#ive been staring at my canvas and i still have no idea what to draw

[thestirringpot]

mmm if any of yall want me to draw anything, ask away!! ill draw whatever suggestions u have!

[ch3rrbearyeen]

sometimes, most times, i wonder what kind of art i actually wanna make. im aware that ive been working to improve my mechanical skill, trying to develop my eye for colors and learning qualities of design and how to communicate that in a piece of art. ive been doing this for a while now but at the end of the day?

there’s really nothing i want to make. theres nothing i have to actually say through an artistic medium. i wonder if its because i havent trained to be creative, that i only focus on the actions im doing rather than a desired outcome. i enjoy the mechanical practice of drawing, i think its satisfying to zone out and just keep drawing stroke after stroke after stroke, but there’s nothing more in depth going on.

it worries me sometimes. im a studio arts major, the further i go the more ill be expected to have ideas and concepts and desires that influence what i make. my professors say art is roughly 70% thinking, 30% doing. but what if there’s nothing for me to think about besides following a rubric? is this the kind of skill i should continue developing when my attachment is so. surface level? should i care more? how do i care more? how do people find enjoyment in creating without already having something they want to create?

is the problem that i dont find studio arts specifically enjoyable? i didnt exactly want to go to college for a studio arts degree, i was trying to get an animation degree but my community college cut the program. i feel like maybe i would be more motivated if i was developing a skill i wanted to learn. traditional mediums are fine, its not a bad time, its just. difficult learning my basics for painting when ive never really had a desire to paint.

yet the problem still extends even in my preferred medium. i open my drawing tablet and stare at the grey canvas, only vaguely understanding what i might want, like the name of the character, or the concept of a fun pose. and then thats it.

who let me develop a skill for a trade i don’t feel passionate for outside of just. learning about it?

[chipsfics]

Part 5: Basement

Part 5 is here!!

rated: PG (for injury and swearing)

~~~~

A few weeks later, Tissues and Yinyang had fallen into a sort of rhythm. Get up, get breakfast, sit in the front room and play video games- they still seemed closer than ever, although they weren't making any progress getting better at playing the games. Sometimes the ruckus from Yinyang's rage (mostly Yang's) would annoy the other residents at the hotel. Other than that, things had fallen into a nice, consistent normal. Boring, but normal. Mostly.

It was something small, but... Every odd night, if any thoughts at all, Tissues was thinking about that tiny door they'd found under the wallpaper. What else could the hotel be hiding? Between twisting orange hallways, leaky ceilings and peeling wallpaper- The hotel already seemed like the perfect place to house mysteries. That, or cockroaches. It was the first time in a long time that Tissues had something to think about, to worry about, to wonder about. Most of the time he was just concerned with surviving, any way he can, and keeping himself entertained cooped up while Inanimate Insanity draws closer to curtains. 

It was a bright pink evening, the sunset dazzling and painting the hotel's dusty windows like a canvas. A couple contestants were outside watching the sun go down, but Tissues was in bed, staring at the humming ceiling fan, as he often found himself doing. Around 7pm, if he had the mind and strength to be tossing and turning he would have been. That secret door was there all along, he'd probably walked past it a few times- What other secrets lie hiding, impossibly old, right under his nose, right under his feet? It made him shiver. He wondered if Yinyang thought about it as much as he did, or even at all.

Since their discovery, of course, everyone else in the hotel noticed the door too. The general consensus seemed to be "Huh, weird." OJ seemed a bit upset (mostly confused), but didn't feel like figuring out how to re-wallpaper the peeled area. And of course, nobody had figured out it was them who had uncovered it, or that it had previously housed those mysterious magazines. Tissues sighed, willing himself up into a sitting position and fetching his tattered old journal from his side table's drawer. Once he flipped to the first blank page, a thought hit Tissues sudden as a train and heavy as a bag of bricks.

"Does the hotel have a basement?" 

Tissues, his heart momentarily racing, grabbed his worn out ballpoint pen sitting askew on his bedside table, and quickly scribbled his chickenscratch between the snot-splotched lined paper of the cheap notebook, neglecting to write the date and filling up the page with his large, rough handwriting. 

"DEAR DIARY:" (he wrote in all-caps) "DOES THE HOTEL HAVE A BASEMENT?" (this is when he stopped for a moment, furrowed his brow and chewed on the pen's lid-) "IF SO, WHAT IS IT HIDING..? I KNOW THAT THE ELEVATOR DOESNT GO BELOW F1 BUT IVE NEVER TAKEN THE STAIRS AND THEY MIGHT GO DEEPER. I MIGHT INVITE YY TO CHECK IT OUT WITH ME." (YY is shorthand for Yinyang.) "ON SECOND THOUGHT, NO THEY PROBABLY ARENT INTERESTED IN IT. THE LAST THING I WANT IS TO BE ANY MORE ANNOYING THEN I ALREADY AM." (Tissues scoffed, and put his journal back into the cupboard.) Tissues flopped back down onto his bed and stared at the same old ceiling fan. A small black bug crawled across the lightbulb. Tissues sniffed. The wall clock tick-tocked until it hit 7:23pm. Frenzied thoughts bubbled inside Tissues' mind until they felt like they were going to boil over and out his ears. 

Once he reached for his water bottle and noticed his hand shaking slightly- He decided that tonight was the night. A determined but nervous feeling swept over his body as he huffed and forced himself out of bed and out the door- To the staircase. It was a plain, short walk down, carpeted stairs with nothing to trip or slip on- A short safe staircase. He gulped. Did he trust himself enough to make it down even these easy stairs? 

The dizzy, nervous feeling that made his stomach plunge the two story drop before he did wasn't helping much- He grabbed onto the handrail with a white-knuckle grip. He took a slow step downward, and his head spun- The staircase beneath him seemed to sprawl out into endless darkness. He wasn't about to give up, though. He shook himself off and continued walking down the stairs one step at a time, two steps per stair- Step, step. Step, step. He was making progress! Step, step. Step, step. Once he made it halfway down, he stopped to catch his breath, and.... Oh no. Sniff, Sniff.... He felt a sneeze coming on. Ah... Ah.....

ACHOO! 

Tissues stumbled back and attempted to hang onto the handrail- he tripped over the side and fell, for what seemed like ages, down, down, down, and rolled banging into every odd step on the way down.

"Oof.... Ughh....." Tissues forced himself up, bruised and tattered from his fall, and found himself on cold concrete. Had he ever been on this floor...? It took him a moment to readjust, but as he looked around, rubbing his sore head, he realized that F1 didn't have any concrete. This must be it. The basement.

~~~~

It was dusty and completely dark- cold with a chill that seemed almost too appropriate for such a spooky place. Tissues rummaged around inside his head to pull out his phone and flashed the light into the deep darkness- It cut through the inky blackness like a beacon. Tissues shone it around the room slowly and nervously- illuminating large shapes draped in old white sheets of fabric. Tissues' heart raced before he realized it was probably just furniture with a dust covering- Yeah, just furniture. He sighed. He crept into the strange and cavernous room- His small footsteps echoing through the basement, reverberating clear and crisp as the dark, cold air. He shivered. 

He more he looked around, the weirder the basement got. Cloth-draped chairs and couches and even what appeared to be a small TV set or strangely-shaped table seemed to be arranged as if whoever was using this room just... up and left. It looked like a living room for ghosts. The furniture itself also seemed to be localized around the middle of the room- The rest of the room seemed strangely vacant except for a few stray cardboard boxes stacked on one another.

"The basement can't just be this room, can it? It's an entire floor, is the rest just filled in? It can't be. There's got to be more," Tissues thought, circumventing the room once again, looking for a door, a bricked-off passageway, something that he could use to explore the rest of this strange place. It seemed, after a few minutes of looking around, to be a concrete prison. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Tissues froze. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Footsteps. Getting closer. echoing down the staircase, heartbeat racing, no way out but up. Between fight or flight, Tissues chose freeze. He stood like a deer in the headlights, holding his flashlight at the entrance, his hand shaking like a paint mixer. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Closer, closer, down the stairs, Tissues had no idea why he was so afraid- It was probably just another resident at the hotel. If it was OJ, he might've gotten in trouble, but some strange part of him felt like he was an intruder. Like whoever is coming down the stairs right now was following after him for a reason. As the shadow came into view, in a moment of pure adrenaline, Tissues flung his cell phone at whoever it was that was following him. It hit them straight in the forehead.

"Ow, what the hell?!"

Relief washed over Tissues as he immediately recognized the voice.

"Y.....Yinyang?" Tissues said timidly.

As the familiar face came into view, rubbing his forehead, picking up the cell phone that had gone skidding across the concrete floor moments before. 

"Of course you dumbass, who else?" Yinyang said, shining the flashlight at the bewildered, blinking Tissues. "What are you doing down here? Are you ok?"

"Umm oh. Ohhhh... You-" Tissues stuttered, blushing. "You came down here to check on me?"

"The hell do you mean?" Yang growled, "Of course I did!" Yin continued, walking up to Tissues and inspecting him closer. "You fell down 2 flights of stairs! Are you injured?"

From the sheer adrenaline of the situation, Tissues didn't seem to notice, but his knee was scraped pretty badly. "Ah... Yeah. A lil bit. My knee," He said, gesturing to his left leg. 

"You dumbass!" Yang cursed. "Why did you- Why did you try and go down the stairs alone in the first place? You know-" Yang sighed. "Why are you even in the basement? There's nothing in here but old storage space," 

Tissues sniffed. "Umm... well... ahh... umm..." Tissues seemed to be getting a little bit choked up. "Umm... y'know how we found the old- the little door? After we..." Tissues took a deep, shaky breath. "I wanted to see if the hotel had any more secrets like that. Yknow... cause, I have so much time to think, and it was just bothering me... I thought- It can't be just that, there's got to be more- I guess i just wasn't thinking." Tissues wiped his nose.

"Oh, Tissues..." Yinyang said, his voice soft. "We should go back upstairs. I'll get you patched up," Yinyang continued, patting him on the head gently. “I was worried about you!

"You're probably right..." Tissues sighed, and limped to the doorway, Yinyang letting him lean on his shoulder. On his way out, he leaned against the wall, and his fingers came into contact with something smooth and cool, completely different from the texture of the concrete walls. He froze.

"Wait-" He said. "I feel something." He continued, trailing his hand farther up and feeling something akin to a lightswitch. He flicked it on, and the basement was instantly illuminated- causing Yinyang and Tissues to squint and turn around.

"Huh. I found the lightswitch!" Tissues laughed, and scanning the room in the light, it didn't look as scary as before- and one thought was present in his mind. 

"Hey, this could make a really cool hangout spot if you just fixed it up a little bit." 

It was like another lightbulb came on dinging bright above Tissues' head.

As Yinyang worriedly ushered him back up the stairs and into his room, Tissues was busy smiling, ideas silently buzzing in his head as Yinyang cursed him out while tenderly wrapping blue bandages around his knee. 

The moment he left, Tissues pulled out his journal and hurriedly wrote something in big, messy lettering:

