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#didn't have to sketch a single thing
outeremissary · 3 months
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2023 Wrapped!
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This is my first ever time doing a year end art summary (using this template)- I always wanted to when I was younger, but never felt I was creating enough work or that it was "serious" enough or good looking enough to be worth compiling. It's been interesting to reflect on a year that included so many creative ups and downs (and life ups and downs in general). If you'll permit me I want to do the little reflection ramble too, even if it's an inadvisable 5 (or now 6) in the morning where I live.
Some of you who followed me on Twitter probably know that I only "learned to color"- or rather found a way that worked for me enough to finish things consistently- in 2022, and rather late in 2022 at that. This is pretty much the first year where work I considered "finished" or "polished" included things that weren't greyscale, and it's absolutely the first year where I had attempted to do something in color almost every single month. When I look at this and see the range of hues it has, I really feel an incredible sense of achievement. I would not have imagined 14 months ago that I could stitch something that looked like this together, and 12 months ago I can't say I'd have felt confident either.
Despite having a huge artistic slump in the back half of the year (along with a sharp downturn in my mental health in general) I was astounded to find that for the first six months I had so much work that I loved and was proud of that it was hard to put this together because I constantly felt like I was leaving favorites out- works that I thought were iconic or were huge milestones or I just really loved. That was unbelievable. And that was only sifting through the "nice" stuff- I didn't even consider a mountain of sketches and doodles that I adored! Even in my busiest months and the months I was recovering from a major medical procedure (I got top surgery!!!) I had something to show, and May being a WIP is less because there was nothing in that month than because Aurien and Vio were the only ones who were fitting in the damn frame (side note: I'd be more thoughtful with template than aesthetic if I ever did this again).
Even in the five months I was convinced I had done absolutely nothing, I found again and again that I had more than I thought for every month (except November, where it turned out everything I thought I'd done was early December. you've been spared DUrgetash). I was creating even when I was convinced that I was never going to be able to draw again. And I was creating enough that I got to be picky filling this thing out and choose Tristian for October just for a laugh when other options were out there, and enough that I had options when I was struggling to fit something I wanted into the template frame.
Side note: Miss Leonelle, you were tragically robbed by the damn frames.
In making this I also saw again and again the connections that I made throughout the year. I have had the incredible fortune to make wonderful friends this year and to build on bonds that I already had- even some where I perhaps didn't deserve the chances I was given. @mountainashfae is all over this summary- in April, May, June, August, and November- and I've often felt I spent as much time on Vio as Balthazar this year, but there were at least seven other baronesses, KCs, and other incredible OCs I had the privilege of drawing this year who I desperately wanted to fit onto this and was not able to for one reason or another. I'm so happy to know so many creative, passionate people and to be allowed so close to the things they hold so dear. To everyone who has shared their creations this year- not just with me, but with anyone on the internet or in real life or quietly in DMs or in a Discord or wherever- you're incredible, and I hope you're proud of what you've done. And if you struggle with that, I hope you can be proud of the way you're growing even now.
If you've stuck with me this far, thank you. Sincerely. I really appreciate that there are people who enjoy looking at my silly little drawings and reading my occasional rambles, even if I'm a little erratic on putting things up and usually a bit distant by choice from fan communities. And if you continue to stick around, I hope that you continue to have a good time.
I don't know what to expect from 2024 when I've got a laundry list of projects from 2023 I haven't finished, but I'm hopeful about what it'll contain. There's a lot I want to do- more full illustrations, working on other media, trying more ambitious projects- but for now it's enough to just think about picking up the things I've left off and continuing to tie up those loose ends.
Here's hoping we all can find something we want in 2024, as terrible and unknowable as the new chapter is.
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beatcroc · 29 days
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listen. i love pizza tower with my whole heart & mind. you know this. you Know. but first and foremost i am a character design bitch, and the pizzas are, frankly, very bland. this is not a critique or a complaint, because obviously That's Not The Point and more importantly i would be horrified if anyone tried doing that much animation with anything more complex than what's there. but also it means when i get a taste of some truly whack ass insane design work again it is like fuuuucking catnip
#ive been DEPRIVED......#pizza business is on hiatus i need to play lethal league for 50 hours and make a surely ill-fated cosplay about it#it really is unfortunate fake pep could have been a fun cosplay for the way i wanted to go about it#but for all the schematics i had sketched out it was never a thing i wanted to get up and actually try to Make#and then i wake up the next day after playing llb once and go like oh. ohhhhhh. i need to be doombox irl#and because of that realizing. oh that was misplaced idle thoughts before; i never actually wanted to do fp for real#i was just on that train bc 1. very passionate about the game obviously [and he was kind of my only option to rep pt] and 2.#i think it was a lot of leftover inertia from my PREVIOUS cosplay idea [baozhai from indivisible] that i also never pursued#lots of Makin Stuff drive still existing but not having a place to go.#fp was certainly more doable than baozhai so it was easy to latch on but#still not....really the kind of thing i actually Enjoy making#this one though. ohgghhgh i feel it. i feel the cosmos#i still dont think i'm actually going to complete it. the current projection is that i just make a shitty prototype and then#realize how impossible and unfun this is gonna be and then drop it. [but its fine bc i still got to make stuff and got the idea out]#however. that first pizza comic was also originally a single-image prototype to get the idea across bc#i didn't think i would actually draw out that whole thing either.#so i guess we'll just see what happens. now won't we.#poor fuckin noisette comic 2 man i put it off for so long and then finally get into it and then this happens#ill get back on it eventually this is just something i have to indulge while i have it and get it out of my system#its like evangelion. sometimes you have to write 8k words of analysis. and sometimes you gotta make a really stupid cosplay#anyway hey i should post the fp cosplay schematics huh. i meant to back when i first did them but then didnt. whoops#bweeeaaahh
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whysopasta · 7 months
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i have actually kept working on my comic despite saying i wasn't going to until i got to a dentist (my tooth hasn't been hurting luckily) but of course im out of ink until friday -_- sigh there's always something
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inkskinned · 2 months
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you spent hours in libraries and in art supply stores trying to absorb the artist tips from books your parents didn't want to buy you. on each page of every "how to draw" is a version of the same four things: this is how you shade a sphere. this is how you shade a cone.
this is what a man looks like. he is hard and angular and jutting. his chest narrows a triangle down to his sharp hip and long legs. his jawbone is a square. he is powerful, imposing, his hands are big and meaty. he is a leader.
this is what a woman looks like. she is soft and her hands tuck her long hair back behind a delicate ear. she is big-eyed and round (but not too round, she is skinny, here is the faint sketch of her abs showing), she is smaller and lighter and pretty. she has thick black lashes and her tits do not come with a massive ribcage to offset the weight we put on her - she has curves, but they are impossibly slim without giving her backache trouble. there is a large red hourglass outlined on top of her figure, the way there is a triangle outlined on top of the man. her face is a heart-shape, and her lips are pouting.
here is how you draw the woman and the man together. the man should be in action shots. the woman's ass should be in action shots. she should fit against the man to compliment his negative space - she should slot into his shadow so when they hug, they become one uniform space. here is how all the other artists have done it, see how good it looks when the man (angles, fire, passion, action) and the woman (roundness, water, emotion, supplication) complement each other? he begins the sentence, she is his ending.
do you want to kiss another girl? that is round-to-round. that is fitting the wire into the wrong socket! how would the faces look together? a single silhouette you sketch and then hide, scribbling over it.
do you want to look like a girl? by sheer genetic happenstance, you absolutely don't look like that, and you never have. you don't look like a man, either, though, do you. you don't feel like you truly belong to either gender, but there is not a "neutral/fluid" drawing in the book. there is male (triangle) or female (hourglass).
but you have a square jaw and square hands and "masculine" proportions. but you have curves and roundness and full lips and "feminine" features. someone online says, definitively, that any form of gender noncompliance is "a mental illness." this comment has over one thousand likes from people who agree.
here is how you shade a square. none of the clothes at the store look good on you, you always somehow feel like you're wearing a weird kind of costume. here is how you shade a sphere. your friend's mother calls the school because she's horrified you're in the same changing room. here is the neutral body figure: it is a wooden man. technically the wooden man is genderless, but that is because masculinity is the default, and everyone calls the figure "a wooden man." you must be small and posable and skinny and featureless, then you can be masculine enough to not have gender.
here is how to draw a person. begin with some shapes. choose the right shapes to get that person's gender correct. do not kiss her. shade in short, sharp lines.
when she laughs, look away.
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colleendoran · 4 months
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Yeah, I drew that.
Half my life as a comic book creator is explaining that almost all of my training as an artist is pre-internet, pre-Photoshop, and pre-computer.
No, I don't trace all my figure work or backgrounds because almost all creators of my generation had to learn to draw extemporaneously, and it is actually easier and faster for me to just draw off the cuff than it is to dig through a pile of pics to get what I want.
No, this doesn't mean I never use reference and it doesn't mean I haven't ever closely followed reference - or even closely copied a reference photograph.
It means I usually don't have to use reference for things I draw every day, like the human body. But if I had to draw the Taj Mahal, I'd use reference. I mean, I could do a generalization of the Taj Mahal from memory, but I'd need reference to get it right.
No, back in the day artists didn't all use the Camera Obscura, overhead projector, or lightbox. There is the sight size method, the comparative method, and the construction drawing method. I learned all three and have never used a Camera Obscura. I only used overhead projector a few times and hated it. I usually only use a lightbox to transfer sketches to the final art boards.
In classical ateliers, artist candidates are locked in rooms without access to any kind of Camera Obscura-style tools to make sure the artist can draw and paint without reliance on them.
No, this doesn't make me a Luddite and it doesn't mean I don't use computers now, it just means I can draw and paint and write without them, perhaps with a bit more confidence than some who never had to do without.
There are some computer artists who can do without, and some who can't. No judgment.
You do you.
I did without computers because there was no with computers. And that is how I learned.
But I don't appreciate that some out there flat out mislead about drawing methods because, it seems, if they can't do something, clearly other people can't either. Just because an artist used reference on one picture or even a dozen pictures, that doesn't mean every single element of everything they draw was slavishly referenced.
Most comic book creators of my generation did not and do not trace their figure work in Photoshop. Or whatever.
Some do. Most do not.
That's all.
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headspace-hotel · 1 year
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so many of us haven't seen it
we don't encounter it, we can't imagine it, we can't get out of the tomb of apathy because we haven't seen the wonders just beyond their line of sight
I talk about this all the time, but it's because I think about it all the time
There are likely thousands of plants native to the area you live in, and chances are you have never even seen most of them, in your entire life.
Not even rare orchids that only bloom at midnight on a blood moon or some shit—regular flowers. Weeds. They have been systematically eliminated from every single place you ever set foot in, and you have to have a special hobby or line of work to ever even rest your eyes upon the flowers that used to bloom for no one on every hill, or in every valley, or beside every stream
There are a few hundred birds that live where I live. I have never seen most of them before. I have never seen a Kentucky Warbler, and I have lived in Kentucky for what...twenty years?
I have never seen a rosy maple moth. When I saw one on the internet, I didn't even think it was real.
I've become a deeply weird person over the past couple years. Tasting even a little bit of the Wonders changes you. I wouldn't have thought blue bees were real, or the fantastically rainbow-colored dogbane beetles.
I have seen the world beyond the wasteland, and that glimpse makes you crazy.
You or I may have never seen a truly mature tree. A fraction of a percent of the old growth forest of the Eastern USA remains. Once there were tulip poplars over 6 feet in diameter and sycamores well over 10 feet in diameter. Only a few remain, in secret locations. Imagine walking through a forest where the tree trunks are over 3-4 feet wide.
The forest where I work is 100 years old. That's a baby forest.
Knowing that, being aware of that, it's maddening.
Central Kentucky has disproportionately few endemic plants. Almost none. Central Kentucky was the first area west of the Appalachians settled by European colonizers. The Bluegrass was once described as having the most peculiar plant life anywhere in the East, but now, there are no species known that are unique to that area.
