MUSICIAN: "I fished out the Pretty Lady's w-wreath from the river! (...)Oh yes, I will become the Pretty L-lady's husband! We w-will walk hand in hand, s-sir. I will play for her, mister s-sir."

-A skinny little hand emerges from beneath the tractor and grabs me by the ankle.

MUSICIAN: "They will not l-listen to me, they w-won't hear how sad I am, sir..."

-One of the strings securing his mask falls off, together with his ear. The boy reattaches it as if nothing happened.

MUSICIAN: "My m-mom has this beautiful violin! I would ask her to b-borrow it to me, but she's too angry with me... Could you p-please c-convince her to b-borrow it to me? I'll g-give you a card with drawings for her. To apologize."

-The boy turns the game in his hand for a while, but he can't find a way to reach the buttons with his overgrown fingers. The game slips out of his hand and drops to the ground. The wannabe musician freezes.

MUSICIAN: "(...) maybe you could take a wee piece of... m-meat for me? I've never eaten a pig and I've h-heard it's very tasty! W-would you take s-some for me?"

-The boy sniffles and rubs the mask with his deformed hand.

-From beneath the mask you can hear a horribly distorted, resounding voice... of a child?

-The figure tries to turn its head, but its enormous neck makes this task impossible to complete.

MUSICIAN: "P-please let me stay. P-please, don't chase me off. I've got nowhere to... go. The villagers don't a-a-allow me to live in the camp. I p-p-promise I won't p-play anymore! I'll be quiet. You can c-cover me with something, if you don't w-want to look at m-me..."

MUSICIAN: (after gifting you a rat) "(...) I mean, she jumped on my hand and s-started nibbling on my f-finger! I quickly clasped my h-hand and b-bit through its neck!"

-The corners of the boy's mouth turn up in a grotesque smile, exposing rows of overgrown teeth, which even his mask couldn't hide.

-The boy clumsily grabs the ball in his hand. He carefully hides it under his legs, so that it doesn't roll away.

MUSICIAN: "S-sorry! I didn't want to! T-this thing is coming out of m-my body. I... I tried to stop it, but I don't think I can... N-now the whole room is covered with... this. I didn't want to make a mess, I s-swear! Please, don't t-throw me a-away!"

-The boy leans over the violin lying next to his overgrown left hand. He plucks one of the strings with his right hand, clumsily trying to keep the rhythm.

MUSICIAN: "Recently, I've grown quite a bit. My mom always used to say that I need to be b-big and s-strong... to help her out in the field..."

The boy tries to hug his frail knees with the disproportionately massive torso.

"But I... I don't want to be big anymore. It's v-very hard being big. You need to be so... so strong! To even walk.Now my v-violin is... too s-small for me!"

vvvvv

vvvvv

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 2

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: light anxiety Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Chapter 2! Our pals are kicking it off already. Can you smell the chemistry? The rOMANCE? LESSGO

Pictures used in this chapter were found on google images :)

Beta: no one.

Catch up! : Part 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2: overthinker.

From: y/n_andrews85 To: D_impala67 Subject: I have your phone. That sounds creepy. I don’t think there’s a non-creepy way of writing this. Whatever.

Dear Dean, is it?

I just wanted to let you know I found your phone at the bus stop the other night. I wasn’t planning on holding on to it, really, but I got worried that you may have been in trouble, and then you never really looked for it either so, I don’t know, I figured better than someone who’ll snatch it and leave, you know?

Anyways, that’s why I’m emailing. I snooped through it a little, sorry, hopefully you’ll understand it was kinda necessary? Maybe we can arrange something so I can get it back to you. This girl, Jamie, keeps sending me (well you technically) topless photos of her. It’s not really what lights my candle. I’m assuming you’d like it back too.

I hope you’re safe. Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Y/n Andrews

-

Do you believe me now?

oh god

you didn’t

Sure did

wow. just wow.

you just handed his ass back to him holy shit!

last time he called, he said he dropped his phone while walking back to his motel, so

he’s okay.

That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe.

I was planning on including something along the lines of “This would’ve been easier if you were an active member of the 21st century and used social media”

But I figured the Jamie thing was motive enough?

yeah. topless Jamie? that’s something else.

Don’t be getting any ideas, dude, I don’t do nudes lmao.

oh god, no i didn’t think that

you did not just type lmao though. how old are you again?

oh god, you’re not 14 or something right? i don’t know what that would make me.

Don’t worry about it, I turned 16 last week.

…

are you serious?

Lmao, no, I’m kidding. I’m twenty-two.

But I think the word you’re looking for is a creep. Oh, and an ageist.

ouch.

Haha, I’m joking.

Lighten up, what are you, ninety?

hi pot meet kettle.

Shit I walked right into that one.

also i’d like to think i don’t text like a ninety-year-old man. could be wrong though

to answer your question i’m twenty-four.                                

Twenty-four huh? I assume you’re done with college, no?

Or- wait, I guess not everyone goes to college.

Yes, this is me fishing for information.

well… i kinda dropped out.

decided to go on a road trip with my brother.

things went a little south I ended up continuing the family business.

Damn, college drop-out ey? Where from?

Also, Family business? What do you do?

Is this too interview-y? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snoop.

you’re good.

stanford. pre-law.

and my brother and i are private investigators. that’s why he’s not in Kansas with me. he’s working a case.

Daaaaamn. Stanford AND a lawyer? And now working as a PI? You’re pretty smart, then.

an ageist and a generalist? i didn’t take you for such y/n.

Fuck, okay, you sound like a lawyer too.

hahahah

so what about you?

What about me?

are you in college?

Oh yeah! Film school. My dream has always been to be a director. It’s rare to find someone who loves movies more than I do.

that’s really cool.

hey i’ve been meaning to ask.

Thinking of me, Sam?

…

Do tell.

how come you were walking home through a park in the middle of the night the other day?

Ooh, I was coming back from work.

I’m a bartender and I had a late shift on Friday.

oh I see. That makes sense yeah.

I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m legitimately three seconds away from falling asleep. I’m gonna hit the hay.

See you later, Sam :)

See you, y/n :)

A smile creeps on Y/n’s features at the thought of more conversations with Sam. He has given her something to look forward to, something to make her a little more excited during her boring every-day life. As she tucks herself in under her covers, eyelids heavy enough to droop involuntarily, the last thing she thinks of is him, the clever, sassy, twenty-four year old college dropout on the other side of the cracked phone screen. The overwhelming urge to get to know him overtakes her as she succumbs to sleep

--

So

Do you believe in ghosts?

that’s… random.

May be

why do you ask?

Idk, just wanna get to know you better.

that’s what you ask people you want to get to know better?

Yes?

Are you avoiding the question?

no

i do. believe in ghosts.

You?

So do i.

Well, sorta. I guess I believe in souls more than anything.

hm?

Well… I guess I hope (more than believe) that we are more than our corporeal selves.

In the sense that, it’s comforting to me that when we die, and our bodies stop working, we don’t evaporate.

I guess.

yeah I understand.

i don’t know. i guess i wanna believe in science more than anything but i know better.

How do you mean?

call it a hunch.

Oh c’mon, it’s gotta be more than that.

Sam…?

Y/n huffs out a breath, gnawing at her lip. She hopes her anxiety isn’t right, that Sam isn’t sick of her silly questions and existential dread, and is actually doing something. Perhaps his battery ran out.

...Sure.

She was doing something too, before she decided to text him. Eyes falling on all her books and notes, spread around her like ugly, depressing, anxiety-inducing flower petals. There’s a blanket over her legs, chilly fall weather seeping through her bones, and there’s a half empty pizza box in front of her. She’s full and the left overs are kept for her sister, Emily, who’s currently locked up in her room.

Damn it. Y/n is stressed and tired, and now her distraction is refusing to reply. This sucks. She hates the crawling, awful, gooey feeling of cold anxiety gripping every beat of her heart and stupidly convincing her he’s purposefully ghosting her, because he doesn’t like her.

Not knowing what to occupy herself with, she heads to take a shower. In the back of her head, she knows that she’ll probably not study any longer, so she takes it upon herself to sink under the hot water and wash thoroughly, trying to get her mind off Dean’s phone. When her feet step out of the shower and she has towel-dried herself as best as she can, she tosses her wet hair in a haphazard bun, and gets dressed.

Books stack under the rickety, stained coffee table, and she grabs her sketchbook, her favorite pencil, as well as her and Dean’s phone. She shoots Connor a text, arranging a hang out of some kind, and opens her little booklet, when a text vibrates Dean’s phone.

hey i’m sorry i got caught up in something.

It’s alright.

She doesn’t press the ghost subject, because he doesn’t seem into it and she really doesn’t wanna make him dislike her any more than he possibly already does.

The empty page of her sketchbook daunts her. With a tight grip on her mechanical pencil, she urges her creativity pumps to use some gasoline, but they seem limp and dead, and once more unwilling to help her. As her eyes fall on Dean’s phone, like a light bulb out of a cartoon, she gets an idea.

Hey, this might sound creepy, but what do you look like?

She stares at the phone. This feels like a risky question. God, if he wasn’t done with her before, he certainly must be now. But then, he surprises her.

why do you wanna know?

I’m in the mood to sketch some, and my creativity has officially left the building.

Care to help a girl out? Maybe your literary descriptions will spark something in me lmao.

i didn’t know you sketched.

Yeah, sometimes. Nothing great though, I promise. I’m certainly no Picasso.

i mean you don’t have to be picasso to sketch well. and you don’t have to sketch well to sketch at all.

Yeah, may be.

I don’t wanna pressure you into anything, you really don’t have to humor me.

If you do feel like it though, don’t send me a picture. Kinda wanna spark some life into my brain cells.

haha i will. only if you show me the finished product tho.

You’ve got yourself a deal :)

She simply cannot believe he has just agreed to this. Her breath is caught in her throat.

so.

what do you want me to start with?

Just whatever. Idk, tell me about your face.

well

i have brown curly-ish hair that reaches my ears. uh, my eyes are hazel.

Okay, that’s a start.

What’s your nose like?

it’s a bit pointy. thin i think?

Jawline?

sharp? i guess?

this is by far the weirdest thing i’ve done.

Lmao, yeah, this is pretty weird.

Exciting though.

She shouldn’t have said that. Fuck, that is definitely overeager.

yeah it is.

Her stomach feels floaty at his response.

Eyebrows?

uh

normal?

How do you classify “normal” eyebrows, exactly?

i don’t know? they’re simple i guess.

Are you implying complicated eyebrows exist out there?

…

Elaborate, Sam. Are you shy? Do you not have eyebrows? Are they bushy? Or too thin? Or pointy?

i’m telling you they’re average.

Sam

what

You officially suck at this.

oh fuck off how would you describe yours?

Y/n proceeds to write a cohesive sentence that includes adjectives apart from “normal” and “average”. Words like bushy, thin, arched and curvy.

well shit yeah i guess i do suck at this.

i think it’s not a skill i mind not having.

That… is a confusing sentence.

just… draw them however. what difference can eyebrows make?

Oh you have no idea.

Okay, last thing.

Do you have a fringe?

yeah but not for long. i’ll probably let it grow out.

Okay, I can do something with that. Thanks :)

no problem

Her creativity is finally servicing her according to her commands, and Y/n puts pen to paper and scribbles messily. Line after line, they curl and sit on the page, forming a smile with thin lips, a sharp jaw, a pointy nose. She has to guess the eyebrows a bit, and the eyes are more cartoonish and generic than she likes. In the end, she gets anxious at the prospect of having to show him, and gives him a hood, so she won’t fuck up the hair.

Okay, I’m done.

that was quick, actually.

Well I didn’t have much to go on.

Sam doesn’t reply. She worries he might have misinterpreted her teasing tone.

Gimme a sec, I’ll send it over.

Ugh, Dean’s camera is such shit. Do you mind if I send it from my phone?

no go ahead.

[Y/n has sent a picture]

As you said, it didn’t take long. It’s really not the best.

that…

is actually not too far from the truth

it kind of looks like me from two years ago

wow, really?

yeah.

and it’s honestly a pretty good sketch. good job.

Thank you :)

Sam doesn’t say anything after this, and she huffs. Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares at the ceiling. She should go to bed soon, it’s getting late.

isn’t this strange?

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit, she thinks. He’s regretting this. He doesn’t like her. He’ll stop talking to her and that’ll be it.

Why does she care so much? It’s a thought that passes through her mind. It hasn’t been long since they started talking and, after the near-kidnapping encounter, they’ve been having nearly daily conversations, but that still doesn’t mean much. She knows barely anything about him.

She guesses, she wants to get to know him better. He seems like the type of guy she’d enjoy hanging out with and she has so far. Stopping any kind of conversation would surely feel like a loss. She’d have to go back to her boring routine. This is the most exciting thing she has allowed herself to do in years.

A part of her feels rather lame for finding such a thrill at something so trivial. She’s talking to a stranger, and that’s all it is, but the prospect that he could be anyone at all, and she’s never even seen his face… well… It feels refreshing, new. Scary in an adrenaline-rush kind of way.

What is?

us. texting.

isn’t it a little odd?

I guess it is a bit.

I mean we’ve only known each other for, what, a week? And a half?

yeah.

should we stop?

I don’t know

Do you want to?

The extra moment his reply takes to arrive makes her want to vomit.

no

Then there’s your answer.

okay then

can I save you in my contacts?

Sure, go ahead.

I just did too.

alright.

Okay :)

I’m sorry, I have to go.

I guess I’ll text you later, Sam.

Go be whoever Sam Something is.

it’s winchester.

Like the shotgun?

yup.

That’s BADASS. Can you even get more badass than this? Pre-law, now a PI, and you’re named after a shotgun? Damn dude.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Sam. I’m Y/n Andrews.

Haha thanks.

nice to meet you, too

goodnight Y/n Andrews.

Night Sam Winchester :)

--- Part 3

A/N: Thoughts? How are you liking the newer version of this? right after I post it, I’m gonna delete the other one.

Taglist:

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii  @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain

[foxy-exy]

23 + andriel 👀

Bloom (forget me not)

Prompt 23 from here: “No, we’re going to talk about this now.” (and tattoo artist/piercer Andrew AU also came from Syd!!) TW: lots of talk about scars i’ve been mia working on my very-close-to-my-heart and very-long-compared-to-what-i’ve-been-writing-lately aftg big bang fic (WATCH OUT FOR THAT PLZ) but syd hit me w/ tattoo artist/piercer andrew right when my need for just one (1) tattoo and many (MANY) more piercings was highest so here we are (also my aftg server was talking about flower tattoos on jean and i was like oh worm flower tattoos on aftg characters you say??? so they are also partially responsible) also i may have never actually gotten a tattoo before but this is definitely Not How It Works, unrealistic, unprofessional, and general bad clienting but shhh you can also find this fic on my ao3 here!

