#from an old pencil sketch of mine

[fortunaestalta]

[whokilledhim]

soft toji with artist gf c:

he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his bare chest. cold water dripped from the ends of his hair and onto his broad shoulders. he eyes found you on his old arm chair, bent over your sketch book with a pencil in your hand. toji loves you like this. his lips twitched as he was going to speak, but he refused. didn’t want to interrupt. you looked up and eventually formed a smile on your lips.

“you’re staring toji.”

he chuckles and walks forward to sit beside you on the ground.

you pulled your feet out from underneath your butt and stretched your legs. his sweatpants creased and folds over with his body. in a second, toji is on the ground resting his head against your knee. his large hands find your socked ankles. mindlessly, he fidgets with the frilly fabric. you could feel the rumble come from deep in his throat when he speaks.

“what’re you drawin’ baby?” toji leans his head back to attempt at a peek in your sketch book.

you smile and quickly answer.

“jus’ drawin’ some hands from memory. it’s a small study but i’m tryna get a little better with them.” you glance over at him and give a sheepish shrug. “they’re hard toji”

he suggests quickly, “mm well, you could always borrow mine.”

you laughed and started playing with his hair. “i have drawn ‘em before, you jus’ never catch me hehe”

“oh yeah?” he looked up at her once again. his green eyes beneath heavy eyelids.

“mmhm! when you’re outside on the balcony with your tea, or when you work at the table. you don’t sit still for long so i’ve gotta catch you quick.” you smile and look down at your paper to shade a knuckle.

toji watched you for a few moments, quiet. he studied you as your fingers moved, and your eyebrows slightly knit together in concentration. you were a very sweet woman in his mind. he would let you live in his ribs if you’d asked him to. God he loved you.

“i like watchin’ you do this” he barely whispers.

“drawing?”

he nodded. “yeah. you get all focused and in your own little world. jus’ feel good that i can be here with you while y’r bein’ you. makes m’feel like everything’s okay.”

you giggle and bend over to kiss him on his head. “you’re sweet toji.”

he snorts. “yeah yeah.”

you get close to his ear and whisper, “your secrets’ safe with me.”

first post ever guys :0 this was really fun 2 write i really missed writing!! >_<

[aikya-kat-44]

Varian headcannons

He/they baddie

Has lots of burn scars from experiments

Has scars on his wrists from handcuffs. For this reason he never takes off his gloves unless he's alone or with someone he trusts.

Trust issues. This kid was ignored by pretty much everyone when he needed them most, it's gotta have an effect on his ability to have healthy relationships (they say, almost like they're not speaking from experience)

Angry and Catalina were the first friends he had that were vaguely around his age. The vat7k gang (- yong) were the first friends he had actually within a year of his age (I hc angry as 12 and catalina as 14 in season 3. the vat7k gangs ages are again my personal hcs: Nuru as 17 turning 18, Hugo as 19 and Yong as 14).

Used to love the snow and rain and winter because it meant hot cocoa and time with his dad. The blizzard ruined a lot of things for him, including the snow.

Sensory issues galore (no I'm not projecting wdym)

Sh scars BC boy hates himself for everything he's done and blames himself for everything that went wrong

Whipping scars from prison. Again based off a HC of mine where they put him in maximum security and treated him like a regular major prisoner (including fun perks like interrogation, torture, starvation and whipping) until his old cellmate attacked him pretty badly so they threw him into the cell with Andrew. (Which was no better. Seriously which fricking ass had the oh so intelligent brainwave to put him in with Andrew. That's why I created this HC to at least try to give it a rational explanation)

Frostbite scars. You're telling me that a kid in a winter coat travelling the carriage worthy distance from old Corona to the castle through a blizzard literally described as a divine death trap TWICE made it out unscathed? No way!

Looks perpetually like a 12 yer old, much to his annoyance and to the amusement of Eugene.

Autism and ADHD. Look at him. Just look. Especially at the beginning of that episode where he gets kidnapped.

Also: PTSD, anxiety, depression, and BPD. Yes I'm projecting but also. Varians anxiety is pretty much canon ATP. You can see it in most of his episodes pre and post villain arc. PTSD because even in be very afraid, which happens around 2 years after his dad was trapped in amber, he is still very affected by it. Depression and low self esteem, he's miserable about everything that's happened and that's kind of ruined his life and he hates himself for it. Little canon evidence but feels right. BPD- much of Varians character, especially early on, is built around seeking affirmation. When he is repeatedly denied it, his emotions overcome him and he can't hold it anymore and breaks down. Also I see him as very emotional and logical at the same time so he has mood swings out of his control and is horrified at himself because he knows they aren't rational but he can't control them. Totally not projecting. Again not much canon evidence but great for angst and projecting purposes.

Since I'm projecting here I might as well project my artstyle on him. Sketchy, done with a pen or pencil and one random colour on the back of pretty much anything. Actually pays attention to lighting and tone on the rare occasion it is required. Very good at making random scribbles look like a perfect replica of something he's seen before. Good for scientific drawing and sketches. Terrible for fully finished works. Unlike me he is very good at art and makes my weird artstyle look good.

POTS. No real reason, just I can make characters physically disabled in headcannons and I want to use that power. Also varigo fluff potential.

Reads too much

Chronic loneliness from having no one to talk to (I'm projecting too fcking much and I know it)

Insomniac and won't admit it. Has passed out plentiful times in his lab and the most random places ever from pure exhaustion. This got worse during the villain arc because Quirin wasn't there to drag his sleepy ass to bed. Hugo worries.a (no it isn't an ungodly hour in the morning when I'm typing this wdym).

Reconnects with Cass post canon.

Has nightmares about his dad, sots, prison or Andrew regularly and needs either his dad, Eugene and later Hugo to stay with him after.

Has a serious sense of ✨style✨

Biromantic and asexual. He does not escape my giant aspec ray.

Begged his dad for weeks to let him keep ruddiger, who wandered into his lab one day and soon enough became his "assistant". Quirin was rather displeased (DW he came around eventually guys).

We all know that Varian loves animals, but did you know that animals love Varian?

Very picky eater who has a bunch of allergies and often forgets to eat (y am I projecting sm here chat).

Very good at lying and manipulating and scheming, as seen in his villain arc, but his emotions and guilt and empathy get in the way most of the time. As he should tell Hugo in my hcs, "just because I can doesn't mean I enjoy doing it". (HC: Hugo knows Varian has some sort of criminal past but he doesn't know that he was his gay awakening, the alchemist).

Makes annoying household inventions.

sassy and overdramatic

Issues with authority

Shares some rather radical opinions with Hugo and Cass

Frustrated at Cass walking away scott free whilst he was stuck in prison for a year

Bottles up anger until it explodes at the worst possible moment

is NOT innocent.

Intense fear of disappointing people, especially those who wouldn't have a negative reaction, since "that just makes it worse".

Idealist that kept getting more and more frustrated and disillusioned over time.

There are more but this post is long enough as it is. Almost all of these are me projecting on Varian.

What are some of your Varian headcannons? I'd love to know. :)

[novasintheroom]

050. Impress

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.9k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: Vash catches you drawing in your journal.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

It’s a hobby, you tell yourself. Plenty of people do it.

In the shade of the overhang, you glance over your book and scratch a few more lines down the page. A curve here, some dots there. You bite your tongue gently. It’s getting better. Marginally. And Vash is none-the-wiser to being observed.

He’s slowly taking apart and cleaning his gun. Rubbing a cloth along each piece, careful of where he puts things on the flat rock he’s taken as a ‘table.’ Vash is scrunched up now, making an interesting pose to note down in your journal.

Next to the drawing, you sketch out some lines and notes on his anatomy. Triceps, you write. Brachioradialis. Palmaris longus. You trail down to his legs. Vastus medialis. Gastrocnemius. Back up to his chest. Pectoralis major. Subtly, you put a heart by the name.

“Watcha drawin’?”

So much for subtlety. How did he sneak up on you? Faster than Vash has time to blink, your book slams closed. He’s left with a waft of air blowing in his face and a wide-eyed stare from you. From your side, he lifts his hands placatingly. “Woah, I didn’t see anything.”

Still, blood rushes to your face and you purse your lips, giving him a searching look. “Liar. What did you see?”

Vash’s smile is gentle. Always gentle. “Nothing, really.” Then, that smile turns mischievous. “I didn’t know you drew naughty pictures.”

You splutter. What? “I do not!”

“It’s okay, really!” He waves his hands and walks over to his bag. “Everyone’s into something. Why else would you panic like that?”

The blush has reached the back of your throat. You cough, sucking in air to protest. “I don’t draw naughty pictures!”

He looks over with a smirk, putting his gun back together without looking. “Sure. And I have both my arms.”

“I don’t!” Not only mortified by the suggestion, you’re blatantly outraged he doesn’t believe you. Only one way to rectify this. You stand from your rock and march over to him. Flipping open the book, you shove it in his face. “See! I’m practicing anatomy!”

Vash’s look goes slack, and with care, he takes the book from your hands. You realize he was teasing you too late. He sees your drawings. He sees them. You’re suddenly nervous again, feeling like a child caught doing something wrong. It’s fine, you think, it’s fine, fine, fine.

Vash takes his time looking over your drawings. It’s of him, obviously. Chest bared, missing the scars and wires and plates he feels on the daily pulling at his skin. You don’t know about them. How could you? He never lets you see. But you are studying anatomy. He sees the scientific terms criss-crossing the page in your neat handwriting. On the next page, he sees you’ve sketched him in different poses; some of him crouched as if over a fire, some jumping in mid-air, coat floating wildly behind him. One is just of his face, his smile. The eyes are a little crooked, but it’s impressive, even still.

He sees your hands worrying out of the corner of his eye. Cracking your knuckles. You do it when you’re nervous. “I only have you around to draw,” you explain, trying to save yourself from more embarrassment. Vash hums, and you duck your head. “It’s…an old hobby of mine.”

The next page are close-ups. Hands, feet, mouth, eyes. You have no coloring pencils; everything is shaded charcoal black-and-gray. In the margins, you’ve drawn different worms you’ve come across, with beaks and bug-eyes and many legs. But overall, he’s the subject. He’s the one you’re drawing the most. A strange feeling settles in his chest, and with a slight grin, he hands the book back.

You take it, watching him, wary. “So…?”

Vash shakes his head. “These are really good!”

Your look is dubious. “You aren’t…weirded out?”

Weirded out? Why would he be? He’s never been the subject of someone’s drawings. It makes him feel…he doesn’t know, searching for the word. “No,” he says, “I’m – flattered,” he finally puts a name to the feeling, and his cheeks pinken.

You look down, gnawing at your inner cheek. “It’s something I started doing a few months back. Just…drawing your poses whenever we have downtime.” Finally, a smile breaks on your lips. “You’re very limber.”

Vash laughs. “It’s all the yoga I do.” He reaches up and tugs at the back of his neck. He feels a bit shy, but asks, “Can I watch you draw sometime?”

Your mouth falls open. “Um…sure?”

He kicks at a nearby pebble. “I’m not the best at drawing. But I like to do it too. In my journals, sometimes.”

You perk up. “You do? Of what?”

“Mainly architecture. I tried people a few times, but they…they look like they’re melting.”

You laugh, and he laughs with you.

And later, in the firelight and lamps of your camp, you and he draw together. He practices drawing your face (and it does look like it’s melting, much to his chagrin and your laughter), and you sketch architecture, blown away and inspired by the detailed drawings of derelict ships and abandoned towns and cities Vash has been to in his journals. You trade art secrets, tips, and switch journals with each other to draw in for a page.

You both go to bed with stained fingertips and smiles, happy to have one more thing to bring you together.