"BASEMENT SUITE...?"

~~~~

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 27)

Jemima Jones IV

Another con! This one with Micah. This chapter contains criminal activity and mature topics of conversation. 

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

When I woke up, it was to Hosea's voice and gentle shaking of my shoulder. I'd fallen asleep in the chair by Arthur's bed, head cradled by my folded arms up against the nearest storage crate. I blearily lifted my head and blinked at my surroundings, momentarily confused. I remembered quickly, though, eyes immediately finding Arthur who was laying awake already, the morning sun pouring through the canvas of his tent. 

"There she is, thought I was gonna have to toss a bucket of water. Out like a light, though I don't know how, that can't be comfortable," Hosea greeted me, gesturing to the twisted, hunched position I'd woken up in. I stretched and grunted, putting my spine back in the right order, it felt like.

"Sorry, I'm in the way," I noted, realising the man was here to check on Arthur. 

I stood up and ambled past him, letting him sit down in my place.

"Surprised it ain't Grimshaw bustin' in here, putting you to work. It's late," Arthur said as Hosea gingerly pulled back his wound's dressing. 

"It is?" I murmured guiltily. "I should start on my chores."

"She knows you're not slacking, I think a late start is perfectly acceptable given the circumstances," Hosea assured me, pressing the back of his hand to Arthur's forehead.

"You have my permission to milk this," Arthur said, and I snorted.

"I don't mind chores," I shrugged, watching as Hosea tilted Arthur's head up and felt around under his jaw, checking for swollen glands. 

"Well, there's no sign of infection so far. How're you feeling?" He asked.

"'Bout as well as you'd expect."

"You're in pain, I imagine, but other than that?" Hosea clarified, gaining a one-shouldered shrug from Arthur. "Okay. Well, let us know if you start feeling unwell."

"Will do." 

"We'll get you some food, you gotta eat to get your strength up," Hosea patted his forearm then stood up.

"I ain't hungry," Arthur grimaced. "Especially not for whatever Pearson's rustling up."

"I don't care. We'll make you some oatmeal."

"I'll slice up some apple to go in, to sweeten it up and make it taste of something," I added.

"I don't need no fuss, just leave me here to fester and I'm sure I'll surface in a couple weeks," Arthur grumbled. I sighed and walked over to him, leaning over his bed. 

"Let us take care of you, Arthur. Everyone cares about you making a recovery," I told him softly. He blinked up at me, an unhappy crease in his forehead.

"Who'll still care when I need someone to stop me rolling into a ditch when I'm trying to take a damn piss?" He grumbled. My brows raised and I paused for a moment before shrugging. 

"I'll help you," I said. Arthur snorted.

"Uh, no. You won't. I draw the line there," he hissed. I straightened up and nodded in acceptance. 

"I'll do it. You go and make him that oatmeal," Hosea volunteered, patting my elbow and sending me on my way. "Come on, big guy."

I heard Arthur's groan of frustration as I left, and Hosea began helping him to his feet. I felt awful, seeing him so reliant on others when it was clear to me he was fiercely independent and did not like to trouble those he cared about. I wished he would see that he wasn't putting anyone out. He was injured, and we wanted to help. 

I prepared his oatmeal and brought it to him, he was pleased that he didn't need it feeding to him, because once he was propped up on some pillows he could use his good arm to feed himself. He waved me off to go about my day, though I felt reluctant to leave him alone in his tent. I did notice other members of the gang going in and keeping him company every now and then, though, notably Charles, John and Javier. Dutch too, of course, as well as the girls. They brought him books to read and candy to lift his spirits. Jack had visited with Abigail, and I was standing close enough that I could hear his curious questions and Arthur's sweet patience in answering them. Even the one asking whether he could see through the hole in his shoulder. I was pretty sure I'd seen everyone at least poke their head into the tent to ask how he was feeling. Even Micah.

A week or so passed and he was slowly getting better, more mobile. He was still confined to his bed for the most part, mainly under the orders of Hosea who insisted he take it easy and avoid unnecessary strain. I kept Arthur company most evenings, sometimes falling asleep in his tent, but whenever he caught me dozing before he fell asleep he'd send me to my bedroll. In the daytime, sometimes he'd venture out of the tent to stretch his legs and keep from going completely mad, but he'd lost a fair amount of blood and taken quite a beating and he tired easily, so his walks were short and few.

I hadn't left camp since my trip into town to get those supplies for Arthur, and I felt stir-crazy, not used to being in the same place without a change of scenery. I spared a lot of thoughts for Arthur at that, wondering if he felt the same way. I had been doing general chores around camp to do my bit, but I certainly felt ready for something different halfway through the second week of such routine. So, when Micah approached me one afternoon when I was sat by Arthur doing some sewing, I was inclined to agree with whatever scheme he had cooking up. 

"Reckon I could pull you away from the resident colander for a few hours?" He'd greeted us, gaining a stern look from myself and complete ignorance from Arthur. 

"Depends, it gonna get me out of here?" I replied. 

"Of course. I've been itching for another one of our jobs, we always work so well together, you and I," he touted, voice a praising drawl.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked, seeing Arthur's chest rise in a heavy breath from the corner of my eye. I glanced at him, and he was just staring at the top of the tent from his reclined position in bed. I realised how rude it was to discuss getting out of camp while Arthur had no option to do so, so I quickly rose to my feet, leaving my sewing on the table next to me. 

"Well, actually–"

"We should leave Arthur in peace," I quickly interjected, giving Arthur a nod and a smile before I left. He just watched me go with an expression I couldn't read. 

As we walked away, Micah continued, "I was thinking we could go to the Parlour House, pull a little something like you did with John."

"Yeah? Like what?" I asked. He stopped walking and turned to face me head on, an impish smile on his face. I stared blankly for a moment, then cocked my brow. "Oh, you want me to think of something?"

"You have such a way with these things," he flattered me, putting his hands on my upper arms and giving them an encouraging squeeze. 

I brought my hand up to my mouth, idly running my fingers across my lips in thought. Micah's tongue peeked out, brushing against the bristles of his moustache at the corner of his mouth as he stared at me expectantly. I shrugged his hands off of me, a frown forming on my face. 

"Give me a second, I hate being put on the spot," I grumbled, eyes flittering around the camp for a source of inspiration, as if the perfect plan would jump out at me from the sight of Molly preening in the mirror, or Charles constructing fire arrows, or Swanson tripping over his own feet as he stumbled by, singing a loud, slurred song.

My lips curved into a smile when magically, an idea did emerge at the glint of light bouncing off a beer bottle in Uncle's hand. 

Gathering the materials for the con was easy enough. I found an empty box in one of the wagons and asked around for any pretty gift bags; which Molly could provide. I asked Uncle to drain his beer, wrapped the bottle in a piece of cloth and swung it against the ground so it shattered. Finally, I poured the broken glass into the box, sealed it up, and put it away in the gift bag; all the while, Micah followed me around camp, curious and confused, but quiet. 

"Train station," I said to Micah once the prop was ready and he gave me a quizzical look. "It's better than the Parlour House, plus I don't wanna seem suspicious, in case anyone saw what I did last time."

"Sure, you gonna explain what we're doing?" He cocked a brow. 

"On the way," I smirked, then padded off to dress in something a little prettier; corset, petticoat and all, with a few pieces of borrowed jewellery too. 

-

We arrived by horseback at the train station and I'd brought Micah up to speed. He'd laughed at my plan, not out of malice but because he thought it was brilliant. We were sat in the train station, waiting for the right time to strike. We needed someone who looked like they had money, of course, and with the town being close to Saint Denis, I was sure we'd find someone suitable passing through the station.

I left it to Micah to pick the mark, he sat by me, watching the doors behind us and preparing to give the signal for me to move. It was a simple plan, neat and tidy how I liked them with little room for things to go wrong, relying on acting skills. I was sitting in my finest clothes with the gift bag on my lap and my back to the doors, even Micah had dressed up a little sharper than usual just to add to the believability of our job. I was well rehearsed, having pulled a similar job on my own before I'd joined the gang, excited anticipation twisted in my stomach and made me feel just a little bit sick. 

Micah's knee suddenly bumped against mine; it was show time. Without so much as a pause I suddenly rose to my feet, turning to step out from the end of the bench without a glance back. There was a thump and a crash, of course, the pretty gift bag hitting the ground just a second after a body collided with my own. I stumbled for effect, crying out as I tumbled onto my side, hip hitting the floor, limbs sprawling out and making one heck of a scene. Heads turned, the man who'd bumped into me froze, eyes widening and a number of emotions passing across his face. Shock, confusion, annoyance. 

"Watch where you're damn well going, woman!" He yelled at me, not giving a fig about the fact I was laying on the floor. Ah, well at least I didn't have robbing a kind gentleman on my conscience.

I winced, shifting onto my other side and rubbing at my hip, then froze, eyes settling on my bag.

"No!" I shouted, moving quickly to grab the bag, making sure that everyone could hear the tinkling of broken glass as I moved it. 

"Angel, are you alright?" Micah was quick to jump into action, crouching down next to me and putting his hand on my shoulder. 

"I'm… I'm fine. I'll probably have a bruise but I'll live. That's more than I can say for my gift," I told him sadly, holding the bag up to him. Micah's head swivelled to the man. 

"Don't just stand there, you moron!" He spat, shaming the man into reaching out, taking my elbow in his hand and working with Micah to help me back to my feet. 

"I didn't even get to open it!" I bemoaned, staring down at the bag in my hands. 

"Oh… oh, I'm sorry, angel. These things happen, maybe we can, uh, buy you a new one," Micah said, his tone edged with nervousness. "Just sit yourself down, dear, that was a nasty fall."

Micah guided me into my seat, as everyone stared, gawping. The mark fidgeted in his spot, cheeks reddening as people scowled and tutted at him. 

"You, uh, you alright, ma'am?" He asked awkwardly. I kept my head down, turning away just a bit as if to pretend he wasn't there.

"You just yelled at the poor girl, leave her be, let's you and I just have a little chat," Micah grumbled at him, taking the bag from me and shoving the guy's shoulder to get him moving in the opposite direction.

Despite him being on the other side of the room, I could hear every word from Micah's mouth. He wasn't concerned about being quiet, the more onlookers the better. 

"You any idea how much this thing cost? How long I scrimped and saved to straggle together enough cash to make my lady's birthday a special one?" He began, shaking the rattly bag for effect. 

"Hey, she stood up right in fr–"

"Don't you for one second think about blaming her for this. Be a man! Take responsibility!" He snapped his interruption then gave a heavy sigh. "She's been wanting it for weeks, it's this pretty little vase from this place in Saint Denis…"

"Are you alright, miss?" A gentleman nearby asked, distracting me from my eavesdropping. 

"Oh, yes, I'll be fine. Thank you, sir," I said, disappointment seeping into my tone. "Today had been so special, this is all such a shame!"

"It's your birthday?" He asked, and I nodded. The man glanced over at Micah, then rose to his feet. "I'll go see if I can lend a hand, see if we can talk some sense into that man. I heard the way he yelled at you, that's no way to speak to a lady; 'specially not one just been knocked over."

My lips parted and I watched him walk over to join Micah, giving his two cents and urging the mark to cough up some cash to go towards a new vase. I had not been expecting that. Soon enough, another feller joined in. I almost felt guilty, but this was what we did. This was how we made money! The mark looked plenty rich enough, in an expensive looking suit, a gold ring on almost every finger. The attention he'd drawn had him pulling out a billfold and pushing it into Micah's eager hand with an angry hiss of acceptance, before he was storming out of the station muttering about not being able to miss his train. 

Micah pocketed the cash, uttering his thanks to the other men who'd stepped in before he was gliding on over to me, a smile threatening to lift his moustache. He held his hand out to me and I took it, he helped me up, dusting his lips across the back of my knuckles in a way I'd have to have words with him about.

"My lady, I'm sorry about all that. Tomorrow I will go and get a replacement for your gift, for now, perhaps you'd like to get out of here and get a drink with me, take some of the edge off such a stressful situation?" He suggested. I smiled, giving a small curtsy. 

"Perhaps," I nodded. Micah straightened up, guiding me from the station with a hand on the small of my back. 

-

"I cannot believe that man stepped in to help you," I was saying to Micah, sat upstairs out on the balcony of Rhodes Parlour House, over a bottle of beer. 

"What a sucker," he chuckled. 

"Poor man. He had no idea what he was doing," I shook my head, biting my lip.

"I almost lost it right there, you're lucky I never laughed, missy," he teased. 

"How much did you get?" I asked, leaning forwards, elbows on the table. He leaned forwards too, smirking. 

"Sixty. Not too bad for free money, huh?"

"Not bad at all," I agreed, brushing my fingers up and down the side of my beer bottle idly. 

"How's your hip? You hit the floor pretty hard there," he asked, eyes dipping down my body though the table was blocking his view.

"A little sore, actually, never meant to act that part out so well," I admitted with a snort.

"Well, I guess it earned you a few sympathy points. And no one can say you aren't committed to your role, you did good, darlin'," he drawled, sipping his beer and licking his lips as he locked his eyes on mine.

"I think I may have found my calling; I should be joining the theatre," I laughed. 