Andrew’s pencil scratching is the only sound in the parlor — he thinks maybe his phone died an hour ago and with it, his music playlist. He should probably get up and plug it back in.

The cat eyes glare at him from his sketchpad page, though, and he can’t leave the face half finished now. He swings his chair back around to look at the picture on the shop’s computer screen that he’s sketching. God, this cat is ugly. He wouldn’t want this cat as a sleeve, but what the paying client wants, the paying client gets.

He blocks out the nose and jaw, shakes out his aching hand, and glares back at the drawing as he leans back in the chair and shoves the pencil eraser into his mouth to chew on.

“Hey.”

Andrew sends his sketchpad flying and nearly tips his chair over to turn back around. Nobody ever shows up for random walk-ins this early, it’s why he’s usually the only one on the schedule. (They retain more clients when Andrew is not the one who talks to them. Because Andrew is, as Nicky puts it, an asshole.)

Neil Josten stands before him, dressed as plainly as ever in his standard gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans, looking bemused and out of place in the strange context of Andrew’s workplace. He is not a piercings-and-tattoos kind of person. He is a somewhat-friends-with-Kevin-purely-because-they-like-to-yell-about-sports-together-on-Andrew’s-couch kind of person.

“Thanks for not even setting off the door bells,” Andrew says coolly, around a mouthful of pencil eraser, and takes it from his mouth immediately after, because Neil is smiling a little, eyes on it.

“Sorry, I’m pretty quiet.”

“No, you aren’t,” Andrew says, and Neil’s lips twitch again.

He and Neil are distant acquaintances at best. Kevin shares Andrew and Nicky’s apartment for rent purposes as Aaron moved out months ago to live with his girlfriend, but Kevin and Andrew don’t share friend groups. Even so, it is impossible to ignore Neil Josten when he’s worked up and shouting about Kevin’s favorite teams being terrible.

“What are you here for?” Andrew clicks off the cat photo and pulls up their schedule — empty for several hours, until Kevin comes in for an appointment with somebody who wants some script work. He doesn’t know why Neil is here when Kevin isn’t working, they’re the ones who know each other.

“How much for a…a medusa?”

“Fifty.” Andrew eyes him. The uncertainty in his voice is clear, which is…interesting. “I didn’t think you were into piercings, or Kevin would have bullied you into at least three by now.”

Neil doesn’t answer, because his gaze is glued to Andrew’s arms — his shirt sleeves have ridden up to show the patchwork pieces winding their way up his wrists and forearms.

“And…” This comes out more rushed now, clearly the actual reason for the visit, “What about tattoos?”

Andrew pulls back down his sleeves. “Are you asking for pricing? I can’t give you an estimate without any kind of idea of what you’re looking for. Do you even know the style you want? Where you want it?”

Neil drags his eyes back up to meet Andrew’s. “You covered up Kevin’s old tattoos, didn’t you?”

Andrew folds his arms. Enunciates clearly because he’s never been one to beat around the bush. “Are you looking for a tattoo consultation or not?”

“Yes,” says Neil, and his mouth flattens, brows pinching.

“Glad to see you’re so very excited about it,” Andrew deadpans, opens up an appointment entry on the schedule and types in Neil Josten, tattoo consultation: Andrew Minyard. He snatches up his sketchpad and pencil from the ground and curls a finger at Neil to follow.

***

“You don’t have tattoos to cover up,” Andrew says, when Neil tentatively perches on the edge of the lounge seat in the private office. “What do you want?”

Neil tugs at the fraying cuff of his shirt and looks pained. “I just…I don’t know.”

“That really sucks, because you’re paying me to help you figure out specifics on what you want right now.”

“Can you cover up scars,” Neil mumbles, and Andrew freezes. And Neil must pick up on this, because immediately he says, “Never mind. This was a bad idea.”

Andrew catches Neil’s shirt hem before he can completely turn towards the door. “No, we’re going to talk about this now.”

“I changed my mind, it’s okay, don’t tell Kevin, I just thought maybe —”

“I won’t tell Kevin,” Andrew says.

Neil tugs at his hair.

“I can cover up scars,” Andrew says.

Neil looks back at him, and he is very pale.

And then, because Andrew is stupid, “I’ve covered up my own scars.”

Neil’s face does something very complicated, his hands shake a little, and slowly, carefully, Neil sits back down.

***

Neil doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, he says. He says he likes what he’s seen of Andrew’s work, which isn’t all that helpful.

“Abstract,” Andrew says, and Neil shrugs.

“Animals.” Shrug.

“Skulls,” Andrew says, with a hint of impatience.

“Anything,” Neil says.

“You’re my least favorite client.”

“Even that one with the lion back tattoo?” Neil asks, and he is smiling again. Teasing. Andrew knows that Neil was in the house when he was telling Kevin about that client and his ridiculous whining, but he hadn’t realized Neil had been listening.

“Yes, maybe you’ll overtake even him,” Andrew retorts, reaches for the binder sitting in the corner marked Andrew Minyard — full of his past work — and tosses it at Neil. “I can’t work with ‘anything.’ That’s how people get tattoos they regret.”

“I liked Kevin’s black rose,” Neil says, and flips through the book, lingering on a page with more floral designs. “But you do color, too?”

“That is a style I do, yes.” Andrew watches Neil’s fingers trace delicate petals and fights back a curious rush. “Scar tissue can be unpredictable when it comes to holding ink, and it can hurt. But I’ve had experience with it. Do you want something like that?”

“I like these,” Neil says quietly, and Andrew shoves his pencil eraser back into his mouth and turns resolutely back to his sketchpad so he doesn’t have to look at Neil looking at his work.

“Colored flowers,” he says, drumming fingernails against his paper. “Fine. What flowers do you like? Where would this be?”

“Forget-me-not? On my arm?” Again, Neil sounds uncertain, and Andrew turns a glare on him.

“If you want this, you want this. If you’re not sure, I’m not inking an inch of you.”

He decides he hates looking at Neil’s soft smile when he is on its receiving end. This is the first time it’s happened, and he thinks if it happens again, he should check into a hospital for heart palpitations.

“I want it. Here.” Neil rolls up a sleeve, and Andrew clamps his jaw shut as Neil taps a finger to his forearm, covered in circular red puckers of skin and the occasional, familiar raised line of white. Andrew forces himself to lean closer to examine the canvas with clinical detachment, and press his fingers to the skin, measuring.

“This big?”

“Yeah,” Neil says, and that’s that.

***

“Why the hell was Neil on your schedule?” Kevin asks very loudly from the front desk as Andrew lounges across the waiting room couch and doodles blue petals.

“Huh, Kevin, I don’t see how that’s really any of your business,” Andrew says, and scribbles out another draft.

“No, seriously. He’s never wanted anything before. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Contrary to what your ego says, not everything is about you,” Andrew drawls.

“Neil,” Kevin barks, and Andrew looks up to find Kevin with his phone to his ear. “Why did you come to see Andrew?”

Neil must apparently say something similar to Andrew’s sentiments because Kevin rolls his eyes. “You should have told me that you wanted something. No, I — he didn’t say anything to me. Neil —!” The last part is said to an apparently dead line, because Kevin pulls the phone away with a huff. “I don’t understand why he came to you without saying anything, I’m his tattoo artist friend.”

“Too bad,” Andrew says, and pulls out his own phone when it buzzes.

Thanks, is the simple text from Neil Josten. For not telling him.

Andrew doesn’t reply, but he tucks his phone between his elbows and pretends to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest as he flips the page and starts to shade another forget-me-not.

***

Do you like this? Andrew asks, and attaches a picture of his latest draft.

Almost immediately, the text is marked as Seen, but Neil doesn’t respond for a solid few minutes.

Finally, Andrew locks his phone again, irritated, and shoves away his sketchpad, feeling too jittery to sleep like he should be doing at — he checks the clock — 2 AM.

His phone chimes, and Andrew looks down at It’s perfect and thinks that having such a giant crush on his apartment mate’s probably uninterested friend is maybe really, really bad.

***

“Hey, Andrew.”

Andrew looks up from the fridge. He has been studiously ignoring Neil’s presence on the couch while Kevin chatters to him about the latest hockey wins. But Kevin has disappeared, and Neil remains, and Neil is…looking at him.

“I like it a lot. Like, fuck, really a lot.”

Andrew glares and slams the fridge closed. Neil’s smile only grows wider as Andrew stalks over to the table to deposit whatever leftovers he grabbed (that he most definitely did not look at) onto it.

“So, when are you free to ink me?”

Andrew’s going to die, and Neil Josten saying when are you free to ink me is going to be the cause of death.

“Tomorrow. 10 AM,” he grits out.

“Okay,” Neil says.

***

“Andrew.”

“Shut up.”

“Andrew,” Neil says again, shakily.

“Don’t.”

“Thank you.” Neil stares at the forget-me-not cluster blooming across pinkened skin underneath the plastic wrap, lips parted. Andrew wants to kiss them.

“Oh,” says Neil when he looks up, and Andrew is still too close, and Andrew would usually probably pull back but instead, he dips closer. And Neil would usually probably avoid physical contact like he does with everyone but instead, Neil kisses him back.

“Oh,” Andrew agrees, and starts to turn away, but Neil shifts with him, eyes too intense, and a finger hovers at Andrew’s collar to tug very lightly.

“When would be too soon to ask when you’re free again?”

“Has the tattoo bug bitten you already?” Andrew scoffs, and Neil looks down at his forget-me-not and nods. “You’ll have to schedule an appointment like everybody else. You’re lucky my schedule hasn’t been as booked lately.”

“Okay,” says Neil, and then, “and what about asking when you’re free outside of work?”

Andrew stares at him. “For?”

“What about a repeat of this kind of thing?” Neil gestures between them. “Or…lunch, on me?”

“Lunch, on me,” says Andrew automatically. “You just gave me a lot of money.”

“Okay,” says Neil again, and laughs. “Kevin’s going to be so pissed that he missed all this happening.”

“I don’t see why I have to tell him who I’m kissing,” Andrew says.

“You’ve only done it once.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow and fixes that grievous mistake.

Neil’s answering grin is not soft, just impish, but it does things to Andrew’s heart all the same.

[ma-lark-ey]

Hi!! I've seen other people make posts about why they love TAZ,,and I figured I should add my two cents. I also just wanted to share this experience somewhere. (Spoilers for Balance and Amnesty!!)

For a bit of background; in December/early January, I got dropped by some of my closest friends. I'd already been doing bad mentally for the last few months, and that sent me into a complete spiral.

I was quarantined, couldn't see my friends, couldn't leave the house, couldn't make any attempt at things that used to make me happy. I was (quite frankly) at my lowest point. I'd heard rumors of the Adventure Zone for years, and even seen content of it on my socials.

In mid May, I said fuck it and listened to episode one. MBMBAM (as good as it is) wasn't my cup of tea in podcasts, I needed something with plot. I knew the McElroys were a genre of entertainment I could get behind, but I needed plot to get invested.

TAZ Episode 3 was when I really became hooked. Magnus latched onto my heart, and Griffin's voice brought me a comfort I'd long forgotten.

Its important to note at this point in my life, I hadn't picked up a pencil to write or draw in almost six months.

I was honestly inspired to watch after a cosplayer I really admire began to cosplay Lup! I loved the personality I saw in her videos and photos of Lup, and I wanted to know more about her.

I listened to Here There Be Gerblins, and it made me smile. I listened to RockPort Limited, and I remember cleaning up my dresser and folding clothes when I found out Jenkins was the killer. I listened to Petals to the Metal, and I remember standing in my living room laughing during the whole Trent scene. I listened to Crystal Kingdom, I remembered standing in my yard in shock when Mangus sliced Merle's arm. I listened to Eleventh Hour, I remembered sitting in my chair and crying during the flashback and throwing my stuffed animal in rage at the Taako flashbacks. I remembered listening the Lunar Interlude where Lup carved her name in the wall and screaming joy at the introduction of the character who inspired to check this amazing show out. I remember playing Minecraft while listening to the Stolen Century (I was building a Ravenloft in my world!)

My favorite memory from listening to it though, was the scene Lup finally entered. I'd been listening to this podcast nonstop since I started. I remember listening to that scene and just *crying,* i remember clutching at my heart when her death was described because I'd fallen absolutely in love with her during Stolen Century.

I remember listening to Magnus' death scene while sitting at my kitchen table. My mom asked me why I was crying. "MAGNUS GOT HIS DOG!" Was all I could compute, she had no idea what I meant.

After i finished Balance, I started drawing again. It was simple, at first. Just a headshot of Lup with my favorite quote from her. But it was a start! I picked up my materials for the first time in months.

Then I started Amnesty. In minutes I was absolutely smitten. It was like Aubrey personally grabbed my hand and told me I was gonna be better soon. I latched onto Aubrey just like I did Magnus (Travis has always been my personal favorite brother.) I remember feeling guilty for skipping the last half of Commitment, but given my religion trauma that I was still processing at the time, I knew I needed to just role right along into Amnesty for my own sake.

My fondest memory of Amnesty was sitting in the car during a road trip and scribbling down things on my sketchbook.

Another prominent one was when Ned revealed to Aubrey he was the burglar. I fell to my knees when he said the sentence, and no I'm not being dramatic. I was cleaning up my room, and i collapsed onto the floor and laid in a fetal during the whole scene, ugly crying. I love all of the Amnesty characters, its my personal favorite campaign, and Ned and Aubrey meant everything to me. That scene *destroyed* me. I also remembered crying on my road trip when Ned was killed. I'd never felt so much emotion from a piece of media before.

After that I actually digested all of Balance. And the one character who's stuck out to me is Taako. And I know he's a cliche character to latch onto. But, its not his personality or his appearance or whatever that makes me love him. It was his back story. When I found Balance, I was working throufh the betrayal and loss of my fourth set of friends. I'm the kind of person who takes in people I know are toxic in hopes of helping them. And Taako was the perfect mix of myself, and the people I found myself befriending.

His history with Sazed hit close to home, in the betrayal aspect. And his betrayal by Lucretia. I understood his heart felt in those moments, and I latched onto him. I thought, "You understand how I feel right now." And I've *never* drawn so much in my life.

In just three days I made two whole pages of sketches, in just the last three weeks I've done ten pages of my brand new sketchvook (averaging it to 4-5 full drawings a page). I hadn't picked up a pen in months, and now I couldn't Put one down.

