#dunno where my colored pencils are

[naomiknight-17]

Oh oh

Maybe I should break out the art supplies and make some feverish bullshit art weeeeeeee

Night before Halloween, hubby's on overnight shift so I'm all alone, and Tumblr boops are back

What a great time to have a fever

[synonymroll648]

once upon a time, months if not years ago, i drew some portraits of linh down by a river. yesterday, i looked back and went, 'damn, these are kinda good actually' and now we're here :)

[boobearymuch]

Their Habits —♡ LADS Scenarios

—♡Summary: Everyone has habits, but not everyone enjoys having you point them out... —♡Tags: gender-neutral, pure fluff —♡A/N: Silly thing I whipped up after being told I bounce my leg too much lolll —♡ masterlist

—♡ Zayne

Zayne squints so much without his glasses. He insists he only needs them when his eyes get tired—but clearly—that wasn’t the case. “Zayne, look!” You eagerly pointed out a flyer posted on the door of his favorite boba spot. They were hosting an event next weekend, it read, and encouraged customers not to miss out on the opportunity. You watched his hazel eyes sharpen into a squint.

“Event…?” He still had trouble reading it, though, and absently tugged your clasped hands forward as he leaned in for a better look. After a few seconds, his eyebrows relaxed, and he hummed appreciatively, “They’re introducing new flavors. Perhaps we should…what?” 

You failed to conceal an amused smile. “You need your glasses, old man.” The nickname was not received well, by any means.

“The text is small.” He answered coolly, “The average person would also have difficulty reading it.” Then he slipped his hand around your waist, eyes narrowing, “And I’m not old.”

You couldn’t help yourself, you laughed, “Have you considered contacts?” The look he gave you was deeply unamused, “No, no, you’re right. You look cuter in glasses, anyway.” Zayne's ears tinted pink under your playful stare. 

“...Let’s go inside before they close.” You pinched his flustered cheeks.

“Are you sure? The menu is so tiny. What if you can’t read it and order the wrong thing?” Your mouth promptly shut after his grip on you tightened in a warning. Zayne remembered to bring his glasses on your next outing (and the one after that).

—♡ Sylus

Sylus hums nonsense when it’s too quiet. It’s like he constantly needs to fill silences with some kind of noise. Even his humming is off-key…

“What song is that?” 

Sylus barely spared you a glance, “What song?” His fingers worked a microfiber cloth into the metal of his pistol. 

“The one you were just humming.”

He huffed, “Didn’t realize I was humming, sweetie.” Then he removed the cloth to admire his handiwork, “Don’t you recognize it?”

You almost felt bad for saying this but, “...No?” Sylus finally glanced up from his work to shoot you a look. A concerning one.

“Really? You had it on repeat all day, yesterday.” Horror dawned on you at the realization, “The chorus has been stuck in my head since morning…” And then a laugh sputtered from your lips. 

“Oh my god, that sounded nothing like it.” Sylus glared and returned his focus to his pistol with what you could only describe as a pout. 

“What a picky kitten.” You bit your lip to stop the smile threatening to break loose. He was a god awful singer, but the room felt emptier without his noise. Gently, you padded over to where he sat, and invited yourself onto his lap. Despite his mood, a hand wrapped around your waist without hesitation.

“Sing it again.” Sylus’ hold on you tightened, “I think I like your version better.” A soft chuckle left him, and quietly, he hummed once more.

—♡ Rafayel

Rafayel taps. All. The. Time. Taps his legs, hands, pens, pencils, anything and everything within reach. And he’ll deny the hell out of it when you ask him to stop. “I wasn’t doing anything,” The candies on his phone screen lit up and exploded with color as he scored another combo. Too engrossed in his phone to realize the arm slung around your shoulders was still tapping you. You leaned into him with a huff.

“You’re doing it now.”

Rafayel gave you a sidelong glance, frowning, “I dunno what you’re talking about, cutie.” You suddenly captured his hand to still it, and Rafayel gave you the most scandalized look, “If you wanna hold it that badly, I’m not stopping you.”

“You’re not even aware you’re doing it,” You blinked incredulously, “Are you?”

Rafayel threw his head back and groaned dramatically, “Doing whaaat?” Then he lifted his head to press his forehead against yours and huffed, “Is this your way of telling me to get off my phone?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You look like a fish up close like this.” Rafayel pulled away to roll his eyes and clicked his phone off.

“Alright, fine, you have my attention.” Then he began tapping his foot, “You know, that’s a little offensive to say to a Lemurian. You could get cancelled for that.”

Your hand drifted to his bouncing knee, and you watched as both your hand and his leg now jumped up and down. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?!”

—♡ Xavier

Xavier is always chewing on something, and it is almost always never gum. It’ll be something random, like a straw from a drink he’d long since finished. The strings of his hoodie, a toothpick. Once, it was a plastic tie. He reminded you of a teething puppy; he’d probably chew on wires if you left him alone long enough. Today, though, his chew toy of choice looked a lot like…

“Xavier, is that my pen?” 

He blinked, eyes floating from his comic book to your frown, “Yours…?” His jaw froze mid-chew. 

“Yeah,” You scooted closer on the couch, “the one from my desk at work.” 

A blush crept along his cheekbones, but he didn’t drop the pen like you expected him to, “...Are you sure?”

Your eyes fell to the pen trapped in the corner of his mouth, “The one with little stars on it? Yeah, that’s mine. I thought I lost it at work, why do you have it?”

The comic book shifted in his hands, “I found it, that’s why.” This explanation would be more convincing if he hadn’t shifted his gaze sideways. His blunt fingernails picked nervously at the corner of his book, curling the edges.

“Xavier,”

“Okay, I borrowed it.” You bit back a chuckle, and he guiltily removed the pen from his mouth. It shined with his spit, and the cap bore teeth marks, “You can have it back.”

You couldn’t hide your grimace fast enough, “...Actually, you can keep it.” Xavier merely blinked before bringing the tip back to his mouth. Then a smile curved the corner of his lips.

“My pen now, hm?”

[simpforboys]

in for the long haul

xavier x fem!addams!reader

summary: you’re the daughter of fester and attend nevermore. xavier tries to fight for your heart no matter how long it may take.

warnings: kinda angsty, fluff ending, reader is goth (just like me fr), swear words, xavier is such a simp

works for both blood related or adopted daughter (whatever your imagination desires) as there’s no physical descriptions

IM SO PROUD OF THIS PLS

ever since your father had been keeping a low profile, you had been staying with your aunt morticia and uncle gomez.

your father knew it would be the best option for you. hanging out with your cousins, pugsley and wednesday, should be fun, right?

but after too many troubles with wednesday, morticia decided to send you both to nevermore academy.

wednesday had taken a strong hatred for the place from the beginning. you, however, were beginning to warm up to it. you would never admit it, but you secretly liked your black and white uniform you and wednesday received.

you began to except friendships (unlike your cousin). a vampire named hera was your roommate and probably your closest friend, other than wednesday’s roommate, enid.

but out of everyone in the school, one person specifically stood out to you. xavier thorpe.

you didn’t know why he had taken such a strong liking to you. he made efforts to be around you, make you feel included, and try to see you smile.

so, as you sat in thornhill’s class, you tried to keep your eyes open as she taught on and on and on about specific types of plants.

xavier could feel your boredom from his desk a few seats away. he grabbed a sheet of paper and pencil and began doodling on the white sheet.

you were so zoned out you almost didn’t feel the little tap on your ankle. you looked down the table to find a black rabbit that appeared to be alive, straight out of a drawing.

you looked up at xavier threw your eyelashes. your cold, empty, dead stare was enough to almost make him feel scared.

you were about to reach down to the rabbit when thing crawled down your leg, squishing the rabbit out of existence by accident.

you watched thing’s embarrassment as he crawled into your backpack and zipped it up after him.

you couldn’t help but feel the end of your lips twist into a grin as you looked away. it wasn’t that you didn’t like xavier, you just believed you can spend your time elsewhere instead of taking the risk of heartbreak.

you watched your father’s sanity slowly decrease after the loss of your mother. maybe that’s a reason for his quirky behavior, but the concept of being so in love that it makes you lose all sense of your mind was something you couldn’t comprehend.

why risk everything for one person?

sure, you had your uncle gomez and aunt morticia as an example of sickening love. the way your uncle admired your aunt in such a way, it made you question love.

why is love so good to others, but can be so cruel at the same time?

➽─────────────────❥

after class, you began to walk down to the courtyard when you heard someone jogging behind you. rain was pouring from the sky.

“y/n,” xavier called out.

you stopped dead in your tracks, looking up at him through your wet eyelashes. “what?”

“where are you going?” he questioned as you continued to move.

“dunno. maybe i’ll go find something interesting to distract me from the world.”

“are you excited for outreach day?”

“excited for extended labor during a saturday in a little town that doesn’t like us? not exactly how i like to spend my weekends.”

xavier stared at you. sometimes he couldn’t figure out why you were so closed off, so private, so distant.

but he couldn’t lie and say it didn’t intrigue him. when xavier first saw you on campus, he was immediately interested. your beautiful looks (and the fact you and wednesday had little to no color on) captivated him. he needed to know you.

“well, i’m going to the library if you want to come with.”

you watched as xavier licked his lips. you pondered for a moment.

“fine.”

his lips curled into a grin.

the two of you walked to the library. a comfortable silence was between you too, and you could tell he was nervous.

xavier held the door open for you as you entered the library. you immediately walked over to the giant window that overlooked the rain and the small town of jericho.

xavier pulled out a chair across from you. he noticed you watching the rain.

“i like this weather. rain makes me feel good.”

“it’s so… gloomy.” xavier argued.

“look at who you’re talking to,” you joked.

xavier laughed. it was very rare you showed your sense of humor.

“there’s just something about clouds and rain to me. something very… gloomy.”

you referred to xavier’s previous statement. you could see his blush and you couldn’t help but smile at him.

and xavier swore he fell harder.

➽─────────────────❥

you and wednesday stood side by side as principal weems went around with a hat. outreach day had finally arrived.

wednesday reached in and you followed. “what’d you get?” she questioned.

“the weathervane. you?”

“i don’t know what shop this is. but i need to get into pilgrim world.”

wednesday had briefly explained to you about the case she’s trying to solve as well as her novel. you chose to try to ignore her antics because you knew how hyper-fixed she gets on things.

but if she needed you, you would be there in a heartbeat.

“tyler works at the weathervane.” wednesday added.

“the boy who’s in love with you?” you questioned your cousin. wednesday stared at you as you both began to walk to the bus.

“unfortunately. it’s quite frightening how much he likes me. same with xavier for you.”

“understood. i just hope today goes by very quickly.”

➽─────────────────❥

when you entered the weathervane, tyler was there happily to introduce you to his work. “wow, you are very similar to wednesday.” he commented.

“we’re cousins. why are we waiting?” you asked, noticing he hadn’t made any move to start.

“waiting on one more person to show up- there he is.”

you turned your head to see xavier walking in. great.

“y/n?” he stared at you.

“unfortunately.”

“alright, let’s get started.”

tyler gave you guys aprons and then walked you through drinks, taking orders, and normal café stuff.

“y/n, go take your first order.” tyler instructed as he handed you a notepad and pen.

you walked over to an old married couple. when they saw your cold face and dead-looking eyes they jumped.

“what do you want?” you asked.

“actually, i think we’re going to head out.” the old woman motioned for her husband to exit the booth.

xavier couldn’t help but start laughing as you walked back over to them. tyler was shaking his head.

“that’s the opposite of what we want to do, y/n. xavier, you try.”

you both watched as xavier walked over to a group of girls. you didn’t hear what they said, but the way they were giggling as he spoke made you feel sick to your stomach. 

you rolled your eyes as you walked over to the pastry case and took a bite of a cookie. 

“y/n- you know what, never mind. just try to be nicer to the customers.” 

when xavier walked back over with a notepad filled with orders, he immediately noticed your cold and blank stature. 

“are you done flirting with those barbies?” 

xavier smirked as he leaned against the counter, eyes locked directly on yours. it made you feel nervous. 

“why? are you jealous, y/n?” he asked. 

“you wish.” you rolled your eyes. 

“don’t worry y/n, you’re the only one i have my heart set out for.” he mumbled, now standing extremely close to you. you couldn’t help but shiver. 

you were about to speak once more when tyler walked back over. “start getting to work, guys.”

xavier watched as you quickly walked away from him. fucking tyler. 

after an hour you, tyler, and xavier decided it would be best for you to make the drinks rather than take orders. you were absolutely miserable seeing the way xavier made every customer laugh and smile. it was like torture, and not the good kind. the worst part was, you didn’t even know where this feeling was coming from. 

it wasn’t until wednesday walked in when you felt like you could finally breathe. “how are you, cousin?” she asked. 

“i feel like crawling into a deep, dark hole until i shrivel up and die. you?”

“lovely. i feel the same. is tyler here?” 

tyler came walking around the corner. wednesday and him walked away from you as you noticed thing crawling towards you. 

“finally, a real person.” you whispered to thing as he signed what’s wrong? on the counter. 

“i wish to go into darkness and never come back out.” you explained to him. 

xavier walked over to the counter and noticed your whispering. he furrowed his brows, looking over to see thing quickly signing to you. 

“how did thing get in here?” xavier asked suddenly. 

both you and thing jumped. thing went to handshake xavier and you swore you felt betrayal. 

➽─────────────────❥

you opted to walk back to nevermore after the incident in the town center, regarding thing and wednesday blowing up the statue of joseph crackstone. 

mostly, you needed to clear your head. what was it about xavier and those girls that made you so angry today? 

unfortunately, you didn’t get too much time to think. xavier had began chasing after you, calling out your name. 

“you okay?” he asked when he finally caught up. 

“i’m wonderful.” you answered shortly as you kept walking. 

“why are you so closed off?” xavier finally asked. 

“why are you so open?” you shot back. 

“i’m trying so hard, y/n. trying so hard to be your friend, maybe even get you to be my girlfriend. but you just keep pushing away.”