"No, no, you're staying with us. You're far too valuable an asset," he told me, and I gave an awkward huff at the flattery. "I'm serious, you've brought in a decent sum of cash since you've been rolling with us, I like your attitude."

I shrugged my shoulders, "I just do what I can. I owe my life to the gang, I don't wanna be a freeloader."

"You do more than your fair share. Between you and me, I reckon most'a the women back at camp are holding us back, they don't put in graft like the rest of us," he leaned in conspiratorially and spoke under his breath. "That's why you're a breath of fresh air."

"Oh, now that ain't fair, the girls do plenty, it just goes unnoticed," I defended, frowning at him. 

"Maybe they do, but you ask me I don't reckon it balances out too well," he shrugged, "we could probably get on just fine without the women."

"You ain't forgotten you're speaking to one of the women, have you?" I cocked a brow and Micah acknowledged me with a gaze that was unnerving in its shameless assessment of me. 

"Oh it's mighty hard to forget that I'm in the company of a woman," his tone was bold, a little vulgar, even, and he was smirking at me. "But I don't class you as one of the women," he made air quotations with his fingers as if to categorise them as an entity all of their own.

"Oh? Then what am I?" I queried, genuinely curious about his response. 

"You, you're somethin' special. I can see you really going places in this gang, you keep doing what you do. Especially if you stick by my side."

I didn't say anything for a while, not entirely sure what to say. Micah kept on staring at me, a smile plastered across his lips, beer on his breath as he leaned across the table, taking up some of my personal space where I was leaning on the table too. 

"Anyone ever told you, you got a real pretty face?" He suddenly said, taking me by surprise. "Especially those eyes. Real nice eyes."

My brows raised and I leaned back a little, my back meeting the chair. "Oh, well that's kind of you to say," I murmured. 

"You ever think about that kiss we shared?" He asked, though he received silence as an answer. "You tasted nice, was good while it lasted, weren't it? Even though you made out like it bothered you."

"Well, it did bother me. But that's in the past, ain't it? Not worth talking about, let's forget about it."

"You think? I thought people were supposed to always remember their first kiss."

"If it's all the same to you, Micah, I'd rather not count that one," I told him curtly, and a smile settled across his features that was amused and more than a little predatory. 

I thought for a moment he was finished, with the resulting silence, but it did not last long. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, resting his beer bottle on his belly.

"You know, I think it's sweet you're a woman of little experience, you don't see that all too much, not with the company we keep. Ladies like Miss Abigail; I ain't got a problem with a woman who sells herself but, well, you know. There's something mighty appealing about a pretty thing who ain't ever been sullied by the hands of another man," Micah licked his lips, his expression decidedly lascivious.

"Micah, this ain't a proper topic of conversation," I huffed, getting warm in the face and shifting uncomfortably.

"I suspect you're curious. 'Bout what a man can do," he continued, ignoring my discomfort, "be honest."

"This ain't proper," I reiterated, speaking under my breath, "where on Earth has this come from?" I balked. He let out a dirty laugh. 

"You're a sweet little thing, ain't you?" He said, then sat up, draining his beer. "You and I, we have fun together, don't we?"

"Fun?" I repeated. "I guess so, sometimes."

"Yeah, we do. I reckon we could have all sorts of fun, I could show you what you've been missing out on all these years, if you'd let me," he offered, gesturing to me with the neck of his bottle, "how about it? You can trust me, you'll have a nice time. Just a little fun between you and I."

I narrowed my eyes at him, rendered speechless. 

"Would you like that? We could pay for a room here, head back later and nobody has to know about it but us, it'd be like uhh… like a private celebration of our own," he carried on, and I couldn't comprehend how blind he was to my obvious displeasure. 

"Just so I'm clear; are you asking if I wanna have sex with you; here? Now?" I asked bluntly, seeing him flinch just a little at the way I asked, no frills or nothing. 

"I'm asking if you'd like to have a little harmless fun with a trusted friend, it don't gotta be put as brash as that," he rephrased and I sighed. 

"Put it how you like, the answer's the same. I'm not sleeping with you, Micah. Nice try, though. The pep talk was nice, I was even a little flattered," I told him drily. His shoulders sagged and his smile dropped.

"Fair enough, your loss," he grunted, casting off any charm he may have had. I snorted, amused more than anything. 

His eyes wandered back to me at my laugh, and he couldn't help but smile a little too. "Something special," he echoed from earlier, shaking his head.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Hi! please! Is it possible to get an update of the royal equerry story? I am loving it! Thank you!!

Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part IV: Foal

On the trekback to the palace after she had stormed out on Fraser, Claire felt her heart hammering a thunderous rebuke in herchest.  

She replayed his words over and over again: Do ye no’ ken who ye are then? Ye canna be just the queen.

Her head mocked his accent, the bravado and confidence of his voice when he asked the question and made the statement. At the same time, her head mocked her, urging her to come up with something (anything) that would serve as evidence that she knew, with any certainty, who she was.

“What washe thinking?” she muttered, fists balled at her side and fingernails carvingcrescent moons into the flesh of her palm. 

The nextnight, Claire was resolute in her stubbornness.  

Defying the urge to go for a night ride, she stood ather window and glared down at the stable. Her mind was ablaze with all manner of condemnations. (How dare he? He doesn’t know the half of it. Bloody presumptuous Scot.)  She finger-combed her shower-damp hair andworked it into a loose braid.  Thedistant amber glow of the light on his desk clicked off.  Craning her neck, she saw a hulking silhouetteround the edge of the stables and ducked down as she heard the gentle rumble ofa motorcycle.

‘Amotorcycle,’ she thought absently, hands fluttering to cover her stomach.  

She hadnever ridden a motorcycle.  

Suddenly herthighs yearned for the mechanical power of it (a daydreamed sensation). She could almost feel what it would be like to have her back pressedfirmly against the broad chest of a sturdy teacher.  She almost could the feel the control of the machine at her fingers, the curling of them around the rubber grips while accelerating.

Summer air, thick like butterscotch on her skin. Zappingpings of bugs hitting bare, sunset-warmed shinbones. Riding to nowhere in particularand everywhere on their little island (her island).  Kicking up great, billowing plumes of tan dust on gravel roads andgetting lost on lanes to fields with turns and turns and turns to obscurity.  Climbing off ofthe motorcycle and laughing, her searching fingers in saddle bags to produce sweating Cokes or beers or wax paper-wrapped sandwiches. Refueling and buying apack of cigarettes without her own face staring back at her from the newspaperstand, letting the cashier keep the change with a smile. Anonymous. Swapping spots, snugglinginto a leather jacket that smelled of forest and man. Picking a stray auburn hair off ofa white t-shirt as she climbed onto the back of a motorcycle.

She yankedthe curtains shut, her mouth tripping over a series of four-letter words.

The secondnight, she had taken up residence by the window in her riding gear. “This is stupid,” she said aloud, just to confirm that she still had a voice. 

She made it as far as the back stairwellbefore returning to her bedroom and stripping down to her underwear.  Second guessing it all –– the riding, the answer to his question, what she would say if he tried to ask again, whether she wanted him to ask again.  Sitting with a frustrated pout pulling at hermouth, she elected not to go downstairs.

When she heard the roar of the motorcycle’s engine, she wasreasonably certain that she would never ride on either the front or back of amotorcycle.

The thirdnight, she was caught up in a state affair. 

An intricate blue dress, a twistedupdo that made her temples ache and eyes water, a series of conversationsswitching from French to English that made her head spin.

Frankcalled that evening when she was finished, and they exchanged pleasantries. She rubbed her feet and stared at the window, knowing that with the phone call it was too late to make an appearance at the stables and to find Fraser.  After wading through the mundanities of theirdaily lives (the scallops she had fordinner and the dreadful summer cold he felt coming on), Frank concludedtheir conversation, saying, “I will see you Saturday.”  

She felther heart catch on something and the thoughts in her brain splash against the limits of her skull, like water sloshing in a basin. With a flat affect, she responded with the only thing thatcame to mind: “Alright.”

Exhausted,she slept face down and dreamt of summer-warm limbs on beach towels, suntanlotion, and sweating bottles of beer with a broad-shouldered stranger. A motorcycle just down the beach and shaking sand out of canvas tennis shoes with peals of howling laughter.

On thefourth night, she finally exited her suite via the back stairwell.  She found the stables to be eerily quiet. Ridinggloves in hand, she made her way down to the last stall where a light glowed with the promise of Fraser’s continued presence.  

The door had been thrown openwide into the exercise yard.  Drawing herblouse over her mouth, Claire sputtered on the unusual, odiferous cocktail of feed, hay,dust, urine, and manure in the air.

Fraser,shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, was crouching at the gate of the stall,arms draped through the pickets.  She wasabout to say something, an overtly playful volley as an olive branch to apologize for her hasty departure earlier in the week.

But then what she was made her fall nearly breathless.

One of themares was on her side –– legs extended out in front of her, neck heaving.  The heavy, panting sounds of labor filled theair.

“Not thatmuch longer, love,” Fraser crooned, a piece of straw rolling between hisfingers.  

Clairestuffed her gloves one of her back pockets and took a tentative step towards thegate. A little stunned and already knowing the answer, she asked, “Is the marein labor?”

Fraserturned, immediately narrowing his eyes. A man she did not recognize was standinglooking at a watch with detached coolness. When he looked up he startled, mouth falling open dumbly as he made a half-bow. Claire wavedthe gesture off with a casual dismissiveness.

“Yer majesty…” the man said, fingers going tostraighten his tie as he stood back to full height. “An honor, I’m…”

Jamie brokeinto the introduction. “Aye.  She’s beenstraining and pacing about for a few hours now. It’s about time.”

For amoment Fraser’s eyes traveled over Claire, inspecting but not questioning.  It was an intrusive look, searchingintimately, but she welcomed it. It drove out her indecision about coming down to the stables.

Fraseradded, “Her name is Epona. The mare.”

Somethingin her wanted this to be okay–– this awkward, silent exchange of looks and their companionable silence. 

A few daysearlier she had pushed, wanting him to ask something personal just so she could hear herself say it. And he had risen toit.

He hadasked who she was.

She yearnedfor the sickening feeling of riding in a car at high speed at reverse. The gutchurning knowledge that while she could never go back, she could reverse course.  What she wanted was to go back in time–– to that moment where she had encouraged him to ask and he had. She would amend her response to his inquiry.

She would blurtout the true answer: ‘Who am I? I don’t have a bloody ideaanymore, but I can tell you who I usedto be. I liked that person.’

From Fraser’sthoughtful expression, it was clear his inspection of her did not identify whatever it was that he was looking for. She wondered if he craved that reversing feeling, too, or iffor him this was work.  Her mind was a traffic jam as she consideredthe possibility –– he was simply puttingup with her. 

The Queen, someone to beappeased. 

The thought grabbed at her guts and refused to let go.

When shesaid nothing, Fraser added, “This is Dr. Matthew Martin.  He’s an equine veterinarian.  Best in the business. At least he says.”

“Pleasure,”Claire said blankly, looking at Dr. Martin who was mumbling something and plainly stunned intoincoherence by the near-midnight appearance of the Queen. Brows furrowed, Claire took one more tentative step towards thegate. “Can I come watch?”

She was notsure why she asked the question when there was absolutely nothing Fraser or the veterinariancould have done to stop her. But it felt like an intrusion nonetheless. 

Fraserquirked an eyebrow, lips curling into a slight smile. “Foaling can be a messybusiness, ma’am.”

“And your point, Fraser?” She raised a single,manicured eyebrow of her own. At this point, she would have sacrificed theentire trust of land in her portfolio for a little messy business.

In amovement so fast that she wondered if she had imagined it, Fraser licked hislower lip and drew it in between his teeth.

He was smirking at her.

Hisexpression flipped back to neutrality by the time he shrugged and responded, “Nopoint, ma’am. Ye’re welcome to watch, if ye want.”

Giving her ownlower lip a quick swipe of her tongue, she went to the gate and stood next tohim.  For a moment she consideredcrouching just so she would not be towering over him. He had her off balance andshe wanted to be on his level.  But beforeshe could adjust her position, he stood, dropping the piece of straw.

“It willnabe much longer, ma’am. She’s been pacin’ and walkin’ the fence line for a fewhours, ye ken. The foal’s in the right position, allantoic fluid’s beenreleased. Ye’re just in time.”

“How do youknow all of this?” Claire asked, not looking at him but unable to stifle theslight tone of awe in her voice.

“It’s myjob, ma’am,” Fraser said simply.

Holding herbreath, Claire watched as the mare huffed and strained, going to her knees andthen back to her side.  

Anunidentifiable part of the foal eased from the mare. It was covered in a bluish-white,rubbery protective layer. Claire reached for Fraser’s forearm, fingers winding around the curve of it and feeling the almost undetectable twitch of muscle there. “Oh Christ,” shewhispered.

“And Iguess I’ve seen this a fair bit… farm life, and all.”

Heart inher throat, Claire looked down at her hand. Fraser glanced down onlymomentarily, a quick flick of his eyes, before he resettled his attention onthe mare. After a beat, Claire let her hand fall casually away. The warmbristle of his flesh was imprinted on her palm.

