#he was one of the first I did a watercolour portrait of

[kingcael]

“Read my lips - mercy is for wimps!”

#cael does art #FFVI #final fantasy vi #Kefka #kefka palazzo #final fantasy 6 #I have wanted to repaint Kefka for ages #he was one of the first I did a watercolour portrait of #rarely do I ever want to do redraws but something about kefka

[cameronspecial]

When Love Turns To Tolerance

Pairing: Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.0K

Summary: There used to be love between Y/N and Drew, but now, she only sees the ghost of their love when she is around him.

A/N: This is inspired by "Tolerate It" by Taylor Swift

Masterlist

Y/N has always seen Drew in colour. The vibrant blue hues of his iris, the slight tan of his skin from days in the sun when he is surfing and the golden glow of his hair from the light coming into the room. She would use her best watercolours for her mental portrait of him. And he used to do the same for her. She could see his love for her while the image of her was reflected in his eyes. Now, she can tell all he sees is black and white when he looks at her. It’s like all the cones in his eyes have transformed into rods, making him see her in a duller way. He thinks she doesn’t notice his small changes, but she does because he is her mural and she knows every detail of it. 

Her eyes flutter open to see his eyes still closed. The soft rise and fall of his chest captivates her. She used to like watching him sleep. The serenity of knowing that the person she loves is peacefully asleep in his dream. Now, she loves it. It’s the only time when she can’t see the plain tolerance in his eyes and lets herself pretend that they are still what they used to be. Eventually, his eyes widen and he gets up out of bed. He doesn’t stay beside her in bed for just a few more minutes. He doesn’t kiss her good morning. He doesn’t chuckle when he notices her gaze already on him. He just rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom to get ready for the day. 

——

They finished eating breakfast together. He washes the dishes while she is polishing their plates until they sparkle with the towel. She hums the melody of “For The First Time” by Mac DeMarco, hoping he would sing along with her. Chores used to be filled with songs and laughter. They would make games out of who could match their pile of socks faster or who could slide across the freshly mopped floor the farthest. She looks at him and is met with a blank stare. His hands soaking in the water as he removes the sods from the plate. She hates the silence, but it seems every attempt she makes at breaking it, Drew isn’t interested in it. 

——

She returns from the store and finds Drew on the couch, reading Dune. He doesn’t look up from his book. He hasn’t for about a month. Every time she walks into the room she hopes he will though. She wants him to look up at him with the gleam in his and the soft smile she loves so much. She misses it. But when he doesn’t do it this time, something in her just snaps. She doesn’t move from where she is standing, “When did your love turn to tolerance?” He looks up from his book. His eyebrows knit together in confusion but mostly annoyance at being interrupted. “Wh-what are you talking about?” he questions, putting his book down to give her his full attention for probably the first time in months. She feels herself start to cry, “When did you first look at me and saw just the woman you tolerated instead of the woman you love? Or please, tell me that I misunderstood. Tell me that it is all in my head.” Every single thing she has been keeping inside of her until now is finally coming out. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he tries to play dumb. Like her, he is in denial of the changes he felt. He knows he doesn’t feel the same way about her, but she is a routine to him. He is scared to lose something familiar. They are both too scared to admit the truth: he fell out of love with her a long time ago and she is sick of living in this limbo. She shakes her head, “Just be honest with me, please. Because I know something has changed.” “I honestly don’t know,” he explains. “I don’t think it just turned off like a light switch. I think I just slowly started to stop believing you were the one for me.” She knew it was coming, yet it still felt like a dagger to her back. 

“Was it something I did?” 

He shakes his head, not being able to find words to describe his feelings, “No, it wasn’t anything about you or what you did. It was more of a realization. I realized the stuff I thought I wanted in a relationship wasn’t what I wanted.” She takes a second to process his words and feels as though her heart is being squeezed. “Right and were you ever going to tell me? Because we both know it is obvious you don’t love me anymore,” she questions, running her fingers through her hair. He shrugs, “Y/N, I never really thought about it until this conversation. I felt the change but never took the time to examine it. I didn’t want to believe that something was different for me.” “Okay, well what are we going to do now that we are talking about it?” she provokes.

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing needs to change? Maybe this is just a passing feeling?”

“Drew, you may be able to live with your tolerance forever. But I can’t keep being a footnote in your thoughts when you are the content of my whole story.” 

“You’re right. You deserve better than someone who can’t love you with the same ferocity.”

“So this is it? We aren’t going to fight any harder for us?”

“I guess we aren’t. For what it’s worth, Y/N, I really did love you. It just wasn’t the type of love that was permanent.”

And then he leaves in a heartbeat. She is left in tears, watching as the man who was her sky and heart leaves her behind. She knows she is the one to bring it upon them. They probably could’ve gone on for months maybe years in denial, but she knows that when love turns to tolerance, she can’t keep letting her love go uncelebrated. So she had to be the one who broke down the column and brought their temple down to ruins. 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey fic

[velvetsart]

Hello! I saw some of your colored pencil works and I really love your style! I myself am trying to get into colored pencils as a medium and I just wanted to ask what resources or tips do you have for someone who's an intermediate drawer but a novice with color and colored pencils

thank you!! i don’t have any specific resources but when i first got ‘serious’ about colour pencils i did research into oil vs wax based (eg prismacolor) pencils before buying a set. i use faber castell polychromos because i prefer the qualities of oil based pencils, but it’s all down to personal preference

paper type also affects pencil drawings greatly, if you want texture & a lot of layers, go for a rougher tooth, and if you want minimal white spots at the cost of fewer layers use smooth paper (i use bristol board for pet portraits)

you can also experiment with using pencil on top of watercolour/marker etc bases or coloured paper, e.g. for this deer drawing i did a watercolour base which you can see in this vid

with paint people say to start with fewer colours and learn how to mix but for pencil i would say get as many colours as you can bc the only ‘mixing’ you can do is layering and there’s a limit to how many layers your paper (and hand) can take. its also hard to buy the missing colours later without rebuying the ones you already have. you can def make do with a smaller set if you want to do highly stylized art