[dakusan]

Recently found your account and I'm just loving your writing, and I'm also obsessed with Vamp Chan that I've already read all your posts about this fanfic. I wanted to know more about the two of them, like silly things, like what their routine is like as a couple or if they argue a lot, I also wanted to see what it's like when She's jealous of Chan. If you don't mind, never stop writing ♥️♥️

anon, my darling bat-winged sweetheart — welcome to the bloodstained side of town. at this point? i am accidentally building a vampire cult and you are so, so welcome here. you said you wanted silly things? jealousy? arguments? routine? baby, you're not ready for the cursed domesticity of vamp!Chan x blood doll!reader.

now let’s get into it: rituals, bloodlust, cuddles, and chaos—

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

✦ T H E I R R O U T I N E ✦

(aka: soft monstrosity and his favourite chew toy)

✦ He absolutely sleeps. In fact, he lives for sleep. But only when it’s with you. You’re sprawled on top of him like a weighted blanket and he’s purring like a devilish cat in a sunbeam.

✦ If you nap before him, though? He will sketch you. One hand on the pencil, the other absentmindedly stroking your arm. You wake up to soft humming and see a sketchbook half-covered under his chest. You ask to see it. He says no. So you pout. He caves. (They’re all you. Every one of them. Some naked. Some asleep. Some laughing. One that says “mine” in the corner.)

✦ If you’re brushing your teeth? He’s beside you, bent over the marble sink, polishing his fangs with a sleek little black-handled tool like he’s in a vampire K-beauty commercial.   You: "Are you flossing your fangs right now?"   Him: "They’re a weapon, sweetheart. They need maintenance."

✦ Every feeding is ceremonial. He doesn’t just drink. He lights candles. He puts on music. It's a whole thing!

✦ He pretends not to care about technology… but gets weirdly possessive over your phone wallpaper. "Why am I not your lockscreen? Change it. Now."

✦ You both own like six silk robes, yet somehow end up in his old oversized shirts and underwear every night. He claims he doesn't care. Then sucks a bruise onto your thigh because the shirt rides up too high.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

✦ D O T H E Y A R G U E ? ✦

(yes. and no. but also yes.)

✦ You can’t really argue with someone who can hear the change in your pulse when you're mad. He’ll just tilt his head and go: “Your heart’s upset. Talk to me.” (And how do you stay mad after that??)

✦ Most “arguments” are over stupid things.   — "Stop glamouring the delivery guy to tip you more.”   — “I wasn’t! …Okay. Maybe a little.”   — “CHAN.”   — smirk “Fine. I’ll glam you instead. Happy now?”

✦ The only real fights come when he goes too long without feeding and starts slipping. You can see it in the way his eyes darken. The way he flinches at loud noises. The way his hands tremble when he touches your face.   And you say, “Stop protecting me. Feed.”   And he says, “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”   And you say, “Then trust me to stop you.” It ends in tears. And a bite. And a promise. Every time.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

✦ W H E N Y O U ’ R E J E A L O U S ✦

(she’s soft-possessive. he’s a smug menace.)

✦ you don’t get jealous of feeding. he only feeds from you. that part’s sacred. untouchable. you’re the altar. the addiction. the reason he stays sane. but—

✦ you do get jealous when people flirt with him. when mortals get bold and ask what cologne he’s wearing. when they giggle at his laugh. when someone dares to say, “you look familiar, have we met before?” (yes, bitch. in your nightmares.)

✦ and chan? oh, chan notices. he thrives on the flick of your eye, the shift in your jaw. he’ll drag a finger up the stem of his wine glass and say, “that look on your face…”   “what look?”   “the ‘i’m gonna tear her throat out’ look.”   “should i not?”   “no, you should. i like it when you’re a little… territorial.”

✦ your revenge? brutal. quiet. you bite his neck in the backseat. you leave hickey marks on his hips, visible when his shirt rides up. you make sure his lips are too swollen to flirt with anyone.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🩸 anon, my darkling beloved—first of all, welcome to the bloodstained palace. yes. it’s real. yes. we’re growing. i don’t know how we got here either but apparently i’ve started a vampire cult and you just joined by accident (or fate?). thank you for such a sexy little ask. silly, possessive, mildly chaotic vampire domesticity? YES PLEASE. don’t worry—this is just the beginning. you’re so not ready for what’s coming next. fangs out, baby. we’re in bloom 🖤🦇

[charliedawn]

My Sandpaper Mouth

Professor!Joel Miller x Artist!Reader (No apocalypse here.) Warning: Stabbing wound and traumatic event!

You had opened the wrong door. It was supposed to be the studio for life drawing—Arts 203—but instead of easels and scattered charcoal, you found yourself stepping into a quiet music room. The air was still, golden with the late afternoon light. And then you heard it—

A man sat alone on a stool, guitar resting against his leg, his head slightly bowed. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His fingers moved across the strings with a kind of reverence, coaxing out a melody that wasn’t polished but honest. It drifted through the room like smoke—steady, slow, and beautiful.

You stayed. Quietly.

You slipped into a chair in the back, careful not to let the old wooden legs creak. He didn’t glance your way. You didn’t say a word. You just listened. He played as if the room were empty. As if the music wasn’t meant for anyone but him. And yet it felt like it was meant for you. You opened your sketchbook—not to draw him exactly, but the way the music felt. The slump of his shoulders. The rhythm of his boot tapping. The softness in the pauses between chords.

Eventually, the song faded, the last note trailing off into silence. The man finally looked up then, catching sight of you. His brow furrowed slightly, not in annoyance—more like curiosity.

“You ain’t one of mine,” he pointed out. His voice was low, gravel-thick and with that slight Southern drawl.

You smiled, just a little. “No. Wrong room.”

He set the guitar down gently. “Didn’t seem like you were in a rush to leave.”

“I liked your music,” you replied honestly with a light shrug.

Joel gave a quiet grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t used to having an audience.”

You closed your sketchbook, but you didn’t leave right away. “My name’s Y/N. Do you always play before class?”

“Most days,” he confirmed with a shrug. “It’s quieter then.”

He did not tell you his name. But you didn’t need him to. Dark, brooding and with eyes you could find a path to hell with…This was the infamous Professor Miller. The music teacher who for some reason everyone loved, but nobody could explain why. Maybe because he had this dad look or he simply kept to himself and loved his job ? You hesitated at the door. “Would you mind if I listened again sometimes?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, with a nod, said, “Long as you don’t talk over it.”

You smiled. “Deal.”

And the next time? You walked into that wrong room on purpose.

…

After that first afternoon, it became a quiet ritual. You never announced yourself. Never knocked. You’d simply slip into the room 206, sometimes fifteen minutes before class, long before Joel’s actual students began to trickle in. He never said much—sometimes only nodded—but he always had his guitar, always let the music fill the space for both your ears to enjoy.

You had developed a rhythm.

He’d play. You’d sketch.

His music stirred something in you—not just inspiration, but clarity. The kind that made your hands itch to move charcoal or a pencil across paper, to chase the way his fingers curled around each string, or how the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly when a note hit the way he liked. He never asked to see what you were drawing, and you never offered. That was part of the quiet agreement. But over time, you found yourself more and more drawn to the strange idea that this man, all rough flannel and calloused hands, had become a sort of muse.

It made you laugh one afternoon, unexpectedly.

You had been sketching, half-lost in the way the light from the window caught the edges of Joel’s silhouette—and your hand, almost on its own, had begun drawing him not as himself but as one of the mythological muses from classical paintings—or from the criminally underrated Disney long animation Hercules. He wore a flowy toga in the sketch, his hair longer and curling, a lyre in place of his guitar, a crown of olive leaves crooked on his head. The absurdity of it pulled a soft laugh from you before you could stop it.

Joel paused mid-song, fingers stilling on the strings. He glanced over at you, one eyebrow raised.

“You laughin’ at my playin’ over there?”

You pressed your hand over your mouth, grinning behind it. “Sorry—no. Just…got carried away with my artistic liberties.”

He gave a skeptical look, then smirked. “Huh. What were ya drawin’ ?”

You shrugged. “My muse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Muses usually don’t make people laugh.”

“No,” you admitted, eyes dropping back to your sketch, “but this one kind of does.”

He strummed again, slow and thoughtful. “Well, okay then.”

And then the music continued, as steady and familiar as ever. But the laugh lingered in your chest, warm and private—your little secret.

A few days later

Joel didn’t see you before class.

He walked in early, as usual—coffee in hand, guitar slung over his shoulder. The room was quiet, still lit by the soft amber light that always reminded him of late summer. He glanced towards the back row, like he always did. Your spot. The same chair you claimed every time you “accidentally” walked into the wrong classroom months ago.

But the seat was empty that day.

He didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe you were running late. Maybe you’d decided to actually go to your real class for once. He sat down, adjusted the guitar, and began to play. His fingers moved from muscle memory, but his eyes kept flicking up towards the door, just in case.

You didn’t walk in.

The song fell flat. He stopped halfway through and leaned back, letting the silence fill the room. Joel didn’t want to admit it, even to himself—but he’d gotten used to that quiet presence. That soft scratch of pencil on paper while he played. The occasional smirk you gave when he hit a sour note. The way you never said much, just watched, as if he were saying more with his music than words ever could.

He missed it. He missed—

He shook his head. Nope. Not gonna go there.

When his students finally arrived, he found himself irritated at their chatter, the way they clattered in with no regard for the stillness he’d grown to enjoy. He went through the motions—scales, structure, progressions—but the music didn’t feel the same. He kept looking at the door. Even after class had started. Even after it ended. And when the room emptied again, he sat alone for a long while, guitar in his lap, wondering where his little sketchbook ghost had gone to…

The next day:

Joel heard it in the hallway. Two faculty members were murmuring near the vending machines, just out of earshot—except he caught a few words.

“…student got attacked—”

“—just off campus, near the back alley…”

“—knife, can you believe that ? She’s in the hospital. Lucky she’s alive.”

Joel slowed his step. He didn’t usually pay attention to gossip. He kept to himself, taught his classes, played his guitar and went home. But something in the way the older professor said “she” made his stomach turn. He stood still for a moment, jaw tight, then approached.

“Who’re you talkin’ about ?” he asked. The other teachers turned, surprised by his presence.

“A terrible thing,” said the art history instructor, shaking her head. “Some arts student. She got jumped near the train overpass. Yesterday evening. Can’t imagine how someone could—”

“What’s her name ?” Joel interrupted.

They hesitated. The other teacher—a younger guy from photography—scratched his neck. “Don’t think they released it. But I heard she’s in St. Peter’s hospital. Banged up pretty bad.”

Joel nodded once, sharp and final. Then he walked away, eyes dark with something unreadable. Back in his classroom, he sat with the guitar across his knees, but didn’t play. The light through the window was the same as always, but the room felt wrong without you in it.

You hadn’t shown up that morning either. No sketchbook. No quiet laugh. No little lively chat. And now all he could see was the image of you in some alley, alone, scared, hurt. His hands tightened on the frets until the wood creaked.

He didn’t know why the idea beat him so hard.

Maybe because you were a part of his rhythm now. Maybe because some part of him had started looking forward to those few quiet minutes with you more than he let on. Maybe because the thought of you scared and hurt made something twist in his chest that he didn’t like. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the contact list. But he didn’t have your number. He only knew the sound of your pencil and the way you smiled when he played the right chord…He stayed like this for a while.

He then took a decision.

That night, Joel stood outside the fluorescent-lit entrance of St. Peter’s Hospital, clutching a crinkled paper bag in one hand and a small bouquet of white daisies and deep blue cornflowers in the other. He didn’t know much about flowers—not really. He’d picked these because they looked nice. The kind of thing someone like you might sketch in the corner of a page.

He didn’t even know if flowers were appropriate. He wasn’t your family. Not your teacher. Not anything, really—just a man with a guitar and a quiet habit of playing while you drew in the back of his classroom.

But he’d shown up anyway.

The hospital lobby was dim and sterile, smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Joel cleared his throat as he approached the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he started. “I’m lookin’ for a student. Came in yesterday evenin’. I don’t know her last name—only first. Might’ve been attacked.”