It feltlike an eternity and no time at all passed before the foal was born, sticky andawkward in the straw. The slick, velvety head swiveled awkwardly. Eyesstinging, Claire went to her knees and peered through the bars of the gate. Themare gently licked behind the foal’s ears, earning a whimper from the newestaddition to the stables.

“Theinstinct… it is… beautiful.  Nature justfills in the blanks where no one dictates how to act, how to be.”

Fraser stayedsilent, leaning against the post and indicating with his head for theveterinarian to leave.  For a moment Fraserstudied her: the hair flopped over her brow, the slight parting of her lips asshe watched the mare inspect her foal, the slow way she blinked when plainly amazed by something.

After atime, when they were alone, she asked, “Will you stay the night here then,Fraser?”

“Aye,” heresponded quietly, running a hand over the back of his neck.  “There’s somewhat messy business of expellingthe placenta. Could take a few hours. If it doesna pass, weel, it’s a differentkinda situation, ye ken?”

“Mmmm.”  The mare nudged the foal’s neck, gruntingslightly. “I want to stay. To help. I mean, if you need it.”

“Alright,”he said, his voice carrying an entirely different tone than hers had the daybefore. “I’d like ye to stay, if this is where ye want to be.”

Turning,she looked at him.  

A riot of urgesswelled in him.  

To sweep aside the chunkof damp curls from her forehead.  

To lickhis lips as he inhaled.  

To straightenthe collar of her blouse, pat it down so it rested flat at her neck. 

To brushthe straw from the knees of her riding pants.

“It’s whereI want to be,” she confirmed, lips curling slightly before she turnedback.  

Fraser did not turn. He thought ten thousand things in Gaelic at once.

[thong-in-the-twist]

Eidetic IV

Summary: Have you ever wondered how it feels to be able to remember every detail of a scene having seen it only for a brief moment? Jongdae!scenario

I II III IV

Once again I am facing the portrait. I know it’s not exactly a portrait but I can’t lie – I am obsessed. Why him. Why this particular man out of thousands of customers. And why don’t I remember it anymore?

I put the canvas back on the easel I grab my sketchbook and my coal. I rarely use coal, it stains the fingers and it can easily stain the paper if one is not careful enough. I am not. I don’t fucking care about the paper. As I flip the pages to find an empty one, all I can see are lips. I have filled pages of this sketchbook with lips.

I sketch them. The lips. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember them. But my hand does. If I don’t think. If I don’t try to remember. If I just don’t try, I can still draw them. From memory. Because it is from memory. Muscle memory is still a memory.

Right?

*

I wake up on the floor. I am cold and stiff, and I really need to get myself together. I don’t groan when I start to move but I know a hearty groan would quite accurately summarize my current status. My knee hurts when I put my weight on it but I don’t have right to complain. It’s my own stupidity that led to this.

In the bathroom, I see that my face has a new marking. A long dark line of coal. Such a lovely decoration.

I get myself ready and I eat a quick breakfast. I walk back to my room to grab last few things and I stop for a second to once more look at the easel. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember the lips.

In a sudden outburst of rage, I grab the mirror from the desk and I throw it at the canvas. The easel falls to the ground, canvas land just next to it, unscathed. The mirror though shatters. Seven years of bad luck for me.

It doesn’t give me solace, so I storm back to the easel, I grab my sketchbook and with my bag furiously hitting my hip I nearly run out of my apartment, throwing the sketchbook onto a pile of trash under the lamp just outside my building.

This. Finally. Gives me solace.

*

I am making Chocolate Ice Latte. This mere order is enough to have me fuming. But I do it, I finish it, and I turn around to face the shop. It’s raining. It started raining about an hour into your shift. At first, it meant a wave of customers all wanting to take a shelter, but it has already calmed down. It’s quiet, and there is hardly anyone on the streets. I don’t understand how can anyone take their drink iced in such weather.

“Chocolate Ice Latte,” I call into the air, fully expecting to see a young man react. I am ready for him and his damned mouth. The person who comes for the order is this sweet little girl, barely reaching over the counter. I smile and carefully hand her the drink. I could wonder why is she allowed to drink coffee, but I am not the parent. I can only watch as she goes happily back to her mother that looks over her so tenderly.

There is a soft snort to my right and I glance over. One of my numerous female coworkers is resting against a cash machine. I catch her name-tag. Mina. Ok, here I go, Mina.

“What?” I ask. Mina laughs this time openly.

“Girl,” she says purring the r as if it was at least three syllables long. “It ain’t your Chocolate Ice Latte.”

“What?” I repeat, this time confused even more. She winks at me and it doesn’t help.

“Your cookie is under that window. Today drinking cappuccino,” I look over to the window she pointed with a harsh jab of her chin. Sure enough, there is a young man sitting with a cappuccino cup in front of him and a book in soft cover. “I bet he didn’t read a page out of that book this whole time. He’s been busy appreciating your ass.”

I look away, suddenly embarrassed. I am not good with people. I am not good at having conversations like that. But Mina seems to not be disturbed by that fact.

“Go on,” she says. I can hear her excitement. Oh, right. Mina is one of those people. People who like to lie their life through other people. I am not being cynical. There are just people like that, just like there are people that like to stay out of the spotlight, just like there are people that were born to be a star. “Talk to him! Nothing is happening anyway.”

I know exactly who I am.

Then why, why, I ask myself as I walk between the tables to the man. Jongdae. That’s his name if Mina is right and if we both think about the same person.

I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know what I am doing, really.

The man sees me when I am two tables away and he straightens in his chair so fast that it could come across as comic relief.

Which it is.

“Hi,” he greets me, one corner of his mouth jumping slightly. But not as if he was controlling it. More like he was trying to stop it. I recognize the voice – it is Jongdae.

I look down – it’s partially embarrassment. But more of it is my sudden realization that I can’t just stare at his lips. As I look at my not cleanest ballerinas I realize once again that I don’t remember.

“Can I sit here?” I ask looking up. Is he handsome? I see his face, but I can’t seem to read it.

Which is weird because I want to. Just as I never want to, this time I would really love to read his face.

“Oh, yes, sure!” He answers pointing to the chair in front of him. I smile and for a second his face ceases to exist in my world. I slide down onto the chair, looking around as if I wanted to check if it’s really ok to sit down.

I do and the world doesn’t stop, so I look up.

Jongdae is smiling at me and I answer with a shy smile. Is he handsome? Are his features hard? Are they soft? How do you describe his jaw, his nose? Are those high cheekbones?

I don’t know, I have nothing to compare him to.

“I see you didn’t order Chocolate Ice Latte today?” I say because it’s a first thing that comes to my head. His smile grows and I see his teeth. Those are white, straight teeth. That much I know.

Jongdae ruffles his hair, only now putting his book down. It’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. My mind as helpful as ever supplies:

Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me There lie they, and here lie we Under the spreading chestnut tree.

“Yes… It’s starting to get too cold for iced drinks,” he explains pointing to his drink. “I am not a fan of coffee but I just couldn’t take away the pleasure of hearing you.”

There is an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes, and I just look away, mindless of the smile that grows on my face. I notice how he said hearing you instead of seeing you and in an inexplicable way it makes me feel good.

I laugh to myself and shake my head. It’s surreal. And even I can tell that Jongdae seems to be satisfied. I gather because I laughed. Or is it too bold of an assumption?

“Listen,” he starts and I focus on him, “so… Do you come here often?”

I laugh. Of course, I laugh, but more because he wrinkles his nose to show me he is joking. I would have known that even without his sign because this line is too lame to be anything but a joke.

I have no idea what I’m doing, I really don’t – but I find myself cocking my head to a side.

“Often enough to be considered a usual,” I say and it catches him off guard. He snorts and looks down biting his lip. I guess it’s an unconscious thing, but it’s refreshing. And I can’t keep my eyes off his lips.

It scares me. It scares me that I am still being obsessive. I glance over to the counter. Nothing is happening and Mina? Mina shows me thumbs up. I need to get behind that counter right now.

“I… I have to go back,” I mumble, looking down at the table. Not his lips. Not his lips.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he hurries to say. I smile minutely and start standing up. “I know that you are working now, but have you thought about the studio thing?”

I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I need to go back behind that counter. I’d do anything to be there.

“Yes,” I say quickly. It’s as short as “no” but more polite. I want to be polite. I don’t want Jongdae to be offended.

I stand up, but he does the same. No, please, no.

“Does that mean you agree?” He asks with badly suppressed excitement.

“I don’t know yet,” I say already walking back. I do not think, I do not analyze. I need a break. Mina stares at me in disbelief as I rush past her into the back room.

I am definitely not good with people.

[franeridart]

Where you going for a shark girl and lava boy mirror for the kids

Nope, they were based on Bakugou and Kirishima themselves. Now the real question is, has Horikoshi based Kirishima and Bakugou on shark boy and lava girl? That’s a question I got no answer to, though.

Anon said:That smiling Sero... my heart... can’t take it. You contribute so much to the BNHA fandom... I appreciate you, I appreciate you so much. Thank you, it’s great, all of it is so good

I wouldn’t say I contribute much at all, honestly lol just doodles, but I’m glad you like them! :D

Anon said:Jeez-la-wheeze

...?

Anon said:The comic strip of Baku exposing Kiri's black roots made my day. I now use it too cheer me up.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! glad people are still somehow finding that one hahaha 

Anon said:I'm. So. That comic w the kids was so lovely it's one of my fave things EVER I love how u portrayed them it was so so perfect but. I ran out of tags for the first time bc I was rambling about it so much. That's. how much I love it bless u for my life jfghjghfj

;O; thank you so so much!!!!!! I’m super glad you liked it that much!!! ;A;

Anon said:I LOVE SEEING THE KIDS HELL YEAH

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :D glad to hear that!!!

Anon said:I feel like That one meme comic would fit the Baku and Kiri fam well the one where someone would swear and the other person with cover the ears of the innocent with a >:O face then the innocent would swear and >:O would beat he crap out of the peep who taught them

Lmao but to be fair considering how Mitsuki is and how Bakugou turned out, I would find it hard to believe if at least one of the kids didn’t end up swearing haha

Anon said:Hi!!! I love your art so much and I just want to wish you happy holidays!!!!

Thank you!!!!! I hope you’ll have great holidays too!!!

Anon said:I really like the kid characters you created they are really cool! (In your opinion which kid is closer to kiri and Baku? I have a mini head cannon about it but I would like to know your thoughts!!) I would love to see more of them when ever you feel in the mood to draw them!! :) love all of you work you are consistent and talented and I really enjoy checking your page to see all the new art you post!!

Thank you for liking them!!!! And hmmmmmmmmmmm let’s say that Mako’s closer to Kiri and Tai to Baku, but not by much - a bit because Mako’s a high energy type of kid and Kiri has energy to spare always, a bit because Tai is the quiet type and Baku’s good at keeping him busy and entertained with things in his comfort zone, but also because back when they adopted Mako Bakugou was... really scared he would fuck it up so Mako ended up growing closer to Kiri first, and because when they adopted Tai Baku was the only one he for sure wasn’t gonna accidentally hurt with his quirk so he grew closer to Baku first. Bakugou’s also better at keeping calm and working out what’s the problem when the kids cry (surprisingly) (Kirishima more often than not ends up crying with them) so since Tai gets easily overwhelmed he seeks him out often - ah well, in general they’re all really close, but, yeah. This is how it is.

Anon said:Were those Kirishimas scars???

They were! I came up with the design after he got hurt but before Hori implied he got no permanent damage, so Rappa’s fight influenced it!

Anon said:YOU DREW MORE KIDS OMG IM FUCKING DYING. IM CRYING. YOU MADE MY NIGHT. I AM SO IN LOVE WITH THESE KIDS YOU CREATED AND THIS AU I'M SO GLAD TO SEE MORE OF THEM THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING YOU'RE A BLESSINGGGGG!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!

Anon said:I did ask how the kids were doing!! Yay I love seeing them! They're great!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! glad to know I didn’t imagine that ask then hahaha

Anon said:I just noticed that Bakugou is playing with Kirishima's foot in that one photo where he's just talking to help keep Kiri's mind off Bad Shit, and omg it's the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen? Just how adorably comfortable and casual they are together and gahhhhh I love them so much

;O; glad you caught and liked that!!!

Anon said:not to be controversal but uhh do you like mp100 or are you full bnha :0

lmao I’m the furthest thing from full bnha you’re gonna find anon, I’m in way too many fandoms honestly, I just happen to always end up drawing bnha lately lol I did post a couple of mp100 things before, tho they’re p old by now :O

Anon said:Consider - minamomojirou

I still don’t understand minamomo tho :O

Anon said:Dude I'm like...legit in love with your art style it's so GOOD it makes me wanna stare at any of your drawings for like. My whole life

*sobs* thank you so much???? ;;;;;

Anon said:The sad paramores make me sad. ;-;

I’m sorry ;-; (.......... that was sort of they purpose tho :0)

Anon said:Idk if this is weird or not, but I love how you draw feet. Like they looks so nice? And I just??? Is it odd to think someone draws feet nice?

I don’t think it’s odd at all! Thank you!!! :D