'burnishing' is good to know about

for colour in general i think just study art that uses colour in a way you like, the principles will be similar across mediums. i don’t really believe in right or wrong ways to do things, as long as you’re achieving what you want. if you don’t know where to start, i recommend checking out james gurney, he has painting vids on youtube which give an interesting insight into how he uses colour. i just found a vid which shows him combining watercolour and coloured pencils

also find colour pencil art you like and think about how it was made. i love @ink-the-artist ‘s pencil art, i think they use marker bases in some of theirs and it gives it a rly saturated warm look (esp ones w yellow bases) & i love how the darkness is made up of different colours. they use prismacolor which gives it that waxy blended look

sorry this is kind of a word vomit, i hope at least some of it is useful to you. good luck with your colour journey! ♡

#ask

[cornishpixiez]

7 up!

rules: post 7 (or more) lines of a wip you’ve been working on. this is from the previous chapter of the absolute denial of everything is sacred

thank you so much @anouri @fruity-individual and @greenvlvetcouch for the tag!! i love y'all <3

Regulus hated him at first sight, liked him at second, and loved him at third. Really loved him in his own broken way. Even when they fought, most likely when Barty did something stupid that earned him a week locked up in his room and got worse treatment than usual. Even when Barty kissed him for the first time behind a bush far away from the patio's entrance, and Regulus hated him for it—pushed him away with tears in his eyes because Bee had ruined everything. Blew the safety bubble they had built and let it float away.

He was trying to hold on to this friendship he didn't even want in the first place with nails and teeth; Regulus needed it, needed Barty to be his friend even though his heart raced when they touched, even if he thought Barty was too pretty for the world they lived in, too carefree, too confident in his own skin. No one could ever be as lovely as him, and he looked at Regulus with such affection (impish, smug smiles and knowing stares) it was impossible not to fall. 

But the last time he had seen two boys kiss, he had lost it all. Regulus had nothing left besides Barty, and he couldn't handle losing him too.

Yet he didn't. Barty stuck to him even when Regulus gave him the silent treatment—sat by his side at every meal, followed him on the patio in the afternoon breaks, smuggled him pencils (an eyebrow pencil stolen from a careless nurse, a red one that turned into watercolour if mixed with water, and a graffiti one, for writing poetry) and napkins for sketching because they weren't allowed to own stationary outside of class.

Barty told him everything about his dad, Barthemius Crouch Senior, a British Lord who gambled and messed with dirty politics and bloody deals. He had drawn him once—an impressive and realistic portrait Regulus would have kept if Barty had not shredded it right after. He hated his father.

His father hated him too. Told him Barty killed his mother because he was born. He said that, if given a choice, he would have chosen her to be alive instead. They were not actual Catholics, not like the Blacks. Bee was there because he accidentally popped too many pills one night, and the Clinique Catholique Privée de Saint Thomas d'Aquin was also one of the best rehab centres for teenagers in Europe. Barty was only twelve when that happened.

They kissed when they could, alone, on the roof at midnight, where no one could see them even if they squinted hard enough. It was chaste and sweet—they were still kids even though they had seen and experienced too much, too young. Regulus always thought about the irony of hiding on the roof to kiss a boy, thought about what he had done to his brother, hated himself for it, and wanted to scrub the memory out.

tagging @deermessrs @arakhnee and @pjxckson <3

#i'm sorry i love them so much #and i'm a jegulus truther okay #but barty was reg's first love in this fic and it's so sweet despite the shit they were going through #bartylus #barty x regulus #fic: the absolute denial of everything is sacred #ziggy’s writing

[thegreenwallrabbit-blog]

Explaining One of VTMB Paintings (part 17)

The Sisters, oil on canvas (Circa 1890) by Percy Harland-Fisher

Percy Harland-Fisher (1867-1944) was a British painter born in Dulwich, London, UK the youngest of three brothers who all attended the Dulwich Collage which at the time was known for its connections to the art world of the time. He presented artistic paintings at the Royal Academy starting at age 17. As with many artists he painted subjects of interest though tailored to what would sell. This included paintings depicting domestic scenes of the Romany families that lived on the local common. He also had a deep love of animals which often appeared in his more formal portraits. His paintings of children were particularly popular. Most of his paintings are of idilic, simple moments of domestic life, often of subjects from the rural or lower middle class.[1]

In the painting a pair of young sisters in night gowns are opening a wood door to let a flock of all white morning doves in during the day. Two of the doves that face the girls have their tail feathers spread. I was unable to find any online analysis of this piece or of the meaning behind the doves act of flailing their tails. So I'm not sure if the doves are trying to impress the girls in a sign of mating behavior with the girls looking down in amusement on the birds for their foolishness or ifs the two doves trying to assert dominance over each other other in an attempt to determine a pecking order and to impress the rest of the doves just outside the door while girls are watching as outsiders in amusement. There is some importance to the doves displays as they are the only two doves fully in the fore ground, with their light feathers contrasting to the dark woods and are what the two girls are looking at. And while Percy Harland Fisher painting idyllic scenes did not mean that they were all just meant to be surface value beauty devoid of meaning or commentary. Even choosing to paint Romany families ( who at the time were referred to as Gypsies and still to this day face discrimination) and where with the same level of care that he applied to his own family members was a subtle but impactful choice. (see Below)

Gertrude Fisher by The Lake. Pastel (c1911) by Percy Harland-Fisher

"Gertrude Fisher was Percy’s younger sister. She lived with Percy prior to his marriage to Catherine Hudson at The Knightons in Gordon Road. The Fisher family was a close knit family."[1]

Gypsy child (also known as Gypsy Girl or Temptation) Oil on Canvas. (c1930) by Percy Harland-Fisher

"The gypsy community living on the local common were a favourite subject for Fisher. Many of the paintings left in the family’s possession after his death are sketches, watercolours and drawings of the local gypsy community. Although the painting is apparently a young Romany girl, when the museum first acquired the painting a local lady made contact to explain that her sister was the sitter for the picture. She was a Camberley school girl whose look had caught the artist’s eye. She recalled that her sister became bored while sitting for the picture and began picking at the apple in her hands. Mrs Fisher was called into the studio to tell stories to distract her." [1] The alternate title of Temptation is a reference to the apple the girl is holding and the story of Adam and Eve.

Citation

[1]“Percy Harland Fisher (1867 – 1944).” Exploring Surreys Past, Surreys Heath Musem, www.exploringsurreyspast.org.uk/themes/people/artists/fisher/. Accessed 7 Jan. 2024.

