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star-spangledstud · 3 years

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MIND GAMES - ONE

Summary: You arrive at your new home. Steve is a blank canvas.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (Female!)reader

Warnings: none (so far)

Note: Had to reupload cause instead of editing I accidentally deleted it.

Raindrops, heavy and loud against the window beside your head, clash against and glide down the glass in messy, squiggly lines. The title of the song playing on the radio, ‘Soft like Rain’, fits the scene almost perfectly. Almost, because the rain that pitter-patters against the fogged-up window isn’t very soft in nature. In fact, the droplets come down so hard they bang against the roof of the car, its sound almost entirely overtaking the mellow tones of jazzy piano and drums in the background. The lines obscure your vision of Times Square, lights from the streets blown out and blurred to look like colorful stars and wicked shapes in the darkness.

I hope I made the right decision.

Your breath further fogs up the glass when you sigh audibly. A pair of dark eyes can be found eyeing you carefully through the rearview mirror when you sink further down into your seat. They offer you a hint of concern, of uncertainty. Nick Fury doesn’t know whether you’ll be okay or not. He can’t tell just yet, but the glimmer of hope he feels inside tugging at his heartstrings motivates him to give you a shot.

“We’re almost there,” his voice is quiet and deep when he speaks for the first time since picking you up from the airport, “just a few more miles.”

Of course I made the right decision. I always do. When have I ever fucked up?

You nod in response without checking to see if he’s looking at you through the mirror again because he undoubtedly is. After all, it’s all he’s been doing for the last hour. If you were to study the look in his eyes or his inner monologue just a little longer, you’d find out he’s scared. Nick Fury is afraid, both of you and for you, and he doesn’t like it because Nick Fury doesn’t get scared. He’s seen so much, experienced so many horrors in his time that he genuinely didn’t think anything could frighten him any more. Past tense, because the you’ve clearly made him change his mind.

This could be the best thing I ever did, or the worst. Can’t wait to find out which one it is. Cap better not fuck this one up.

There are so many questions you want to ask, but the voice in his head is loud in such a confined space, and nothing appropriate comes to mind. All you can pay attention to is the rumbling of the engine and the occasional ambulance rushing by somewhere in the distance. In the meantime, the song on the radio changes and morphs into something that sounds more melancholic.

When the two of you finally pull up to the compound, the rain has mostly stopped. It’s only drizzling now, tiny drops tickle your face while you brush strands of dampened hair from your forehead. A chill runs along your spine when a gust of wind blows through your open jacket, and you immediately zip it up for extra warmth.

You quickly scan the building, breath hitching in your throat when you notice its sheer size. It’s huge, much larger than where you used to reside, and the bright blue Avengers logo on the front causes your heart to beat a little faster. Seeing that logo makes it real, you think. You’re not so sure if this is the right place to be, but you don’t believe you have a better option. Either way, you told yourself you wouldn’t fuck this one up, and you have no intention to break this promise. This is home now, or at least it will be for a little while, and as intimidating as it is, you’ll have to make it work.

You can adapt, you’ve done it before. Hell, you’ve done it more times than you can remember. It’s extremely easy to make the people around you feel at ease in your presence when you can literally read every single thought they’ve ever had.

“I’ve assigned you to our best agent. He’s going to accompany you wherever you go to keep you safe. You cannot, under any circumstance, leave the building without him. You will listen to him and do what he tells you to do because it’s in your best interest. If you need anything, ask him, and he will provide. Do not tell anyone private information. If you need to vent, tell him,” Fury pauses, waits for you to nod, “no phones, no computers and especially no social media allowed under any circumstances. We need to figure out how much they know first. Don’t worry, we got Tony and Banner on that one.”

Did I get it all? I’m getting too old for this shit.

He watches you intently while you have to stop yourself from chuckling, “Got it?”

You nod.

“I need a verbal confirmation,” he grumbles, sounding annoyed by his own protocol.

“Yes,” you mumble against the whistling wind, “I understand.”

“Good. Let’s get moving, then.”

The opulent, open design of the ground floor greets you warmly when you walk in. Your boots, black and caked with mud, make streaks of brown along the white linoleum with each step you take and creak beneath your feet when you force yourself to move slowly forward. Fury watches your gaze flickering across the entrance and motions for you to follow him to the elevators, which you do silently.

A look of disapproval follows when he notices the trail of mud you’re leaving behind, but he doesn’t say anything. It won’t do him any good to verbalize his annoyance, because you’ve already picked up on it. Still, you drag your feet in an attempt to make him think you aren’t listening.

“Gym is in the basement,” he comments after watching you eye all the buttons inside the elevator, “roof is a terrace and pad for the Quinjets. There’s a penthouse underneath you’ll see soon enough.”

You raise a brow, and to your surprise, he chuckles, “Christmas party.”

“All the other floors include a lab, living quarters, conference rooms with workspaces, IT, a weaponry and gear storage. There’s a training room attached to the building that offers simulations. The building has a common kitchen and living room, a game room, a movie theatre and some other crap. Steve will show you when he has time.”

Your voice is dry and hoarse when you speak, “Steve?”

The elevator comes to a halt on the fifth floor, and before Fury has time to reply, the doors open to reveal a tall, blonde man in the opening. His arms, broad and encased in royal blue wool, are crossed over his chest. He has a stern expression on his face and a deep crease in his brow until he sees you and Fury, standing so far apart both of you are nearly hugging the mirrors on the walls. Fury has some of the loudest thoughts you’ve ever heard, and being stuck in a tiny box doesn’t do the volume any favors.

A glimmer of amusement is evident in his light blue eyes when you get out of the elevator. You look awkwardly at Fury, who’s making no move to follow you into the hallway, leaving you standing with one foot in the hall and one still in the elevator.

“Steve,” Fury says with a nod of his head towards the stranger, “is the agent you’re assigned to. He’s the captain of the team. I’d love to stay and chat, but you know how it is. Things to do, people to see… Keep me posted, Cap. I’ll be back soon for updates.”

He nudges you softly until you fully exit the elevator, and wastes no time pressing the button that will lead him back down to the ground floor. The heaviness of Nick Fury’s presence and the loudness of his inner monologue disappears with him when he leaves. It’s not until the doors close behind you that you feel like you can finally breathe again.

You turn to the man in front of you when you notice how quiet it’s become, and you subconsciously tilt your head to the side when instead of a constant stream of low mumbling and whispering, you hear nothing at all.

Steve raises a brow when he notices the way you’re looking at him. The soft expression on his face falters just a moment, but he recovers quickly, deciding not to allow his concern to show for now.

“Hey,” he says “I’m Steve Rogers, captain of the team.”

It takes you a while to reply because you’re so focused on listening for his inner voice that you don’t even notice his rosy lips moving.

You swallow down a stream of curses in a variety of languages and force yourself to stand up straight when you realize he’s waiting for you to say something. What the fuck is going on, you think to yourself while you plaster a smile on your face.

“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Y/N,” you reply politely, “nice to meet you.”

“I hope Fury didn’t intimidate you too much,” Steve says with a chuckle, “the first conversation I had with him scared the hell out of me. To be fair, I did think I was still in the 40s.”

You bite your lip and shake your head, grip on the straps of your backpack tightening until your knuckles turn white. You’re glad he doesn’t extend his hand for you to shake. You assume he contemplated it. Don’t know for sure though, because it’s still quiet up there in his skull. Does this guy even think at all?

“Come on, let me show you to your room.”

Your footsteps echo against the walls when the two of you silently cross the hallway. In total, you count a number of six doors. You tip your chin up when you reach the end and take a moment to study the man’s appearance while he points to the door on the right. He’s even taller and broader than you imagined him to be when Fury pictured him in his mind for you to see. If the upward curl of his lips wasn’t so genuine and soft, you would have been terrified of how big he is.

“This is mine,” he says, “I’m right across the hall if you need anything. This is yours. Usually, the doors open with fingerprint recognition, but you have a key. Nobody else has a copy except for me, for safety reasons. I’m obligated to tell you that you aren’t allowed to make any more copies.”

“Wasn’t going to,” you reply quickly.

He pulls a short, silver key from his back pocket and places it gently in your open, shaky palm. He notices your fingers are shaky when you fumble with the lock and smiles again in an attempt to make you feel more at ease. It’s almost like he can read your mind instead of the other way around. That stupid smile pisses you off.

“You have your own private bathroom,” Steve explains while he follows you inside, “Fury told us you don’t own much, so I asked Natasha to get you some clothes. We can go out and buy you some more if you want, just let me know. Feel free to decorate the place however you want.”

“Natasha?” you ask while looking around.

“The best spy we have. You’ll get along just fine, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll leave you to get settled for now. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door at any time, okay? I’m not supposed to leave for another mission for a few weeks until you get situated. We can explore the compound tomorrow if you’re up for it. Maybe you can meet some of the other team members while we’re at it. No pressure.”

“Thanks,” you swallow thickly, “Steve.”

“You’re safe here,” he presses, “don’t forget that.”

For a brief moment, you wonder how much he really knows. You knowFury’s told him and Tony a watered-down version of what you’ve told him, but the kindness in his voice allows you to believe he hasn’t heard much. Still, you try to enter his brain and find out yourself, but once again you come up with nothing.

You exhale loudly after Steve leaves and take a moment to look around the room you’re now supposed to call yours. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, not yet anyway, and you wonder how long it will take before you find yourself succumbing to a new routine.

You take a shower to warm your bones and wash your hair with the shampoo and conditioner that smell like papaya. The towel you use to dry off is too fluffy for your liking, and a look in the mirror reveals dark circles and sunken in cheeks. It’s fine, you think. You haven’t recognized yourself in years.

Your backpack finds its way onto the bed, which is big enough for at least three people to sleep in. You follow shortly after, arms spread wide across the silky, forest green sheets until you sink down so far they almost wholly envelop you. Your hair is sprawled messily across the pillows. They smell like lavender and fresh cotton, and the scent is so relaxing and calming that within just several minutes of staring up at the ceiling, you drift off into a dreamless sleep.

When you wake up in a cold sweat several hours later, your hands are curled tightly in small fists around the silk sheets that cling to your legs. It’s hot in your room even though the chills along your arms would suggest otherwise, and your eyes frantically scan the shadows that seem to momentarily engulf you. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, and while you lie there in the dark, for several minutes, the only thing you can see is the vague outline of the face of a man.

As images from the dream you’ve just woken up from begin to fade, your heartrate slows down enough for you to remember where you are. You push the covers away from you and get up out of bed. You consider making a trip to the kitchen to get yourself something to eat, but you have no clue where the kitchen is located. Irritation pricks at your skin when your stomach rumbles loudly in the deafening silence, and five seconds later you’re stomping through the hallway with one goal in mind; to find something to eat.

The memory of Fury pointing out which floors of the building contain which rooms replays in your mind while you speedwalk through the hallway. You try to make a mental map of the compound for future reference just as you round the first corner, and in your state of tiredness and annoyance fueled by hunger, you don’t have time to realize Steve Rogers is on the other side of that corner.

Before he slams into you chest-first, his arms stretch out in front of him out of reflex. He grabs onto your shoulders and holds you steady while the both of you inhale sharply. Your head shoots up to meet his gaze, and he quickly releases his grip. What are the odds?

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, “I didn’t see you.”

You didn’t hear him. That’s what you really want to say, but it wouldn’t make sense.

“I can tell,” he replies, “What are you doing awake?”

He’s tired, you can tell by the raspiness of his voice and the droopiness of his eyes, but he’s trying to hide his exhaustion by showing concern.

“I’m not trying to bail,” you cross your arms, “if that’s what you think.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, “didn’t think it, either.”

I wouldn’t know, you think.

You take a step back to study his face for a moment, unaware that you haven’t answered his question. When the silence between the two of you becomes nearly unbearably heavy, you finally speak up.

Your cheeks heat up, and you swallow thickly, “I was hungry.”

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, “of course. I’m so sorry, I should’ve given you something to eat. The kitchen’s all the way at the end of the hall, on the right. Fridge should be stocked. I think there might be some leftovers, if Sam hasn’t eaten them already. I gotta go, see you in the morning.”

As you watch him walk away in the opposite direction, you can’t help but wonder what the rush is all about. Perhaps he’s really eager to get back in bed, you muse, although you doubt that’s the real reason why he’s speedwalking away from his room in the middle of the night.

NEXT CHAPTER.

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earthfluuke · 4 years

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welcome to part 3! i’m very excited about this one, so i hope you all enjoy it!

just a reminder: i based some parts of the nymphs off of the nymphs from greek mythology, but for the most part, they are whatever i made them up to be.

parts: 1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3

Sarawat has the entire town fooled, but Earn is smarter. She knows her best friend, knows when there’s something he’s hiding. Finding resources and deciding if the land is stable enough to move in on doesn’t take this long. Weeks have gone by; enough is enough.

It should surprise her to find Sarawat entangled with a boy adorned in flowers, eyes taking over his face when he catches a glimpse of her. And it should surprise her even more when she finds herself chasing after them when they dart down the opposite side of the hill to the banks of the river. But neither can compare to the slack jaw, awe struck shock she feels when she sees her.

Ankle deep in the water, the girl stands proud. Back straight, arms stretched to her sides, her palms lay flat, fingers spread with the threat of forming another wave. Her brown eyes hold fear when they bore into Sarawat but morph to protective when they flicker to the flower-draped boy. Sun light reflects off the pink and gold scales that outline her cheeks and round over the curve of her temple.

To anyone else who happened to be blessed by her presence would consider her mystical, magical, otherworldly. But the only word that comes to Earn’s mind is beautiful.

Everything around her – Sarawat, the flower boy, the forest in front of them and the field behind – disappears, and there’s nowhere to look but at her. Her desire to go forward is just as strong as her need to pull herself back. Potential of scaring her off keeps her grounded, and all she can do is watch her through the hazy, golden halo her mind – or is it her heart? – has set around her.

Sarawat breaks her free. Hands shaking her arms, he begs her, pleads her, to keep what she’s seen to herself, to not under any circumstances tell anyone else in town, to please, for him.

“Who is she?” she hears herself asking between his cries. She looks over his shoulder towards the girl. She’s calmer now, at ease, as she takes the boy’s – the one she can only assume belongs to Sarawat – hands into her own. Her softened features send Earn’s heart into double time.

“I don’t know,” Sarawat answers quickly before he goes back to his frenzy. “But, Earn. Please. For me. For him. Tine; his name is Tine. Please don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just please. Please.”

She finally looks to her best friend, and she cannot remember a time he’s looked more serious, more scared. His fingers dig into her, but they shake at the same time. This boy must be special, if he can turn Sarawat to this.

“I won’t tell,” she finally swears and accepts the bone crushing hug she’s pulled into.

…

A condition comes with her promise. Not because she needs anything to maintain her secrecy but rather because she’s desperate.

She follows after Sarawat and parts ways with him at the apple tree. Canvas in her satchel, easel strung over her back, she sets her makeshift studio out along the banks of the river. Cups of paint circled around her, she picks out a brush and loses herself to her art.

She starts with the bases – the pale blue sky, the dark green grass, the teal river she shades to appear crystal. Fluffs of clouds and sharp tree branches follow. Final touches in the forms of a cluster of cattails growing at the edges of the river and the lily pads floating atop it near complete the painting. But there’s one thing missing.

Every so often, she lifts up her brush to glance at the river, pay close attention to it to catch bright eyes or mirrored scales. Luck comes to her just as the sun sets. When she goes to switch brushes, she spots her, the girl from the river, the beautiful mystery, the one thing missing from her painting.

Eyes peeking over the surface of the water, they watch her. She doesn’t raise up any further, but Earn has what she’s come for. It’s a rush job to add her into the painting, but she can’t contain her excitement.

She tip-toes towards the river as to not scare her. She bends, bends, bends over until the tip of her nose is a mere breath from the girl’s forehead. Only then does she duck away, quick movement startling Earn face first into the river.

She watches from beneath the water as the girl disappears downstream. The current that follows her carries one word to her ear: Pear.

…

Her mistake isn’t one she intends to make again, and it comes with consequences. For the next week, there is no sign of Pear. Earn remains optimistic, continues to believe that she will return when she once again feels safe. But by the seventh day, she’s beginning to grow discouraged.

She waits until the sky turns a golden orange, pink sprouting out from the setting sun, to add it to her painting. It’s the same scene she’s been painting for days, but this one is brighter, a burst of color against the familiar neutrals she now paints like they are second nature.

Sudden water droplets drip onto her pant leg, and her head is whipping to the side before she can stop herself. She’s met with a cheek covered in pink and gold scales, and now that she’s close enough, she takes note of how they also dip down her neck.

Pear isn’t looking at her, gaze instead set on her painting. Earn doesn’t dare move, barely lets herself breathe, as she steps closer. Her foot – also covered in scales that dissolve up over the outside of her calf – hits a cup filled with pink paint.

Picking it up, she dips in a webbed finger. It comes out the same color as the paint, the same color as her scales, and in one last surge of curiosity, she presses it to the very center of the canvas.

She looks both surprised and terrified to see that she’s left her mark on something that isn’t hers. Taking a step back, she’s ready to bolt within seconds. But Earn doesn’t give her the chance.

Quickly covering her own finger in red paint, she places her fingerprint next to the one Pear left. Turning to her, Earn offers her a soft smile, one that reaches her eyes and tells her everything is just fine. Pear returns it, and she feels a small flame warm her heart.

It only grows when she dips her finger back into the paint and decorates the entire frame. By the time she’s filled half the canvas, she motions to Earn’s hand. Too afraid to make the wrong move and send her hiding back in the depths of the river, she stays still. With an unsatisfied huff, Pear takes it upon herself to lift her hand and press her paint covered finger back onto the painting.

The feel of her hand wrapping around her wrist engulfs Earn’s chest with fire, and she burns. Her insides are impossibly hot from a single touch, and it worries her to think of what anything more could do to her.

She cools herself down by littering red fingerprints in the spaces between Pear’s pink ones. By the time they’re done, the image beneath is unrecognizable. And yet it’s the most wonderful painting Earn has ever made.

…

“You look happy,” Sarawat comments as they journey back to town.

“Maybe I am,” she says, readjusting the canvas in her arms. Stroking over the raised bits of paint, only just dry, she hugs it close to her. The distance between her and Pear dulls the flame in her chest, but it sparks at the thought of having this small piece of her. “I don’t think I really knew what happy was until today.”

…

Two canvases are heavy, but the extra weight is a small price to pay for her to see Pear waiting for her in the grass beside the river.

Setting up the extra easel, Earn gifts her with her own set of brushes. Lips pursed and eyebrows arched, she holds the brushes in the flat of her palm, running a tip through the bristles and watching them bounce back in intrigue. This innocent curiosity along with the tiny gasp she gives all but melts Earn into the ground below.

It’s trying to get the brushes to fit between the webbing in Pear’s fingers, but their attempts are finally met with success. “You can paint whatever you like,” Earn tells her, timid and gentle, nerves of scaring Pear away still bubbled high in her stomach. “There are lots of colors to choose from, see?”

Uncapping each cup, she offers Pear the pink. Familiarity hits her, and her smile outshines the sun. She’s off from there, and Earn should be as well. But each time she turns to her canvas, she’s drawn to the one beauty her art can never replicate.

Pear’s strokes are calculated, careful. And yet her wrist bends just so, loose and at ease, languid lines bleeding over the page. She’s very much the river she resides in; the calm stream flows freely, quiet and serene. But then there’s a wave, a crash against the banks, whenever she makes a mistake. Suddenly, she’ll still, wait, and Earn prepares for the flood that never comes. She breathes deep, exhales slow, and returns to tranquility.

The end product isn’t much more than a collection of lines with the occasional stray fingerprint. But it’s Pear, and for that, it is everything.

…

“What shall we paint today?” Earn asks, back to Pear as she adjusts the canvas along the ridge of the easel. Having watched Earn’s creations, Pear had become less keen on the abstract of her lines and wanted something more realistic. They’d begun with flowers, moved up to small frogs that politely sat still when Pear asked them to, advanced with the forest of trees on the opposite side of the river. Any mistake Pear makes is met with kind reassurance, a helping hand atop hers that guides the brush the correct way, a smile that she eventually returns.

Brushing off her hands on her pants, she turns to meet a held out hand. She accepts it easily, because of course she does. It fits nicely in her own, even around the webbing, and she dares a stroke of her thumb over the scales that cover her knuckles. They’re cool and smooth and unlike anything else she’s ever felt.

There’s a light tug, a shake of her arm, and it calls Earn’s attention upwards, to Pear’s pretty face and desperate eyes. They’re endless, large enough to hold oceans, captivate Earn to the point of no return. Only when Pear squeezes her hand does she break away to ask, “You want to paint me?”

The nod she gives is shy but firm. She’s head set despite her concerns, and Earn is in no position to deny her. She allows her to position her how she wants, tries and ultimately fails to keep her breath even when Pear pushes her every which way until she’s satisfied.