Anon said:i have a hc that kirishima is from a foster home and at some point fatgum finds this out and is like 'this child is mine now ' and adopts him. he even gets permission to come to the dorms and ask kiri for permission only to watch the mofo cartwheel down the hallway and crash into a wall yelling 'IVE GOT A DAD' happy hugs ensue

That a good headcanon!!!! A pure one!!!! A warm one!!!!! We do know he’s at least got a mom, tho :0

Anon said:Your art always puts a little smile on my face and brightens my day up! Thank you for sharing it with us :)

!!! Thank you for liking it!!!!

Anon said:Hello! I'm not sure if you remember, but a couple weeks ago I asked you about your process making comics! I finally had time to sit down and draw following a similar procedure you described, deciding to start drawing my ideas out on a huge canvas like you do, and I'm AMAZED at how much easier it is to draw on a huge canvas rather than trying to figure out how to lay out panels on individual smaller pages. Thank you so much for explaining your procedure, it helped me out a lot and I-- (1/2)

-- ended up making a comic that I'm actually pleased with for once! (2/2)

OHHHHHHHHHH you’re most welcome!!!!! I’m so glad to hear that actually helped you out!!!!!! :D !!!!!!!

Anon said:The way you seem to have so much fun drawing has inspired me to start drawing, too! I'm pretty shit at it atm but I keep thinking about this thing you said one tine about how it's awesome how one creates something out of nothing when one draws (no matter what the drawing looks like), and that helps me go on! So!! Thanks!!!!!

IT’S TRUE!!!! IT’S AMAZING!!!! YOU’RE AMAZING!!!!!!! I hope you’re having as much fun with your art as you can manage, anon!!!!! *O*

Anon said:Your bakusquad doodles give me life, who do you consider to be the Squad Mom out of the lot?

.....................it’s Bakugou, isn’t it (and thank you so much!!)

Anon said:Ah! I love all your art (even the fandoms I'm not a part of and all your OCs!) I also really like your headcanons and opinions so I have a quick question: Do you have any specific or persisting (as I'm sure it could change a lot) headcanons on what the BNHA kiddos will look like as pros?

I don’t, actually! :O I do hope Aoyama will do something about the lack of redirectors for his laser to his hands, and I ALSO would love for Kaminari to get some close-range weapon (anything metal would work for him, really, but I’ve been thinking tonfas lately 👀), but aside from that I’m all up in Horikoshi’s hands! I hope he’ll make me see cool updates to Bakugou’s costume with this new arc, actually :O didn’t get to see him fighting all that much, during the license exam!

Anon said:Hiya! I really like your art and all, and since I'm on mobile, I normally save it in my phone. Is that okay? I don't repost it anywhere at all! I just like keeping it so I can enjoy your art. I really hope you don't mind because I never claim anything against of or use it for unnecessary stuff. Thanks!! 💞💞 also I really love your art like yes

That’s fine by me!!! Thank you for liking my stuff enough to give up archiviation space in your phone for it hahaha

[shintaroux]

ALL THE RIGHT MOVES

I

“Reo, this child is cheating.”

“He’s not cheating. No five-year-old can understand shogi, let alone play it.”

“I could.”

“You were all kinds of special, Sei-chan.”

Akashi gave a cross sideways glance to his friend, co-worker and employer Reo and then returned his attention to the shogi board just as the little boy with tawny, curly hair moved his pawn one square horizontally and then two squares vertically like it was no big deal; like he was not tainting the noble game of shogi.

“I won!” The boy exclaimed and pumped his fist into the air.

“No you didn’t, you just cheated.”

“Sei-chan,” Reo called in a faux gentle tone. Akashi sensed the implicit warning and let the boy run off and exult to other children about his barbaric victory.

Reo sat down on the floor next to Akashi and drew his knees towards his chest; like that, he looked a bit less lanky but still notably taller compared Akashi. Knowing what’s coming, Akashi busied himself with putting the shogi pieces back into their designated place on the board.

“Are you sure you’re doing alright, Sei-chan?”

There it was.

“I am fine, thank you.”

Reo sighed. “You can be so mulish sometimes.”

“I’m sure you meant resolute.”

“Well, you’re definitely resolutely avoiding talking to me about feelings. And stuff.”

The thing was, Akashi’s father had gone bankrupt and they had lost most majority of their property. Never had Akashi been faced with poverty and not having whatever he wanted and needed at his fingertips and it was taking him some time to adjust. He had moved in with Reo, he had started working at his kindergarten and he was adamant to adjust, finish college and work in his desired profession.

It was going to take some time and sacrifices but Akashi was going to deal with it, one step at a time; Rome wasn’t built in a day; even more so after it had been burned to the ground.

Akashi huffed and looked around the room.

“Reo, that child over there is drawing on the walls.”

“WHAT—”

II

Needless to say, working at a kindergarten was a painstaking process of looking for children who took a game of hide and seek way too seriously or who mistook walls for canvas or who put small items in their pocket, forgot about them and then caused an ordeal.

It was not the working environment Akashi had been striving for. But he had bills and college tuition to pay and for that he’d endure those children.

Those children who only ever heard him when he called them for lunch.

And who couldn’t play shogi for their life.

III

“Whoa~~ shogi?!”

Akashi lifted his gaze from the board which was, once again, figuratively defiled by the same child as few days again. Above him stood Ryouta, one of the few kids whose name Akashi remembered solely because of his model behaviour, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Can you play?”

Ryouta grinned widely, revealing a missing milk tooth, and sat down facing Akashi.

“Yeah. Can I?”

“Of course.”

As if bracing himself, Ryouta tucked his golden hair behind his ears and took a deep breath, his rosy cheeks puffed; then he exhaled.

Twenty minutes later, Akashi was gaping at the state on the board.

Akashi had won, undoubtedly so, but not without having almost lost – twice.

“Aw, I lost,” Ryouta sighed and pursed his lips into a pout.

“Who taught you how to play?” Akashi asked. He deemed the idea of going easy on a child who was maturely accepting defeat unnecessary.

“My dad plays shogi a lot. I just copied what he does. But you’re very good, mister.”

“Is your father a professional shogi player?”

“No. He plays alone when he comes home from work.”

“I see.”

Whoever Ryouta’s father was, he was the closest to beating Akashi than anyone ever was – and he wasn’t even in the room when it almost happened.

Akashi’s interest was piqued.

IV

The very same day, Akashi caught a glimpse of Ryouta’s father; he was a tall man of broad shoulders, clad in a neat-looking suit, with fair facial features, long eyelashes and high cheekbones. On the bridge of his nose sat a pair of glasses which completed the look a well-mannered professional.

He definitely looked like someone who, given half a chance, could beat him at shogi.

He definitely looked like a distraction.

V

“Reo, what do you know about Ryouta’s father?”

“Hm… Not much.”

After he replied, Reo continued poking at his pudding, lost in thought. Until he jumped in his seat, eyes widening.

“Why do you ask? Please don’t tell me you have decided to go down the thorny, self-destructive path of pining for an older man with a child?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Reo. My interest is purely of professional nature.”

Reo rolled his eyes once and continued: “Well then, his name is Midorima Shintarou. Let’s see, he’s an up-standing man who is currently working under his father at the clinic nearby. One day he’ll inherit it. He’s a pleasant man to talk to when he does in fact talk, but a bit too reserved and formal for my taste.”

“I see.”

“Just promise me you won’t do anything embarrassing enough that I’d have to relocate my kindergarten into another district.”

“Reo…”

VI

Midorima Shintarou was before him.

Akashi took it as his noble mission to find something wrong with the man. He started with picking at Midorima’s emerald hair, but every strand was in its place and strangely so considering that it was the end of the work day and he had come by to pick up Ryouta. Akashi’s eyes travelled down the seams of Midorima’s grey suit, but not a single crease disrupting the well-polished look. Midorima’s hands were well-cared for, nothing but smooth-looking skin and long, bony fingers.

He looked like a worthy opponent.

“Please refrain from looking at me like that; my child is here,” Midorima said, breaking Akashi’s concentration.

“Looking at you, how?” Akashi feigned innocence as he removed his thumb from his chin.

Midorima pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose which almost – almost – successfully hid the smirk on his face. “You know very well what I mean.”

“Allow me to cut to the chase, sir, I’d love to play shogi with you,” he spoke in a way that would send Reo’s eyes rolling.

“Play shogi with me?” Midorima repeated, the crease in his brow becoming apparent.

“Not just play – win.”

Midorima’s lips quirked in amusement. “You are ten years too early to win against me.”

“I’d very much like to try.”

Akashi flashed him his finest challenging look and for a while they simply stared at each other like wild animals stuck in resin, unable to move until they’re both suffused with thick tension until one of them suffocated.  

It was then that Ryouta impatiently pulled at his father’s sleeve and dragged his attention away from Akashi.

“Dad, I want a bath.”

Midorima broke eye contact, nodded and patted Ryouta’s head.

“I’ll come by a bit earlier tomorrow,” he said and started for the exit. “I hope it will be worth it.”

“That I promise you.”

VII

Ryouta’s ‘brooom, broom’ in the adjacent room were the only sounds permeating the thick, tense air; a completely unfit background music for two enemies locked in a battle happening on the flat board on the table.

Akashi leaned in, his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers and hid his quivering lip behind them. The odds were not in his favour.

Midorima sat upright in his chair, shoulders straight and observed every Akashi’s movement as if he were a guinea pig.

Akashi moved a piece on the board; the first time he had ever doubted his decision.

Midorima took a couple of seconds to assess to situation before he moved his piece. Then he leaned back at last, his lips stretching into a humble smile.

“I win.”

It wasn’t as dramatic as in the movies, losing. That was a lot like having time freeze on you while you replay the same moment over and over again wishing you could’ve made a different call. And to Akashi, it felt like that very time strangled something – somebody – inside of him and locked his lifeless body away.

“You are good. But skill alone cannot beat experience,” said Midorima, showing concern in his creased brow.

Akashi wordlessly stared at him, unblinking.

“If I were your age, you would’ve won.”

Akashi had yet to find his voice.

“So, I have enough time for one more round. Do you want to go?”

Akashi’s silence seemed interminable.

Midorima didn’t appear to be fazed by it. “A famous scientist once said that the only source of knowledge is experience. I think it was something that—“

“Albert Einstein.”

“—said.” Midorima smiled briefly and fixed his glasses. “Right. So, another round?”

“Yes.”

VIII

It had become a routine. In the mornings and evenings, Midorima and Akashi played one round in the back room of the kindergarten. Reo threw a knowing glance in Akashi’s way every once in a while but he never rebuked him. Ryouta sometimes watched them play, in awe, as if a battle of epic proportions had been playing out before his widened, golden eyes.

Akashi aced all his classes. Loss in one field meant you were lacking in many others so he tried to make up for all his faults thinking that this would lead him to victory.

And two weeks after their shogi matches, Akashi still hadn’t won once.

He had analyzed and observed every move Midorima made; he had been over-thinking above and below, behind and forwards – but all in vain.

He felt like a would-be emperor who fell short just before he reached the crown.

However, the real problem arose when he no longer only wanted the crown but the person who was wearing it.

Midorima Shintarou.

IX

“Reo, I might’ve miscalculated. My interest in Ryouta’s father may be more than professional.”

Reo stared vacantly at Akashi for a few moments, as if he were absorbing the information and replaying it in his mind, before he clasped his hands together. “My prayers go to Midorima Shintarou.”

Akashi sighed exasperatedly. “Reo…”

X

Akashi had learned three things through Ryouta.

One, he only saw his mother on the weekends; that was her time with him.

Two, Midorima had a hidden drawer in his closet where he kept obscure, useless items that were valuable for one day only and depended solely on the horoscope.

Three, he never brought anyone home. Not friends, not colleague, not anyone.

XI

“That’s odd. You rarely study this late,” Reo commented and placed a hot cup of cocoa on Akashi’s desk.

Akashi took a small sip and winced as the liquid burned his tongue.

“You know, Reo,” Akashi said, ignoring Reo’s comment, “I’m starting to really like this job.”

Reo crossed his arms but he wasn’t mad; his mouth was smiling. “I hate to break it to you, but your job isn’t flirting with hot dads. You’re also fairly miserable at it.”

“Reo…”

XII

It was morning and Ryouta was playing with Reo in the next room. Akashi could hear the clacking of wooden toy cars. Its distant thumping, like some sort of a countdown, kept him in present and helped ease the drowsiness away.

His senses were dull. He barely got a wink of sleep last night.

This is why Akashi Seijurou didn’t do all-nighters; all-nighters did him in.

Midorima was sitting in front of him, observing the board, not paying attention to Akashi in the slightest; the stagnant, wooden pieces seemed to be more interesting. It irked him to his very marrow.

“Haven’t slept well?” Midorima spoke in a gravelly voice as if he wanted to rouse Akashi from his daydream, but his emerald eyes still glued to the board. Then he moved his piece.

Akashi suppressed a yawn.

“Yes, I was revising for an exam.”

“Exams are important but your health should come first.”

Akashi forced a smile. “Of course, doctor.”

When Midorima lifted his head, and their eyes met, something overcame Akashi.

He felt like certain things could be forgiven if he felt like he was in a dream. That’s why he lifted his leg off the ground and let his foot find its way to Midorima’s calf. Midorima’s eyes flickered immediately, he caught on. Akashi lazily dragged his foot up and down Midorima’s calf; he was testing the waters.

Midorima, aside from the crack between his brows, showed no sign of distress as if he was expecting Akashi to do this. Then he harrumphed loudly, purposefully.