#explaining one of vtmb paintings #art history #vtmb #vampire the masquerade bloodlines #Percy Harland-Fisher

[stop-pressing-e]

Portrait of a Soldier

The Lost Swan

/Thought I decide to share another one of my stories about Krauser and Dullahan and this is one of the first stories I wrote about before The Lost Swan. So think of it as a look into their little quiet life.

Enjoy reading!/

Mentions of: Suggestive talks and Krauser being a prev lol

It started off with a little headshot sketch of Krauser at the corner of the paper on the layout of the building she had drawn out so they could set out a plan to infiltrate. It was a small sketch not bigger from his index finger and yet nothing was missing from his face with those detailing of his scars done with a ballpoint pen. Dullahan didn’t realise it as he hid it with a mug. It was only when she was folding it away was when the sight of the sketch made her remember what she had done, forced to pretend that she didn’t see her own work or that Krauser knew it was her doing.

She won’t know that he liked her little sketch.

The next time Krauser discovered more of her work was when he dropped by her loft via the glass door on her balcony. He was given a keycard by her recently so he could enter her place normally, but oh well, old habits die hard sometimes. He knew Dullahan was currently away on her own missions so he took his chance to recuperate for a couple of days after taking quite a number of mercenary works over the past couple of weeks. Two days should be enough for him. Maybe more if he’s waiting for her return. He does miss her admittedly after all. There were some leftovers that were still good, coffee was full, and his clothes awaiting for his next return were neatly ironed and folded when he opened his wardrobe. 

Her loft was spotless as usual knowing the hitman needed the sense of order in her own haven. 

The easel, however, was not standing there last time he was here.

Krauser knew she does art as a hobby and he has seen her paint from landscapes to still life of the places she has visited. Last time he had seen her paint was at an opera house she attended alone and he watched her paint the singer on stage before returning his focus to his weapons. Normally when she’s not painting she would have it tucked away.

There a fabric was draped over the easel, presumably to hide the canvas underneath. Curiosity got the best of him to take a peek at her new project. The canvas remained blank, save for a memo stuck to it to remind her to buy more paints, and figure out how to get the smile right for the portrait she’s going to be working on. When it comes to her little art studio in the corner of the living room, there would always be an artist’s sketchbook to see what the memo was talking about. And so there it is, the red well loved leather bound sketchbook is found resting on the table. He has seen her sketches before and albeit without her permission, so nothing like the usual peek doesn’t hurt anyone.

Only he didn’t expect to see his own face staring back at him. Krauser’s face was drawn quite stern with a pencil based on the shading on his face and how most of the details were focused on his eyes to the wrinkle of his brow and the furrow on his mouth. Why the hell did she draw him like this? Was that how she saw him when he got annoyed with her or anyone during those times? That woman, unbelievable. However, that wasn’t the only sketch she had drawn of him. In fact, there were a lot more sketches of him. From headshots to full body drawings of him in various poses and with different mediums, she has filled out a variety of him in over five pages. A couple of them were nude drawings of him done with charcoal and watercolours.

The way she had drawn those were not done in a lewd way or to make him look like a god. Dullahan had drawn him as she had seen him whenever he’s naked, normal. The way his back muscles shifted in charcoal as he was drawn sprawled out on his front on the leather couch he lain on, recalling the time she had given him a back massage. The other drawing that was done in watercolour was when he was taking a shower. He looked completely bliss, possibly for the fact that he was taking a hot shower at the time when she walked in and he never saw her admiring his body from the door that was not lustful.

He has to admit, she has done an amazing job drawing him that he couldn’t help but smile a little upon each inspection of his own appearance. It was then he realised what the memo had meant on the smile. The headshots of him had been drawn with a smile on his face. It wasn’t a big obvious kind that gets into everyone’s face and nor was it a faint kind. It was…simply there, smiling back at the person holding the sketchbook. The smile in those sketches were not exactly how he’s smiling right now, but he can clearly see how hard she had worked to get it right from a pencil to a pen in most of her sketches of him based on imagination alone. Krauser rarely smiles and never does even when a day is good. It was always neutral or stern looking with a rarity of smirking to tease the woman.

The sketchbook was placed back where it found and positioned it correctly so when Dullahan returns, she doesn’t know that he took a peek inside of it and see what has been on her mind lately to draw these out. Krauser has seen past headshots of people she has met once to people she knew but to have multiple drawings of a particular person made him feel special about it and that simply has him smiling as he heads upstairs to shower and get ready to sleep in her bed.

The next time he was at her place, Dullahan now Trish Odile was home too as it was one of her days off from both her waitress job and her hitman contracts, allowing her time to relax and recuperate too. Krauser was lounging at the couch with a book from her bookcase in hand and Trish painting by the glass doors. Both of them minding their own business in the comforts of their home. 

From the placement he laid himself across the couch, it was the perfect angle to sneak a peek at Trish in the middle of painting, knowing full well she must be painting a portrait of him based from one of her sketches at her opened sketchbook by her side. Sometimes he would sneak a peek at her finely shaped legs sticking out from the oversize T-shirt she’s wearing that currently belongs to him, also knowing full well that she missed the smell of his scent as he does with her bedsheets. The way her ankles crossed over one another, or how one is crossed over the leg when she leans closer towards the canvas, and sometimes his favourite is when she tucked a leg under her or propped a knee up all while fixing up the shirt, sneaking a glimpse of the rest of her legs and to see if she’s either wearing underwear underneath or those tight yoga shorts.

“You’re staring at me.” Trish called him out on his peeking, never once halted her work and her eye not leaving the canvas to look at him. She wasn’t going to admit that she was peeking at him on her end too. Krauser looked content in his position and the book he chose to read was The Invisible Man. From her angle it was her eyepatch he would see her ‘looking’ back at him, and yet she still knew he was looking at her. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He said, flicking his gaze back on the words he last stopped at, pretending to skim through the sentences to continue his rouse of reading. “Just curious about what you’re painting this time.” He can hear the creaks of the chair being made as she shifted her position again. “Something for my mission soon.” She started. “I have to act as a painter for a gala my target is going to open and I’ll need enough examples to show them to him to have them on display.”