Colonization destroyed the canebrakes. (Did you know that we had vast forests of bamboo full of carnivorous plants?) The bamboo is barely hanging on. It destroyed the sycamores so enormous you could use the hollow center of one as a stable for animals. It introduced invasive grasses to feed cattle and horses. It destroyed the rich lush topsoil. Most of the ancient oaks were cut down or died when housing developments were built on top of their roots.
What happened to the endemic species, never recorded in books of herbs, never sketched by a European naturalist.
Either gone forever...or hiding in a sinkhole on a backroad somewhere, not even yet discovered.
So much has been lost for eternity. So much still could be lost.
Some days it's hard not to wail and scream. There are herbicides in your drinking water. When you spread honey on toast, you likely also spread neonicotinoid pesticides, which testing has confirmed to be present in something like 45% of honey. In many areas, insects are immersed in the presence of chemicals designed to kill them in every drop of water, every leaf, every square inch of soil.
When games, animations, and illustrations envision the outdoors, they cover the ground with a short, uniform carpet of green, because that is what we see, no matter where we go: turfgrass cut by a lawn mower. Where I live, there are no natural environments that resemble this, remotely. The closest thing we have to turf-forming grass is our wealth of native sedges, most of which are rare or endangered.
I talked to a man who had devoted his life to studying the American bamboo, Arundinaria gigantea, and he had never seen a canebrake larger than 200x500 feet. Canebrakes once covered ten million acres, and now the bamboo exists in short, straggly clumps instead of dense bamboo forests up to 40 feet tall.
I want to cry and scream. The grief will tear me to pieces. I live in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, surrounded by people who can't even grieve, because they have been so completely severed from everything that was lost that they don't even know it was real.
It hurts. It hurts, and we have to live with it. It hurts, and the grief is all-consuming.
There is the agony, and there are the Wonders. Both are true at the same time. It is because nothing around us is standing still; everything in nature is always moving, iterating, becoming. Something is pulling and nudging at our species, urging us to move, to iterate, to become.
So much has been lost. Even more is not lost.
The trees, the bamboo, the sedges, the Kentucky warblers and rosy maple moths.
They are not lost. We are lost.
This is the hard part. The grief is hard, but this is somehow harder for us. We are lost, and it is time to come home.
Not to a physical place, but to a way of living: interconnected, mutualistic, interdependent. Symbiosis. In the forest, no one is separate from anyone else, everyone is linked and dependent on the community. Trees help each other, they support each other, they protect and shelter and feed one another and all living things, and together they are a forest. I don't really consider myself religious, but I have to reserve something in my head for how it felt to realize what Forest was.
When I noticed the little plants popping up in the sidewalk cracks and gravel paths, the tough weeds holding on in the lawns and pavement, something in my brain began to change dramatically and permanently.
They're still here. The trees. Even in the pavement and lawns. The dandelions have come, adapting rapidly, helping the bees hold on. The wildflower seeds are still sprouting in this depleted ground. Waiting for us to recognize them. Life is everywhere. The Forest is everywhere. It felt like they were waiting. We're here. We have not abandoned you. We are resilience, persistence, survival, adaptation. This is not death. This is Chaos. Come home. Come home. Come home.
I saved little plants from the roadside and tended them in plastic cups. I didn't think it would work. I don't know why I tried. I was acting as something bigger than only myself, responding to a call that moves throughout all of nature. But they survived, and growing and tending to my little plants and trees, I—understood.
I don't know if I believe in God, but I believe in Something, whatever it was that seemed to whisper like a secret: Welcome home, Caretaker.
And honestly, truth shone through then from relics of religion I hadn't touched in ages; God put Adam in a garden, not a suburb, a mall, or a Walmart. This is who you are. Not a Consumer, but a Caretaker.
And when the threat of the Flood loomed, God told Noah to start building a fucking boat.
In ecology, the plants we know as "weeds" are pioneer species: the first species to return to an area after a natural disaster or mass extinction. They survive in the harshest conditions, and prepare the land for regeneration. This is who you must become.
Look to the Dandelion—in just a few hundred years on this continent, Dandelion has risen to the highest calling of a Weed: first survive where the others can't, and then help the others survive. If the human species is to survive, you must be a weed species. You must adapt relentlessly, resist eradication, and protect and nurture other life forms by your very nature. You must be tough as nails, and make the world a gentler place through your survival.
Have you heard the saying that grief is love with no place to go?
That's the hard part.
We must grieve, but it is not yet time to grieve. It is time to love.
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fuxuannie · 10 months
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↳ pairing : miles morales x reader
↳ synopsis : shenanigans with your favorite classmate :) (maybe even a secret crush)
↳ authors note : i'm rlly trying to expand through fandoms, plzzz don't leave i promise i still write hsrr ;o; !!!!! i'm gonna be on a LONG atsv brainrot plz <\3 wuts a proof-read idk what that iz (/j)
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MILES MORALES was the new student two years ago, some people thought he was an oddball since the first day encounter with his dad.. but you didn't really mind it honestly. You had much more important matters to attend to, like not listening to gossip.
After learning he was in some of your classes, you decided to try and get to know the guy. He seemed pretty cool, and you never passed an opportunity to know someone new.
"Morales, right?" Miles hears from behind him, it's currently lunch and so he turns his head to see you standing there with a tray in hand. "Mind if I sit with you?"
Since that day, you two hit it off like crazy, with sharing interests and hobbies it wasn't hard to talk every single day and run out of things to talk about.
"So, my Uncle Aaron took me to this crazy place like 2 years ago maybe? But yeah, it's where I did one of my first graffiti art." He explained, leading you through the dark traintracks while holding your wrist so you don't lose him in the darkness. "Sounds cool! Is it the same one that you used in your essay?"
You listen to the echo of his laughter. "Yeah, it is.. He was a great man, made me who I am today."
The way he talks fondly about his Uncle makes your heart sting a little. Though you were never able to meet him yourself, the way Miles talked about him to you made it clear he was a man who loved his nephew like he was his own son, and it was like you could emphasize with his pain of losing him.
However your thoughts are interrupted at the loud sound of a light switch turning on, illuminating the room and different graffiti art drawn on the walls. Miles laughs at your breathless expression, admiring the way your eyes seemed to glow at the art all around you.
"Heeey, look at that!" You chuckled, pointing at the 'Expectations' graffiti you brought up earlier. "You were so much shorter back then.." And Miles rolled his eyes at that comment, knowing that you were referring to the silhouette on the wall. "Very funny."
Then you realize theres a section of the wall thats covered with cloth, and he notices how you take notice of it. Miles immediately clears his throat, puts a hand behind his neck and looks at the ground. "Oh, uh.. that's a work in progress. I wouldn't want you to see i-"
Suddenly his spidey-senses go off, the second he looks up he already sees you right infront of the wall and about to touch the cover. "(name)!"
Pulling it off, it reveals a wall full of.. you? You were surprised that the details were down almost perfectly, your nose shape, your eyes and your smile. It was all so perfectly done that in a way it could either be flattering or a tiny bit creepy.
Of course, Miles being your best friend, you may or may not sketch or write about him every now and then (or rather all the time) depending on which one you felt like doing, but he didn't have to know that.
"I'm.. honored?" You laugh, looking back at your poor friend whos pulled his hoodie over his head and his hands covering his face. "Oh, come on! It's not that embarassing- And it looks good I promise!" You tried to reassure him, but the boy has no intentions on budging.
"I forgot I had that." Miles mumbled to himself, ignoring how you pull on his arm to try and get him to show himself.
At some point you've given up, and let the guy wallow in his own embarassment for a while. Your attention shifts back onto the art wall, seeing the several doodles and actual art pieces that you can only assume Miles was working on for the past 2 years you two were friends.
The much smaller doodles were your favorites, ones where he made you a tiny little creature were the cutest ones, and at some point you noticed how so many of them involved.. him. He drew tiny moments of you and him holding hands, going on walks, sharing earphones and little cliche date stuff.
You were about to say something, but are stopped at the realization Miles was right next to you while his eyes never seemed to break contact from yours. "Miles?" You say in almost a whisper, seeing how focused his gaze was on you.
"I mean, we're both smart enough to realize it.. right?"
The urge to play dumb was strong, it really was, but Miles could see through you like he was staring at glass. That's how well he knew you, and how transparent you were with him.
"And maybe I'm stupid enough to make up delusions in my head but.. do you.. feel the same?"
The question leaves you stunned, stammering to find an answer, but the serious facade Miles kept up melts at your nervous reaction. He begins to laugh, digging through his pockets and pulls out a paper you recognize all too well, it had to be either a drawing or a poem you had written for Miles and considering one of your recent ones going missing.. if what he had in his hands was that one, it gave him more than an answer.
That realization makes you gasp, and Miles' laughter only grows stronger as you've now realized what's happening in its full extent. Miles liked you, and he knew you liked him too.
"You cheeky-" You try to grab the paper from his hands, but the tall piece of shit tip-toe's just to make sure you couldn't grab it. "Whaat? What am I, hm?" He'll playfully taunt at you, still unable to control his smile as he knows that deep down you enjoyed this banter just as much as he did.
You two continue to playfully argue for a while, laughter echoing throughout the abandoned area as hours passed on and on. The talk about either ones feelings never came to light, but you two were content with the moment, and in another time you'd talk about the confusing thing that is the feelings you both mutually share.
You had all the time in the world, right? Miles Morales wasn't going anywhere.
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junosswans · 4 months
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FMA sketches by Ace Attorney's character designer, Iwamoto Tatsuro
For the past week, Iwamoto-san has been posting sketches of FMA characters on his twitter as a part of his daily sketching challenge and they are absolutely BEAUTIFUL.
I really want to share his art over here and also translate his posts for you all because I think his commentaries are quite insightful for people who are interested in character design!
[Those who know their AA lore would recognize him as who voiced Edgeworth (Mitsurugi) in the games :3]
Anyways, below are his FMA sketches he's shared on twitter so far! (Contains: Ed, Hughes, Kimblee, Mustang, Breda) You can click on the dates to see their original post. I will add to this post if he shares any more sketches, it seems that he has been on an FMA roll xD
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25/11/2023
If you draw your favourite things out you will know them better! So, this is Edward Elric from #FullmetalAlchemist.
Even if you have decided on the pose you want to draw, it is better to sketch out these three first:
the moment before the pose is struck
the pose itself
the moment after the pose is struck
then decide which image works better for your art. I learned this from a really great senior of mine, and it is very solid advice.
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29/11/2023 (Translator's note: I decided to move this one to the top because it is my favourite. No I don't accept criticism.)
I have been drawing Ed's automail again.
I like it when the machine part has a distinctly different silhouette compared to the human body, so I added some original ideas to the design.
What design should I draw next? Perhaps I should draw the military uniform?
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# (combined two posts because they’re the progression of the same piece.) #
26/11/2023
Again, it is the time of "drawing your favourite things to know them better!"
It feels so good to draw such great characters...
27/11/2023
My Photoshop has been crashing for mysterious reasons the whole morning, and I tried to troubleshoot in the afternoon and it was a PAIN. Computers are really difficuuuuuuuult--
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28/11/2023
Iwamoto-style drawing Masterclass: Bonus!
It is the "Give the leather and metal items a bit of flare/shine to immediately make the drawing look more complete"-jutsu!
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30/11/2023
I wanted the clothes to give off an oversized, loose impression.
Canon Hughes didn't seem to be wearing a shirt underneath... hmm.
03/12/2023
I am beginning to understand the structure of the military uniform better...
Realising the butt flap/cape didn’t actually connect to the upper jacket is a shocker to me.
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03/12/2023
A continuation of yesterday's sketch
...or so I thought, until I realized how King Bradley and Kimblee during the Ishval war had a different overcoat design, in which they actually wore a single long coat instead of a separated upper and bottom set.
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04/12/2023
When his clothes were unbuttoned, there was something that looked like an additional button on his right chest... I wonder if it could be fastened from the back?
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(Translator's note: sorry, I have no idea what button he's referring to here lol)
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05/12/2023
I like how each character's personality was expressed through the way they dress. Contrary to his appearance, this person was very intelligent, which makes him such a great character.
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greentrickster · 8 months
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Hey @somerandomdudelmao, I don't really art at turtle level, so instead have some words and be appreciated, dang it!!!