“Focus on the game, Akashi.”

“I am. Life is a game, and I’m making my move.”

Midorima’s eyes flitted from Akashi’s face to what was happening below the table. He didn’t make a move to discourage Akashi’s foot.

“You knew it from the first day yet you kept coming back to play with me. You were also making your move,” Akashi stated simply.

Midorima fell back into his chair, a shameless smile now playing on his face. It made the wrinkles underneath his eyes all the more visible. And charming, Akashi thought.

“You have to understand why I have my doubts. The age gap, your fixation on victory, my son.”

Akashi interlaced his fingers, a nervous habit when he tried to keep the situation under his control.

“I understand. But I also understand that I’m willing to give it a shot. If you’re willing to as well.”

A brief exchange of a glance, that was all it took, and Akashi already knew the answer.

But Midorima wasn’t going to hand it to him for free.

His eyes flicked towards the wall clock and he darted upwards, fixing his uniform. “I have to go to work.”

Akashi followed him as he started for the doors. “Is that a yes?” Akashi had to hear it, after all.

Midorima halted his step. He threw a furtive glance through the half-open doors and then pushed Akashi into the wall. As he towered above him, Akashi realized why he never had a chance.

Akashi looked up into the flutter of Midorima’s thick, long lashes and saw hesitation trying to overpower determination. It was such an absurd struggle that Akashi couldn’t help placing his hands on Midorima’s cheeks.

“It must be hard to be a model adult.”

Midorima smirked. “Brats like you aren’t making it any easier.” With that, Midorima leaned in and placed a brief kiss on Akashi’s dry lips.

“Dinner, my place, this weekend. I’ll pick you up. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect.”

XIII

“I got a date,” Akashi said as a badly scribbled image of a dinosaur started at him.

A smile flickered on Reo’s face for a moment before it was replaced by childish exasperation. “I’m happy for you. Now get down to scrubbing this wall.”

[fmdxkit-blog]

setting: august 2006 to present day. warnings: death. word count: 3321 (// icb).

white with hints of grey and purple was all kit saw in his reflection. not too long ago—124 days, to be exact (but who was really counting?), he saw peaches, browns, flecks of pink, amber, blue, yellow. so many colors; he took them for granted, believing they were eternal. now, flooded in the lifeless hue of white (which wasn’t even a bonafide color, as his friend told him), kit felt dead. there was no life around him. the plants sat on the window sill were fake, devoid of mother nature’s gift (or curse).

he pulled a maroon beanie over his head, adding a splash of color to the canvas shade of his skin. the striking contrast brought the magentas out on his cheeks, but kit still looked as sickly as ever. bracing a knit cardigan around his slim, fragile body—his teacher gifted him (out of pity, no less), kit waddled towards the open door of his private hospital room. he asked a nurse to keep it open because he was so tired of hearing nothing but the voices tick away in his head, gnawing, scratching. kit would go mad if the silence persisted.

he stalked the corridor, rolling the IV pole next to him. it was the wilson to his—whatever tom hanks’ name was in that movie he was stranded on an island and his only friend for seven years was a bloodied volleyball. the IV pole was his only friend at the hospital.

kit strolled to where the other children with cancer usually gathered as the nurses tried to serenade them by singing kumbaya, as if that made the cancer nonexistent. he scoffed upon entering the room, immediately regretting the idea of having some sort of human interaction that day. before he could vanish back into the white surroundings, he caught a nurse’s periphery, and she waved him to join. he scanned the room. it was less dead than the rest of the ward. colourful, connected mats shielded the floor as toys laid scattered about: blocks, rag dolls, toy trucks, action figures. the whole shebang. the children were in a circle, surrounding a nurse with a ukulele.

begrudgingly, kit entered the playroom but lingered behind everyone else. he didn’t like drawing too much attention, nor was he in the mood to be singing songs, pretending he wasn’t confined out of his will because of an ailment 21st doctors still couldn’t solve. at eleven, he was already so much of a cynic. most eleven year olds were waiting for hogwarts letters (as if). he was losing his childhood day by day at an alarming rate.

“hey, i’ve never seen you around here.” soft but distinct. the voice crawled into kit’s personal bubble but he turned his head but saw no one. he then glanced down, blinking at a girl in a wheelchair.

“me too,” kit contested, eyeing the stranger. she wore the drab hospital gown and cliched beanie over her head too. it wouldn’t take a brain genius to realize she was a cancer patient just like him. “leukemia?”

“leukemia.” the girl nodded, lips twisted to a subtle pucker. “i’m elena, by the way. nice seeing someone else my age here.”

“kit.”

“kit? like kit-kat but without the kat? is your sister named kat?” elena giggled, tossing jokes as if they were funny. well, they were but kit wasn’t easily humored when his mood was at an all-time low.

“i don’t have a sister. i have a brother and his name is henry,” he answered diplomatically.

“you do know your parents named you after chocolate bars, right?”

kit scowled, annoyed by the wisecracks. “who asked you? why are you even talking to me? we’re not friends.”

elena fiddled with the hem of her blue hospital the gown. “how else do we make friends if we don’t talk, kit-kat?”

“first of all, i don’t want any friends.” kit resented anything or anyone who even vaguely reminded him he had cancer and was practically perched on death’s doormat. befriending a fellow patient was a definite no. “second of all, don’t call me that.” irritated, kit clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and vacated the room. he was done with the crappy music and interrogation—none of which he signed up for, nor appreciated.

“hey, wait!” elena called behind him.

kit tossed her a glare over his shoulders, grimacing as her frail arms spun the large wheels of the wheelchair. “why are you following me? don’t follow me.” when he reached his room, he planned to slam the door in her face but a tire prevented him from doing so.

“i’m sorry i called you kit-kat. i won’t call you that again. i’ve been here for months and i haven’t spoken to anyone my age. i’m tired of listening to toddlers rave about dora the explorer. and frankly, i can’t look at them because i feel so bad. babies shouldn’t have to go through this,” elena emphasized gravelly, voice on the verge of breaking after an emotional and sincere speech.

kit was taken back by the burst of honesty and also by how much he related to her words. they struck a chord, so he opened the door.

“no one deserves to go through this,” he corrected passionately yet grimly, his jaw clenched so tight as his adam’s apple bobbed.

elena mustered a small, relieved smile. “let’s start again.” courteously, she extended a hand. “i’m elena. nice meeting you!”

kit stared at the pink palm, contemplating on accepting the offer of friendship. he had plenty of friends outside of the hospital but no one on the inside. he was so exhausted of pitied looks, maybe having someone on the same boat wouldn’t be a constant remainder of his situation but a person to relate to. to talk to. to understand him and his fears.

he shook elena’s hand, watching her smile overwhelm her freckled face. kit was stunned by the radiance; he was almost persuaded to mirror the expression but slickly caught himself and dropped the handshake a fraction later.

“and i’m kit. nice meeting you too.”

—

propped up by a number of heavy duty pillows, kit stared lifelessly at the television screen. old reruns of sitcoms from before he was born played: a group of elderly women spewing comedic jokes, a nanny with a nasally accent provided laughter, and a prince from bel-air but kit doesn’t bat an eyelash. his expression is forlorn, eyes an empty abyss of dull, mousy brown.

there was a knock on his door but he forewent a reply, wanting to have some alone time. then there was another until the knocking was constant, ringing in his ears. he snapped his head at the door as soon as it opened without a verbal permission of sorts.

“get out,” he hissed, voice eerily too deep for a boy of eleven.

elena stepped in, no longer bound to a clunky wheelchair. she padded to his bed, ignoring his wishes. “i heard you screaming earlier-“

the pink, swollen skin around kit’s eyes tightened, his jaw clenching as venom laced his words. “i was not screaming.”

“crying, then.” elena sat herself on the edge of the bed, hands folded on her thighs as she studied his appearance. there was no pity. just curiosity. “you’re not going home anytime soon, huh?”

kit glanced away, hard expression set on the cracks through the blinds. he saw nothing but pretend to be invested in anything else but the truth. the silence answered her questions and elena nodded knowingly.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

“excuse me?” kit grimaced, half disgusted by her confession and half confused. he returned his glare onto her and she refused to meet it, sight set on the floor.

“i’m glad you’re here. we can keep each other company. if you stay at home, who will be there for you? your parents have work and henry has sch-“<\small>

“your logic makes no sense,” he scowled. how could anyone wish for him to stay in some place he detested with every cell of his existence.

“you’ll get better, kit,” elena said wisely, as if she was certain his fate was guaranteed or written in the morning paper she fancied reading. “i know it. i can feel it. just hold on a little longer. the hospital isn’t so bad. the food, though.” in synchronization, they glanced at the tray of food settled on a bedside table. “that can be better.”

it didn’t know whether to groan or laugh but the most natural of chuckles spilled from his lips when he allowed himself the pleasure of loosening up. he was never so high-strung but the ambience of the hospital changed him. chemotherapy and radiation left him wilted, draining his last bits of energy until he was a blackhole, destructive to only himself. a rose, who was once brilliant red, now decaying with no color to its merit.

“finally,” elena grinned, her freckled cheeks pushing her eyes into merry crescents. “a smile. you look better when you smile.”

“you’ve been reading too many romance novels. you need to lay off.” flushed cheeks and heat prickling the tips of his ears, kit cleared his throat to act unaffected. aloof, even.

“what can i say, they take me away.” shutting her eyes, the sunlight peering through the gaps in the blinds settled on her face. the brown, orange, tan specks on her complexion luminescent, matching the radiance of her fiery, orange hair.

kit felt a strange, foreign beat in his chest. he clasped a hand over his heart, worried of yet another side affect of his treatment: he was exhausted of the migraines, the nausea, the vomiting. all he wanted was peace. but the sensation was different. it didn’t feel bad. in fact, it felt oddly calming while encouraging all at once.

he gulped, flickering his gaze anywhere but not on the trigger of the new anomaly.

—

“woah!” elena gaped in awe at the music video kit showed her on the computer once it came to an inevitable and bitter finish. her eyes were glazed, starry and astonished.

“what did i tell you?” kit stood proudly, hands perched on his hips. “cool, right?”

“very cool,” chuckled elena, scenes of the video zipping through her head in rewind. “i can see you doing that.”

bashfully, kit ran his hands over his beanie, adjusting the elastic hem around his pinkish ears. “you think? i don’t know. i can’t really sing, dance or rap.”

“but you can learn!” elena positively quipped, nothing short of belief etched on her façade. “some people are born great and some are taught greatness.”

“did you get that from a book…” kit laughed, resting his weight on the foot of elena’s bed as he pulled the laptop closer, typing in something else into the search engine.

“nope! i thought of it all on my own.”

“três cheesy,” kit pursed his lips, tossing her a teasing glance, eyebrow arched and disappearing under his favorite maroon beanie.

“oh, you like my cheesy butt!” elena giggled, unknowingly hitting the nail squarely on the head.

if kit wasn’t used to the cheeky lingo, the smile on his face would have faltered and the truth would have been revealed. he couldn’t have that. he watched many shows and learned feelings between good friends ultimately ruined the friendship. no, he would do no such thing.

—

“elena!” kit shouted as soon as he raced into elena’s hospital room. she laid in her bed, head in the clouds per usual. knowing her like the back of his hand (better, even), kit could tell she was restlessly daydreaming by the foggy disposition in her hazel eyes.

“hey, kit,” she greeted less enthusiastically, tired from treatment. warmth still graced her features, pursing her lips to a sincere smile. “you came just in time.”

no longer bound to the four walls of the hospital, kit would drop by weekly to pay elena a visit. he never missed a date; he was always on time. never tardy.

“i have great news to tell you!” the grin on kit’s face was so broad, so spectacular that it threatened the sun’s intensity and power. happiness was alive and well, setting fireworks in every nook and cranny of his body. “i’m cancer free!”

elena couldn’t hide the joy on her face. the tears welled up in her eyes, clouding her vision. her sobs were incoherent but kit understood every word.

“i’m so happy for you! i knew you could do it! didn’t i tell you you’ll get better?”

kit found a box of tissues stowed away in elena’s hospital bag. he ripped open the seal and plucked a few sheets for her to dry her damp face. the sincerity of her reaction touched kit immensely. he felt like bursting into tears too but refrained from doing so.

“yeah, you did.” he grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers. “and you’ll get better too. and when you do, we’ll go to korea and you can cheer me on at my audition!”

elena grinned flawlessly, flooding kit with an emotion he didn’t know existed prior. “i’ll be your first and biggest fan!”

—

“are you sure we won’t get in trouble for this?” the squeaky wheel of the wheelchair and the pads of kit’s steps are the only sounds they hear in the midst of their privy conversation.

“certain,” kit fibbed. a little while lie never hurt anyone. partially, it was honest. she wouldn’t get in trouble; but he would. 

he pushed the rooftop door open with his back, wheeling elena out delicately. the wind blew through them. that winter night was courteous. not too cold. kit’s winter coat around elena kept her cozy.

“wow,” elena marvelled, eyes everywhere on the starry sky. the white, silver specks glistened. “the view is better up here.”

“beats that crappy room you’re in,” kit retorted, rolling her close enough to the edge to see the roads and the few cars driving down them, speeding wistfully into the darkness.