“Sounds fun.” He knew it was a lie and simply went along with it. “You already have your alias on this mission?” “Of course.” Trish let out a chuckle as she stood up and stretched her body, allowing Krauser to lower the book a bit to catch his shirt riding up to see those legs again. He’s going to have them wrap around his waist very soon on this couch and hear that moan she’s currently making after she has stretched. 

Trish finally looked at him, a small smile forming on her face. “Do you want to attend the gala as my plus one when the time comes?” “Tch, fancy events are not my forte for missions like yours.” He brought the book up to hide his face and soon catches the hitman approaching him from the top of the book, catching sight of the small pout she’s making. “I’ll pass.” 

“You’re no fun, Jackie.” She purred out his nickname he secretly liked as she got closer, and soon she was straddling on his hips, taking the book away so she could have his full attention on her. “It would be nice to see you wearing a suit for once. Maybe one of those fancy military suits you probably had to wear during your army times.”

“What will you be wearing?” He asked her, resting his hands on her hips and rubbing one of his thumbs over the outline of her lower garments. It was definitely the yoga pants. “Matter of fact, what are you wearing underneath?” His free hand decides to sneak under the shirt and tries to tug down the shorts. “I don’t see your nipples poking out. Bra?”

Trish cocked her head to the head, the smile switching to a smirk. “Take it off?”

“That’s an order.” He stopped her from removing his shirt. “Leave it on. Bra off.” Krauser soon smirked when Trish let out a huff while she complied to his orders, snapping off the hooks with the flick of her hand, pulled the straps out from the sleeves, and then pulled out the said bra itself from the opening of the shirt. It was lacy and dark red, one of his favourite colours and one of his favourite sets from hers. Once her shorts were pulled off, Trish planted her hands on his chest while her hips gave the slightest rub against his clothed hips, a soft moan emitted from her lips, and bowing her head down so their faces were quite close to each other.

“Now what, Jackie?”

“You start by calling me ‘Sir’ this time.” He said, grabbing a fistful of her hair in his grasp, pulling her head back to hear that sweet sharp gasp. “And get down on your knees on the floor right now, sweetheart.”

The strong smell of lavender from her shampoo disappeared from his nose, leaving a lingering scent and forcing him to wake up from his deep slumber. Trish was gone from his grasp in the king size bed they shared. Krauser forced himself to sit up from his place, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes to see the warm light illuminating the little art studio. He quietly slid out of the bed, approaching the balcony to see the woman preparing her tools and her paints to continue her work at the canvas. From the top, he can’t see the progress of her work from where he stood and due to her angling the canvas to ensure her shadow doesn’t obstruct her painting session. 

He wasn’t sure why of all times, especially in the middle of the night, she chose to continue painting. He had to step back into the darkness when he watched her rush to the kitchen for what he could tell was boiling water to make tea or coffee. It was tea since he doesn’t smell coffee. As much as he wanted to head downstairs and confront her about it, he left it be, returning to the warm sheets and the alluring smell of her body lotion she applied on herself on the comforter to the smell of her lavender shampoo on her pillow.

Dullahan wasn’t lying about having a mission as a painter and he can’t believe he actually joined her as her plus one for the gala they’re attending. Dullahan had to disguise herself with a blonde wig, green contact lens, and cover up her scars as usual. Krauser did not as no one in this building would recognize him. Not even the security guards who simply waved them in and didn't check him for any weapons he might carry, which is his knife hidden inside his jacket. No military suit for him but a simple yet classic black tuxedo Dullahan has managed to convince himself to wear with a black bowtie. As for her, she wore a dark red dress with spaghetti straps and a long silt on her skirt, exposing her right leg. 

The sight of her chest simply revealing for other men to take a quick look at almost had jealousy bubbling at the pit of his stomach while at the same time he admitted that she looked sexy wearing this kind of dress and in the same shade of red like her bra a week ago. To be the matter of fact she’s not wearing a bra at all for her outfit. 

“What colour is your underwear right now?” He whispered in her ear while Dullahan collected two glasses of champagne from a passing server, handing one to Krauser. A teasing grin formed on her face. “Why ask me such a curious question like that, darling?” Her voice was laced with a sweet enduring tone a lover would give to their significant other since they are posing as a married couple. She tugged on his arm with her arm wrapped around him to guide him to one of her paintings people are admiring currently. The first painting was a beautiful beach with the view of the ocean, and if one looked closely at the cliff, there was a little cottage, with a lone woman walking along the path barefoot and her shoes held in her one hand. Part of the body concealed with a parasol. 

Krauser, who is not a fan of the fine arts, was oddly impressed by the colours she used in her painting. It almost gives off a hazy feeling of a dream one might still be having currently. He doesn’t recognise where the beach is and he’s simply assuming it must be her dream for the future. Peace and quiet. 

Dullahan tugged his sleeve to get him to lean down as they head for the next painting and whisper in his ear. “It’s black and it’s a thong.”

A smirk graced his lips. There was no one by one of her other paintings, allowing him the chance to whisper what he has in mind for her. “The next time you wear this dress again and I have to tag along, I want you to wear nothing underneath it.” Trish, continuing to keep up her facade of enjoying her time, simply smiled as if he told her something sweet before she took a sip of her champagne. “I will make you rub yourself on my leg like a depraved whore and it’ll be music in my ears to hear you beg for sweet relief from me.”

Whether it was automatically or by his words alone, her face flushed and she let out a soft giggle, hiding her smile with her glass. “Oh darling, how sweet of you. I should go and find our dear host and say my thanks to him. Hopefully I won’t take long but meet me in the private room over there soon.” Pointing at the closed doors guarded by two men at both sides of the door with a velvet rope to steer off anyone from approaching. “Tell them you’re with me and they’ll let you in.” Trish patted his broad shoulder and winked at him. “Fifteen minutes. Enjoy yourself, honey.”

He did his best to enjoy the rest of the gala alone. It was almost suffocating with people asking him for his thoughts and opinions on other artists’ works to Dullahan’s. As much as he didn’t like any of the artworks, he wished he could slit their throat right now if someone makes another disapproving remark on her paintings simply because of their thoughts on them. Bloody critics they are.

Fifteen minutes was nearly up and Krauser made his way to the private room she told him about. He noticed a selected number of people were allowed to enter, possibly connections with the said painters itself, and he was one of them to enter as soon he told the guards of his connection with Dullahan’s alias. 