There was one night a couple days ago where I just sat in bed, grinning and crying while I looked at all the art I had accomplished, the countless pieces of writing I'd presented to my friends proudly. I rejoined roleplay groups, which I had also dropped after my mental health dropped. I came out to my IRLs as nonbinary!

The characters the McElroys created have given me this... This inspiration I've never felt before. I've hyperfixated on things before (like Undertale! That was my biggest.) But, no piece of media has ever made me feel like a character reached out of my screen and grabbed onto me.

I remember Istus telling the Gang the iconic line of "You're going to be amazing" and to me, it felt like Taako and Magnus just reached out of my phone and gave me a bear hug. Hell, just a few days I translated that feeling into a sketch.

I just bought the graphic novels, and have orders merchandize. I've *never* gotten into something, and had merchandize for it three weeks later. I've never loved something so much I sent my friends literally novellas of just me recounting my favorite scenes to them.

The Adventure Zone has literally brought the most joy into my life I could ever ask for out of media, its helped me in so many ways.

These stupid little DnD campaigns mean the absolute world to me, and I could never be happier that I found them when I did.

So, if you've read this far, there's one last thing I wanna say; even if you feel like you're at literal rock bottom, like you could end it all tomorrow and no one would care. That not even your greatest passionate with bring you joy, youll find something or someone that will pull you out of that point so fast it makes your head spin. In the emphamis words of "Zeke Owens" (Griffin) "One day, youre gonna laugh at a joke. You'll go swimming, and you'll smile in the sunlight. You're gonna pet yourself a good dog and its gonna feel amazing."

[angelsunflowers-fanfics]

Nathan Prescott x Female!reader (The Sketchbook incident)

Request: I had this idea for a Nathan Prescott and female reader imagine where he’s secretly her muse and she drawing him every day in her sketchbook but one day he sees and destroys her sketchbook and she gets so upset she stops drawing and he feels bad and realizes how special it was to her and buys her a new one Sorry if that long, it’s my first time Also love your writing <3

Fandom: Life is strange

Genre: Mix of Angst and fluff (Happy ending)

Linktree

~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Rough sketches, pencil marks, pen and an assortment of colors rubbed onto her fingers and arms as she shaded in a certain area of the model, of her picture of Nathan. As an artist, (y/n) needed a muse and without his knowledge, she had chosen Nathan Prescott to be it. She didn’t know how he’d react if he even found out. Would he be embarrassed? Angry?

Who knew?

(y/n) grunted in an effort as she finally finished shading the base of Nathan’s neck in her beloved sketchbook. The book itself had been used and filled up to the brim with photographs and sketches of the school, her friends but most importantly, of Nathan.

The two didn’t talk very often, but she saw how soft he could actually be; in the little moments, he let his facade vanish. She wanted to be closer to him, but… How do you approach a person like that? Not to mention, that he had a reputation for going too far.

(y/n) pulled herself away from the sketch, glancing around at the yard to admire everyone enjoying life peacefully.

Max was talking to a few people as always, being a bit nosy, but nice. Evan was taking pictures, Warren was probably watching another weird movie of his in his dorm. Everything was pretty normal except for Nathan Prescott storming up to (y/n) with rage-filled eyes and clenched fists. He was angry, anybody within 50 feet of his could see that. He was too obvious with his anger, didn’t even try to hide it.

(Y/n) gave a polite smile to the obviously Pissed off Prescott, nervous about what he might say or do. He could be a bit unpredictable. He stopped in front of her, glaring at the large sketchbook in her hands.

“Good morning Nathan. Lovely day, isn’t it?” (y/n) asked. 

Nathan only continued to glare harshly, the students in the surrounding area began to stare In curiosity.

No one dared to say a word, they didn’t want the wrath of Nathan directed toward them.

He dug a hand into his pocket to fish out his phone, he found the photo that could be the cause of his anger of the day and shoved it into (y/n’s) face. It took her a moment to realize that the photograph was of one of her drawings of Nathan.

And she knew exactly how it got onto the web. Victoria Chase.

“What the fuck is this?” He asked, anger seethed into his words.

(y/n) nervously laughed but soon stared up at his eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes and that pretty dirty blonde hair wasn’t helping. It was the perfect combination. There didn’t need to be a reason as to why she liked to draw him so much, the pretty face and different expressions he used in day-to-day life were amazing. So was he. (y/n) wanted to find a way to tell him that she actually liked him but knowing Nathan, she wasn’t sure if he would recuperate her feelings.

“Um, a drawing of you that I made… Nathan, I’m sorry. I showed it to Victoria, I didn’t know that she took a picture and posted it online,” She confessed. 

The taller boy slowly pocketed his phone before he grabbed the sketchbook out of (y/n)’s nimble fingers. 

“Wait, what are you doing?” (y/n) asked, panic seeped into her chest.

Nathan tossed the sketchbook into the trash can before lighting a match, (y/n) stood up quickly knowing what he was going to do. (y/n) rushed to him, trying to grab the match out of his hand but failing in the end as he dropped it into the trash can watching the sketchbook go up in flames.

The students surrounding (y/n), stared at her with empathy but didn’t say a word. Nathan slowly turned to (y/n), crossing his arms over his chest. He still looked angry, even after destroying the one thing that (y/n) held precious.

“I’m not your subject to use,” Nathan growled.

Nathan glanced into (y/n)’s eyes just in time to see her tears building up and drip from the pools in her eyes. Nathan felt a strike go through his heart, guilt. An ugly emotion that he felt all too often, but now toward (y/n)? Someone who was actually nice to him no matter what other people told her?

He clenched his jaw in anger, this time toward himself. He watched as (y/n) slowly turned around and walked into the dormitory building, needing to be alone for a while. He made her cry. Nathan Prescott made (y/n) cry. He messed up, big time. Was there even a way to fix what he broke?

The group surrounding Nathan slowly disbanded, not wanting his anger to blow up again in such a short period of time. 

Nathan was left alone with his thoughts, he ran a hand over his face and picked up his phone as it rang. Victoria. Fuck, what was he supposed to say?

“Hey,” Nathan whispered, his voice hoarse. 

Nathan slowly trudged back to his own dorm, he had thinking to do indeed. How was he going to make this up?

“Nathan, what the hell happened? Did you burn her sketchbook? I told you to go talk to her. There are videos all over social media… The comments are brutal,” Victoria said. 

Nathan barreled into his room and sat on his bed, running a hand through his hair to tangle it lightly. He didn’t know what he was thinking. If he was thinking at all during that moment. The sketchbook that he burned… sketchbook, maybe he could try to make it up by buying her another one? It was a start…

Nathan and Victoria conversed over his previous actions and how he could fix them while (y/n) on the other side of the dormitory building, stared out the window, wanting to fly away to get away from these gross feelings. Even after what happened, she still liked him. Anybody that found out about her feelings would call her insane. She had no will to draw anymore, what was the point if her own muse didn’t want to be drawn? Right?

She fumbled with her fingers lightly before glancing at her watch, great. She had physics in 10 minutes, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about art for a while now. She slowly grabbed the bag she threw onto the ground and slowly left the dormitory building, hesitantly. If it were her choice, she’d stay in her dorm all day, but she didn’t.

She slowly trudged into the academic building and into her class, wait. No. Nathan was in this class as well, how did she not realize that sooner? (y/n) ignored Nathan’s pleading stare and sat next to Victoria, hoping for some peace and quiet before class started.

“He feels awful you know. I know what he did was terrible but–” (y/n) shrugged her shoulders, cutting off Victoria’s plea.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done,” (y/n) whispered. 

Victoria glanced to Nathan, giving him a pity look before turning her attention to the front of the class as it finally began. Maybe she and Nathan could try again later.

The class was boring and dull. All Nathan could think about was how to make it up to (y/n). For over a year now he had been trying to get closer to her but each time he talked, everything just blew up in his face. 

The bell for the end of class finally rung, Nathan quickly shoved all of his things into his bag before trying to talk to (y/n). She was almost out the door now. So close. Nathan maneuvered to be right in front of her, using his arms to block her from leaving before talking to her.

“Wait, just stop for a second. Look, I feel real–” Nathan spoke, regret spilled from his lips. 

(y/n) glanced around the room for a moment before ducking under one of his arms and leaving, using his height to her advantage. Nathan blinked for a few moments before leaving the classroom and trying to find a sight of her but (y/n) had quickly disappeared into the crowd of rowdy teenagers. 

“Fuck,” Nathan whispered to himself. 

The crowd slowly began to disperse as teenagers found their next class or left the building but there was still no sign of (y/n) anywhere. Nathan groaned and slowly walked back to his dorm to try to figure a way to talk to (y/n).

(y/n) on the other hand, was holding her breath as she watched Nathan walk past her hiding spot and to the dormitory building. She stood out of the spot and started to walk to her own dorm when she bumped into Kate Marsh, she was an absolute sweetheart.

“Hey, (y/n). I heard about what happened. Are you alright?” Kate asked.

(y/n) brushed her hair back stressfully, she didn’t even know where to begin in what was wrong at the moment. So many things. Too little time.

“Yeah, I just… I didn’t expect him to do that. I’m kind of thinking of giving up drawing,” (y/n) mentioned. 

Kate’s eyes widened slightly but that didn’t stop her from pulling a brand new sketchbook from behind her back. (y/n) was slow to grab the item, she had been thinking about not going to Blackwell anymore because of what happened.

“Well, in case you want to pick it up again. You can use that. Okay? Maybe things will turn out alright?” Kate offered.

(y/n) gave Kate a genuine smile before gesturing to the dorms, “I’m gonna head to my room for the night. I’ll see you later.” 

Kate stepped out of the way and watched as (Y/n) carried the sketchbook naturally and quickly walked to her dormitory. But what she didn’t know was that all of the girls in the dormitory building had a little surprise in store for her.

(y/n) rubbed her eyes tiredly and walked through the main door of the dormitory to see all of the girls crowding the hallway bearing gifts of the art variety; sketchbooks, pencils, markers, etc. She jumped back lightly at the picture in front of her.

“Um, hey?” (y/n) asked akwardly.

Max was the first to walk out and grab one of (y/n)’s hands, guiding her to the center of the hallway to talk to everyone. (y/n) wasn’t normally very social but with the girls that live in the same building as her? Quite close.

“The video of Nathan burning your sketchbook is everywhere… we just wanted to do something nice for you,” Max said. 

(y/n) smiled gratefully and took more sketchbooks from her neighbors. She knew that they were only trying to help but how could someone draw if their muse didn’t want to be a muse? It was difficult to find someone else.

Max grabbed half of the gifts from all of the girls and followed (y/n) into her dorm to put all of the gifts on her desk. She didn’t know if she’d even fill these out at all considering that her will to draw was drained because of what Nathan did…

“Oh, I get it… Nathan was your muse…” Max set everything down, taking a seat on (y/n)’s bed before continuing with her thought, “That’s why you’re not drawing… he gave you the will to draw…” Max gave her friend one last smile before approaching the exit of the dorm. “Oh, before I forget, Warren had something to talk to you about. He’s In his dorm.”

(Y/n) stared at all of the art supplies given to her a few short minutes ago. It was stacked high on the desk, about to topple over. She was happy that her friends cared so much.

Without much thought, (y/n) walked to the boys’ dormitory building to visit a friend. Hopefully, she wouldn’t run into Nathan. She just needed to be careful.

(y/n) walked through the main door to the dormitory building and made a beeline for Warren’s room, she didn’t even bother with knocking on the sophomore’s door and just let herself in. She didn’t want to be caught by Nathan again. She was not ready to face him.

“Warren? Max, said you wanted to see me?” (y/n) called out.

The younger student quickly popped out of his desk chair and strolled up to (y/n), arms spread out for a bear hug. He was the most touchy of the group of friends she had, which was perfectly fine. (y/n) gave him a soft smile before slowly closing the gap and letting him hold her fragile form.

“Everyone said you were having a hard time and then Nathan… I’m sorry. Maybe everything will be better soon?” Warren apologized sympathetically.

(y/n) could only shrug lightly before slowly pulling away, letting herself become comfortable in the small room. But the thought of being in the boy’s dormitory, where Nathan lived, was peaking from the back of her mind. Warren stepped out of her space for a moment before grabbing a pack of oil paints from his desk and slowly handing them to (y/n); cautious to not scare her. 

“I got you something, you said that you’ve been wanting to try oil paint for a while now, right?” Warren said.

Though, she wasn’t sure when or if she’d be able to draw again, she appreciates the kind gesture. (y/n) slowly slipped the paints into her bag for safekeeping as she slowly gave Warren a small smile.

“Thanks, Warren… I think I’m gonna head back to my dorm… Sleep everything off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The younger classmate only nodded lightly and watched as (y/n) slowly walked out of the room to hide away for the rest of the evening. The events of the day were hectic and cruel, all she wanted to do was sleep it off and hope that the morning would be better.

(y/n) peaked around the hallway for a few moments before deciding that it was safe and leaving Warren’s room before heading toward the main entrance of the Dorm building, wanting to find her own dorm before Nathan caught onto the fact that she was even in the same building as him. 

She breathed a small sigh of relief as she slowly started to pass the last dorm room and reached a hand out for the door when a pair of hands reached out from the last dorm and grabbed (y/n) to pull her inside.

(y/n) started thrashing in the arms of her unknown attacker as they placed a hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream out for help. (y/n) stiffened as an exhale slowly reached her ear, causing her to shiver and listen closely.

“Stop squirming, It’s just me.” 

(y/n) roughly shoved Nathan away and faced him, her back pressed against the door. She stared up at him with a confused stare, why did he basically kidnap her? What for? He was fidgeting with his fingers nervously, he was scared to what will come next.

Her eyes were red and puffy from crying all day. The last thing she wanted to do was face the cause of her sorrow. Nathan Prescott, prestigious figure of Blackwell Academy… he was flustered by her mere appearance. He felt guilty about what happened this morning, he felt lower than low. To make it up to (y/n), Nathan wanted to get something for her… all she needed to do was open it.

“What do you want, Nathan? I should get back to my dorm, it’s late,” (y/n) said resentfully.  

It was not late, but everyone knew that (y/n) usually liked to return to her dorm after school and relax instead of partying like all of the other kids on campus.

Nathan took a step back to grab a wrapped box before presenting it to (y/n), a red hue was covering his features. He had never really apologized to someone, this was a first for him. Luckily, it was in the comfort of his own room and not the courtyard for everyone to see… again.