“it’s not crappy,” defended elena. she loved that room of hers. practically, it was home. she spent more time there than anywhere else. kit hated that.

“nothing beats the outside.” he extended his arms, gesturing at what the world outside a pokey hospital had to offer. “the fresh air. the stars.” kit inhaled deeply, soaking in the chilly breeze before coughing, throat and mouth torrid.

elena shifted her gaze from the twinkling canvas to him, lips forming the fondest of smiles. “you never liked the hospital.”

“why would i?” kit let his arms fall, swinging them by his side. “it’s shit.”

“saved your life, though.”

“and took away many others.”

shaking her head in defeat, elena knew there was no reasoning with kit. he was too stubborn. an argument wasn’t worth it.

“thank you bringing me here. it’s beautiful.” elena craned her neck, admiring the natural wonders of the universe before being enclosed away again.

kit nodded, admiration clear in his crystal eyes. “anything for you.”

—

kit tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, mindlessly waiting for the rings to cease and a familiar voice to pick up. the only voice kit wanted to hear after a gruelling day of exam reviews. he spun a basketball in his hand, pacing the empty space in front of his bed to pass the time. he was growing progressively restless, hating to stand idle with nothing to do but breathe and exist. he was tired of that mundane lifestyle.

“hey, kit-kat,” echoed elena’s groggy voice.

“hey, were you sleeping? i’m sorry i woke you.” looking at the time on his digital alarm clock, kit mentally shot himself for calling right after her chemotherapy treatment. he should have been more aware of how fatigued elena would be. “i can call back if-“

elena’s heartwarming giggles stopped him, as well as paused his pulse for the most fleeting of moments. time stood still and kit could almost see her, despite the roads between them. he envisioned her lying in her bed, facing the sun that poured through her window (she never liked having her curtains shut). the golden yellow rays dancing across her peaceful face; freckles intricate and hazel eyes shining.

“no, i’m good,” she said but yawned at the end. “so, how was your official last day of school before exams?”

“hated it,” kit sang, tossing the basketball up into the air, then caught it for a repeat. “but once i finish my exam tomorrow, i’ll come visit!”

the first year of high school took a toll on kit’s routine vsitations. club activities prevented him from seeing elena on the usual day—friday, so he went whenever available. the dates were scattered and dwindled into monthly subscriptions. kit hated it. he was going to korea soon and despite planning for elena to come along, the universe had other things in mind for her. ill-fated things.

“i’ll ask for extra jello for you,” elena added, knowing how much kit loved the snack since their lunch-dates in the past.

kit snorted, dropping his weight and bouncing on his mattress, discarding the basketball to properly hold his phone with a secure grip. “i have something in mind for my audition. i want you to hear it before anyone else.”

“ooo!” elena squealed, energy returning to her voice. she’s grown to sound so calm but it was obvious it wasn’t intentional. she was tired. “i can’t wait for this VIP showing of your audition. i feel so lucky!”

“you are lucky,” kit confirmed, foolishly smiling from ear to ear as he thought, i’m luckier. he never told elena how he felt but he had an inkling she knew and returned them. for now, that was enough for him. he could wait for her. she had more important matters to prioritize: getting better, beating cancer. not a walk in the park but kit was there and would always be there for her, supporting her, cheering her on. the day she would be cancer free would be the happiest day of his life, greatly surpassing the day he found out he was miraculously healed.

the time caught his peripheral and kit knew his mum would be calling him down to dinner soon—too soon. “hey, elena, i gotta go-“

“tell your mum, dad and henry i said hi, okay?” 

there was never dread in elena’s voice. only kindness and understanding. she matured wonderfully. well beyond her years.

“i will. i’ll see you tomorrow. goodnight,” kit said quietly, hope wedged between each word, glueing the sentence together.

when all were fast asleep, dreaming lucidly of endless possibilities, kit received a text. the notification fell on deaf ears for kit was lost in the slumber. he saw elena and approached her but she only receded, waving sorrowfully.

kit woke up. tears stained his face. then he checked his phone. 

thank you, kit.

he learned later that morning elena passed away. she went in her sleep. peacefully. without turbulence. no pain. no struggle. she went easily. almost willingly too.

years later, kit continued to ache. some days were agonizing; he heard her laughter in the backstage dressing rooms of music programs, in the audience at a variety appearance, during daytime strolls, in conversations he heard when passed, in his mind when he laid awake in the middle of the night; everywhere except… the club, the bar, anywhere extreme: the top of a building, the edge of a bridge, in conversations with strangers. in those instances, those mere lapses in time, kit forgot, burying the pain under disguises of temporary adrenaline and joy.

but when he did reminisce, the pain and loss was fresh, as if elena left him yesterday and not seven years ago. whoever said time heals all wounds was a liar. a fraud. time had done nothing to his wounds. they festered. they still bled. 

kit bled. 

every day. 

for the love who left him.

[fromthedeskoftheminister]

Rise of a Region

Summary: A Friendly between three Quidditch teams becomes all the more interesting when a mysterious spectator joins the games.

Tags: Mysterious disappearances mentioned, suspected death mentioned, Whitebeard Pirates, Straw Hat Pirates, Revolutionaries, Quidditch AU, College AU, Modern World AU, Gen Fic, mild cursing, Entirely UnBetaed

AN: It is a time when tumblr is dead and Ive been sitting on this ficlit for a while. US Quidditch Cup 10 starts this weekend and Im going to be watching, so I figure its probably a decent time to post this. I’ll reblog it again before games start in the morning, but I want to post before I forget. Before I begin, Yes, Muggle Quidditch is a thing. Yes it is international. Australia won last year’s world cup. Yes, Brooms are used. Yes it is a full contact sport. No, we do not fly. The Snitch is a tennis ball in a sock velcroed to a neutral 3rd parties rear. It is only worth 30 points. Catching it, separating the sock from the person, ends the game. And I think thats all. If you have any sort of question about the story or quidditch, my inbox is open

                                                  Rise of A Region

The field was a nice one, Marco absently thought as he surveyed the grounds from his vantage point on the hill just behind the soccer goalposts.  Turf field, regulation size brooms, plenty of extra balls and a set of what looked like a set Peterson hoops were set up on one half of the soccer field he was overlooking.  Random joyous yelling drifted up to him as people greeted each other and he let the sounds wash over him.  He was going to sit here and enjoy the sunshine in peace and relative quiet before the rest of the team arrived and he had to go manage things, make introductions and generally figure out the plan of action.

The spring sun was bright, warming the day to a rather comfortable temperature that was just shy of being too hot.  It was negated by a very gentle breeze pushing the barest wisp of a cloud lazily across the brilliant blue sky.  Marco set his hands behind him and returned his lazy gaze to the people on the field below.  They had just started to set up their equipment and Marco checked the time.  He had an hour or so before the friendlies were supposed to start but if he knew his team, it would in reality be more like 2.  So what was he going to do to pass the time?  Marco was half temped to copy the guy he had spotted while searching for a dry spot to sit and just take a nap.

While it sounded nice in theory, he knew it would be a bad idea.  He wanted to be at his best for these matches.  Their region was new as were the two teams that had invited them here today, but they had already gained something of a rep.  Frankly, Marco decided, readjusting how he was sitting to see the field a bit more clearly he would be better served watching their practice and warm up in an attempt to figure out the team’s strengths and weaknesses.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he was watching for before the squishing sound of a canvas shoe stepping into a particularly viscous muddy patch alerted him to the fact that he had company.  The arm that draped itself over his shoulder accompanied by a rather ridiculous red pompadour alerted him to the fact that Thatch had finally woken up and realized that they had arrived at their location.  Due to their prolonged friendship he was probably one of the only people that would take such liberties.  They watched in silence as the group of people below, which had only grown in size since Marco had started watching, completed a rather complex scoring drill.

“You’ve got maybe 5 minutes before the rest of the group starts arriving. ” he said with a yawn.

Marco raised an eyebrow at that. “You mean they’re actually going to be on time today?”

Thatch managed to look offended “Hey!  We totally get places on time!”

Marco snorted, clearly amused. “Only because I’ve been purposely telling the group the wrong start time of tournaments for at least a year or so.  Today’s the first time since that disaster that was our first tournament that I didn’t.”

Thatch gaped at him then rolled his eyes. “Of course you have.  I can’t believe I forgot how devious you can be.”

“So, how late?” Marco chuckled.

Thatch grinned as well. “Last car should be here in 30 minutes at the latest.”

“Right.” Marco said shrugging Thatch’s arm from his shoulders as he smoothly rose from his seat.  “I should probably go let them know then.  And introduce myself while I’m at it.  I don’t think I’ve actually ever met Sabo in person.”  He turned to offer Thatch a hand up, but his friend had already hoisted himself to his feet.

“Might want to hold up a second.  I see Haruta’s car.” Thatch said and Marco nodded in acquiescence.  They didn’t have to wait long.  The car had scarcely come to a stop before Haruta tumbled out full of their usual boundless energy and scampered over.

“Hey guys!” They cried out cheerfully as they attempted to scramble up Thatch’s back, clearly attempting to get a piggyback.  “Where are the others?”

“Not here yet.” Thatch said

“Whoohoo!” Haruta yelled “Its not us who’s last this time!”

“Impossible things have been known to happen.” Marco said dryly as Jiru, Izou, and Jozu joined them on the hill.  Haruta made a face when they caught the teasing tone directed their way.

“Yeah yeah.  Get lost one time…” They grumbled good-naturedly and Thatch snorted from beneath them as they settled themselves on his back.

“Once?  Try like ten or fifteen and then you might, just might be in the ball park” Marco teased.

Haruta stuck out their tongue in response before exclaiming, “Lets go!”  Apparently spurred on by the other’s enthusiasm, Thatch took off down the hill like a shot with Haruta whooping like a maniac on his back.  Jiru, the only certified EMT of their group took off a second later yelling semi-jokingly at the pair that they’d better not hurt themselves.  Marco rolled his eyes at the antics of his teammates before heading down towards the pitch himself at a much more sedate pace.

Izou matched his stride and after a moment inquired “So?”

Marco shrugged. He knew exactly what the other was asking.  “Not sure yet.  I’ve heard that The Strawhats have a stronger chaser lineup with fast breaks while the Revolutionaries tend to favor gaining bludger control and taking their time.  We should be able to beat them with ease but seeing as the two teams have been practicing together the entire time, I don’t exactly know who’s on which team.  This would also be a bit easier if I actually knew what Sabo looked like as well.”

“You still don’t know?” Izou asked incredulously.

Marco simply shrugged.  How was he supposed to know what the other man looked like?  He wasn’t on Facebook all that much and Sabo’s profile picture there was simply an icon of a Tophat.  The other captain had emailed him instead of using a chat feature and in doing the set up for this friendly they simply had never gotten around to meeting one another face to face.

“Ah, I can help with that.”  A new voice said cutting into the conversation. The source was somewhere near their feet and Marco looked down to meet a pair of curious silver eyes peering up at him from underneath a vibrantly orange cowboy hat.

“Really?” Izou asked, sounding skeptical. Despite the warmth of the day, the other man was bundled up rather seriously.

“Yeah.  You said you were looking for Sabo right?” The stranger said as they pulled themselves to their feet.  He adjusted his hat to get a better view of the field revealing a face full of freckles atop a deep tan. Without bothering to wait for an answer the other man continued.  “Ah, found him.  He’s the blonde one over there,” the stranger said making a vague gesture as he stooped down to grab a green zebra stripped bag with a rather intricately designed spade over one pocket.

“Well, that’s not terribly helpful,” Marco said, glancing in the direction that the stranger had gestured to before turning back to the other man.  “There are currently several blonds ‘over there.’  Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Sure.” The stranger said. “He’s the only blond with facial scars.  Here, why don’t I just introduce you?

Marco shrugged then offered out a hand. “Sounds good to me.  I’m Marco by the way.”

“Izou.” Izou offered with a wave of his hand.  The creased brow between his friend’s eyebrows was rather telling.  It meant that Izou was trying to remember something, though at the moment it probably came off as unfriendly.  It didn’t seem to bother the cheerful stranger who returned the introductions with a smirk.

“Nice t’ meetcha.  I’m Ace.” Ace said shaking Marco’s hand before the trio resumed their walk to the pitch. “Who do you play for?”

“Eh?  Oh, the Whitebeards.”

Ace looked rather impressed by that statement. “For real?  That’s the shit man. Thought you guys weren’t a part of this region though?”

“We are now.” Marco said with a smile. “With the Strawhats and the Revolutionaries joining up, the board finally decided there were enough teams in the area to qualify for a region of our own.”

“Sweet.” Ace said. “Though I hope you don’t think you guys’ll be able to just walk all over these two teams, Mr. Quidditch World Cup Champions.”