“i don’t see a point in dating. love is pointless to me. in 300 years, you wouldn’t be able to remember me. my soul, my existence, my face.”

“so that’s the reason? you’re scared of love?” xavier’s voice got softer as he walked closer to you. you didn’t move away (despite your shaking hands and pounding heart). 

“love can be a really good thing in life, y/n.”

“then why can it also be so cruel?”

“you have to take risks. in order to want, to get, to have something, you have to take a risk.”

he was standing dangerously close to you know. 

“you’ve made me feel something so different these past few months. just please, let me show you how good love can be.”

your breathing was staggered as xavier leaned in, lips barely touching. “can i kiss you, y/n?”

fuck it. 

you connected your lips to his as your hands came up to hold his jaw. he immediately placed his hands on your hips, pulling your body even closer to his. he was so desperate for you. 

and maybe you just now realized how desperate you were for him. 

after a couple moments, you pulled away slightly.

“i can take a risk.” you mumbled against his lips.

you felt him smile against your mouth as he kissed you once again.

[tassodelmiele]

Skin's red where the heart beats the most

Soft, warm, sad, with a gentle ending Ghost x Soap

Yes, yes, there's no smut in here, what in the bloody hell it's happening omg.

Menstruation hit just worst than usual this month, and I NEEDED something sad but kind, with tears but hugs.

I was about to draw a thing 'bout it, but my drawing abilty had just flew out of the window.

Sorry for the unrequested sadness. And for the totally random verbal tenses.

What a month.

What a period of time.

What a what, in the goddamn whatever, are we living.

..........

<Why red?>

He had pointed his sight at the drawing, hazel eyes on the brushed shadow around the sketched man's shoulder and chest as if it was a life print. Ghost had made Soap stop with a single glance and those two words muffled under the balaclava.

<'S blood. Changes the skin's tone>

<On the shoulders?>

<Here's just a bit reddere ‘cause of rendering reasons. Also, 's where the sun hits the most>

<So where's the blood?>

The colored pencil made one last stroke before the rest. Soap's fingers were brushed on the rough paper surface, a caress so gentle that Ghost had almost felt it on himself.

<The chest. Just a little saturation, here where veins do their most>

<Pretty sure 'm not that saturated>

And that was when Soap's gaze had turned to Simon, sited behind him like a judgmental wall, curled in crossed arms, hoodie and gloves and with eyes hitting the dim light of the safe house. A glimpse of curiosity hit the work of art, and the artist's reply was a mumbled:

<'S just a sketch, Lt.>

<A pretty good one> and that made Soap chuckle in his gear. <Anatomy seems accurate enough>

<Are ye some kinda art critique?>

<Just giving ma bare opinion on it. I've seen ya drawing for a bloody eternity>

<What ‘bout the red, then? I’ve done it before>

<Dunno, if I have to give my take on it> Ghost had lowered just what was needed to peek at the portrait a little better, mumbled on Soap's shoulder: <Ya've drawn more accurately than this. I don't spot red on my chest, unless I'm bleeding>

<What about when ye’re bruised?>

Soap had turned so suddenly, jerking his torso in a rotation move that had almost made his spine squeak.

And in a blink of an eye, he had been facing the Lieutenant's big, black disguised eyes, the solo glimpse of warm light in a silent night concert. 

<What 'bout> he had kept on asking with his eyelids steady, not willing to lose a single bit of that eye contact <when ye feel?>

Ghost had frowned.

<Like, when I feel the bruise?>

And Soap's shoulders had made a little jump.

<Whatever ye bloody want to>

It could have ended there, hidden between the cracked wall; a secret held for eternity, signed in red and locked with the last mixed glance of ancient gold and deep water.

It could have ended in a glimpse of an eye, a wing stroke, just the recall of a shadow on the wall.

But that shadow was hanging on his masked face, livid in the colors of a death that was not calculated, not researched, not wanted.

...

<Lt.?>

Stormy thoughts had gotten him so well he didn't even realize Soap had come in, a big cup of tea in one hand and a worried sight printed on his face, stronger than his curiosity.

Sergeant wavered on the doorstep.

The only window was open; so peculiar, so odd, almost atypical. Nothing more than warm summer air was flying through the small meeting room, emptied just one hour ago to speak about the order of the day. Nothing particular: some kinda illegal traffic carried on by a Mexican family, something about new members of the cartel that were trying to get a piece of the drug monopoly cake. 

Ordinary, common matters to be discussed in the Task Force's file filled with every crumb of sin traceable in human's brain.

Everything was good. Everything was about to be calculated.

But a name.

And the flame's echo had caged the walls with him inside, suddenly tied by the throat in front of a flashback he had prayed to be able to not see anymore in his sleep.

The light, wooden sound of the mug put on the table was enough to warn Ghost how much Soap was near his scratched eyes; he turned to the window, pretending a masked ball of boldness and a cough of disappointment. 

<Ye've stayed here for a bloody hour>

No comments. Johnny came closer with the audacity of a famished cat trying to share the same prey with a wolf, head down, ears up and heart gulped deep in the guts.

‘Cause that was the correct reaction, the right amount of feeling digging a hole in his chest, chocking his breath at the sight of a living reference, a statue hidden in the dark, some sorta totem he’d looked at in the worst night possible, through crossfires and death sentences, just as a baby could stare at his star-shaped light bulb and feeling safe before falling asleep.

And how do you explain to a kid that a bad, big, scary man had broken into his room and tore his light into pieces?

Two minutes of silence sounded like an eternity. Soap gulped a breath, lowering his eyes just to pretend to not have seen Ghost's back jerk under a hidden sob.

<Sorry> he just muttered, ready to leave the room stiffed with something that was just scraping his heart apart.

Till something brushed his hand; and his heart skipped a couple beats as eyes caught Ghost's fingers trying to lace a bond between the two of them, his hand just as close as what it was needed to touch him in a rush before Soap got away.

And he was so desperate, so vivid in his need to be held and have his brain teared apart by tears, that Simon didn't even think about how it would have been better tear away the water from his gold-engraved irid before showing himself wet and broken, fallen.

Lost.

The mug attended silently at the outburst, almost trembling on the table as Johnny caught Simon by the hoodie, pulling him toward him with digits digging in the black fabric, surrounding every inch of that man so big he was difficult to handle, even all curled on himself. Ghost felt his head being pushed into Soap's hollow neck, and there he allowed himself to breathe a low, grumbled, chocked cry, wetting the sergeant's t-shirt with no more regret.

Arms squeezed muscles at their limits just to try and hold Simon together, to not let him slip away in his dangerous train of thoughts about to derail.

<If just I→. Lips were bitten, not enough though, and Soap kept on murmuring: <If just I could kill that bastard- > 

Just to be stopped by an almost inaudible: <'S ok>, whispered muffled on his t-shirt.

Johnny's answer was a stronger hold onto Ghost, and the end of the sentence was a spit:

<I would do it. A million times>

‘Cause Roba’s name was too fresh as a wound, still opened on Simon's heart, still hurting so bad. And, of course, everyone could read a bloody dossier, nothing special about the whole task force knowing there was something still buried and burning behind the skull mask.

Everyone could read.

Feeling was something else, though.

Just a heart pierced by a poisoned nail could have been compared with what Soap had seen in Ghost's eyes when Roba's name had appeared on their files.

<I'll survive>

That had been Ghost's excuse since the dawn of time. 

<No>

Johnny's digits started a light move, catching the Lt. by surprise as the fingers moved so gently around the balaclava, brushing it in a kind motion as he allowed Simon to just dig a safe place in his chest. 

<Ye'll live>

Hands touched the mask as delicately as if they were handling a crystal jewel, engraving every bit of covered skin with the tact of an artist cleaning his masterpiece from dust, adjusting the lights and darkness with gentle brushes, setting the most precious ruby in the tiniest gold nest.

Then, with a last, warm, unexpected kiss, Johnny knocked on Simon's doorstep, quietly putting his fingers through the mask, just the tip, just to ask if he, maybe, could come in and bring him some quiet, some calm, some serenity.

Simon's back started to jerk, little by little, in an overflowing crescendo he had kept caged for a little too long.

And Johnny let him do everything, accepted every tear, embraced every silent weep suffocated on his chest, ready to become a safe blanket for once in his life. His fingers dug a little deeper under Simon's balaclava, pressing gently on the scratched skin he was trying to map under his touch. A warm, nice wave, maybe a little wet, entangled Soap's hands.

<I could draw you blindfolded> he whispered, framing Simon on him to better shape himself to be what the man needed to feel finally safe, protect, shield, just for a minute, the time of a couple heartbeats would have been enough.

Ghost's cheeks welcomed Soap's touch, burying little by little in that safe nest with a slow, clumsy jiggling motion.

<See?> Johnny asked, looking through his hands as if he was making Simon's soul a portrait in red and gold, brushing two delicate blushed strokes with his fingers where the skin was warmer, where the tears had dug a little more, where there was needed a little bit of kindness. 

<I was right. Feeling does make skin red>

..........

[luescris]

So. Side note. There's a lot of things that probably could be better in each of these (the one that gets to me the most is how Rise Donnie looks taller than 2012 like god I wish I had the energy to redo that entire one JUST for that augh ) BUT as they say, practice makes progress haha 😅

Little tidbits for every interaction here after the cut hehehehehe:

The Mikeys

- While 2012 may not be an artist with colored pencils, I'm certain he still appreciates all the bright colors Rise Mikey most definitely uses!! Besides, they both are also culinary artists, so they can trade recipes and all that kinda stuff in the kitchen!! Plus, 2012 has always wanted to know what it's like to have a younger brother figure hehehehe

- There's not much to say other than all that cuz like. They would instantly get along in my opinion lmao 😂

The Raphs

- Rise may be younger than 2012, but that doesn't mean the size doesn't matter FHFHDH Especially since 2012 is like. Just barely almost the smallest of his family lmao 😂

-2012 may at first be kinda hesitant about Rise's girth, size, strength and power, but after getting used to it I'm certain he'll not only want to spar with him, but get tips and tricks of all sorts to get stronger, and would be highly impressed with Rise's strength

The Donnies

- In a way these two would be the same as the Mikey's; they also would get along very well, though maybe 2012 might be a little bit put off by Rise's high ego, but definitely not in a "I don't like this guy" kinda way FHHDHD 😂 He would probably find it endearing after a while if anything!!

- I feel like they both would specialize in different kinda things related to building, and maybe Rise is a bit more advanced (maybe more than a bit since 2012 used nothing but trash but in very impressive ways ahsgs) but if one spots an error in something, the other would immediately follow through, and they'd be a great team!!

The Leos

- Now here's where it gets interesting. Rise and 2012 don't necessarily hate or dislike each other, but at first, they may think they are absolutely nothing alike. Rise would definitely be intimated by just how serious and stoic 2012 is, not to mention all the scars, and 2012 would look at Rise and be a little bit too reminded of how he was when he was that age. The looks they share here aren't of discomfort, Rise just doesn't know what to think of 2012 and 2012 is a bit concerned for Rise's future lmao

- But in the end, once they actually get to talking, they find out they both like space, cartoons, puns, and 2012 can give Rise pointers. Eventually they'll warm up to each other, but it might take a bit longer than the rest haha 😆

Extras

- So. Funny thing. I wanted to lowkey like. Add in Splinter. But I also had a terribly morbid idea of Rise staring or standing next to a picture of 2012 all confused and weary kinda, like a "where is their father" kinda foreboding y'know BDHDHDHDH 😅 Humor is how I cope spare me-

- I was gonna add the April's and Casey's, and maybe I might later on, but I dunno if I'd do Rise!April justice lmao 😅 I don't draw any of these guys enough HFHDHDH

[swarmishstrangers]

Your blog, fics and headcanons always cheer me up! Your art is so neat too. Ive been lurking around here for a bit when I feel like I need my crops watered. Question, can I get headcannon of mallek x reader where the reader is an artist? somehow was able to accept commissions while on Alternia? I feel like the vibe of them just silently drawing and him coding in the background is super cute. What do you think?

AUGRHGAA TYYY!!!! I'm glad you like the art, writing, and headcanons! I've also definitely had the thoughts of Mallek being with an s/o who works a lot on computers for digital art stuff, mainly cause it sounds peaceful af.

Okay, so! Artist is a pretty loose term that could apply to a lot of things, but you specify them drawing here, so I'll go over Mallek x reader, both of them being either a traditional artist or a digital artist.

Traditional Artist:

🎨Starting with the traditional artist! Dunno if any of you consider yourselves to be fairly clean but either way if you were to stay over at his hive a lot and for convenience's sake, leave some of your art stuff at his place..it only adds to the chaos that his hive, "damn girl you live like this?" Idk! I just imagine all sorts of physical stuff traditional artist's use. Different types of paint and paintbrushes, charcoal, watercolors, colored pencils, paper, canvases, etc. Your art stuff adds a whole other thing to look at in his hive and honestly? He's here for it. He thinks art is cool. I mean..he can do tattoos, so of course he'd have some appreciation for a s/o who does artsy stuff. He also like those moments where he finds you just covered in your art supplies. Charcoal all over your arms and even smudged on your face for when you couldn't fight a itch and scratched at it, your hands and fingers smudged with paint or oil pastels...he just finds it incredibly charming.

🎨Oh also on the subject of paint uhh. May or may not be something you're comfortable with using considering that paint on Alternia is made from the blood of trolls. Depends whether or not you can get over that and just pretend it isn't to cope lmao. If you can just. Don't ask Amisia and Chahut about how getting the supplies for your paint went!

🎨Mallek would find it incredibly relaxing to listen to while he's fucking around with his husktops and many monitors. Normally he's one to either sit in quiet with nothing to play or maybe he'll have his playlist quietly playing whatever music or other things to listen to while he works on projects or contact people. Not to say it isn't still quiet while you both do your own things, but that's just the thing. It's quiet, not silent. Mallek finds he works the best when he knows that there's life going on around him. The sounds of his hands rapidly typing on his keyboard, the whirring of his husktop, sometimes you can hear him speak to someone that he's calling. You just further add on with your sounds of living, the sound of pencil sketching onto paper or canvas, the louder or softer sounds of you using oil pastels or charcoal, papers being moved, the adjusting of a canvas. It's all very comfortable to you both.