“Open it, please. This is my way of saying sorry… I… wasn’t thinking… I can be reckless and irritable…” He apologized.

(y/n) stared up at Nathan with an unknown look, she was not sure if she should take the gift. It could be anything, right? But Nathan didn’t go around giving just anybody random gifts… Maybe he really just wanted to try to redeem himself?

(y/n) ran a quick hand through her hair before making the mistake of glancing into Nathan’s eyes for a split second. His gaze was soft and pleading as he held the gift in his hands, his breath shaking only in the slightest from the nervousness of being near (y/n) once again; so soon.

“Fine… But if this is a joke–” (y/n) started to threaten but Nathan cut her off by carefully handing the recklessly wrapped gift into (y/n)’s paint-covered hands, their fingers brushed together lightly. The action quickly sent jolts of electricity through her and Nathan’s veins but neither person said a word about what they felt, too scared.

“It’s not. Promise. Open it,” Nathan said. 

(y/n) sighed lightly but gave him a half-smile before slowly opening the present before her hands run over the cover of a brand new sketchbook. Did he buy her a new sketchbook? She slowly let the wrapping paper fall to the floor so she could look at the sketchbook as whole, quickly glancing through the paper and the little accessories attached to it. (y/n) didn’t say a word as she discovered the feeling of the new gift. 

“I was angry and scared… Not about you or anything you did or said… I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I would never dream of doing that,” Nathan apologized.

(y/n)’s smile brightened as she realized that this was the sketchbook that she had been eyeballing for months now. She wasn’t able to buy it because it was far out of her price range for a sketchbook, but this one was special. It even came with pockets and sketching pencils. She glanced up and slowly placed the sketchbook onto his desk to grab both of his hands in her gentle grip.

“Nathan… I-” He was quick to cut her off, paranoid that she was going to yell at him like just about everyone in his life did. He was too used to it by now.

“I know that this will never replace what I did to your last sketchbook and I didn’t realize that I was your… Your muse. But I’m hoping that this will be a star–” 

(y/n) reached her hands up to grab Nathan’s face to slam her lips onto his, surprising him surely. Nathan flailed his arms for a few moments before deciding to rest his hands; one on the door next to (y/n)’s head and the other tangled in her hair. Nathan slowly relaxed into the motions, pressing his body closer to (y/n)’s.

Nathan tugged on (y/n)’s hair as he deepened the kiss, eliciting a soft moan from (y/n)’s lips. Before Nathan could ponder on the small action further, she bit down on his bottom lip. She wanted him to know how long she had been wanting this kiss to happen.

Nathan felt the same way, but before things could escalate, (y/n) softly slid her hands from Nathan’s face down to his chest to lightly push him away. She didn’t want things to go too far tonight.

“I forgive you… I was never angry at you for what you did, just sad. It hurt to see my muse destroy my work but maybe you can help me?” (y/n) asked.

Nathan didn’t say a word as he launched himself to his bed, propping his head up with one of his hands as he brought one of his knees up; turning to the side to face (Y/n). a small smirk ignited his face as he says the simple line that made (y/n) burst out laughing.

“Draw me like one of your french girls.”

(y/n) ignored her phone as it lit up with a few texts from Warren and Max, both worried. But she couldn’t be bothered with the sweet scene in front of her.

Maybe everything would be okay?

(y/n) glanced up from her sketchbook to get a quick glance, the growing confidence in him caused Nathan to send a small smile her way.

Yep, everything was going to turn out okay. Her muse was still hers, this time with his knowledge.

Nathan liked the idea of being a muse, it felt foreign but fitting.

[sprnklersplashes]

heart of stone (2/?)

AO3

It’s three days before Janis’ rest results are available. That night, her mom pops her head around her bedroom door and tells her they need to be at the hospital early the next morning. She had spent the intervening time lounging around her house, rotating through different sweaters and reading the same book over and over, all the while filling in Damian and Cady as much as she could, trying to reassure them and herself that it was nothing and in a few days she’d probably be fine. She’d be back bugging them in no time, probably by the first day of school, in fact.

And that better be true, she thinks, because she has never been so bored in her life. In those few days between appointments her biggest achievement was successfully showing her dad how to master Netflix and introducing him to Killing Eve. She had tried to draw, but no idea stayed still in her mind long enough for her to recapture it on paper. The pencil bounced between her hands as she looked through outlines of unfinished sketches, trying to make one jump out at her. She puts them all in her drawer with a resigned sigh, one of those impossibly rare moments where she willingly admits defeat and submits to her fate. Her body feels too weary to move and her brain completely burnt out, but her soul keeps pushing her to create, to be active and busy. Her hands weren’t meant for scrolling through her phone as she’s half asleep, they’re artists hands, built for innovation. The restlessness crept through her nerves and up to her brain, shaking it so much that when her mom hung up the phone and told her she had an appointment the next day, she threw her head back and thanked God.

But her initial relief is gone now as she and her parents follow the perky secretary’s directions down to the doctor’s room, passing sunshine yellow walls and hurrying over pristine white floors. She keeps her hands in her pockets, her heart clenching each time she catches a glimpse of a patient. Some of them smile, some of them don’t, some look normal and others… not so much, gaunt faces and loose headscarves. Wrong as it is, her anxiety only spikes when she sees them, not to mention her bedside manner isn’t the greatest. Perhaps it’s lucky her parents don’t set high goals for her because she’d never make a doctor.

Her dad keeps looking back at her, asking if she’s okay, and she tells him she is, even though her chest is pained and tight, either from worry or her own body’s weakness. Or worse, both. Her little personal storm cloud makes itself known again, desperate for her attention after she had put so much effort into ignoring it. It clings to her brain and strains against her skull, stretching over and whispering in her ear, telling her she should get used to this place. She might be seeing more of it than she wants to.

She closes her eyes tightly and stops walking for a second, wishing she could go back to a few days ago, lounging in bed with Cady when everything was normal and okay. But she can’t, so she jogs to catch up with her parents and keeps her eyes on her boots.

“Mr and Mrs Sarkisian.” The doctor they meet is around her dad’s age, brown hair beginning to grey with thick rimmed black glasses and wearing a funky green and blue tie over a white shirt. If he ditched the white coat and clipboard, he’d look like a dad. On his desk, amongst the paperwork and nameplate, is a Rubix cube, a framed photo of two kids and a stuffed frog chilling against the computer, wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses. Doctor Dad looks at Janis, his mouth opening and closing silently for a split second, a fearful glint in his eyes. Exactly what she needs. “And Janis, I assume.” She lets him shake her hand, not letting herself show how clammy it feels. His nerves sparks on the skin in a way only someone who has been through it could pick up on.

She’s been reading him since she first saw him and none of it puts her at ease. His smile looks like someone is pulling it across his face with wires and his eyes flash behind his glasses when he looks at her. His breathing hitches, his fingers fidget and when he sits down, she sees him pull himself back together, starting with the shoulders and up to the chin, straightening everything out, looking presentable. Approachable. Softening the blow he’s about to make. Maybe her parents take notice, or not. They’re specific things, only noticeable to those who are looking for them.

They do say ignorance is bliss.

“These… these types of conversations are never easy.” Oh, what a brilliant opening line. It makes her mom’s hand clasp her dad’s with a grip that’s white-knuckled and desperate. As for Janis herself, she squirms in her chair, biting down hard on her thumbnail. She feels like there’s a million little centipedes all over her body, scurrying around with their tiny feet, wriggling into her elbows, writhing beneath her knees, twisting around on her stomach. She could burst at any moment and they’d invade his office, bury themselves in his carpeting and make homes in the vents.

“Just give it to me straight, doc,” she blurts out. Her parents turn to her, more amused than surprised, and she offers a shrug, the beginnings of a smirk on her face. “Which might be hard in my case.” Her parents chuckle as she looks over at the doctor, herself getting a kick out of his own dumbfounded expression. “Because I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh, right,” he says, managing something that sounds like a laugh. He clears his throat and opens the file in his hand, blocking it from her view in a move that she isn’t sure is accidental. Pressure builds in her chest, her lungs feeling smaller and smaller inside her. The clock must be wrong, because it says only seconds have passed, but they’ve been there for far longer. Minutes. Hours, it must be. She grips the side of the plastic chair, drumming her nails along the underside and pressing her palm into the metal legs. Her mom rubs her hand down her back, asking quietly if she needs anything. She shakes her head, knowing ‘for this to be over’ probably isn’t a good answer.

“Janis… I’m afraid you have leukaemia.”

She’s falling.

Someone took her chair out from underneath her and she’s falling. She phases through the floor and keeps falling, her surroundings a silent blur. She tries to breathe but nothing can come in or out, her hand outstretched but no one holding it. She’s trapped in a bubble, one with no air or no sound, keeping everyone else away from her. She’s alone as she falls, nothing but the white expanse for company, her heart still, her mind empty. All she knows is she’s hurtling towards… something, at full speed and getting faster with each second.

“Janis!”

She blinks, the bottom of the chair cutting a deep, red line into her palms. But it’s steady beneath her, even if nothing else is. All at once, her body and mind come back to her, her heart beats faintly in her chest, weak from shock, and her breaths are quick and rapid. Her brain is a jumbled and confused mess, so much so that she preferred it when she couldn’t think of anything. Now her mind is opening ideas in a flash and tossing them out just as quickly; dashing around her head so thoughtlessly and rapidly that she can’t get a grip on anything. So instead she’s just sitting there, a ringing in her head and cold weakness in her chest, waiting for someone to fix this.

“Janis.” Her dad’s hand is on hers, his fingers curling around with a touch that’s so soft and gentle it almost doesn’t belong in here. Not with that word lingering between them. “Are you okay kid?”

How the hell is she meant to be okay?

“Leukaemia.” She drags her eyes up, not to meet the doctor, but to look past him, to look at the ugly shade of yellow his wall is painted and the framed certificate, declaring him as having graduated from somewhere with a degree in something. She bites her lip so hard she feels the beginnings of a little lump forming there. Like the ones on her neck. Like the ones they always say are a sign of…

The word sticks in her throat and she has to tear it out of her.

“Like… cancer? Like the cancer kind of leukaemia?”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor says, his voice soft. She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard a voice that soft before, maybe when she was a kid, a really tiny kid and her goldfish died and her mom had to explain to her what death was.

Why did her mind have to go there?

It’s only now she notices one of the posters on the wall. Bright green lettering and a glossy photo of a little girl, fourteen, maybe thirteen, sitting up in a bed, a tube in her nose and a hat on her bald head, grinning brightly up a nurse with a sweet face. That’s what cancer is. It’s losing your hair and being in hospital and having tubes sticking in and out of your body. It’s other stuff too, stuff she hasn’t thought about and doesn’t know because it’s not for her. Cancer isn’t for her, it’s for old grandmas in knitted cardigans and tragic little kids who get to meet spiderman. Occasionally, it’s for teenagers and young people like her, but not her specifically. Never her. Cancer is something that exists far away, lurking around corners, on the tongues of adults who them about the dangers of cellphones or their health teacher telling them to eat healthily. It exists all right, but it doesn’t happen to her.

“Janis,” her mom says gently, running her fingers through her hair. Her voice is thin and shaking as though she’s about to cry. Why would she be crying? She’ll fix this. There’s no way this is real and now her mom is crying over nothing.

“I’m fine,” she replies, squeezing her mom’s hand back. Life comes back to her body and she looks up at the doctor, finally feeling heat inside her, attacking the cold emptiness and sending it back where it belongs. It flares up in her chest, a spark that she’d sorely missed these past few days. She grips her mom’s hand tighter, her own hand shaking and her fingers tight and tense. “I’m fine because I don’t have cancer.”

“Janis I know this is difficult to hear-”

“It’s not. It’s not because I am fine. Because I don’t have cancer, you did the test wrong.”

“Our team ran several tests. We ruled out other possibilities.”

“Clearly you didn’t if you’re telling me that I have cancer, which I don’t, so do another one.” Her grip on her mom isn’t just for her sake, but it’s also keeping Janis from getting up and flipping that desk over and telling Doctor Dad to get fucked. Who does he even think he is anyway? That degree can’t be much good if he’s telling her this and screwed up a test like that.

“Janis,” he sighs, gesturing with his hands like that’s going to fix anything. “I understand that this is a lot to take in right now-”

“It’s not,” she snaps, the smile on her face strained and sharp. “It’s not because you’re fuck-you’re wrong. I don’t-I can’t have-”

“Janis!”

Her mom’s voice is what pulls her back down. When she looks over at her, she sees brown eyes identical to hers, but they’re filled with tears and rimmed red and show a tiny spark of anger amongst the sadness. Her mom’s mouth is half-open, a plea waiting on her lips, begging her daughter to see sense. Her hand tightens around Janis’, her grip becoming less comforting and careful and more irritated and exhausted.

“Sweetheart… please.”

God she’s a horrible person. Her parents just heard probably one of the worst things a parent could hear, and she just threw a tantrum over it.

She looks at the doctor with uncharacteristic and unfamiliar shyness, trying to pick herself back up, present herself as anything close to reasonable after the meltdown she just had. Something about him makes her feel like he understands. Maybe she’s not the first to react like that. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

“So what happens now?” she asks in a flat voice.

“What happens now is you start treatment as soon as possible,” Doctor Dad explains. He leans forwards on his desk, his hands clasped together and when Janis notices the distressed expression on his face, the pain of guilt in her stomach only gets worse. “My colleagues have already discussed this and we think it would be best for you to begin within the next two weeks. The earliest start would be next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” she echoes, her voice cracking. “But… but I start school in three days I start before that, I can’t…” She knows it’s a lost cause and there’s no point to it, but it’s the last thing she has. Her school is the last part of her life that’s real in all this, so forgive her for clinging to it. She looks from her parents to the doctor, three different, grave expressions and only one is able to give her an answer.

“I’m afraid going to school will be out of the question,” the doctor tells her. Her mom’s fingers lace between hers, squeezing her hand in what’s meant to be comforting, but Janis can’t feel it. She’s too busy trying to push back another protest. “I’m sorry, Janis. There is the option of online school, but your treatment is likely to make you too tired to focus. It might be easier on your mental health if you saved school until next year.”

Saved school until next year. When everyone she knows is already gone and this year’s juniors will be seniors. She’ll have to wait a year for all the fun stuff that seniors get to do, cutting in the lunch line, going to prom, graduation parties, using the senior’s lounge. She’ll be sitting in a class of people she’s a year older than her, all in pre-formed friendship groups and likely knowing her as Cancer Girl. Cady, Damian, Karen, everyone else will be graduating this year and will move on to new adventures. And she’ll be left behind.