Marco simply shrugged and Ace laughed loudly, drawing stares from all over the pitch with rather amusing effects as a couple of people suddenly became recipients of bludgers to the face.  Another person, apparently startled by the laughter threw a quaffle a little too high and it sailed over the edge of the passing circle headed right towards them.  Ace snatched it out of the air and had returned the pass to another person in the circle.  That seemed to break whatever spell had come over the majority of the players except for two people in particular.  A small tan lanky boy wearing a strawhat exchanged some sort of look with a blond young man with a series of scars scattered over his left side, the most prominent one over his left eye. Ace gave a small wave and apparently that was all that was needed to cause the pair to run towards them, no at Ace, full tilt.

Ace’s eyes widened and he quickly took the bag off of his shoulder and held it out to Marco who looked at him with undisguised curiosity. “Can you do me a favor and hold this?” Ace asked, the words coming out in a rush.

“Sure.” Marco had scarcely taken the bag before Ace continued

“You might also want to take a couple of steps to the side.”

“Why?” Marco asked but the question was rendered moot as the answer came barreling past as twin blond and black blurs tackled Ace bringing him down with a lot of noise. Marco turned to Izou who was still standing beside him. “Are you as confused as I am?”

“Yes.” Izou said. “Though I finally figured out why the kid seems familiar.”

“Oh?”

“That’s Ace.”

“Im aware that’s Ace. He told us his name Izou.”

“I wasn’t done thank you. That’s Ace of Spades.”

Marco blinked. “As in the Merc team that made it to the final four of the Quidditch World Cup Championships 3 years ago? The team that was rumored to be able to give us a run for our money but ended up withdrawing due to injuries?”

“Exactly.” Izou said. “I wonder what he’s doing here. I thought all of the Spades had retired from Quidditch after that.”

“Most of us did.  The Spades as a Quidditch team no longer exists.” Ace said rejoining the pair, arms over the shoulders of the two people who had just tackled him. Strangely enough, the younger of the two the kid with the straw hat had tears running down his face while beaming like Christmas had come early.  The blond under Ace’s other arm didn’t have any tears but had a rather similar smile on his face. Marco’s curiosity was driving him crazy but he pushed it away.  He didn’t know any of these people well enough to ask about the strange series of events he had just witnessed. “And to answer your question, Im just here to visit these weirdo and play some Quidditch. Sabo, Luffy, meet Marco and Izou of the Whitebeards.”

“Nice to finally put a faces to the names.” Marco commented, hands in his pockets.

“Indeed.” Sabo said, ducking out of Ace’s hold. “Ya ready to get these games started?”

Marco looked around, and his eyes lit upon a familiar group of people that were just standing atop the hill he and Izou had just walked down. “Seeing as the rest of my team just arrived, I’ll have to say yes.”

“Great.” Sabo said. “Lets get this show on the road then.”

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Epilogue

Chapter: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI

AO3 Linkage

Summary: Feyre's finally done with her art project and now just had to sit by while the AP board grades her exam. Thankfully, she has a few friends by her side each with a big interest in how her portraits turned out - and for good reason.

Epilogue

“Feyre!” A soft touch braced on my shoulders as an ethereal voice floated quietly through the exam room towards me. “These are marvelous! I had no idea this was what you were working on so secretly all this time.”

“Thank you Mrs. Weaver. I had a hard time figuring it out, but I’m really happy with how they turned out.”

“As am I, Feyre. As am I.”

She hugged me after one last appreciative glance at the ten tableaus hanging on the wall in front me before moving on to one of my classmates. The AP Board had already come around to my set. I wasn’t allowed to talk to them or explain the art and how I’d arrived at this particular interpretation of their prompt, but the few hushed whispers I was able to make out sounded really positive. I was confident they’d pass me, but I had my fingers crossed I’d at least get a 4.

“I gotta hand it to you, Feyre,” Amren said turning her back on the examiners who were now studying her submission. Amren was fearless in the face of pressure. “This is pretty stellar.”

“Better than art galleries and chocolate churros in Spain stellar?”

Her eyes smirked in a side glance at me. “Close enough.”

I decided to keep my job at the art gallery even though dad - or technically mom - didn’t need my help with the extra bills anymore. It gave me a sense of purpose and escape each week.

When I started back after winter break, I found the camera I’d last used still sitting at my work station and flipped through it until I’d found the pictures of Rhys I’d taken the night of Starfall. I touched little else but my paints and brushes from that moment on for several weeks thereafter.

I realized the night that I painted Rhys that I was painting a part of myself into him. I had added colors and details that had felt so inherently Rhys to me onto his skin, but the wings and colors themselves were inventions of my own design - the way I saw Rhys. The way he made me feel.

I had the close up photo of him - the one with the wings just visible behind his face - printed out in a larger size and worked for two weeks straight until I had successfully reproduced it on a large canvas with acrylics, a realistic rendering of just his face and traces of the wings behind him.

But because the prompt was self-portraiture, I added in little features that were unique to me. A freckle here, a smattering of blue in the eyes there.

And in the end it was Rhys but it also wasn’t quite Rhys. It was both of us. Because he helped make me me.

They all did. I asked each of my new friends to come in and sit for me so I could paint them and take photos. And though Az seemed a little self-conscious to sit until Mor walked in and watched him with a reassuring smile while she sipped her Starbucks, every single one of them agreed to do it without hesitation.

I had Mor draw her hair up into an elegant chignon that almost looked like a halo and flecked her skin with a bright metallic gold. She tilted her chin up with her eyes resting closed when I snapped the picture, a perfect vision of peace and happiness in a world of misery and hopelessness.

When her birthday came the day after graduation, I planned on giving her both a copy of her photo, but also the one I snapped of Az staring at her when I took his shot - staring like nothing else in the world mattered but the earth angel in front of him.

Azriel himself was trickier to get right. Easily the most mysterious of the bunch, I wrapped his face in shadows, making sure to keep the planes of his face sharp to draw out enough contrast. His head angled to the floor and when I asked him to look up, his brow was furrowed.

“Mor?”

“Hmm,” she said looking up from her phone. Azriel caught her stare and the second his eyes softened, I snapped the camera.

Cassian was the most amusing session by far. Rhys insisted on staying with me while I painted him after he made a suggestive comment in response to being asked to take his shirt off. He was all fire - bold, vivid colors worthy of a party in Barcelona. When I ran the paint through his hair, it spiked up into little peaks that could have been tendrils of flame. I carried into the backdrop behind him and made sure to make the hazel of his eyes standout like embers in a campfire when I recreated the portrait.

Amren was last and she refused to alter anything about her clothing to help me get the paint just right.

“You do realize I might get paint on you, yeah?”

“You will do no such thing, Feyre, or I will drink your blood for breakfast.”

“Okay, Am. Whatever you say, as long as you take me with you to Rome this summer.”

“I’ll bring you one of those stupid souvenir snow globes you’re so fond of, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, babe.”

“Just get on with it, Feyre. Really.”

In the end, I settled on a clean, neutral palette for Am so she could be anyone and anything, the mysterious void and the consuming beast all at once.

My family had done the series with me too. I needed ten pieces and they were the other half of me. Dad was the only one I had to paint from scratch since he was in rehab and part of me was maybe relieved not to have him come sit for a portrait. Once the pressure of his hospital stay was lifted and he didn’t come home, my worry over his life was replaced with the anger and frustration I’d felt when I first found him and thought he might leave me for good, something I wasn’t used to feeling towards him. But I saw him every week for the hour visitors were allowed to come to his center and we were working on things between us. I took pictures of him while I was there and he always asked how the project was going when I came in.

He and mom were still separated, but legally they were staying married until things were sorted out. He was coming home soon, but a lot of progress was still to be made. I was proud of him for how far he’d come.

My own therapy sessions were going well. I met with my therapist once a week - Dr. Carver. Her office suggested a proclivity for the morbid, particularly the human body and the skeletal structure, but she explained that bone composition and structure were part of her research when she studied to be a bone surgeon prior to choosing psychiatry as her final career choice.

She was nice and seemed to genuinely care about my progress, what my goals were, and how to help me get there. Within the first couple of sessions, she was challenging me to confront all of the wounds that were still open in my life and do what was within my power to heal them on my end.

Part of that included my decision not to go to college. I made application deadlines by the skin of my teeth and was even accepted to a handful of schools, but when I got the acceptance emails in early April, it didn’t feel right. Not with the progress I was making in therapy.

Dr. Carver encouraged me to consider my decision for a long time to make sure it was the right one for me and in the end, I thought it was. School would always be there when I was ready and both of my sisters had offered to help me with the transition, but right now I needed to work on myself. School still felt too overwhelming. The gallery had agreed to hire me on full time over summer, so I figured I could see where real world work experience could get me until I felt better about school.

Lucien had been the toughest to face. I cornered him early one morning before school when the fog made his hair stand out like a beacon of light at sea. I think he was a little surprised to see me approach, but once I started calling him Lukey again, he eased up.

He swung by to see his portrait before class when he should have been halfway across campus, the sneaky fox. Probably avoiding a run-in with Rhys and our little inner circle of friends, although now that Lucien wasn’t seeing as much of Tamlin anymore, a lot of the tension between us all had started to drain.

“So,” I said pointedly when Lucien did nothing but stare at his portrait with a sharp expression and crossed arms. “What do you think?”

He tossed his head at me and the long length of his red hair rippled on the air behind him. “You made me… rather handsome, Feyre.”

I snorted. “Is that a problem, Lukey?”

He frowned and shook his head, giving his tableau one last admiring look before the bell rang. “Nah. Better than all that burnished gold and starlit eyes you hoarded for yourself.” He gave my hair a quick flick of his fingers and winked at me. “Thanks.”

I smirked, of the dark pesky variety only Lucien could pull, as I watched him walk out and waited for the AP board to begin examining us. The hour dragged on horribly as I waited for them to get to my set. Amren sauntered up to me as soon as they finished grading me.

“Has Rhys seen it yet?”

“Nah-ah,” I said. “I made him promise not to look until after the exam was over. He’s coming by when class is over. Do you think he’ll like it?”

Amren smirked. “I think they all will.”

“All?”

She nodded behind me and in the window creeping over the door was a small set of chocolate brown eyes staring greedily into the room. Two more sets of hazel ones rested above Mor and I was willing to bet that behind them grumbling angrily something about “she’s my girlfriend,” would be a pair of violet ones.

I glared at them incredulously, praying the exam board wouldn’t notice and get huffy, but at least they’d already taken my marks down. Amren, on the other hand, was still on the chopping block.

I shooed them off, but the second the bell rang, they flooded the room and ran to inspect their respective portraits. I cringed wondering how they would take the changes I’d made to each one where I’d included little pieces of myself.

“Holy shit I’m on FIRE!” Cassian shouted. I froze, chanced a look at the examiners, one of whom was the last to leave the room and seemed a little put off by the exclamation. Cassian clapped his hands and mercifully said more quietly, “This is fucking rad as hell, Feyre.”

“Thanks, Cass.”

I looked at Azriel, my hopes high. The boy of shadows looked once at his portrait, then at me, and smiled shyly with a nod. “I see myself,” he said simply. “Thank you.”

And coming from Az, that meant the world to hear.

“You’re welcome.”

“I get to keep mine right?!” Mor squeaked and picked hers right up off the wall careless of the fact that it was technically art. “Of course I’m keeping this.”

“Morrigan,” Rhys said in that same old exhausted voice he pulled out for his cousin.

“Stuff it!” she snapped. “It’s going above the fireplace and that’s final.”

I slammed down the laugh in my chest and clamped a hand over my mouth to keep quiet. Rhys snaked over to me, pinching my sides. “What is so funny, Feyre darling?”

“You are,” I said and reached up to peck him on the lips. “So, what do you think?”

Rhys looked at his portrait, at the smoke and billowing wings shrouded in clouds of purple and blue and gold, and smiled slowly. He brought his attention back to me and I knew he and I were both thinking the same thing - about that night, how much it meant to both of us. How much we healed and loved and lived together.

“I think I’m stunning,” Rhys finally said.

“Of course you do.”

“Really, Feyre. It’s incredible and certainly nothing I would have ever expected to see of myself. Thank you for painting it.”

“Of course.”

“There’s just one thing I’d change, though, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh?”

He swept my hair off my shoulders and took my face in his hands, taking a deep, dramatic breath as he did so. “Next time, I think nude would be best.”

I snorted and burst into a fit of giggles. “Maybe next time you should paint me. What do you think about that, huh?”

Rhys beamed at me, leaning in close enough for a kiss, but not before he’d whispered into my skin, “It would be my pleasure, darling. I’ll circle and point at all my favorite bits.” His finger trailed suggestively down my stomach tracing a line not entirely unlike an arrow and I laughed.

Behind us, my own tenth portrait sparkled in layers of starlight and night.

Life was beautiful once more.

The End

Bonus chapters to follow :)

xx