🎨You're each other's background sounds.

Digital Artist:

🖋️Being a digital artist is also so cool to Mallek, why wouldn't it be? It's tech shit! He can also help you try and traverse the different Alternian art programs. It's pretty new to him too since all he usually uses is the Alternian equivalent to Microsoft paint..and it's not super serious, just doodles, sketches, and shitposts stuff to destress. You got yourself a husktop, Amisia was jumping at the chance to help you look for digital art supplies (such as a tablet and stuff), and Mallek helped you get a hold of art programs for you to try out and decide what you like to use as your primary programs.

🖋️They're pretty much the same as Earth art programs in terms of it's functions. Though of course their interfaces can be different from program to program. Not everything works as it does on Earth? Certain shortcuts or tool locations are moved around or changed but it's pretty easy to figure out if you're experienced in digital art. And if you're stuck or can't figure something out your cool tech savvy matesprit can help you out. Mallek has his moments where he takes a break from what he's working on briefly to watch you draw...he always has to stifle a laugh when he sees you're absolutely struggling over there to do line art, having to undo do your stroke like 50 times before you get it. Like the previous one? He thinks it's cute and charming.

🖋️While you don't add a lot of new things to look at it in his hive, as you're working with more tech, it's still just as nice to listen to in the background he thinks. He can hear your fingers type out messages to friends or clients you're working with, the sound of your pen stroking against the tablet face, your mouse clicking here and then. There may not be as many sounds, but he finds it just as comforting, he likes to listen to the life around him after all.

Commissions:

As for the commission portion, thought it would be fun to get into this separately after talking about the respective art types! Being commissioned as an alien on the planet is certainly. Interesting. Which can be taken positively or otherwise.

Being an alien is your selling point to a lot of trolls online. It's where you got a huge chunk of your followers! Sure, they're very split on genuinely believing you are a real alien and those who think this is some kind of roleplay account or something but follow out of interest. Your commissions gather more interest from those who want a drawing from an alien! Real or not. Lots of odd are fun interactions.

For a traditional artist you could go the route of just, scanning your picture and posting it onto your socials and tag the trolls (or post it to the troll client privately). If you offer a shipement of the physical original drawing Mallek can help you out with getting a drone to drop it off for you so you don't have to go on a wild goose chase to find the troll client in this great wide troll world.

[maddys-nerd-blog]

HOWDY!! I’m back with my nonsense 🤣

In the middle of me working on the short story and getting it all finished, I had this whumptober one shot all done to share in the meantime!!

It’s a sequel of sorts to my previous whumptober short featuring my OC Lilium and ‘03 Donatello!! This one takes place during the episode ‘Space Invaders Part 3’, hence why some of the dialogue is true to the episode itself!

I hope you guys like this!! 😊

Electric

A TMNT 2003 One Shot

Whumptober Prompt: Electrocution

Never in a million years did Lilium believe she would find herself caught in the middle of a storm this dangerous. When she was a kid she’d read stories about Robin Hood, Hercules, Rapunzel; heroes who more often than not found creative and clever methods to escape the sticky situations they found themselves in. Fairy tales were her main method of escape from the madness in her life— a way to delve into the worlds of fantasy creatures, elves, hobbits, goblins and imps on quests to save the world. To make believe her life could be as fantastical, had it not been for the burden of a curse she didn’t understand.

Sometimes she wished she didn’t have her voice. Sometimes she wanted to give her power to someone who craved the glimmer and glam of fame, someone who could use it better than her. It was torture.

Donnie would constantly assure her that her powers were in good hands. “Better you than some guy who’d use it to take over the music industry. Or the world, given our line of work,” he jested in order to lift her mood one night, over a game of checkers. She thought he was right at the time.

But the storm came eventually. It always did.

And it came in the form of walking, talking dinosaur aliens rampaging the city, rounding up citizens and attacking anyone who stood in their way. They didn’t spare the lives of those unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. Momma and Auntie had gone to help those in need, leaving Lilium in the care of her companions.

Which led to Donnie getting captured, and Lilium being taken along as a hostage.

The storm was never far behind her heels… and she wished it would just end her suffering.

*********************

Ten Years Ago…

“Don-Chan? What do you wanna be when you grow up?” Lilium idly asked, shaking the plastic snow globe to watch the glitter within shimmer down, gliding in the water to create the illusion of snowfall.

Donatello looked up from where he lay on the ground, having been hyper-focused on finishing his drawing of a Gundam robot, to regard his friend with a curious tilt of his head. “What do y’ mean?”

The girl, without looking away from the snow globe in her hands, asked again, “What do you wanna be?” Muted awe colored a round face as the glimmer shined, surrounding the miniature sculpture of a jolly Santa Claus in his sleigh. “A doctor?”

Donatello put his colored pencil down, sitting up to better rest on his knees, the small turtle still curious. “I dunno. Why?”

“At school we’re learning ‘bout jobs! Miss Hart asked me what I wanna be, but I didn’t know. So I wanna ask you what you wanna do too!” Lilium beamed, shaking her snow globe to watch the snow fall a second time.

“But I don’t go to school,” Donatello pointed out. “I don’t think I can have a grown up job when I’m older…” he looked down at his hands, where three digits on each appendage stood out like a sore thumb. “Sensei says the surface is bad.”

“But I’m from the surface and I’m not bad,” Lilium finally tore her eyes away from the little knickknack, bright and chipper. “There’s lots’a good things on the surface! Like cotton candy and the park and pigeons and Mommy’s favorite opera house!”

Donatello frowned solemnly. “And there’s lots’a bad people too,” he added. “Like people who don’t like things that’re different. Like… me.” He picked up a blue crayon, playing with it idly with a defeated sigh. “I think that’s why we live in th’ sewer. Cuz nobody will find us.”

Lilium hummed, conflicted, turning the snow globe in her hands a few times as though to think. The girl looked at him, then the globe, and she smiled. “Hey!” She thrust the trinket into his own hands. “Let’s play make believe! We can pretend we’re th’ things we wanna be when we’re grown ups!”

Donatello looked at the plastic knickknack, blinking with surprise as the girl sprang to her feet to run to the neon pink backpack she’d brought with her for the play date. She rummaged around to look for something, putting other items aside to the floor until she grabbed what she wanted. “See?”

Lilium held out a plastic green microphone. “I wanna be a singer!” She pushed a button on the side of the toy, a pop song playing sorely out of tune but the child didn’t take too much notice. “I’m gonna be like Belle on Broadway! Or I can be like Nancy Drew!” She posed like a detective holding a magnifying glass. “Elementary my dear Winston!”

“It’s Watson, I think.”

“Elementary my dear Watson!”

This got Donatello to start laughing. He only stopped when Lilium pointed her microphone at him, as if she were a news reporter asking a question. “So what d’you wanna be?”

Donatello paused, giving it some thought. Reaching out he took the toy from her, holding it in both hands as though he were going to sing. “… being an astronaut sounds kinda cool.” He spoke timidly. “And… a scientist. An inventor too.” He smiled a little. “I wanna make stuff that helps my brothers… and help my Sensei.”

Lilium’s eyes sparkled in glee. She sat down cross legged, giving the boy her full attention. “What would you make?”

“… a jet pack!” Donatello’s face turned excited at the idea, increasingly growing animated. “I can fly all around th’ world and do anything! Or, what if I make a gauntlet powered by solar energy?! And rocket boots! And a robot!”

Both children laughed so loud it echoed off the walls of the damp sewers that spanned everywhere around them. Sharing dreams in the endless junction of tunnels and pipes where emptiness roamed, two lively spirits basked in the joys of their aspirations and what they would bring one day. They laughed and laughed until their sides hurt, slumping against the brick wall behind them, wiping tears off their faces. Human and turtle sank into a comfortable silence as their laughter trailed off into a series of soft giggles, surrounded by their toys and coloring books, papers covered with brightly colorful creatures and monsters only children could think of. Had it not been for the fact that Donatello was a mutant, these innocent drawings would have been the basis of their imaginations.

“… hey Don-Chan?” Lilium asked again.

“Yeah?” Donatello quarried.

“… if we grow up to do th’ things we want, and we get t’ be famous or something,” Lilium sat upright to properly address him. “And we still remember each other… can we stay together forever?”

Donatello looked at the girl with confusion. “Forever?”

Lilium nodded. “When our dreams come true.”

The turtle smiled. Nodding vigorously he shot to his feet, eyes big and enthusiastic. “Yeah! We can be a team! I’ll make you music stuff and you can try out my gear! We can be just like Batman and Robin!”

“Yeah!” Lilium agreed. “We can do tons of stuff! We’ll change the world! I can help you too when I get my magic!”

“Promise?”

Lilium stuck out her hand. “Shake on it!” She nodded. “So that way it’s a real promise!”

Donatello, without missing a beat, shook her hand in return. “It’s a deal!”

Little did the children know that this promise would be held true, but not in the way they had been expecting.

*******************

Present Day…

Lilium grunted as she was carelessly chucked to the floor of this strange alien spaceship, turning her head just fast enough to avoid shattering her chin upon impact. Unable to shield herself from the initial landing, the Siren could only endure the cruel abuse from the towering Triceraton guards behind her. Their blasters were cocked and ready to open fire should she try to run or put up any resistance. The strange breathing apparatus strapped to her waist and the tube in her mouth helped get air into her lungs, but she couldn’t help but feeling like a fish out of water wearing it.

Groaning in pain, Lilium used her bound hands to try to push herself up to sit on her knees. The illuminated glow of her shackles stung her eyes, the cuffs magnifying her wrists together as though they had been fused with superglue, granting her limited mobility and limited access to use her arms, although she should be counting her blessings that they’d been bound in front of her rather than behind her back. The Siren hissed as an irritating ache pulsed throughout her chest. Damn, solid steel really did a number on your ribs…

Only a minute later a similar thud struck the ground, the difference being this landing was harder, thrown with more force. Joining her at her side, Donatello raised his gaze towards their guards with an expression of anger. His own hands sat in his lap, also cuffed, but Lilium knew for certain that regardless of being bound he could probably break bones and deal severe damage if he wanted to.

But one subtle glimpse spared in her direction softened his gaze, relenting. For now.

Once the guard’s attention was sent elsewhere he took the chance to properly shift closer to her, lowering his voice to speak. “Are you okay?” He murmured.

She nodded. “I think… nothing’s busted or sprained.” Doing a quick once over of the turtle she asked, “What about you?”

“Me?” Donatello chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “It’s nothing I’m not used to. Probably just a few bruises. I’m fine.” She must have made some kind of somber face because he reassured her, “Hey, really. I’m alright. I can take it.”

“You shouldn’t have to…” Lilium protested. “I don’t want you being hurt.”

“I don’t want you being hurt either you know,” he countered. “This isn’t like the Purple Dragons or the Foot. These guys are pretty unhinged. The less they pay attention to you, that’ll be more than enough for me.”

The way he made it sound gave her goosebumps. What did he mean, exactly? If he brought the guard’s ire onto him, it’d be better? If they abused him, tossed him around, used him like a battering ram, or god forbid, tortured him… it’d be fine? Because he was used to it?

Because he thought it was fine?

Lilium’s hands shook. “You shouldn’t have to be,” she reiterated painfully. She grit her teeth to refrain from getting emotional, but ever the genius, Donatello could easily sense her unrest.

Reaching for her hands, his fingers gently wrapped around her own, thumb brushing across her knuckles with all the care he could offer. “You’ll be okay,” he promised. “Everything will be alright.”

“But I want you to be alright too,” she whimpered. Her fingers squeezed his with an earnest plea, voice tinted with remorse. “You don’t have to risk your life for me. You shouldn’t have to, Donnie.”

“That’s my job, Lily.” He murmured. “You’re my priority. Don’t worry about me; I can handle them.”

She squeezed his fingers again, tears prickling her eyes, burning and stubborn as her lips quivered. “Don-Chan,” she pleaded. “I need you to stay safe too. What would I do if I lost you?”

Donatello’s eyes softened significantly; she only ever used his nickname in times of stress, when she wanted him to listen to her. His hands, gentle and kind, gripped hers back. “Lily…” he spoke in a voice above a whisper. “You’re not going to lose me.” He slipped his hand free from hers, raising them towards her face. Soon he was tilting her head up by her chin, allowing her to better match his gaze. His expression was tender, nothing but offering consolation, taking extra care to ensure her safety before his own… it broke her heart. “I’m not leaving you. I wouldn’t needlessly put myself in the line of fire if it meant I couldn’t protect you.” Donatello sounded determined despite their predicament. “You’re one of the most important things to me in my life. I…” he faltered slightly in his words, as though struggling to find the right things to say.

“Donnie…?” Lilium mumbled, using her own hands to take both of his into hers.

He hesitated. “… do you remember when we were kids?” He asked. “When we promised each other we’d stay together forever?”

Lilium nodded.

“… the past couple days I was thinking about it.” His fingers held hers tighter. “Things were so much simpler when we didn’t have to worry about Shredder or Karai, or Hun, or any of this.” Sadness wasted over him, studying the small nicks and cuts traced across his hands, on Lilium’s palm. “Going through all of this the past year taught me something. A lesson I never learned until I came home from space the first time.”

His hands, still cradling her own, started shaking. “Time is fleeting. And if you waste it chasing down the demons in your life, you’ll never be happy. I’ve spent so many years trying to figure out what I felt for you. What that promise meant to me.” His voice was as delicate as glass, as if any moment the moment would be broken by the smallest sign of hesitation. But Lilium never shied away. Her hands still held on to his, fingers gripping both of his hands to offer comfort, to offer anything to give him the kindness he’d always bestowed to her. “You matter to me… and I never get the chance to tell you that.”

Lilium’s heart ached. The marks on her throat hummed in place of her vocabulary, the magic contained within stirring, emotions beginning to run rampant as the underlying implications of his words began to hit home. Is he trying to say what I think he is…?