For Cass
And we ask you, "Did you know? Did you see how far you'd go?"
"No," you say, "I didn't know. Twice and thrice I'll tell you so,
For seeing here what would be done, who could believe they'd be the one
To take these pieces where they lay (where all believed they'd likely stay)
And make a thing so large and great? That's so much effort to create?
No, a simple sketch, a little fun, a single joke and it'd be done."
But here you are, just look around (unless you're busy breaking ground
On new types of pain and joy to see), note just how wondrous you can be.
How many minds you've set on fire, the stories, the art you did inspire,
Notes attached, parallels found, colours added (also sound),
Emotions too many to ever label (that time we went, "Hey, have a table!"),
Laughter enough to touch the sky, a dark lake fed on tears we cry...
And perhaps one day we all will part, ending this journey of the heart,
And when it comes, if you'll allow this one request: please take your bow.
For every chuckle, every twist, without you? They'd not exist;
Blame no destiny or fate, you are the cause that makes them great!
And all who read know I speak true: This story's heart was born of you.
So draw until you've had your fill, write whatever words you will,
Your footsteps untouched by time's sand
Say "Cass was here, and Cass was grand."
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softest-punk · 7 months
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You ever thought about writing hanahaki for Dreamling? (With a happy ending of course). Totally okay if not, just thouht I'd ask
~💕
I love hanahaki as a trope and we've established that I am obsessed w/flowers in the Dreaming so really I'm surprised I haven't. Let's sketch something out :D
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Hob Gadling dreams of roses. The thorny vines of them pinning wrists and ankles, curling tight around his chest, holding him with immoveable strength. The petals brushing delicately over his skin, gentle and exploratory. The fruit pressed between his teeth, bursting tart and floral, remembered from his boyhood, over his tongue, coating his mouth, the juices running down his throat.
On account of the state he wakes in, he resolves not to ask his friend about it.
***
It had started, Dream sees in hindsight, in the year 1589. The Dreaming had quite spontaneously produced a perfect budded rose, red as heart's blood and dropped it nearly into his hand. He had taken it without thought into the Waking. To give to Hob Gadling. It had seemed, at the time, to belong to Hob.
At the last moment he had changed his mind. An instinct, that such a thing would not be entirely welcome.
But he had never considered the why of the rose, or that he may not have seen the end of it.
***
There's a single red rose in a little bud vase on every table in the New Inn before Hob's had so much as a conscious thought about doing it. Roses on the brain, obviously, but it is coming up to Valentine's day, so at least he doesn't look entirely mad. Maybe that was it. Roses, Valentine's day, dry spell all adding up to weird sex dreams.
The bell over the door tinkles, but it tinkles in a particular way that tells him exactly who's come through it before he turns to look.
His smile widens into a grin when he does, and sees a familiar pale figure sweeping over to the bar, the maze of tables and chairs proving no obstacle for him.
At least, they normally don't. Dream stops dead in front of one he'd normally step gracefully around, and stares at the rose in the middle of it.
"They're for Valentine's day," Hob says, since he's decided that's true now. He's done enough of them that he just does them on autopilot. And the lack of anyone to take somewhere nice, and then home, means he's making up for it other ways. Makes perfect sense.
He chooses to ignore that Dream has told him dreams affect your view of waking life. In impassioned terms, even. He's actually adorable when he cares about something.
Hob does not plan to call him adorable to his face.
"I. See," Dream says, reaching out to touch the bud, running delicate fingers over it. He seems to relax, as though a weight's been lifted off his shoulders. "That is soon?"
"Tuesday," Hob says.
Dream looks blankly at him.
"Today is Friday."
Still blank.
"Five days, including today," Hob says finally. "Do you need it in hours?" he teases.
"Days are the most sensible measurement of time for me, thank you," Dream says.
"We ought to capitalise. Something for the lovebirds and something for the lonely hearts," he says. "But you didn't come here to talk about marketing gimmicks."
"If that is what you would like to talk about..." Dream trails off, finally tearing his attention from the rose.
"God no, not with you." Hob laughs. "Far more interesting things to talk about with you."
***
"Valentine's day," Dream pronounces to the rose-choked throne room with serene satisfaction. He has solved the mystery. The dreamers are bringing their own hopes and desires with them to the Dreaming, as they ought, as is their right.
***
Eight days later, the throne room remains choked with roses.
***
Hob dreams of being laid down on a bed of rose petals under the stars. Someone must've done the laying down, he thinks, but they're... shadowy. Formless. Present, but not so he can reach out and touch them.
He can feel them looking, though. As if every star in the sky is an eye watching him. It might be frightening, but it's not. It's the gaze of a friend.
***
"Valentine's day is over?" Dream confirms, noting the new roses—blush pink, the colour of rising desire—dotted about the New Inn. These ones are in half-bloom, awakened but not at their full potential, and there are rather more of them.
"Forgot, did you? That'll be why I never got a card," Hob teases.
***
"My lord, I wouldn't disturb you, but there have been several—"
Dream watches the word complaints die on Lucienne's lips as she sees what he has been staring at for quite some time.
A tangle of thorny, flowering vines overtaking the throne.
***
Once, Hob thinks, is just an occurrence. Twice is a coincidence. Three times, though, that makes it a pattern.
When the pattern is waking up with a rose petal in his mouth, and the feeling of having been choked, though, perhaps the first time should've seemed more important.
Especially when he hears someone else talking about it. And then another person. And then a third.
***
"Dream!"
It is folly to be here. To present himself before Hob. His feelings will not change because of it. They began because of it.
And yet he has a choice to make. The signs are clear. He knows, in his heart—his thorn and vine-choked heart—what he must do.
The burden of his feelings is too great a one to put on a friend as loyal as Hob has been. Too great to put on any human, lest he immediately destroy them.
And he would not destroy Hob.
It is strange to think, that once he has done what must be done, he will no longer care that he has done it. He will no longer care at all. Impossible to imagine that a thing which is now agonising to contemplate will be inconsequential when it is over.
"My friend," Dream says, submitting to Hob's bright smile and offering one of his own in exchange.
One last time. And then it will be over.
***
"But how—"
"I must tear it out," Dream says, interrupting Lucienne's question. Vines curl over his feet, around his ankles as he looks upon his task. They have begun to curl around her, as well, and to escape the palace grounds, spreading seeking tendrils out into the far reaches of the Dreaming, consuming all in their path.
He cannot allow it. No matter the cost, he cannot allow the Dreaming to falter again, so soon after it has been rebuilt.
If he will not confess his feelings—if Hob cannot return them, which surely he cannot—then this is the only option remaining.
"But sir, that's... that's your heart," Lucienne says.
"Only part of it," Dream says. "The part of it which loves. And it has caused more than enough trouble."
***
Sleep is elusive, despite talking late into the night with Dream. Or perhaps because of.
Because the thing is, the whole thing had felt a bit. Valedictory.
Hob doesn't like it. Can't sleep because of it, even though sleep is about the only thing that might tell him anything useful. He wishes, not for the first time, that Dream had a phone. He'd feel much better if he could text to ask if he was all right.
Because he hadn't been. It's so obvious, as Hob plays their conversation over. Too much in the way of talking about the past. Too many instances of the word friend by half. He'd been too free with his praises for no earthly reason and while some part of Hob had always sort've wanted to impress the weird little bastard and had liked to hear he'd managed it once or twice, it wasn't... right.
A Dream who was all right wouldn't have been like that.
He stares up at the ceiling for another half hour, and then gets up, goes to the medicine cabinet, and swallows down half a bottle of sleeping pills, one at a time.
***
"Dream?"
"Hob?" Dream startles, looking up from the pulsing mass cradled in his hands. The pulsing speeds up, growing faster, as he takes in Hob's plaid pyjama bottoms and bare toes, his hair tousled with sleep.
"You're not all right," Hob says. And then, "that's mine."
He is looking at Dream's hands. At the thing in it. The piece of his heart which beats—louder, harder again—for the man standing before him. So yes. In a sense. It is his.
"You were going to destroy it," Hob says, knowing as one can only know in dreams. He ought not to be able to. He ought to be more conscious.
Something is wrong.
"Hob, what have you done?" Dream asks, panic rising up in him. This is ridiculous, on his part. Death will not touch Hob, and he will recover from anything else.
Dream ought to rip the thing in his hands out of the vines surrounding it, crush it, render it to powder. He would not worry, would not panic, if it was gone. He would no longer care.
"You can't destroy it," Hob says, moving over to him. Dream watches in stunned horror as Hob reaches out to touch his heart.
It twists, under his touch. Writhes and spasms and it hurts, it is a searing agony that pulses through the Dreaming in waves, and the whole realm thrashes against it. Thunder booms outside, rain lashes, lightning cracks the firmament, the very ground beneath them rumbles a threat.
"I know what this is," Hob says, still holding it, looking up to catch Dream's gaze.
"I know what it is," he repeats, and he does. He knows. The knowledge is irrevocable now. "And it's mine, and I want it."
"You cannot possibly—"
"I was so scared there was something wrong. That you were saying goodbye. It sounded like a goodbye. I don't want to lose you. Can't. Won't. So you're going to give this to me," Hob says. "You're going to give it to me because I want it. I know what it is. I can feel it, all of it. So there's no scaring me off now."
"Hob," Dream says, pausing to swallow. "It will destroy you. It can do nothing else."
"Dream," Hob says, eyes hard and serious. "I killed myself to get here. Utterly too late to start worrying about my destruction. The thing about me is that I always come through it. You know that. Nothing's beaten me yet and if you'll excuse me for saying it, it's not going to be you," he continues, looking down at the pulsing fragment of Dream's heart in his hand. "And it's definitely not going to be with this. Are you listening? I. Want. It."
The Dreaming, perhaps stunned by Hob's force stills.
The mass in Hob's hand shifts again, curling up on itself, tightening and tightening until finally it stabilises into a perfect red rosebud.
Hob holds it between his fingers, examines it for a moment, and then, before Dream can recover enough from the shock to stop him, puts it in his mouth and swallows it whole.
"There," he says. "Problem solved."
Dream watches, mouth hanging open, as Hob fades away.
***
Hob wakes with a gasp, as he always does when the waking up is caused by his heart suddenly starting again. His mouth is dry and fuzzy. His bedroom is dark, which makes this... not morning, which he suspects it ought to be.
There's a weight beside him, a solid shape.
He turns his head, cautious, and sees Dream sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, and breaks into a smile.
Dream's expression shifts into a scowl that would make a lesser man disgrace himself, Hob thinks.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he thunders, a low rumbling sound that makes Hob's insides squirm—definitely worse when they're still coming back online—and glares at him. Forget whether or not looks can kill, Hob's absolutely positive this one would be fatal were he not immortal.
"I do, actually," Hob croaks, throat dry. He can feel what he's done. Feel that it's real. That it was all real.
Dream continues to glare at him.
"I never made the connection, I never thought you could get it," Hob says. "And it's perfectly treatable these days. But. You were ill. Lovesick."
Dream stops glaring at him, and starts glaring at his duvet.
"What you have done will not work," Dream says. "It will only delay the inevitable, because you cannot possibly—"
"Love you?" Hob interrupts. "Want you to love me? Enough to metaphorically swallow your heart?"
Dream wets his lips. "From my perspective it was very literal."
"Sorry," Hob lies.
With an incredible effort, he hauls himself up to a sitting position, and rests a hand on Dream's knee.
"With the full understanding that I really do love you before I say this," Hob says. "You are the densest known object in the universe."
Dream looks up then, glare back in place, eyes shining with tears.
Hob takes pity on him, and tugs him in for a kiss. It's short, and soft, and the technique is off and their noses get in each other's way, but it's still good. It's so, so good. Something inside Hob absolutely sings with it. Something that's nestled itself under his ribcage, tucked up beside his own heart, and settled there, a warm, pulsing weight in his chest.
More importantly, it seems to get through.
"But—"
"I know, I know, you're just absolutely impossible to love and even if you weren't I'm not up to the challenge and also you don't deserve it anyway and besides, I can't possibly want to love you."
Dream looks up at him, those tears really threatening to fall now.