Behind the easel, she’s focused, pinched brows and scrunched nose taking over her features. Earn truly does her very best to maintain her far off gaze, but she cannot help but be magnetized back to Pear. Art is creating art before her; not staring is futile.

Time passes too slow and yet too fast, and Pear is shifting from foot to foot with her bottom lip between her teeth. Seeing her brush set aside, Earn gets up and circles around to the opposite side of the canvas.

Altogether, it’s a messy attempt. Edges are jagged, colors blur together. But there are lighter brown highlights that show the sun reflecting off her hair and curved lines etched into the center of her lips. Small details that Earn has only mentioned in passing decorate her portrait, and it sets her ablaze once more. The hopeful glances Pear gives her, hands clasped together in front of her chest, do little to extinguish it. This girl will char her to a pile of ash, but if her way to go is by the slope of her smile and the hesitant flush to her cheeks, then by all means, take her.

“It’s lovely,” she says. Her shoulders sag in relief, and Earn takes the opportunity to grab her hands once more. “I’ll have to find a frame for it. It’ll look so nice in my room.”

Smile widening across her cheeks, Pear pulls herself closer, giggling high and sweet, jingling bells sounding through her ears and heart. Earn lets their arms drop, dangle between them as her head tips forward. There’s still a space between them, but it’s enough. Especially when Pear doesn’t back away.

…

Guitar strings strum behind them, and they draw Pear from her canvas. Gaze up the hill, she’s distracted long enough for Earn to notice.

Setting down her brush, she swivels to look up towards the apple tree, towards where the notes are drifting from. “You want to listen to the music?” she asks. “We can; I’m sure Wat wouldn’t mind a bigger audience.”

She’s tugged backwards just as she moves forward. Both of her wrists are caught, and suddenly she’s being swung around the field, twirled around and around and around. It’s dizzying, and her vision kaleidoscopes; she can make out colors, patterns, but not much else. Catching a flash of Pear’s face, her wide smile, she’s serenaded by the giggles she gives as they fall into an unled dance.

Time passes, the song changes, but they still move together – in, out, back, forth. And then she’s falling, crashing into the shallow end of the river, water beneath her and Pear atop. She catches her by the shoulders, holds her up, and when the shock wears off, she realizes this is the closest they’ve been.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She wants to stay, try for more, test the figurative and literal water with her. But there are boundaries, hurdles, stepping stones they have yet to get past, over, around; barreling forward head on will only get her hurt.

She’s held down as she goes to sit up, and she dares a glance. Wide eyes are hard to read, but at the very corner, small enough to miss, there is that ferocity Earn saw the very first day she’d spotted her. There is fear and pause, but along with that is passion, the very thing that keeps her strong and steady.

That passion drives her forward. Hand cupping the side of her head, Earn fits her fingers below her ear, threads them through her hair. Chin tipping up, still not daring a full lurch, her eyes flicker to Pear’s lips and there’s an intense want, an unquenchable need.

Patience dwindling, fire growing, she inches further. And that seems to be enough. Fists in her shirt collar, eyes on hers until they finally shut, Pear closes the gap Earn is too afraid to.

Every sense bursts to life at once. Scents of damp grass, river water with a touch of floral; sounds of dragonflies buzzing by and a familiar tune taught to her by the elders in the village floating from the top of the hill; touches of brown tendrils brushing across her cheeks as their heads tilt, soft skin and hard scales contrasting beneath her palms; tastes of apples and finally and yes; and the sight of the most beautiful girl, most beautiful creature, most beautiful anything that graces this very earth flushing pink and dipping her head when they pull apart.

Her fluster doesn’t deter her far. She lets herself be held, and Earn’s heart, spirit, soul soars far from her body. No more spaces between, no more hesitations. She pulls her back, waits for the slow sigh Pear gives against her lips before she deepens.

The fire roars on, and slowly the embers turn to ash.

…

Her return is met with a tangle of limbs and lips against her ear. Stepping back to steady herself, her hands come to rest upon the curve of Pear’s spine, fingers dancing up and down the ridges.

“Hello,” she breathes through a laugh, tilting up her chin when Pear nudges beneath it. “I’m sorry I haven’t come for a few days; my parents needed my help around the house. But I snuck a few of the tarts my mother made into my bag. Will that make up for it?”

Pear doesn’t go for her bag, for the treats. She instead goes for her mouth, bleeds relief and happiness and I missed you into it. Hands pressing against her waist, pushing their torsos closer, she turns to her jaw, her cheek, her nose, to brush all of her emotions there as well.

Earn lets her, soaks in every second. Only when she pulls back, gives a satisfied giggle, does she return the affection. Butterfly kisses flutter about her skin, followed by the whispers of longing and the promise of it will never happen again.

It has only been a few days, but the effect is strong. Paint brushes untouched, canvases downturned, her inspiration had fallen from her, dropped over a cliff into the abyss. Here – grass blades tickling her ankles, the coolness of scales beneath her fingertips, her beautiful nymph in her arms – her imagination bursts to life; it spills back into her. And as she rests her forehead against Pear’s temple, she cannot help but think the muse never left. It has only been waiting for her to return to it, for now it resides here. In this meadow, by the lake, with Pear.

…

Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. Not even a breath of air can pass between them, not with how close they’re sitting. Pear’s forearm pressing heat into hers, they look out towards the water. Sun shining down, the ripples crystalize under the light.

Earn turns to the nymph at her side. She’s blinded by the reflection of her scales and wonder of how someone like her – so astonishingly, mind-bogglingly perfect – can exist; and alongside that, how she has the pleasure of existing with her.

Fingers finding the root of a long stem beside her, she plucks upwards. A water lily – jasmine pearl, white petals fading to purple – fills her palm, and she goes to tuck it behind Pear’s ear.

Reaching to touch it, eyes questioning as they look to her, Pear doesn’t even realize how very fitting the scene is. The flower is her twin: a delicate, gorgeous bloom that captivates anyone who stumbles upon it, making it impossible to look anywhere else. It’s breathtaking. It’s stunning. It’s her.

“I can’t make you a flower crown,” she admits. Pushing back some of her hair that dares to fall over the flower, she offers her a smile. “But you deserve to get flowers as beautiful as you are from someone who loves you.”

Distance closing, she whispers, breath fanning against Pear’s lips, “And I’d like to be that someone.”

Earn sees a smile stretch across her face before her eyes shut fully and their lips come together. There are so many things to feel all at once. Love, desire, a raging fire. But more than anything else, happiness spreads through her, bursting wide like the flower behind Pear’s ear. Happiness, she thinks as their hands come to hold each other. This is it.

#2gether #2gether the series #earnpear #earn x pear #2gether fanfic #my writing #nymph!tine au #but now also #nymph!pear au

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lov3nerdstuff · 4 years

Text

Beautiful Imperfection

*Loki x reader*

Part: Oneshot (or possible part 2 of Beautiful Stranger)

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: none, only fluff and domestic Loki

Summary: Inspired by your artworks, Loki decides to try his own luck with drawing and painting… Yet, things don’t remotely go as planned and he ends up needing your help to learn how to surrender.

A.N.: Who could resist Loki making a mess and covering himself in paint? 😁 This is fun and fluffy and might or might not include Loki using you as a canvas 😉💗 enjoy! @daddys-littlewhitegirl

______________________________

“Loki, have you seen my pencil sharpener?” You called through the whole apartment in such a desperate voice that Loki had to bite his lip to keep from smirking as he lay on the couch with his legs crossed at the ankles, reading peacefully.

“Would you like me to help you find it?” He called back in his best attempt to keep the humor out of his voice. It wasn’t working too well.

“No, it’s all good, I found it! Thanks!”

“Too bad…” Loki sighed to himself, smiling as he flicked to the next page.

“What was that?” You asked lightly as you came walking into the room with bouncy steps that made Loki want to grin even more. Ever since he had met you, he hadn’t been able to stop wondering how he deserved such an enchanting creature… how he got to call you his, how he was granted to spend every single day with you.

“Oh, nothing, dear…” He mused with a smirk, looking at you for a second and then back to his book. That probably was one of the things he adored most… your incredible curiosity. And teasing you, that as well.

“C'mon Loki!” You laughed, standing in front of the couch and staring down at him for a moment before simply sitting down on his stomach. Since the whole couch was blocked by his long frame, you didn’t have any other choice… and you didn’t want one either. Loki was comfortable and warm and you knew that he secretly enjoyed it when you claimed him like that.

He pretended to groan under your weight for a second, then couldn’t help but chuckle. God, you really weighed nothing… to him at least, and honestly that’s all he cared about really. You, a lot, and himself, a little. Yet, he also had discovered a tendency within himself to care about the things you cared about… which could extend from paying the bills to saving the rainforest. It depended on the day, really.

“I said ‘too bad’, if you must know.” He finally answered honestly, enjoying your intense gaze as you looked down at him with an amused frown.

“Too bad… that what? That I found my pencil sharpener and can continue to colour the drawing?” You chuckled, rising an eyebrow at the absolutely insufferable man beneath you, who you just happened to love so very dearly.

“Indeed.” He smiled, humored. “All you did today was drawing… When am I going to get some attention?”

“Well, all YOU did today was reading, so I could ask you the very same thing!” You laughed, shaking your head to yourself.

“If you wanted my attention you just could’ve asked, darling…” He said with a small smirk, looking at you in the utmost adoration while you playfully smacked him in the chest. You really were absolutely incredible, perfectly imperfect. Loki didn’t like perfection. Perfection was boring, and you were VERY far from boring and so was your life with him. Loki would gladly give you everything you asked for and yet so much more.

“I’m almost done with the drawing…” You sighed, then grinned at him. “After that we can give each other some very much necessary attention, alright?”

“Sounds lovely. What are you drawing anyway?” He asked, sitting up once you had risen to your feet to collect your sketchpad from the desk on the other side of the room.

The apartment Loki and you shared was small, but Loki loved it nonetheless. He would gladly forgo every palace in existence for this little kingdom that was your home. You were his queen, and Loki your humble servant. As long as you were together, Loki was content. Happy, even, more than he was able to properly express.

“You.” You shrugged, chuckling as you made your way back to the couch to sit down next to him.

Loki snatched the sketchpad out of your hand before you could protest, looking at the partially coloured drawing in awe. “This… this is absolutely beautiful. I still have no idea how you can draw emotions and feelings like this. In every new piece you showcase a small piece of my soul.”

“Well, it’s not hard to draw something beautiful when the beauty is sitting right in front of you, reading all day.” You smirked, shoving him a little in the side as you took your work back and got comfortable in one corner of the couch.

“How many drawings of me do you have by now?” He asked with a smile as he handed you a blanket that was draped over the backrest of the couch on his end and watched you wrap it around yourself in amusement.

“Countless. Really, I have lost count and even lost the ABILITY to count them all.” You snorted, picking up your box with pens from the coffee table.

“If you want to draw true beauty, why don’t you ever draw a self portrait?” Loki rose an eyebrow at you as he sat down in the opposite corner of the couch more comfortably.

“Ha ha very funny.” You rolled your eyes, looking back to your drawing instead of him.

Loki pick up his book once more, flipping to the current page. He tried reading a part, and another… Yet, his mind wouldn’t take in on any of the words as it was too busy with his own thoughts, the letters on the page faded as he kept thinking of your drawing.

It had been a while now… a long while of you creating those stunning and breathtakingly expressive drawings of him. Sure, you did draw other things too, occasionally, but knowing that you did draw him oh so often and with such a joy made Loki both proud and desperate. Proud, because you knew and understood him so incredibly well and still chose to love him, and desperate because he felt so many things for you, knew and understood you too… and yet failed (in his eyes) to show it.

The urge within him to give you something back grew with every new piece you showed him, with every emotion caught on point and every perfect piece of his imperfection.

“Can I try?” He asked straight out, without giving himself the change to back out now. Drawing wasn’t something he had done all too often, but some basic sketching had been part of his education nonetheless. Yet, that had been decades ago and he wondered if he could still do it at all. But he wanted to try to express his emotions in a drawing, just like you did.

“What?” You asked in utter irritation, finally lifting your eyes to meet his.

“Can I try to draw you?” He asked with a sigh, unsure of what he’s just gotten himself into. “Since you refuse to draw yourself, I would like to try.”

Your lips parted in surprise as you started at Loki for a moment. Then you nodded strongly. “Uh, yeah… I mean yes, of course you can! Feel free to use whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” With another soft sigh Loki got up from the couch, placed his book on the coffee table and picked up an empty sketchpad and some pencils from the desk.

You watched him selecting his tools with care, smiling at the sight. Loki loved art, you had known that from the very first day, but he had never made an attempt to actually create something himself. Usually he would talk to you about your works, or fill in with some knowledge about art history while you were going to the museum. This new ambition was both intriguing and amusing. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he sat down on the ground instead of the couch, crossing his legs beneath himself and placing the papers on his thighs. An inevitable smile came to your lips… Loki just looked effortlessly gorgeous in absolutely every situation (which was kinda unfair, really). Even sitting on the ground in tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt, a deep frown on his face as he marked the page with some reluctant lines. The way the sharp edges of his face stood out even more when he concentrated on something was enough inspiration for you to let the colouring be for now and do some portrait sketches instead. Maybe Loki would one day believe you when you told him that he was amazing indeed. However many sketches and drawings that might take.

For quite some time the two of you stayed like that, listening to quiet music flowing around the apartment while drawing each other with the utmost care and attention to detail. Until finally, Loki decided that he was done. He didn’t like the outcome of his work at all, and after he had separated the drawn page from the rest, he looked at it for two more seconds, then at you… and ripped the page apart into tiny pieces.

“Loki!” You protested, dropping your own drawing supplies on the couch and moving to sit in front of him on the floor. “Why on earth did you rip it!?”

“I didn’t like it.” He said quietly, with a sharp edge to his voice, looking down at the small shreds of paper between you and him.

“But I wanted to see it nonetheless…” You said quietly, taking his hands in yours and gently caressing his knuckles. “I’m sure it wasn’t half as bad as you think it was.”

“It didn’t do you justice at all.” He stated in pure disappointment with himself. “You would’ve hated it.”

“I promise you I wouldn’t have.” You sighed, letting go of his hands to place your arms around his neck. With a low hum coming from the depth of his chest, Loki wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer until you were sitting in between his legs, comfortably wrapped around him.

“You’re too hard on yourself.” You whispered against his neck, playing with a few strands of his raven hair. “I love everything you do, and I love YOU very very much. You know that, right?”

“I know, darling. I really do… Do you really want to see the drawing?” He asked in an equally quiet voice and you nodded, brushing your lips against his soft skin in the process.

Loki leaned back a short moment later, unwrapping his arms from you, and thus allowing you to place your legs over his and around his hips to sit more comfortably, closer.

“Good for you that I can fix stuff with magic.” He mused with the tiniest smile as he held the good-as-new piece of paper out to you, his eyes locked with yours in the most serious expression.

Gently you took the drawing out of his hand and when you looked at it, your lips parted yet again.

“Are you trying to tease me?!” You finally managed to say as the corners of your mouth curled into a soft smile.

“Usually, yes. Right now, no.” He replied calmly and the expression on his face told you that he was being serious indeed.

“But… wow.” You were at a loss for words, staring down at the drawing in your hands incredulously. “Did you really draw this in the last thirty minutes? Without magic?”

“Yes.” He replied shortly, looking surprisingly flustered. “Sorry.”

“Why in any world would you apologize? This is absolutely gorgeous! It looks like a photo, seriously Loki, it’s absolutely perfect!” You rambled, staring down at what really looked like a photograph of yourself. How could he seriously think this was bad?!

“I don’t want perfect.” He sighed, resting his hands on the small of your back once again. “Perfect is boring. It’s vain, and cold and distant…”

“So is your problem that the drawing is perfect or that I am not?”

“You’re perfect for me, don’t ever doubt that! Yet you’re not universally perfect, which I am honestly very glad about. That would be awful… I’m a flawed being and you are too and that makes us our own kind of perfect.” He argued eloquently, making you smile at him fondly.

“And what bothers you so much about the drawing?” You inquire as you placed it on the coffee table before resting both your hands on his shoulders once more.

“It’s absolutely nothing like yours.” He shrugged.

“Well, it shouldn’t be. It’s your drawing, so it should be like you.”

“That’s not what I meant… See, your drawings speak to the viewer. They express emotions and soul… while mine is just a photograph. Perfect in technique but blind in emotions.” Loki sighed, suppressing the urge to yet again rip the drawing into pieces. He knew you’d be mad at him if he did, so he let it rest on the coffee table in one piece for now.

“Don’t be so upset about it, please. I’m absolutely amazed by your drawing and even more that you drew something at all! Just for me…” You whispered to him with a soft smile, placing a gentle kiss to his lips.

He hummed quietly against your lips in return, pulling your body closer to his as he deepened the kiss. If he failed to express his emotions in art and drawing, he might just have to show you the depth of his love, the core of his soul in another way. For now.

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However as Loki lay in bed that night, your small frame curled around his and your head on his shoulder, he found himself thinking back to his 'failed’ attempt at drawing. He had come to accept the fact that he didn’t need to show you his emotions through art, as you had solemnly sworn that you knew indeed how much he loved you…

But Loki wouldn’t be Loki if he’d let the things go that he hadn’t been able to accomplish to his fullest contentment. And just because he didn’t NEED to express his emotions this way didn’t remotely mean that he didn’t WANT to indeed. It had become a challenge the moment he had tried and yet failed, and Loki wouldn’t ever back down from a good challenge.

So once you had gone to work on Monday morning, kissing him goodbye like you always did, Loki got out a piece of paper and a pencil and started sketching random objects around the apartment.

It started out small, with a bouquet of dried flowers… A glass bowl with your favorite candy… A bottle of Loki’s prefered wine. The graphite stood out against the white paper in a way that made the objects jump straight out of the page, realistic as ever, almost a grey scale photograph. Loki frowned to himself. This, again, is not remotely what he wanted, not remotely what he meant to draw.

So he switched out the medium. Until now, he had only tried graphite on white paper, which (as proven multiple times) led to him drawing a perfectly realistic photograph. He was quick to decide on using another pen, first of all. Surprisingly quickly, he did one drawing in black ink, which he soon realized he did not like at all, even less than the pencil. Sighing, he tried to get rid of the ink stains on his hands by rubbing his palms against his tracksuit bottoms. Didn’t work.

Thus, with a doubtful eye, reluctantly circling your drawing supplies like a wounded predator on the hunt, he scanned what other mediums were available to him. He really would need to get braver, bolder, to go bigger.

First, he tried charcoal. Needless to say, he ended up creating a huge, black and smudged mess on the livingroom floor and also on himself. But he actually, finally, ended up with something that looked less like a photograph and more like an actual drawing, which in this case was a step into the right direction. Yet, it still wasn’t what he was trying to get to, so the paper landed somewhere below the couch as he pushed it away angrily. How was it possible that he was so BAD at this?! Loki wasn’t used to being bad at something. At least not at something he was actually trying to be good at. And oh, he didn’t like it at all.

As he rose to his feet, pushing the long sleeves of his green t-shirt back over his elbows, he made his way through the mess of papers lying everywhere, back to the arsenal of materials.

Next, he settled for oil pastels. At least those were a little less messy than the charcoal… Loki wasn’t too fond of messy things, and even less of willingly creating a mess. But he HAD to get good at art, and he would go great lengths to get what he wanted. So he moved back to the only empty space on the floor in the middle of the livingroom, his bare feet leaving black footprints on the warm wood. Maybe he shouldn’t have stepped onto the charcoal drawings…

Surprisingly, Loki did like the oil pastels a lot. It was nice getting to blend colours a little, to work them together and get both crisp edges and soft blurs… yet, after filling pages upon pages with whatever motives he could think of or see around himself, he found that it wasn’t ideal either. It was getting better, yes, but it still wasn’t imperfect enough to be beautiful. He groaned to himself, running a hand through his hair and leaving small smudges of colour on his forehead.

By now the livingroom was an absolute mess and so was Loki. He was angry with himself, frustrated and just desperate enough to continue on nonetheless. So he pushed the enormous amount of paper around him further away, off to the side, wherever… Then he took the oil pastels back to your stash, restoring them to their original state with a subtle green light. He didn’t want to use up all your supplies, so he made sure to replace whatever he took. And while in the knowledge that he could very well clean up the living room in an instant, he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. His mind was occupied with so many mixed emotions and somehow, the mess in the livingroom represented that fairly well. Also… he was getting closer. Closer to creating something imperfect enough to be ENOUGH at all.

He went for acrylic paints next, a step further, a step bigger… But he went with a random piece of cardboard that he tore off a box, instead of a canvas. In his mind, a canvas was for art. Not for whatever it was he was doing here.

So he slumped back down in his small circle in the middle of the room, frowning. What was he supposed to draw next, what could he try to give meaning to? With a single thought and a swoosh of green, he arranged all his previous drawings in multiple rows of circles around himself. There really was nothing he hadn’t tried to draw… nothing he hadn’t tried to wrap into emotions (and failed to express anything at all).