“… Donnie?” She quietly chirped in the silence between them. “There’s something I wanna tell you.”

The purple masked turtle raised his gaze, holding his breath. His hands held onto hers a little tighter, as if preparing for whatever she was going to say. But before they could continue, a shadow loomed over the two like a bad omen, cutting their conversation to a standstill. Both teenagers snapped their attention up to the sudden appearance of the Triceraton with the pirate eyepatch. She vaguely recalled Donnie saying this one was ‘Mozar.’

There was a vicious sneer on his face, glaring at them with malice. Without a word of warning he seized Donatello— grabbing hold of the genius by his wrists with one mighty hand he yanked him off the ground, hoisting him off his feet like he weighed nothing. Almost instantly the turtle started fighting back, writhing in his grasp. “HEY! Let me go!”

“DONNIE!” Lilium shouted with alarm. She went to reach for him but the towering form of the Triceraton was too intimidating. He easily swatted her away, pushing the girl back into the awaiting hands of another guard behind her. His fingers latched around her arms and the claws dug deep, sinking into the skin hard enough to puncture through, drawing blood. She struggled and kicked her legs to wriggle free, but the cuffs clasped around her wrists refused to budge. “Put us down you creeps!”

“Listen, you pea-brained geckos! How many times do I have to tell you!?” Donatello cried, pinning a glare onto Mozar. “The Fugitoid! Is not! On Earth!”

“Our brains may be small, terrapin scum,” Mozar hissed, setting the turtle to his feet to drag him up the steps of the alter where a giant screen on the wall and a luxurious throne stood awaiting them. She didn’t miss how when his fist tightened around Donatello’s hands, bones started crunching. “But our tracking equipment does not lie.”

Unceremoniously he threw Donatello forward, the genius stumbling to correct his footing as he was presented to the man behind this insidious scheme. The Triceraton holding Lilium soon followed, but he wasn’t releasing her, much to the Siren’s chagrin as she continued to struggle feebly.

Mozar pointed to the screen overhead, showing the teenagers some kind of map that displayed a signal, with a trajectory course towards their planet. “The Fugitoid’s teleportation trail leads directly to your planet!” He accused.

“He was on Earth! But he’s not there anymore!” Donatello protested.

The man in the throne— a pompous, fickle tyrant with no patience for this charade of cat and mouse going by the name Zanramon— leaned forward in his seat, snapping back at Donatello. “Then where is he?!”

Donatello froze. His hands gripped into fists, his eyes falling to the floor to avoid meeting the brutal gaze of the madman. With a shake of his head he confessed, “I can’t tell you that!”

“Can’t?” Zanramon narrowed his gaze, his words cutting into the turtle with no chance to breathe. “Or won’t?”

Donatello fell silent. He turned away, refusing to comply to the dictator. Lilium could feel the apprehension in the air, the brewing tension that was about to break. She held her breath in fear for her friend, eyes darting between him and the mighty ruler with a crown made out of the suffering of hundreds he’d stepped over to obtain his power.

Zanramon huffed, sitting back, folding his hands under his chin as he beckoned Mozar forth. She hadn’t noticed the one eyed alien slip away, didn’t notice him retrieve something hidden from view. “Very well. We ‘pea-brained geckos’ will just have to extract the information from your oversized terrapin brain.”

The tension snapped. Lilium was dragged away, taken to stand at Zanramon’s side, as though giving her a front row seat of what was about to happen. “DONNIE!” The girl panicked, kicking and struggling as Donatello was taken by surprise, Mozar stepping in to place the unknown device over Donatello’s head.

From any other perspective it looked like an ordinary bicycle helmet. But as Donatello started to writhe, tried to reach his bound hands up to push it off, she noticed it covered his eyes, blinding him, a small panel on the top of his head lighting up as it began to charge.

And it activated.

Lilium gasped in horror when Donatello began to scream— sounds she never wanted to hear, terrible, awful, gruesome noises of anguish, unable to stay standing any longer, buckling to his knees as powerful surges of electricity rocked his skull and pierced through his brain. She watched helplessly as the turtle desperately fought to stay stable against the agony, but the pain overwhelmed him.

All at once, the screen behind her lit up. In a matter of seconds, Lilium could see snippets of his entire life being played out like a film for all those present to see. Her mouth dropped open in dismay as she began to watch his memories unfold before her very eyes; his childhood, his happier memories with his brothers, his Sensei, building the remote-controlled toy car he’d been so proud of, meeting April and Casey…

Lilium’s stomach twisted. This was horrifying. To have your brain trifled with as though you were a filing cabinet, people prying into your personal life to scan through the most cherished parts of your memories like they meant nothing…

“STOP!” Lilium screamed, struggling against the guard that still had a vice on her. “STOP HURTING HIM! PLEASE! WHATEVER YOU’RE LOOKING FOR IS GONE! HE DOESN’T LIE!”

Zanramon raised an unamused brow in her direction. “Oh? And how do you know?”

“Because he wouldn’t lie about something like this!” Lilium pleaded. “I swear, he’s not hiding anything! Whatever you want, it’s probably gone! Let him go! Please!”

Zanramon stared at her, studying her, as if to gauge her emotions to see if she was also trying to hide the truth. Donatello continued to cry out and shake where he sat, the mind probe ripping him in twain, as his life was displayed against his will.

The dictator’s eyes flickered up towards the screen. A devilish smirk rose to the surface. “Oh! Look at that!” He seized her by the face, fingers digging into the soft parts of her jaw with a vengeance, forcing her to look as the memories took a shift. “I believe that’s you!”

Me…? Her stomach dropped as her attention became captured unwillingly by the screen. True to his word, Donatello’s memories began to show the moments of his life that contained her.

And what she saw drove her to tears.

They were brief, they were gone in seconds, but these were the parts of their lives that he held dear.

Meeting as kids. Becoming friends.

The promise they made.

Reuniting years later, eager to make up for lost time.

The day her curse became poignant, nearly destroying his hearing. Her sobbing hysterically in the aftermath, his hands holding hers, reassuring he was alright.

Falling into the pier, nearly drowning, flailing in the dark abyss of the Hudson. His face being the first thing she saw when she came too, how scared he looked.

A botched school dance gone to waste. The record shop. A jukebox playing ‘Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl.’ The two of them dancing the night away in the company of his brothers and April, unafraid of how badly they tried to keep up with the tempo and tripping over their feet.

The night on the rooftop. A blanket of stars. A repaired stereo softly playing some of Mandy Moore’s songs. His hand in hers, her voice quiet and timid. “I think I like you.”

But there were other memories. Ones she were certain were his and his alone.

Her head resting on his shoulder, asleep, as a vintage noir film played on the living room televisions. Casablanca, she recalled. His free hand reached up to brush the loose hair from her face, hesitant, unsure, as he spoke softly. “Is it wrong for me to love you?”

Her unconscious in a sterile hospital bed, hooked up to wires and tubes, breathing unsteady, sickly and weak, Siren symbols sinking deeper into her skin, spreading throughout her body as though they were weeds. His hands grasped hers, trembling, pleading. “Just hang on, I’ll fix this—“

Singing in his lab when everyone was asleep, practicing her auditions, his hands working on a new time watch as her voice grew in emotion. When their eyes locked again she giggled, blushing.

Looking down from the catwalk, hidden from plain sight over the school’s theater stage, watching Lilium’s first solo from afar. The moment she looked up and spotted him during the applause her eyes glistened with joy.

Pinning a set of bluebell flowers into her hair behind her ears, face bright and cheery, eyes brimming with affection meant only for him in a crowd of thousands.

And for these bastards to rip through his brain, to toy with his mind, to rifle through the most important parts of his past just for their own gain…

“YOU MONSTER!” She cried, tears streaming down her face as she pried herself free of Zanramon’s clutches. “YOU’RE AN ANIMAL! You have no right to look through his memories!”

“Tell me where the Fugitoid is! Then I shall grant him mercy!”

“I don’t know what that is! I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

Zanramon scowled. “So be it.”

The mind probe surged powerfully, making Donatello scream even louder. The horrible sounds he made would forever engrain themselves into the worst parts of her mind where night terrors would claim her. He continued struggling, wrists pulling in vain on his shackles that glowed the same bright blue of the mind probe’s main circuit piece on the top of his head, teeth grinding painfully as he fought for control. His body seized and shook under the force of the shocks, unforgiving zaps of electrical power draining his stamina each passing minute. He wouldn’t last long like this.

Something in the probe started charging once more, and Donatello’s screams turned into roars of anguish. His back straightened, fists clenched at his chest, fighting for freedom as the screen started showing memories of a robot. Even against the strain of torture, he tried to break through.

But the mind probe persisted, and he continued roaring in turmoil.

“STOP THIS!” Lilium screamed, tears blinding her to the display of gruesome torture. “LEAVE HIM ALONE! YOU’LL KILL HIM! LET HIM GO!”

But her pleas went ignored.

No matter how many times she screamed his name, begged for him to fight back, pleaded for mercy, they disregarded her presence as though she were a nuisance.

Donatello bared his teeth, struggling to rise. His head lifted aimlessly towards the ceiling, as if searching for something against the visor that blinded him. And with the last of his strength, he screamed for someone. “MASTER… SPLINTER!”

But in the depths of space, his cry went ignored.

Or… had it?

Lilium watched on in silent despair as Donatello’s body began to shudder tremendously, his voice failing, his posture slouching to fall in on himself. Unable to withstand the brutal anguish of the electrocution any further. His cuffed hands struggled to rise to his chest, clasped as though in prayer.

But the probe responded with a hellishly swift strike of electricity into the throes of his brain. And to Lilium’s horror, his body seized momentarily before the helmet sizzled, the panel on the top of his head popping.

And once the torture ceased, Donatello’s body teetered forward.

He struck the ground with a lifeless slam.

Lilium could bare it no longer as she tore herself free of the guards— their claws ripped through the frail skin of her arms, blood pushing through her sleeves. She couldn’t feel any pain. “DONNIE!”

She slid to her knees the moment she was within reach. Bound hands found purchase to his shoulder, grunting as she turned him onto his back the best she could. Lilium used her fingers to push the helmet off of him, wrenching the sickening devise away, throwing it down the steps to be forgotten.

But…

His face was unreadable. His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly ajar. There were burns on the sides of his temple, dark spots singing his purple mask. A thick line of red slowly trickled down the corner of his lips.

He remained still as stone where he lay. Unmoving.

Lilium’s hands flew to her mouth, rendered speechless as a gasp strangled her throat. Unable to tear her eyes away from him, she reached down to shake his shoulder, as though willing him to respond, internally begging him to move, to speak, to react.

Nothing.

Lilium’s throat tightened. “… Donnie?”

Silence.

“Donnie…” she whimpered, shaking him with more force. “Don-Chan… please…”

Silence.

Her eyes burned. “Donnie…” she choked. Her voice trembled beneath the growing realization of what lay before her. “Donatello can you hear me?”

Silence…

“DONNIE!” Lilium shook him one more time, hands holding onto his shoulder. “Donatello! Please…!”

“Such a waste,” Zanramon scoffed from his throne. “I guess he wasn’t so smart after all!”

She refused to listen to the raving dictator. Her hands touched the frozen face of the genius laying still on the ground, desperately trying to wake him. He didn’t even flinch. “Donnie,” Lilium pleaded. “Donatello don’t do this to me. You promised! You promised!” She shook him again, tone rising with her grief. “Please! Wake up! Please come back! Your family needs you! The world needs you! You have so much to offer! Donnie please, WAKE UP!”

His lifeless face became hazy as her vision grew blurred. There was nothing but a fire that raged on in her eyes, burning, piercing her gaze with fury as the horrifying reality began to dawn on her. “Please…!”

This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be…

He was the strongest person she’d ever known. There was no way he was…

Gone.

This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, there’s no way he can be gone, he can’t be dead, he can’t be, he can’t, he can’t be!

White noise flooded her senses. She could no longer hear the self-entitled mockery of Zanramon. She could no longer hear the sound of the screen on the wall depicting unwavering carnage at the hands of Triceratons. Nor could she hear the slow progression of inhuman screams that came out of her, the despair and ruin of losing the person she trusted more than anything, the person she loved, the sobs that caused her symbols to fizzle erratically with a frenzy only spun by the thread of her pain, a spool endlessly rushing to cull the sullen loss. Deep inside her chest, her heart began to split.

Sobs wracked her frame. Vicious regret ripped her to pieces. Lilium shut her eyes tight, hands falling upon his plastron, curled into fists as though to stir him into consciousness, knowing he wouldn’t respond. “Don-Chan…” she whispered, trying in vain not to think of how still he was, how quiet he was, how his face was slack and unresponsive. “Don’t leave me…”

… what would she tell his family?

How could she face them? She couldn’t save Donnie, she hadn’t been able to help him. They’d never forgive her. She couldn’t blame them if they did. How could she ever forgive herself? How could she continue living with herself knowing she’d failed him?

I never got to tell him… I never got to tell him I loved him…

Why couldn’t I be faster? Why couldn’t I be stronger?! Why?! Why am I so slow?! Why am I so helpless?!

Why am I so WEAK?!

WHY AM I SO USELESS?!

WHY COULDN’T I BE THERE FOR HIM WHEN HE WAS THERE FOR ME?!

WHY CAN’T I—

“…h-he-y…”

The world stopped turning.

Air was ripped from her lungs.

Lilium’s face drained of all blood.

Her head shot up so quickly she thought she’d break her neck.

…

…

She met the unfocused gaze of Donatello.

His eyes— soft brown, foggy and unclear, were blinking slowly and half-mast. Any coherent thought in his brain was put to a standstill, the shock of his torture having run his thinking to a halt. The blood that had dried around the corners of his mouth still created a picture of indescribable agony… but despite all of it, he was fighting to smile.

A weak, lopsided grin formed on his face, bound hands a trembling mess as they attempted to reach for her. Against all odds he tried to talk again, although his speech was altered by stuttering. “H-h-he-yyy.”