The lightning in the room was dimmer and warmer compared to outside and there was a lesser number of paintings itself. Only five paintings, each belonging to one artist themself. One of the patrons did a double take on Krauser and was forced to look away when he bared his teeth at them. 

Why were they looking at him like that?

That’s when he met his painted self hanging on the wall. His portrait was wearing his military suit during his golden years with his signature red beret he wears now. In the painting, he was sitting on a fancy chair, his signature knife resting in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee propped up higher than the other. It made him look like he was one of those commanders from old period war era but with a modern take of it. Krauser noticed that she painted him scar free of them, making him look less stern than he is currently yet there was a glint of mischief in those icy painted blue eyes and the way his head is angled to the side as if someone caught him thinking something bad. More importantly, it was the smile she painted on him. It still wasn’t right but the way the corner of his mouth curled upwards to the way his lips parted very slightly exposing a flash of teeth matched the mischief look she painted. The background she painted was a dark green with a single window behind him showing a brief view of the beach that oddly looked familiar. 

Krauser was honestly awed by how much work she put into this portrait of him. He was lost with thoughts and no words could describe how she portrayed him to be displayed for private eyes to see.

Dullahan finally arrived, joining the soldier by his side. She smiled from seeing his stunned expression of her latest painting. She took note of his body language from his right hand cupping his own face, possibly to hide those parted lips from her eyes, the way his brows knitted together while one of them was raised, and how he wouldn’t stop staring at the painting to look at the painter herself.

“I’m glad you like it, Jackie.” She spoke softly so only they could hear it. “To be honest, I didn’t want this on display at the gala but he insisted I do. Thankfully none of these in this room are for sale but the ones outside.” She tucked the loose strands of her blonde wig behind her ear while she looked around their surroundings. “He’ll die slowly and by tomorrow it’ll be on the news. From a heart attack or a sudden stroke.” She leaned against him, resting her head on his arm. “What do you think of it?”

“I like the colours.” He said. “Plus you didn’t make me look like those arrogant captains painted like gods.” 

“Glad to hear that, love.” Her mouth twisted and sighed a bit to herself. “The only thing I don’t like is that I couldn’t get your smile right. I did the best I could with what I did there.” 

“I don’t care. Looks good to me.” His answer was nonchalant despite her disappointment at the one thing she couldn’t achieve correctly. “Next time if you think of painting me again, paint the scars on. It’ll look better.”

“I’ll take note of that.” Dullahan lifted her head up to give him a sincere smile for his honest words. “I’m heading back out so I can have an alibi. Care to join me?”

“In a moment.”

“Sure thing.” She nodded her head and soon left the private room. Once everyone else had left the room, a smile graced his scarred lips, cocking his head to the side to admire the painting better and soon letting out a chuckle while stuffing his hands into his pockets. She nor anyone will ever see him smile right before their eyes and that will be his own secret. Besides, he liked how she painted her version of his smile. Despite not being a fan of art, he’s certainly a fan of her work.

“You did well, sweetheart. You did well.”

#Jack Krauser #Dullahan #Krauser/Dullahan #Hatter's writing #Jack Krauser X OC #Krauser X OC #Resident Evil Krauser

[bemyhcro]

❌, 🏆, 🧱 & ⚰️

❌ - is there something your muse struggles with that they might never overcome? what is it? why do they have so much trouble with it?

accepting the truth about his dad. paxton isn't dumb, they know that peter was clearly working with the death eaters and that what he did was wrong, but for over twenty years pax believed their dad to be this big hero of the wizarding world. these beliefs don't just disappear over night, they don't just change. paxton struggles to understand the motives of peter and what led to his treachery, they struggle with the two different perceptions. the martyr and the traitor. i think some part of him certainly still believe that kingsley is lying and peter truly was a hero, tainted by jealousy of others - that's the hopeful son in him - the other understands that peter was what they say he was, more so now due to the DE confirmation, but still. how could any child accept that their parent was mad?

🏆 - is your muse multitalented? what are their hobbies, and why did they pick up these hobbies? if they don’t have hobbies, why don’t they?

paxton is quite the artist in his spare time, mostly with acrylic paints, though he has been dabbling with oils - don't mention watercolour to him, he despises the medium. he was never really creative as a child nor as a teen, but when he found himself forced into solitude, art became an outlet for his frustrations and emotions - it is quite evident through his old pieces how lonely and desperate he was. he now tends to paint more landscapes than anything, though he has painted one portrait before (his ex-fianceé, which was done during a sleep deprived moment prior to being called upon by the DE).

🧱 - how would you describe your muses’ morality? what are their core values?

answered here.

⚰️ - what are your muse’s greatest regrets? what would flash before their eyes when they’re on their deathbed?

there are two. the first is the sudden seperation from his fianceé in 2018 after the news broke, he regrets the way he left with no words and simply broke off their engagement through a hastily written letter; he regrets throwing away the love they had, the trust and he knows that each and every memory will flash before his eyes when he dies. the second? the estrangement from his mother and sister. was it his choice? yes. why did he do it? because he was scared they would hate him. he was an abomination, the son of a traitor and a rat, how could they look at him the same way? unbeknowst to him, his mother passed away last year and he has no idea. he has no idea she passed away trying to find him.

#memes. ﹙ ooc answer ﹚ #headcanons.

[justwriteryan]

SUMMARY; I wrote this about a week or so after watching Endgame back in 2019. My idea for what a post credit scene could have looked like.

ENDGAME EPILOGUE

Exterior shot. Day. Sunset. Avengers Compound has been rebuilt following the battle against Thanos’ forces. From the outside it looks exactly like it was before. On the lawn outside stands a row of bronze statues; the fallen Avengers.

Interior. A long hallway, the light of the low afternoon sun beaming all the way down. Two figures step into view, blinking in and out of the sunlight. One is significantly bigger than the other. As they come nearer we see its BRUCE BANNER, still in his SMART HULK form and HAWKEYE. Hulk’s right arm is still withered from the snap, supported by a sling. They’re strolling along at a gentle pace, looking around them.

HULK: If these walls could talk…

CLINT: They’d say “Who’re these guys?”. We were never here that much, Bruce.

HULK: Yeah, I guess you’re right. Things are different now, though.