The idea makes her more sick than the cancer has.

“Jan?” her dad asks softly. She finds three pairs of expectant eyes on her and all she can offer is a small nod.

“Okay,” she whispers. She’s not sure what she’s saying okay to.

“What about the treatment itself?” her mom asks. “How is that going to work?”

“We might have to do a few more tests to find that out,” he explains. “But it would likely be chemotherapy. What we’ve discussed so far is two weeks in hospital and then a week at home to recover for around three months. Thankfully, the cancer hasn’t progressed far enough to warrant more, and we’ll want to keep it at that. The goal is to get Janis to remission.” She nods, her head starting to throb a little. She presses her fingers to her temples before she can stop herself, and that’s a red flag to both her parents. She drops it, muttering a lie about being fine.

“Of course there will be a lot of support for Janis through this,” he goes on. “There is an excellent support group and appointments can be made with a counsellor on a one-to-one basis.”

Somehow that doesn’t help, she thinks. It’s not meant to, she guesses.

It’s cold when they step outside, or that might just be her. The wind cuts through her jacket and the sweater she pulled on and attacks her skin, leaving her fighting off shivers. She pushes her dad’s arm off her when he tries to help her to the car. That only makes her feel worse, mentally and physically.

Being in a car with your parents after a cancer diagnosis is a weird experience. The tension between the three of them strangles her. An unspoken conversation passes between her parents in the front and frankly, it pisses her off. If they’re going to be concerned about her, they could at least do her the courtesy of involving her. But maybe it’s better that way because despite being an arm’s length from them, she feels as though she’s miles away. Like when they started driving, she stayed put. She sinks back into the seat and stares straight ahead, the pain in her head coming back louder and stronger, pushing against her skull and screaming behind her eyelids.

“Janis… are you okay?” her mom asks.

“Fine,” she sighs.

“Do you need anything? We can go to the gas station-”

“I said I’m fine,” she replies, firmer than before. “I just want to lay down.”

She’s not kidding. She wants to press her face into her pillow until everything blacks out and all that exists is the colours that explode behind her eyelids. Then they can fade to, and she won’t have to deal with anything anymore.

They drive on in a heavy silence, and the longer they go, the angrier she finds herself growing. She doesn’t know where it’s directed, at herself or her parents or the doctor or the universe, but it’s there, rising in tandem with her the pain in her head and making her restless. She grabs her upper arm and squeezes hard, pressing her nails in until it starts to hurt, just to get it out somewhere.

“Hey… why don’t we go to Dairy Queen?” her dad suggests, as though they’re on their way back from mini golfing. It’s a sweet offer and Janis almost smiles at it. But it’s why it’s sweet that she doesn’t want it.

“I don’t want to,” she replies. “I just want to go home.” Besides, there is a real risk of her upchucking a milkshake on the seat.

Her parents exchange another worried look, their hands clasping over the gearshift, and Janis has to bite back a scream.

When they do finally get home, Janis doesn’t wait for them to get out of the car. Instead she storms ahead, regardless of how it hurts her head more, because she’s so damn relieved to be out of that care and in open space. She opens the door with her own key, remembering to leave it open for them. She runs into the hallway and then stops almost immediately, her chest tight and her breaths coming in short, quick gulps. Something rushes against her and grabs at her legs, and she takes a minute to work out that it’s Maxie, no doubt pouting at her and wondering what she was doing and where she was and why she didn’t take him. He’s probably whimpering or barking, and her dad is probably trying to talk to her, but she can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears.

“Oh my God,” she says out loud. Everything she’s held back in the car bubbles over and she can’t hold it back any more.

She just about makes it to her room in time to throw herself on the bed and start screaming. She doesn’t even sound like a human. It’s deep and it’s guttural, tearing at her throat and painted with rage and pain and fear. Poor Maxie is probably hiding in his bed, scared of the monster upstairs. Her eyes, her face burns and her bedroom melts away, leaving just a mesh of dark colours bleeding together. Tears and snot run down her face and over her hands and on the pillows, making the mark of a miserable, self-pitying girl going insane.

Her head doesn’t just hurt any more, it’s screeching and kicking at her and she can’t do anything about it. She can’t do anything about anything. That’s the problem. Her chest aches and her neck hurts and her mouth is dry and her eyes burn. But all that’s nothing to what’s going on in her heart and head, where dangerous, toxic cocktails bubble. All she wants to do is not feel, but she feels everything and it’s all just pain.

She runs out of tears at one point and they dry on her face as she looks up at the ceiling, the word “cancer” written in invisible ink above her. She thinks “I might die” and then rolls her eyes at herself for being bleak. She wants to tell her all the good stuff about new treatments and technology and whatever but it’s all surface level nonsense. Fear wins over optimism and it cuts right into her, deep into her soul.

She doesn’t know what she’s most worried about and she’s an idiot for it. Not knowing if she’s more scared of the fatal disease wreaking destruction and chaos inside her body or of not getting to go to Cady’s Mathletes competitions or see Damian in the musical. It should be plainly obvious what’s the worse one, but it isn’t. Is this her now? Vapid and shallow, more obsessed with her petty teenage fun than her health? Was she always like this?

Her parents find her laying across her bed, unblinking, the slow rise and fall of her chest the only thing that indicate her being alive.

“How long ago did you guys wait?” she asks flatly.

“Two hours,” her dad explains, shifting on his feet. “We thought you’d need some space.” She nods numbly at that. “Janis… I know this is a lot to process for you.”

“Understatement of the century,” she mumbles. At least she’s still got humour. The bed sags and she sees her mom sitting next to her, her hand reaching out to stroke her hair. Janis can’t remember the last time her mom did that to her, not like this, with dainty fingers that could send her to sleep.

“We’re going to be here the whole time,” her mom promises. “You’re not doing this alone.”

She is though. That’s the problem. They’re not going to be the ones in the hospital beds and taking medicine and missing her senior year. She is. They’ll be beside her all they like, and she hopes to hell they are, but they aren’t going through it with her.

“I know,” is what she says instead. “I know.” She pulls herself to a sitting position, grabbing her mom’s shoulder as her room starts tilting. It takes a few seconds of deep, shaky breaths and her eyes shut tight before she feels normal again. “I’m okay.” She looks up at the two of them, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that makes her feel tiny despite her impressive height. “So what happens now?”

“We’ll take care of the official stuff,” her dad days softly, his arms wrapped around himself Holding himself together. “Letting the school know and all that. But… it might be better if you tell your friends.” She shakes her head on instinct. She can barely get that word out of her mouth on her own. In front of Damian or Cady, she knows she’d crumble.

“Sweetie,” her mom says. Her hand hasn’t stopped stroking her. “I know it’s hard. But they love you and they’re going to want to hear it from you. Not from us and not from the school either.” Janis presses her face into her knees, blinking away another wave of tears. They’re right. Of course they’re right. But that doesn’t mean that the idea of telling them makes her want to vomit.

Right now, only she, her mom, her dad and some doctors know. And she can pretend the doctors don’t exist and remove them from the equation. And when the only people who know are living in this house, it’s easier for her to pretend that it doesn’t really exist. She can push it away and ignore her parents and keep it inside these walls. Once she tells her friends…

It’s real. There’s no going back after that. Granted there’s no going back either way, but there’s no hiding either.

“Janis,” her mom agrees, sharking a look with her dad. “If it’s really too much for you… we can tell your friends for you.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “No, you’re right. They need to hear it from me.”

“Oh, baby,” her mom breathes, hugging her tightly around her shoulders. She’s not crying, but her breathing is ragged and her grip scared. “I’m so sorry. I wish this wasn’t happening to you.” Her dad sits on the other side of her and wraps his arm around her, letting her head on her head on his shoulder. The hug is clumsy and a little forced, no-one knowing when to let go and Janis quickly becomes uncomfortable in their embrace. The longer it goes on, the less like herself she feels.

She spends the rest of the day and most of the following morning looking at her phone, even when she’s eating or watching TV with her dad or playing with Maxie. Every gesture is half-hearted, the building sense of dread distracting her form everything else. She scrolls through the messages from yesterday, Cady asking how her appointment went and Damian asking if she was free and Gretchen asking her opinion on a shirt. All living in blissful ignorance.

It’s no contest as to who to tell first. She sits on her bed, Damian’s face looking up at her from the phone screen, one button all that separates the two of them. Just press a button. How hard can that be? Very hard, it turns out, when your arm feels like lead and you don’t even know what to say to him, your words written and crossed out and written again on the notebook beside you. The worst part is that she isn’t even sure what she’s scared of. There’s a lot to choose from and when it’s telling someone you love as much as she loves him, that only makes it worse. Like she’s on top of a skyscraper, about to be pushed off and into darkness.  

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and calls him.

“Hey,” he chirps on the other side, picking up after just one ring. She leans back on her bed, biting her nail, her heart ceasing beating altogether. In the back of her mind, she wonders if he’d been waiting for her. “What’s up?”

“Are you-can you come over?” she asks. “Are you free right now?”

“Uh yeah,” he replies. “Everything okay?” No it’s not, the okay train left the station yesterday and I missed it and I’m about to pull you off it too. “Janis… are you okay?”

“Just… how soon can you come over?” she says, moving from biting her nail to her knuckles. “It’s just… it’s kind of important and I don’t know if I can-”

“Woah, woah, woah, okay,” he replies. “Hey, my mom’s giving me a ride. I’ll be ten minutes, tops. Okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. “Thanks.” She’s not even sure if he heard that last word.

He’s seven minutes actually. Seven minutes between her hanging up the phone and the front door opening, her mom letting him in and telling him she’s up in her room. Every step closer only makes her stomach hurt worse and she prays she’s not headed for a panic attack.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle as he opens the door, stepping into her room cautiously, like she’s in the middle of a minefield. He must have picked up on the tension in her house; rather than draping himself across her bed or sitting on her desk, he lowers himself gently beside her, offering her a comforting smile. The same kind he gave her years ago when she was crying in a bathroom stall. God, she loves him. “Everything okay? You sounded nervous on the phone.”

“Because I was,” she confesses. Her hand wraps around Damian’s, him squeezing tightly, but she doesn’t feel the usual strength she gets from him. There’s just a cold, heavy weight in her stomach. “Oh God.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says softly, rubbing his hand up and down her arm, confusion and compassion in his eyes. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she tells him. Her chest feels like someone is tying a rope around her lungs. The words battle from her mind to her mouth, weary and unwilling. “It’s about my… that doctor’s appointment I had. We found out-”

This is it. The point of no return. No pretending or faking or daydreaming after this.

“Damian… I have cancer.”

Damian shakes his head a little, disbelief written all over his face. He keeps his eyes on her, waiting for her to laugh and tell him she’s kidding, almost willing it so. She wishes. Soon the doubt and hope melt away, his eyes turning sad and his mouth falling open, a small, strangled noise coming out as he realises she’s not kidding. As for her guilt tears her chest open and her face crumples. She begins to untangle herself from him, but he refuses, his arm in a firm grip around her shoulders. Maybe he wants to hold her or maybe he just can’t move, paralysed by what she dropped on him. The longer he goes without talking, the more it hurts her.

“What?” he asks eventually. “You… what?”

“Leukaemia,” she tells him as if that makes it better. He blinks, looking around the room like he’s searching for another answer.

“You have cancer?” he asks. She nods, exhausted from the two sentences she spoke, and he pulls her closer, her head falling onto his shoulder. Tears that aren’t hers fall onto her body and her own wet his shirt. His arms are weak around her as he tries to make sense of it. “How?”

“I don’t know how. It just happened,” she mumbles. “Karma, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay then let me talk to Miss Karma because this is… fu-this isn’t…”

“Go on. Say it,” she urges, a grin beginning to tug on her lips. “Just for me.” Maybe this will be the day Damian Hubbard finally says fuck.

“It’s fiddlesticks is what it is.” She laughs and it feels unfamiliar. He pets her hair in a steady rhythm, strength coming back into his body. “So what do you do now? Do you know? What even happens?”

“Okay.” She pulls away from him, seeing for the first time how red his eyes are. “I start… I start getting treatment next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” he interrupts. “But you can’t, we have school. We start school in two days!”

“Yeah I don’t think the cancer gives a shit,” she sighs heavily. “I’m just going to do senior year next year.”

“No,” he whispers, his face nothing short of heartbroken. Part of her is actually kind of weirdly flattered that someone cares so much. Most of her just feels worse every second for doing this to him. “But… we were going to… What about the LGBT society? I’m going to have to run it by myself?” He rakes a hand through his hair and looks over at her. His mouth falls open and his hand drops to his lap. “Oh God I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“For making this about me,” he says. “This is about you.”

“Oh please, the other half of your soul has cancer, you can be a little self-centred,” she says.

“Who said you’re the other half of my soul?” he jokes.

“You did.” She lifts the half-heart around her neck, the twin to the one around his. He smiles sadly, his eyes glistening. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, holding on to the only trace of familiarity. “Besides, the club will survive without me. You can always get Cady to do it. I’m sure she’d love something for her college application.”

“Oh my God, Cady,” he says.

Why did she bring up Cady? she thinks as another wave of sadness crashes over and drowns her.

“Have you told her?” She shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“How could I?” she says. “You’re… you’re one thing. Cady’s another.” She leans her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. “I don’t know how to do that to her.” Damian hums in understanding. He doesn’t need to ask what she means. He saw her at her absolute worst five years ago, at her most scared and angry and broken. He’s seen everything there is to her and it hasn’t pushed him away. Cady thinks she’s seen the bad, but that’s just scratching the surface. While she heard how it was back then, Damian lived and breathed it.

What she has with Cady is perfect, far too perfect to be scarred by something like this.

“You know… I could tell her for you,” he offers. “If it’s too much for you.”

“No,” she cuts him off, opening her eyes. “I can’t make you do that.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” he tells her. She nods, but the conversation ends there. Of course he’d do that for her. He’s the most loyal person she’s ever met, worthy of the Hufflepuff badge on his backpack. He’d move Heaven and Earth for the people he loves, especially in their hour of need. Or months of need, she guesses is her case now. He deserves endless happiness and love and joy, and an amazing senior year.

Seconds pass in silence before she croaks out “I’m sorry”.

“Did you just apologise for having cancer?” he asks. He shifts and tilts her head to make her look at him, his hands cupping her face and his eyes severe. She’s never seen him like this before, completely serious, devoid of jokes or laughter, and it makes her nervous. “Janis Catherine Sarkisian, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare apologise for this. This isn’t because of you. This is because… I don’t know. But it’s not you.”