With a sigh, he decided to draw his old bedroom in the asgardian palace out of his memory, for once. It was the one place where he had spent the most time throughout his entire childhood and he could see it in front of him in every detail. It was a lot of gold, just like the rest of the palace, but also some green and beige tones… He spent quite a while painting, getting used to the acrylic paint and the brushes… creating even more of a mess of himself and his surroundings.

Maybe it was the painting, or the focus, the memory of a lost home or the general frustration of not getting it right anyway, no matter how hard he tried… but after he had covered the entire piece of cardboard in paint, he felt even more desperate than before. It was yet again closer to what he wanted his art to be, but still not quite right. With an angry frown he tossed the cardboard into any direction and lay down in his small empty circle, staring at the ceiling. Maybe his art was doomed to mirror himself in being a failure indeed.

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When you returned home that afternoon, unlocking the door with a long sigh, you dropped your bag and jacket in the hallway and moved to find Loki. Usually he would either pick you up from work, or be waiting here for you with a decent enough excuse for why he didn’t come to pick you up in return.

Yet today, as you walked around a corner and your eyes fell upon the mess that was your livingroom, your lips parted and you gasped at the sight in front of you. Colour absolutely everywhere, drawings and paintings scattered all across the floor and the furniture, and right in the middle there was Loki. Even though he was lying on his back, you could tell that he was covered in all kinds of paint, his clothes, his hands and face… And a slow smirk spread on your lips that soon turned into a huge grin.

“Hey Loki.” You chuckled, standing in the doorframe and watching the artistic massacre in front of you. It really did look like Loki had fought a war with your art supplies and the thought alone almost made you snort.

“Hello darling.” He replied quietly, not once averting his eyes from the ceiling.

“Uhm… What exactly happened to the livingroom?” You asked, suppressing a laugh rather badly as your eyes scanned the absolutely incredible drawings strewn around.

“I’m a failure, Y/n…” He sighed deeply instead of answering your question. “I tried to art, and I failed.”

You tried really hard not to laugh at his overly dramatic demeanor as you took off your shoes and socks and tiptoed through the pagers on the ground, making your way towards Loki. The closer you got, the more you realized that he was seriously upset and not joking at all and that made your heart fall immediately.

Careful not to wrinkle any of the papers, you sat down next to Loki in the middle of the drawings and looked down at his paint smeared face with a soft smile. “C'mon, sit up and let me hug you. Please?”

Sighing, he did as you asked and you wrapped him into a tight hug, to which he responded by pulling you into his lap indeed.

“Hey…” You whispered, looking into his eyes with an encouraging expression.

“Hey.” He replied in a breath. “I apologize for creating a mess.”

“You’re pretty adorable when you’re covered in paint.” You chuckled, brushing through his tangled hair with your fingers.

“I am not adorable! I’m a god, I’m imposing and powerful and…”

“Covered in paint.” You chuckled again, causing Loki to roll his eyes. “May I look at your drawings?”

“If you have to… I’m not hindering you. But be aware of the fact that I despise every single thing in this room but you right now.” He sighed and you picked up the drawings you could reach without having to get up. They really were absolutely stunning, each one better than the previous, and you marveled at the detail and the colour choices and just everything really… It was impeccable.

“I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but these are absolutely gorgeous, Loki…” You sighed with a smile, looking at his deep frown.

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.” He replied with a chuckle, hugging you tighter to himself and pressing a kiss to your neck.

“You’re smudging paint all over me!” You laughed, trying to shove him away, but he wouldn’t let you and continued to shower your neck with tickling kisses until you were breathless from laughter.

“Am I really covered in paint all that much?” He asked after a while, pulling back to look at your face and to allow you to look at his.

“You most definitely are. But that’s no surprise when you paint and draw obsessively like you did today.” You smiled at him, brushing a strand of hair out of his face and thereby causing him to sigh a little. “What happened that made you create all this?”

“Yesterday I tried drawing emotions like you do, and I failed. Thus I had to try again today.”

“And why all the different mediums?”

“I was hoping that I simply needed to find the right tools to create something that would be beautiful. I assume I got a little better with the oil pastels and the acrylic paint, but it still does not express emotions, nor does it have soul.” He sighed, moving some papers over, towards you, so that you could see the minimal progress he’d made. It wasn’t like Loki would ever admit to anyone else that he had failed at something, or that he wasn’t good enough… but he had learned to trust you more than himself, and thus he had grown to share every thought with you in utmost honesty.

“So you have created all these amazing pieces of art in an attempt to create something that YOU can consider art?”

“Precisely.”

“Alright.” You sighed, sitting up a little straighter and placing the drawings back on the ground after you’d inspected them closely. “I DO consider all these pieces works of art, brilliant works of art even. But I understand that you are aiming for something else and I’ll help you get there. BUT…”

“But?” Loki asked suspiciously, both excited and embarrassed at the prospect of having your help in this. Yet, the embarrassment passed after a short moment, for even though Loki was a rather proud person, he was also smart. And that meant he knew when to accept help from a superior. You definitely were his superior, a higher being in every way and he loved it beyond measure.

“But! I’ll only help you if you allow me to keep everything you created today, intact and just like you drew it.” You grinned smugly, causing Loki to roll his eyes. “And I want you to stop trashtalking yourself and your art. What you do is beautiful and I need you to stop saying it’s not. If you can do that, I’ll help you create something you are trying for.”

“Alright.” He sighed. “You can keep everything and I will refrain from saying a bad word about it. Now, how exactly are you going to help me?”

“First, we need a little more space.” You smiled and a moment later the papers started moving around to create a neat pile in a corner of the room, leaving the livingroom floor visible once more. “Gosh, I love magic. Can’t you teach me that?”

“I can try, darling…” Loki chuckled deeply. “But right now we are teaching me how to art.”

You laughed, shaking your head to yourself. “I love how you say that… 'how to art’…”

Loki didn’t say anything and only looked at you expectantly, while you moved off his lap to sit in front of him with the box paints and brushes in between you.

“Now, you want to draw with emotions and soul, right?” You asked calmly.

“Yes.”

“Well, first of all you need to actually FEEL something in order to draw it. You need to allow yourself to feel things, and you need to allow your emotions to surface through the channel of art.” You looked at him intently, in the knowledge that honesty of feelings and Loki didn’t necessarily go together well.

He was quiet for a moment, looking at you as if he was contemplating existence. “I don’t want to draw my own emotions. You can draw mine perfectly well, or anyone else's… can’t I start with that?”

“See, that’s the first problem right there. I need to feel what someone else feels in order to draw it. It’s called empathy, Loki, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” You chuckled, looking at him kindly. “But that’s another thing, so let’s focus on your own emotions first. That’s easier.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Y/n.” He replied quietly, looking down to the many colours spread out in between you.

“You can, and you will. I know you don’t like it when people see what’s going on in your mind, and…”

“I don’t mind when you see.” He interrupted you, eyes locked back with yours in all honesty. “I never minded that you know every part of me.”

Your smile widened at that. “I know. But I think I know a way to make it easier for you nonetheless.” With that you unzipped your hoodie, tossing it off to the side. Then you lifted your shirt over your head and Loki rose an eyebrow at you in amusement and suspicion.

“I am nowhere near complaining, but what are you doing, dear?” He asked, trying not to laugh.

“Giving you the right canvas. You’re gonna draw on my back.” You stated calmly, with such a certainty that Loki found himself obliging. With a smile you laid down on your stomach in front of him, resting your head on your arms, smiling. “This way you won’t have to worry about anyone ever seeing what you choose to create now. We can take a shower afterwards, and you can wash it off and all that will be left is you knowing that you completed your mission.”

Loki felt his heart swell with adoration as he looked down at your bare back, smiling to himself in the knowledge that you knew and loved him indeed, with a depth and intensity that no one ever had.

“Any more tips you can give me?” He asked. “About what I should draw? Or how to have better control over it?”

“See, Loki, the things is… You shouldn’t control your art, nor your motive. You need to let go, and allow the emotions to control you indeed. Surrender to the art, to the act of creating. Otherwise you will always end up with another photograph.” You mused, and Loki frowned.

“I’m not good at letting go of control.”

“I know!” You laughed, as goosebumps covered your body upon his cool touch on your skin. “But didn’t you say yourself that your drawings got better towards the end of your trying? That’s not because you practiced, but because, and I’m making an educated guess here, you grew frustrated and angry with yourself more and more and that anger took control over you. And that’s what I see in your latest drawings. Desperation and anger. And if you can let those emotions control you involuntarily, you can let positive ones lead you to a greater art.”

Your words echoed in Loki’s mind like a sharp and clear note sung in a cathedral and his lips parted slightly at the realization that you were right. He could do this, and he could let himself be vulnerable for once in this safe haven that was your love.

“Fine. I will paint something beautifully imperfect, and you will tell me about your day.” He smiled, picking up a colour at random and chuckling as you flinched upon the contact of the chilled brush and the wet paint on your back. “Alright, darling?”

“Sounds like a plan.” You smiled widely, enjoying the innocent intimacy of the moment.

And just like this, Loki finally created a true piece of art, one he was content with. A piece of beautiful imperfection.

________________________________

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If you would like to be added to my general tag list, tell me in the comments 💗✨ I hope you guys enjoyed this!

#loki #loki x reader #loki x you #loki fluff #loki imagine #Tom Hiddleston #Tom Hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston x y/n #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfiction #loki fandom #loki marvel #loki fanfic

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Galactica, Chapter 5 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Since we’re on a roll and impatient as fuck, we decided to up our posting rate! Hope you enjoy! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Violet gave Trixie a heads-up about Fame’s dislike of the new collection, and moved into her new apartment--where she found some very welcoming neighbors.

This Chapter: All hands on deck as Fame demands a complete reconceptualization of their Spring collection.

***

Fame swept into the office on Monday, all business, barely looking Violet in the eye as she rattled off a waterfall of orders.

Fame pulled off her coat and dropped it, nearly letting it fall on the floor before Violet dove forward to catch it.

“Have you taken care of the messages I left you over the weekend?”

Fame seemed almost frantic, her energy all over the place.

“I’m almost done Miss,” Violet folded her coat over her arm, holding out her hand for Fame’s bag. “I just need to confirm wit-”

“Good.” Fame hung her bag on Violet’s wrist, the weight almost toppling Violet over if it hadn’t been for her hours at the gym. “Have you ordered the new fabrics I talked about?”

Violet nodded. “They are on their wa-”

“And what about my new assistant?”

“Yes-” Violet reached for her desk, a stack of resumes already printed out. “I’m starting the pre-interviews tomorrow-”

“Wonderful.” Fame completely ignored Violet and the papers she was holding out, instead walking towards her office. Violet quickly disposed of Fame’s coat and bag, putting both down on her desk so she could grab Fame’s coffee and the letters for the day before she followed her.

“Remember, only perfection is accepted,” Fame instructed, settling down at her desk.

“Yes, Miss.” Violet handed her the coffee, which Fame took a single sip of before she scrunched her nose and handed it back to Violet.

“I’d like a new latte and a medium fruit salad, no pineapple.”

“Yes Miss.”

“Is that the schedule for the day?”

Violet nodded and handed her the paper.

“Also, before you go. Get Raja up here. I need to discuss the collection. That’s all,” Fame said, turning to her computer.

It wasn’t for a few minutes that Violet realized how serious Fame was about the collection change. She was standing in line at the coffee shop, checking her email, when she saw that Fame had sent one to the entire senior management team.

Subject: URGENT

All hands on deck meeting at 3 pm today to discuss a complete re-conceptualization of our Spring collection. Bring your best ideas, ready to discuss, along with samples and visual aids. Be prepared to work late.

Violet gulped, forwarding the email to all of the applicable assistants, when another one ticked in.

Subject: Violet - Get me Pearl

***

“This is interesting, try to get a sample of the skirt done ASAP and then spruce up the sketch,” Trixie said.

Trixie had been walking around the busy design floor, checking out what his team had come up with over the weekend. Ever since getting Violet’s text last Friday, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that Fame was about to bring down a hammer, and so they needed to be prepared with new ideas.

Half of the team was working on changes and additions to their current collection. Half of them were working on entirely new concepts and ideas.

‘Remember guys,’ he’d said before they left on Friday. ‘This is a spaghetti against the wall situation. No bad ideas, time to explore everything. If it’s unique and innovative, that’s a plus. Pull out your passion projects.’

The truth was, Trixie had no idea what to expect. Fame had been silent all weekend, which made him even more nervous. Usually she’d send at least a few texts or emails. Ideas that popped into her head. A doodle on a notepad. Image references. But now, when she was allegedly questioning their whole collection? Nada.

Trixie walked over to where April was draping out an ornate sample dress in multiple shades of blue, telling her to carry on. Then he moved on to Alexis, scrutinizing the sketches on her desk with a critical eye.

“Some of these shapes are interesting, but I need you to redo them with different colors and fabrics,” he told her. “Remember, the color story is apparently the thing she’s most ambivalent about.”

“Got it,” Alexis said with a good-natured sigh, picking up a fresh pad.

“Um, Trixie?” Kandy looked up, a terrified look on her face as she hung up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Raja says to check your emails, don’t panic, and that she’s coming down to fill you in,” Kandy said.

Trixie pulled out his phone, stomach lurching as he read the email from Miss Fame, face going pale.

His worst fear had just come true: they were facing a complete reconceptualization. He looked up, forcing a smile in order to not terrify the design team even more.

“Okay,” he said, attempting to keep his voice light. “New plan...Blu, Jovan, Gia? Forget about the adjustments you were working on. We’re looking for fresh ideas, anything that you think could be a new signature piece. Everyone: the deadline is today at 3 pm.”

A small gasp rippled through the team as they realized how soon that was.

“Three pm?” Blu asked, the Irish designer looking like she might burst into tears.

“Yeah.” Trixie scanned the room again, hating the anxiety that he saw on everyone’s face, which he knew full well was not conducive to innovation. “And try to have fun. Remember, this is fashion, not heart surgery. No one’s gonna die.”

“We might die,” Jovan muttered under his breath, ripping his current piece out of a sewing machine and tossing it onto the ground.

“It’ll be okay,” Trixie put a hand on Jovan’s shoulder. He was his oddest worker, the wrinkly brain he had coming up with the most beautiful, crazy, intricate ideas when he was left to his own devices. “I promise.” Trixie squeezed, trying to put as much conviction behind his words as he could. “Just do your best.”

***

Pearl had just settled into her chair, ready to see if anything exciting had happened on Twitter while she had been by the design department to give Trixie his lunch.

It wasn’t something she normally did, but Katya had been near heartbroken when she saw that Trixie had forgotten the lunchbox she had made him that morning, and since Pearl was a pretty damn good roommate in her own opinion, she had volunteered to deliver it.

Katya had given her a kiss and a hug as thanks before she hurried out the door, two tote bags and canvas under both arms. If Pearl didn’t love her so much, she’d be almost disgusted with how good of a human being Katya was, spending her summer as a volunteer art teacher at a community center in the Bronx.

Her beating heart was however also the reason that Pearl hadn’t been kicked out of the apartment she shared with her Trixie when he and Katya had started dating, so who was she to complain?

A polite cough came from the door just as Pearl was catching up on Olivier Rousteing’s Instagram. She turned around and came face to face with Violet.

Pearl smiled; it was always a joy to see Violet, the other always a sight for sore eyes with her almost impeccable beauty.

It was always fun to see what Violet would wear, the woman almost vintage in her style.

“Is that Gabbana?”

“Of course it’s Gabbana” Violet smoothed down her skirt, and Pearl smiled. She was the only person who Pearl knew that could wear a button up, and still look like someone begging to get fucked.

“You’re late.”

“Am I?” Pearl smirked. Violet was fun to rile up, but Fame was her favorite, one of her very best days at work happening because she had agitated her boss on purpose.

“Is this about the collection? Trixie told me Fame has officially freaked.”

Violet didn’t say anything, and Pearl almost wanted to roll her eyes.

“I’ll take that silence as a yes.”

Violet was an annoyingly good assistant, never saying a word against Fame, always holding her tongue even when it would have been more than fair to complain.

“She wants you in her office in 10.”

“So I’m not actually late?” Pearl turned around to her iMac, seeing that the small email icon on her screen was blinking red. “Ah.”

Pearl realized that Violet had just saved her from Fame’s disappointment, but there was no way she was going to let the other know of her gratitude.

It was too early in the game for that.

“Sorry for helping you.” Violet huffed, rolling her eyes. “Here-” Violet put a folder down on Pearl’s desk. “In case you want to actually prepare-”

“Thanks Vivi.”

“Don’t call me that.”

***

“Shit.” Trixie exhaled a groan of frustration as he dumped down in his chair. He had known the email was coming, but it had still felt like a punch to the gut when he’d actually seen it.

Raja had come straight from a meeting with Fame, and Trixie had known it was bad, real bad, when he had seen how Raja’s normally ice cold exterior was chipped.

Trixie sighed, burrowing his head in his hands for a minute. He hated having to push his designers, hated forcing them to deliver in extreme conditions. A few of them thrived on it, Betty always delivering excellent work, while Aiden almost always buckled when he didn’t have time to pay attention to his details.

Trixie reached into his mini-fridge, taking the lunch Pearl had stopped by to drop off for him. It was only 10:30, but he unpacked it anyway. Katya had packed two pieces of carrot cake, a can of diet coke and as Trixie opened the metal container, the lovely smell of Katya’s best mushroom and cheese blinis greeted him.

He opened his drawer, pulling out a fork as he turned his computer on, the promise of carrot cake the only thing getting him through the avalanche of worried emails he knew was waiting for him.

***

Raja heaved a sigh as she stepped off the elevator. She’d been trying to give Trixie a warning about Fame’s current state of mind without causing the EVP of Design to freak out, but couldn’t shake the notion that she’d failed, seeing the crease in his forehead deepen the more she spoke, until she’d finally just left him with a firm pat on the back. She entered her own suite, the rich fabrics and warm colors immediately soothing her, although her relief was short-lived, since Jaida was perched on Ivy’s desk, a stern look on her face.

“I need to talk to you.”

Jaida was the most recent addition to their management team. The bright, resourceful CFO joined them almost two years ago, when Patrick stepped away from the day to day financial management to focus on his own firm. She’d truly been a godsend—immediately understanding the need for creative flexibility in their budgets, and helping to streamline the company’s organization in a way that was incredibly effective even as they grew by leaps and bounds.

But now, Jaida’s beautiful face was about the last one that Raja wanted to see. She was well-aware that Fame’s email had caused mass panic, and Jaida’s mind was probably already spinning in 100 different directions, thinking about how their timelines would now completely change the budget for Fashion Week beyond the normal contingency plan.

Raja gestured to her office, resigned to have this conversation now, and Jaida immediately sailed in, settling on the forest green velvet couch that Raven had picked out. Raja turned to Ivy, requesting some herbal tea, before joining her.

“So, Jaida, what are you brightening my day with?”

“An entire reconceptualization, Raja?”

“I’m aware that-”

“Has she completely lost it? Can’t you talk to her?” Jaida implored.

“Fame has made up her mind.”

“Ughhh!” Jaida’s hand fell into her hands.

“What a mature response-”

Raja was cut off when Shangela burst into the office. One of their longest and most loyal employees, the Director of Operations usually never panicked, taking on every challenge with an almost annoying amount of enthusiastic joy.

It was possible, Raja supposed, that she was extra annoyed by Shangela because of their failed relationship, but she liked to tell herself that that was besides the point.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Shangela exclaimed, taking a seat across from Jaida.

“I was stalking Ms. Gemini here.” Jaida pointed with her thumb.

“Shangela, you’re in my office-” Raja began.

“Listen. I just want to make sure everyone understands the situation at hand. Bendela is already asking to double the staff in the tailoring department through September, and Alyssa says that this is going to potentially triple the budget for the media campaigns, and-”

“I know! It’s a shit show!” Jaida exclaimed.

Raja closed her eyes. Where the fuck was Ivy with her tea?

“I hear your concerns, however, we haven’t even had the creative meeting yet, so don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves?”

“But Bendela says-”

“Of course she does, Shangela.” Raja sighed. Shangela was always so dramatic, but she was irritatingly good at her job.

“Bendela’s been requesting to hire more tailors for months now. That doesn’t mean that her estimate is accurate and if she truly sticks to her guns, Trixie just interviewed potential interns. I’m sure some of them can be assigned to tailoring.”

Ivy pushed her way through the door, a tray with coffee and tea for everyone in her hands.

“Right, okay, but what about-”

“We’re going to get through today, listen to what Fame has to say, what ideas everyone comes up with, and then reconvene tomorrow morning,” Raja said, gratefully accepting the tea that Ivy handed over.

“Fine,” Jaida said. “But if I were you, I’d convince Miss Fame that the current collection is brilliant.”