He looks pointedly down at Clint.

CLINT: No. I’m retired.

Hulk laughs.

CLINT: No, really this time! I mean it! I’m done!

They stop for a moment.

CLINT: I just got them back, Bruce. All our hard work paid off and I got them back. Now all I want is to spend every day I got left as a husband and a father. Someone else can do the Avenging. How about you?

Hulk shoots him a sad smile.

HULK: I did my best in the fight that day, but unfortunately I think this (he raises his damaged arm slightly) is permanent. Looks like my smashing days are behind me.

CLINT: So what will you do?

HULK: Go back to the lab. Work on all the other ways I can contribute to the world. Still, it was nice of them to invite us to look around the Compound. You and me. Even if it is one last time.

CLINT: Yeah, it was. Hawkeye and the Incredible Hulk, the last of the OG Avengers. Tony’s gone, Thors off into space to go find himself, Caps gone…

HULK: Steve.

CLINT: What?

HULK: Steve is gone. Captain America is a different story. I’ll tell you later.

Clint looks at him for a moment. They walk on. They come to a huge watercolour painting. It’s an Alex Ross portrait, depicting the first time the Avengers assembled in 2012. The Battle of New York. They stand for a moment admiring it, looking at their past selves and fallen friends. Both their eyes linger on the image of NATASHA, standing proudly among them.

HULK: That day was…

CLINT: …a day unlike any other.

They look at one another and smile.

CLINT: Hey what do you think they rebuilt this place for, anyway?

HULK: Ah, I don’t know. Probably a museum or something.

VOICE: Don’t worry, Doctor Banner…

The pair turn from the painting. They see T’Challa, the BLACK PANTHER walking towards them. He has a wry, knowing smile on his face.

T’CHALLA: I’m sure we’ll find a use for it.

END.

#fanfiction #marvel #fanfic #creative writing #mcu #creative #post credit scene #inktober #hulk #incredible hulk #hawkeye #clint barton

[hadescavedish]

Do you mind if I ask what your art process is? Do you do a rough sketch first and then add detail or do you just go for it? I’m new to art/digital art and have no idea how to begin but I really like your art. Thank you 💙

Thank you for appreciating my art!

I know there are no certain rules on how to improve art, but to my personal experiences, there are some steps I would take to prep myself a bit from time to time (of course, you can skip this part before actually drawing anything, but when you want to get some insights about doing arts especially digital ones, you could always come back later):

1. Draw more rough sketches, quick and rough ones (there is a book called Complete guide to drawing from life by George Bridgman which will give you some tips and knowledge about human anatomy and perspective on body parts if you are interested in drawing people, also Line of action and this Deviantart page are both good reference sources)

2. There is a book called How to Render by Scott Robertson will explain the basics about digital rendering, it is a book for the designers but I find that can help beginners to understand the connections between light, hue, saturations about colours and even the environment, also there are many online articles can explain that.

How I Begin (I won't explain how I do all the styles, but I will start with how I do sketches and portraits):

1. Yes, I would do a sketch or draft first before doing anything else, I read an article mentioning even John Sargent would do extensive sketches on certain subjects he wanted to draw. It can be really really rough, the point is to create and remember the outline of the art which you had in mind.

For example, you probably had seen this art I did yesterday which I post the complete one, but it got certain dynamics on his features which that would guide me to go on for the next step:

2. There are two ways to render and colour:

1) The easier one is you go on make your black and white ones more detailed:

and then add many new layers in blend mode, which I usually would use multiply for adding the basic colours I preset for the image. Then switch to overlay or colour dodge to add the lighter tunes in the art. It is basically similar to drawing watercolours in the traditional arts.

adding multiply:

adding overlays:

using the curves on PS to adjust the layer at the bottom (or you can do this step after you finished the black and white):

2) The harder way is to do impasto, basically just after rough sketch, use one layer (but you can keep the original layer underneath just just in case if you are not satisfied with the results when you do the colours) you can do it straightforwardly laying all the colours you want to present in an image, before starting this I suggest if you know a bit about gouache arts or paintings that would help you understand how it works, I immensely prefer this way when I was in certain moods bc it created something has a painting-like texture (if you got the oil painting brushes for PS online):

#anonymous #asks #artist ask

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x female reader - Part Three (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Sorry for the huge delay on posting this - I was prepping to drive halfway up the country last week, and then when we got here my mother in law fell and badly broke her arm at the shoulder, and had to go to the local hospital, with surgery scheduled for Monday, so it’s been... busy...

Here’s part three of cranky spooder, with part four (final, long, and nsfw) scheduled for next Wednesday so that even if there’s more drama up here in the Lakes, you’ll still get your story.

This one is shorter, but I still hope you enjoy it. The fact that he's a widower is brought up, and the fire in which his wife and unborn eggs died is also mentioned, but briefly, and in no real detail. Hope you enjoy getting to know him a little better, and we find out his name in this one too.

On Monday morning, you pushed the door open with no small degree of trepidation, but found it deserted. Your task for that morning would take you up the wooden and brass ladders into the upper reaches of the library shelves, up and down, up and down. It was exhausting, but you welcomed the exertion after days of standing over piles of books and noting down titles.

On your fifth trip down, arms laden with books, you heard your name spoken from below, but as you looked down, your foot slipped, and the books rained down to the ground.

With a shout, you scrabbled for the ladder rung but missed, and found yourself falling through the void behind you. There were easily fifteen feet between you and the hard floor, but before you could even process what was really happening, something cushioned your back and you bounced softly, swaying perhaps four feet off the ground.

Looking around, you found that you were lying in a hammock of white webbing, slung hastily from a shelf nearby and gripped in the front talons of a drider’s two front legs.

Carefully, he lowered it to the ground and held out his hand to you. Shaking, you stepped from the webbing, too surprised to notice that it wasn’t sticky, and let him lead you back to the table. “Are you alright?” he asked.

You nodded, adrenaline still flooding through you.

“I thought I wasn’t going to catch you for a second there.”

“Thank you,” you managed. “That would have been a nasty fall…”

“I shouldn’t have distracted you like that. It was thoughtless of me.”

Looking up at him as he cringed away slightly, you found yourself asking, “What’s your name?”

“My name? Why?”