"With, again, the full understanding that I really do love you and I'm not just saying it recreationally," Hob says. "What if you listened to someone who wasn't you for once?"
Dream wrinkles his nose.
But he doesn't run off, so Hob already knows he's won. That maybe Dream wants this enough to listen.
"I love you," he repeats, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of Dream's mouth. "I love you." His nose. "I love you." Between his brows. "I knew what I was doing. I did it on purpose. I don't regret it. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid. Teach you to make absolutely awful romantic choices."
Miraculously, Dream's lips twitch. "You are very far from my worst."
Hob laughs, and brushes another kiss over his lips. "Plenty of time to work on being the best."
571 notes · View notes
hispg · 6 months
Text
Safe haven
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Pairings: Leon x Reader
Wc:4.0k
Summary: How Leon deals with his ptsd over the years.
Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, depressive thoughts, suicidal intent, Leon hating himself.
An: This one follows the cannon order, so it starts with r2 Leon, r4, r6, vendetta, ends with Death Island.
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Denial
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Since Leon returned from Raccoon City, nothing has been the same. You've seen the man you knew die day after day, his personality changing like water to wine. And he knew it, he knew it better than anyone.
You still remember perfectly when he arrived, covered in blood, with a bandage on his arm, a face with the most terrified expression you could imagine.
The horrors he had witnessed in that place were simply out of this world. What should have been a simple first day at work turned into a living hell. There were things he wouldn't erase from his memory, the way he had to kill all his co-workers, the way he saw everyone around him die. He felt bad, guilty, even though he had no control over it.
It was a lot for one person, a lot for him to process.
A night that would mark him for the rest of his life.
In order not to involve you too much in the subject, he never went into too much detail, just briefly saying something or other. But you could imagine, the way his fear was clear on his face, his lips trembling every time he tried to talk to you about what had happened.
You saw the way he woke up every night, covered in a layer of sweat, whimpering and almost screaming in his room. He never slept properly, always woke up in a state of sheer panic, and it only got worse as time went on. It wasn't something he could control, not even he himself could believe that he had come out of that nightmare alive.
And he often wished he hadn't.
All he forced himself to believe was that it would be something momentary, an event that he would forget or at least get better with the passage of time.
But it didn't.
He beat himself up every day, unable to forget a single second of that night. He could have helped more, he could have done more, maybe he could have saved more people.
Deep down, he knew it was impossible. A simple situation where a hundred were sacrificed to save one.
There were days when he couldn't even leave the house, and he also begged you to stay with him. A panic attack that haunted him almost daily, he needed you to be there. At least he knew you would be safe by his side, and he needed you, as if you were the air he breathed.
All this was due to the fact that he couldn't cope on his own, if you didn't sleep next to him every night, he wouldn't even try to close his eyes. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to doze off for a single moment, not that he'd ever get a good night's sleep.
He often refused, refused to believe that it was real, refused to believe that it had ever happened. But every time he closed his eyes and heard the screams of agony echoing in his head, he remembered the painful reality.
It was almost customary for him to try to recover from everything he had experienced, to lift his face, wipe away the tears and force an expression from someone who was fine.
But you and he knew it was just a lie.
Everything took a turn for the worse when he was interrogated and basically forced to work for the government. It was a 'deal', he would work for the government in exchange for the little girl safety, a little girl called Sherry, who he found and saved in the middle of the chaos that night.
Although he didn't want to, he didn't think it was fair to let a girl as young as her suffer in a laboratory, maybe it was crazy to compromise his life for someone he barely knew. But that was him, the guy who put others before himself. So he accepted the 'agreement'.
He just wanted to be someone normal, to forget about that damn trauma, to forget about the pain of that night and to put all those events behind him.
But he couldn't, and maybe he wasn't ready for that fact.
The Leon of before no longer existed, maybe a small sketch left, but he would never be able to get back on his feet and be like before.
Never.
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Anger
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Leon's life began to turn upside down even more, after the hell that happened in Raccoon City, he was forced to go to military training, supposedly to serve the government. Even years after what happened, the night was still incredibly vivid in his mind. Every detail was stagnant in his memory, a mark he couldn't remove.
All he felt now was anger, all hidden in that sullen face that had become his usual expression. He hid behind it, hoping you wouldn't notice how cold and indifferent he was becoming. It was the only way to protect himself that he found.
And he hated that things were this way.
What he didn't expect was that he would become an agent working for the President. Everything that had already happened to him was enough, and he still seemed to be getting worse and worse.
Like a bottomless pit, he just fell lower and lower.
At this point he no longer cared about much, he was becoming more and more stressed with work and that damn training.
You lost count of how many times he came home scratched, bruised, with some part of his body purple. One time he even arrived with a broken rib, and he didn't even try to explain to you what had happened.
He just did his bandages silently, with your help. And he didn't even say a single word about it, and you worried like crazy. You didn't even know if he would arrive in one piece the next day.
It wasn't difficult to assimilate all the abuse he was suffering in that place, you had already heard a few times the way some of his training partners spoke to him on the phone. They weren't friendly at all.
All he did was hide what he felt with that sulky face, more and more you saw him becoming closed off. It was rare that he talked about his training, or his day.
Even he had become increasingly discreet about his nightmares, or even his anxiety attacks. He always thought he could handle it on his own, it was his problem. That he had learned to cope, or at least he thought he had.
Because it was the same story as always. Just a man doing what he hated, reliving the past and charting a hateful future.
And that couldn't be avoided.
And well, nothing got better when he was called to a mission in Spain, looking for the President's daughter. He didn't feel excited about the situation at all, he didn't even want to go. However, there wasn't much of an option.
He tried to warn you, in fact he didn't warn you, he just said he was going to Spain, just like that.
It wasn't hard to imagine that this caused a small fight between you, since he could at least tell you what it was about. But he didn't say.
"Don't pressure me, don't even try to look into things that's not your business." Leon hisses at you, turning his back and leaving you behind with tears in your eyes. All you heard after was the door slamming, and he disappeared for a few days.
Surely he knew the shit he had done, and every moment that passed he felt his heart tighten. His anxiety reaching its worst peaks. As he began to understand what was happening in that old village, he felt terror wash over him once again. The fear of not being able to return terrified him, he doesn't even know how he managed to stay upright in the face of all that.
He felt trapped in a nightmare again.
Another hell, he didn't even know that he would go through a situation similar to Raccoon City again, but to his displeasure it happened. Once again he doesn't know how he came out alive, he was terrified of witnessing death several times in a row. The only thing he thought about was going home, he needed a place to call home. And he needed you, in a way he couldn't put into words. So many words he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do, especially seeing more people around him die. After having done everything he did to survive.
He needed someone.
Everything he had planned to tell you went down the drain as soon as he got home, the first thing he saw was you lying on the sofa, wearing one of his shirts.
It didn't take long for him to take off his boots, and walk towards you, he was shabby, a complete mess. It was no surprise.
He gently gave you a gentle kiss on the cheek, so as not to wake you, and sat down on the floor next to you. He intended to spend the night there, as he certainly wouldn't be able to sleep no matter how hard he tried.
With his fists clenched, his face set, a strange feeling running through his body. Once again he felt like it was a tantrum, but it wasn't.
A single tear wet his cheeks, followed by several others.
And then he realized, the reality of the facts caught up with him.
And the terrifying feeling returned.
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Understanding
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A few more painful years passed, and it was indeed optimistic to say that things had improved. It was as if everything was exhausting, he couldn't have fun with the things he liked.
As if his life was in a loop where he couldn't stop, he couldn't get out of it. It just kept going again and again, it shouldn't be like this.
But was.
It wasn't hard to notice how grumpy he had become. He was no longer someone of many words, and now he was even more closed off. If it was possible.
The grown beard that only showed how disinterested he was in his own appearance. He was at a point where he barely looked at himself in the mirror, his dark blond strands falling down his face. And he didn't even bother to trim his hair and leave it the way he liked it.
He didn't even look in the mirror, he hated every time he saw his own reflection. He learned to hate every one of his scars, every mark that remained from his missions, he hated with all of his heart. It was an otherworldly aversion, he shouldn't feel this way about himself, but that didn't matter. Not now.
He learned to hate himself.
He hated the way that even after all these years his traumas still haunted him, the way he still had those terrible nightmares. He hated the way he treated you, so cold and distant.
So different from what he once was.
Since it all started in Raccoon City, he always knew that the part of the soul he lost there he would never recover. But he didn't imagine things would be this bad.
It was as if no moment was good, as if everything revolved around his work and the problems that came with it. He became such a focused person that he would sometimes go days without showering, with his hair all messy and his face completely tired. From someone who hadn't had rest in days. And that person was exactly him.
He would often make minimal effort to talk to you, try to start a conversation and tell you how his day was going. But who said he could? The poor man got so used to keeping things to himself that sharing it was complicated.
The words tumbled in his mouth, he couldn't form a sentence that made any sense and didn't sound desperate. But he failed as soon as he said the first word, and just ended up changing the subject.
Therefore, he learned that nothing would be the same as before, even after all these years in which he hoped that things would change, for the better. But to his chagrin this didn't happen, and everything went downhill.
He tried his best to come to terms with all of this, since he was already someone who had seen a lot, and had already done a lot as well. But that didn't stop him from feeling bad, from feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
And it wasn't?
At that point he ignored what he felt, if he was called to a mission he would simply go, even though he was extremely upset about the matter. Because in those moments he realized that he was just an object of the government.
A powerful weapon that was capable of stopping the crap that happened here or there, and that was it. Just it.
Nothing more than a weapon.
What else could he expect? The turn things took only made the government's intentions clear, and he didn't approve at all. He was always against it, but who said he was listened to?
He had already accepted this, a cruel fate from which he had little option of escaping. He had already dealt with it.
He forced himself to believe those words.
All he could do was hate himself more and more, every time he came home tired and saw you, his heart broke.
How did he still have you by his side? How the hell was such a sweet person still willing to stay by his side. It wasn't fair.
He deserved to be alone.
Day after day he found himself looking for things to get rid of the bitterness that his life had become, what he found was drinking.
One of the few things that let him breathe, even if just for a few hours. It started slowly, but he needed to increase it.
It was an obligation, it was either that or get home and feel like the worst person in the world. This addiction started slowly, in a subtle way.
However, it then got out of control, and once again he found himself in his worst state.
"There's no turning back.." A whisper coming from him, drunk and completely out of his mind.
His life was a dead end, and he had no hope that it would get better.
Another day of remorse, another day living in his shoes.
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Depression
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The only consolation he found now was drinking, at least it helped the pain go away for a moment. Even though at some point he had to increase the doses more and more, he needed it to take effect.
If at any point he had tried to have some closeness with you back, that had ended in the last few months. He couldn't even take care of himself, let alone take care of you.
He was a different man, and not in a good way.
At that point he already accepted that he had lost himself, that he no longer had salvation, his mind was torturing him.
It was suffering just to be alive.
The fact that he always lost people around him, that he had to kill his own team because he wasn't able to save them. How the hell was he supposed to survive with this? How could he say everything was fine?
Everything around him was dying, like he had a curse around him or something. Not even he wanted to understand this. The weight of the years he lived in this torture was catching up to him.
And nothing could be done, once again.
The nightmares, the weight on his conscience, the memory of each of the missions. It was an unhealthy cycle he was trapped in.
Certainly an addiction wouldn't solve the situation, but what would? Pay nicely as always? Hold his head up and follow orders like a puppy?
"Piece of shit." That's what he mutters when he sees himself in the reflection of his cell phone, disappointed with the way everything is happening. How he was dealing with all of this. His appearance was different, hair more swept to the side, a longer beard. Clothes that not even he knew he would wear at some point.
But what would be the other way? How?
Disappointment, anger, depression, all mixed up in his head. He didn't know what he should do with these bottled up feelings that were haunting him day after day.
All the missions, all the people he lost, everything he experienced. How could someone go through so much like that?
How could he have gone through this and still somehow moved on?
This time he didn't even bother trying to hide from you the displeasure he had created for life, he rarely spent time at home, and when he did it was all day grumbling or drinking.
A great guilt invaded him when you cried because nothing you tried to do seemed to help, but this wasn't about you.
It was about him.