“You don’t think I tried that?” Raja laughed.

“Fair enough,” Jaida replied, finally letting a small giggle escape.

“Another day in paradise,” Shangela added, rising up from the couch.

#rpdr fanfiction #thedane #veronica #galactica #lesbian au #fashion au #pearlet #violet chachki #miss fame #trixie mattel #pearl liaison #raja gemini #jaida essence hall #shangela laquifa wadley

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daybreak-academy-fanfic · 4 years

Text

Daybreak Academy: Chapter 81

Case of Gula

Summary: In which Gula has an unconventional way of scoping out a local graffiti artist. Word Count: 1,483 First | Previous | Next ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆

Well, there was no way that Gula could deny this particular stunt. Someone had spray painted a rather massive mural on the backside of the Leopardus boys' dorms. The most unfortunate shame was that it wasn't a bad mural either. It depicted a leopard, crouching as if it were ready to pounce on its prey. Behind it was a near midnight sky colored with Daybreak Academy’s signature colors: ivory cream and purple. If you looked close enough, you could almost see each individual hair on the leopard and the white glistening in its eye.

Gula brushed a hand against the mural, admiring the amount of detail that had gone into it. The paint had gone dry but the color was still vibrant. Whoever had done this had finished it recently. If not early this morning, then it must have been late last night. Gula's eyes traced from the main mural to the signature- a tag in this case consisting of bubble lettering with the artist's initials. At least, he assumed they were the artist's initials, and not some dedication to who the mural was designed for.

The Leopardus headmaster took a step back from the mural and placed his hands on his hips. He knew bits and pieces of the art scene. He knew that this paint certainly was not water based, as it didn’t show any sign of dripping. The vibrant colors also indicated that it was a good brand of paint too; barely any filler ingredients that would make the color duller in comparison. Gula gave a small, thoughtful hum to himself as he started to pull out his phone. He had an idea, he wasn’t sure if it would work or not, but it was definitely worth the shot.

He punched a number in his phone and waited for it to ring over. Just when he thought that he was going to get voicemail, the friendly voice of the music director (who also happened to keep a tight booking on the auditorium) answered her phone.

“Hey Ms. A,” Gula greeted with a chipper tone. “I've gotta question; is the auditorium booked for anything this afternoon? I've got some kids I need to guilt trip.”

. . .

If there was one thing about Leopardus students, it was that if they were called for an unannounced assembly, they either looked completely annoyed or totally guilty. Gula learned far long ago that the kids who looked the most guilty, were not the ones he needed to rat out. Not during these seemingly random assemblies for just the Leopardus house, any way.

Gula gave a small head count to make sure all the Leopardus students were in attendance before starting his speech.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” he greeted in a loud, but not demanding, voice. “Everyone enjoying the first Monday in November?”

The auditorium then chorused with various degrees of enthusiasm. Gula couldn’t help but smirk. The faces on the students may change, but their attitudes never did.

“Sounds wonderful.” he said to them with a grin. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’re having this little assembly. You see, either early this morning or late last night, someone gave the backside of the boys’ dorms a little makeover. Since I know the true artist isn’t going to show themselves that easily; I’ve set up a little test. Behind me is a large canvas- just large enough so everyone can spray paint a little something onto it. Doesn’t have to be big or bulky, I just want you to pick up a can of spray paint, make an impression on the canvas, then go on your merry way. I’m going to go by year first, then alphabetical order. Which means our first subject will be… Hana Aeducan.”

With this, Gula’s little theory and test was now underway. One by one, year by year, Gula called up every Leopardus student at Daybreak Academy. He watched as they picked up a paint can, did a small tag (or, in some cases, a single line), then left the stage without another word. The students who were shaking so hard that they could barely hold the cans straight gave him a good chuckle; they obviously were not the ones he was after.

He gave nods to the students he saw more regularly. In fact, a part of him expected Ephemer to question this assembly in one way or another, and that kid sure did not disappoint.

“Why are you doing this?” the 16 year old asked with a raise of his eyebrow once the two were close enough.

“Because if you did it, I would have already found out.” came the instant retort and knowing grin. Ephemer couldn’t argue with that; he even gave a small half shrug of indifference.

“Fair enough.” he decided before getting a good look at the spray paint cans.

“Let's see…” the boy went on to muse, possibly with full intentions to annoy Gula, “Which kind has the most vibrant color...?”

Gula cast the student a small side glance. “Ephemer, I have no idea; it's all the same color anyway. Just pick one and tag it already.”

A small chuckle came from Ephemer’s lips as he picked out a spray paint. He did a small heart with the letters ‘E+A’ inside of it before leaving the stage. Gula let out a light laugh of his own before calling up the next student.

As he started to go into the later years, Gula was starting to wonder if he had been wrong. Perhaps his theory was off and it wasn't a Leopardus student that had tagged the dorms? It wasn't too uncommon for there to be overlap in student abilities, after all. But he had been so sure that it was someone in his house. The level of skill he had seen usually did come from Leopardus students. It wasn’t until Gula called up a Ninth Year student named Jake that he completely changed his mind about being wrong.

Jake, like many others before him, gave Gula a skeptic raise of his eyebrow before looking down at the spray paint. His first instinct was to grab the first can he saw, but then the young man paused. He hesitated, for only a moment, before moving his hand over to a different brand. Gula watched with interest as Jake shook the spray paint can as he tried to find a blank spot on the canvas. The young man then started a bubble outline that clearly gave away his initials.

If Gula wanted to, he would have ended the assembly right then and there. But he didn’t. He had to keep up the charade for a little bit longer- if only for effect.

. . .

Jake didn’t bother knocking on Gula’s office door before entering. Not that Gula was particularly strict on the choice. In fact, he had been waiting for Jake, sitting at his desk with his head resting on knitted hands.

“So you decided to give the back of the dorms a little makeover, huh?” the Leopardus headmaster teased. Knowing that he had been caught, Jake’s entire body stiffened for a moment before it turned into annoyance.

“So what?” Jake impatiently questioned. “Am I suspended now? Have to clean the whole mural by hand, or something?”

Gula lulled his head from side to side as he considered the idea. “No.” he decided. “If fact, I brought up the idea with Ira and the rest of them, and we were all agreed; how would you like to decorate some other bare areas around campus? There's this real ugly area behind the cafeteria that should really be cleaned up. A bit of color there would do wonders, don't you think?”

Jake looked like Gula had up and punched him in the jaw.

“You're not mad at me?”

“Oh I was,” the Leopardus headmaster agreed, “But then I saw the technique that went into your last piece. Did you outline everything first, or just go with your gut?”

For a moment, Jake just continued to give a dumbfounded stare. Eventually, he sputtered out a bewildered, “I used a block out method. Big shapes first, then fine tuning them into smaller details. I've never actually outlined anything before.”

Gula gave a very impressed nod at this discovery. “Impressive,” he even approved. “Hope it's not going to take too long- you're gonna get paid by the hour.”

“I… I'm what?”

“Didn't I mention? This isn't just a volunteer job, we're paying you. Invi rearranged the budget already. Aren't you special?”

Jake stood frozen in shock. Eventually, in a strangled voice, he tried to stammer. “T-thank you Headmaster… Headmaster Gula! I… Thank you!”

Not for the last or first time that day, Gula gave his student a knowing smirk. “My pleasure.” he told Jake in a pleasant voice. “Just don’t do it again. Our budget ain't that high.”

#daybreak academy #chapter 81 #kingdom hearts fanfiction #Gula #Ephemer #Season 2

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yuumi0035 · 4 years

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Yuumi’s art process (with pics!)

This is how I go about doing the art palettes, and generally how I do art (specially on lose, not so long pieces such as these). I’ll breakdown the process under the cut so I don’t spam people’s timelines (´･ω･`)

I was going to put these final advises at the very end but someone else might make use of these instead of going through the whole thing so here:

Important things to keep in mind in case you’re learning and actually think I’m worth being listened:

References are GOOD. No one is perfect and no one knows how to draw stuff from their memory so go google weird things, Google-sensei won’t judge. Hopefully. (else set your navigation on private).

Brushes and whatnot don’t make the artist, but it sure as hell help you feel like you’re doing what you like or not. I can’t stress enough how many times I’ve just not finished works because my brushes felt “off”.

Posemaniacs is very good for both anatomy and speed practise (I’m aware I’m really fast compared to my fellow artist friends but by no means it’s a standard, I just got used to work fast uwu)

Be careful with your wrist!!! use your whole arm when drawing!! and also T a k e · b r e a k s.

Art block is a bitch and strikes anyone. I’m usually artblocked but if you find something you’re passionate about go draw that, whatever it is. (I hadn’t consistently drawn in p much 5 years after college and thanks to MLB season 3 here I am LOL)

And now for the actual breakdown:

Step 1: Sketch

My first step is the sketch, which some of you might think “but it’s SO CLEAN!!”, yes, sometimes I leave my sketches as lines and polish them a bit. Anyways, these is what my sketch looks like and next an important thing:

...which is the 2/3 rule! Photoshop blabbery ahead, tl:dr how i made the grid

I’ve been doing this small trick by filling a layer of any color, lowering the opacity to 50% and transforming it to 33,33% it’s height duplicate and place on each side of the canvas and then merge, and then another layer doing the same but doing 33,33% width instead of height. Then I merge both layers, set the opacity to 30% and the result is that perfect 2/3 rule.

If you don’t really know what the rule is, I kindly suggest this instead of my explanation bc words are not my forte.

Step 2: Lineart!

Nothing to say here other than cleaning the lines from earlier with a different (or the same in this case) brush as the sketch one. Opacity varies from day to day.

I have several styles of lineart and they all come with the mood I feel on that day, so don’t be afraid of experimenting and finding what you like most! I personally like thin lines a lot but also thick lines too! i’m constantly looking for the perfect line™ and to give an idea this is what my brushes look like:

in summary, practise with as many tools you can find around and see which ones you like most uwu

Step 3: Base Color

This is probably the part where I give up the most bc it boooooores me LOL. I try to spend as little time as possible in order to overcome this step. These are usually colors I use in 99% of my pics, since... idk years. If you look in my old arts in twitter you’ll see them haha.

Something important I’d like to mention here is ✨LAYERS✨:

This is how my layers look like in the base color part. I tend to do 1 for skin color, 2 for hair / eyes, 3+ for clothes and stuff. I tend to separate them in colors so they don’t merge! I go with numbers because... I think it’s faster to type and I’ve been using this way of naming for years so it works for me, what matters is that you group your layers and keep them organized uwu (specially if someone else has to look at your psd files >>)

Step 4: Shading!

Normally, I shade every single layer with a proper shade but on the case of the palette challenge I’m doing just the skin because I want to stress the light mood. Liiiike if I want to go with a softer light I’d use lighter shades or a stronger light = stronger shades. To pick colors, I usually go with that brown from Chat Noir and Marinette’s jacket as my universal black (I don’t like working with black, I’m weird), and most of the colors I just eye pick from the Color Picker on Photoshop. In the right you can see my swatches:

To choose the shade tone (in this example we’ll use Chat Noir’s hair), I picked a Yellow -Adrien’s hair is specially hard to color ugh- And then with that same tone I’d choose its shade going diagonally looking for a darker tone. This way you can find interesting colors! On this pic I did that for Adrien’s hair and... the rest I did the following:

I did my lazy shading™ : which consists in a layer set to Multiply with 50% opacity (this varies depending on the light, again), and I shade everything with the same tone (my to go is purple, but sometimes I use other colors too). This gives a sense of uniformity and the resulting shades are way nicer in my opinion.

Step 5: But Yuumi... where are the palettes???

I take that people straight handpick the palettes and use them to shade all the way and I respect them for that. I instead decided to do whatever floats my boat so I color regularly but add the palettes over the whole thing to change the overall mood and colors of the illustration. I randomly use the Gradient Tool and use the palettes’ colors around and then set that layer to Screen, Multiply, Focal Light, Overlay... etc etc, whatever I feel like doing in that moment, and so the magic happens! :’D

I don’t usually do this on my works but this is a new way to experiment for me and I’m having fun with it!

Step 6: Finishing Touches

Here is where I use the palettes the most, adding random highlights in whatever way I feel like. Yep, I pretty much Ladybug my whole coloring process: Wing it and go with the flow™. I’m still learning about lighting and whatnots but I really don’t care at this point LOL

To which you’ll say: But Yuumi?? In art school they told me that---

To which I say: shhhhhhhhhhhhh assigntments are over for me. go watch some Bob Ross (I am serious). Do whatever you feel like. Be happy. No one is going to judge you, and if they wanna judge they better be paying for your work first. so. whatever you do: BE HAPPY. or don’t do it. unless it’s a school assignment, in that case go do it or i’ll kick your ass.

✦ Finishing Notes ✦

So yea, that’s my art process in how I’ve been doing these Miraculous Color Palettes and generally how I go about my illustrations most of the time. For more complex illustrations, I need to remember how I did those (oops). And actually, do them. These illustrations usually take up 2 or 3 hours to make, on other pieces i’ve been working on them for up to 8 hours, it really varies from piece to piece, but I hope this was helpful!

Please let me know if you have any questions, commenting in this very post will help me -and others?- keep track of things and learn together! My asks are also open and I’ll reply as fast as I can uwu (my requests are still waiting there, don’t worry).

aaaaand that’s all, folks. Stay Peachy!

#tutorial?#art process #miraculous color palette #digital art #photoshop #tutorial #ym0035art

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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Daniel Michaelson: Embrace

(final prompt for @whumptober2019: Embrace! Since yesterday’s was such a sweet, genuine bit of brotherly loyalty and love and comfort, today is... well, it’s the exact opposite of that. TW: there’s some pretty much outright torture here. Blood, knives, stress positions, dehumanization, it’s all here, folks. Abraham Denner is very, very good at what he does - and what he does is terrible)

“Did you think you were my first?”

Abraham sits back in the folding chair, looking down at the slim, sharp knife he holds in one hand, chosen expressly for today's purpose. The end of it is still red, and he tilts the knife down, watching a single drop coalesce at the tip, swell and grow fat, shimmer in the dim light, and finally drop to the ground.

There is a tiny spot that briefly darkens where it lands and then is indistinguishable from all the other blood soaked into the earth here - insignificant, like the puppy’s life.

A life he has broken and remade in his own image.

Red is kneeling, in the dim light and cured-meat smell of the smokehouse. Kneeling and bent totally at the waist, folded in half with his arms out in front of him, forced straight until they pull, a little, at his shoulders by the ropes cutting hair into his wrists that tie him to the hooks in the wall near the ground.

Bram reaches down to pull his fingers against one of those ropes, then lets it go, and smiles at the twang and the groan from the back of Red's throat, forced unwillingly from behind the muzzle.

"Oh, right, your shoulder isn't quite healed yet, is it? Silly me. Well, I suppose we should keep talking, hm? Or I should. You can't really hold up your end of the conversation today, can you?"

Red doesn't even try to look up, and Bram smiles at the sheen of sweat on those muscled shoulders, along the line of his arms, the trickles of sweat that run over the clear shadows along his ribcage.

It's hot in here, today.

Abraham feels it as a gentle, comforting warmth, but the sweat on Red is a giveaway that he feels the heat very intensely.

Funny. Bram never feels warm unless he’s in direct sunlight.

Red’s hair is a riot of mess everywhere that it isn't plastered to his forehead and neck with the sweat or the leather isn't pushing it in. Abraham’s are caught, for a moment, by the metallic glint of the little padlock laying against the back of his head.

He smiles at the curve of the grid he can see along Red's cheek and jaw, the way it's red there, too, smeared around from Bram's thumbs.

But that doesn't hold a candle to his back.

His back is a beautiful mess. Abraham's been working on it for the better part of two hours now, carving into the skin with a steady hand and a practiced eye for anatomy. Never too deep, never even grazing anything he can’t live without.

You can't see the design through all the blood, but you will, soon enough - and when it scars Bram will get to feel the twisting patterns he’s made himself, run his fingertips over them and watch Red hold himself so carefully, perfectly, obediently still.

For now, kneeling and prostrated and bloody, he looks like a flagellant. As though he’s a pilgrim out of time, a penitent being bloodied in purification, bleeding out the weight of his sins before God.

Bram Denner is not God, of course.

The puppy that used to be Daniel Michaelson prays to him now at night, though, and that's close enough.

“Did you think I was born with this knife in my hand? That I sprang fully formed from my father's forehead like some slightly less muscular and significantly prettier Athena?"

Red doesn't answer - but then he can't, with his voice locked away. The only sound from him is the harsh breathing through his nose and low, ragged sounds coming from the back of his throat as the position he's in stretches his shoulders just a little too much and aggravates the still-aching too-recently dislocated joint.

Bram only left it like that for a few hours, but these things take time to heal, and Bram has never been a fan of letting old wounds heal before creating new.

The sweat runs into the cuts all over his back and makes them sting, no doubt. Maybe Red can't even feel it any longer, though.

Doesn't matter.

"No, this is the kind of thing you discover in yourself and then cultivate, puppy. You understand, right? You sure showed me some hidden talents that we got to cultivate together, hm?"

He kicks out his legs, landing a glancing blow into the puppy's shoulder, and Red coughs behind his teeth, whining a little at the ache and the pain as he inadvertently tries to force his jaw open and fails.

"You paying attention, puppy?"

Red doesn't even try to look up, nodding with jerky, dazed movements. Honestly, he's probably lost enough blood by now to be feeling pretty out of it - and he has that trick where he leaves his head when the muzzle is on, too. Abraham hates that trick. But the only thing that seems to prevent it is the headphones, and he wants little Red to really hear his voice today, in whatever part of him can still hear.

“Good boy. I know what you’re thinking. Why is this happening? What possible mistake did you make to earn this punishment, what lesson must you learn? What rule did you break?” Bram laughed, the deep, low little rumble of sound that he used to charm the bodies out there in the world, all of them collections of organ and bone waiting to be made better, to be fixed.

But Bram was only one man, and even his prodigious skills could only be utilized on so many people at once. Besides… he’d hate to be distracted away from the puppy.

Bram was very devoted to the puppy.

“Let me reassure you, little Red, you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong this time.”

Red made a sound like a sob that came from somewhere deep within his chest, giving a single full-body shake, and fuck, he was so beautiful like this. Bram leaned over and tilted his head, looking carefully for a clean spot of skin. It was hard to find but eventually he located what he was looking for and smiled.

“This isn’t about punishment, little Red. This is about honing a craft. I had to learn these skills that make good boys like you over… years… You know, we all have something we’re good at, but you have to really practice to turn a basic talent into a real skill. You’ve been so good lately, but I can’t just… waste these talents just because you’re getting so good at keeping me all kinds of happy, you know?”

Bram leans down, thoughtfully, and slides his hand along the metal muzzle that locks Red's voice up, smiling at the pinpricks (not pain, not really - Bram never feels much pain at all) as his thumb finds the spots he turned into little jagged edges that pop up from the wires to cut and poke and tear. When he lifts Red's chin, he finds empty blue eyes staring up at him from above the muzzle, hair hanging over them that goes unnoticed.

Bram hums appreciatively at the sight. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, just taking it in.

Wide, nearly sightless blue eyes under sweat-soaked red hair. The slight unconscious nearly inaudible whines, vibrations Bram can feel against his fingers when he presses them to Red's throat. The red smears where his skin is retorn every time the muzzle goes on or off.

Nate never appreciates it - he’ll be angry once Bram finally lets the puppy back in the house, he’s usually angry these days anyway. He’s been pulling away from Bram’s kisses, acting differently. It takes longer - and takes more incentive - to make Nate be his black-haired prince, his true love, like he used to be. It’s confusing and troubling to Bram, but he tries not to think about it, too much. It had taken him months to hunt Nate down when he ran - and he can’t run, not here in the middle of the woods with his bad leg. There’s nowhere to go.

He’ll come around, Bram is sure of it - it just might take a while. But as long as Red is here, Nate will never, ever try to leave… that, at least, he’s sure of.

Nate just doesn’t understand, is all, because he’s not really a Denner yet. Those things take time, but he’ll get there, he has to. He doesn’t grasp how all of this builds, layer on layer, into a perfect portrait of exactly what something like Red was born to be.

The dim light that comes through the cracks in the wood slats makes Red’s blood too vibrant, nearly surreal. It looks like paint, like his puppy is a Renaissance painting with those bright blue eyes and that wavy red hair. He’s pure unadulterated beauty in every line, scar, and bruise.

Red had cried when they started in here, but he was far past tears now. Now he was blank, and empty, locked inside his head just a little further than Abraham Denner could follow. He would be back, later, and the pain would still be there for him, to shape him.

He didn’t need to be here to learn his lessons.

All Bram needed for those was his body.

“I have made you,” Bram murmured. “I have made you from the dust of your life and you are my creation, little Red, and I call you good.”

Maybe he was a little bit of a god, after all.