You shrugged. “Everyone calls you ‘the master’, but you’re not my master. I don’t work here.”

“Yes you do,” he said, glancing at the table groaning with books for reshelving.

“Only for another four months,” you said. “I mean… I’m not part of your staff. I don't know what to call you.”

He swallowed thickly and half turned from you, showing you his profile. He had a slightly hooked nose and a sharp chin, and his dark, glowering brows didn’t lend any softness to his already angular and gaunt face. “Gilvas,” he said, so softly you nearly missed it. “My name is Gilvas.”

“Well, Gilvas,” you said with a faint chuckle, “I think we’ve got to find a way to stop scaring the living shit out of each other whenever we meet… Unless you want to keep shaking me from the stacks like an apple from a tree…”

He stepped back then and blinked softly. The tiniest smile graced his lips and he stared at you. “Perhaps we should,” he said. Taking another few steps back, his legs moving like silent mechanical levers in an inventor’s toy, he swallowed again and sighed. “What are you working on today?”

Your gaze dropped to the scattered books and you picked one up and held it out to him. “See for yourself.”

He reached falteringly for the book and missed, eyelids fluttering. “Like I care anyway,” he said, turning and leaving.

“Wait,” you called. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

At that, he halted again. “Excuse me?”

“I forgot…” you admitted. “I forgot that…”

“That what?”  he snarled, rounding on you and rearing up again, though only slightly this time. His pendulous body acted as a counterweight and he hung there like a nightmare between the shelves. “That I can’t see you in this light? That catching you was a literal shot in the dark? That I can’t read the title of a book this close to my face?” He brandished the tome before flinging it roughly into the depths behind you.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly.

Your admission must have taken the wind out of him because he sagged, returning his lethally-clawed spider legs to the ground again and turning away, resting his weight on the shelf with a hand as he did so. “I shouldn't have lost my temper,” he said quietly, and then left.

Chance meetings with him after that seemed to occur more regularly, though none matched that one for drama, to your relief. Finally, on one rainy afternoon as you stood by the window taking a break, he approached you. His hair was tied back off his face that day, revealing its gaunt angles and bruised-looking shadows. He was clearly a wreck of his former self, but you thought you could see the ghost of who he had been.

“You’ve finished the first four sections,” he stated.

You turned from the rainy view and nodded. “Yeah. It’s still a lifetime’s work to fix all this, you know? I’m just grouping it by category. If you want a detailed catalogue of everything that’s in here, you need to hire someone permanently.”

He nodded. “I’m aware. Though frankly, I can’t see the point. When I die, the whole estate will be broken up anyway.”

The bluntness of his words took you by surprise and you paced over to him. He wavered, as if on the point of stepping back into the safety of the shadows, but he remained where he was. He had the body of a black widow spider, you had come to realise, with the black carapace marked with the hourglass of red. The red streak in his hair highlighted it, and the colour was picked up again in his inhuman, garnet-red eyes and in the swirling, watercolour birthmark across the right side of his face and neck.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

“Why not?” he scoffed. “It’s the truth. I have no heirs.”

“Gilvas…” you began, but you stopped. It wasn’t your place. In the months you’d been here, all the two of you had discussed was poetry and shared the odd comment on whatever your current topic was.

With a long inhale, he said, “Tell me about yourself?”

“What about me?” you laughed. “I’m an archivist, my best friend is an orc, I’ve lived in Starfall Springs all my life, save for going to the university at Old Trollbridge, and —”

“What college?”

“At Trollbridge?” you asked. “Lady Francis.” Lady Francis of the Barbed Arrow, to give it its full title, but no one called it that.

He smiled. “I was at Calnehouse.”

Something softened in him then as he trailed his elegant, if bony, fingertips along the edge of the table.

“Met my wife there.”

Your heart leapt. This was the first time he’d ever mentioned her - or anything personal really. “What did she study?” you asked in a whisper.

“Foreign languages,” he said, voice catching. “She was brilliant.”

“You must have loved her very much…” you offered, your words feeling empty and inadequate.

Meekly, he nodded. “She would have liked you.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.”

With a shy smile, you ventured, “May I ask why?”

He twitched his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture, and you walked by his side to the back of the library. A panel stood between two wide bookshelves, and he pressed a rosette amid the ornate carving. With a click, it sprang free from the wall, and he ducked through it with barely a whisper of room on each side of his body, leaving you to follow after. As the door closed behind you, the corridor was plunged into complete darkness.

You gasped and shot a hand out for the wall.

“This way. It’s not far,” Gilvas murmured, and a moment later, a shaft of light pierced through the absolute blackness and the pair of you emerged at the other end in an unfamiliar part of the house.

“Where are we?” you asked as you watched him squeeze through and step down into a slightly lower passage. He turned and, to your surprise, offered you his hand.

You took it and found his skin cool, almost cold, and his grip strong despite the slight tremble to his fingers. He steadied you and then let go, allowing you to look around. Portraits hung all down the corridor and you stared from one to the other of them. Most seemed to be of driders, although you picked out a tiefling in one, and what appeared to be a human in another.

Finally, your eyes lighted on a striking likeness of a young, female drider with pure white hair and lavender skin. “Is that…?”

Silently, he nodded and blinked slowly.

You crossed to her and stared up at the modestly sized painting. The drider was laughing, caught on the moment of turning to look out at the viewer, hair swirling. You thought of all the life and vivaciousness he’d missed out on since holing himself up in here after her death. “She’s beautiful,” you choked. “I’m so sorry you lost her.”

“There was a fire,” he said. “Took out the whole east wing. Gutted it. I… I couldn’t reach them.”

“Them?” you blurted unthinkingly.

“She was… She was with…”

A chill plunged through you as you remembered what Naril had told you, and you turned from the painting. “Stop,” you hissed. “You don't have to relive that. I’m sorry.”

He blinked down at you, face achingly sad. “I’m glad you came here, you know?”

“I thought I was just a nuisance, reorganising all your books and getting in the way…”

He managed a weak, wonky smile and shook his head. “This place has been the same for too long.”

With a quick glance back over your shoulder at the laughing drider, you asked, “How… Low long?”

“Nine years,” he said. “She died in our last year of university. In the spring.”

“And you’ve lived here alone all this time?”

“I’m not alone,” he said, turning and looking pointedly down the length of the corridor.