“Okay.” She covers his hands with hers, her breath catching. His thumbs wipe at her wet cheeks and she wonders what she did to deserve him. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Good.” His voice cracks and two tears race each other down his cheek landing in his lap. He takes a heavy, shaking breath before continuing. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“Of course you’d say that,” she mumbles, their clasped hands now sitting between them.

“You will be,” he says again, a fierce determination shining on his face. “Even if I have to go in there and physically fight that cancer myself.”

“You’d win,” she tells him, sniffling. They sit in the quiet, letting the weight of her news settle over both of them, a new and terrifying reality looming in front of them. Then she reaches out and pulls him into a hug; her arms wrapped around him, her head in the crook of his neck. As he hugs her back, she can feel the anxiety in his touch and how his touch is far more careful now. Like she’ll break if he holds her too much. But there’s also courage in there and above all, so much tenderness and it makes her heart grow and almost burst out of her stone cold chest.

“I love you,” she whispers against his shirt.

“I love you too,” he replies, ferocity in his voice, and Janis is struck by just how grateful she is that her best friend is Damian.

[eyes-like-a-pisces]

You are such a beautiful angel and I’m so glad we can follow each other from a distance, I truly feel like we’d be bffs if we lived closer💕 idk how someone so beautiful, kind, smart, funny, interesting, ETC on the inside can be equally as stunning of a person on the outside but u somehow do it and I’m amazed. If tumblr was ever just completely shut down I would send u letters delivered by an owl. Question: what’s your fav crafty hobby?? Either one u do or one you’d like to do? 💞💞💞

Thank you so much for saving a day, before I put Creep by Radiohead on repeat or something... You are an angel! I'm truly blessed by your precence, taste, wit, kind heart and artistic talent 💜 I'm pretty sure we would be bffs, at least I would wish so, and you know, talking about owls, being penpals would be awesome! I hope you'll have a great day and I wish you happy easter 💚🐣🌸

If It comes to crafty things, I just really like drawing - with pencils, markers, crayons, but especially coal! I like watercolors too. And I mostly draw people, this is what I enjoy the most. I also like making collages and working with hot glue gun, sometimes even sewing. Currenty I plan to restore my old denim jacket with fake leather sleeves. That sleeves look terrible now, so I plan to cut them off and make a vest, put some pins and applications, you know... Idk if It counts as crafty, but Id like to try analog photography too (I really like taking photos and editing them, but that analog effect is something else) 💜

I need to thank you for this message once again. I try to not take people's words for granted, cause you know, one day someone may say that I'm pretty & smart and the next day that I'm ugly and dumb, but It means a world that you took your time to write something so kind, you are amazing, ily 💞

[ashley-incharge]

Going for a little less misery | Ashroo

Roo meets with Ashley to help her out and Ashley...is Ashley [dated: May 14th]

@littlemister-roo

ROO:

Roo knew he must be crazy. Why was he going through the trouble of getting anything for Ashley when she rarely treated him as anything but an idiot? Clearly he was way too soft. But whatever. It still seemed like the right thing to do. She'd mentioned the stretch marks and how much they upset her and he figured it wouldn't hurt to ask his mom if there was anything to be done. She was a nurse after all and she'd probably had the same experience when she'd been pregnant all those years ago. Sure enough, she'd come through and had brought home some super moisturizing goopy stuff from the hospital that was supposed to help.

So he'd texted Ashley and asked her to meet him at the park—he had no desire to go to her bestie's house and endure murderous stares from the redhead. Seriously, he was pretty sure the girl wanted to hurt him. He reached the meeting point first, for once, and settled himself on the park bench, placing the paper bag containing the tub of goop beside him. He pulled out his sketch pad and pencil form his backpack and set to drawing the scenery around him as he waited.

ASHLEY:

Ashley hadn't exactly stayed out of touch with Roo. She didn't like to give details of her life to anyone, but considering the fact that he had helped put her in the position she was in...well she bitched. Yeah. She definitely bitched when she saw these horrid marks starting to form on her thighs, her boobs, her hips...and of course the belly itself, though they weren't that extreme yet. Extreme or not, they were ugly to Ashley, and she had to bemoan this fact to someone. That someone was Roo. At seventeen weeks, Ashley was definitely feeling pregnant.

The round curve to her stomach was undeniable. As she made her way out toward the park, she'd selected a comfortable pair of leggings and a stretchy top that showed her body off while it was still somewhat nice. As a result some bitch thought she could just put her hand on Ashley's stomach. Ashley was unashamed to say she kicked the woman before continuing on her way to the park. Any idiot that thought they could touch Ashley would pay for it. She glanced around the park for a long minute before she finally spotted Roo, making her way over and settling down next to him before he could get the chance to see her approach. She was feeling pregnant and self conscious about it. "So...what's up? Did you want to know about the next doctor's appointment?"

ROO:

"Oh, hi Ashley! It's so good to see you! I hope you are doing well!" Roo teased, chuckling in response to her curt greeting. He was used to her being grumpy, though he wasn't sure if she was always like that or just when she was around him. It didn't really matter, he supposed, and chose to just shrug it off. "And sure, I want to know about the doctor's appointment, but I would have just texted you about that." He gestured to the paper bag between them. "My mom got this stuff from work and says it should help with you, umm, skin problem." She'd been pretty mad about the stretch marks so he didn't want to say the words in case it set her off.

ASHLEY:

Why did Roo have to be so stupidly nice all the time? It wasn't doing him any favors. In her opinion anyway. Even if he was joking around. She couldn't help but sigh, running a hand through her hair and making a face at him. "Nice to see you too I guess." Not really, but they were kind of in this together. She felt less guilty about bitching to him than she did with her girls. Her girls understood her but they..well. Ashley didn't want to force them to hear about the baby all the time. She couldn't help but be startled by the bag, and she cautiously peeked into it before reaching in to study the stuff that could help with her stretch marks. It was surprisingly thoughtful, and Ashley didn't know what to do with that. 

"Thank you...you didn't have to do this," she pointed out, because he didn't. And Ashley didn't really want to owe him anything...but it was nice. She hated her stretch marks. She hated the way her body was changing. She had a lot to be frustrated by. She took the container out to study it a bit more carefully, her other hand tracing over her stomach absentmindedly. "This really works?"

ROO:

Roo snorted. He was pretty sure she didn't mean it, but at least she was trying. Sort of. And of course he didn't have to do anything, but—he figured that if they were in this together, he could make an effort to make her life a little less miserable. Maybe if she was less miserable, she would be nicer to him? It was a long shot, but worth it.  Besides—it just seemed like the right thing to do. And after talking more with his mom about her experience as a pregnant teenage girl, he wanted to do his best to be sure that Ashley didn't feel alone in this. "Supposedly," he shrugged. "My mom says it does. She's a nurse and usually knows what she's talking about. I guess its suppose to make stuff hurt less and if you use it daily the, um, problem should fade in time."

ASHLEY:

Ashley hummed. "Well I'll take it. Anything to make my body look less gross." And okay, the stretch marks weren't that bad yet, but it would only get worse right? She felt fat already and she wasn't that far into the pregnancy! The stretch marks would undoubtedly get worse. She carefully placed the stuff back into the bag and turned to face Roo. "Since you're here, I was wondering if you could do me a slight favor?" Up until now, she had been documenting this pregnancy with her phone mostly and trying to get decent angles of her stomach on her own, but she was no miracle worker. "Would you take a picture of me? Or pictures? I can't decide if it's better to just have a picture like this or if I want to lift my shirt and get a shot like that too you know? And I'm going to make our kid a photo album."

ROO:

Roo blinked. She wanted him to—take a picture? Of her? He was surprised that she was asking for help, even for something small like that. And even more surprised that she wanted him to do something that would involve him looking at her for more than two seconds at a time—he had the feeling she didn't want any more of his attention than was absolutely necessary. But he was glad to help. Besides, making a photo album for the baby seemed like a good idea. Their circumstance was not exactly ideal but that wasn't the baby's fault, now was it? "Umm, ok. I can do that, sure!" He glanced around. "Like, with your phone? Or...what?"

ASHLEY:

Ashley snorted. "Yes with my phone. I don't have a good quality camera on me." She didn't really when she'd been taking the pictures she had so far. She reached into her purse, tugging out her phone and unlocking it for the camera setting quickly, offering it up to Roo so she could get it over with. She realized this meant she was going to have him look at her, but well. Ashley usually liked people looking at her, and she'd just ignore it if he said anything weird. "I kind of want a front profile and a side profile picture. I think that'd be good. Don't you?"

ROO:

"Sure, sure," Roo agreed easily, taking the phone from her and stepping back to look over his subject. What? He may not be a photographer, but he was an artist and had an eye for this sort of thing. He frowned. It was the middle of the day and sun was high in the sky, which meant that the shadows on her face made her look really splotchy. He knew she'd hate that. "Why don't you stand underneath that tree?" he suggested, gesturing to a shady spot just a few yards away. "The lighting is way better there and I think you'll be much happier with the end result."

ASHLEY:

Ashley was surprised that Roo took it so seriously, but she wasn't going to complain. Her baby deserved the best pictures, and if he was going to capture her properly, the right lighting would be better too. She moved over to the spot he pointed to, turning so she faced him head on first, a hand resting lightly just under her bump. "How's this then? Better? Can you even really see my stomach like this?"

ROO:

Roo grinned, nodding with satisfaction. "Yeah, that's a million times better!" His lips pursed thoughtfully as she struck her pose, however. She was right, from straight on, it was hard to tell that there was a belly that was supposed to be the focus of the picture. He knew exactly how he would solve the problem if he was drawing her—a strategically drawn curve at the top and bottom along with a bit of shading would define it nicely. But how to do it with a camera? "Hmmm, no actually. You have a point. It's hard to tell from this angle but—oh!" His eyes brightened as he noticed the way her hand rested at the bottom of her stomach. "What if you put your other hand on top of your belly? I think that would show it off really nicely."

ASHLEY:

Ashley hummed. "You're right that might work. After that we can probably get the side profile. That'll definitely show better than this." She knew that much at least. The front profile would be interesting to have too though. She wanted to have that. So she went ahead and put her other hand on top of the bump. "Okay...how's that? Better? Does it look okay?"

ROO:

"Perfect!" Roo touched his thumb and forefinger together in an 'a-ok' sign. "Alright, now you just need to smile. C'mon just think about how gorgeous you are, that ought to do it." Was he laying it on thick? Maybe just a little. But he wanted her to smile, pretty sure she wouldn't be happy with the photos if she was doing that scowl thing she did whenever he was around in every pic. Once he'd lined up the shot and snapped the photo, he said, "Wait, don't move. I wanna get one more—" Before she could react, he whirled around, putting his back to her and raised the phone up to snap a quick selfie with her (baby belly and all) in the background. "There, now there's at least one with me in it," he laughed, hoping that if he acted natural, she'd go along with it and not murder him with one of her death glares. "Now, turn to the side and we can get that profile pic real quick."

ASHLEY:

Ashley snorted, though she did manage enough of a smile for the first picture. Flattery always worked pretty well on her, and she was pretty sure that he knew that. It was embarrassing. But oh well. At least there would be a good picture of her. She was feeling pretty good about it until that idiot went and snapped a selfie of the two of them just like that. "Hey! You could have just asked you asshole!" Ashley was indignant, a scowl forming on her face. "If you just asked I probably would have given you a picture. Our baby could have one shot of both her parents together." Still, she should just move on. Get the other picture she needed and get the hell out of there. That would suit her best. She turned to the side, a hand rubbing over the bump that she had. "Better this way isn't it? I mean you can really see it right?"May 12, 2020

ROO:

Roo tried not to laugh, really he did. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy getting a rise out of her on his terms once in awhile. Just like old times—old times being, what? Like nine or ten months ago? Back when things were way more simple, or as simple as anything involving Ashley could be anyways. "I could have asked, but where's the fun in that?" He grinned crookedly before turning his focus back on her pose. "Yeah, it's definitely noticeable this way. You picked a good shirt for this, which helps." He raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to one side as he asked, "Have you ever thought about modeling, by the way? Because I have to say, you look good, Ashley." There, another compliment to try and smooth things over.

ASHLEY:

Ashley scoffed. "I don't know, maybe a semi decent conversation for once would be good for you." Not that she cared that much really. It didn't matter. As long as they worked together enough for the baby, Ashley wouldn't care what he did. A smile spread across her face, and she tossed some of her hair over her shoulder. "You know I did consider it. Especially now that I am pregnant to be honest. I must be the hottest pregnant chick in town right now. Modeling would be a smart move." She traced a thumb over her stomach, glancing down at it with a litlte smile. "I look pretty good for a pregnant chick."

ROO:

Roo rolled his eyes, though he was still laughing. There was no such thing as a semi decent conversation when it came to Ashley. Had he asked for a picture with her, he was sure she would have mocked him. At least this way, he could play it off as a joke. It stung less that way. Those feeling feelings vanished, however, as she smiled genuinely and began to preen. At least he was getting better at judging how to put her into a better mood. He smirked, snapping photos while she preened and then caught that last one as she looked down, still smiling. There was something so soft and intimate about the gesture, it took his breath away. "You are definitely the hottest pregnant chick in town," he said, clearing his throat and pretending he wasn't gawking at her like an idiot. "You should totally do it. And here—" he walked over and handed her the phone. "Check these and see if they work for you. I can retake them if you want."

ASHLEY:

Ashley laughed. "Well I'm glad you can agree with me. There are a few out there in town these days." But Ashley didn't think they held a candle to her. And modeling the belly would be fun. Maybe she should do it. She just wasn't sure how she'd get herself into it. But the money might be worth it. She reached out for Roo's phone, carefully scanning through the photos he'd taken. "These are great. Thank you. Really. I want to document as much as possible you know? My mom didn't really do that for us and...I don't know...I think it's important."

ROO:

"I get that," Roo agreed, sincere. "My mom did a little, more after I was born though since she was alone, ya know? And even though I think the photos are totally embarrassing," he laughed, "It also means a lot to me to know that she cared enough to do it." Though he had no illusions of a future where he and Ashley were settled down as some loving, happy couple, he was going to do his damndest to do his part to make sure their baby knew they were cared for and loved. "Seriously, Ashley. I know you said you've been taking photos every week, so if you need me to snap a few for you, just let me know." His soft smile shifted to a grin and he winked. "And I promise, no more selfies without permission."