The nurse behind the counter gave him a skeptical look. “Do you know if she’s in ICU or general ?”

Joel shook his head. “Arts student. Sketches a lot. Quiet. Might’ve come in with a stab wound.”

Something in his words must’ve struck a chord, because the nurse’s expression softened slightly. She tapped on her computer, then nodded slowly.

“There’s a patient who fits that. No visitors yet.” She eyed the flowers. “You a relative?”

Joel hesitated. Then answered, “No.”

But after a pause, he added, “I’m…someone who noticed when she wasn’t there.”

She seemed to understand. Gave him a room number and pointed down the hallway. Joel nodded and made his way past rows of muted curtains and quiet beeping machines. He hesitated just outside your door, hand tightening slightly around the flowers. There was a moment—a long one—where he thought maybe he should turn around. Leave the bouquet and go.

But then he stepped inside.

You were there, eyes half-lidded in the dim light, a bandage on your shoulder, bruising blooming across your temple. You looked tired. But alive.

Your gaze drifted towards him, confusion pulling faintly at your brows. “Professor Miller…?”

He swallowed. “Heard what happened.”

You blinked at the flowers in his hand. “Are those…for me?”

He looked down, like he’d forgotten he was holding them. Then stepped forward, awkward but careful, and set them gently on the rolling bedside table.

“Didn’t know if they were necessary,” he muttered. “Just…figured maybe you’d want somethin’ else to look at for a while.”

You smiled at the thoughtful gesture. “They’re nice.”

He nodded, shifting his weight. He didn’t know what else to say, so he reached into the paper bag and pulled out something else—a brand new sketchbook with a box of pencils.

“I hum…bought this too,” he said—his thumb tracing the fake leather covering it. “Figured you might eventually run out of pages in your last one.”

You smiled and gratefully took it—your fingers brushing against his.

“Thank you. I will use it.”

He nodded and they his eyes drifted down to your injury and a lump formed in his throat.

“You scared the hell outta me, you know,” he admitted and his eyes looked back at your face where the bruises showed obvious signs of struggle. You had fought, perhaps even fell in your attempt to get away.

You gave a weak laugh. “I didn’t mean to.”

He nodded again.

“Do you know who it was?” he asked, voice low but rough with something with barely restrained fury. “The guy who did it?”

You shifted slightly in the hospital bed, a faint wince flickering across your face as your fingers absently touched the bandage at your side. Your voice was quiet. Flat. Like you were still trying to make sense of the memory yourself.

“No. I’d never seen him before.”

Joel’s jaw flexed.

You looked down at your hands, still faintly ink-smudged. “I was walking back from the clay modeling studio. Late class. Wasn’t paying much attention—just thinking about what I wanted to fix on the sculpture.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I noticed him following me,” you continued, “but figured it was nothing. He wasn’t close. I thought maybe he lived in the same dorm building.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

You swallowed. “Then he was just—behind me. So fast. I didn’t even hear him run. Just felt a hand over my mouth and then—” you paused, touching your side. “The knife. He stabbed me once in the side and in my shoulder. I got away by scratching his face with my keys and ran.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Joel was completely still. But you could see the tension radiating off him. His hands had curled into fists on his knees, knuckles pale. There was a storm in his chest he wasn’t letting out.

You glanced at him, surprised at the rawness in his voice when he finally spoke. “Goddamn coward.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He stared at the floor, eyes heavy-lidded with something like guilt. Like if he’d just played a little longer that day, you might’ve stopped by after class. Like if he’d been outside by coincidence. Like if he’d just been there…

You reached out slowly, resting your hand over his, your grip weak but steady.

“I’m okay now,” you reassured him gently. “It could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s jaw tightened again. “Shouldn’t’ve happened at all.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then he asked, “Did they catch him ?”

You shook your head. “No. Police are looking. Said it seemed…random.”

Joel didn’t speak again for a while. He just sat there, your hand over his, his fingers eventually loosening as he matched your touch. But when he left that night, it wasn’t with nothing. He left with your finished sketchbook under one arm, the corners of a new page sticking out—a faint, unfinished sketch of him sitting on that same stool, playing guitar, with soft lines around his face.

And beneath it, written in pencil, were the faint words:

He doesn’t know he’s a muse.

…

When you came back to campus, it wasn’t the same place you’d left. The clay-stained stairwells, the humming vending machines in the corner, the mural in the atrium—all of it still stood where you remembered. But it all felt…quieter. Wrong. You stepped through the front doors of the arts building with your bag slung carefully across your shoulder, walking slowly, trying not to jostle your side. The bandages were still there, hidden beneath your clothes. You wore a loose sweater to cover the bruises. A new sketchbook was tucked tightly against your chest like armor.

You spotted a girl from your sculpture class by the elevators. You’d shared tools before, once laughed over the lopsided busts you both tried to fix.

You smiled, raised a hand to wave. She looked right through you. Then turned and walked away without a word. You stood there for a second, hand frozen mid-air.

Okay. Maybe she hadn’t seen you.

You tried again in the courtyard. A guy from your figure drawing seminar passed by. You’d sat beside each other the entire semester, shared references, even complimented each other’s shading once.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice still a little hoarse but hopeful.

He slowed—but only for a heartbeat. Then looked down and sped up, like just acknowledging you might make him…what ? A target too ?

It wasn’t just awkward. It was deliberate.

You passed group after group—people who used to greet you, nod to you, at least smile. Not one of them looked at you now. Some glanced over their shoulders as you walked by, as if checking for shadows.

And you realized what it was. They knew.

Word had gotten around. Maybe not the details, but enough. That you were the one who’d been attacked. You were a warning. A reminder. And no one wanted to stand too close to a reminder. Even in the studio, things felt different. The usual chatter dulled when you entered. People stepped around you like you were fragile glass—or bad luck.

You tried to focus. Tried to sketch. But your hand hesitated over the page.

You weren’t invisible. You were radioactive.

And for the first time since you’d come back, you wanted to leave.

You were gathering your things when you heard a familiar sound—a soft guitar chord. Faint, down the hall. Not a song, not yet. Just warm-up notes. A quiet pulse of something that didn’t flinch away from you.

Professor Miller.

Your fingers gripped the strap of your bag. And despite everything—the silence, the stares—you followed that sound. Because in a building full of people too afraid to look at you…there was still one man who didn’t. That afternoon, you slipped quietly into the music room before Joel’s class began. The familiar scent of worn wood and old strings wrapped around you like a fragile comfort. Joel was already there, tuning his guitar, his back to the door. You took your usual seat in the corner, careful not to disturb the quiet.

You opened your sketchbook, but your hands trembled as you tried to draw the first lines. The pencil felt heavy, unsteady—like it was fighting against your nerves.

Your breath hitched, fingers faltering, the page blurring beneath your eyes. And then, before you could stop it, the tears came—hot, unchecked sobs that shook your whole body. You hid your face behind the sketchbook, trying to stifle the sound, but he heard you. Joel turned slowly, guitar forgotten for the moment. His eyes softened as he took in your trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks.

Without a word, he set the guitar down and moved to sit beside you.

“Bad day ?” He asked knowingly. You nodded, still gasping for breath, the sobs gradually fading as his presence steadied you. He didn’t rush you or press for answers. He just sat there and after a moment of hesitation, he awkwardly patted your shoulder. You were grateful for his quiet support and even when you stopped crying—his hand was still there to reassure you.

Two days later:

Joel had been leaning against the scratched counter in the teacher’s lounge, nursing a bitter cup of coffee, when he heard them. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—wasn’t even trying to—but the words carried. Quiet enough to be whispered, loud enough to slice clean through the air.

“The poor girl is back.”

“Such a tragedy.”

“A week and nothing. They couldn’t find anyone.”

“No witnesses…” A pause, a sip of tea. “Do you think she faked it?”

Joel froze. The mug in his hand tilted slightly, hot coffee sloshing against the rim.

There was a thin, sour laugh from someone near the fridge. “Well, you know how artists are. Sensitive. Attention-seeking. Wouldn’t be the first time someone made something up for sympathy.”

He set the mug down slowly, deliberately. His jaw worked, the muscle twitching near his temple.

Faked it?

He remembered the sterile white light of the hospital. The too-quiet tone of your voice as you described the hand clamping over your mouth. The way your body had curled in on itself while you cried in the music room, shaking like you were still back in that alley, bleeding. He slowly turned towards them, the casual cruelty in their voices boiling in his chest like poison.

“You think she faked it?” Joel’s voice came low and hard, a growl of disbelief.

The three faculty members jumped. One looked guiltily at her tea while another pretended to be busy with her stack of papers to grade. The last one straightened like he had a spine to defend.

“We’re just saying—there’s no evidence—”

“No evidence doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Joel snapped. “What it means is some bastard’s still out there, and she’s the one living with it.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. The three other faculty members seemed to shy away from his gaze now.

He stared at them, cold fury in his eyes. “So next time you feel like gossiping about someone else’s trauma, maybe keep her name outta your damn mouths.”

Then he turned and left, not waiting for an answer, his fists clenched and heart hammering in his chest. How could they think you faked it? How could anyone think—? He felt angry. He wasn’t gonna let anyone disrespect you like that. He knew what trauma looked like, and from everything he had seen so far? You certainly weren’t faking a damn thing…That night, after the halls had quieted and the last stragglers had left campus, Joel walked straight to the administration office. He wasn’t the type to bother people after hours, but tonight—he didn’t care.

The secretary blinked up at him from behind her monitor. “Professor Miller?”

“I need a student’s timetable,” he requested, voice calm but firm.

She hesitated. “That’s not typically something—”

“It’s for her safety,” Joel added, his tone sharpening just enough to cut through her protocol. “The girl who was attacked last week. She’s one of mine.”

A lie. But that seemed to do it. The woman’s mouth pressed into a line as she tapped at her keyboard. “Name?”

He gave it. When she handed him the paper, his hands were steady. The next afternoon, your last class was Intro to Printmaking in the third-floor west wing—tucked away, with hallways that always felt too empty.

You left the room quietly, books hugged to your chest.

And there he was.

Joel stood just outside the door, leaning against the opposite wall. His guitar case was slung casually over his shoulder, like he had simply wandered there. But his eyes were steady on you, like he’d been waiting.

You paused, unsure, until he gave you a faint nod. You walked towards him slowly, a small breath caught in your throat.

“Professor Miller?” you asked, uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

He pushed off the wall with a shrug. “Thought I’d walk you home.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why ?”

He met your eyes. “Because no one else is.”

And somehow, that answer seemed enough.

You nodded. “Okay then...”

So the two of you walked—silent at first, your steps echoing through quiet corridors. He didn’t speak unless you did, didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t rush when your pace slowed near corners. But he was there. And for days on end he would do it. He would always accompany you to your dorm building…You would step into the hallway with your arms wrapped around your sketchbook, eyes heavy from the droning voice of the other professors and the weight of another day spent avoiding empty stares.

But when you turned the corner, you would stop short and smile. Joel was always there. Leaning casually against the wall across from the lecture doors, arms crossed, a denim jacket thrown over his usual flannel. He looked like he’d been there a while, waiting. It had become a quiet routine. He was just there at the end of your last class each day, a steady presence in the drifting haze of your recovery.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you echoed.

He straightened and nodded towards the main doors. “You ready to go ?”

You blinked. “Did someone ask you to…?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

You hesitated. “You’re not worried it’ll…look weird after a while?”

Joel huffed, something like a laugh caught behind it. “I’m too damn old to care what people think.”

You smiled and fell in step with him. However, the sky had darkened without much warning—one minute the sun glowed through the tall windows of the studio, the next, clouds had gathered like bruises overhead. You stepped out of the building with your jacket pulled tight around you.

You both stopped short.