His mood only worsened when Chris called him to another mission, actually it wasn't really a call, more like a statement that he was going to another mission.
This was his life for the last few years, mission after mission, without even a moment for himself, not that he was going to do anything other than drink in the meantime.
What could have happened special this time? Another mission where he comes close to death several times, where he simply doesn't know if he'll return home in one piece. And he could swear he didn't care about it or not.
At least he thought so.
But perhaps the fact of working with people close to him this time made him see that things could be worth it again. Although it wasn't the friendliest place to think this, he couldn't deny that it gave him some comfort since he worked with people he knew, especially Chris, who was one of the few people he liked at work. Despite grumbling a lot.
He appreciated the fact that things ended well this time, for the first time in a long time.
There was still a little light in the good things, in the little daily things. Sometimes things didn't always have a bad ending.
The people around him wouldn't always fade away or betray him, that wouldn't always be the course of things.
Maybe now he was ready to start improving a little, maybe yes, maybe no. He would only know if he tried.
Once the madness of the mission was over, all he could think about was you, he could only think about seeing you one more time after everything that had happened. It was a desire so big that it couldn't fit in his chest.
You can bet he was counting the minutes until he got home, he needed to feel your presence again. He needed to know that he had people who were there for him.
He needed your comfort, your reassurance.
Once he got home the first thing he did was look for you, it was more than a desire, it was a need.
Without you even realizing it, you see him leaning against the kitchen counter, with an almost unremarkable smile. You even surprise yourself, since it had been a good few months since you had seen even a trace of a happy expression on his face.
"I'm back.." He says in a whisper, looking at you gently for the first time in a while.
You look at him a little hesitantly, wanting to give him a hug, not knowing if he wanted that or not.
A simple gesture but one that made your day, he opened his arms to you, waiting for you to do what you wanted.
Without a shadow of a doubt he needed this as much as you did.
Maybe there's still a way out. Maybe there is still a way.
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Acceptance
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Leon was trying, he was trying his best to be a better man. You could tell that, the way he was cutting back on alcohol, the way he was trying to be more attentive to you.
These little things indicated an effort on his part, he didn't want to hate himself anymore, he didn't want to feel so indifferent anymore. Maybe it was time for a change, he didn't need to be like this anymore.
He had people he could count on, and after all, he had you. That even after his coldness in recent years, you never left him, it was time to reciprocate.
And of course there were things he couldn't let go of so easily, especially his problems with trauma, and he already knew that it was a weight he would carry for the rest of his life.
He would never forget.
But he was also trying to learn not to be like that anymore, things could still have a good side. He could still have hope, even if it was a mere drop. Life had been hard on him from the beginning, but he needed to find some motivation. He couldn't live regretting forever, putting himself down every time.
It was time to rise again, time to pick up the pieces and rebuild. Little by little, and of course he would never be the same as before. But he could be a better person, and he would do everything he could to make that happen. You could notice this drastic change even more, since he came back from the last mission, he was different. So proof is that, as soon as he got home he hugged you, and spent a good ten minutes like that.
Probably feeling overwhelmed with yet another mission, duties that seemed to never end. But he wouldn't think about that now.
He wanted to try to be happy. At least one attempt.
Small efforts, for example trying to open up to you, saying few things, but it was a great start. He knew that if he continued like this he would be able to share his problems with you, it certainly wouldn't weigh so much on him if he could share them with you.
His mind was still a mess, but he was trying to organize himself, put his thoughts in order. It was a long and difficult road, but he wanted to bet that he would make it.
It was the glimmer of hope he had.
Leon now went out with you, took you for rides on his motorbike. He begins to realize that life could go beyond work, that not everything needs to be so bad.
You could see him smiling more, he had even gone back to making those corny jokes that never failed to make you laugh. Most importantly, he seemed content, sometimes even at peace with himself.
The desire he had to disappear, little by little was fading, and he began to gain a little more zest for life. Things wouldn't always go wrong, and he could relax a little, even try to let his guard down whenever possible.
Even once you caught him laughing like a fool on his cell phone, only to see him having fun watching a video of a dog, which in his eyes was incredibly funny.
Seeing this, you decide to give him a pet on his birthday. And you almost cried once you saw the joy in his eyes, that sparkle in his eyes that you missed so much.
"I love you." A shy and low voice, accompanied by the most beautiful smile you've ever seen. How long has it been since you last heard this? The sweet way the phrase slid across his lips. A moment so subtle but so sweet, and one that you hoped would be repeated more and more.
Life was worth it, he would make it worth it again.
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owliellder · 7 months
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The Finer Details
Post DI! Leon Kennedy x f! Painter Reader
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MDNI 18+
(Session 1, Session 2, Session 3, Session 4, Session 5, The Reveal)
Description: Leon realizes that retirement is in his best interest now that he's getting older. All of his accomplishments as an agent mean he's truly earned a painting to commemorate..
Warnings: Not Proofread, Age gap! (reader is anywhere between mid-late 20's and Leon is 40), Porn w/ Plot, Use of she/her pronouns, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Alcoholism, mentions of trauma/PTSD/depression, P in V smut (wrap it NEOW), Leon cries during sex 💔
Tags: Older Leon Kennedy, Younger afab!Reader, Leon is SAD but he is your muse, Crying, mentions of Leon masturbating, starts off with Dom! Leon and Sub! Reader, falls into switch territory because that man needs some serious TLC, Praise kink, Hickeys, Handjob, Nipple play, Oral sex (m! and f! receiving), and a heavy dose of Aftercare
Author Note: I wanna say there's some pretty descriptive talk about depression in this chapter, just as a heads up. Anyways, it's my weekend and I'm going to be absolutely zooted every single day so the next chapter will most likely be out Monday morning PST lol.
Cross-posted on AO3
Session 3: Blocking In Color
It was nearly three weeks until you saw Leon again.
You tried to call him a couple days after he'd left that day, a few more times over the following week, but to no avail. The man was unreachable.
Even though you did your best to convince yourself that you just wanted to get his painting started, "It was an important one", you knew that you were really just worried about him.
You've seen this kind of dismay with the other retired agents that've had a portrait painted in the past, but they at least recognized what they'd been through.
Leon hasn't. You could just tell.
Looking over the sketches you made of his face, you couldn't help but wonder what exactly he'd been thinking about the last time he was here. He seemed so bothered, acting like he was hiding it so well, too.
Then again, you did drop a rather large bombshell on the guy while he was in a pretty vulnerable state, but you thought he knew what the portrait he was going to receive was suppose to mean. Again, most of the retired agents you'd seen were similar to Leon in that regard and even they at least had a basic grasp on the finality of it all. So why didn't he?
You nursed your bottom lip, still staring at the sketches laying in front of you while you sat at one of your desks in the corner. You normally don't come to your workspace unless you're actively painting, yet you'd shown up everyday in hopes Leon would randomly pop in. He seemed like the kind of guy to just kind of show up, anyways...
If you had just gotten a picture that day you've could've at least started working out the positioning for his portrait. Unfortunately, he wasn't in any position mentally to put up with anymore of your shenanigans at the time, it seemed.
You really did try your best to get ahold of Leon, eventually giving up a few days ago. You'd already emailed the President, who had been the one to personally commission you unlike with previous ex-agents, letting him know that it's going to be longer than expected. Thankfully he was understanding, knowing rather well how much the whole retirement thing was weighing on Leon.
You'll come back tomorrow and try again. Even the next day, and the day after that if you have to, and so on and so forth.
Guilty. That's all Leon felt right now.
He's been shelled up in his house since the moment he got home after leaving your building, withering away by the minute.
He hadn't showered, barely eaten, only ever really pulling himself from what little comfort his room offered to grab whatever bottle he touched first in the cabinet. Leon didn't care, just as long as it was something.
Chris had been over a couple times after he stopped responding to his messages, doing his best to get him out of the house. Claire had been over a few times more than her brother had, bringing groceries once she'd heard about the sad state Leon was keeping himself in.
It broke both their hearts, but they could only do so much for him. Leon was stubborn, head strong, he wasn't the kind to sway to many forces. He had somehow gaslit himself into thinking he was doing well. "Just peachy", even.
Clearly that wasn't the case, both Chris and Claire could see that. They'd have to be blind not to.
Having been in contact with Leon's government-assigned therapist, Chris tried to set up an at-home meeting for him one day. That turned out to be a disaster seeing as Leon was bordering on blackout drunk and could barely keep his eyes open. Not to mention the vomiting.
Claire even tried to bathe Leon. She only got far enough to wash his hair in his kitchen sink, using his vomit-covered mouth as an excuse to keep him over the sink long enough to shampoo his greasy, stringy hair.
All of it was weighing on him too much. He felt so guilty for making his friends feel like they had to babysit him, ignoring everyone's calls and messages, your calls and messages. That kind of thought process quickly spiraled into him reliving the worst days of his life, having to through suffer so many flashbacks and nightmares, not sleeping because of it. He rarely ever felt safe enough to get under the covers on his bed.
None of this is what he wanted. If it were up to him, he'd start all over; be twenty-one again, work as a cop, maybe get promoted a few times, find a girlfriend, start a family, have a normal life. Why couldn't he have that?
Staying awake night after night, Leon would stare at the ceiling in his bedroom and fantasize about the wonderful life he could've had, the happy memories he could've made. It would make him weep, longing for something that never could've been.
Instead, Leon was stuck with endless images of horror, death, and gore every time he blinked, and oh was he bitter about it all. So bitter, so angry, so...
Feeling sorry for himself was all he could do now. Sure, he killed all those monsters and zombies, saved all those people, not once did he think about himself through the years. Now he had all the time in the world to question and wonder, and having to think about himself and what he wanted most made him feel like a needy, greedy bastard.
But wasn't he allowed to be greedy, if only just a little? He had wants, needs, and though he wanted so desperately to change his past, he knew he couldn't. So, what did he want now? That, he didn't know.
Guilty for feeling this way, guilty for wanting different, guilty for wanting anything good for himself.
It took the better part of those two weeks for Leon to finally muster up some form of energy to stumble into his bathroom and shower one afternoon, dizzy and nauseous. The light emanating from the rest of his house was blinding, not having even bothered to close the shades he had on any of his windows. His room was kept a cave and that's where he stayed.
Leon now found himself sitting down in the shower just like before he'd decided to retire, only this time it was mostly to keep from slipping and dying. The last thing he needed anyone to see was him naked and dead in the shower. Embarrassing.
His thoughts at the moment were shallow, still pretty drunk from his bender, head lulling back and forth a bit as his vision spun. He was finally hungry again, the heat from the shower making that all the more obvious as he grew lightheaded, but he didn't know what he wanted.
After managing to actually crawl his way out of the shower, he dug through the pile of dirty laundry at the end of his bed, finding a pair of boxers that didn't smell too terrible to put on.
Leon used the wall heavily for support to walk out into his kitchen, muttering curses under his breath at just how bright it was. Opening his freezer, he stared at the meal prep containers left by Claire, grabbing one to attempt and read what she'd wrote on the sticky note attached to the lid.
That's right... She made him little meals, even putting them in the freezer so they didn't go bad as fast. All he had to do was put it in the microwave.
Simple enough, he could do that.
The one he chose was meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Just the sound of it had his stomach rumbling and his mind craving the comforting taste of a home cooked meal.
The first few bites in made Leon feel nauseous again, but once those bites hit his stomach the feeling immediately gave way to just how hungry he actually was.
He tried to pace himself, he really did try, yet he managed to devour the food in front of him in a matter of minutes, only pausing every few seconds to breathe. It felt so good, something warm in his stomach. Filling in all the right ways. Once he finished, he pushed the empty container away and just laid his head down sideways on the cool countertop, closing his eyes as he let the food settle.
As much as he wanted to degrade himself for acting this way, reducing himself to such a weird and pathetic state, Leon didn't have the mind to. All he knew right now was that the warmth that the meal Claire made him. Not to sound cliche, but he genuinely believed he could taste the love cooked into it.
For the first time in what was now two and a half weeks, Leon was awake and alert when Chris and Claire came over again. He'd eaten everything Claire made, holding all the now cleaned containers out to her. It was a silent plea for more, and lucky for Leon, she had just made another grocery trip for him.