ASHLEY:

"She clearly loves you. It doesn't take a genius to see that much." Ashley was a little jealous of it at times, though she would never admit to that. Roo had a mother around who cared about him, who didn't treat him like the plague for having knocked a girl up (though she supposed it might be different too being the boy in this story). He was a lucky kid. He got to stay at home where he belonged. Ashley in the meantime would wonder and worry over whether her brother and sister were well fed. If her parents had thought to make sure they did their homework well or whatever. Those were things she worried about, just as she worried about whether she could even be a good mom to the kid she was carrying. Looking at her family history it didn't seem promising. "Well then maybe you can help me with my week by week photography. I want to have a progression you know? Some people do it with videos, I want to do it with pictures. I want to document the journey. Really. And...I mean I don't want pictures we don't agree on, but I suppose pictures of you would also be warranted. Especially if you gained sympathy weight."

ROO:

Of course his mom loved him. Roo had never once doubted that, in spite of his fury over the secrets and lies that had been the beginning of all of this mess. And he knew just enough about Ashley's family to be all the more thankful for his own mother and her care for him over the years. He snorted. "I can't make any promises about the sympathy weight thing, but I'll sure try if that's what it takes to make it into the baby book." He grinned at her, thinking it was nice when they got along and hoped this could continue. "And sure, I'd be glad to help with the weekly pics. Just say the word and I'm there."

ASHLEY:

"It doesn't require weight gain on your part really. The kid deserves to know what their dad was like at this point in time." Even if Ashley didn't like him and would prefer to make the book exclusively about her. It wasn't. She knew that it wasn't. Ashley turned toward Roo and smiled. "Oh I will. Don't worry. I don't want to skip a week like last week because I couldn't get a good angle. You're in for it now Romeo."May 13, 2020

ROO:

Roo couldn't help but grin hopefully. Maybe this teen parenting teamwork thing wouldn't be so hard after all? If she truly hated him, she'd be doing everything her power to keep him out of the baby's life, right? "Good," he replied with a grin. "I'm here for it." He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and checked it real quick. "Oh shoot, that was my alarm. My lunch break is almost over and I gotta get back to the Barn." He eyed her questioningly. "Need anything else from me? Or are we good for now?"

ASHLEY:

Ashley snorted. "You better be honest about that one. Because I want the best pictures I can get. If I wanted to model the pics should be so good that I theoretically could." She replied and then snorted. "No okay, mostly kidding. But I do want them to turn out nice." Her eyebrows shot up at the alarm. She wanted to say something snarky, but the guy needed that job. Ashley didn't have one, and their kid would probably be an expensive little gift. "No no. Go on then. I'll let you know if anything comes up."

[inkreservoir]

Apotheosis

Chapter 5 | Persona

Fandom: Mystic Messenger/Death Note (Crossover)

Characters: Rem, V, OCs

Links: AO3 | FF | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Jihyun does not technically live at school. This is a detail that’s more or less negligible, the sound of Jumin’s car horn beeping outside to remind Jihyun that it is exactly 4:57 a.m., and that once again he’s taken too much precious time spreading butter over the pain de campagne his parents seem to always have in the house even when they’re out travelling, moved too slowly pulling uniform-standard socks over his feet as the sun rose outside his window.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, crashing into the back seat, and Jumin says, “Sometimes I think if we didn’t pick you up each morning, you’d never come to school at all.”

“I would come,” Jihyun insists, faux offense mocking itself across his features. “I’d simply be…”

“Late,” Jumin fills in, rolling his eyes. “You’d show up for your photography class, then get lost in the hallways and fail to attend anything else.”

“The art room is easier to locate than our classes,” Jihyun says, but then Jumin raises his eyebrows at him and Jihyun is left with no choice but to look away. “… I concede.”

“Heh,” Jumin smirks, and Jihyun smiles privately to the streets moving ever quickly outside his window. There are some benefits to spending all his time at school: being surrounded by students is preferable to being alone at home. Jihyun’s name is spoken often enough in the hallways, generally in relation to Jumin, but his classmates are eager enough to engage him in their conversations even if they don’t invite him to coffee afterwards.

Besides that, though, there’s the photography teacher, a woman of perhaps thirty years. Jihyun had initially enrolled in the course out of simple curiosity, but on the first day of classes, Ms. Jong gave him an appraising once-over and declared, “I like the look in your eye.” She waited patiently when Jihyun’s hands were shaking too much to handle the camera, this tool Rem had seen others use so many times in this life and the last, the tool she’d been mimicking use of with her phone since an afternoon in middle school. In retrospect, it seems silly, if Rem had ever asked for a camera her parents would surely have provided it, but the thought hadn’t occurred to her— not like that.

She pointed the lens at her teacher, and Ms. Jong smiled when Jihyun closed his finger over the shutter. Since then, he’s acquired a camera of his own, a semi-permanent fixture around his neck as he sits with Jumin in study halls and attempts to help others in his night classes with questions he barely understands himself.

For his birthday, Jumin gives him a corkboard, and at Jihyun’s questioning tilt of the head Jumin says, “You don’t have anywhere to put those photos you’re always taking, and I know you won’t think to buy one for yourself.”

He doesn’t mean it as an insult, and Jihyun doesn’t take it as one. Dew on the branches of early April, close shots of Jumin— his hands, the place where his striped shirt collar meets his neck, and now the sun-bleached grass and flowers in an array of colours fully bloomed decorate the once-bare walls of a bedroom he hardly spends any time in.

Ms. Jong has perfect posture, wears her hair in a bun atop her head that never seems to fall out of place as she flits about the studio, nods approval, asks questions of students, and raises her hands to frame imaginary shots.

“I hear she has a tattoo,” Ahn whispers to Jihyun, pencil sketches and eraser dust cluttering her workspace. “On her hip, that’s what Sung-min told me. She hides it under the long shirts, but he saw it peeking out once, he said.”

Decorating one’s body with artwork; it’s one of the most beautiful ventures Rem imagines a human can undertake, and when she lets the word ‘tattoo’ slip into conversation with her teacher late after class one day, Ms. Jong agrees.

“It may not look very professional, but I think all art is a form of expression,” Ms. Jong says.

“What does photography express?” Jihyun asks, and Ms. Jong pauses for a moment, touches the pen she’s stored behind her ear in thought.

“What do you think it expresses?” she asks, and Rem is much worse at answering questions than asking them. But lingering in her dreams is Misa’s smile in the photos on her internet browser, the way the sun reflects on mountains in the early morning, the shimmering fabric of gowns in the photos Jumin gave Rem of his father’s wedding because he didn’t want them.

Jihyun’s face is blemished, as are the faces of many others in his year. Not Jumin’s though— Jumin has a dermatologist, and though he’s offered Rem the opportunity to see his several times, she’s not certain even with all her parents’ money it’s worth approaching them about. Light Yagami never had any, that Rem is aware, even though he was only just emerging into adulthood when she knew him, and neither did Misa— but Misa had an elaborate routine, strawberry-scented scrub that Rem can’t appreciate properly until she’s at the mall with Jumin one day, taking turns sniffing the different fragrances in the store.

“I suppose you like that one?” Jumin asks, and Jihyun pauses, candle still at his nose.

He closes his eyes and inhales again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think I like it… but that may just be because it reminds me of someone.”

Jumin reaches over and gently takes the candle from Rem’s hand to smell it himself. “Who?” he asks, wrinkling his nose just a little before taking another whiff. “Hmm. This is all right.”

“You don’t know her,” Jihyun says, and Jumin sets the candle back on the shelf.

“I forgot you know people I don’t know,” he says, and Jihyun laughs, maybe because Jumin has no idea, maybe because Jumin is right.

“I think my favourite is the one that’s meant to smell like the sea,” Rem says, and her friend nods his approval.

Jumin likes the scent of pomegranates, the look of vertical stripes, the sound of music that employs cellos— often regardless of genre. He reads avidly— nonfiction mostly, though he enjoys the occasional light fiction novel, and he can guess to Jihyun the probable ingredients of the marinade for any given steak after a single bite.

Rem looks at the photographs on her wall, the simple monochrome shirts and coats of her wardrobe, the carefully bundled and string-tied envelopes of every letter Jumin ever sent her. Ms. Jong’s black heels click across the floor, Sayeon’s phone charms dangle from the zipper on her backpack, her mother’s paintings decorate the walls of every corridor in her home, and when Rem opens the door to Jumin’s car to spend her entire day at school, he says, “You’re late,” and Ms. Jong says, “I like the look in your eye,” and Min-a says, “Thanks for being such a good listener,” and Seojun says, “How do you get your hair to wave that gently?,” and when she looks at them, they look back at her.

“I have to go to a dinner tomorrow,” Jumin sighs, dropping his books in a neat stack on the desk before their night class starts, and then takes the seat beside Jihyun. “And I can’t decide on a stupid tie to wear.”

Seojun stands straight from where he’d been leaning on Jihyun’s desk. “I’ll talk to you later I guess,” he says. “Text me about it, though, maybe?”

“Did I interrupt something?” Jumin apologizes.

“Class is about to start anyway,” Seojun shrugs, and Jihyun promises to send him the message, though Rem isn’t sure explaining that she combs her fingers through her hair until it arranges itself into something that looks deliberate will be much help to him.

“What kind of dinner is it?” she asks Jumin, and Jumin presses his fingers to his eyelids.

“I’m meeting with a business partner of my father’s, I believe,” he says. Jumin doesn’t technically work for C&R International yet, but this is a regular occurrence. He describes his father’s insistence on involving him with the business before he’s graduated high school as “being offered opportunities.” Rem has had enough with opportunists, but Jumin’s relationship with his father isn’t for her to question.

“Try green this time,” she suggests, and Jumin pauses for a moment.

“Which one?”

“The one that alternates with silver,” she says. “It’ll look nice with your eyes.”

“All my ties look nice on me,” Jumin tells her, but agrees to take her advice as the lesson starts.

Ms. Jong adjusts Jihyun’s hands with hers to suggest better angles, apologizes when she finds him alone in the darkroom, though she couldn’t possibly have ruined his photo with the sliver of light she let in before quickly shutting the door. She leans back in her seat and waits as Rem tries to gather her thoughts, gesticulating with her arms to try to describe the images in her head that she can’t draw or speak, only capture on camera. Ms. Jong nods, and Jihyun’s exhales cleanse through his system.

“I’m thinking of dying my hair,” he tells Ms. Jong one day.

“Oh?” she asks, and Jihyun pauses a moment, then nods. Rem’s hair— the closest to hair she could get, once— was pink, and ugly, and as Rem lies awake in Jihyun’s bed at an hour she knows is going to make her late on Jumin again in the morning, she thinks it was one of her favourite things about her old appearance.

“It’s not expressly forbidden in the regulations for this school,” he explains, and Ms. Jong smiles.

“They might make it so if you dye it, you know.”

Jihyun shrugs, but that doesn’t relieve the feeling that something is weighing on his shoulders.

“Dye it,” Ms. Jong tells him.

Perhaps he should’ve brought Jumin with him, pushing open the door to a small hairdressing shop in the mall. The people in the pictures on the window smile less convincingly than Misa used to, or else tilt their chins away from the camera, eyes hooded and lips pursed in a grimace. The Internet was some help in recommending this place as somewhere she could access using public transport, but the advice she found on bleaching and dying hair were all things she already knew from watching Misa turn her hair blonde.

The first thing to hit Jihyun is the smell, soapy and fresh, hairdressers moving around carrying scissors like the teachers in Kindergarten always said not to. The clients are of all ages, relaxing in dryer chairs and describing their desired cuts. The customer closest to the door looks around sixty years old with a magazine grasped in her wrinkled, manicured hands.

“Can I help you?”

The man behind the counter dries his hands and then folds the towel into a perfect square, laying it down next to a computer mouse without taking his sharp, green eyes off Jihyun the entire time. Jihyun can see the faintest hint of brown behind the contact lenses, exactly like Misa’s were.

“I was hoping to bleach and dye my hair,” Jihyun tells him, and the man types something into his computer.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Jihyun says. “I was told Hae-il would be available?”

The man smiles. “That’s me.” His hair is short, sleek, a silver that absorbs the lights of the shop instead of reflecting them. He asks Jihyun a few more questions, and Jihyun realizes he forgot to choose a colour to dye his hair to. Hae-il tells Jihyun it’d be better to bleach it after he’s chosen a colour so they know how light to go with it, but he’s already here and doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“Well, if you want it really light, you’ll have a few days to decide, I suppose,” Hae-il says, leading Jihyun to a chair positioned in front of a mirror. Jihyun squints for a moment under the harsh lights. “I can make it any colour you want, probably.”

Jihyun believes him. The shop’s website lists that Hae-il’s work has been featured in many magazines throughout the years since starting as a stylist, and Jihyun doubts even Misa would’ve been able to afford him without some great effort. Hae-il nods approvingly when Jihyun tells him his budget, and while it’s not a habit of his to make extravagant purchases, this feels important somehow. Hae-il places a booklet of colours in Jihyun’s hands to flip through while he does his hair.

Hae-il doesn’t talk much when he’s working, his eyes focused and intent, cutting strands of hair away with a precision that reminds Rem of Jumin. Occasionally he catches Jihyun staring at his hands in the mirror and gives him a small smile that makes Jihyun’s cheeks go red, much more red than Jihyun would ever give them permission to.

“Your hair is really nice,” Hae-il comments. “Thick, healthy.”

The bleach feels strange against his scalp, not really stinging but not exactly pleasant either, and Hae-il is impressed with how light Jihyun’s hair goes once they’ve washed it out and blow-dried it.

“Your hair is pretty dark, so I thought we might need two or three sessions, but I actually think depending on the colour we should be able to put it on today,” Hae-il says. “Or, well… I can, anyway.”

His confident grin makes Jihyun laugh, running a finger through his now-yellow hair in awe. His reflection looks like a different person, his skin less pale, his blush deeper.

… Great.

“Have you decided on a colour?”

“Um.”

His finger is on the page in the booklet with the different shades of pink listed, but now that he’s being asked to make a decision, he’s not so sure. He glances at Hae-il, who’s rolled a chair over to sit beside him. The other man’s back is straight, nails painted plum.

“I feel something toward the colour, I guess,” Jihyun tells him, tracing his finger over the page. “Like it was important to me once, in another life.”

Hae-il watches him carefully. “And what about this life?”

Jihyun sucks in a breath, and Hae-il stands. “Well, no rush.”

Jihyun’s already been here for hours. Six hours, to be precise, though it doesn’t feel nearly that long. Time in the human world never feels very long, though.

He picks up his phone. Maybe he should ask Jumin— no, he doesn’t want Jumin to know he’s doing this, and Jumin’s even worse than Jihyun is at making colour-related decisions, anyway. He looks up at his reflection.