The first pebble of ice bounced off the pavement, then another. Then a thousand. Tiny white stones clattered across the campus like scattered beads, bouncing wildly off railings and tree branches. It wasn’t violent—just persistent, loud, and strangely hypnotic.

You both took a step back under the narrow concrete awning, standing side by side.

He looked up, squinting toward the sky. “Haven’t seen hail like this in years.”

You nodded, arms folded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The sound of the hail echoed in the empty courtyard, the sky casting everything in a pale gray hue. Students had scattered long ago, and for a moment it felt like the two of you were alone in the world—separated from everything else by a curtain of falling ice.

Joel tilted his head slightly, hands in his pockets, and said without looking at you, “Y’know, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if you do—I’ll listen.”

You stared ahead at the hailstones piling at the edge of the walkway.

“I don’t know what I’d even say,” you murmured.

He nodded. “That’s fine too.”

The wind kicked up for a second, pushing a few icy pebbles under the overhang. You both shifted closer to the wall, shoulder to shoulder now. You let your head tilt just slightly towards him.

“It’s the first time in a while I haven’t felt like I’m about to break into pieces,” you admitted softly.

Joel nodded, slowly. “Good. Then that means you’re healing.”

And so you both stood there in silence, watching the sky fall, as the world passed gently around you.

You turned your head slightly, studying the lines of his profile—the worn kindness in the corner of his eyes, the way his jaw was set not in sternness, but in thought. The rain of ice tapped a rhythm against the roof above, steady and constant like a metronome.

And then, with a small smile tugging at your lips, you said quietly,

“You’re a nice person, Professor Miller.”

Joel blinked, surprised—not by the words, exactly, but by the way you said them. So simple. So certain. Like it was a truth you’d been holding onto for a while, waiting for the right moment to speak it aloud.

He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he said, eyes still on the courtyard.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “Well…I would.”

He didn’t smile often. But in that moment, a corner of his mouth tugged upward. The hail softened, melting into slush across the stone courtyard, but you stayed there a moment longer, watching your breath curl in the air between you and Joel.

You shifted your sketchbook under your arm and glanced up at him. “Once the year’s over,” you said, voice tentative but warm, “I’d love to invite you for a coffee. Just to…thank you.”

Joel looked at you then, brows slightly raised, not in judgment—just that quiet surprise he carried, like kindness was still something he wasn’t used to receiving outright.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Coffee, huh?”

You smiled. “Yeah. No hidden intentions, I promise. I just…I owe you a warm drink. For the music. And the company. And for waiting for me every day.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, long and thoughtful. Then he gave a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

…

A few weeks later, the shift was unmistakable. Joel stepped into the teachers’ lounge with his usual slow gait, a folder tucked under one arm, coffee in hand. But the air felt…off.

Conversations paused just a beat too long. Eyes flicked away the moment he looked up.

He moved to the counter to refill his mug, nodding politely to a pair of faculty chatting nearby—but they didn’t nod back. One of them quietly gathered her things and mumbled something about forgetting a meeting. The other followed without a word.

Joel stared after them for a moment, jaw tightening slightly.

It continued like that all week.

People who used to greet him with casual warmth now offered only vague nods or sudden interest in their phones. In meetings, his ideas were brushed off more quickly. Some colleagues wouldn’t even meet his eye.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it together. He wasn’t stupid.

They thought he’d overstepped. That his quiet defense of you—his daily presence at your side, his blunt words in the lounge—had made him strange. Suspicious.

That maybe, by caring, he was getting too close.

Joel sat at the edge of the lounge one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee, listening to the drone of distant conversation, none of it reaching him. He didn’t regret it. Not one second. But the silence around him settled deeper every day.

And even you could feel it.

You had been trying—truly trying. Smiling through the unease in the halls, sketching things that used to bring you joy, pretending not to hear the silence that followed you like a shadow. And Joel…he had changed too. Subtly. His music still carried the same weight, but the casual nods, the quiet “you good?”s had grown fewer. His hands stayed in his pockets more often, his eyes fixed ahead. When he walked you home now, he always stayed a few steps ahead—never quite beside you.

Maybe he thought it was better. Safer. For you. And for him.

But then, it snowed for the first time. Thick, soft flakes fell from the sky like feathers, settling on the iron railings and the benches and the tops of parked bikes. It was quiet again, but in a different way—peaceful and bright. You’d just stepped out of the arts building when you saw him up ahead, already walking. You were about to call his name, to tell him to look up—to look at how beautiful it was. But he was too far and walking too fast.

You sighed and your gaze fell to the growing blanket of snow at your feet, and without thinking, you crouched down and scooped up a handful. You shaped it quickly, fingers red and cold, and rolled it between your palms until it was smooth and just the right weight.

Then, carefully, you took aim.

The snowball sailed through the air in a perfect arc and hit Joel square on the shoulder.

He stopped. For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then he turned slowly, brushing the melting snow off his jacket. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing—until he saw you. You stood there with the smallest grin, like you were waiting for permission to laugh. And finally, finally…Joel let out a quiet huff. Then a low chuckle.

He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered.

You laughed. And just like that, the space between you melted—like the silence had only been waiting for a snowball to break it apart. The moment he crouched down, you yelped—spinning on your heel, boots crunching against the snow as you dashed behind a bench like it might actually protect you.

Joel’s voice came after you, rough with amusement. “Think you can just ambush someone and walk away, huh?”

You peeked out from behind the bench, only to see him already mid-throw.

The snowball hit you square in the arm, cold and soft. You gasped, laughing, ducking fully behind cover. “Hey! That’s not fair—you’ve got a bigger reach!”

“You started it,” he called back, the rare edge of laughter in his voice.

You threw another one—wild and lopsided. It hit the ground near his feet and exploded harmlessly. He smirked.

“That was a disappointment,” he taunted, scooping another.

It escalated fast. Snow was flying everywhere, messy and ungraceful. You zigzagged across the courtyard, shrieking when he nearly nailed you in the back, flinging handfuls that barely held together. Joel was surprisingly agile, ducking and weaving, boots sliding once as he caught his balance—but laughing. Not smiling, not chuckling—laughing, full and unguarded. Your face ached from smiling. The cold burned your cheeks and fingertips, but none of it mattered. You paused behind a low stone planter to catch your breath, chest heaving, and peeked up to see him leaning over, hands on his knees, catching his own.

“Truce?” you offered breathlessly.

He raised a hand in surrender, nodding in agreement. “Truce.”

You stepped towards each other, still half-laughing, still shaking snow out of your sleeves.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get into a snowball fight situation again in this life,” he muttered, brushing snow from his collar.

“And you’re surprisingly fast for someone who grunts every time he stands up,” you teased.

He looked at you and his grin softened into something warmer, something quieter. For the first time in days, there was no distance between you. No quiet step ahead. You both collapsed onto the snow, breath forming little clouds that quickly vanished into the cold air. The world felt softer somehow—the muffled quiet of fresh snowfall wrapping around you like a blanket. Lying side by side, you blew warm breath onto your frozen fingertips, watching the faint wisps of steam curl and fade. Joel mirrored you, but he had gloves on.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the soft sound of snow settling and the distant call of a bird. Then you glanced over at him, cheeks flushed pink from cold and laughter.

“This…wasn’t how I expected today to go,” you admitted quietly.

Joel’s lips twitched. “Neither did I.”

You cupped your hands around your mouth and exhaled again, trying to warm your stiff fingers, but the cold was biting now, clinging to your skin like it had settled deep into your bones. Joel noticed. He turned his head just enough to look at you, eyes tracing the way your fingers trembled.

“Put your hands in my coat pockets,” he suddenly told you.

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

He shifted slightly, tugging one side of his long coat open. “C’mon. That’s what my daughter used to do when her hands got too cold. Works better than breathin’ on ’em.”

You hesitated for a second. But then, wordlessly, you slid your hands into the oversized pocket, where the lining was worn but warm. Your fingers grazed his and he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he stilled. Let you settle.

And then, he added, “She used to do it without askin’. Just walked right up and stuffed her hands in, like I was some damn walking radiator.”

You laughed quietly. “She sounds smart.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but his eyes darkened slightly. You didn’t understand why, but you knew better than to push. And so you laid there together, the snow falling soft and silent around you, your hands tucked into borrowed warmth…his warmth.

At the end of the year:

The campus was bathed in early summer light, everything fresh and green, and you’d just gotten the news—you’d passed. Passed everything. With flying colors. Despite the shaking hands and late nights, despite the shadows that followed you down empty halls, you’d made it.

You couldn’t wait to tell him.

You took the shortcut you’d walked a hundred times—through the quiet alley just two blocks from campus—and that’s when the world dropped out from under you.

There he was.

The man. The one who had stabbed you.

He stood hunched over something—someone—a girl sprawled on the ground, motionless. His knife glinted, slick with fresh blood. And then, as if drawn by some terrible gravity, he looked up.

Your eyes met. Your heart stopped.

You stumbled back, a choked sound escaping your throat, and then you ran. Your fingers fumbled with your phone as you bolted down the street, lungs burning, the world narrowing to panic and pounding feet. You hit the emergency dial, breath hitching as you explained through gasps—who you were, what you’d seen, where it was.

“I’ll be waiting at the school!” you cried into the phone, barely hearing their answer before hanging up. Your fingers trembled as you switched to Joel’s contact.

It rang once.

Then—“Hello?”

You were sobbing as you spoke, but your voice was steady enough. “It’s him, Joel—I saw him. He’s back—he’s real, I wasn’t wrong, he’s back—he hurt another girl—”

You didn’t even finish before Joel swore under his breath before he told you to never stop running and the line went dead.

In the teachers’ lounge, he was up and moving in seconds. Chairs scraped, startled voices cried out as he shoved past the table, sprinting out the door like a man possessed.

He tore down the hallway, shoving open double doors, ignoring the startled stares. Teachers reached out instinctively, students called after him—but he didn’t stop. He bolted past the front office, pushing through a group of confused students, knocking someone’s books from their hands.

All he could hear was your voice.

All he could think of was you.

Terrified again. Running again. Alone again.

Not this time. Not ever again.

Your legs burned. Your chest heaved. Every breath felt like glass. But you ran—faster than you ever had before. The sound of footsteps behind you was unmistakable now. Heavy. Close. Too close.

You didn’t dare look back.

Your lungs screamed, your vision blurred, but the school’s front gates were just ahead. You could see the columns. The edge of the courtyard. Safety.

“Please,” you whispered aloud—half prayer, half plea. “Please. Just a little further…”

The wind stung your face as you pushed yourself forward, arms pumping, your bag bouncing against your hip. The world narrowed down to the thud of your shoes on pavement and the sickening closeness of the man behind you. There were tears forming in your from the wind, but you pushed forth.

Just a few more steps. Please.

And then—through your blur of tears—you saw him. Joel. He was already outside, running towards you like something out of a dream, like all that mattered in that moment was reaching you. His eyes locked on yours. He saw the terror. The tears. The bloodied panic in your face.

And he didn’t hesitate. He sprinted.

“Y/N!” he shouted, voice raw.

The sound of your name shattered something inside you—and you cried out, stumbling forward with everything you had left. You felt the man’s breath behind you—felt a hand graze the back of your coat—and then Joel was there. He reached you, arms closing around you in one swift, protective motion as he turned—shielding you with his body.

And behind him, the man skidded to a stop, suddenly confronted with something he hadn’t expected: someone who wanted to protect you.

Joel’s voice was low, dangerous. “Touch her again and I’ll put you in the goddamn ground, dya hear me you son of a bitch?!”

You clung to him, breathless, shaking, face buried against his chest. And Joel stood between you and the world—his coat open, his fists clenched, and his jaw set like stone.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

But for now…he didn’t move.

He just held you.

The man hesitated—just for a second. Joel felt it. Saw the twitch in his wrist, the tightening of his grip on the knife. He wasn’t done. He was coming for both of you. Joel pushed you gently behind him, one hand staying firm on your shoulder, the other clenching into a fist.