He slid his hand over Red’s hair, feeling the damp softness of it in between his fingers, before forcing his head back down until Red’s chin was pushing into his collarbone, baring the back of his neck to Abraham’s eyes.

A bit of clear, unbloodied skin. A blank canvas, ready to be painted. A piece of creation, like the dark and formless sea before it split to make the heavens.

“You belong to me,” He says softly, marveling at it, at the miracle of coincidences it took to bring little Red into his orbit at just the right time, the right place, when he needed something to help him hold onto Nate, when he had gone too long without someone to remake. “All of you, forever, belongs to me. You’re all mine.”

He moves his chair closer, watching Red shift around, trying in vain to find a way to take some of the pressure of the position he was trapped in off his knees and thighs.

“Poor thing, your feet went numb ages ago, am I right? And your legs must ache. Don’t worry, I’m almost done. Just one more thing, puppy, and then we’ll go inside and get you all washed up and bandaged, okay?”

If Red even hears him now, he doesn’t react, only continues breathing harshly and quietly towards the floor. If he could talk, Bram thinks cheerfully, he would probably tell Bram he was busy being someone else.

It’s a neat little trick, but it never lasts long after the muzzle comes off - and when Red comes back, he feels all that pain he worked so hard to escape.

Bram moves the knife, with its thin, razor-sharp blade, to the back of his puppy’s neck. The clear skin splits apart like darkness and light - like the land and the sea - opening and welling up with the same brilliant red blood. Bram carves two careful straight lines at diagonal angles that meet at the top, connects them with a shorter line through the center.

Red groans again, but it’s fainter, now - more distant and hazy. He’s begun to shake helplessly, and Bram frees his hand from Red’s hair to rub soothingly at his shoulder while he lowers the knife to carve again. “Good, you’re doing so very well, my sweet boy. Just a little more.”

Another straight line, vertical this time. Then a half-circle curved to meet the line at either end. He continues to soothe Red with one hand while cutting him with the other, and feels the man’s shaking grow more and more noticeable under his hand.

He’s pushed him nearly too far, right up to the line of what his body will take before it simply drops him into unconsciousness in a desperate attempt to escape. That’s all right; Bram knows how to walk the line very carefully. He learned that skill a very, very long time ago.

Finally, below the first two letters, he carves the final one. One straight line up, one diagonal line to the side and down, then another straight line up. The blood is smeared and running down the sides of his neck now. Bram leans down to lick it up, feeling Red shudder but try to hold himself still.

He doesn’t try to pull away, even like this.

“Good. Very good, sweet boy. We’re all done now.”

Bram looks over his handiwork with a satisfied eye, then moves to the ropes that hold Red’s arms out, taking his sharp little knife and slicing right through them until the wrists are freed, wrapped in deep red welts that will bruise, in time.

Red bruises so very, very easily. Something about pale redheads, Bram thinks. Makes him irresistible when you can see all those pretty marks.

Red falls forward without the tension to hold him, collapsing onto the ground with little choked-off cries of pain as he tries to pull his arms back and his shoulders - stretched for hours - protest any attempt to bring them back to his sides. He can’t unfold his legs, and just rolls onto his side to take the pressure off, trying to sob without opening his mouth even as his eyes are still glazed, fogged-over, and empty.

Bram lets the knife drop to the side and kneels down himself, bundling the bloodied redhead into his arms, heedless of the blood he smears, enjoying the little hisses of further pain as he presses his palms against the new cuts along his back.

Red doesn’t fight him, and that’s perfect - just curls up against him, head under his chin, clutching weakly at Bram’s shirt with shaking fingers, whining and pleading behind his teeth. Bram knows the different sounds so well by now, has beautiful dreams about them.

“Don’t worry, you’ve been so good,” He soothes. “No more for today. No more. I’ll take you inside and get you all clean. We’ll bandage you right up, you can take a little nap on your mat, then you’ll get some dinner made for Nate and I tonight, hm? You were so good, helping me keep my skills up. So very, very good, little puppy. Do you know you’re my very good boy?”

There’s a movement of the soft sweaty red hair as Red nods against him, fingers finally able to get a good grip in his shirt, twisting into the fabric the way a child might hold onto their mother. Red’s eyes are closed and he breathes, in and out, in stutters and stops.

He's very nearly unconscious, and it makes him weak and pliable in a way that sends sparks of joy through Bram's mind.

Bram smiles, sitting back into the dirt, keeping the other man sitting right in his lap, letting himself be soaked in the blood. He lets his fingers run over the new letters carved on Red’s neck - A, D, N - and licks the blood off them enjoying the sparks of life on his tongue, the taste of pain and misery and I give up that has been forced into Red’s veins.

"Oh, you sweet thing.” Bram presses a kiss into his hair, feels Red boneless against him, maybe even pushing himself a little more against the cool skin in the baking hot smokehouse, taking the comfort Bram chooses to give with gratitude, because this is better than the pain, and it’s all the choice he gets.

He takes Red by the muzzle that runs along his jaw and tilts his head back, leaning in to kiss the sweat-soaked forehead, feels the flutter of Red’s eyelashes against his cheek when he nuzzles into the side of his face.

One of Red’s hands moves up to touch Bram’s neck, to curl around it, to pull him back to kiss his forehead again, wordlessly, whining low in his throat, desperate for any sense that the pain is really over, that Bram can be kind if only for a second.

He’s praying for mercy, Bram thinks with a laugh bubbling in his throat. I think you’ll find I can be a merciful god. The joke would be wasted now; he'll have to tell Red later, when he comes back to himself.

Red won't laugh - but he'll give that tremulous, trembling little smile that never reaches his frightened eyes, and that's even better.

Bram smiles, and kisses each closed eyelid. Red slowly starts to truly relax, to trust that for this moment, at least, it’s over.

“You're not my first,” Bram breathes into his ear. “Not by a long shot.”

He tucks a little bit of red hair behind one ear, feels Red's pounding heart start to slow. Those empty blue eyes look right into his, and he wonders what little Red can even see.

“You’re not my first, and you won’t be my last, little Red, but I think you might be my best."

105 notes · View notes

bangtan-gal · 5 years

Text

Birth Claim

Bang Chan x Fem!Reader Powers!AU Warnings: swearing, angst, not much fluff, light smut, a little bit of a rough plot, mentions of blood and death, dubious consent, low-key kinda kidnapped Word Count: 12.7k (lol go me) A/N: Yee Haw

A cloud of frosty breath puffed out around you as your heels clicked against the cement. Your mouth was snuggled into a fuzzy scarf and a thick jacket fell to your knees. Your tights were thicker than your liking and your boots were lined with faux fur. Not a single soul littered the streets as you marched down the sidewalk alone. The sun, although covered by clouds, was still high in the sky and it hadn’t begun to get chilly yet.

You held your chin high and kept your back straight, your gaze only focusing on what was ahead of you. The sound of your heels echoed on the empty streets and the blankness sent chills down your back. What once was the most populated part of the district was now a ghost town.

A whistle—from something or someone—sounded from behind you. Your back stiffened and your heart dropped. Your steps faltered for a moment, only for them to speed up moments later. Your hands curled into fists, fingernails painfully digging into your palm. It was probably nothing, it was just nothing. The mantra repeated itself in your head.

You turned into your apartment, hustling up the stairs. You swiped your keycard over the scanner, bouncing as you waited for it to beep and flash green. You swiped it again, your hand shaking as you shoved the door open the second you saw the green. You locked the door, gasping, and then pressed your forehead against the door.

You shrugged your jacket off, fumbling to hang it up in the darkness. Your nails scraped against the wall, searching for the light switch. When the cool metal pressed against your fingers, you pushed the switch up, only for nothing to happen. You flipped it again.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” you grumbled.

You felt your way through the apartment, hand brushing along the velvet couch and your glass cabinets. Your hand grasped a light fabric and you slowly pulled it back, letting the grey sunlight pour into your living room. It didn’t do much to change the lighting, but it was better than pure darkness.

You turned around, closing your eyes and pinching your nose, breathing out deeply. Of course, the power is out. Your apartment used to be one of the most expensive in the city, but once this side of town became a warzone, maintenance disappeared. Now people pay to not live here.

You opened your eyes with a groan.

And then you screamed.

A man with light brown hair leaned against your wall. He wore all black and stood completely still. His gaze ran over you, his body poised as if waiting for something. Your heart raced in your chest and you watched him, your hands pressed against the cool glass behind you. He tilted his head, hair softly falling across his face and something gleamed in his dark eyes.

You opened your mouth.

“Han. The name’s Han,” he introduced himself, stepping forward. He held out a gloved hand, raising his eyebrow when you shied away from it. “Don’t be afraid sweet, I haven’t done anything yet.”

Yet.

“You snuck into my apartment and cut the power,” you mumbled. “Doesn’t that count as doing something?”

Your chin slowly rose and straightened your back. Han scoffed and then took a quick step towards you. You jumped, slamming your head against the glass as you tried to get away. Heat raced up your neck and face and you refused to meet his gaze as you studied your boots. He chuckled and you watched his feet as he slightly paced away.

“You have a 4.0 GPA, one of the top students in your college, right? I’m sure that means you’re not too dense so you might have a vague idea as to why I’m here,” Han murmured. You glanced up, watching as his silk glove ran over the glass cabinet. He pulled it back, eyes squinting as he inspected the dark fabric.

“Something tells me you’re not here for money or goods,” you commented, still pressed back against the glass. His whole outfit was linen, minus the gold-hued combat boots and the gloves—“is that real leather?”— you nodded towards the boots.

He smirked. “Indeed. Cowhide if you’re really curious.”

Real leather… cowhide. You pursed your lips, narrowing your eyes at them. Not even you had the luxury of that. It made no sense, animals were scarce, even more so when it came to animal products. Especially something so materialistic as combat boots. You hadn’t had a proper piece of meat for nearly three weeks.

The only sound that filled the room was your erratic breathing. He paced along your floor, running his hands along the walls and the couch. With a sigh, he sank down into the couch, crossing his legs and leaning back. He fit in so well with the opulent layout of your home. It was… chilling.

“You have a bone to pick with my father?” You queried, slightly straightening up against the surface behind you. He shrugged, studying his nails boredly. Your teeth dug into your lip and your fingers scratched at your skirt. He waved his hand in front of his face.

“Everyone has a bone to pick with your father, Y/N,” he chortled. “But let’s say… that my bone to pick isn’t just mine. I was sent here to come to collect you sweet and you will be coming with me whether you like it or not.”

You frowned.

“And what makes you think that?”

With a flagrant roll of his eyes, he pulled down the collar of his shirt. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you tried to see exactly what he was showing you. There: a yellowy-orange tiger was imprinted into his skin. He let go of his collar, the fabric jumping back up to cover his collarbone. Han raised an eyebrow, standing up slowly. He slid off one glove, gently tucking it into a pocket.

“I would like to say I’m sorry Y/N… but I’m not one to lie.”

He approached you. You fumbled sideways, running over a small table. The vase that held your Nana’s ashes tumbled to the floor. He caught you before you could escape and you blindly lashed out, trying to scratch at him. His hand—warm and buzzing—wrapped around your wrist and a strange sensation started from the contact zone and spread. Your body sagged and you fell against him, your eyelids slowly drooping.

Darkness consumed your vision.

++++++

The back of your head pulsed as light started to peek through your eyelids. You grumbled, covering your eyes as you sat up. A blinding light cast across the room, sending warmth running along your arms. Dizziness filled you and you grunted, pressing your hands to your ears. What’s going on?

You clutched the comforter that you were tucked into and then froze. It was white… white. Your comforter was purple. You jumped out of bed, hurrying towards the window and looking out. The sky was a brilliant blue, with very few clouds littering the canvas. The ground was at least 800 feet below you and was a blurry twist of gray and black. You pressed a hand to your stomach, shocked when skin met skin. A silk robe hung loosely on your shoulders, with only a bra and undies on.

Neither of which were yours.

You tried to piece together how exactly you got here, but your memory was fuzzy. You remembered the darkness of your apartment and the man… the man, what was his name? Your teeth dug into your lips and your eyebrows furrowed.

“Damn.”

The door opened with a squeal. The same man from before stepped in, this time dressed in white. His collar dipped low, revealing his creamy skin and the golden tiger that stained his skin. You stepped back, wrapping the robe tightly around you. He snorted, not even sparing you a glance as he walked past you towards a large dresser in the corner room.

“You’re expected downstairs soon sweet,” he said, opening the doors with a flourish and shuffling through the fabrics.

“Who changed my clothes? Where am I? How long was I out? What did you do? Why can’t I remember anything?” You fired off, watching as he tossed something gray on the bed. The brunette ignored you for several minutes as he continued to throw articles onto the comforter. He finally whirled around, sighing when he saw you standing in the same place.

“Could you get dressed?”

“Could you leave?” You shot back.

He snorted and sat down in the chair, raising a curious eyebrow at you. You pursed your lips and then made your way towards the clothes. It was a mix of gray and pink. A sigh fell from you as you quickly threw off the robe and pulled on the outfit that was laid out for you: light gray pants and a medium pink shirt made of pure silk.

“Are you going to answer my questions?”

A forceful sigh followed.

“I changed your clothes—I’m grown and its nothing I haven’t seen before—you’re in the Deep City, just for the night, it’s not my place to explain that, and maybe you’re just a dipstick,” he explained.

You turned around, hands seated on your hips. You narrowed your eyes and he boredly pulled at his gloves. There was a gleam in his eyes: a flicker of a bright color that burned in their dark depths. Cold ran along your spine and you involuntarily shivered. He stood up, throwing a pair of gloves at you. They matched the color of your pants and were a soft material. You raised your eyebrows at him.

“What’s up with the gloves?” You murmured, raising your own and nodding towards his.

“You’d better wear em or you’ll regret it later on.”

He didn’t explain as he stood up, his hand wrapping around your upper forearm and dragging you towards the door. You followed along silently, a sudden fear creeping down your neck and rushing along your shoulders. Something had happened to get you here. Whether it was drugs, pure force, or some other force… it was something that could clearly take you out. You didn’t want to tangle with it again.

The walls were a dark wood that had recently been polished and the white carpet was unstained. The man stayed in step beside you, his eyes focused ahead of him as the two of you made your way down the hallway. His grip slowly loosened up, but you could feel a silent threat radiating from it. Despite the immense urge to run, the fear of the unknown held you back.

You descended a flight of stairs and were met by a spacious parlor. The chairs and couches were made of sleek black leather with silver lining. The floor changed from carpet to a blue-stained tile. A large deep brown rug sat in the middle of the floor, a sparkling glass table holding it down.

“I didn’t realize it took fifteen minutes to get someone, Han,” a voice interrupted your gaping. A man that was close to the same height as your escort approached. He was adorned in all gold and looked like a prince as he approached. Midnight black hair fell right along his eyebrows, brushing against his light skin and a shock of gray eyes squinted at you.

You blinked, glancing at Han and then back at the stranger. Why were they both so… pretty? You weren’t sure if it was their actual looks, the flattering clothes they wore, or just the way they held themselves.

Han shrugged beside you, slowly releasing his grip on your arm. You unconsciously ran your fingers over the area, the skin feeling sensitive and raw. You watched out of the corner of your eye as the two glared at each other, both of them looking ready to fight. Your shoulders hunched and you shrunk into yourself, not in the mood to experience something so brutal, especially in your current state.

“Would the two of you shove your dicks in your pants and calm the fuck down?”

Another man marched into the room, arms crossed. You watched as Han backed down and the black-haired man bristled before slowly relaxing his shoulders. As he approached, you noted that he was taller than both of them and his frame was larger. He was surprisingly dressed more casual, with a polo shirt and light-washed jeans. His hair was light blue and styled back over his head.

“Minho, aren’t you supposed to be helping Felix right now?” He asked, nodding at the silver-eyed boy.

Something close to a growl came from Minho.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

The blue-haired man smiled, but no amusement shone in his eyes.

“I’m sure neither Chan nor Changbin would be happy to see you sitting here causing problems,” he cooed, tilting his head.

“Fuck you Woojin.”

The young man stormed off, the room slightly lightening once he left. The tension didn’t completely leave and you noticed Han shoot a questioning look at the taller man. If he saw, he didn’t reply, he just walked towards one of the chairs and sat down.

“Come sit down Y/N, we have much to talk about,” Woojin said, motioning you over.

Your legs wobbled beneath you as you stumbled across the tiles and sat down on the couch. You clasped your hands in front of you, your eyes focusing on the fluffy rug that your feet were now buried in. You listened as Woojin shifted, a small sigh escaping him and then tensed up when Han sat down directly beside you.

You were caged in.

“I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’re here?” He queried, leaning forward on his knees. You shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’d like for you to use words, Y/N.”

You glanced up, sharply meeting his gaze. His eyes had a lavender tinge to them and despite his soft features, you could feel something radiating off him. It pulled at you, luring you in, and begging you to spill your secrets. There was a sharp pain in your left temple and you pressed a finger to it, closing your eyes and letting out a hiss. If your eyes were open you would’ve seen the warning glance that Han sent Woojin’s way. The discomfort quickly subsided and you opened your eyes, staring at the table in front of you.

“Yeah… yeah, I am,” you murmured.

A satisfied hum came from the man.

“You see here Y/N, your father owns a huge rationing company which is perfectly fine. We actually didn’t have a problem with your father until two weeks ago. Th-”

“His new business contract?” You interjected, playing with the gloves on your hand. Woojin raised an eyebrow and then nodded, his blank expression faltering for a small moment.

“Indeed. Do you know who his new partner is?” Han said, placing his hand on your knee. You scooted away, sending him a quick glare. Woojin chuckled and the look of horror that flashed across the brunette’s face would’ve been comical to you if not for the situation you were in.

Before you could reply, Woojin answered for you. “Clidei Industries: they sell technology and are constantly working on new things. They’re supposed to help make rationing cards so people won’t have to bargain and struggle for rations anymore. The only problem is that Clidei isn’t only selling your father technology; he’s selling him some sort of drugs.”

You blinked, your nervous scratching on your gloves ceasing. That couldn’t be possible, could it? Your father was a good man, why would he buy drugs? Especially with drugs being such a problematic view in this day. Drugs were the main reason the world collapsed in the first place and people wouldn’t even take pain medication or anesthesia. He owned a large rationing company, drugs would only make him…

“Unless people don’t realize he has them or what he’s doing with th—holy shit,” you gasped and stood up.

The roiling in your stomach that had been bothering you since you woke up was suddenly unbearable. You covered your mouth and rushed from the room. You stumbled upon an empty tin box and emptied the contents of your stomach into it. Han was right behind you, stepping back once he realized the reason you ran.

You slid to your knees, pressing a hand to your forehead and the other clutching the box. What was your father planning to do? You knew your father well, you knew he would only do what he thought was best for society. He wouldn’t put drugs in rations, would he? Maybe it would be an antibiotic and a calorie gain. He wouldn’t put anything dangerous in them.

You accepted the cloth that Han offered you and wiped the sweat from your forehead and your mouth. With weary steps, you followed him back to where Woojin waited for you. You met the man’s gaze and scowled. When he motioned for you to sit, you stubbornly resisted, deciding you’d rather have this conversation standing up.

You were your father’s daughter after all.

“You’re wrong about what my father is doing. He would never do something that dark,” you huffed.

Woojin raised a dark eyebrow.

“Your reaction proves otherwise.”

“I haven’t felt good since I woke up,” you retorted, waving the statement away. Your stomach just decided to act up at the wrong time. Woojin snorted and opened his mouth, a snappy reply ready. You cut him off. “I’m famished, where could I get something to eat? Or do you plan to starve me?”

Woojin glared at you and something crept along the back of your neck. You brushed it off, crossed your arms, and met his stare with a sneer of your own. His gaze looked past you to Han and the boy wrapped a hand around your wrist, dragging you from the room. You kept your back straight and chin high as you sauntered away, but once you pushed past a pair of doors and into a new room, you sagged down.

You weren’t hungry; you’re stomach felt too messed up for food but you had to escape that situation. How were you supposed to argue with him over whether your father was bad or not? All the signs were there and it just seemed weird that your father had been so silent about the drug part. He told you everything—why didn’t he tell you that? But he’s your father, no matter what, and you have to protect him. All I have to do is get out of here and then talk to him about it.

And even if he was doing something terrible, you would never throw him to these savages.

You sank into a chair, leaning against the quartz counter. Han opened up the pantry, shuffling through the shelves before he pulled out an orange and a bag of bread. He threw the fruit to you and took out a slice of bread, shoving it into a toaster. You turned the orange over in your hands, a loud sigh escaping you. After this, you’d be forced to go back into that room and try to argue in your father’s favor.

Shame flooded through you and you dropped the orange on the counter. What happened to the vicious girl that you usually were? Where did that “rich little bitch” go? Where was the spunk? The fire? Why were you so quiet around these people?

If they were trying to hurt your father through you, all you would have to do is be uncooperative.