Unbeknownst to him, Claire had been cooking here at his house. This entire time he thought she'd been bringing the meals over, assumed to be leftovers from cooking for her family. She did confess to hoping the smell of the food cooking would pull him from his room. It didn't, much to her dismay, but now she was just glad he was up and eating again.
As soon as Leon tried to apologize for dragging her away from her family, she was quick to shut him down with that mom stare she'd developed after having her kids. It worked, especially on him.
Chris was busy chatting up Leon while Claire cooked him another set of meals for the next week. It was hard to converse, but Leon did manage to nod and him as the other man talked about some random encounter he had the other day while out driving.
It was strange to feel so lively again. Those thoughts still clung to the back of his mind, though all he could focus on were his friends taking care of him like one of their own. Leon feels like he's been a terrible friend lately, seems as though the siblings standing in his kitchen didn't feel the same. He wasn't showing it, but Leon was definitely holding back a smile.
A couple hours had past, Chris opting to stay with Leon and eat lunch since Claire had to head back and help her husband with something.
The hug Claire gave Leon was phenomenal. After the hug he shared with you he's been craving that physical contact more than ever, so finally getting another good squeeze from a friend was boosting his mood.
Chris and him sat, ate, and talked about whatever came to mind, eventually asking about you.
"How's the painting coming along? Do you like the painter?" He smiled, looking at Leon with wide, curious eyes. That man always had a smile gracing his features.
Leon shrugged, taking a sip from the water he poured himself not too long ago. He was pretty dehydrated after solely drinking alcohol for the past couple weeks. "She's alright. Haven't started the painting yet."
Chris raised an eyebrow, placing his arms on the counter and crossed them as he leaned forward slightly. "Just 'alright'?" he emphasized the word "alright" with air quotes, which caused Leon to scoff.
"What else do you want me to say? I've seen her twice so far and its been fine." Leon lifted his hands up in confusion, palms facing the ceiling as he watched the man sitting next to him rolled his eyes dramatically. "C'mon, she was amazing for Claire and I- Okay, how about this..."
Chris repositioned himself so his entire upper body was facing him now, leaning in a little closer to ask another question. "Do you like the room she works in? Cause I thought it was pretty comfy. When she was focusing on Claire's part of the portrait, I took a nap over on that rug she had. All those pillows mixed with the classical music knocked me the fuck out."
He laughed, shaking his head at memory before looking over at Leon again. "So...? And don't lie to me, I saw that pillow on your couch."
Leon sucked on his teeth and hummed, glancing over his shoulder at his couch. "It's cozy, yeah." He brought his head back forward, patting his hands gently against the counter.
The two chatted for awhile longer before Chris eventually had to leave, giving Leon a firm pat on the shoulder while shaking him a bit. After he left, Leon was left to sit alone and think again, only difference now is he felt better. He was crazy tired, his social battery quickly drained from having his friends around, but he felt good nonetheless.
He wasn't ready at the time, yet after a sober night with solid sleep, Leon woke up the next morning and decided to just text you, hoping you weren't mad at him. Calling would've been too much at that moment, not even have listened to the voicemails you left, or anyone's, for that matter.
His chest felt tight after sending the text, but it was quickly eased about ten minutes later when you responded with nothing but enthusiasm. The smiley face you added at the end of your message made him smile, quickly wiping it away with his hand.
Your next session was arranged two days ahead of time in the late afternoon. Leon wanted to give himself enough time to recollect since he needed to look his best the following weeks. You told him it was time to start with the main painting, which you still needed a picture for.
During that time he finally shaved his stubble, went out and got his hair trimmed, tackled all the laundry he'd neglected, and got his best suit dry cleaned. All thoughts aside, he felt good and wanted to stay this way.
Needless to say, Leon was jittery when he pulled up to your workplace again. He was finally letting himself feel excited again about this painting. If it's anything close to what Chris and Claire's portrait is, then that excitement will only continue to grow the further along you get.
You were already there waiting for him at the door, a gentle smile on your face. That wonderful soft perfume that he missed reaching his nose once more as you lead him up the stairs and through the other door. Chris was right, if he had the opportunity, he'd take a nap on your rug. It looked mighty comfy.
Leon was thankful you didn't ask any questions on his whereabouts, he wasn't ready to talk. You were just as excited as he was about getting the painting started, if not more. Watching you eagerly move back and forth between the larger easel and your desks was a refreshing sight to the man.
You stood at your easel for a couple minutes, just silently looking from the blank canvas to where he was sat. You told him to get into a comfortable position, prompting him rest his right leg on his left knee, leaning back and to the side so he was sitting at a slight angle, arms resting on the chair's armrests.
You stared at him for a few seconds, tilting your head side to side with your eyes squinted. "Let me just-" you spoke in a hushed voice, walking over to Leon before cautiously reaching out to rest one hand on the underside on his chin while the other hovered over the side of his face.
You weren't an idiot, you knew what his absence was from. So you made sure to be careful with him, knowing he was probably still pretty fragile. Only gentle and cautious touches for Mr. Kennedy.
So close yet so far. His skin tingled in your hands wake, and god he hoped you couldn't notice his blush.
You could, but you wouldn't say anything. Besides, you weren't faring well yourself, hands a little shaky as you touched his face.
Leon just let you move his head to whatever position you wanted, his eyes now half-lidded as you had walked back a couple times to get just the right angle. You pulled away for a final time with a small "aha!" and he wished you would hold his head for just a little longer.
The floor where your easel sat was marked with an 'X' made with painter's tape, making it easy for you to stay in the right spot for the photo once you pushed the easel out of the way.
"Don't move." You held your hands up after analyzing his position, quickly hurrying over the corner opposite of your desks to grab a bulky camera that sat atop a tall tripod. You worked as fast as you could, knowing as long as you had a picture with him in this position then this whole process would go so much smoother.
You didn't even have to ask Leon to smile or look up at the camera since he was sitting there with a rather dopey smile, his eyes remaining trained right on yours. Nice and natural. He looked relaxed which is exactly what you wanted.
Just as a precaution, you took multiple pictures, giving him a thumbs up once you figured you'd gotten enough. His head back to rest on the chair at the okay, listening to the sound of you walk over to your laptop after untwisting the camera from the tripod. You printed out 3 copies of the photograph and taped one to a stand you had brought over to sit next to the easel, making sure it sat eye level to you.
The ball was finally rolling, now having what you needed to start with the main sketch. When Leon lifted his head up, he noticed that you were ready, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose while he shifted a little to get back in just the right position.
You twirled your pencil between your fingers before beginning to roughly sketch out the chair, eyebrows furrowing as you focused. Leon could see your expression, how intensely you zoned into your work. It was incredibly admirable and he found himself fully content in just watching you do your thing.
It didn't take long before you had sketched out his general shapes, now walking over to take the sketches you made of his face out of your sketchbook to clip up right next to the reference photo. The more finer details would be added later, but you wanted to get just the basic shapes of his face.
That didn't take long either, because before Leon knew it, you were telling him it was okay to talk. He was pretty animated with his hands when he talked, so you kept him quiet until now.
"Am I easy to draw?" Leon spoke with an almost sultry tone after a few seconds of you telling him he could speak. It threw you off only a bit, carding your fingers through your hair as you took one step back to look at what you had so far.
"I wanna say yes and no." You responded, catching his questioning look from the corner of your eye. "You're easy to sketch out, yes, but your hair is giving me trouble." You could hear a low chuckle rumble from his chest as you stepped back forward. "Hey, you asked." You laughed back.
"I know, I know." He shook his head with a poorly hidden grin, tilting his head down to try and hide it a little better. You immediately pointed your pencil at him, not taking your eyes off the canvas. "I said you could talk, not move." Your sarcastic tone made him chuckle again, slowly lifting his head back up with a sigh.
"Yes, ma'am." You could just hear the smirk in his words, causing you to let out a sigh of your own.
By the time the sun had started to set, you had blocked out all the simple colors for the painting. Right now, it just looked like a very bland and abstract painting. It'll come together, slowly but surely. Trust the process, as people say.
Leon was in awe already, having stood up to look at your progress as you washed your hands over in the small bathroom. Oil paints smeared something fierce and as much as you loved your job, you did not want feel oily at home.
"It already looks stunning." You heard the man say from where he stood in front of the easel. It wasn't quite registering in his brain that it was him on that canvas just yet, but hopefully soon it would.
He wanted to recognize himself in something as wonderful as your art.
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justporo · 1 month
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"Astarion?"
"Yes, my love?"
You were lazing away a summer's night. The sound of crickets chimed through the air and your wide open bedroom windows.
The city had practically been burning up the last couple of days - even the nights were unpleasantly warm and humid. And so the only thing you and your vampire had been doing was wasting the nights away in your huge bed with the silk sheets providing at least a bit of cool counterbalance. And of course the cold skin of your vampire served as a pleasant heatsink.
And Astarion had found it quite delightfully entertaining when he'd figured out how you would sigh blissfully when he pressed his cool hands to your body and he felt the heat of your skin under his fingers.
Right now you were, both of you, laying there all splayed and fully naked. The vampire on his back reading a small leather-bound collection of poetry. His legs were angled because your crossed ones lay beneath them as you lounged there on your stomach, drawing what you could see through the frame of the open window.
As you were busy with your art your mind had kept wandering - until a question had formed in your mind that you just had to voice.
"Why me?" you asked your lover, turning your head to look at him, your work momentarily forgotten.
Astarion lowered his book: "What?"
"Why did you pick me? Or fall for me?"
You felt anxiety creep up your spine as the words left your tongue.
Astarion stared at you in silence, taken aback by the surprising question. A wrinkle formed between his furrowed brows - deep in thought.
"That's kind of a loaded question, don't you think?"
Your heart dropped a little at that reaction and you turned back around and looked at your sketch. Hopefully he hadn't caught how your facial expression had dropped.
The bed shifted under his weight when Astarion put aside his book and climbed over to you.
You didn't dare to look at him. Thankfully a curtain of hair was still covering your face as the vampire came closer.
But you felt his presence as he leaned over you. His cool arms covering yours as his hands wandered down from your shoulders to your fingers, sending shivers down your exposed spine. And then you felt his smooth lips press a delicate kiss to your temple.
"My heart," he began so silently even the cricket sounds almost drowned them out. "There's no need to hide your face. And no need to be frightened," he whispered and with a single finger lifted the soft strands of your hair covering your face from sight.
Your eyes flitted to your lover's only shortly. But when you saw nothing but warmth in them you dared to take a longer peek.
"I fell for you, Tav, because even that first night, when I had fully other plans, you made me think how things could be different."
You opened your mouth to reply something but Astarion promptly shushed you.
"I might have not realised or appreciated it immediately but you showed me that it could be more, that I could be more."
His voice was starting to rise now as he continued his monologue. And you felt how your heartbeat started to quicken as you kept listening to his confession.
"And I figure most important was this, darling," Astarion continued and his red eyes were incredibly bright even in the low light of this summer night.
"Despite you barely knowing me, you were so eager to just give yourself to me. I was so used to offering up myself, others taking everything from me I was forced to offer up. But you didn't care for that. You wanted to be held, yes, but you were willing to give me everything of yourself for it."
Your eyes widened as you listened to Astarion opening up about this. You felt treacherous burning in your eyes, announcing tears that would probably follow shortly after. And as you stared into the crimson eyes of your vampire you saw all of your feelings mirrored in them.
Astarion leaned closer and made your body turn around. Softly pulling you around by your shoulders until you were on your back and your lover directly over you.
He pressed his lips to yours as he lowered his full weight of his body down onto you, your legs wrapping around him like it had become second nature for both of you. His hands gently wandered from your shoulders down your body, covering as much ground as possible while his tongue slipped into your mouth.
You moaned into his open mouth, arching your back until you felt your heated skin connect with his cooler body.
The corners of Astarion’s mouth curled up as you did that. You felt it as you were still kissing him and realised that you were proving his point.
Astarion broke the kiss, his face hovering directly over yours as your hands clung onto his back.
"How could I have refused such an offer?"