The man took a step forward.

And that’s when the doors behind you burst open. Two campus security officers surged out, weapons drawn, breath steaming in the cold air.

“You! Freeze!” one of them shouted, voice sharp and commanding. “Drop the weapon! Now!”

The man faltered. He turned, half-shielding the blade behind his leg like it would disappear, like no one could see what he’d done. But the blood was pooling at his feet.

Too fresh.

“On the ground!” the second guard yelled, moving forward in sync with his partner, weapons steady. You pressed yourself to Joel’s chest, your fingers clutching his coat. He stood tall, unmoving—like a wall between you and the monster.

The man looked like he might run. His eyes darted toward the alley behind him.

But then—three more officers appeared from the side gate, sirens growing louder in the distance.

There was nowhere left to go.

His shoulders slumped.

The knife clattered to the pavement.

Joel exhaled only when the man was on his knees, hands behind his head, officers shouting commands as they swarmed him.

And still—he didn’t turn away from you.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “’S okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

You couldn’t let go. Your fingers were locked in the fabric of his coat, trembling, white-knuckled. Your entire body was shaking.

Joel didn’t say a word more. He didn’t move an inch.

He just stood there, arms wrapped tightly around you, one hand on the back of your head, the other cradling your shoulders. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Like it wanted out of your chest, like it didn’t belong to your body anymore. You buried your face into his chest, sobbing now—not just out of fear, but relief, disbelief, the sudden, shattering release of everything you’d been holding in since that first night you were attacked.

And still…he didn’t let go.

“’S okay,” he murmured again. “It’s over now. He’s not gonna touch you again.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just clung harder. You didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care about the security guards, the gathering students, the police sirens…All that you knew was that Joel was here. And that letting go of him felt more terrifying than anything else in the world.

He held you like none of it mattered.

Not the stares. Not the whispers that would come. Not the rumors that were probably already forming, coiled like snakes in the corners of the courtyard.

Let them talk.

He didn’t care if the teachers were craning their necks from the windows. He didn’t care if the damn head of faculty was standing right there.

Because you were alive. You were here.

And you were holding onto him like the world was crumbling. So he held you back like he was the only thing holding it together. His hand rested firmly on the back of your head as he stroked it gently, his chin just brushing the top of your hair as he exhaled a slow, shaking breath. You felt it rumble through his chest—a controlled storm.

“’S okay. Nightmare’s over…Ssh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut against the flood of emotion. People might’ve been watching. Judging. Guessing at things they didn’t understand. But not one of them had been there.

Not when the blade touched your skin.

Not when your screams went unheard.

Not when the world turned cold and dark.

But Professor Miller had been there this time.

He came running. He came for you.

And now, as his hand gripped the back of your coat and you stood in the middle of the school’s stone courtyard, shaking and tear-streaked and safe—you didn’t give a damn either about who was there or who wasn’t. As long as Joel was the one holding you.

A few days later…

The morning of the interview, your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

You sat on the edge of the sterile white chair in the precinct, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, a steaming cup of untouched tea cooling beside you. You hadn’t taken a sip. Couldn’t stomach anything yet. The detectives were polite, professional—well-meaning. But you knew what was coming. The questions. The pressure to remember details your brain wanted to forget. The re-telling.

So when they asked if there was anyone you needed in the room, you didn’t even hesitate.

“I want Professor Miller with me.”

They exchanged a glance. One of them lifted a brow. “Joel Miller? The music teacher?”

“Yes.” You met his gaze steadily. “I don’t want to do this without him.”

It wasn’t a request. They made a call.

And within twenty minutes, Joel stepped into the room, his heavy boots echoing across the tile. His eyes found yours immediately, and he crossed the space without pause.

He sat beside you. Not behind you. Not across the room. Right next to you.

He didn’t ask any questions. Just nodded once at the officers, his jaw tight, and rested his forearm gently on the table near yours.

You shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his, and when the questions began—

Where were you walking?

Did he say anything?

Can you describe the weapon?

Did you get a clear look at his face?

You answered each question clearly and steadily. And every time your voice wavered, Joel didn’t speak, but his hand would inch closer. His knuckles would brush yours. Just enough. You didn’t have to look at him to know: you weren’t alone in this room.

At the end, the officer asked.

“Do you know how fast you were running, Miss L/N?”

You paused, the question hanging in the air. You swallowed hard, the memory rushing back—the pounding of your feet against the pavement, the desperate breath burning your lungs, the terror driving you faster than you ever thought possible.

You looked up, meeting the officer’s steady gaze.

“I’m not exactly sure,” you admitted quietly, “but it felt like every second counted. Like if I stopped for even a moment, he’d catch me.”

Joel shifted beside you, his hand finally finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

The officer nodded slowly.

“That kind of strength…that kind of will to survive—it’s what made all the difference.”

As you stepped out of the interview room, the hum of the precinct shifted into something unexpected. One by one, officers and staff began clapping—soft at first, then growing steadily louder. You blinked, caught off guard, as the applause filled the sterile hallway.

A few officers gave you nods of respect, some offering quiet words of encouragement.

Later, you would learn the truth: the man who had attacked you wasn’t just some random predator—he was a serial killer, wanted across multiple states, linked to countless unsolved cases. Your courage, your quick thinking, your refusal to be silenced—it had helped bring a dangerous criminal to justice.

And as the clapping died down, you realized you didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because you had fought. And you had won.

You stepped out of the precinct and once you had walked far enough, you turned around to face Joel and simply pressed your head against his chest.

“…I would actually like to go for a coffee right about now. Wanna join ?”

Joel’s lips curled into a rare, soft smile as he felt your head rest against his chest. He looked down at you, eyes warm and steady.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’d like that.”

He gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer as you both turned to walk away from the precinct.

“Coffee sounds perfect.”

…

The café was small—quiet, the kind with mismatched chairs and fogged-up windows that caught the light just right. You sat across from Joel in the farthest corner, both of your coats still damp from the walk, steam curling gently from your cups. You watched your fingers circle the rim of your mug, your thumb dragging slowly through a bit of condensation. Your drink had gone lukewarm, but you hadn’t touched it much anyway.

Joel was doing the same—hands wrapped around his cup, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the window, jaw set in that thoughtful way he had.

So you decided to just start with the obvious.

“Thank you.”

He looked up. At first, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his eyes a little darker than usual, like he was searching for what to say back.

Then, his voice came low, steady.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

You gave a small smile, not looking up from your cup.

“I know. But I want to.”

Another pause. Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with something unreadable flickering in his eyes—grief, relief, guilt, maybe even pride.

“You saved me, Professor Miller,” you added softly.

His throat bobbed. He looked like he wanted to argue. To tell you it wasn’t true. That all he did was run when you called. But in the end, he just nodded once.

“I’m glad you called,” he murmured. “I’m real glad you called.”

After a moment, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his worn jacket, fingers moving slowly—almost hesitantly. You watched, unsure of what he was doing, until he pulled out a weathered, slightly creased photograph. He didn’t say anything at first. Just slid it across the table toward you, his hand lingering on the edge of it for a moment before he let go.

You looked down.

A young girl. Maybe twelve. Big, bright eyes. Her smile—lopsided and open—practically beamed from the paper. She was hugging a guitar to her chest like it was her favorite thing in the world.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, barely audible.

Joel gave a slow nod, gaze distant.

“Her name was Sarah.”

Was. The past tense hit you like a breath held too long.

“She was shot and killed,” he explained after a pause, his voice rough. “Eight years ago.” He cleared his throat, jaw clenching. “A cop shot her when we were trapped in the crossfire of a gang fight…”

You didn’t know what to say, and somehow, Joel didn’t expect you to.

“She loved music,” he added, staring at the photo. “Had this old CD player she’d run into the ground. Made me promise I’d teach her to play guitar when she was older.” He gave a dry chuckle, no real humor in it. “Didn’t even get to twelve and a half.”

Your eyes stung. Not from your own pain, but from his. From the way he sat there, not looking at you, trying to hold the weight of a memory too big for one person to carry alone.

You reached across the table and gently touched the corner of the photo.

“She would’ve loved the way you play,” you said softly. “And…I think she would’ve been proud of what you did for me.”

Joel’s eyes finally lifted to meet yours. Something quiet broke in them then.

He nodded. Just once.

And for the first time that day, he smiled—a real one. Small, cracked, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “She would’ve liked you.”

You smiled at him. “I bet I would have liked her too. She seemed like the type of girl you can easily be friends with. A sunshine.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, his eyes softening around the edges in a way you hadn’t seen before—not fully. There was something in your voice, in the quiet sincerity of your words, that seemed to loosen something in him.

A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. He gave a small, almost shaky smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “She was. A real sunshine.”

He glanced back down at the photo, then tucked it carefully back into his jacket, like it was something sacred.

“I used to call her that sometimes, y’know,” he added. “‘My lil’ sunshine.’”

“Then I was right,” you murmured with a small victory smile.

Joel huffed a breath of quiet laughter through his nose.

“You were,” he said, looking at you again. “You are.”

For a moment, the silence returned, but it was full of something peaceful now.

You stirred your coffee, smiled faintly, and whispered, “To Sarah.”

Joel raised his cup slowly.

“To Sarah,” he echoed.

And for the first time in years, when he took a sip, the bitterness didn’t sting quite so much.

Outside the café, the air had shifted into that soft, golden kind of dusk—the kind that made shadows longer and the world a little quieter. You both walked slowly down the street, steps not quite in rhythm but somehow in sync.

Joel had his hands shoved in his coat pockets, his brow creased in thought when he asked, “So…what now? You’ve graduated. Got the whole damn world ahead of you.”

You exhaled slowly, watching your breath cloud the air.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice light but honest. “Haven’t figured it all out yet. I mean, what does anyone do after…everything?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Then you looked up at him, eyes flicking to his face.

“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head. “Any big plans for the future?”

Joel snorted a laugh, the sound deep and warm in his chest.

“What big plans would an old man like me have?” he asked, shaking his head at the absurd thought.

You pretended to think hard about it before smiling.

“Well…I mean, if—for instance—someone, who I will absolutely not name, were to invite you on a hypothetical date…” you started slowly, drawing out each word, “…what would be your hypothetical answer?”

Joel stopped in his tracks. He turned to face you, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grin or pretend to scold you. You stood there, arms crossed loosely, acting like it was the most casual question in the world.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then gave a low, amused hum.

“Well…” he started before answering. “Guess that would depend on whether this unnamed someone likes black coffee and old guitars.”

You grinned. “Maybe she does. Maybe she’s even got a sketchbook full of them.”

Joel’s expression softened. “Then…I’d say my hypothetical answer would be yes.”

You smiled to yourself. “Good to know…”

You then started walking again and then you stopped. He stopped too and looked back at you quizzically before you asked with a smile.

“So hum…does that mean I get to know you on a first-name basis now or…?”

He deadpanned before letting out a small huff which turned into a full-on laughter. You stared as your own lips cracked into a wide grin.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Joel just stared at you for a second before he replied. “You’ve been drawin’ me for an entire year. I’ve been callin’ you Y/N for months, and you didn’t even check the staff board for my name? Also, I wrote my first name on a card that I placed inside the flower bouquet I brought you the night you were in the hospital.”

You froze. “I mean…You’re a professor. I didn’t want to pry or sound too forward or anything.”

“Unbelievable.” He chuckled. “Joel. Joel Miller.” He then extended a hand and you smiled before shaking it.

“Y/N. Y/N L/N.”

A few months later

The scent of early spring drifted through the open windows—sunlight spilling in soft gold across the hardwood floor. You stood at your easel in the middle of the living room, brush in hand, completely lost in the careful blend of color, movement, and meaning.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the faint rustle of boots being kicked off or the low creak of the old floorboards under steady steps. Not until two strong arms slid gently around your waist from behind. You gasped softly—startled for a split second—until the familiar weight and warmth sank in, and Joel pressed a soft kiss just behind your ear.