You managed to eat the orange and ate half the toast that Han made you. Your stomach screamed in protest the whole time, but the way the boy watched you forced you to choke it down. He led you back into the parlor and you forced yourself to straighten up and dig for your usual self. You wouldn’t be able to get out of this if you didn’t have a backbone.

There was a conversation going on when the two of you stepped in. Silence ensued when the two of you got closer. Another man stood next to Woojin, his hair a mix of brown, black, and blonde. He was the same height as Woojin, but there was something that made him seem taller… harder to ignore. You made eye contact and then his eyes slowly moved over your body, his face blank. Nothing shimmered in the depths of his dark eyes.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he hummed, tilting his head at you.

“Another random guy I don’t know.”

If he was expecting something different, he gave you no hint. He watched you silently, his head still tilted as he stood tall in the middle of the room. You stiffened up when both Woojin and Han left, the doors slamming shut behind them. He adjusted his jacket and then sat down. His leaned back, spreading his legs, and his veiny hands dropped to rest on his thighs. You looked away, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth and chewing on it.

“So, I’ve heard that you have questions,” he murmured, a smirk pulling on his lips. Your heart raced as you made your way towards him, sitting down opposite of him and shrugging.

“I’m sure you have things you would like to explain,” you replied, resting your chin in your hand. A dark eyebrow tilted upwards, the corners of his lips pulling upwards.

“You’re not going to be leaving for a while, Y/N. You see here, we’re not using you to get to your father exactly…” he sighed, twisting a ring on his index finger. “Y/N, confirm this for me: your mother died right after you were born and your father never remarried, right?”

You pursed your lips and nodded.

“So you’re his only child, which makes you the heir for the company?”

You didn’t have to nod, his inquisitive stare told you that he knew everything he needed to know.

“What’s your point?” You snapped.

A low chuckle came from the man. He swiped his thumb over his bottom lip, a curious looking shining in his eyes. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and eyes wide while he watched your face.

“You take over the company once you graduate from college and you’re in your last year, which means in under four months it’s yours,” he stated. “The business deal has been signed, but it will take at least six months for it to be secure. Which means that if you’re given the business on time, you’ll have two months to destroy the contract.”

You wished you could smirk back at him because he got his details wrong, but you weren’t stupid. He knew, he most definitely knew what all the conditions were for you to take over the company once you graduated. You glowered at him, your hands tightening into fists and your nails were starting to scrape at the fabric that covered them.

“What makes you think I’d do that?” You asked, your voice short and curt. Heat was pulsing in your veins and your teeth were tightly pressed together. You felt like you were already losing and it was infuriating you because the killing blow hadn’t been dealt yet.

“Why hasn’t your father told you about the second part of the deal, Y/N?”

You blinked.

“The drugs are awful—yes—but what’s more awful is letting an inexperienced child take over one of the biggest companies of this age. It’s not just the chance of you failing, but will the people really accept you? You’re young and your own classmates still see you like a bratty child. Clidei Industries has an heir, who’s older, more qualified, and a man. See, what if your father wanted those drugs so bad that he was willing to merge with Clidei and let his son take over both companies?” He said, his eyes widening as he went. You blinked, lifting your head and staring at him. He… he couldn’t be serious, could he?

“There’s no way,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “You’re lying.”

He flicked an eyebrow up and then grabbed a remote that lay on the table. He turned around, pressing a few buttons and you watched as a screen came down and flickered to life. It immediately opened up to a channel: there your father stood beside Yuvo Clidei, his son behind him. They were announcing their business deal.

“And I’m honored to say that soon our children will come together and Yuvo will take over my company in the future.”

He turned the TV off.

Silence.

“No… no no, no nononononononono, he-he wouldn’t do that. H-h-ha-he, he wouldn’t put me in an arranged marriage. Espe-ha-especially without telling me,” you stammered, standing up. He watched as you turned around, running your hands through your hair. There was no way your father would do that.

Would he?

At least, the man you knew as a child would never do that, but how close have you been with your dad the past several years? How often did you see him nowadays? How much did he really tell you about business? Hell, when was the last time the two of you had dinner together and just… talked? It’d been at least over a year and people can change their ways in just three weeks.

You hiccupped, bringing your hand up to your mouth, feeling the tears that ran down your face. You suddenly felt too hot and the walls were way too close. A sob escaped past your lips and you closed your eyes, teeth burying themselves in your bottom lip. The man approached you, softly gripping your shoulders and forcing you to turn towards him. You stared at his chest, trying to force the tears to disappear and struggling to even out your breathing.

“It wasn’t fair of him to do that, but the contract won’t be permanent for six months and that means you can still legally take over in four months,” he muttered, leaning down so you’re face to face. You can just barely meet his gaze.

“And what illegal work are you gonna do to get rid of him?” You sniffed, searching his face. He had to know that part of the contract your father made—you’d only take over the company after you graduated if he died before then.

“Don’t worry about that baby girl,” he cooed. “If you take over, the deal with Clidei can fail and you won’t be forced into a marriage with that pig.”

You snorted.

“I’m still an ‘inexperienced child’,” you grumbled. He rolled his eyes at your quote but met your gaze, something close to honesty burning in them.

“Once you take over, you won’t be an inexperienced child anymore. You’ll be a queen and people would be stupid to deny you of your birth claim.”

++++++++++++

Two days passed in silence. You hadn’t seen the man, Chan, since your talk and you’d been stuck with Han the whole time. You occasionally saw Woojin or Minho pass by and sometimes nameless faces, but Han seemed to be the only one content to give you company. You had expected yourself to fall into a shell of who you were, but shockingly, you didn’t seem too broken over what you’d just found out. Actually, you found yourself more determined to take over the company now.

Of course, nothing seemed to be happening.

Han kept claiming that Chan wanted to talk to you soon about his game plan, but whenever you asked, the boy would just shrug. So, instead, you resorted to being bored half the time and the other half spent annoying Han. He seemed fun—he sometimes got your jokes and would occasionally crack of few of his own—but he never wanted to do anything. The place was big and interesting and you hadn’t seen all of it, but there was nothing exciting about staying indoors. You wanted to go outside, but Han seemed extremely against it.

You pulled on your outfit of the day—once again something picked out by your personal babysitter. It was a black silk jumper, with a white leather belt, and the usual pair of gloves to go with it. This time though, there was a hat and a pair of sunglasses thrown in. You held up the hat, a simple baseball cap, frowning at it.

“Ah yes,” Han said, the door creaking as he stepped in. “We’ve been given permission to go outside today. Have you ever been to the Deep City?”

You shook your head and grinned at the boy. You pulled on the cap and grabbed the sunglasses, hurrying after him. Han walked quickly, with a hop in his step and you clearly weren’t the only one excited for the field trip. The two of you made your way through the hallways and past the parlor and into a new room.

Minho leaned up against the wall beside a door, looking extremely bored. He wore a deep blue shirt, matched with white trousers which were held up by gray suspenders. It was the first time you’d seen him in short sleeves and your eyes fell on the silver tattoo of a tiger on his bicep. You shivered unconsciously at the sight of it, still trying to get used to the idea that the people you lived with were Miroh. Miroh. The lead gang of District 9. The dangerous ones.

“Why are you here?” Han asked, his eyes shifting towards you wearily and then to the door.

“Chan told me to come along with the two of you,” Minho sighed, pushing off the wall. “And I couldn’t get out of it because Felix is still on his nocturnal schedule and Woojin… I don’t even know.”

The brunette beside you frowned.

“Am I not enough?”

Minho shrugged, turning away and opening up the door. He stepped through and motioned for you to follow him. You carefully did and Han followed behind you. You were greeted by a stairwell and you groaned, realizing you’d be going down hundreds of flights of stairs. You’d be exhausted before you even reached the ground.

The three of you made your way down in silence. You finally reached the bottom and your heart raced as you approached a set of double doors. Minho carefully pried one open, stepping out. You stepped out next, covering your eyes as you looked around. The sun was nowhere in sight and the streets were crowded.

A hand wrapped itself around yours and you glanced down, staring at Minho’s bare hand as he held tight to you. You tried to pull out, but the black-haired boy shot you a warning look. You sighed and gave up, letting him pull you along as you marched down the sidewalk.

“What exactly are we doing today?” You murmured. “Are we going shopping? Getting food? Going to a park?”

“We’re visiting a friend of mine. Be on your best behavior, keep the hat low, and put those sunglasses on. We don’t need you getting recognized,” he instructed. You nodded, struggling to put the sunglasses on one-handed. Minho watched, unimpressed, as it took you multiple tries before they were snug on your face. “Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, and don’t get separated from us. The Deep City is dangerous, especially for someone like you.”

“Shouldn’t I be fine if I’m under your guys’ protection?” You queried, trying to keep the mocking tone out of your voice, but failing. Neither boy replied. Minho was intent on dragging you along and sending a glare at anyone who passed too close to him. Han walked beside you, keeping a careful eye on everyone.

You glanced around, trying to get a view of the great Deep City. The sidewalks and streets were cracked, but the buildings were shiny. Water fountains were placed here and there and trees were reaching for the sky. Fairy lights hung from overhangs and between trees. You could only imagine how beautiful it would be at night.

The place was more crowded than any place you’d ever been. Even in college and high school, you’d never seen so many people. Was this place really safe? It confused you if people were so scared of Miroh, why would they flock to the City that they ran? Or maybe the views your father gave you were wrong—maybe people actually worshipped the gang. It was possible that your father only saw them as a threat because they threatened the way the world had functioned for the past several years and that would put your father out of business.

Finally, you arrived at wherever Minho wished to terrorize someone. You stepped into a slightly rundown building, cool air running through you. The inside was bright, with neon lights and blinding yellow walls. The three of you stood out completely from the interior. Minho’s grip on your hand tightened when several people shot curious stares your way.

Minho made his way towards the woman who stood behind the counter. She was dressed in bright pink and her eyes were a terrifying purple. She looked up when you approached, a smile slowly pulling at the corners of her lips. She nodded at Minho, glancing to you and then to Han.

“Jisung, Minho, and…?”

“Unimportant,” Minho muttered. “Chan had an order made a week ago, has it arrived yet?”

She nodded and then glanced at you. “Unfortunately I can’t let dearie come see it unless you tell me her name.”

She sent a sarcastic grin Minho’s way, batting her eyelashes. He snorted, letting go of your hand and muttering a soft ‘you wish.’ He nodded at Han and your other hand was taken by the brunette. Minho followed the woman into the back, his back stiff and hands clenched into fists at his sides.

You harrumphed.

“So… Jisung, huh?” You chortled, turning to the boy. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

“Real name,” he explained and then glanced around. “Minho’s gonna be a while, do you wanna go get ice cream?”

You nodded, deciding to leave the topic of his name behind and go get something sweet. You wondered if it would be real ice cream, with actual milk. You tried to think of the last time since you’d had milk and your mind came up blank. Most animals were scarce in general, but dairy cows were extremely rare.

He dragged you outside and hurried across the street, where a cart was. The man there greeted the two of you. Han refused to let go you of you, all throughout ordering and paying. You kept it simple, getting a cup of vanilla. You found a park bench and sat down. You looked around as you enjoyed the desert. The few bits of grass were extremely green, the trees looked healthy, and there wasn’t an unhealthy gloom over the city like most places. Once you finished, Han offered to throw it away.

“Don’t move and if anyone approaches, ignore them,” he said, raising his eyebrows. You raised yours back, nodding quickly. The boy hurried off to find a trash can and you sat in silence. You closed your eyes, leaning back and basking in the light breeze that brushed against your skin.

A hand fell on your shoulder and you opened your eyes. It wasn’t Han. A woman with white hair stood over you, watching you with an ominous stare. You jumped up, whirling around and placing a hand over your heart. Your sunglasses were held in her hand and you froze.

“I know you,” she murmured, the words hummed out like a song. You shook your head.

“You must have me mistaken for someone else. I just have one of those faces,” you stammered, a shaky laugh following after. She slowly moved around the bench, moving towards you. You backed away, unable to ignore the odd vibes running off her.

“I know you,” she demanded, eyes narrowing. You glanced over your shoulder, searching wildly for Han. How hard was it to find a trash can?

“N-no you don’t.”

Somebody grabbed the back of your neck. You stiffened up under the touch, gritting your teeth when their hold tightened. Dammit, you should’ve just gone with Han. The woman stepped forward, her hand reaching out to trace your face.

A gloved hand grabbed the woman’s wrist and Han stepped into view. A look of fury burned in his dark eyes. He glanced at you, to whoever was behind you, and then back to the white-haired woman. The sunglasses dropped from her hand and she watched Han with a slightly surprised stare.

“Who the fuck are you?” He snarled, his lip curling back.

She raised her nose. “I could ask you the same.”

You expected him to do some dramatic reveal of his tattoo or mention something related to Miroh, but instead, he let go of her wrist and shoved her back. He met your gaze for a fleeting moment and then narrowed his eyes on the person behind you. He ripped off his gloves, tossing them on the ground, and his hands curled into fists. You wriggled nervously, biting your lip.

“Deep breaths sweet,” he huffed and then his foot rammed into the person’s knee. The grip on your neck loosened enough for you to yank away. You got a good look at your captor, a large man with a crew cut. Han was a lot smaller than him, but he didn’t seem to care.

You backed up, watching in horror as you watched the man swing at Jisung. He kept dodging, backing up, his eyes focused solely on the man’s face. When the man swung again, he caught his hand and then moved his grip to his wrist. There was no twist or hit back, instead, his eyes lit up and you watched as the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he dropped to the ground.

He turned towards the woman, cracking his neck. Light yellow sparks flickered between his fingers as he approached her. She backed up, eyes darting between him and the people that rushed by. No one seemed to notice what was going on. You glanced past Han, frowning. Three more men came sprinting from across the street, eyes focused on your protector.

“Han!” You squeaked out, trying to warn him to the attackers, but it was too late.

Two jumped on him wrestling him to the ground while the other checked on the woman before turning to you. You backed up, your knees pressing against the bench and then your eyes darted past him. Minho stepped out of the store, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched for the two of you.

“MINHO!”

Your scream was loud and piercing as you tried to step back again, only to fall onto the bench. Your eyes focused on the man before you, no longer trying to see if Minho heard you. You blinked and then Minho was just there: right in front of you. His fist connected with the man’s skull, a dull thump being heard as he groaned. He wasted no time ramming his foot into the man’s stomach, knocking him over and wrenched one of the men off of Han.

The younger boy sprung up, his eyes bright orange and raging. You watched as he pressed a hand to one of the attacker’s chests and light started pulsing from his hands. You clasped a hand over your mouth, not noticed the woman and one man hurrying off. Both boys backed off from the two left and then turned to you. A bruise was already forming on Han’s cheek, his hair was a mess, and grass and dirt clung to his shirt.

Minho scooped you up, shouting orders at Han as he raced across the street. You barely kept up as the man rushed back towards the Miroh building and barrelled up the stairs, not even faltering with your added weight. He slammed open the door and hurried into the parlor, dumping you onto the couch.

He disappeared into the kitchen, a loud scream of frustration coming from the room. You gasped, pressing a hand to your face and pulling back to see it wet. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying and suddenly you were more aware of your racing heart, the sweat that clung to your hairline, and how you felt extremely cold.

He took off his gloves. That night in your apartment, he’d done the same thing. You remembered the feeling of everything being drained from you. You sat up, ignoring the way the room spun. What are these people?

++++++++

“I want to talk to Chan.”

“Y/N, he’s busy,” Minho argued. You crossed your arms, trying to push past him. You had a vague idea of where Chan’s office was—you’d seen him disappear behind the glass wall multiple times. “Just let me explain it to you.”

“No, I will talk to Chan,” you demanded. You didn’t know who to trust, but so far Chan had been the most honest with you, even in the one conversation you’d had. Minho opened his mouth, ready to brush off your whines, but then closed it. He turned around just as the door behind him opened, the man in question stepped out. Dark circles were under his eyes and his hair was a mess.

Chan waved Minho away and then motioned you into his office. You marched in, plopping down on the couch. He leaned up against his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and a letting out a loud sigh. You crossed your legs, tapping your hands on the arm of the couch. He looked back over to you.

“I’m assuming something happened that can’t be explained by science or reasoning,” he murmured.

You nodded.

“Something tells me you already know the answer to that question,” he sighed. “But I’ll explain anyway.

“Before we all found each other, the nine of us had nothing in common. We weren’t experimented on in some weird lab, our parents did have some disease, nothing weird happened in our childhoods that would give any explanation as to why we had these… abilities. The universe clearly dragged us together though, because we’re all here now.”

You opened your mouth to interrupt, but Chan raised a hand and you slowly closed it.

“The first one I ran into was Felix. It was mid-winter, freezing cold outside, and the boy was in shorts and a tank top, not even aware of the weather. I took him into my apartment, ignored his claims that he was fine, and took him under my wing. It took a while for me to realize the boy had powers like me, but one day I walked into the kitchen to see him freezing his water. When I realized I wasn’t alone… I guess you could say I made it my mission to find others like us and train them,” he explained and you watched as he picked up a glass and studied it. “Hyunjin protected me from a spray of bullets, Minho disappeared right before my eyes, Jeongin tricked me into giving him all my money, Woojin found me, Seungmin lit Kiol building up, Changbin could control things with his mind, and Han was draining the energy out of lightbulbs to stay warm.

“Y/N, you might think we’re monsters because we’re not normal, but don’t run from us, we’re here to help,” he said, pushing off the table and slowly approaching you.

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” You asked, holding up a hand to keep him at bay.

He bit his lip. “I’m not sure.”

You stared at him, waiting for something like anger or hatred to come forward, but nothing did. Instead, there was a rush of relief that raced through your body. You closed your eyes and leaned forward, closing your eyes. He was being honest and that seemed to be all that mattered at the moment. Your own father hadn’t been honest; shouldn’t you take shelter in the one person who’d been truthful with you?

“There’s nine of you?” You queried, brushing your hair out of your face as you looked up. He nodded, his eyes running along the length of your body. Chan chewed on his index finger, his shoulders stiff. You had a hundred questions, millions of them that begged to be answered, but you didn’t really want to dive into his world. Depending on whatever his plan was, he would put you on your rightful throne in a couple of months and help you out for a while, but you probably wouldn’t see him after that.

“Chan, if you want me to work with you, I need to know exactly what you plan to do,” you said.

He sighed.

“In order for you to take over the company by the time you graduate, your father needs to be dead. That’s in four months. Your father’s planned death is the day after your graduation, at 9:50 AM. One of Minho’s powers is possession, we plan on having him possess your father and walk him in front of a car, which will be driven by a random man so it can’t be found as murder. Jeongin, you haven’t met him yet, but he has the ability to… persuade others to do whatever he wishes. He’ll convince the driver to do it, with those exact details.

“The deal won’t be official for another two months after that, so we are going to establish you as temporary CEO within three days. We can’t make you permanent CEO immediately, because you’ll have to not only fight the Clideis, but you’ll also have to convince the people. The first week after your father’s death will be silent, that much can be expected. The second week, there will definitely be meetings and it will be our job to get you into every single one—invited or not.

“We’ll play nice that week, but the third week you will announce your decision: you will be taking your father’s position. The Clideis will argue, but you’ll have to stay strong. This is where you’ll start doing most of the work. You’ll need to gain the people’s support and trust and somehow scare the Clideis out. Destroy the contract before they can complete it and then you take it over it. After that, we trust that you’ll only work for the greater good of society.”

You bit your lip, taking all the information in. It was a lot and you weren’t sure how well you could sell it. Getting the people on your side… persuasion wasn’t your strong suit. You unconsciously dug your nails into your knees, already knowing how you could get rid of the Clideis. You had an unfortunate past with Yuvo Clidei, that his father didn’t know about.

“I need my phone,” you demanded. “I have some stuff on it that I could use as blackmail against them.”

Chan raised a curious eyebrow before his eyes slowly glazed over. The clock ticked loudly in the dark office as you waited for him to get back to you. He shook his head, blinking his eyes as he forced himself back into reality.

“Done.”

++++++++++

Three months rolled by in a blur. When you weren’t at college, you spent most of your time with Chan or Han, occasionally having lessons with Woojin and the boy Chan had mentioned, Jeongin. You saw Minho every now and then and someone with deep brown hair and wide eyes. Woojin was beating knowledge into your head, going over everything you would need to know about business, and most specifically: your father’s business. Jeongin was teaching you how to talk and act to get people to be swayed to your side, but in most lessons, you found yourself just nodding and zoning out because the boy really had a way with words.

“And that’s why I think you should get me ice cream,” you cooed, tilting your head at Han. The brunette looked unimpressed as he crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. You groaned, burying your head in your hands. You were better at bribing people to do what you wish, not talk them into it.

“You talk too much like an essay,” Jeongin pointed out from the corner. “You use too academic words and it’s too controlled. Your voice is good and you smile a lot and flirt when you need to, but if you make your talk flowery and smoother, people will listen to you.”

You send a glare the younger boy’s way.