Lilium’s face remained solid stone with stunned silence. The symbols somehow felt hotter, hotter, almost reaching a boiling point as she stared at him, millions of words, hundreds of apologies dying on the tip of her tongue.

There were no words she could utter for this miracle.

Donnie was alive. Donnie was alive.

Donatello had survived the impossible and he was breathing and he was talking he was alive he’s alive he’s alive OH MY GOD HE’S ALIVE!

Lilium threw herself at him once more, shackled hands clutching at his plastron. Her wails picked up in volume. Screams turned into helpless bawling. Magic sizzled deep in her throat. She couldn’t think of anything. She couldn’t even speak. She could almost feel his heartbeat, weak as it was from his horrible ordeal, thudding beneath her fists. Th-thump-th-thump-th-thump, skipping in a harmonious succession that promised an encore. His breathing was shallow, but he struggled to lift a pair of trembling cuffed hands to hold her face within his palms, body silently tremoring, reeling from the shock of being electrocuted so viciously, but he stubbornly clung to her like his life depended on it.

Her hair fell around him in a thick inky curtain of black locks that seemed to drape around her shoulders. His fingers held onto her face, a set of lazy eyes seeming to take her in, as though to tell himself she was real.

He spoke in a hoarse voice— too raspy, shredded from screaming, it would probably take a month to heal— but he still whispered all the same. “T-to-old y-ou… n-not go-ing… a-any-wh-ere…”

Her heart sang.

Her Siren symbols illuminated his face with bright pink hues.

And for the first time in hours, Lilium smiled back at him.

**********************

Tada!!! I hope you liked this!! I’ll hopefully have the short story done very soon!! 😊

@queen-with-the-quill @tending-the-hearth @wasted-and-ready @figuringitoutasigoalong @tmnt-tychou

[ask-artsy-oncie]

Need advice, I feel extremely stupid and insecure about my art. Feel like I never progress and don't know how to draw from down below the chest cause when i do it seems really static. I've been drawing for years now and it keeps looking exactly the same, I'm an adult and my drawings look like made by a 14 years old. What should I do?

You need to study some fundamentals.

"Years" is unfortunately too vague for me to really deduce where you "should" be at, but I also want to emphasize that everyone grows and learns at different rates and you really should be patient with yourself. If you're an adult and the amount of "years" you've been drawing can be described as "a couple" or "a few", then don't beat yourself up for drawing "like a teenager". Most teenagers that draw the way they do have also only been drawing for a few years.

That's step one. Be patient with yourself. Like bitch all you want, honestly, please do that, because it helps get the frustration out if your system, but then take a deep breath and do your best to remind yourself to be patient. It's all part of the long process of refining your skill.

Next step, based on what you seem to be complaining about, is to study anatomy and realism, and do so loosely (I mean this literally, loosen up your wrist and you'll get much more fluid drawings). Sketch with pens, or colored pencils, stuff you can't erase and just have to roll with the punches when using. Layer your sketches - when I was doing figure drawing for my animation class, I would get the rough shapes down in a light orange and then add more detail with blue. You might also want to consequently work with paper that can withstand that, like multimedia or watercolor paper.

If you're a digital artist, try drawing traditionally to get the wrist movement down. If you're a traditional artist, try using a different drawing tool to exercise with different utensil weights. If you feel stagnant then you need to switch something up!!

I don't know you so I don't know your style, but since you came to me, specifically, I assume you have some degree of interest in cartoons. I regret to inform you that you'll build a better foundation if you study realism first, at least the basics of anatomy, because Shape (literally how something is shaped and the silhouette it creates) and Form (how something moves) are the two most important elements of cartooning, and you'll get that foundation from studying anatomy and real life. Line weight is another very important element of cartooning, so you'll also have to learn to balance that and what you want to go for.

Also? Don't be afraid to just change your medium. If you're feeling impatient with yourself (often what's going on when people describe themselves as "feeling stupid") then maybe your brain will pick up on a different medium faster. Papercraft, pixel art, sculpting, painting, 3D modeling, fucken, I dunno, wood carving!! There are many ways to create visual arts and a lot of ways to find fulfilment as an artist!! None of these are "easy" persay, but you might be able to learn some mediums faster than others depending on how your brain works, that's all.

I wish you good luck. I know how hard it can be (I mean, hell, I was literally just complaining about being out of practice drawing humans, and so I'm slowly crawling my way out of that hole). I hope I could be of some help.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

I was thinking about artwork that I’ve seen.

I dunno I felt poetic

I was thinking about artwork that I’ve seen.

Drawings where the linework was so fluid it melted seamlessly into the colours, as if it were all one thing rather than layers piling one on top of the other. The shading was fantastic and gave it magic and depth. The lighting turned it into something beyond beautiful — powerful, warm, and comforting. It had background art that transported it into places of wonder. It had special decorations and detailing that would take a lifetime to uncover. It was so real it moved. It breathed. It lived.

And I wondered if people looked at art the same way I do. If people see stories in the ink blots. If they hear music in the color scheme. Do they feel warmth in the expressions, do they find wonder in the brushstrokes, do the ink marks glisten and gleam and glitter like gold?

And I wondered if people knew they were art, too. If they knew that their freckles are strategic paint splatters, made to add depth and decorum. If they saw their scars as storylines, markers of where they've been and how far they've come. How their eyes are jewels and gemstones, they sparkle and reflect the light of the sun, moon, and stars. Their smiles and frowns are strokes of a brush with precision pigment, and tears and laughter are a symphony. Can they see the extravagant and extraordinary dye used in their skin, in their lips, in their blood and tears? Have they seen the delicate weaving and braiding and crocheting of their hairs? Their joy shines like magic through their pores, their fingers are tools and their voices are instruments. Their names are reflections of their person, the title of their artwork. Do they know they are masterpieces?

And I wondered if people…

If one person would ever look at me like that. If someone would see my lighting, my shading, my composition and negative space. If my lineart was seamless, if my colours clashed or blended in a lovely way, if my details drew them in, if I was intricate or creative or magic. Could they notice how I sway when I get tired, like I'm slow-dancing to a lullaby, or how I click my tongue and hum when I'm bored… How my feet turn in, how sometimes I stumble on my R's, how my eyes resemble sunflowers… My freckles go down like connect-the-dots in a constellation on my arms, my nails are nibbled down, my hands are covered in ink, my ears covered in headphones secured within a song… My shoes are decorated with charms, my jeans are old, ripped and cut-off at the knees, my sweaters are warm and oversized, I hide inside them like a picture in a frame, snug and silly, flapping my hands underneath the long sleeves. Do they hear how I sing constantly, how I talk in every accent I can get my hands on, see how I add extra U's to words like “colour” or “honour” or “favour”, how I talk to myself in the woods where I write my stories, how I still believe in magic like Ents and Faes and the Loch Ness monster and miracles... could they see all my quirks and flaws and what very few redeeming qualities I find in myself, and could they see them all as paint? As pencil marks? As ink and dye? As gloss and varnish? Could my rambles sound like music? Could my smile be glitter? Could my voice be winds and strings and brass? Could anyone look at me and see the artwork?

But mostly I wondered if I would ever be able to look at myself like how I look at the artwork.

[horseforeplay]

hi! what do you make of ai art? im conflicted cause i see how its great for disabled people in many ways, but then i look back at the work people put into becoming artists and mastering the craft and feel many things lol i wish i could look at it similarly like i look at producers for example, where you have a vision and tools and you know how to use it well so you dont need the musical training background to be creative, but i cant help but feel like its more complicated with visual art? that theres a whole other side besides having a vision and good understanding of a shortcut tool. im very very torn and also sorry for all that on your succession blog but knowing youre a fantastic artist whos recently been dealing with this sort of impossibility to make art i wonder if you have some insight in this area.

sending love!

i appreciate u wanting to know my opinion on a Hot Topic such as this! i dunno man i have an aversion to any definition of art of any kind that requires effort or skill as essential features that make the art “real”. i think a lot of what is happening with AI discourse is that people are appropriately appalled by the way capitalism mangles creative output and even what kind of relationships artists can have with their work and with the rest of the world. i do not have a problem with a machine that digests and reconfigures information — a machine is just a machine. if one copied the way i make texture with colored pencil and produced an approximation of a new original work by me, i would be fascinated by what reactions i might have to it. would i feel threatened by it? would i be flattered? what might it open up for me, to see my work broken into a particular machine’s data? this is just a dream, though. i see many artists understandably frightened by what the exploiter class may choose to do with their new toys (and what they are already doing to us with them). it just sucks to see that very plain class antagonism passed over with arguments about the “purity” of human-made art, how it is somehow apparent to any observer when a work is truly endowed with a “soul” (if these arguments sound eerily like fascist aesthetic principles, it’s because they are fascistic).

and then to see people cheering for their own doom with this thing of mr. game of thrones & co suing chatGPT, complete with condescending explanations of how it’s not going to hurt fanfic writers because the problem these multimillionaires have is actually with people monetizing their work, and the true humble Fan would ne’er ask a but penny. do people really not see how this is making the divide between the “artist” and the “common person” greater? it is so goddamn expensive to survive right now, and the wealthy are using fear of technology as a tool to prevent you from making money, and yes, making art at all. only those with enough capital to protect their intellectual property with the force of the law are allowed to express themselves through art. yes, i think it should be well within your rights to bind and sell (for money, yes, money) your game of thrones fanfiction. so many of us are living in poverty right now, bombarded by entertainment but prevented from ever chewing it up or spitting it out. ed roth’s rat fink character had it right. fuck mickey mouse. like, we’re actually back to saying “fuck mickey mouse” being really cool. put him in a blender full of data, have it put him into a beach scene with BBW anime versions of lara croft and princess peach. intellectual property is a historically recent phenomenon. it is a tool to make the rich richer and get you well and squarely fucked. theoretically, yeah, it sounds good to have your work and livelihood honored and protected, but just like they’re trying to replace artists and actors and writers with AI, every single tool becomes a weapon in the hands of the rich. the hell people are worried they need more punishing copyright law to fix is already here. the woman who designed care bears & strawberry shortcake never saw a penny from it. AI art is only a threat in the hands of the corporations that happily do these things in the first place.

anyways. lol. i’m not very technologically minded in my own art practice — i’m not naturally drawn to new technology as a part of my work, and find many of the results i’ve seen from current AI art tech to be kind of aesthetically unpleasant. artwork contains unpleasantness, though. i’m not really interested in arguments over what artwork “should” contain, only what it does. i think the best AI art i’ve seen (ie: the stuff i’ve enjoyed the most) has been from alan resnick:

it is so terrifically disquieting. it leans into what makes AI-generated BBW lara croft kind of difficult to actually jack off to. the overlapping lines of bodies, the nonsense text. but then, if this work has merit, is that because alan resnick is uniquely special, thus proving the point that the technology is only valid in the hands of a “real artist”? can mr. resnick be said to be the “artist” of these images at all, because he trained a program to his own style and input interesting ides? does he deserve lots of money for his work creating iconic adult swim shorts like this house has people in it? well sure

or would this art only have value if somebody put a tremendous amount of labor into it? you know. my mother used to tell me, “hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work”. she said she should nail the phrase to my forehead, like martin luther at the church doors. having very recently become disabled & chronically ill, i don’t believe it anymore. i believe we should be able to use technology to make ourselves more free. we should not be so financially insecure that we are threatened by anyone expressing themselves with something we made. the ultra-wealthy are threatened by infringement because they need everybody else to stay poor, and the poor are threatened because they do not want to be poor any longer. it’s got nothing to do with strange scrambled pictures. if i could take pictures of every work of art i’ve ever loved and put it into a machine that mixes it up and turns it into a monster, i would do it just for a bittersweet laugh at it.

[lostonehero]

I was going to head to bed but I have an idea.

Scooped Micheal YouTube thing.

"Hey, did ya hear your mom got some big YouTube guy to visit the kids in the terminal wing." A female nurse walked next to the older blonde man.

The man sighs. "I keep telling her she has to retire." His blonde hair was short and didn't hide the large scar around his eye into his hair. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because you have that shift when this big shot comes in." The nurse giggles. "Heard he's a looker."

The blonde rolls his eyes. "I'm not looking for any relationship right now, especially some young guy." He sighs. "I'm done chasing ghosts, and I don't need you to keep setting me up on blind dates."

"It's not my fault. Everyone here knows you're lonely." She smiles. "Just ask the guy out, and I'll leave you alone."

"One date, and I'm off the hook?" The blonde smirks. "Alright, fine, I'll ask this influencer on a date whoever he is."

......

"A friendly zombie?" One of the mothers whispered to another. "I guess it makes sense the kids like this guy."

"His makeup is really good wonder how he'll seem in person."

"Nurse Jeremy!" A kid shouted from his bed as a blonde nurse walked over.

Jeremy smiles. "Hey there, Oliver. Everyone's so excited, tell me why that is."

The little boy beams. "Our favorite youtuber will be here, and he will talk to us."

"Really, that's very exciting." Jeremy smiles as the little boy points, and the parents get quiet.

There was a man wearing sun glasses inside and a face mask. Brown hair seemed to leak out from under his hat. He seemed really skinny and the clothes hung off of him like a dress. He nodded as he made his way to where Jeremy and Oliver were. His voice was all too familiar to Jeremy, albeit raspy. "Hey, you're Oliver, right?" He pulls out a knitted hat and gloves. "I dunno why you guys wanted to meet me, but I made you a hat and gloves happy birthday."

"So cool." Oliver puts the hat on immediately. "Thank you so much."

The man nods. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

The man seems to jump as all the kids raise their hands. Oliver nods. "Yeah, can we all ask you stuff?"

The man pauses and nods. "Sure, I don't really have anything else I need to do."

A girl Jeremy knows who barely speaks due to the pain spoke up for the first time in a month. "Can I see your face?"

The man walks over. "Are you sure? I know it's not pleasant, I didn't do any makeup."

The girl nods. "My face isn't pretty either."

The man turns his back to Jeremy and pulls down his mask, and takes off his glasses. "See, not pretty. Your face is much better, you have normal colors."