He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, unshaven and unhurried, his voice low and rumbling against your skin.

“What’s this one about?” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as your body relaxed into his.

Then you looked back at the canvas.

It was a mess of color—soft blues, burnt orange, deep forest green—all winding together in abstract waves. But near the center, there was something unmistakable: a man walking ahead on a snowy path, while behind him, just slightly, someone else followed. The path glowed gold at the edges, and above them, the sky was storm-colored—yet calm.

“I think…” you whispered, “it’s about a time I was scared. But I found someone to guide me to safety.”

Joel was quiet for a long moment, arms still wrapped tight around you. He looked at the painting—then at you. You could feel the smile forming against your skin before he spoke.

“Looks like the fella in front’s got good taste in company.”

You turned your head slightly to glance back at him, smirking. “He does. Though he’s a bit grumpy sometimes.”

Joel huffed a laugh and kissed your cheek.“Good thing she knows how to throw snowballs then.”

You looked back at him and smiled. “I mean…best decision of my life was to walk inside the wrong room that day I was looking for Arts 203 and instead ended up in that room with some old man playing the guitar.”

Joel let out a low chuckle, his arms tightening gently around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Old man, huh?” he murmured with a teasing edge, the warmth of his breath brushing your collarbone.

You laughed softly, tilting your head against his.

“I stand by it,” you teased. “You were hunched over that guitar like the world didn’t exist. I didn’t even want to breathe too loud in case I ruined something.”

He was quiet for a beat, thoughtful. Then his voice came quieter, rougher. “I think you ruined something, alright.”

You tensed slightly, uncertain—until he added, “Ruined my quiet mornings. My peace of mind. My ability to go five minutes without wonderin’ where the hell you are.”

You turned slowly in his arms to face him, brushing a fleck of paint from your cheek onto his shirt without thinking.

“Sounds like you’re saying that like it’s a bad thing,” you said softly, watching his eyes.

Joel looked at you for a long time, gaze moving slowly over your face as if committing every line to memory.

“Nah,” he finally replied with a grin. “Best kind of ruin there is.”

You leaned back against him and sighed. “Did I really ruin you though?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. You felt the rise and fall of his chest behind you. Then his arms tightened around your middle just a little, and he exhaled softly against the side of your neck.

“Yeah,” he said, low and honest.

Your breath caught, but before you could say anything, he added, “But not in the way you’re thinkin’. You didn’t ruin me like…breakin’ something. You ruined me like…I can’t go back to the way things were before you.”

You turned your face slightly, catching the warmth of his cheek against yours, eyes searching for his.

“I was doin’ just fine, alone. Routine. Mornings with coffee, evenings with music, no one expectin’ nothin’ from me. Quiet.” He paused, voice almost a whisper now. “And then this girl walks into my classroom with charcoal on her hands and stars in her eyes—and suddenly that old life just felt…hollow.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He looked at you then. The tired in his eyes, the years of grief, the weight he still carried—and yet, somehow, something softer had taken root there too.

“You ruined the quiet,” Joel said, smiling faintly, “and gave me somethin’ louder. Somethin’ alive.”

You swallowed, heart aching in the most beautiful way. And you leaned back into him, fingertips tracing the side of his hand.

“…Guess we’re both a little ruined then,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

You smiled and kissed him softly. “Me neither.”

Joel’s hand came up gently to cradle your jaw as you kissed him—slow, deliberate, like he didn’t want the moment to slip away too quickly. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he murmured, “if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be standing here in my living room with paint on my flannel and a girl like you in my arms…”

“You would’ve kicked them out for disturbing your peace,” you teased, voice soft against his.

He chuckled, low and warm in his chest. “Damn right I would’ve.”

You laced your fingers through his and looked up at him, heart full. “And now?”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then the corner of your mouth. “Now I’d say they didn’t do the moment justice.”

You smiled against him, breath hitching just slightly as emotion swelled.

Outside, the wind stirred through the trees, quiet and steady. Inside, the world felt like it had settled—like maybe, finally, you’d both found your place. Paint still drying on canvas. Music still lingering in the air.

Love found, not planned, not asked for.

Just…there.

And all that because you liked a certain grumpy old man’s music…

[bluedemiurge]

Well, I found my old pencil case and couldn't resist starting Kandreil Week with a sketch. I haven't drawn in a while, so it's not very elaborate.

P.S.: I used another artist's art as a reference. I couldn't find his name, but just to clarify.

...

I feel like in this AU, Andrew is only the leader in name, and most of the decisions in the village are handled by Renee and Aaron. Also, the iron mine wouldn't be that huge and invasive since the villagers just want to live with enough, not create a great empire, so relations with the spirits aren't good but not that hostile, since they let the monkeys reforest the forest and other things.

Also, Andrew has been interested in Neil/Mononoke's existence for a while but pretends not to. Kevin arrives one day with his left hand cursed, seeking guidance from Neil and the forest spirits. Andrew tells himself he's just going with him for the fun of it.

Since the mercenary can't ally with the village to hunt down the forest spirit, he seeks help from the samurai. Neil, Kevin, Andrew, the village, and the spirits unite to protect each other. In the end, Kevin is cured, and the forest spirit lives on. BECAUSE I SAID SO!

Neil, Kevin and Andrew live between the forest and the town, at their convenience, but they always end up together.

[ask-elliot-doorman-fam]

"Not-a-Hunt" (Tera Doorman Lore)

Tera sat perched on a tree, watching the ground below, tail flicking absently as all her senses tuned to the world around her.

Her hands feeling the rough contours of the ancient bark, audials picking up the wet-season breeze rustling through the leaves, what little sunlight that did penetrate the canopy flickering around her harmlessly.

She could feel the shifts in wind current, inbuilt sensors initially used to detect depth and vibration in mining tunnels and construction zones modified instead to detect air pressure, vibrations that traveled from the ground and up into the tree she was sitting in.

Even with her visor off, she could feel the den of sprats nesting in the roots of the tree, the Fox Monkeys playing in the thiner limbs of the canopy above.

Her audials picked up the distant bleat from a heard of Wooldeer, a calf calling for it's parent or the far closer cries of the birds beginning to settle down and roost, making sure their flock was safe and secure.

The jungle was a safe space. One that welcomed her, that didn't go silent in fear when she walked past- instead only quieting down in curiosity before resuming it's playful song, accepting her as part of itself.

It was more then she could say for the colony. Where she was the predator among prey, instead of another welcome part of the great chain.

Snap!

Everything stopped at once, and she opened her eyes, sniffing the air like a bloodhound on the scent of it's chosen path.

Rumbling footsteps broke through the silence, and the sensors on the back of her neck came to life, a brown shaggy shape made it's way through the forest, followed by it's other half and a litter of wrestling puppies that yipped and growled at their siblings.

She relaxes. As does the forest- sound slowly resuming to its normal volume as the apex predators are welcomed; it's not night yet, and this pair is already carrying a kill to feed on, some poor, gigantic reptile that had undoubtedly gotten too close.

They stop just below her, both adults diving into their kill with fevor, the puppies too young to eat solid food yet, and so they instead climbed on top of their Dad, chomping on his ears and annoying him just enough her him to tip his head and slide them off.

Tera let out a small chuckle as the smallest of the litter tumbled head over feet onto the ground. This family wasn't too close to town for her to be bothered about chasing them off or killing them... which was exactly why she came out this far.

She pulled out a rough little leather-bound journal and a even rougher looking pencil and began to sketch.

She wasn't the best artist- she rarely drew, but her little journal was filled with sketches and notes on all the animals she's seen and observed of the several years she's been going on hunts.

And right now, she was sketching the little family in the section labeled Nightstalker.

The first few pages were of weak spots, mating behavior, how to track them; everything useful in hunting them...

Then after the fourth... the wording and observations changed. From outright aggression to respect and curiosity, how they raise their children, diet, pack behavior, migration patterns, the way their fur changed texture between wet and dry seasons...

The last page was all about how to care for one. nail trimming, fur care, horn maintenance. An entire old feeding schedule that had her getting up every 2 and a half hours as well as the ingredients for a milk substitute.

A yelp caught her attention, ripping away from her sketching to look down finding that the two bigger siblings had accidentally injured the smaller one. The paw bleeding onto the open ground.

Her brow furrowed. This was normal enough, runts like this one didn't normally make it to adulthood... didn't mean she had to like it though.

She put the journal away, watching as the mother looked at the siblings and reprimanded them... but put little effort into comforting the injured party aside from a single lick.

She sighed as she made a dumb-reckless, gold hearted decision.

She climbed down the tree headfirst- landing without a sound right next to a family of the most deadly living things in the planet, and crept up to the injured pup, calling to it with a mimicry of another puppy that had taken many practice sessions with Mars Bar to get right.

It limped forward curiously, and with a swift movement she grabbed it and pulled it into the bush she was hiding in, it tried to yelp, but she kept it's mouth shut with her hand as she pulled out a bandage from her pocket, wrapping the injured paw securely.

"Shhhh. Shh. I got cha..." She mumbled, cleaning and dressing the wound with uncomfortably practiced swiftness before she bolted back up the tree when finished. Leaving the pup confused and licking at it's now wrapped foot.

It looked up at where she returned, but she was already gone, hidden amongst the canopy branches...

It returned to it's family, able to put pressure on the paw again and resuming play... it won the second time- if only because it caught the other two off gaurd.

Tera smiled from her new perch, observing the family until they set off once more, all three pups able to keep up with mom and dad...

[emry-stars-art]

EDIT: PENCIL HAS BEEN REPLACED AND IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING AGAIN!! Thank you to those who donated, you have my ENTIRE heart for now and always

Hiii I’m back to bother you all again with technical difficulties. Long story short, if I have diagnosed the problem properly, I need a new Apple Pencil! And if I’m wrong I’ll need to replace both my pencil and the iPad itself!! But (and I am sure this will surprise no one that’s read this far) - I have no money 🥲

This isn’t quite a 100% necessary expense. I still have a handful of job applications sent out that are still waiting on replies, and hopefully I’ll have some more income sooner rather than later - but since comms and art have been one of my main sources of income this year, this is gonna be a decent problem for a little bit 😅 in the meantime I’m going to reach into the void and boost some stuff and offer additional ways that maybe I can earn some money for the month!

So if you do happen to have extra cash, some ways that would help a ton: my patreon (this month’s star tier sticker is going to be an aftg mermay design of some sort or another), my etsy, my kofi shop, or plain old kofi donations. But I also wanna be able to sweeten the pot a little, so there’s more!

I’m selling a couple original pieces over on kofi as well, including Raven Kevin, the Jean & Jeremy piece, and the og mermay comic from last year 👀

I’m taking low-stakes sketch commissions, also on kofi! For 15usd you can drop an aftg/tsc sketch request, and if you want to be tagged when I post it, leave your url as well! Additional characters for a little extra, and you can drop specific reqs - give me thoughts, ideas, meme redraws, outfits, or ask for a specific scene or specific au of mine (sure is a good month for mermaids 👀). I’d also take requests of my own ocs, but unfortunately for these kinds of sketch requests I won’t be taking others ocs.

All that being said, of course I understand if donating isn’t possible for you rn, so I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about scrolling past lol. If you’d like something free to do you can also just leave a nice comment or tag on something I’ve drawn to get my mind off the issues 😅 thank you so much to all you lovely people who support me in every way, it’s literally my livelihood and makes me so happy every day to make you happy, so! I hope you all have a wonderful time zone, and I hope you’re as excited for more merms as I am 😌💕

[quietsupernova]

Mirrored Souls

by Quiet Supernova

I fall into your gaze—

a slow, spiral drift

through the unsaid.

The world tilts,

and suddenly I’m outside your eyes:

two windows flickering

with twilight and secrecy.