“Easy for you to say dipstick, you literally have to smile and people would lick dog shit off your shoe,” you snapped. The boy chuckled and shrugged, messily running a hand through his red hair. Then you turned back to Han. “Can I please have some fucking ice cream?”

Shrill laughter came from both boys. You pouted, crossing your arms. Han was the easiest to push over and you could barely convince him to do something for you without questioning you. How were you supposed to get a whole group of people to listen to you, and even more of, support you?

But you really wanted ice cream at that moment.

You widened your eyes and popped out your lip at Han. He looked over, saw your attempt at a puppy face, and burst into even louder laughter. He fell back in his chair, eyes closed, and head tilted back. You stood up, tossing your hair over your shoulder and marched towards him. You leaned over him, placing your hands on either side of him. He didn’t notice at first, but you leaned closer, tilting your head.

Han finally opened his eyes and froze when he realized just how close you were. You moved one of your hands from the chair arm to his thigh, slowly snaking it up. He opened his mouth and then shut it, swallowing loudly. You leaned forward till you were nose to nose and smiled softly.

“Can I have that ice cream now?”

You massaged his leg, watching as the boy started to crumble. Han shifted, running a nervous hand through his hair. You bit your lip, smirking as you tilted your head the other way. His cheeks were bright red and he refused to meet your gaze.

“What the hell?”

You jumped away, ears turning pink when you turned towards the doorway. Chan leaned up against the frame, sweat running down his body. He stood in just a tank top and basketball shorts, his muscled arms, and legs on display. His shirt was wet, clinging to his body and complimenting his carved chest and stomach. His hair was a mess and holy crap, he looked like a whole snack.

Suddenly you didn’t want the ice cream anymore.

He glanced between the two of you, eyes narrowed. You opened your mouth, trying to explain, but an awkward squeak just came out as you made wild hand motions. Standing there with Chan’s scrutinizing stare on you made you wonder if you and Han were too close. Hell, you were basically just straddling him without any emotions. Han stood up, ready to come to your defense, but Chan shot him a glower.

“Y/N, come with me please,” he huffed, turning around and walking away. You glanced at Han, sticking your tongue out and hurrying after the man.

You caught up, nervously playing with the sleeves of your shirt. The two you walked to the kitchen in silence. The man grabbed a glass of water, leaning against the counter, sipping at it as he watched you over the rim of the glass. You shifted, tucking your head behind your ear.

“Y/N, I understand that it’s easy to get close to someone when you spend all your free time with them, but I would appreciate it if you could refrain from romantic or sexual relationships, whether there are feelings or not. I need my boys on full focus and I need you to be as well. There won’t be much connection between us once you leave and I don’t need there to be any broken hearts when that happens,” he explained. You shake your head.

“You just walked in at the wrong time,” you argued. “Han and I are only friends—no-not that. I was just trying to convince him to get me ice cream.”

Chan raised a dark eyebrow and placed the glass in the sink. He wiped his forehead, his bicep flexing as he did so. You looked away, turning your knees inward and pursing your lips.

“You shouldn’t have to use your body to get what you wish, Y/N. You’re a strong woman and being sincere will get you where you need to be,” he murmured and walked towards you. He took a piece of your hair, twisting it around his index finger and searching your gaze. “If you really need to do that to get your way, then maybe you’re weaker than I thought.”

You blinked, watching as the man left. You stood in silence, completely shocked by his words. You did it as a joke because you knew exactly how Han would’ve reacted, not just for the sake of getting ice cream. Eyes narrowed, you whirled around and raced after Chan. You rushed in front of him, arms crossed, and glared up at him.

“I’m not weak!” You retorted, pressing your pointer finger to his chest. He stared down at you, looking unimpressed, almost like you were just a puppy that was yipping at his heels. “Because if I was weak, you wouldn’t have even bothered with me. You would’ve either gone to Yuvo and scared him into listening to you or found a completely new candidate. Instead, you came to me and I’m not dumb—you’re thorough and have enough information to make sure nothing could go wrong—so you knew my personality, my quirks, and what ticked me off when you came to collect me. You knew what weak spots to hit in our first conversation. Everything you’ve done up to this point has been to drag out whatever you saw in me!”

He listened to your rant, staring at you with a completely blank face. When you finished up, panting loudly and your finger still digging into his chest, he snorted. Chan grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward and leaning down until your foreheads almost touched. His lip curled up and his warm breath fanned over your face.

“Maybe so, but I won’t tolerate you playing with my members like they’re toys. I don’t care the reason you were feeling up Jisung, but I do care about their performance, and most importantly, your performance,” he hummed. He moved his mouth so it grazed along with the shell of your ear. Fiery hot shivers ran along your arms and spine and an unintentional gasp escaped from you. Chan stiffened up against you, his grip on your wrist loosening, and his body slowly sinking closer to yours.

He pulled slightly back, tipping up your chin with his thumb. With him, this close you could see the gold and blue flecks in his dark eyes. You weren’t sure if he was leaning down, but you knew for sure that you were leaning towards him, your eyes fluttering. Your gaze dipped down to his lips before darting up to his eyes once more. God, he looked so inviting and his body warmth called out to you like a secret song. You closed your eyes and let your lips carefully brush against his.

There was a moment of pure serenity as you pressed tighter against him. Chan responded for a fervent moment and when you spread your hand on his chest, you could feel his racing heart. He stiffened under your touch and then shoved you away. You stumbled back, eyes flying open and watching as the man pressed the back of his hand to his lips before he turned around and disappeared into the next room.

Your hand shook as you pressed it over your own heart, feeling the unsteady stutter that hid there. You blinked, licking your lips and running a hand through your hair. You shook yourself out, trying to force yourself into the right mindset.

“Y/N? Are you okay? He didn’t say anything too rude, did he?” He asked, popping around the corner. You smiled tightly and shook your head.

“No, but I think I deserve that ice cream since I took a hit for the team,” you joked softly and the boy nodded.

“Ice cream it is.”

As night rolled around, you found it impossible to sleep. Han had gotten you tacos and you’re favorite ice cream, apologizing repeatedly for making you go into the hell zone alone. You’d brushed him off, choosing to eat dinner in your room and then you tried to retire early, but it was nearing midnight and you were still wide awake.

All you could think about was how soft Chan’s lips were, how he felt so amazing right there and then the bitter, frigid air that followed afterward. You understood his reasoning behind no relationships, but you wish you didn’t. A prickle ran through your body and you sighed, sitting up in bed. You slipped out, trying your best to be silent as you made your way down the stairs. You felt your way through the parlor until you found the kitchen door and stepped in.

Surprise ran through you when you found the lights on. A boy stood with his back to you, his hair a white-blonde and his body was lithe and lean. He turned around, holding a container of ice cream in one hand with a spoon hanging from his mouth. He froze when he saw you, eyes widening. You glanced down, staring in dismay at your container of ice cream. You’d been wondering why everything sweet in this place always seemed to disappear so fast.

He pulled the spoon out of his mouth with a ‘pop!’ and blushed. “You’re Y/N, right? I’m Felix.”

The first boy Chan met.

You smiled and reached over the counter to shake his hand. His grin was a shining white as he gripped your hand and lightly shook it. His skin was numbing and it burned through your anatomy. You unconsciously rubbed your hand vigorously against your shirt, pressing your lips together.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Channie and I have tried multiple times to figure out how to warm my hands up, but it seems to be impossible,” he apologized. ** (Remember this for Felix’s story)

You chuckled. “Are you the reason everyone wears gloves all the time?”

His voice was deep as his chuckle joined yours.

“Believe me, I wish,” he huffed. “Those are more of a safety precaution. Not everyone in the group can completely control their powers.”

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you as Felix turned around to dig through the drawers for something. He produced another spoon and handed it to you, offering the container of creamy sweetness to you. You dove in, sighing when the flavor hit your tongue. You flopped into the barstool, scooping out another spoonful and savoring it quietly.

“How do you like it here?” Felix queried. “I’ve heard about you, but I don’t really get to hear about how it’s going or even talk to you.”

“It’s fine. A little stressful.”

He snorted and nodded, his eyes full of pure understanding. He shuffled across the kitchen and searched through the fridge, pulling out a jar of peanut butter and a banana. You contemplated him as he found some bread and made a sandwich, humming a soft tune under his breath. He seemed to be a lot younger than the others—there wasn’t a dark aura that radiated off him. You knew the Jeongin was the youngest but even the young teen had something mysterious and brooding hiding in his far corners.

Felix walked around the counter and sat down next to you, his stomach grumbling as he quickly devoured the food. Amusement filled you as he managed to scarf it down in just four bites. At this distance or lack of, you could see a spray of freckles that covered his face and noted the way his skin shone unnaturally under the kitchen lights. He glanced over at you, mouth screwed shut, cheeks puffed up, and eyebrows raised. You giggled.

“Is there a reason you’re staring?” He mumbled after he swallowed his food.

You shrugged.

“You don’t remind me of the others,” you said, glancing over his face.

Too much innocence.

“I get that a lot—you’d think I’d be colder because my powers—but because of my powers I feel like I’ve always made it my job to be warm and sunny,” he murmured, brushing the crumbs off his shirt. Then he scoffed; “Rather ironic, isn’t it?”

You shook your head.

“I think it’s a good thing… everyone here seems to beat down and ominous. Chan’s a good leader, but sometimes you need someone with an actual smile to keep people closely knit,” you vocalized. Han was fun and loving at times, but you saw the shadow behind the shine in his eyes and you always dwelled on those times he would go silent, his eyebrows would furrow, and you could practically see the horrors flash across his face. It was refreshing that Felix didn’t emanate that feeling.

A shy smile pulled at his lips.

“Thank you.”

You hummed.

“It’s unfortunate you’re leaving so soon, Y/N. I wish I could’ve met you earlier.”

One Month Later…

You crouched next to Han, the two of you completely hidden by shadows. Your eyes ran over the silhouettes in the coffee shop, wondering which one was your father. Minho sat on a park bench next to the building, earbuds in and head bobbing as if he was listening to music. His arms were completely covered, hiding his Miroh tattoo from view. Chan and Woojin were hiding on one of the roofs, both over-looking to make sure everything went well.

Your heart thrummed loudly in your ears, realization pounding through your body because today was the day. You’d walked across the stage last night, in your purple satin gown and had accepted the flimsy piece of paper with an immoderate smile. Chan had been satisfied with your lessons; the way you talked and presented yourself had managed to improve immensely within the last month you had.

The door opened and your father appeared, a double-shot Americano in hand and his phone in the other. He made his way towards the crosswalk, completely oblivious to what was going to go down in a couple of minutes. The streets were mostly empty, giving the driver a perfect runway. Minho’s eyes peeped open, the silver irises noticeable even from across the street. He glanced at your father, his body stiffening and then sagging, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his conscious completely moved.

Your hand tightened around Han’s, perspire collecting along your jawline and forehead. He squeezed your hand, but his eyes were completely focused on the scene and his worry was definitely not directed towards you.

Your father stalled at the crosswalk, suddenly finding interest in his phone as Minho waited for the truck to approach. You glanced down the road, unable to stop your gasp when you saw the pickup truck. Your father’s gaze snapped towards it and you listened to the sound of the vehicle picking up speed. When it was barely five meters away, the man that raised you stepped out and rushed in front of the truck. You looked away, covered your mouth and tried to drown out the thump of a body being hit and the sound of the truck still going as if nothing happened. Screams filled the air and you were sure one of them was yours.

Han let go of your hand to race across the street to where Minho struggled to stand up. You surveyed the situation, noting the way his skin was much too pale and his head lolled to the side. Chan had told you that Minho took some damage whenever the life he was possessing got injured or killed. Han wrapped the boy’s arm over his shoulders and started stumbling down the sidewalk.

You made the mistake of glancing towards where your father was. Red gushed across the dark pavement and you looked away, tears pricking your eyes. You were supposed to wait for Han or Woojin to come to get you, but suddenly the idea of letting one of them touch you, lest come near you was sickening.

You stood up and turned around, quickly racing down the alley and taking several sharp turns. You had no idea where you were going, but you couldn’t face them at the moment. Hell, you couldn’t face yourself.

You kept running for awhile until you found yourself in a familiar place. Your steps were loud as you stumbled along the cement, coming to a stop in front of the white gate. You ran your hand along the fence and glanced at the soft blue house hidden behind them. The gate squealed as you shoved it open and marched up the walkway. Creaks sounded underneath you as you stepped up the old wooden porch.

Despite the crazy amount of money your father had and continued to make, he always preferred the simple, rundown house. You remembered him always saying that it was like a reminder that everything was still normal. You sniffled as you bent down to get the spare key from under the mat. The sound of the door unlocking was loud and for a moment you thought it would be impossible for you to step into your childhood home.

But you did and you shut the door loudly behind you. The house was gleaming and clean, as expected. Your father could never live in a mess. You slid out of your shoes and walked across the carpet, moving down the hallway, and tracing your hand along the wall. As if in a trance, you walked into your room, looking around. It hadn’t changed since you left—it still had the same color scheme of blue and white, with the same posters and paintings decorating the walls.

Your hand ran along the dresser and your finger came back up, dustless. A sigh escaped you and you smiled, but it was bittersweet. Would this house go to crap now that there was no one to take care of it? You had never developed your father’s cleanliness and even if you did, did you really want to live here? In this big house, all alone? You sank to the floor, leaning against the bed and closing your eyes. Your hand skimmed along your shoulders and down to your collarbone. Your hand slowed over the spot where you knew it was—the ink. A grimace darkened your features as you traced the pattern, having it memorized. The memories of your hand grasping Chan’s tightly as the needle approached your delicate skin and marred it for eternity flooded your mind.

“A backup plan… in case nothing else works, this can get you where you need to be.”

The small black tiger on your skin that matched the rest of Miroh. If your words and your image couldn’t get you your birth claim, then this would. The Clideis wouldn’t dare challenge you, knowing who stood behind you; and the people would be split between respect and fear. You knew what the mark meant, you knew it would put you on a beacon of power and terror.

“But I don’t want to win them over with fear…”

That was a lie, because deep down inside, you knew that as long as you had Miroh on your side, you would always be on top with fear. You would run the biggest business, you would choose how much food each family got, all because you had a gang that represented agony, horror, and gore behind you.

“You scared us.”

You jumped, eyes widening as you watched Chan step into your room. His eyes darted around the room, a mix of emotions shining in their depths as he surveyed the place. You didn’t move from you position and looked up at him. Chan sighed and walked towards you, sliding to the floor next to you.

“Y/N… I am truly sorry, but this had to be done. Your father was a danger to the survival of society and it had to happen,” he declared, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeves. You nodded, biting your lip.

“You could’ve just gotten rid of the Clideis,” you mentioned, but it was pointless. You already knew his answer. He glanced over at you, the sunlight dancing beautifully across his skin. His hand reached for years, wrapping around it tightly.

“You can do this, Y/N, with or without the tattoo.”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and then opened them. His other hand wrapped around the back of your neck and brought your head to his. You let him pull you until your lips met. You melted into him, your hand tightening around his and your other running along his jawline. It was sweet, simple, and soft. You pulled back first, keeping your eyes closed and nodding.

“I can,” you whispered.

+++++++

It took time, it really did. You had about five days left to take your father’s spot before the contract was officially in place. Then it happened and the Clideis arguments crumbled and the people cheered louder for you. It was deafening, standing on that stage between two security guards as roars and claps filled the air.

It had been an accident—your collar had slid to the side for a moment to reveal the tattoo that marked your skin. No one believed it at first, but then your own banner was raised in the Deep City, surrounded by nine masked dangers, with all their tattoos on display. The Clideis disappeared in a snap and no more protests from the community. And so, Y/F/N Y/L/N’s daughter took the biggest business under her finger.

You remembered when you were up on that stage, you remembered seeing the bright smile that you could always recognize despite only seeing it twice: Felix. The white-haired boy stood on a ledge, hands tucked in his pockets, and a broad smile on his face. Then you quickly noticed the others: Minho’s silver stare, Woojin’s light blue hair, Han’s eccentric outfit, Jeongin’s smirk that was impossible to ignore, and then there was Chan.

He stood out in his white and gold uniform, his hair no longer multi-colored, but a dark blonde. Your heart had thundered loudly and suddenly you couldn’t hear the shouts anymore. You hadn’t seen him since that day in your old house and the tingles that rushed over your body were blinding. You’d nodded in acknowledgement and he’d nodded back and that was it. You allowed yourself to be escorted to your bachelorette pad and then sat in silence, sipping a glass of wine in victory.

Your gaze flicked towards the computer screen on front of you as it lit up. Chan stepped into your home, no longer adorning the white suit. Instead he wore a simple hoodie and sweatpants. You closed the screen and finished your wine, allowing the man to silently move into your kitchen.

“Hello Chan.”

“You did amazing,” he complimented, his hand squeezing your shoulder as he stepped up behind you. You nodded, your body relaxing under his touch.

“I thought Miroh was supposed to cut off contact after it was done,” you sighed, setting down the glass. You peeked up at him, tilting your head curiously. Chan shrugged, running a hand lazily through his hair.

“We’ll do yearly checkups to make sure everything’s all right. I’m just here to make sure that you’ll uphold what you promised.”

“I would never do what my father dared to,” you stated. Your heart no longer squeezed whenever you mentioned the man, you could easily talk of him and keep a straight face. Whatever love you once felt for him was gone—he raised you, but he wasn’t the perfect man you always saw him as. Your mind wasn’t meant to be set on his death, you were meant to focus on your world. The world that could crumble if you just barely brushed it wrong.

“So, I figure this is good-bye?” You queried. Chan’s hand ran through your hair, a soothing touch if it wasn’t for the sadness that lurked behind it.

He hummed in agreement and then bent over you. His lips brushed along your temple, to your ear, and he proceeded to ask what you were drinking. You got him a glass and the two of you conversed over the bottle.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened. The two of you were mostly just talking, with occasional kisses here and there. Then suddenly you found yourself pinned beneath him on the table as his mouth moved down your neck. His hips rutted against yours as he struggled to unbutton your shirt. A gasp fell from you when he gave up and just ripped it open, his warm mouth trailing along your breasts.

You helped him wiggle you out of your pants and you struggled to throw his shirt off. A blush ran along your cheeks when you saw the planes of muscles along his stomach and chest. Chan hissed as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his fingers dancing along your panties. You whined, arching your back and the man finally gave in.

You gasped, hands flying down to grasp his hair and eyes squeezing shut. His tongue ran up your slit and then his mouth enclosed your clit, harshly sucking on it. His fingers danced along your stomach and legs, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. When you begged for more, he groaned in response and wasted no time sliding two fingers inside you.

“Fuck, Chan!” You squeaked, tasting your own blood when your teeth dug too tightly into the bottom lip. He peeked up at you, his hair a mess from your insistent tugging and a glisten on his nose and chin. “No foreplay please. No foreplay.”

Chan mumbled something along the lines of wanting to cherish you, but listened to your pleas. He threw off his boxers and pushed you farther onto the table. He climbed on top of you, sucking marks on to your neck and collarbone. Your hands gripped his biceps and your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you waited.

There it was again—that small moment of serenity before the world rocked itself. Chan’s eyes flashed a muted blue and then he was there. You mewled when he filled you completely, his cock hitting you right to the core. He grunted, sitting still for a few moments before he started.

It wasn’t hard or rough. It was soft and slow, a gentle rocking as the new of you created a melody with your moans. Chan’s mouth kept meeting yours in soft brushes and his tongue would dart out along your lower lip. Moments passed as he continued to thrust into you, his eyelashes fluttering along his flushed cheeks and mouth slightly parted. You felt yourself come undone, eyes pinching shut and nails burying themselves in your lover’s back. He followed you soon after, saliva hanging from his mouth as his hips stuttered against yours.

You woke up in the morning in your own bed. It was mid-afternoon and the sounds of traffic down below were mild. You glanced over, expecting to be met with empty blankets, but found Chan’s sleeping face. A smile broke out on your face as you traced along his cheekbone, mesmerization running through you. He was still there.

His eyes slowly opened, narrowing against the harsh sunlight that danced across the two of you. Chan yawned, stretching out his arms and then nestled back into you. He smelled like sex and you couldn’t stop your nose from wrinkling, but you didn’t mind.

“I don’t want this to be the last time I see you,” he mumbled, tracing patterns along your skin. You glanced over at him and brushed his hair out of his face.

“It doesn’t have to be,” you commented.

He chuckled.

“You’re right.”