The girl smiles the first time Jeremy has ever seen that girl smile. "You should do pink stitches next."

The man chuckles, pulling his mask back up and putting his glasses back on. "What kind of pink?"

"A pretty pink." The girl giggles. "Lesie, go ask your question." She points to the girl who was missing her arms.

The man turns around to see her.

The girl smirks. "Did you bring something in your pocket? The one in your chest."

The man hums, reaching under his coat, and a soft zipper noise is heard. He pulls out a large flashlight, a notepad, and a sketchbook with several pens and pencils. "Not much today, some art supplies, a notebook full of notes, and uh my flashlight that I forgot to take out from last week."

"Cool." Lesie smiles. "Can you feel them inside?"

"Not really. My sense of touch is selective at best. I can use my hands and stuff internally. I don't really feel anymore. You probably got a better hand than I do."

Jeremy was about to lecture him about the off-color joke, and then a few kids started to giggle.

Lesie was smiling bigger than she ever had. "I don't have any." She barely gets out before she was cackling. "That must suck."

The man seemed to relax a bit. "Aren't you guys young for dark humor? I ain't going to complain."

One of the kids that had been here the longest glares at the man he was a teenager and almost made it out, but his cancer just came back. "Have you ever had to reattact something? Does that still work?" Jeremy wasn't really understanding these questions anymore.

The man nods. "My left foot took a bit of fishing wire, but it's back on and works. I did put wire through my hands, I don't want to lose any of those bones. My nose, however, isn't the original one I had, but I can still smell. Took me a bit to figure out the best way to rebuild it."

"Does it hurt? Stitching yourself." The teen sits up now has her full focus on the man.

The man shrugs. "Sometimes I feel it, and sometimes I don't. I don't, no, I can't feel pain anymore. I think the worst was when I had to reglue my ribs together."

"Did you find all the pieces?" Olkver speaks up.

"No." The man sighs. "I had to improvise the smaller bits."

Jeremy watches as the kids ask more questions, and the way the man answered, he knew exactly who this guy was. Didn't really understand the whole zombie thing, but it made these kids happy.

......

Jeremy grabbed the man's arm, stopping him from running out. "Hey, wait a sec."

The man pauses and turns around to see the male nurse from before. "Oh, hello, I uh was just on my way out. Did one of the kids ask for me?"

"No, I just wanted to talk. The parents really enjoyed seeing their kids happy again. I just wanted to get your name." Jeremy smiles. Did he no longer recognize him?

Micheal sighs. "You already know who I am, Jeremy. Your accent gives you away."

"I thought it would be my lovely scar." Jeremy pauses.

"I'm sorry." Micheal sighs. "I'm sorry about everything. You were right, and then I just ran away."

"Micheal..." Jeremy steps back when Micheal takes off his glasses.

"Look, I'm nothing but a corpse now. I'm happy you moved on." Micheal sighs, putting his glasses back on. "It was nice to see you again, but I have to go. Again, I'm sorry for everything I put you through." He turns and walks away.

Jeremy bit his lip and took a breath. "Coffee!?"

Micheal froze. "W-what?" He stared back at Jeremy.

"Coffee, you can't have it, but you owe me at least one conversation, and you have to come back to visit the kids." Jeremy crosses his arms.

Micheal pauses. "I do have a lot of free time. Alright, a coffee." He sighs. "I'll look better and put on makeup and a fake eye. So it's not too weird in public for you."

Jeremy took a breath. "Tomorrow the little cafe by the lake, the one that's always been there around 10?"

Micheal nods. "Alright, I will see you tomorrow."

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 112: May 2018

As flashbacks went, it hadn’t been the worst one Gerry had ever had, Tim thought, gently running his fingers through the white streak that had grown so that his hand just about fit in its span. But it hadn’t exactly been the best, either. And while Gerry’s narration had been as flat and unemotional as ever, the fact that his face was still wet with tears told Tim that the part of him not possessed by the End had been deeply moved.

He could understand that, he supposed. Empirically anyway. He’d grown up surrounded by three generations of DiAngelos and five generations of Stokers who all loved one another dearly, so he certainly didn’t know what it was like to suddenly be given a single, solitary precious memory of someone he didn’t, couldn’t possibly remember. But he at least felt like he had an inkling of understanding about what it must be like.

Unlike Gerry, though, Tim had listened to the entire recitation with bated breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was the first time—or at least the first time since Tim had begun to be present for them—that Gerry had had a flashback of his own from before the age of eleven, let alone before he’d met Martin and Melanie. And considering all the other flashbacks he’d had of their friends when they were that young had involved them being Marked, and that deeply, by one of the Fourteen, Tim had been terrified. Especially when he’d realized just how small Gerry actually was.

Gerry, as usual, had passed out immediately following the cessation of his narration—or, more accurately, drifted off into slumber as his two-year-old self did—but Tim hadn’t been able to sleep himself. Despite the relief of knowing it hadn’t been a situation where Gerry had actually been Marked, his mind was still whirring with information and worry. They’d figured out that, while Gerry’s flashbacks for others usually showed moments where they could have died but were spared somehow, often by one of the other Fears, the ones of his own life tended to be more…watershed moments. Points in time that had led him to the place he was now, moments where possibilities clicked into certainties or even inevitabilities. There had been a lot of firsts in the memory: his first meeting with Martin’s grandfather, his first introduction to art, his first attempt at colored pencils. Maybe there had been some lasts, too—his last outing with his father, his last time trusting that Eric Delano had had a good plan, his last truly carefree moments. Tim didn’t know, and likely wouldn’t until Gerry woke up.

Probably not even then. He’d been two. He wasn’t going to remember much from that point in time.

Tim glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was almost six in the morning. Martin would probably be awake, but…no, he chastised himself, no need for that. Martin hadn’t even been born then, he wouldn’t know anything, and he wasn’t going to ask him to Know. Things were bad enough without pushing him further over the edge.

As if on cue, his phone rang with a few bars of the Toreador’s song from Carmen, which he’d changed it to after Gerry described exactly what was going on in the aria from I Pagliacci he’d used before. While Gerry didn’t seem to notice, Tim decided it would be prudent to answer quickly anyway. “Morning, Marto.”

“Tim. Hey.” Martin exhaled. “Sorry, I…don’t know why I called you.”

Tim glanced down at Gerry’s face, relaxed and . “Since you didn’t apologize for waking me, I’m assuming that by ‘I don’t know why I called you’ you mean ‘something compelled me to call you immediately’ and not ‘I forgot why it was so important I call you and risk getting you out of a sound sleep on what’s theoretically a holiday’. Is everything okay?”

“Maybe?” Martin didn’t sound sure. “I’ve…I dunno. Been up for about half an hour. Just feeling…restless.” He paused. “How’s Gerry?”

“Sleeping. I’m guessing you know he had a flashback last night.”

“I mean, he’s sleeping. Or was a few hours ago. I know that’s the last thing he does before he goes to sleep at night.” Martin paused. “That…sounds harsh. I’m sorry.”

Tim shook his head, even though Martin couldn’t see it. “No, I get what you mean, and you’re right. It’s how I can tell he’s getting tired, he comes over all glazed and starts talking about something horrible or life-changing or both. Last night’s wasn’t…terrible, but…”

“One of his?”

“Yeah. He was two. Apparently his dad took him to visit your grandfather.”

Tim regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and he could almost hear Martin’s desire to push. Finally, he simply asked, “Are either of you coming in today?”

“Probably. I think he’ll want to talk to you all about it,” Tim said, silently relieved. “But if not, I’ll ask him if he’s okay with me explaining further.” He paused as the numbers on the clock rolled over to six. “Are Jon and Daisy up yet?”

“They weren’t a few minutes ago, but Daisy probably will be soon. She—hold on.” There was a rustling sound, and Martin’s voice got quieter, as if he was holding the phone away from his face. “Hey. You okay?”

There was a muffled response Tim couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like a female voice, so either Melanie and Sasha had come in early—unlikely—or Daisy was up after all. Martin’s reply to whatever it was sounded apologetic. “No, just me. On the phone with Tim.” He paused, as if listening to a response. “Be careful. I haven’t seen anything lately, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Another rustle, and then he came through more clearly. “Sorry about that. Apparently it’s ‘soon.’”

“Daisy, huh?” Tim managed a smile. “Well, at least you’re not alone there. I know you hate that.”

“Yeah. Might be why I called you.” Martin sighed. “I don’t like to wake Jon, he doesn’t sleep well as it is, but yeah, the more time I spend on my own the harder it is to fight. I think that’s part of the reason Daisy gets up when she does. It’s a lot harder to resist feeding the Eye when I don’t have someone holding me accountable, and I imagine she’s the same way with the Hunt. I’m just glad I’ve got all of you for support. I can’t imagine what it would be like to try to do this if nobody cared whether I did or not.”

Tim didn’t reply. He had nightmares sometimes, full of screaming and fire and all kinds of pain, nightmares where Gerry hadn’t saved Sasha and Martin hadn’t saved Jon and Tim hadn’t walked out of the Unknowing and everybody hated everyone else, and while it was most likely just his brain throwing up worst-case scenarios in an “aren’t you glad things never got this bad” way, they never fully left him. And as bad as the gulf separating Daisy and Basira was, the idea of it being between Jon and Martin somehow hurt worse than anything else.

After several heartbeats, Martin took a deep breath. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be dumping everything on you this early in the morning. Anyway, I’d better, um…have breakfast, I guess, before anyone decides to come in.”

“Have—oh.” Tim glanced down at Gerry and wondered how Martin’s sense of taste was these days. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll probably be in a bit early today.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m awake. Gerry’ll probably be up in a bit, so once he’s up and ready to go—or to let me go, whichever comes first—I’ll start that way.”

“Be careful.”

“Always. See you soon, Freckles.” Tim ended the call and sat back against the headboard with a sigh. Martin was definitely going to need all hands on deck today; it was the early May bank holiday, so the Institute was—nominally anyway—closed. On the other hand, there would be a lot of people out and about, and both Martin and Daisy would, if they set foot outside the Institute, be tempted to go after someone who didn’t deserve it. Or someone who did, but…no, there was nobody who deserved trauma, not really. Jon was better than he’d been, especially since Melanie had discovered how deeply he’d started to fall into the Web’s clutches, but there was always a risk he’d somehow maneuver them into going after someone he didn’t like. Not likely, but possible. Anyway, since the rest of the Institute would be empty, having all of them around would also help keep the Lonely at bay.

The bed jostled slightly as Umberto leaped onto it and strode his way up to Tim’s side. He sniffed at Gerry’s hair, sneezed into it, and then somehow squeezed his enormous, leonine body into the extremely small space between Gerry’s head and Tim’s abdomen.

“I’m convinced you’re even more liquid than most cats,” Tim told him, scratching his cheek. He was rewarded with purrs so loud they made the bed rumble. “Don’t suffocate him. I don’t even know if he really has to breathe anymore, but let’s not test that.”

“’M f’n.” Gerry turned his head, clearly meaning to snuggle closer to Tim, then suddenly jerked back and sat up, spitting cat hair out of his mouth. “Jesus. Pfft. How did he—pfft—fit there?”

“He is the Cat Who Walks By Himself, and all places are alike to him.” Tim kissed Gerry’s cheek. “Morning. Go take a shower and brush your teeth. I’ll feed the dust mop and get breakfast for us going, unless you’d rather pick something up on the way to the Institute.”

“Let’s pick something up. I’m betting nobody went shopping this weekend, and Martin’s probably forgotten Jon needs actual food.” Gerry gave Tim a quick kiss and headed towards the bathroom, leaving him alone with that oh so pleasant reminder.

Martin had not, as it turned out, forgotten Jon needed food, nor had Daisy, but there was still a three-way argument going on when Tim and Gerry arrived because Jon was reluctant to eat without them. Well. Reluctant was a mild term. Jon was outright fucking furious and—in Tim’s expert opinion—more than a little heartbroken that not only did Martin and Daisy no longer seem to need human food, they were willing, even insistent that he not share with them, that he needed all his strength and should eat what there was without worrying about them.

The pastries and sausage rolls helped.

Melanie and Sasha arrived with trays of coffee, fortunately before all the food was eaten—although, Tim admitted privately to himself, he and Jon were the only two who were properly hungry, so there wasn’t much risk of that. His worries about Martin sprang back to life, fully formed, when he accepted one of the coffees from Sasha without so much as a murmur. He wasn’t surprised when Melanie looked into her own cup and smacked her forehead. “Fuck—I meant to get you a hot cocoa, not another coffee. Sorry, Martin, I can go make tea or—”

“I’m fine, Neens, but thanks.” Martin took a sip of the coffee.

Melanie stared up at him. “You never drink coffee. The last time you tried it you ended up with a migraine.”

“I had a migraine because the caffeine made me very aware of everything and I was fighting to keep the Ceaseless Watcher from showing me the traces of every single Fear that had even so much as passed over an area, so I had to lie down in a dark room until it shut up. I’m already in that state pretty much all the time now.”

“You realize that is doing the opposite of making me want to let you keep drinking that, right? This is just going to make that worse.”

Martin shrugged. He looked, in contrast to how he sounded, extremely tired. “Good, maybe it’ll overload whatever blocks I have keeping me from Looking or, o-or Knowing things and I can get past whatever the fuck is going on with that tape.”

Tim blinked. “Wait, what tape?”

Martin pointed to the desk furthest from where he stood. Right on the very edge was a cassette tape, unlabeled, just sitting and waiting. No case, no player, nothing. Just…a tape.

Sasha picked it up and turned it over, frowning. “Where did it come from?”

The hopeful look on Daisy’s face was a bit pathetic and a bit heartbreaking; Tim had to look away. Martin rubbed his nose, looking uncomfortable. “El—Peter’s office. I, I don’t know what’s on it.”

“Peter’s office. You mean Bas—someone left it for you?” Sasha looked a bit guilty.