A/N: Quite some time ago I was tagged in a post by @lumienyx to answer why Astarion fell for my Tav and I had this on my mind for a long while. So here's my answer to that question.
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bosbas · 4 months
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Chapter 7: you search in every maiden's bed for something greater
series masterlist previous part || next part
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pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 3.2k words
Warnings: period-typical gender roles, misogyny (not by anyone relevant dw), idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, mentions of sex and drinking
Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.
A/N: errr.... it's going to get worse before it gets better. sorry in advance
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June 19, 1814 - Perhaps word of this author's disappointment by the ton's lack of happenings has reached Bridgerton ears. Whispers around the ton indicate that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton has been packing his belongings for an extended duration, leading one to speculate if this departure is more than a fleeting journey. The observant eyes of society are left to wonder about the purpose behind such preparations and whether, in the midst of packing, the second Bidgerton son is inadvertently leaving behind not only his material possessions but also a potential union with a certain Miss Beaumont.
Benedict was just about done packing, disappointed that his upcoming trip had been pointed out in the ton's gossip column. He was hoping to slip out relatively quietly, not needing further speculation on why he was leaving you, an undoubted topic of conversation for Lady Whistledown. The very reason he was leaving was for your sake, and he didn't want anyone making his own absence harder for you. 
The past days had been nothing short of agonizing for more than a few reasons. Ben knew his mother was disappointed in him for leaving, not immune to her sad stares and soft sighs, but he just couldn't go on like this. If he ignored his feelings, he knew he wanted you to find a husband, just as you had asked him to let you do. But he couldn't ignore his feelings. Not entirely, at least. Benedict was going half insane watching you dance with eager suitors and hearing you talk about the exotic and beautiful bouquets you had later received from them. He could barely sleep, plagued by thoughts of someone else making you laugh, and the dull ache in his chest had become a permanent fixture. 
His art studio felt cold and empty now, rarely graced by your warm and lively presence. Ben couldn't find it in himself to spend the hours he used to in there, missing your animated commentary as you read whichever book you had taken from the Bridgerton library that day. He had barely been able to paint at all recently, inside or outside his studio, frustrated that every single sketch or painting he started was in some manner related to you. Worse, he found he had little to no inspiration for new works without you by his side. Every single aspect of his life was completely turned upside down by your absence. Even the moon looked different. He could not look at the stars at night without remembering how your eyes looked at night, reflecting the soft starlight in the sky. 
So he was leaving. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, but Benedict was desperate to regain some sense of normalcy in his life. He knew he couldn't have you, but he couldn't watch someone else have you, either. The only viable choice he saw was to go away, back to the countryside. Of course, his family saw right through his weak excuse of "needing time away to work on his art," but at least no one had the sense to confront him about it. Yet still, the truth lingered in the look of pity he received from Anthony and Colin and the quietly exasperated "Are you joking?" he heard Francesca whisper to Hyacinth. 
Ben had come to see you a few days ago and broken the news, and you had barely been able to concentrate since. Even though you had established some distance from your best friend, you still relished in the comfort of his nearby presence. You knew that even if you had a dreadful dance at a ball, one quick smile from Ben could immediately heal your stepped-on feet and put you in a better mood. 
But you supposed him leaving was for the best. At the moment, you weren't seriously considering any suitors yet. No longer having Benedict by your side might end up being more beneficial to you, even if your eyes were constantly filled with unshed tears and your lower lip was raw from nervous biting at the thought of him away in the country for months on end. You supposed you would have to move on from him, laying your feelings to rest. That was the whole point, was it not? Benedict would leave, and you would stop wishing every man you talked to was him. 
You were in your garden now, hiding in your usual spot behind the rose bushes with your nose stuck in a book in an attempt to evade your mother's call to practice your needlepoint. With Benedict leaving tomorrow, you reasoned that you should be excused from mind-numbing activities such as sewing due to your emotional distress. Unfortunately, your mother did not share this opinion, and you were forced into hiding to escape her demands. 
Hearing footsteps coming your way, you shrunk further behind the bushes, hoping you hadn't been caught and could spare another five minutes of peace. 
"Y/N Beaumont, come out of there this instant. You cannot simply avoid me when you don't want to play the pianoforte," came Benedict's voice from above you, taking on a high-pitched voice as he attempted to imitate your mother when she was frustrated with her children. You instantly relaxed, bursting into laughter.
"You are so evil! I thought I had actually been caught out. Although my mother wants me to practice needlepoint instead of pianoforte this time," you said as you rolled your eyes, playfully hitting his arm as he sat beside you. 
Ben laughed, shaking his head and snatching your book from your hands, leafing through it absentmindedly. "Hmmm, I figured it was something like that. I came into your house and saw the Countess quite exasperated, asking me if I knew where you were hiding," he said. Seeing your widening eyes, he quickly continued, "Oh, but don't worry. I would never betray you like that. The rose bush stays between us."
"Well, since you're leaving tomorrow, you very well could have revealed the hiding spot and escaped an untimely death," you retorted. Although you meant it as a joke, you couldn't help the break in your voice as you took in the reality of Benedict leaving for the countryside. You wrapped your arms around one of his, resting your head on his shoulder. You were breaking every rule you had established for your friendship, but you didn't care anymore.
Sighing deeply, Benedict placed his hand on top of yours. He could easily sense the pain behind your playful dig and couldn't help feeling the same way. Not finding the strength to continue the faux-playful exchange, Ben simply placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. "Either way, I could never. You're still my best friend. Always have been, always will be, Y/N Beaumont." 
You could feel a wave of tears welling in your eyes, starting to flow as you softly said your next words. "I know. I'm going to miss you, Benedict Bridgerton."
He looked down at you, feeling a fondness so fierce he felt the prickling of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, wanting desperately to end this chapter of your lives on a good note. He grabbed your hands and stood you up so you were facing him. He could barely stand the sight of your tear-stained face, beautiful as ever despite your reddened eyes. A few quiet moments passed between you, both of you attempting to regain composure, but the pain of losing the other made it entirely impossible. 
He was still holding on to your hands, thumbs rubbing softly up and down in the way he had always done. But this time, they did not bring you comfort. Instead, you burst into tears, closing the short distance between you and sobbing into his chest, not caring that your tears might ruin his clothes. To be loved was to be changed, after all, and God did you love him.
Wrapping his arms tightly around you as you sobbed, Benedict was at a loss. He couldn't fathom what life would be like after you, barely remembering what it had been before you. To willingly walk away from this, from you in his arms, from your shared intimacy, from the unbreakable bond the two of you had formed over two decades... he had to be insane. Yet he had no choice, as the past few weeks had shown. All Ben could do was rub a comforting hand on your back as you cried, murmuring sweet nothings in an effort to alleviate the excruciating pain he knew you were feeling as well. 
Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to miss you more, Y/N. And I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted it to end at all, actually." 
Feeling another kiss at the top of your head, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes. You were no longer sobbing, just sniffling as tears ran down your face. "Me neither," you choked out, eyes still on him. You wanted to take in as much of him as you could before he left. You wanted his face burned into your mind forever, leaving a permanent mark you could never get rid of. 
As you sniffled again, you felt him pull you into his chest, hearing him say softly, "It's going to be alright, darling." He placed a tender kiss on your forehead, pulling you back again to look you in the eyes. He then followed a delicate trail, pressing soft kisses between your furrowed brows, on the tip of your nose, and along the tear-streaked canvas of your cheeks. Then, hesitantly, he reached your lips. 
His eyes were intense, heavy with emotion, as you felt his lips hovering above yours. You had never been kissed before, but you would so easily forgo social norms if he just closed the distance between you. You were inches apart, breath intermingling, eyes boring into each other. You could feel the palpable electricity between you, a mix of fear and familiarity. In that suspended moment, your heart beating with his, anticipation hung thick in the air. You were about to cross a precipice of intimacy you never had before, finally acting on the pressure that had been building for years. You wanted him so badly, and you could tell he wanted you, too. At least right now. Desire was running through you in a way it never had before, and you wondered whether the sort of itch you were feeling right now was the same one Ben talked about when he explained the night of the marriage. Is this the itch that would be scratched? You understood what he meant now, needing him so desperately to touch his lips to yours, to bring you the relief you sought in him. Benedict moved a fraction of an inch closer to you, and you drew your breath in anticipation, lips forming into a smile. 
Yet suddenly, Benedict groaned and abruptly withdrew as if an unseen force compelled him to sever the burgeoning connection. Pushing you away in more senses than one, he roughly rubbed his face with his hands. You could tell he was in a state of complete panic. Hurt and confused, you watched him rub his eyes frustratedly, refusing to meet your gaze.
"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry," he stammered, a haunted look in his eyes betraying the fear of losing all the meticulously constructed defenses he had placed between you. "I don't know what came over me. That was so not right. I just—" His words stumbled, a confession hanging unspoken in the charged air between you.
You couldn't stop yourself from flinching, understanding the implications of his words. You supposed it should never have been like this. The two of you were best friends, after all. But you were desperate for him to look at you and give away some of what he was thinking, needing any sort of reassurance, so you reached out, softly gripping his bicep. "It's alright, Ben. I know you didn't—"
But he cut you off, his head shaking in fervent denial, avoiding your pleading eyes. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. Look, I should go; I still need to finish packing. But I'll come by early tomorrow morning to say goodbye if you're awake."
Without granting you a lingering look, he turned away, leaving you alone in the garden where you had played together as children, where your friendship had once blossomed. Tears ran unobstructed down your cheeks, and your heart broke cleanly in two. 
---
You found yourself promenading alongside Mr Henri Deschamps in Hyde Park once again, politely nodding every time he looked to you for reassurance that his talk about hunting was not, in fact, the most boring thing you had ever heard in your life. And it wasn't, but you were inclined to think that it was pretty close. Nevertheless, you liked Mr Deschamps more than most other suitors, enjoying the philosophical debates the two of you would sometimes engage in. 
Henri was from France but had come to England with his younger sister to see her married off last season. Although he was successful in this endeavor, he liked England so much that he chose to stay and find a wife for himself. Still, you were a tad fearful that Henri would want to return to France when, and if, the two of you were married. He had been courting you for a short time, only a couple of weeks. Still, you were careful in expressing your desire and taking it slow, despite thinking that you would probably end up marrying him if all kept going the same way it was now. 
All things considered, Mr Deschamps was an adequate match for you. He was intellectually stimulating at times, came from a good background to be able to provide for you, and he wasn't bad-looking either. Besides, his accent was fun to listen to even when his words were not. It had been nearly three weeks since Benedict had left for the country, and though you missed him terribly, you were having a much easier time actually thinking of your suitors as potential husbands instead of fun ways to pass time before you spoke to Ben next. 
Hearing Henri mention something related to a book you were currently reading, you perked up, excited. "Actually, I read that—" you started, only to be interrupted by the man at your side. 
"Ah, of course, you read this, you read that. When does it stop, Miss Beaumont? You are always reading something. Men do not want this. We want an obedient wife who will not cause us any more stress than we have in life. We want a wife who will give us heirs quickly and who will listen to what we say," came Mr Beaumont's interjection. You were stunned, frozen in your spot, but he grabbed your arm and continued speaking as he dragged you with him. 
"Men do not want a woman who is smarter than them, Miss Beaumont. How about you stick to your good qualities, oui? You are very beautiful, but no one will ever marry you if you keep discussing books. No one wants to hear about books," he finished, sending you a pointed look.
You could barely believe what you were hearing. "But—," you tried, only to be interrupted by Mr Deschamps once again. 
"But— But— But—," he mocked cruelly. "But nothing, Miss Beaumont. This is the truth, yet you still argue with me. It is the same in France as it is here: women should not argue with men. You would do well to remember that." 
You wrenched your arm out of his grasp, appalled by his egregious behavior. He rolled his eyes at your reaction, turning around and throwing his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. You angrily stared after him as your mother, who had been walking a few paces behind the two of you, caught up. 
"What in the world was that? I cannot believe he spoke to you in such a disrespectful manner and in front of everyone, at that," she exclaimed, fuming. Clearly, she had heard at least some of your conversation. You could only shake your head in disbelief, still reeling from Henri's sudden outburst. He had effectively squashed your hopes of ever finding an appropriate husband in under three minutes. It would have been impressive if it didn't leave you so hopeless.