Something unnamed beckons.

I slip through the frame,

step from sight into space,

into a house I’ve never entered

yet somehow remember—

a place that smells like dream

and breathes like memory.

A single thread of light leads me,

its source unclear—

Is it shining ahead,

or trailing from behind?

I can’t tell.

But I follow.

I cross the hardwood,

the floor whispering

in a tongue older than language.

My footsteps echo

in rooms I never stood in,

yet always knew.

Instinct pulls me upward.

Stairs creak toward an attic

humming with quiet certainty,

the light pooling on each riser

like a secret calling home.

Boxes huddle in corners.

I lift a photo album—

dust blooms,

old breath exhaled.

Pages flutter.

Summer-grass heat rises from the paper,

chalk dust stings my nose,

cicadas buzz in my ears—

a flood of memory.

But the faces are strangers,

the dates lean sideways,

and the child in each frame

isn’t me—

only someone I once dreamed.

Then the rooms inside the photographs rupture—

slammed doors,

voices raised and ricocheting

like broken dishes.

I don’t recognize them,

but my nervous system does.

It folds inward

like a curtain drawn fast.

Lights dim.

I shut the album,

pulse ringing in the quiet.

Beside it, a stack of pencil sketches:

lines I could have sworn were mine—

the same uncertain hatching,

the same trembling dark—

but signed with a name

I’ve never used.

My fingertips hum with déjà vu;

I taste graphite on my tongue.

A diary waits underneath,

its leather soft as breath.

The script is graceful—

but not my hand.

Its entries sketch a life

of misfit echoes,

half-belongings,

wordless exits.

Each sentence flares in my chest

as if it borrowed my heartbeat

to speak.

Unease stirs—electric, tender.

This isn’t my history.

But it mirrors my marrow,

answers questions

I never asked aloud.

Still the light lingers,

unwavering,

pulling me on.

I turn to leave.

The air thickens.

Walls bend inward

like held breath.

Mirrors appear—

not lined in rows,

but scattering like a maze.

One shows the flaws

I hide beneath charisma.

Another, the mask I wear

for the world.

A third, the version of me

I’m becoming—

or running from.

Each reflection sharpens,

overwhelms,

fractures my breath.

Panic stirs.

Doors loop back on themselves,

corridors coil like doubt.

A cabinet flashes by—

drawers locked,

radiating heat,

guarding something

I’m not ready to touch.

Then—movement.

Not fear.

But presence.

I turn too fast,

fall.

The floor delivers truth;

vision blurs—

and there you are,

bathed in the light

I’d been chasing all along.

Your hand reaches for me,

steady,

as if waiting beneath the noise.

I rise.

Our eyes meet.

The portal stirs.

Above us,

a final mirror lowers

like a calm moon.

In its glass,

we blaze—

two pulses

of the same wild light.

And the house exhales.

Walls soften.

Doors breathe open.

Light spills through every corridor

as if it always belonged.

I understand:

we were never lost in this house.

We were lanterns

wandering each other’s rooms—

casting light

deep enough

to uncover the shadows—

and choosing, together,

to stay.

[snowzapped]

So... The 10yr old Grandpa PC is now bootlooping. Probably turning senile and yelling at the cloud if it could.

Our guess is the graphics card finally giving up. I still have to take it to the shop tomorrow since it's a holiday today. That being said, I may need to build a new pc. I'll salvage what I can from the old one (ssd, hdd, probably the psu) but I need to get a new graphics card, motherboard and processor since mine is 10yrs old and the new stuff aren't that great paired with older tech and if I'm getting a better gpu, might as well get good processing power. Hopefully, it will last another 10yrs.

But I don't have enough money. So if anyone wants to commission me, now would be the time. As long as you're willing to wait a bit. If anyone wants to buy the SteveTony coloring book, send tips on kofi, I would be very grateful. And if you want to consider supporting me on patreon, I thank you so very much. Lowest tier is $1. You get everything the highest tier has.

I am stuck right now. I'm a freelancer and the pc is my only source of income. I will make pencil sketches for $5 dollars. Send me a kofi and your request. I will be very happy.

I can't copy paste all the stuff on mobile but here's the commission link. And the rest of the links are also at the bottom of that post. Coloring book is pinned on my tumblr.

Thanks so much and wish me luck! 😄

[akai-anna]

Rambling post about The Art TM

Firstly, a special thank you to @livmadart who fuelled my motivation with her lovely tags on my art to finish making this post as soon as I could (life just likes to get in my way). You are such an amazing person and artist (by the way, everyone should totally check out Liv's BDay piece for our favourite little menace BECAUSE IT'S GORGEOUS), and your words always mean a lot to me (even if I'm not the best at communication, for which I apologize, still love and adore you, despite the awkwardness and sporadic talks).

The Idea

My art was inspired by the amazing @detshin's piece. Ever since I've seen it, I felt the urge to make a companion piece for it; I adore the composition and the symbolism in it to bits.

The Concept

I also wanted to take my own spin on the piece. From the start I wanted:

Conan's eyes not being covered (because he can see)

Conan looking at the viewer like he is looking straight into your soul. No thoughts, head empty why, it just felt right.

His mouth to be the one that is covered in some way. The sheer symbolism of his mouth being obstructed (but cannot speak) just made my heart ache so badly.

Changing the outfit based on this musing of mine.

As for the rest, it came about when sketching around, and waiting for that CLICK in my brain. And the forget-me-nots covering his mouth was that CLICK: SYMBOLISM IS MY LIFEBLOOD.

The Materials

I had 2 techniques in mind: watercolours and soft pastels. Ultimately I decided on soft pastels because

I haven't worked with pastels in YEARS, yet I adore the technique

I haven't used these pastels since I got them from an attic cleaning that we did for an old lady last year-ish (they would have been thrown away, after YEARS OF DISUSE and my heart couldn't take it, SUCH BEAUTIFUL MATERIALS TO WASTE AWAY)

I felt that what the material has to offer suited this particular piece: the vibrant colours offering a certain contrast to the original piece, and a certain feel (especially on the right paper) to the texture.

After some testing, I decided that going with a dark background works better: it made the colours more vibrant, and the slight texture of the paper did its magic. + Dark VS Light background colour was another nice contrast between the two pieces.

The Making

At first I didn't know what to use to sketch with, so I tested a couple things, and ultimately went with a white pencil: easy enough to erase if needed but also visible enough to see on this particular paper I had.

Looking up and studying tons of reference pictures for various things (sometimes with more, sometimes with less luck): the pose, facial features, the flowers... I have a whole folder of 'em LMAO

Actually drawing that sketch LOL

Then came the colours, which I tested on a separate piece of paper, to see which ones I want to use... After that I added the main blocks of colours.

And when I liked it, proceeding with the actual colouring: mixing all the different colours and layering them. In some places I used 4-6 colours (or more, depending how you look at it), while I used only 2, but mostly 3 in others.

Lastly: I used hairspray as a fixative, which slightly changed the quality and texture of the pastels and colours. (See below.)

The Feelings

As mentioned above, it has been years (I think around a decade actually, what the fck) since I used soft pastels, so it was a bit of a challenge to get back into using the material (and I'm not as experimental and confident I want to be yet, and likely fried my brain a little in the process). Also tons of fun, though! I forgot how much fun is there in the process of creation, and this piece brought that back into my life.

[the-writing-trash-panda]

Ghost Girl

Fandom: Fairy Tail ~Next Gen

Characters: Persephone and Bickslow

Relationship(s): N/A

Words: 1659

Rating: General

As much as Persephone loved her guild, Fairy Tail could be a bit overwhelming. And so she often found herself sitting among the rafters of the guild hall where the noise and chaos of the main floor became a distant hum. Up there, nestled between old beams and dusty banners, Persephone could breathe. She watched her guildmates from above—Natsu and Gray bickering for the hundredth time, Mira smiling sweetly behind the bar, Laxus brooding in a corner with his arms crossed. It was all so loud.

Persephone didn’t mind loud, not exactly. She had grown up in it—child of Bickslow and Lisanna, surrounded by laughter and battle cries and the ever-present clatter of magic. But sometimes, she just needed space to think, to be. Today was one of those days.

With her legs dangling over the edge of a beam, she pulled out her sketchbook, the cover worn and the pages thick with charcoal drawings. A new one was taking form now—a scene of her siblings dancing in the guild hall during last week’s celebration. She had captured Ziray’s smirk perfectly, and Melinoë’s wild hair looked like it might leap off the page. She smiled softly at the page, brushing a strand of white hair from her eyes as she added a few more strokes to Melinoë’s hair. Up here, it was easier to remember the good parts—the laughter, the dancing, the way their family filled a room with energy and love. Down below, it was too easy to get caught in the whirlwind of everyone else’s emotions. Up here, it was just hers.

A gentle creak in the beam beside her made Persephone pause, her charcoal pencil freezing mid-stroke. She didn’t look up right away—she knew that sound. Only a few people ever joined her in the rafters, and fewer still could do it without making a racket. “You’re gonna get splinters sitting like that,” came a familiar voice—low, teasing, and tinged with just enough concern to make her heart soften.

Persephone glanced sideways, finding her dad crouched nearby on the same beam, his ever-present grin dialed down to something softer—gentler. Bickslow looked out over the guild below before turning his full attention to his daughter, his eyes scanning her face like he was checking for signs of the storm she sometimes carried behind her smile.

“I’ve sat on worse,” Persephone murmured, returning to her sketch with the barest twitch of a smile.

“Still,” he said, inching a bit closer, careful not to jostle her. “I used to think the rafters were mine. Then you started sneaking up here, little ghost that you are. Thought I was seeing things the first time. You were, what, five when you came up here the first time?”

Bickslow chuckled at the memory, the sound low and warm, and Persephone’s smile tugged a little wider. “You scared the crap out of me,” he went on, nudging her ankle lightly with his fingers. “Just this tiny thing dangling off the beam like you were part cat. Your mom nearly fainted when I told her.”

Persephone laughed softly, the sound muffled by the cavernous ceiling above them. “She still gives me that look whenever I climb up here.”

Bickslow’s grin widened. “That’s the Strauss in her. Protective to a fault. Me? I was impressed. Still am.”

Persephone looked down at her sketchbook again, her fingers idly shading in the hem of Melinoë’s skirt. The quiet stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that felt shared, like a blanket wrapped around them both.

“Something on your mind?” Bickslow finally asked, voice quieter now, more careful.

She didn’t answer right away. Her pencil paused. “Not really,” she said, but her tone betrayed the truth—sort of.

Bickslow waited. He didn’t push. He never did. That was one of the things she appreciated most about him.

After a few seconds, she closed her sketchbook and hugged it to her chest, eyes drifting over the guild hall below. “Do you ever feel like… the guild is too much? Like… it’s too full of expectations sometimes?”

Bickslow tilted his head, thoughtful. “All the time,” he admitted. “Even now.”

Persephone turned to him, surprised. “You think just ‘cause I’m older I’ve got it all figured out?” he asked, mock-offended. “Kid, I grew up under the Magic Council’s eye, marched behind a guy who could kill with a look, and wore a helmet that blocked out everyone else just so I could think straight. Yeah. I know what ‘too much’ feels like.”

Persephone leaned her shoulder against the beam, her hair brushing his arm. “It’s not that I don’t love them. I do. But sometimes it’s like… people have this expectation of what I’m supposed to be like because of the family I was born into. Yajee called me the weird one when Ziray and Nyx are right there.”

Bickslow snorted, shaking his head. “Weird? Kid, that’s a compliment in this family.”

Persephone gave him a dry look, but her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile. “Yeah, well… it didn’t feel like one.”

“I get it.” Bickslow’s voice was low again, the teasing gone. “You’ve got siblings who shine loud and bright. Ziray’s all confidence and flare. Nyx has that eerie calm that freaks out half the guild. And you—” He paused, tapping a finger lightly against her sketchbook. “You’ve got a different kind of light. Quieter. But that doesn’t make it any less important.”