Martin shook his head. “Uh-uh. I went up and…lock’s still broken, you know? I’ve gone up a couple of times, pulled a couple tapes to listen to. I figured there was a chance they were statements Gertrude took live and they’d be a bit more…substantial than the written ones, but less likely to give me dreams than ones I take in person. Let’s face it, people don’t survive giving their statements very long. Comparatively.”

“So you were drawn to pick it up?” Tim took the tape from Sasha and studied it. There was nothing particularly appealing about it, at least not to his eyes, but then again it wasn’t like he could pick out a good fish if it wasn’t frozen and clearly labeled. Martin was the one who lived on these things, he knew what a ripe or juicy statement looked like, and God he hated thinking like that.

“No,” Martin said, surprising him—and, from the way everyone else stared at him, the rest of the crew as well. “The opposite, actually. I had a very strong feeling that I should leave it alone. That there was nothing on there I needed to know, that whatever’s on there would…that I should just leave it alone. There were a few others I just wanted to throw away, but this one…I dropped it twice just trying to pick it up. Probably should have left it, but…I don’t know. Curious, I guess.” He stared at the tape in Tim’s hand. “I’m the avatar of awful knowledge and revealed secrets. What does it not want me to know?”

When he put it like that, Tim could understand both why he had brought it down and why he had left it where he had. He couldn’t risk leaving it where it might fall into the wrong hands, after all. It was almost certainly something that would put the rest of them in danger, he mused; that would be why the Ceaseless Watcher wouldn’t want Martin to look at it. Or why it would tell him not to look at it. He still cared, in a way few other avatars did, about what happened to his people, and the Eye had to know that if anything happened to them, it would likely lose Martin. One way or another. And Tim could see just how painful it was for him to even look at the thing with his regular sight. Trying to actually play it would definitely hurt.

Gerry suddenly inhaled sharply and yanked the tape out of Tim’s hand. Before Tim could even wrap his lips around a hey, he had snatched up a recorder, popped the tape in, and pressed PLAY. Then he stepped back, found Tim’s hand, and clutched it tightly before reaching for Melanie with the other.

There was a sharp sigh from the tape, and then Gertrude Robinson’s dry, reedy voice began speaking. “Right. No use putting it off further.”

It only took the rustle of paper and the first few words before realization struck Tim with the force of a hammer’s blow, and he wrapped himself around Gerry from behind, holding him tightly. Gerry had, as usual, made the connection between his flashback of the night before and the tape Martin didn’t want to hear far faster than Tim had, but now Tim realized what the reasoning probably was. I think I found a way.

“And so Eric Delano ended.”

Melanie made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and Tim noticed her hand tighten around Gerry’s; he tightened it in return. Martin was staring at the tape recorder, his eyes glowing as usual, his face paper white, and Tim saw, rather distantly, Jon wrap himself around Martin the same way he was clinging to Gerry. Then he forgot about everyone else as the conversation began.

Eric Delano sounded a lot like his son, but far more jaded and bitter. Tim found himself wondering what Gerry would have sounded like if he hadn’t grown up with Martin and Melanie, if he’d died alone and thinking he was unloved. If he’d never come back. He tucked his chin over Gerry’s shoulder and listened as he talked to Gertrude. The description of what being bound to the Book felt like hit Tim in a place he’d never expected, and he hugged Gerry a little tighter. Gerry had suffered like that, had known he was nothing more than a memory and pain…but he wasn’t, he was still Gerry, he was solid and real and alive and there and Tim loved him in a way he’d never expected to love anyone, and he had to know that.

But it didn’t erase what he’d suffered, no matter how much Tim wished it had. And now he had to listen to the father he could barely remember describe the same agony.

A lot of the initial conversation was painful, and part of Tim would really rather not have heard it. But he supposed it was stuff he needed to know. Hard to get old in this business. You either die, or you, uh, stay young. Well…that was accurate. Despite the white hair, Gerry still seemed young enough, and Tim found himself wondering if he would continue to age or if, someday down the line, he’d be an old man of seventy getting funny looks for walking out with this young-looking thirtysomething thing. Or maybe they’d both die young, or relatively young anyway. No way to know for sure, except to wait.

Gertrude had gotten old, despite being…more or less what Martin was. That had to be comforting.

Right?

Someone—Tim wasn’t sure who—inhaled sharply when Eric informed Gertrude that he’d figured out a way to quit, but he wasn’t surprised. Gerry’s flashback had ended right before he found out what his dad was planning…Alastair Koskiewicz had known, but nobody else had. And the Eye didn’t want Martin to know about this any more than it had—probably—wanted Gertrude to know. Of course that would be what was on the tape. Eric’s concern for Gerry made him smile, at least a little, but Gertrude’s remarks about him made him want to dig up what the Stranger had left of her and kill her a third time.

And then Eric began his statement.

“Subject is Eric Delano, recorded twenty-first of July, 2008, regarding...”

“What else? Me, Mary, and the Archives.”

2008…Tim tried to slot this into his mental timeline. It was ten years after Martin’s grandfather died, twenty years after Martin and Jon and Melanie were born, the same year that Mary had bound herself into the Book and Gerry had been accused of her murder, the same year Gerry and his siblings had started burning Leitners. It was closing in on ten years ago now. And, Tim realized belatedly, it was exactly twenty years after Eric had—presumably—given the same explanation of his plan to quit to Martin’s grandfather.

He sounded so bitter, but also…resigned. It was like he knew, even at the beginning, that he wasn’t going to get anything out of this other than an opportunity to talk, that it wouldn’t do any good to him or Gertrude. But he kept talking. Tim got that. It was hard to stop talking to the Archivist once you started, and while he knew Martin hated it, he didn’t think Gertrude minded. Not in this instance, anyway. Certainly she didn’t seem particularly sympathetic when Eric got to the end, only insisting that he keep up his end of the bargain and tell her how he’d quit.

And when he did, the answer took Tim’s breath away.

Of course. Eric was right—it was so simple, and so extreme at the same time. But it made sense. After all, they called it the Eye. What else could it possibly use? Martin’s connection got stronger when he took off his glasses, there was so much about Seeing…

Click. The tape recorder sounded almost preternaturally loud as it shut itself off. For long moments, none of them spoke.

Sasha was the one to finally break the silence, with a single word that fell into the center of the room with all the weight and subtlety of a cinder brick dropped from a third story window. “Fuck.”

“God.” Gerry reached up and wiped at his face with a shaky hand; Tim wasn’t surprised to realize he was crying again. “I—I remember him just sitting there, but…fucking hell, I didn’t realize he did that.”

“Bit drastic, but necessary,” Martin said, his voice flat and unemotional but unusually quiet.

Daisy strode around the desk, nudged a chair over with a scrape that made Martin flinch ever so slightly, and then grabbed his arm and half guided, half dragged him to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Jon, looking extremely shaken, kissed Martin’s forehead lightly. “I’ll—I’ll go get you some tea and—”

“No, I’m all right. I’m all right,” Martin repeated. Tim didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know he was lying. He was paper white under the freckles and scars, and there was a dull, blank look in his eyes that said he was more than half blind with actual, physical pain. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple. “Christ. Gerry, are—are you…?”

“Better than you are,” Gerry said, a bit pointedly. “I had—that was my flashback last night. Dad took me to see Alastair—it must’ve been a month, maybe, before you were born—and that, he’d figured out how to quit. I must’ve fallen asleep before he told him, but…well, I guess I knew that was coming.” He swallowed. “I just…didn’t expect to hear his voice.”

There was another long silence as they all sat down, in chairs or on the edges of desks or, in Jon’s case, on the floor next to Martin’s chair, resting his cheek against Martin’s thigh. Martin absently began stroking his hair, ever so gently, but his eyes were still fixed on the tape recorder, or at least in its direction.

This time, Tim decided to break the silence, because he had to ask. “So. Is anyone going to try that?”

Sasha looked up at him in obvious surprise. Martin blinked, hard, and looked around the room. “It’s a fair question,” he agreed slowly. “I—I wouldn’t blame any of you for trying.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Jon said, looking up at him. “If you quit, I’ll go with you. If you stay, I stay.”

“Yeah, same,” Melanie said. “Promised you that fifteen years ago, I’m not changing that now.”

“I can’t,” Daisy said in a low voice. “Think the Eye’s the only thing keeping me from either giving into the Hunt or starving to death right now. I won’t survive severing that connection.”

Tim glanced at Sasha, who bit her lip in obvious indecision. “I—I don’t know. I have to think about it. I don’t want to abandon you all, but…” She looked over at Tim. “What about you?”

Part of Tim was tempted. He’d got revenge for Danny, after all; the world was safe from the Unknowing, and they didn’t really need him for the other rituals. Gerry wouldn’t abandon him if he was blind and helpless, and really he wouldn’t be helpless. There was nothing keeping him here anymore.

Nothing except his family.

“Not until we figure out exactly what Peter Lukas is up to, anyway,” he said finally. “Not while you’re all here. What about you, Martin? I notice you said you wouldn’t blame any of us, but I didn’t hear anything out of you about quitting.”

“I—” Martin hesitated. Anguish flashed across his face. “I…don’t think I can. I-I mean, I could. Physically. Wouldn’t even take much effort to do it. The problem is…I’m, I’m really wound up in it. It’s had a hold on me since I was seven, and it’s only got worse in the last few years. And with the state I’m in…I’m pretty sure trying to sever that connection would actually kill me at this point. I don’t think I can survive without the Eye. And as tempted as I am to try…” He closed his eyes, but not before Tim had seen the glint of tears in them. “I don’t want to risk leaving you all.”

“Getting free of this isn’t worth losing you,” Jon said softly. “Not to me.”

“Or me,” Melanie added.

Gerry raised his head and looked at Martin. The temperature dropped several degrees, and his eyes turned pure white, as did his hair, and there was the whoosh of wind Tim was familiar with now. It only lasted a second, and then it was gone and Gerry was back to normal, though incredibly sad.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It would kill you. And it wouldn’t let you go easily. You’d…suffer.”

“I’d do it if I thought it would do any good,” Martin said. “I just…don’t know that it would.”

“It wouldn’t,” Jon said fiercely. He got up, took Martin’s face in his hands, and kissed him, deeply and thoroughly. Martin’s hands came up to hold onto Jon’s elbows, and Tim could see the tears rolling down his cheeks.

He wrapped his arms around Gerry again and pulled him close, feeling the tears in his own eyes. He understood. He understood all too well.

[wondernus]

˗ˋˏ When We Meet Chapter 2 ˎˊ˗

synopsis: there is only so much forgiving and forgetting you can do when you end up getting stood up by your date over and over again. so when you're stuck between the best friend, the first crush, and their mysterious roommate whose existence seemed like a myth, you can only hope the decision you've been making is the right one.

pairing: kmg x reader

chapter tags: food/drink, mentions of drunk characters, set in the past, last year of university

wc: 2.2k

message from nu: feelings of nostalgia, first crushes, and the mysterious roommate you swore you never saw before. I hope you enjoy ch 2 - nu ♡

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“How come I never get to see your roommate?”

DK looks up from his stack of papers in confusion. It’s a thin stack of tri-colored leaflets and loose handouts from all of his classes that he shoved into his school folder. Some of them didn’t even make it into his folder — he simply shoved the papers into his backpack when he started experiencing senioritis halfway through the semester. Now, the papers resurfaced onto the park table, folded and crumpled with more folds than origami paper fans. He’s pretty sure he’s spent more time trying to figure out which pages contain information for his finals than actually spending time studying.

“What do you mean you never get to see my roommate?” DK answers your question with another question. “Minghao literally came to the park with us.” He places his pencil box on the stack of papers he needs to keep and passes you a sheet of paper from the stack he doesn’t need.

“No. I meant your third roommate,” you correct him while taking the paper from him. “The bottom bunk.”

You fold a corner of the A4 paper to the edge of its opposite side and press along the crease. You drag your thumb’s fingernail along the crease to ensure a sharp and straight fold. Some of the wooden park table’s old blue paint chips and gathers under your fingernail, and you pick it out using your pointer nail. Folding the remaining rectangle against the triangle, you make sure to mark the edge before tearing it off so only the triangle remains.

You don’t know if DK is ignoring you or staring blankly at his notes so you clarify your last statement, “Mingyu.” You look up at DK. “The tall scrawny kid who you said spits while he talks? Like a splash zone?” you inquire.

“There’s no way.” DK’s eyebrows scrunch against the creases of skin between his bushy and unkept brows. “I refuse to believe you’ve never met him before.”

“I dunno.” You shrug your shoulders while you concentrate on folding a giant “X” in your sheet of paper. “I don’t remember seeing him face-to-face or ever having a conversation with him.”

“Nahh. You probably saw him before, but you were just too hungover or drunk. Either one.”

Being drunk you understand. And sure, you have to admit that your head hurts like hell when you’re hungover. However, despite the sharp and agonizing pain you feel in your head after drinking, you’re pretty positive that you could remember and recognize who you interact with. Mingyu was never one of them…at least that’s what you remember.

It feels like clockwork — creasing, folding, and tearing a single sheet of paper to produce those little pocket toys you used to swear by in elementary school. After a few minutes, a small and light blue colored fortune teller sits in front of you. You haven’t made these in years, yet these look just as mesmerizing as ever. It’s as if some genius combined a game of M.A.S.H. and a magic 8-ball together to create the fortune teller. It makes you feel as giddy as a child just from the act of pushing the fortune teller flat so you could write random numbers and answers for questions you don’t already know the answer to. 

There’s something very sentimental about folding origami at the local park where children chase each other around the playground and soccer balls crunch against the patchy green grass in the fields two weeks before you graduate from university. But here you are, folding fortune tellers while DK pulls a packed lunch out of his backpack. A store-bought sandwich from the small convenience store in the Student Center on campus, snacks, and a small juicy clementine — your typical Google image search lunch. He peels his tiny clementine, tiny crunches ticking his ear every time he pulls the skin away from the juicy orange flesh. He manages to peel the fruit in one go and admires the circular-shaped fruit sitting in his palm, the zesty fruity smell filling the air.

Time moves forward, yet special moments have a way of bending that linearity — pausing or even bringing you back in time while you stay in the present. Sentimentality is weird, you think. But you recognize that you long for it to stay every time it comes around.