---
Far from the hubbub of the city, Benedict lay in his messy bed, staring at the now-empty spot beside him, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through his half-open curtains. With ever-deepening bags under his eyes and a dwindling excitement about life, he grappled with a reality he never thought he would confront. The echoes of your shared dreams from your youthful days mocked him, a poignant reminder of a time when marriage felt like a distant concept.
This had become somewhat of a routine by now. Benedict had taken to finding solace in the arms of various women, seeking momentary distraction from the ache in his heart. With each encounter, it became glaringly evident that physical intimacy offered no relief from the unending yearning he felt for you and your friendship, forever changed by his choices. 
Loneliness enveloped him each time the women left, a feeling he had become all too familiar with in the past few weeks. He barely slept, opting instead to imagine your life back in the city, full of exciting balls and surrounded by the warmth of your family. And his, he supposed. But most of all, he couldn't help the painful thoughts of you with another man, discussing your favorite books, or forming inside jokes with one another. 
He was comforted only by the fact that he had not yet received a wedding invitation. Surely Benedict would have been invited to the momentous occasion had you finally found someone to spend forever with. However, the comfort he felt from this was significantly overshadowed by the implications of your inevitable wedding. One last goodbye. A proper goodbye, this time. Here, in the countryside, he could theoretically return to you anytime. But once you were married, you would be gone forever, and the wanting he felt now would only multiply, consuming him entirely. 
In the quiet hours before dawn, he often wondered if the past could be revisited, a past where the two of you made plans to get married. The idea of a marriage where he was free to pursue his artistic endeavors and you continued your literary pursuits lingered in his thoughts every single night. It seemed that he was only interested in marriage if it was an arrangement similar to the one you had dreamt up as children, and the chances of attaining that were slim to none. Benedict found himself yearning for a simplicity that had been lost in the complexities of adulthood. With you married off, he would have to find a wife eventually. But perhaps he did not want to marry at all. Maybe he would stay a bachelor, making vows to his art rather than a woman he knew could never compare to you. 
For now, he continued his escapades. In the long run, he was not confident that this would help him forget you or forget the fierce love you inspired in him, but he was desperate for any way to stop thinking about you, if only for a few hours. So he indulged, going to raucous gatherings, mainly populated by artists. People used their canvases at these parties as a means of liberation, but he only used them to mask his true feelings. He could momentarily quiet his mind, painting and dancing and drinking before he eventually came crashing down to reality. 
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innaillus · 2 months
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I saw in another comment that the woman you draw with Sukuna could have been his wife. If that is the case, then why does she seem to be afraid of him. I would imagine that as his wife, she would be the one person that shouldn't fear him. It's giving a little forced marriage vibes or is that the point?
If this is the case, it's cause I forgot to draw little hearts around them in said images.
I don't imagine the marriage/relationship forced, and I also don't think she is actually afraid of him. It's part of the love game. I think Sukuna is a person who thrives on challenges and she knows. (I think I only ever made one single pair of sketches where they embrace, maybe I should have made more but I didn't think people would be interested in this aspect of my headcanons.)
I also learned a lot of interesting things about Heian-period love and seduction from this video. Apparently, showing yourself weak and vulnerable was a major turn-on.
Thank you for your feedback! Hope this helps.
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mins-fins · 4 months
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PAREIDOLIA (D.SC)
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SUMMARY . . . history just simply always manages to repeat itself, the artist and their tired university student roommate who just can't help but admire them in ways friends don't look at each other..
PAIRING . . . dong sicheng x male!reader
GENRE . . . insanely fluffy
WARNINGS . . . none!
WORD COUNT . . . 1.8k
NOTES . . . why is winwin so majestic tf 🙁 my wayv bias is yangyang i have NO IDEA what you're talking about, im so mortifyingly in love with winwin but not in a "i want to kiss him" way in a "i wanna bake him cookies and run my fingers through his hair" way and that's basically the same thing
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sicheng has become long used to coming home and seeing y/n in the middle of another artistic project. it's usually a painting, because that's the easiest thing to do in their small apartment, one the two of them fought tooth and nail to be able to afford. on some days he'll be creating costumes out of construction paper, or he'll be sewing, or he'll just be sketching on the couch. 
it's become somewhat of a staple of comfort to him, maybe it's because of how recognizable it is to come home and see y/n, eyebrows furrowed, head tilted, the slightest smudge of paint on his face as his eyes are completely focused on the canvas before him. there's always a small smile that comes to his face whenever he hears the door open, sicheng only catches it on the most certain of days, though.
and maybe it's weird that sicheng remembers every single detail of what happens after he comes home from exhausting classes where all his professor does is talk about is nonsense, this is kind of like the only silver lining to his day after hours of just nothing but life draining lectures.
and no it's definitely not because y/n is just the best serotonin every single feeling sicheng has for him is completely platonic and platonic only!
it's as he's untying his shoes, that he realizes today something is different. y/n is humming, to a song the two of them hear their neighbors blast through the walls every now and then, he assumes the tune got stuck in his head, and he just can't help but now him it to himself.
sicheng puts his shoes away, he glances up for a moment, and pauses, waiting. he then smiles to himself as he watches y/n smile himself, finally acknowledging his presence. "i didn't even hear you, the door closed so quietly".
y/n's comment makes him snicker, but his eyes still don't leave the canvas, so focused on what he's painting in fact that he doesn't register the paint on his cheek. sicheng, like he does on most days, walks up towards y/n and quickly wipes off the paint with his thumb.
y/n makes a small noise, but he ultimately doesn't shy away from sicheng's hand, almost leaning into the touch if sicheng thinks about it. "how do you never notice when you have paint on your face?" sicheng asks, going over to the sink to wash the paint off his thumb.
"an artist never strays away from their artistic craft" y/n comments mindlessly, and sicheng's eyebrows furrow just for a mere moment before he looks back to his roommate, still focused on the random color he's spreading across the canvas.
"did you just make that up, or..?" at the question, y/n finally turns around after what seemed like hours of standing in the same spot, and he snickers at the way sicheng asks it.
"yep, made it up just now".
the response makes sicheng snort, because he knows that's absolutely true considering the kind of person y/n is. "you.. your something alright" sicheng doesn't know why those words are the ones that come out of his mouth, but they make y/n laugh.
"ah thanks, you make me feel so smart, chengie" y/n looks back to the painting, stepping back just a little bit to admire it. he removes his gloves and tosses them away, yawning lightly. "does it look nice?"
sicheng blinks, glancing over at y/n, who is patiently waiting for his answer. he mindlessly stares at the painting of a snowy mountaintop as he tries to think of a compliment he hasn't said thousands of times already. "it's marvelous" y/n gives him a look of confusion, and sicheng just snickers as he does those jazz hands.
"you couldn't at least be a little bit more creative with your compliment?" y/n's face scrunches a little bet, and sicheng just shrugs, rubbing his eyes.
"i'm tired i don't have time for creativity" sicheng yawns, and y/n gives him another judgmental look. "ask me when i'm more awake" he shouts as he walks towards his room, leaving y/n to admire his painting all alone.
y/n snickers, shaking his head.
what a character you are, dong sicheng..
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"do you assume van gogh was a weird guy?"
sicheng barely registers the question, because the only sound he's heard for the past twenty minutes is the horribly loud clicking of y/n's pen as he brainstorms ideas for upcoming projects, assignments, and all that other stuff. he narrows his eyes at his laptop screen before looking up at y/n, who was finally done clicking his pen and began sketching.
"what?" is his immediate response, probably because he didn't have enough time to properly assess or process that question. the other thing that being y/n's roommate comes with is having to hear the most random and weird questions. "i'm sorry?"
"van gogh" y/n says again, smiling innocently. "you know, the painter gu—"
"i know who van gogh is y/n" sicheng clarifies, sighing. "i just— what do you think i know about the personality of a famous artist who died over a hundred years ago?" he raises an eyebrow, momentarily glancing back down at his computer screen as he hears y/n's loud sigh.
"i'm researching about him for this project i'm doing".
"you did a project about van gogh already.." sicheng mutters in confusion, and he hears y/n's pen click once again, then the slam of his sketchbook. "didn't you?"
"oh this isn't for school!" y/n exclaims. "i'm just doing it for fun!"
"what kind of psycho does a project for fun?" at the words, y/n snorts, and sicheng can't help but gaze at him. yeah, it's stupid, but he's just so cute, and sicheng has no idea why he's staring this long at him.
fuck, i probably look crazy. i'm literally zoning out on his face, what kind of moron does that?
at least he's self aware.
"nothing?"
"what?"
"on van gogh?" y/n clarifies, and sicheng blinks like an idiot, because what else would y/n be talking about? he shakes his head, and y/n pouts in an unserious manner.
"at least your here to humor me" y/n says, picking his sketchbook back up as he begins flipping through it, he pauses at a certain page and smiles brightly at what's sketched on it.
sicheng doesn't really know what y/n draws in his sketchbook. y/n is pretty big on privacy, so sicheng never made it his thing to figure out what's in y/n's sketchbook because he doesn't want him to.
though, the way y/n's smiling at his sketchbook gets him curious.
"are the sketches causing you that much joy?"
y/n snaps up, his face going embarrassingly red as he closes his sketchbook once again. he smiles, then awkwardly laughs as he looks away, lightly scratching his arm. "yeah, um.. i just really like the sketches i made".
sicheng laughs, glancing back at his computer screen. it's so hard not to constantly stare at you when your.. well— you.
but they're just friends, nothing more.
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"when i was younger i always wanted a garden of strawberries" y/n states as he paints said garden of strawberries on the canvas in front of him.
y/n is always the most busy on weekends with his artistic projects. he'll legitimately spend half of his day painting, another half making a halloween costume even though halloween won't come for the next seven months, and the other half sewing a sweater he's going to wear once every few months. sicheng has seen it all, and he's gotten used to the normalization of y/n just doing another artistic craft everyday, still being able to rest a whole eight hours.
he admires his way of just being such.. what is the phrase, a hard worker, he could say. y/n was just always up, doing something, he was never bored or not doing something, he was very much just an always working person.
"strawberries? out of everything?" sicheng asks, stirring the spoon in his cup of coffee mindlessly, he's too busy staring at y/n to pay attention to his now cooling cup of coffee. y/n gives him one of the most judgmental looks ever.
"what do you mean? out of everything? strawberries are amazing!" y/n counters, and sicheng laughs at his tone of voice. "they're one of the best things mankind has ever actually made".
"okay but why a garden of them?"
"so i can make strawberry flavored things everyday, duh" y/n dismisses the amount of red coloring on his apron, and his gloves, too busy trying to figure out how to finish his painting of his dream garden of strawberries.
y/n narrows his eyes at the painting, studying it for a moment, like he was trying to figure out if the painting was talking to him or not. "is this ugly?"
"what?"
"the painting? is it ugly?"
sicheng furrows his eyebrows, staring at y/n like he just asked the stupidest question in the world. y/n usually doesn't care about his opinion when it comes to paintings, because sicheng isn't an artist like he is, so sicheng has no idea why he would suddenly ask him about what he thought about his painting so suddenly.
"no? your paintings are never ugly.. why would you ask that?"
sicheng's question-answer makes y/n narrow his eyes at him. sicheng assumes he wasn't expecting that answer that then turned into a question, with the way he goes silent, and with the way his face flushes so much more obviously than it usually does.
sicheng doesn't get why he notices that the most, y/n is pretty unpredictable, he gets flustered at some of the most random times, and it's only at certain moments that sicheng notices how red his face is.
it's hot in the room, that's it, that's why, there is absolutely no other reason his face is so red right now.
he's just thinking of excuses.
"thank you" he whispers, turning back to his painting as he removes his paint splattered gloves. "it's a new day, i just wanted your opinion".
"that's strange".
"well if i'm not strange then i'm not interesting" y/n hums as he puts the finishing touches on his painting, and with his back turned, sicheng can admire him fully, without worrying about him getting caught and then having to explain why he was staring for so long.
sicheng is so busy admiring him, he doesn't even notice that he hasn't taken a sip of his coffee yet.
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