#skz #stray kids #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids network #miroh #stray kids chan #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #stray kids fic #bang chan #chan x reader #chan smut #chan x reader smut #chan fic #chan angst

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david-8-ass · 5 years

Text

line harmony

my thoughts on lineart that I’ve seen from various artists of various styles and why they work,

this isnt a style guide nor a tutorial but characteristics and mindsets ive seen from artists that are very successful at lineart. everything you put in your art takes up space, every line, dot etc takes up space on ur canvas and interacts with the rest of it,

lineart isnt just to lay the grounds or to make the viewer understand what they are seeing, lineart isnt just a descriptor , it is an active part of a piece, to see lineart as just as a descriptor downplays its value as space that is taken up and presented to the viewer.

things that line harmony DOES NOT INHERENTLY IMPLY ( but can have ):

flowy nice lines

controlled lines

detailed or complex lines

dynamic lines

smooth and polished lines

decorative lines

anatomically correct or extremely accurate observational lines

line width and diversity

“originality”

having these things doesnt mean you have line harmony, you can have all of these or none of these and it doesnt make your lines any more harmonious, it is HOW you use these , their presence in it of itself is meaningless

also having a unique creative style is great ! however having cool gimmicks , trademarks on ur lineart is once again surface level. it must have intent ! dont have blind loyalty to what you think looks cool! experiment.....

many seem to think (atleast imo) as long as your lineart is decorative, pretty or stylized (in whatever trends) your job is finished. it completed its job to look “pretty” or it has completed its job to make the viewer understand what u are drawing. JUST BECAUSE YOUR LINEART LOOKS COOL DOESNT MEAN ITS SUCCESSFUL!

to make a viewer understand what you are drawing many people can do , it is not too hard with enough practice. however to have line HARMONY is lineart becoming a part of the composition.

this means that lineart has intent and purpose, lineart becomes its own character in the piece

lineart can:

lead the eye or disorientate the eye (whatever your intent is)

show personality

convey emotion beyond what is being depicted (any line can convey a sad face, but can the lines themselves take upon sadness?)

show rhythm, direction ( any line can draw a downward arrow, but can those lines themselves take up the traits of downwardness?)

show depth or not show depth (once again intention is everything)

things that line harmony TAKES INTO CONSIDERATION :

intent +purpose

strong fundamentals

self-awareness (you are conscious of yourself and your decisions)

to have control over your lines you must have strong fundamentals this means perspective, composition, weight,understanding of value, good observational skills. studying previous masters (beyond contemporary popular cartoonists ) is also important.

signs of line harmony (having all these things doesnt mean you have harmony per say however many artists that have line harmony have these things):

every line they draw has a purpose (whether it be smooth, shaky, crude, etc),

having purpose and intent with every curve, straight line ,

balance of symmetry + asymmetry (or being able to justify either of those things)

consciousness of shape

unless one has developed muscle memory, nothing is done thoughtlessly

another good sign is being able to explain and justify your lineart decisions, you have the ability to point at every single line that takes up space on a canvas and explain why you placed it there and why you made it the way it is.

you are able to justify:

why you made a line straight instead of curved

why you made a number of short lines instead of one long one.

why you made this line thick and this one thin

why this line breaks perspective and this one doesnt

so on and so forth

signs you dont have line harmony :

your lines are distracting ( and you didnt intend to do that)

the eye doesnt go where you want it to (wherever that may be)

you cannot achieve simplicity or complexity when you want to

you feel your lineart traps or limits your expression

how to improve line harmony (just tips):

pay attention to the rhythms of what u are drawing (observational , from a picture, or just ur head)

plan it out

study from all sorts of artists (prehistoric, medieval, not european or american, sculpture, not cartoonists, not just one style)

please note throughout this all i did not denote a singular stylistic guideline, it doesnt matter what ur style is, these standards are universal,

this is me going through MANY styles and picking out traits from them that can universalized for ALL styles!

and lastly artists i personally like and have studied from:

modigliani

al hirschfeld

ronald searle

greek and roman vases

1920s vogue covers

anatola howard

michael hampton figure drawing book

those disney character designers from all decades and the like

errr if i remember any more ill add it onto here

#my thots #personal #art advice #hoping for minimal typos #long post #hope this helps!

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unfolded73 · 5 years

Text

How Do We Get Back (1/16) - schitt’s creek ff

(AO3 link)

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

Notes: I'm really excited to start posting this fic which has been obsessing me for a few weeks. Thanks to @j-philly-b for being my New York-native nit-picker - pizza fight forever. See notes at the end for warnings about plot elements in this fic ... or don't if you prefer not to know.

Rating will be explicit in later chapters. This chapter 3.5k words.

______________________________

Soft music played from somewhere, infused into the space like just the right amount of an expensive perfume: not enough to draw attention to itself, but enough to help round out the aesthetic with taste and class. The white walls positively glowed under warm, carefully selected lighting, offering a contrast to the pieces on offer to buyers. Minimalist and spare, every item was lovingly placed by the owner in exactly the perfect spot to highlight its assets and mask its flaws. It was why buyers went out of their way to come here, or so the proprietor had been told in more prosperous days.

“Tell me about this sculpture,” said a woman in a severe suit and a severe haircut and impossibly high heels.

David Rose, the gallerist she was addressing, put his hands together in an obsequious manner and walked over to stand at her side. Her command had come without the courtesy of turning and looking at him; rather with the expectation that she would get a prompt response — she was the kind of woman who always got a prompt response.

“This is another exciting piece by Devonaé Streeter. She works out of New York now, but after a few months in Prague—”

“I don’t want to hear about the artist. Tell me about the work.”

David squinted an eye at the bronze sculpture, standing its solitary vigil on a white pedestal. He imagined the… woman? it depicted was looking back at him, or would have been if she had more than empty eye sockets to look at him with. He launched into his patter.

“Devonaé’s bronze works often challenge the viewer to look past the grotesque features of the art to see the grotesque features in themselves. This particular figure is an allegory for the way in which we fail to recognize each other’s pain, and I think—”

The woman turned on her heel and walked away, dismissing him and the statue with one quick wave of her hand. She turned her attention to the art on the walls, scanning over the canvasses quickly. David could almost see the calculations going on behind her eyes, like a scrolling ticker on a cable business news show. She wasn’t here to appreciate the art, she was here to find something to invest in. Most of them were, especially people like her.

“Tell me about that one,” she said, pointing to the largest canvas.

David winced. He would have taken the painting in question down a while ago, or perhaps never would have hung it in the first place, if he weren’t hurting a little bit for artists these days. And of course if he hadn’t signed a contract. He’d met Carmen at a party, and okay yes, she’d seemed a little crazy at the time but he’d assumed that was because of all the drugs they were taking. He’d agreed to display her art in his gallery. Now, months later, not a single one of the paintings had ever sold.

Clearing his throat, David said, “Carmen Herrera. She has a… unique vision, as you can see from this piece.” He focused on the track lighting above the painting as he talked; he’d never been able to look at this piece without developing an anxious flutter in his stomach. “It is intended to shock, of course. The worshippers…” He let his eyes glance over the blood-soaked imagery, wondering why he was bothering. This woman was never going to buy one of Carmen’s paintings. “The worshippers hurt themselves and each other at the behest of their goddess.” He gestured vaguely upward.

“Mictēcacihuātl,” the woman murmured.

“Umm… bless you?”

“The Aztec goddess of death,” she explained, still staring at the painting.

“Oh, uhh, yes exactly,” he vamped. “Personally, I’ve always thought the worshippers represent the American electorate, voting against their own self interest because of the lies politicians tell them.” He didn’t really think that. He wasn’t sure Carmen could have said, if pressed, who the President of the United States even was. But he gave potential buyers this line, figuring they might recoil a little less from the painting if they thought it was allegorical.

The sharp-suited woman couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of it. “No, I don’t think that’s what it’s about,” she said. Then she turned to him. “I’ll take it.”

David gaped at her for a second before he recovered enough to respond. “Yes, of course.”

After several minutes of dealing with the payment and shipping, tasks that always made David’s palms sweat with anxiety that he’d screw up some detail of the transaction, the woman was gone and the gallery was quiet as a tomb — its usual state. David sighed and looked up at Carmen’s terrifying painting. “See you never, you creepy fucker.”

He walked back into his office and pulled out his phone. Opening Instagram, David scrolled aimlessly through posts by celebrities and influencers, many of whom he had met and a few of whom he had fucked. When no images of his sister appeared after a few minutes of scrolling, he pulled up her profile and checked her last post — two days ago, which was very unlike Alexis. David’s heart started to hammer in his chest with familiar worry for his sister. He checked the time and counted forward. It would be close to midnight in Italy, probably as good a time as any to catch her on her phone.

Hey r u ok? he texted, and then spent a full minute watching for any sign of a return message before he clicked off the screen and tossed the phone onto his desk with a huff. Then when that dramatic gesture didn’t give him a result, he picked his phone up again, just in time for it to vibrate with an incoming call. He almost dropped it.

Seeing who was calling, David almost let it go unanswered, but at the last second he tapped the screen. “Hi, Dad.”

“David, how are you?” His father’s voice was always confident and booming, as if he could summon happiness if he just projected from his diaphragm. David held the phone away from his ear with a wince, and then put it on speaker before setting it down.

“Fine. Why are you calling me?”

“Do I need a reason to call my only son?”

David rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

There was a pause. “Well, actually, I just heard that Eli was released from prison.”

Pulling a nail file out of his desk drawer, David snorted. “What, and you’re going to rehire him as your business manager?”

“Well, of course not, David.”

“Good.”

“I’m never going to speak to him again.”

“Good.”

“I mean, can you imagine how our lives might have turned out if he’d managed to get on that plane to the Cayman Islands before the police caught him?”

“Yes, I can, because you’ve mentioned it an average of once a month for the last three years,” David said, taking a few desultory swipes across the end of the nail on his middle finger.

“I mean, it was bad enough with all the tax penalties we had to pay. If it weren’t for Eli, we’d still have the beach house!”

“Uh huh.” If David had heard all of this before once, he’d heard it a hundred times. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s on location with Sharknado 5. And you know, the prison that jackass was in was pretty swanky.”

“Then maybe Eli will actually be more miserable now that he’s been released. When does Mom get back?”

“Two more weeks. She’s got her phone in Bulgaria; you can call her.”

David didn’t want to call her. He wanted his father to call her so that she could talk him off of this angry ledge before he had another scare with his heart.

“Just… don’t worry about Eli, okay?” David set the nail file down and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not a part of your life anymore.”

“Damn straight he’s not.”

“Weren’t you telling me something about a new business venture at Christmas? Some kind of app?” David didn’t want to talk about this, or about anything really, but he figured he could at least try to pull his father out of this emotional tailspin about the former business manager who almost made off with the Rose family fortune.

“Yes, well, the spouting video market is quite crowded now, of course, but we’re making some in-roads. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what I always say.”

“It’s streaming video. And that’s what you used to say about your rivalry with Blockbuster,” David snarked, his moment of charitability toward his father difficult to keep front of mind when he was being so irritating.

“And Blockbuster went out of business.”

“So did you!”

“It was a strategic restructuring, David. A shift into other markets. Like streaming video. Sure, the money isn’t flowing as freely as it did in the Rose Video heyday, but we’re doing fine.”

“Okay.” He went back to filing his nails.

“Are you still seeing… what was her name?” Johnny asked.

Trying to remember who his dad was even talking about, David squinted. “Who?”

“You know, the girl who used to eat garbage as performance art?”

David huffed. “Eliose didn’t eat garbage, she covered herself in… you know what, it doesn’t matter. We haven’t seen each other in months.”

“Oh. Is there anyone special in your life right now?”

An image of Brenton flashed in his mind. He was probably back in David’s apartment as they spoke, making the place reek of bong water and eating all of David’s food. He sighed. “No, no one special.”

“Well, don’t give up, son,” Johnny said. “How’s the gallery?”

“I just sold a painting.”

“That’s great!” his father boomed. “Good for you!”

“Okay, selling paintings is my job, you don’t have to praise me quite so effusively for doing my job.”

“No, of course I don’t need to. But I’m proud of you, son. Especially now that…” There was a moment of dead air.

“You still there?” David asked.

“Oh! Yes, I’m still here.”

“I thought the call had dropped. Now that what?”

An uncomfortable chuckle came out of the phone speaker. “You know, I forgot what I was saying.”

“Uhhh… okay.” David rolled his eyes again. “Anyway, the art business isn’t booming like it used to be, but today was good.”

“You know what? I just remembered I need to make another call,” his father said. “Sorry, David.”

“Whatever. You called me.”

“Talk to you soon, son.”

“Mm-hmm. Bye.” David tapped the screen and ended the call. He noticed the time and sighed, glancing out of his office door at the empty gallery. He might as well lock up and go back to his apartment. He moved quietly around the space, flipping off all of the lights and turning off the music that he played from a spare iPad that he’d gotten in a gift bag when he was Hayden Panettiere’s date to the 2012 Teen Choice Awards. Once he had his coat and messenger bag and had the security gate pulled down and locked, David pocketed his keys and stepped out onto the busy SoHo sidewalk. It had been misting rain for hours, the January day not cold enough to produce snow, but the temperature was now dropping below freezing and making the sidewalks treacherous.

The stationary store next door to his gallery was still open and doing a brisk business, and he was tempted to go in and look at the journals, but he resisted the impulse. Even though he used them sporadically, he’d already bought more empty journals than he could fill in a lifetime. The bar at the end of the block was also starting to fill up, and while he’d been known to get a drink there after closing the gallery, he wasn’t in the mood to be around people at the moment. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he summoned an Uber to ferry him the two miles to his apartment in Chelsea.

Braulio is 4 minutes away, his phone told him. While he waited, he texted Alexis again. Can you respond pls???

“Want me to talk or not talk?” his Uber driver asked as soon as David was settled into the back seat of the black Nissan.

“Don’t talk, please,” he responded. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries, man. That’s why I ask.” Braulio turned up his music a couple of clicks, the kind of unobjectionable, nondescript soundscape that was like something you’d hear in a modern hotel lobby. The driver had probably read on a website that it was the key to increasing tips or 5-star ratings.

David’s block on West 21st Street was packed with four and five-story apartment buildings, the short trees at regular intervals along the sidewalk offering a tiny break from the monotony of sandstone and concrete — although not this time of year, when they stuck up like twigs haphazardly shoved into the dirt by a giant, bored child. Shivering in his too-thin but fashionable jacket, he clicked on a rating for his Uber driver and shoved his phone in his pocket before making his way over to the short flight of stairs that led up to his building.

“Spare change,” a familiar voice called from a heap of blankets at the base of the building.

David opened his messenger bag and fished for the coins at the bottom. “It’s getting cold; you need to go to a shelter.”

“Not that cold,” the woman countered, holding her dingy Starbucks cup aloft. He dropped the coins in.

“The temperature’s dropping though.”

“Cold enough to ice skate.”

He took the non-sequitur in stride. “Well, not quite, but almost.”

“Your skates have to stay on the right line, ya know. You slip off and then suddenly—” She hit the cup, making the coins rattle. “Different universe.”

“Uh-huh. Will you go to a shelter, please? Don’t stay out here all night.” He re-clipped his bag and turned to walk away.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Mister Rose.”

“Well, I live here.”

“Not supposed to. Supposed to live in a motel with your family.”

David stopped and turned around. “What? Ew.”

“Rosebud,” she murmured.

“Oh, are we in Citizen Kane now?”

She hunkered down in her blankets, putting an end to what could only loosely be termed a conversation. Sighing, David left the homeless woman behind and entered the building’s vestibule. He then unlocked the inner door, shoving his way in with a grunt when the door inevitably stuck a little bit.

He mounted the one flight of stairs to his apartment. At the height of his family’s wealth, when David had been in his late twenties, he’d lived in a very posh apartment on the upper east side, but after the incident with his father’s business manager, he’d downgraded and moved to Chelsea. It was still a very nice, modern apartment, but it wasn’t what he’d once had.

The scent of sandlewood incense greeted him as he unlocked his door, and he wrinkled his nose and recoiled a little. Dropping his bag, he made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, hoping to find his leftovers from last night’s take-out. Of course they were gone. He slammed the refrigerator and swung around, ready to have it out with Brenton once and for all.

The man in question chose that moment to stride into the kitchen, shirtless, a pair of athletic shorts slung low on his waist. “Hey,” Brenton said. “Glad you’re here, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, we sure do.” David tried not to let his eyes drift down to the v-shaped crease of Brenton’s hips and failed.

“I’m gonna go stay with my boyfriend in LA for a while, so…” He shrugged. “Thanks for everything.”

“I’m sorry, your what? You never mentioned a boyfriend before,” David said, grimacing. He’d met Brenton last month at a cocktail party he’d thrown at the gallery. Young and blond and in his mid-twenties, Brenton was the son of a well-known hedge fund manager, and he seemed to be a guy whose sole occupation was drifting from one party to another, looking for a good time. He and David had hooked up several times in recent weeks, but their conversations had been limited to fashion and art world trends and what kind of sex they were into.

“Because we weren’t like that, you and me,” Brenton said with a disarming smile. “This was never about, you know, unpacking our pasts. And we never said we were exclusive.”

“I know that,” David snapped. “I didn’t say I expected exclusivity. Still, you might have mentioned—”

“He and I were figuring some things out, you know? But he’s gone out there for pilot season and the auditions are stressful, so I think I really just need to be there for him.”

“Oh, he’s an actor,” David said. “How fun for you.”

There wasn’t really much more to say, so after a few more empty platitudes from Brenton, he disappeared into David’s bedroom to get dressed and to gather whatever belongings he’d brought over in the course of their month-long affair. David sat at the kitchen island and flipped through an issue of Vogue without seeing the pages. He probed a little bit at his feelings, pressing against them like you’d touch a bruise, trying to determine how painful it was. He didn’t really care that much about Brenton — he was shallow and mostly unkind. David didn’t think he’d miss him. What did hurt was once again being shoved aside as soon as something better came along, after a lifetime of being shoved aside as soon as something better came along.

Once Brenton was gone, David tried cracking open a window to air out the apartment, but quickly closed it when it let in a biting cold wind. He was starting to get a headache, and he reached up to massage the back of his neck, trying to stave it off. Pulling out his phone, he checked Alexis’ instagram again, and then opened his messaging app.

[David] 911. Call me.

Surprisingly, his phone rang only a few seconds later.

“David, what? What’s the emergency?” Alexis sounded manic and not a little annoyed.

“I’ve been texting you all evening!” he almost shouted. “I’m sorry for worrying that you were dead.”

“I’m fine, why would I be dead?”

“Your social’s been dark for days.”

“Ugh. I’ve just been busy, David, I don’t have to post something every day as proof of life, do I?”

“You have to at least respond to my texts, Alexis.”

“Look, the club we were in might’ve gotten raided by police earlier, a little bit, but it’s fine because we found a back way out and we ran. It’s no big deal.”

“It kind of sounds like a big deal,” David said, rubbing his neck again. The headache was getting worse; the muscles running down from his skull were like iron rods. “Why were the police raiding the club?”

“How should I know what the Monaco police were doing?” she asked.

“Monaco? I thought you were in Italy.”

Alexis laughed. “Monaco is in Italy, David.”

“Monaco is a separate country, Alexis.”

“No, it’s… is it? Well anyway, Tiff and Lily and I are back at the hotel. I might come home, though. Stavros called and he wants to see me.”

David moaned unhappily. “Alexis, no, don’t go see Stavros. You’ll end up getting back together with him and that would be a terrible life choice.”

“Speaking of terrible life choices, is that Brett guy still crashing at your place?”

“It’s Brenton, and we were seeing each other, he wasn’t just ‘crashing’ here.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And it’s over anyway.”

“Oh.” Her voice softened for the first time. “I’m sorry, David.”

He waved his hand, not that she could see him. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t like him that much. He was just really hot.” He looked around the quiet, empty apartment. “You could stay here for a while, if you want.” Alexis was a chaos engine, but he also kind of missed her. Her whirlwind life would keep him from thinking about his own sad existence as much.

“Ew, what? Why? I’ve got way more space at Mom and Dad’s, and when I want to stay in the city, Klair lets me stay at the apartment with her stepmom. Who’s actually really cool, although she takes way too many pills.”

“Fine, whatever. Far be it from me to come between you and Klair’s stepmom.” He fluttered his hand again.

“Okay, don’t be like that. See, David, I know how you are. You’re lonely right now and you think you miss me, but you’d be sick of me the second I set foot through your doorway. You’d complain that I was too messy and that my friends were too loud and that I hadn’t used a coaster for my water glass.”

“Well, if you’d use a coaster—”

“David, it’s 3 a.m. here and you’re lecturing me about a hypothetical coaster. I’m gonna get some sleep now, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Go to Mom and Dad’s if you’re lonely,” Alexis said.

“I’m not lonely.”

“Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Alexis.”

(Chapter 2)

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[additional content warnings after some spoiler space]

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[last warning]

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This fic will include a temporary character death, the temporariness of which should be obvious by the time it happens. Also note that this fic does include marital problems and adultery committed by Patrick, who didn't meet David in Schitt's Creek in this timeline, and (as you will see in the next chapter) ended up marrying Rachel. Just giving you an extra warning for that if it squicks you out.

#schitt's creek #schitts creek #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #hdwgb fic #my fic

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