She looked at him, searching his expression, wondering if he really meant it or if he was just trying to cheer her up. But Bickslow didn’t do empty comfort—he never had. When he said something, he meant it.

“I just… I like watching. Drawing. Being in the background.” She shrugged. “But people think that means I’m sad or brooding or broken. Like I’m not enough.”

Bickslow’s brows drew together. “You’re more than enough, Sephie. Always have been.”

She hugged her sketchbook tighter, her voice softer now. “Sometimes I wish people saw that without me having to explain it.”

He reached over and gently tugged a strand of her hair, a childhood habit he hadn’t outgrown. “Then don’t explain it. Just keep being you. The people who matter will get it. And the ones who don’t?” He shrugged. “Screw ‘em.”

That earned a laugh—small but real. “You’re such a great role model, Dad.”

“I try,” he said with a proud grin, then leaned back slightly, looking up at the ceiling as if the banners above might offer some wisdom. Bickslow let the silence settle again, comfortable as always in the stillness most people ran from. Up here, above the clamor and cheer, above the mission boards and clinking mugs, it felt like time slowed down—just a little. “You know,” he said after a while, his voice quieter now, almost musing, “your mom used to sneak away when it got to be too much, too. Different kind of quiet for her—usually a lakeside or the bakery down the street—but same idea. You two aren’t as different as you think.”

Persephone’s lips parted in surprise, her brows tugging together. “She did?”

Bickslow nodded. “Oh yeah. Your mom’s a Strauss, sure—tough as nails and all heart—but she’s always been the kind that needs a little room to breathe. People forget that about her. She just hides it better.”

Persephone rested her chin on her sketchbook. That quiet ache in her chest loosened a bit, the way it always did when someone helped her feel seen without demanding she prove herself first.

“I think I’m still figuring out who I am in all of this,” she said after a moment, gesturing vaguely toward the guild below, where Natsu was now chasing Gray with a chair and Mira hadn’t even blinked. “Everyone seems so sure of themselves. Like they know exactly who they are, what they want.”

Bickslow gave her a sideways look. “Sephie. Half of them are making it up as they go.”

She blinked. “Even Uncle Laxus?”

Bickslow barked a laugh, loud enough to make a few people glance upward, though no one seemed too surprised. “Especially Laxus.”

Persephone’s eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

Bickslow smirked, leaning back on his palms, balancing like the beam was an extension of him. “Oh, he acts all ‘I’m-too-cool-for-this’ with the arms crossed and the glowering, but you should’ve seen him when he first took over as master—he spent the first month triple-checking every decision with Freed, panicking over paperwork, and stress-eating Mira’s lemon tarts. He’s got it down now, sure, but back then? The guy was a walking anxiety spell.”

Persephone laughed again, the sound brighter this time, more like sunlight than shadow. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“Most things are until you see them for yourself.” Bickslow’s grin softened. “Everyone’s figuring it out, Sephie. You don’t have to know all the answers right now.”

Persephone leaned her head against his shoulder, sketchbook hugged to her chest. “Do you think I’ll find my place? Like... the version of me that fits?”

Bickslow didn’t answer right away. He just wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in close like when she was small and still learning how to sleep through thunder. “You don’t have to find it,” he said, voice low and sure. “You build it. Piece by piece. Drawing by drawing. Quiet moment by quiet moment. And if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s? Even better.”

Persephone closed her eyes. The guild below was still loud, still chaotic. But from up here, with her dad beside her and the weight in her chest a little lighter, it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, ghost girl.” They sat in silence after that, her sketchbook resting on her lap once more, his fingers gently tapping out some forgotten tune on the beam. The world kept spinning below them—but for now, up here in the rafters, Persephone was exactly where she needed to be.

[strawberrysundi]

-OUR FOUNDER-

⚙ THE CHAIRMAN ⚙ OF COGS INCORPORATED EST. 2003 ---------------------------------

So I've never talked about this on here before, but Toontown was one of my absolute FAVORITE games as a kid (despite never having membership so being locked out of 99% of the actual game jlkjfsakj) Like it was absolutely formative for me, I drew the cogs a bajillion times and they inspired a ton of my own stuff later on (and still absolutely do) Then the game closed and Rewritten came out so I could actually play the whole game for the first time (haven't gotten anywhere close to getting to the end though) To this day I have an on again off again interest where once or twice a year I'll suddenly get absolutely smitten with it again haha

So, if you're also into Toontown, you'll obviously be familiar with the mysterious, unseen overarching villain The Chairman This is my own take on his design that I came up with a few years back ^^

We don't have much to go off of from the original game for what the Chairman might've been like, so I had a couple of different inspirations

Obviously the giant head in the Sellbot Factory, since those old Chairman pics with that head pasted onto a cog body were absolutely what I was most exposed to as a kid, but it's also not a 1:1 lift

In some of my earliest sketches trying to come up with the ideal design I tried making him look like he had the giant robot from the old installer video underneath his suit, so he had like lanky, cartoonish proportions, toonier hands, etc It looked really bad though and I couldn't do what I wanted with the head since it would've had to fit over the shorter, wider robot head, so I just ended up scrapping it (i do take some inspiration from the video for my vision of Toontown's story, but i've just scrapped the robot entirely) Oh I also gave him the eyes from the Field Office since I thought that could be neat, but it looked out of place so I simplified them to what he has now (they're still stylistically similar to the eyes on regular cog buildings, so i don't think i'm really losing any of the meaning behind them at least)

By far the biggest inspiration was when the FY11 plans got released

Holy FUDGE did this blow my mind when I saw it for the first time All those years as a kid of the Chairman not even being ACKNOWLEDGED except by the CEO's final words and a couple odd references in obscure magazines and whatever Desperately speculating and grasping onto all those tiny pieces of some mysterious, horrifically evil entity behind everything And then this??? This awesome, ominous silhouette?? Plans for something huge??? Seeing it is what drove me to go and draw him in the first place, it still gives me chills just looking at it

So yeah, I wanted mine to have that same aura of cold evil, that striking silhouette, while also having a bit more character to him Like most cogs are frozen in the same screwed up scowl, where there's not much room for expression If I could, like, make an actual model for him, I'd want him to have the same sort of capacity for different expressions as the toons have (even some you wouldn't expect from the head of the cogs)

He's ruthless, calculating, doing everything he can to maximize the profits and efficiency of Cogs Inc and expand their operations to the entirety of Toontown, with no regard for ethical business practices or the wishes of the people he plans to subjugate (But does it work? Is he happy?)

I'm absolutely gonna do an analysis of the cogs as a whole at some point (as long as my interest doesn't plummet for a little while longer), there's a ton of stuff I wanna get into about my interpretation of them as villains because oh my god I love them so much

OTHER STUFF - He's not as massive as the other boss cogs, but he's still absolutely huge (iirc the highest level cogs are all canonically like 8ft?? and he's got a LOT of height on them) - He's drinking oil in the pencil drawing - I happened to watch this video where one guy talked about the way the villain in Tarzan held a glass of wine and how it left a huge impression on him, so I just arbitrarily decided to emulate it in my drawing XD - Oh yeah a big reason for the main drawing in the post was that I really felt like I was getting too attached to a single style in my digital stuff (literally just using the same default pen tool for everything, never changing the size), so I wanted to force myself to try something new - I drew the frame myself, just kinda winged it so it's. not as good as it could be but it works fine I think

[thetistaboveall]

Sketch Artist

Sitting on the boardwalk of my small town country side home in the midst of a busy parades passing the streets and yet I am yanked back to reality when my pencil drops to my side. My eyes meet the page shading in beautiful designs of the way of the hottest guy I have every seen and I knew I had to have him as my own even thought he is a truly haunted soul. He is forty something years old hot, muscled and super sexy guy who I created with my own imagination and indeed it all starts flow from control as the ink flood through the pen. The ink piles from the pen flooding all the way on to the ink helping it to take up room shaking things up and my drawing comes to life flying off the page because I am a master of the world.He is looking absolutely amazing in a light leather jacket with a grey tee and super tight dark blue jeans and I am consumed by his inner beauty to do as I please with him. I stood up walking toward him standing up to him face to him because I take his waist in my hand and pull him in to me kissing him slowly and soon i find myself making out with intensity.

“Who are you? Who am I?”

“I am Master Lawrence”

“Oh!”

“You are Slave Jay, my slave”

“Yes Master”

“Kneel at my feet”

“Who are you to me?”

“I am your creator”

“Literally your God”

“Yes! My God”

“You submit to me”

“Yes Daddy!”

“Daddy?”

“You are my young creator”

“Fair enough!”

“May I kiss you ?”

“I crave to do so”

“I don’t know why”

“You are in love with me”

“I am”

“Every fiber of my being “

“You seep through “

“At the core “

“Yes sire”

“You are a poet”

“How would you know?”

“Your words”

“They call to me”

“Your voice is sweet”

“Your sound is kind “

“You are the perfect “

“The perfect what?”

“Everything my king”

“Be careful what you say “

“My love”

“You don’t understand “

“No! You don’t”

“What do you expect?”

“I am in awe of you “

“Kiss me”

“Worship me”

“I am on my knees”

“Do you love me?”

“More then anything “

“Go on”

“My whole world “

“I love you “

“I am at your core”

“Bite my lips “

“Oh god!”

“Sit on my lap”

“Show me who you are “

“My lap dance”

“Get on with it “

I grab My sketch book giggling a bit with a tip of the pen we are transported to my bed room in my newly renovated mansion in the private part of the city .

It is soon enough he woke up in a heat of hot passion he leans in to kiss me slowly

his lips act as if they are attached to me

on purpose he is unwilling to let go.

I back up to edge of bed as his heavy ass of a body comes barreling down on me as we fall back on to the bed and he kisses me very slowly.

His arms wrap around my waist as they are growing even tighter on my waist he yanks me up and places me to face him and plop

i am on his waist.

It is too funny for me watching him this jerk of an asshole is squirming under me while his eyes grew full and he continues make love to me.

He loses himself digging his hand under my shirt as he shifts it up and over my hand as my clothes toss in to the air and fall to the floor.

“Are you a real man Jay? Speak!”

“No Master! You are my King”

“Tell me”

“Call me Master Lawrence “

“Yes! Master Lawrence “

“Lead me”

“I am your man”

“You are mine”

“We are combined “

“We are one individual “

“Belonging to you”

“Wonderful!”

The end

[wanderlustmagician]

Alright here's something for your ask box: aside from baking breads and other awesome foods, and writing, of course, do you have any other hobbies you want to talk about?

Ooooooo this is fun. Thank you Estelian! (este? Lian? What’s your preferred nickname?)

I’m a big old dweeb. I love learning, specially about history. I think the last deep dive I did, to the consternation of my friends and family, was on the Six Wives of Henry VIII. And one time before that I gave myself nightmares because I read everything I could about bog bodies at 3am it’s a fascinating topic, it’s a burial practice! Just don’t recommend looking at the photos. Dont do it. It’s not worth it.

On the subject of learning as a hobby, a friend of mine and I are trying to learn ASL together. We’re excited.

I play video games, mostly of the cozy variety. Stardew Valley, Spiritfarer, Kingdom: Two Crowns are some faves. Legend of Zelda is the only game I play in its genre tbh but it’s a lot of good fun and I enjoy that it challenges me to get out of my comfort zone. There’s a lot of hijinks that come from me playing LoZ, which serves to make it very enjoyable.

I’m also a painter! I’ve tried my hand at murals (lots of fun) and years ago I entered some art competitions with some colored pencil sketches and a pointillism piece. Everything I’ve done is traditional in medium, so I’ve been trying my hand at digital art lately. It’s a fun challenge and it lets me exercise a different approach to my creativity.

What about you? Tell me some of your hobbies.