His eyes are still his most striking feature, their blue the most colourful part of his face at the moment. As a shinigami, her eyes were yellow, like caution tape, or a more highly saturated version of what her hair looks like right now. The blue is pale, almost green, like the sea-scented candle beside her bed, the one she’d chosen to take home after almost three entire minutes of sniffing the one that reminded her so much of Misa.

Her chest squeezes and she looks down again, absently flipping through the pinks back into the purples, and then to blue.

Jihyun raises his head and signals for Hae-il to return.

[gloriaglamont]

I have to tell the truth: I am not a skirt kind of woman. That isn’t to say that I have any problem with my legs. I fact, I am very lucky to have inherited my mother’s legs – although mine are much longer than hers. She’s about 5 feet tall (5’4” if you count her hair), while I am 5 ft. 7 in. (okay, I’m 5 ft 6 ½ inches at this point in my life *sigh*). Anyway, I have no fundamental objection to bare legs even on older women (unless said legs are shown from the crotch down without benefit of shorts. My blog, my views.)

[In Sint Maarten a few years ago]

That all being said, when I started planning this cruise collection, it occurred to me that I ought to include a skirt. I have found over the past few years in the Caribbean, Tahiti, Hawaii etc. and even (perhaps even especially) in Toronto in the summer, that those well-loved white jeans that I could not live without, are a tad too warm for a 5-7 k walk in the city on a day where the humidex soars. I have recently acquired a few summer dresses (not “sundresses” as I mentioned in my last post) that I truly love. You can’t beat them for practicality and they do elevate a city walk just a tad. Anyway, I really felt that this cruise collection needed a skirt. Just think of all the combinations of T’s and other tops that could pair with one (or two).

It is at this juncture that I need to convey another important rationale for a skirt for this collection. And it is an opinion that might offend some women of a certain age because they seem to have clutched onto a certain type of garment like a drowning woman clutches that life preserver just thrown overboard by a husband puzzled as to how she got there off the side of the cruise ship. I’m talking about the proliferation of – well, I’m not just sure what they are called in fashion parlance, although I have to believe that real fashionistas would not even have a word to describe these abominations – abominations that cause no end of visual blight on cruise ships. I’m talking about the widish-legged, pedal-pusher sort-of length pants that flap around the leg, cutting the leg at its most unattractive spot.

[…and the ones on the left are newly offered for this season by Eddie Bauer! Ugg!]

And as far as I’m concerned, it ought to be illegal to sell them. If women cannot stop themselves from buying and then wearing them, they just cannot be sold any more. And if you are reading this, feeling slightly insulted, then you know who you are. Don’t tell me you don’t care what other people think of what you wear and you’ll wear whatever you want. Blah-blah-blah. I know you will. But I’ll bet you do care. And I’m here to tell you that no one, NO ONE looks good in these atrocities. They make even the sveltest among us look dumpy. And with all the discussion online in Facebook sewing and design groups about clothes that “flatter” I’m here to suggest that you reconsider your adamance about this garment. [Don’t bother commenting that you  like them or are insulted. I’m okay with you liking them.]

With that off my chest, I do have to come clean: I actually owned a pair for a while. I wore them hiking and zip-lining in Costa Rica a few years back. The photos are – you guessed it – cringe-worthy.

Well, I can take as good as I give. If I’m going to show photos of others in these eyesores, here I am in Costa Rica. So butt ugly. What was I thinking?

So, if I’m not going to wear these eyesores on a cruise, what will take their place? Enter the skirt.

I don’t actually own a single skirt at this point in my life. I used to own skirts. When I met my husband 32 years ago, my closet was full of skirt suits – blazer-type jackets and matching skirts mostly by Simon Chang and Alfred Sung. It was an era – and I had that kind of job. But as my career evolved, so did styles and I found that pants suited my life better. These days, I never wear skirts as I have indicated. I wear pants, jeans, cocktail dresses and gowns. That’s my life – one extreme or the other! So, now as I contemplate a skirt design, I have to acknowledge my preferred style. And it is pretty narrow (no pun intended – well, maybe a bit).

I love pencil skirts. I hate billowy, wide, circular, gathered, pleated, and/or A-line skirts. I sometimes think they look nice on others, but not that often. It takes a certain woman, with a certain style, with a certain physique to pull those babies off. My style is tailored, sleek and narrow, but I’m not so sure that a typical pencil skirt style is really what I’m after for this kind of casual, vacation-ready collection.

A few patterns (some out of print) that I actually think are attractive:

  Oh, and did I mention that it will be in the same fabric as my sunny day dress? No? Well, it will be grey and white striped seersucker, so I have that to add to the design considerations.

So, I did a few sketches…

…then made a pattern for the one on the far right.

And finally settled on one that seems to tick all the boxes: narrow, slightly below the waist, no waist-band, just above the knee, pockets, back slit and back zipper.

The pockets on the bias just seem to add another element of flattery, drawing the eye in – or at least that’s what I’m hoping.

FYI: The history of the skirt is fascinating. It is one of the oldest garments in history and, of course, was originally a piece worn by both men and women. Here are two terrific posts that I enjoyed:

Dacy Knight. An Abridged History of the Skirt: From Edwardian Separates to Denim Minis. Who What Wear. https://www.whowhatwear.com/history-of-the-skirt/slide2

The history of the pencil skirt.  http://mppskirt.com/index.php/2018/01/30/the-history-of-the-pencil-skirt/

In search of the perfect summer skirt (The Cruise Collection Project continues) #amsewing #fashiondesign #cruisecollection I have to tell the truth: I am not a skirt kind of woman. That isn’t to say that I have any problem with my legs.

[ethereal-pluto-blog]

I feel like shit today

I'm lethargic, slow, crying, and insecure. So yep ~depression~ has come to rear its ugly head once again.

But since I'm not into the whole anti-recovery thing, I'll give you some useful tips on how to maybe help YOUR depression that doesn't seem like a generic twitter self help thread. (Though I'll mention some things I found helpful and give explainations as to why.)

Talk to your therapist/counselor/mental health expert if available. Not everyone has the luxury of seeking professional help, but if you have the opportunity, PLEASE go to a professional. However be noted that it's often an experience to go through many different experts to find the one that matches your specific needs/ you like the most. Also keep in mind there are also online therapists ready to help if you're not big on one-on-one contact like myself, though often insurance is tricky. I put this one first because it might be the most beneficial for some, though not readily available for others.

If you have the strength, shower. Showering/cleaning yourself is a blessing in itself as it gives you a sense of detox. Though if you don’t have the strength or motivation, try some of this instead-

Utilize facewash and lotion. Particularly facewash that makes your face feel all chill and tingly, it makes you feel more refreshed. Lotions and cream will help you keep skin smooth.

Simply get wet with water, a quick 5 minute rinse in hot water is less of a chore than a full shower.

Dry shampoo will help with hair oiliness. Though if you don't have access just brush your hair and pull it/part it so it's out of your face.

Baby wipes. Baby wipes will cure yo soul. But seriously use baby wipes and rub them on your face, underarms, and genitals. A good rub down will help prevent you from feeling gross.

Splashing your face with cold water, it makes your pores tighten up and as a bonus it'll wake you up.

Utilize deodorant and vaseline. I haven't tried it out for myself, though if you put down deodorant and then vaseline on top it should trap the nice fragrant smell. And while you're at it you can put on cologne / perfume if you think you're getting a lil ripe, but if you want to smell like a fresh shower use ones that are labeled "shower fresh" or "baby powder."

If your lips are chapped, put on some balm shisters. (I don't trust the brand chapstick, I'm a conspiracy theorist okay I'm soRRy)

Change into some cleaner clothes. They don't have to be normal everyday clothes but at least change into new clothes, especially underwear.

Clean your fingernails/toenails. Clean under them, since random junk can get stuck up in there. Also clip them if they're too long for your liking.

Brush your teeth. But if you can't, use mints, gum, mouthwash, mouthspray, etc, or a combination of those. Anything minty will make your mouth tingle and feel fresh and clean.

Clean yo ears! Since probably nobody uses an ear vacuum (like you're supposedly supposed to idk I'm too broke for that shit anyways) just be careful using Q-tips.

If you don’t have any deodorant, try hand sanitizer! I'm not kidding. Put a dollop under each underarm, and let dry. Smells are caused by bacteria, so if you get hand sanitizer, it should greatly reduce smell.

Try to get some sun. Using the natural sunlight will help you absorb vitamin D. So open up the blinds and photosynthesize binches. Though it also helps to open up the window if you can, a breeze/fresh air blowing in with the smell of outside might even raise your mood. Though if it's currently shitty weather outside, try turning on your lights to match your circadian rhythm, so keep lights on during the day and dim it at night so it'll help with letting you be on a decent sleep schedule.

Feeling like there's no hope or that your future is going to be shit? Highkey me too, but here's what I do to combat that feeling.

It's corny, but I write a whole idealized future for myself. I write about my dream job, I write about my dream s/o, I even imagine the type of house I want to live in, the kids I'll have, what kind of pets I want to own. Etc. Although the economy is shit and no future is guaranteed, it's nice to put some positivity into light and show what I really want in life. I don't want to be some millionaire, I just want to be comfortably well off with a family and people that love me. And in all honesty a future like that isn't hard to obtain.

Even if you can't imagine a good future for yourself, imagine being a part of your friends or loved one's futures. For example, you know your friend who's dating this really cute person that you totally ship them with? Imagine being a part of the bridesmaids/groomsmen for their wedding when they tie the knot! Imagine your really smart friend finally graduating from college and you're at their graduation party giving them a speech! For me this really helps since I aspire to be drinking buddies with my best friend's future husband. (I'm rlly goofy ik lmao)

Feeling stressed about not doing anything? We've all been there. Try:

Doing work if you're due for assignments, though don't do it alone, if you can, arrange a group text/tutoring session/Skype call. If everyone is focused on getting something done then you'll be motivated to do it with them.

Though if you don’t absolutely have to do anything but want to do ~s o m e t h i n g~ I also got your back on this too.

Organize your inbox for your email. (Ik I'm lame)

Tidy/clean your room/any room if that gives you something to do.

Make your bed.

Cuddle someone/something.

Rearranging your stuff in your room, makes it feel like a whole remodel tbh.

Burn candles/incense. Don't ask just...trust me on this it can change the aura.

If you're religious, practice!

Take aesthetic photos of things in your room. Download VSCO and experiment with it. I also recommend Huji Cam and Afterlight. All are available for IOS and Android.

If you appreciate music- use YouTube and find some Playlists, or if you can, spotify premium will save yo mortal soul.

Like video games? Play some! Or if you're a brokeass like me, let's plays and walk throughs work well too.

If you got pets, pet them. Do it. Snuggle. Or if you love animals in general go and watch some vids on YouTube.

Build a fort.

If you're an artist or appreciate art- draw! Or you can watch animatics, animation memes, art channels, or follow artists on here or on Instagram and Twitter if you want to be inspired, or just observe.

Have a certain series you keep putting off? Watch! It! Netflix/Hulu that shit. Or cable TV works too.

Go on Wikipedia and just go on an adventure. Click from link to link and see where it takes you. Learn some weird new facts!

Read a new book.

Read the news/watch the news.

Write about a certain topic that you're absolutely fascinated about.

Watch movies!

Join a club/interest group. You can do this online too and it'll help meet people with similar interests as you. You can make new friends this way.

Give your friends a call/text. Having conversations will keep you occupied.

Self love aka masturbate. Or have (safe) sex with someone you trust!

Workout

Do some makeup/skincare routine. Even if you think you look bad just commit to practicing.

Sometimes it's just funny to go through and read some Reddit threads so be safe when surfing on there.

Stretch and move around! Dance if you wanna!

Do your hair/experiment in some new styles, maybe even dye it if you feel daring.

Have an icon you stan? Stan HARDER.

Watch iconic vine/rare vine compilations until you can memorize them.

Clean out your phone contacts of people that are irrelevant/toxic!! Out of sight out of mind! Don't hang on to them if they did you wrong. All the text conversations will just make you feel worse!

Actually cook your favorite food, cooking it will make you more dedicated to eating it and give you more of an appreciation for it.

Organize your closet.

Organize anything in your room/closet. Throw away things that you don't need or are too old to use.

Start collecting things, stuffed animals, pins, snowglobes, you name it.

Pinterest is addictive lowkey so try that if you're into that kind of stuff.

Write! Write a new story, write poetry, write about your feelings, write a letter, write fanfiction, express yourself.

Use Duolingo to try and study a new language to learn. (The owl will harass tf outta your email though but as long as you do like 5 minutes a day he won't bother.)

That's about all I can think of but feel free to add more for activities to dedicate your time to.

If you need to, because of your self image, don't go and stand in front of mirrors. If I stand in front of a mirror too long I'll end up scrutinizing myself and find a flaw after flaw. If you are specifically insecure about something with your body, look up models who have the same thing! Like if you're insecure about having vitiligo, look up Winnie Harlow! She's gorgeous! If you're insecure about being chubby, look up plus sized models! If you have a tooth gap, there's plenty of people like you! You don't have to feel ugly because of that when you have these awesome models rocking what they got.

Vent. You can vent to your friends, family, or even online. There are apps that allow you to vent anonymously to others without the fear of judgement. But if you can't do that, take a pen/pencil and write something down in your notebook. Though don't reread it to keep drowning in the negativity, once you write it, shut it. You can do the same on Google Docs online, once you write down everything, delete it. Don't keep trying to fuel your negative thoughts and bitterness, get your rant over with and be done. It's like a fresh start. (Plus on my Instagram spam account I always feel really silly looking at my old rant posts, so I usually delete stuff afterwards when I'm not feeling so in my feelings).

Don't expect recovery to be in a straight line. You'll have amazing days and also have extremely shitty days. Recovery isn't hoping to never experience shitty days, recovery is being able to feel the strength on those shitty days and know that they'll pass, and with each storm you'll be stronger than before. Don't push yourself to be flawless, because shit happens. But you'll make it through. And that's what matters.

And last but not least, seek emergency help if you feel like you're dangerously close to ending your life due to pain. Call the suicide hotline for support, because the pain can ease soon if you ask for the help that you need and deserve.

Not everyone that reads this is going to be like "wow this really helped me cope with my depression/mental illness!" But my goal was to at least try. It may not work for everyone unfortunately, but I hope that anyone dealing with a mental illness is on the road to recovering. Because I know how it feels. It feels sucky as fuck. But if this helps even just one person, then that's enough. I hope everyone has at least a decent day, and I hope that everyone's pain eases soon.