In the distance, dressed in all black, Minghao balances his cell phone against his backpack and struts towards his phone. He trimmed his beloved manbun down to a mullet with long and blunt bangs that hang a little below his eyes, framing his v-shaped jaw. Even the black glossy shine of his fresh manicure shows clearly in the little video he is filming. Yet, his same warm smile and carefree personality stay. And your heart can’t help but melt a little every time he puts his arm around you, thumping happily as he asks about your day.

DK sections his clementine and pops them into his mouth one after the other, slowly chewing as he watches his friend document his outfit of the day from a distance.

“Honestly.” DK coughs a little mid-chew. He swallows before he continues his train of thought. “I’m so glad he’s out of his manbun phase. His whole aesthetic was bordering on cultural appropriation. Oh, I also had to talk him into using non-DIY shampoo and conditioner because I swore I kept seeing buildup on his scalp. Do you think I should receive some sort of credit or reward?”

“He’s pretty,” you muse, smiling to yourself while scribbling an answer down, purposely dotting the I’s with tiny scrawled stars — a tiny heart when the thought of Minghao falls into your mind. If DK asks about the stars and heart, you think you would reply with the fact that you were going for a Kidcore aesthetic.

“Puh-lease,” DK snorts while turning back to his stack of papers. “His bangs are so long he probably forgot what we look like. You should see how Mingyu looks now.” He winks at you.

But you don’t catch his subtle gesture as you continue to jot down your final answer. Feeling giddy inside, you quickly fold the origami back to its completed form, insert your fingers between the flaps, and hold it out to your friend.

He looks enthusiastic at first, quickly wiping his hands off to the side of the table until he stares directly at the fortune teller. He squints at your little project and leans in closer, nose scrunched in tandem.

“You realize I can barely read what you wrote because you folded it printed side up, right?” he comments on your mistake while looking up at you.

“Stop being an ass.” You roll your eyes and nudge the fortune teller closer to him, “Choose.”

“Uh…I want ‘Quantity A and Quantity B…-ormation centered.’”

“Just read what I wrote,” you push.

Eventually, the two of you end up at the last flap. Eyebrow cocked, you unfold the flap with a dramatic flair, hand thrown into the air after letting go. Fake gasping, you pause for effect. He plays along by clutching his chest even though he’s feeling terribly embarrassed.

“You will sell your soul to the devil in order to make tons of friends.”

He immediately frowns and jerks the fortune teller from your hand. “You were able to fit all that in a single answer space?” he asks you incredulously while staring at the piece of paper.

“Nah, it just says ‘idk.’”

He turns to you with an unamused look on his face and immediately hands you back your fortune teller. All of a sudden, the fortune teller you hold in your hands feels used — the bad kind of use. It’s not DK’s fault at all. It just feels like you’re holding something that once held a lot of memories, something once of use, something you’ll have to part ways with eventually. And it sucks feeling this way about a tiny craft you made and used only once one spring day.

A tiny brown bird with a white underbelly lands on DK’s stack of papers. It stays there for a few seconds, tilting its head towards you, staring at you with its circular black eyes. With two little hops, it quickly flies away. Its plight is strong enough to shift the upper three sheets on the stack of papers, but not enough to shift your new mood.

You wonder if moments are meant to be fleeting or if they should be kept for as long as you can keep them. Maybe it’s the Spring blues or whatever you want to call them. It feels weird knowing you won’t be seeing your college friends every single day after you graduate. And it feels weird that you’ve only known DK and Minghao for a few years, but it feels like you’ve spent eternity with them. You want to hold onto this moment, whatever you can manage to call it or define it as, just a little longer.

“Hey, did you want to grab dinner with us later?” DK interrupts your thoughts.

You drop the fortune teller on the table, letting it roll one, two before it stops on one of its edges. 

“Mingyu’s coming back to eat with us,” DK quickly adds, realizing he never answered your previous question as to Mingyu’s whereabouts. He fidgets with the idea of telling you that Mingyu visited his family for the weekend, but he decides not to because it isn’t his place to tell — the two of you aren’t even that close. There’s no use in telling you extra information that you don’t need to know. However, he’s still in disbelief that the two of his closest friends have never officially met.

“Oh I can’t. I’m taking grad pics with my club later.” You’re slightly bummed you wouldn’t be able to meet Mingyu.

“Next time then.” He smiles and turns back to his notes.

Yeah…next time.

Late Spring weather and early Summer heat feel hot and sticky on your skin. Beads of sweat collect on your upper lip, and you can feel your t-shirt cling to your lower back. Maybe you're imagining things. Nobody around you seems to be experiencing the same thing. Your friend across from you abandons his notes, and he searches for an easy origami tutorial on his phone. Minghao is long gone, no longer under the tree. He’s probably strolling around the park by himself, hands clasped behind his back like a kind elder who smiles and nods at you whenever he passes you on the road. Yet, you’re stuck in your seat, intrusive thoughts filling your mind.

“Hey DK, do you think we’ll grow apart after graduating?” The question unexpectedly comes out of your mouth. 

This reveals itself to be the answer to your worries.

“You okay?” DK looks up from his unfolded origami frog, the same one he used to play with when he was a child, the same one that would make him laugh enthusiastically at how the frog hopped forward when he tapped its back. He thinks Minghao would like it if he made him one. “Having a little existential crisis there?”

Words can’t find a way out of your mouth. You’re afraid of losing this moment, mentally preparing yourself over the course of the last few weeks. Afraid of losing those around you again. 

In your world, there is no Yn — singular. There is always Yn and blank. “We come as a package deal,” “BOGO,” “three peas in a pod”: these are all phrases associated with you, phrases you always repeat to others. An introduction of sorts. Lately, you’ve been needier than ever, asking close friends to hang out more and more. You make excuses to stay out longer, telling yourself experiences are worth more than your morning class test in a few hours. You’ll double book yourself with different friend groups, even if it means driving an hour to hang with the next group in a different location. You hate being lonely, yet the only person who doesn’t see that loneliness as a burden is a guy who seems like a background character compared to his roommates. His kindness is genuine, something that you know you can’t take for granted. 

“Hey, I’ve known you for like what? Three? Four years? It’s not like I can immediately drop you from my life right after graduating. You also still owe me for all the times I sneaked you into the resident dining hall for free meals.”

He knows you lost touch with your hometown friends almost immediately after you started college. “Best friends forever” written in silver permanent marker and decorated with glittery stickers and pages of personalized yearbook inserts eventually hold as much meaning as quickly scribbling “H.A.G.S.” in the yearbook of somebody you once borrowed a pencil from. And he knows how you cried after you made your first friend in college, one month into the semester. 

“Just promise me that you’ll always be my friend.” 

“Why are you being all sappy? It’s weird.” He tries to laugh it off, but, in all truthfulness, he’s worried about you. 

“Promise me,” you whine.

“Okay dumbass. I promise you.”

Copyright © 2023 Wondernus. All rights reserved.

[sevicia]

you WILL perceive my OC process / thoughts / ETC . had an idea for a game the other day while in the shower (they weren't kidding that shower can think) . two main characters they are sisters , you start playing as the older one ETC , and the idea is that she is withdrawn , nervous , responsible and insecure about where she is in life (she is about to start college this is important to the plot but not for what I'm talking about rn) . first instinct was to give her short spiky black hair

first thing I drew (did a couple alt hairs tho) but I felt like the expression did not match what I was going for at all (she is the type to try her best to look calm and reliable) , and neither did the clothes which I drew with the beauty of the opossum in mind . very prevalent today for no reason still a wonderful animal . I did like the hair though and I wasn't ready to give up on the opossum vibe (lol) , so I decided to do a paper doll type thing and start drawing by clothing layer so I could go slowly and think about what she'd be wearing

did not have the willpower to try & make the hair look the same in the paper doll version , didn't wanna overthink her expression either so I really ended up with a completely different character . . . who I really like !!

I have always wanted to do a story set in a cold climate , really had an idea for a different character back in high school (blonde, earmuffs, cheeks are always pink), but gave up on her when I just couldn't figure out what I wanted her to look like . . .

I got the idea for this character to be either in the 3rd or 4th year of high school , she's pretty much an outcast out of habit at this point , enjoys taking walks and being in places she has no business being in . I thought of her being talked to by a teacher (librarian?) on the subject of not just her grades but mostly her behavior at school, gives me the chance of saying if there is something bothering her and affecting her behavior then there is something she needs to get over but I really dunno how to write (think) about something like that ;_;

^ her & her bag . . . NOTHING IS TO SCALE !!!!!!! she has:

- notebook: ripped the used pages from a previous notebook and just kept the empty ones, the thing is beat up to the point the spiral's coming off and the corner of the cover is peeling off ... the cover design is a cloud castle with rainbows , a bundle was on sale and while she doesn't really like it , she doesn't particularly dislike it either .

- pencil case: heart-themed , the fabric is starting to fray after years of use . in it she has: a highlighter, a ballpoint pen, a regular pencil (chewed up), a tiny colored pencil, a container + sharpener combo, and three erasers: one of them is just a formless little thing, the other is a brand new one that she doesn't really wanna use because it's brand new, and the last is one of those useless decorative ones, shaped like a flower. no white-out because she is very very brave .

- water bottle: literally just a plastic bottle she bought a while ago & keeps washing & reusing . getting more & more crumpled up by the SECOND . . .

- strip of paracematol: self explanatory . doesn't get headaches TOO often, just often enough to justify carrying a strip of it around lol

- juice box + tupperware: her mom cuts apples for her and always gets her apple juice cause apples were her favorite fruit growing up ... she really prefers oranges now but doesn't have the heart to tell her . tupperware also has soda crackers . must be mentioned that this is NOT her lunch, just a snack. she gets free lunch at the school cafeteria ! only tasty less than half the time tho ....

- library card: she uses it a lot and has been doing so for a very long time . usually reads non-fiction about unexplained events (she likes ones involving forests the most), but is starting to enjoy horror & sci-fi a bit more lately

- Frankenstein (borrowed from the library): her current read, which she is really enjoying , though she's not sure if she is really getting the "message" of it . happens a lot with fiction books, which is why she doesn't read a lot of them

- flashlight: permanently borrowed from her dad (he insists he's gonna ask for it back eventually so she needs to take good care of it), she uses it for exploring. it gets dark pretty early and the library closes pretty late, so she just goes wherever she wants while her parents think she's at the library . they believe her because she does spend a lot of time there and she keeps feeling guiltier and guiltier ...

- opossum plushie: pretty much her best friend, she carries him everywhere . very soft fur , nice and squeezable too !!

OK ramble over for neow maybe . . .

MILA

[drawloverlala]

June status update

Hello! Ah we already are on June! hey, Happy pride month everyone!! 😊✨

And well Just wanted to write my usual status update and add a bit more of what’s to come for my commissions! as well as some update about the status of Brotherhood twist comic along the way ^_^

My commissions are still currently closed, I still don’t have a new opening date either, as I’m still working on the batch I got from April but I’m almost done with it! there’s only 2 commissions left to finish, one without background and one with background. And I’ll be possibly finishing the one without background this upcoming week.

after I’m done with these I’ll be taking a break but I’m thinking on opening commissions again after that, and with that said, I’ll be increasing my prices!  

The new prices are:

full character render= (half body) 80 USD / (full body)100 USD

A background = (simple)5 USD / (partial)80 USD / (fully rendered)250 USD

And well with this I’m wondering if the amount of requests will be less next time, I’ve talked before that I’ve been trying to regulate that a bit and this was an option to do that as well.

I also I feel like needed to regulate it again anyways, I mean, I was asked to draw a half body commission a while ago, and it made me realize that I can’t have the same price of a full body commission for that, so I thought I had to do some adjustment to my prices in general 😅, it has been a while since I last changed them after all.

And well besides of raising my prices in general, I also want to announce new listings for the future! Right now these are closed as well, but I’ll make sure to announce when I’ll be opening them!

🌸 Comic pages commissions!

I’ve already been working for a while doing these with an independent creator, but also I want to try taking these more regularly to create more experience in this field and to add newer content to my portfolio that I can show 😆

the process would be the same as with the illustration commissions, just that along with reference I’ll also require a sort of script, or at least a description of each panel. here’s the commission info page for this listing as well as examples:

Comic pages commission info page.

But here are the current prices as well! may or not change later, but here they are as of today:

Comic page (pencils): 40 USD

Comic page (pencils and inks): 90 USD

Comic page (pencils, inks and colors):130 USD

🌸 Chibis and Sketch pages!

I want to take these on Ko-fi, Their prices will be 20 USD and 40 USD respectively, I haven’t yet published these listings on my Ko-fi page, but here’s some examples of what I have in mind with these:

so... yeah, that’s about it for commission talk so far! then again, the comic commission prices may change, the new listings are still not open but I wanted to announce them, And currently still working on the batch I got from April but I’m almost done with it, and  after I’m done with that, I’ll take a break dunno how long but not too long and after that I’ll be announcing when I open commissions again with the new prices!

Here I updated my carrd with the current commission prices as well!

https://drawloverlala.carrd.co/#comissioninfo

If you want to see all my prices in detail I made this too.

The * in this, is that I need to explain XD,  I’m currently working on projects  where I take these kind of commissions, so they are not technically closed, but I’m not currently accepting them outside of these projects, so they aren’t really open either. hope that’s not too confusing XD

🌸 Now about Brotherhood’s Twist fan comic!

ah so far, I FINISHED SKETCHING THE WHOLE COMIC! i mean like all pages are currently sketched! there’s still no dialogue set for some of them, I’ve been adding some drafts of dialogue, I also started inking some of the new pages! I can see now an end to this comic! so yeah, here’s the state of the comic:

New unpublished pages done: 8 (pages 64 to 69)

New sketched pages:16 ( pages 70 to 86)

New inked pages: 5 to 6 ( pages 70 to 74 and half of page 75)

Here’s a peek of some pages out of order!

And that’s all for now! Thank you very much for reading and well I hope you have great week!