Frowning, you turned and found Chiara standing at the far end, gawping at the pair of you. “My lord?” the harpy croaked, looking stunned to find you there. “Is…?” she looked from you to him again. “Is everything alright?”

His lip twitched fractionally, and he nodded. “I was just…” he sighed. “Never mind. I should let you get back to work. I promise not to shake you from the rafters again.”

“Only if you promise to catch me,” you grinned as he opened up the passageway for you.

He faltered. And then nodded. “Deal.”

Final Part --->

___

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

__

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#drider #exophilia #monster boyfriend #drider x reader #drider boyfriend #male monster x female reader #male drider x female reader #male drider #male monster #female reader #spider monster #cranky spooder

[yeojaa]

( LOVED YOU BETTER. )

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

pairing.  kth x f!reader.

genre + rating.   slice of life.  an angst angel food cake with a fluffy, strawberry centre.  general.

tags / warnings.  minor (ish) character death, heartbreak, kim taehyung is bad at feelings, summer romance, abandonment issues, moving on, healing.  idk. 

wc.  4.3k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ @snackhobi​ @midnighttifa​ 💖 i love y’all!

author note.  this was written for the 'a long hot summer' event hosted by @thebtswritersclub​.  my member was taehyung (obviously!) with the sense being sight.  this is my first project for a net, so i hope you enjoy it!  💖

He spends most of his childhood in Lyon, skirting the rivers in search of inspiration.  It isn’t Paris, his mother tells him, but it’s just as lovely - quieter and more peaceful.  She insists, one day, she’ll take him home, where his maternal grandparents are buried and she’ll show him all the parts of her world.  

The first time he paints - eleven years old, seated at the edge of the Saône with a brush held between his teeth and pigment smearing his hands - his mother is delighted.  He fills the house with his works: pretty watercolours that mimic the blue of the river, the white of boats, the amber of the sky.  She loves them and she loves him and she tells him day in and day out, offering praise as readily as he offers his heart on canvas.  

He’s sixteen when he migrates stateside, to where his father grew up and his mother’s accent stands out.  He hates it there.  It’s boring and bland and it stifles his imagination.  There are no sail boats, no rivers, no pretty girls.  The days turn grey and so does his mother, as if she’d left the best parts of herself back in France.  She still tells him she loves him, promises that they’ll go back someday. 

At twenty-one, he learns love isn’t real.  His father files for divorce and his mother withers away.  When he goes, he packs his bags and doesn’t look back.  It’s a slamming door in an already abandoned home.  Beautiful as it might be, love is nothing but infatuation - fleeting and easily broken and fit only for the books that line the study.  It exists truly, wholly, only in the blood that runs in his veins.  

At twenty-two, he realises absolutely nothing lasts, for his mother leaves too, taking her lilting laughter and rose perfume with her, buried six feet under soil she’d never called home.  Her death is a nail in the door, sealing his childhood shut.  

His father does not attend the funeral.  Hardly anyone does.  

The paintings - lovely portraits of her wide eyes and full lips, of Parisian sunsets and paved streets - are all he has.  They serve as memories, painful reminders of the woman his mother once was, of the life he’d once lived.   They fill the house that’s no longer a home - hasn’t been, for years - tucked away in a room he refuses to enter.    

His mother had called him her petit choux because he was born with dough-soft cheeks, sweet as pie.  As he grew older, the name stuck - even if the fat hadn’t, slipping off his face with each passing year.  By the time he’s eighteen, he’s uncut edges rather than honey brioche.  At twenty-seven, he’s hardened far more than she would’ve ever expected of her beloved boy.  He is week old bread, stale and hard to the teeth.

But he is still her petit choux and he thinks she’d love him regardless.

So Kim Taehyung promises to go back.  For her - to find all the pieces she’d left behind and fashion them back together.  What he doesn’t expect is to meet you along the way. 

He discovers you on a day that scorches his bones, Parisian sun shimmering pavement and cobblestone.  You are a whirlwind of colour, every shade of the rainbow presented in the glory of your smile.  You treat the Seine like a lover, living at the edges of its shores with bare feet and bare legs and a bare face that begs to be memorised.

You laugh and it’s radiant, pealing bells that ring in his ears long after noon has struck. 

You call him mon chéri like it means something.   

It reminds him of his mother and he wonders whether she ever did these same things, dancing across the grass with an apricot caught between her teeth.  He hopes so. 

“Come, come,”  you coax, with a mouth that threatens to tear his chest wide open.  It presents pretty, in shades of ruby and wine;  it draws him in, sticky sweet, and he’s defenseless to your whims.  He goes where you go, following the flow of your hair, the curtain that draws back and has him seeing in technicolour.  

He laughs when you laugh, smiles when you smile.  You bring him to all the places he’s never been:  the cobbled streets his mother once roamed, the darkened bars filled with champagne, the sunlit warmth of your bedroom where wisteria branches hang low.  He paints you in all of them - sweeping watercolours into the silk of your hair, the curve of your lips, the swell of your hips when his palms grip them tight. 

You’re an ingenue, a muse, everything he’s ever wanted.  But he doesn’t love you - because love doesn’t exist.  Not in the ways they portray on the silver screen, with heartfelt declarations and bundles of overflowing roses.  He can’t give you those things;  he’s grateful you don’t ask.

Sometimes, he thinks you might dare to.  Can see it lurking in the lovely shade of your stare, how you study him when you think he isn’t watching.  Furtive glances, made beneath the thick line of your lashes, behind the brocade of your sun-drenched strands. 

But he’s Kim Taehyung and he’s always watching - always aware.  He hates to miss a single thing.

Don’t ask me to love you, he tells you without words.  

“Should we go to Lyon for the weekend?”  

You’re draped across the bed, drenched in lavender and warm like baked pastry.  Your tongue licks cream from your lips, sweetness touched with honey.  He drinks in your every movement, dedicating them to canvas.  There’s a freckle on your knee and another just below.  One more on your ankle and three along the top of your foot.  A constellation he hasn’t named yet.

“No,”  he answers, devoid of the same delight that frolics behind your teeth.  

“Why not?”  You press, because it’s what you do - forcing each button until you find the one that stirs something to life within him.  A coin-operated boy, rusty and in terrible disrepair.  He thinks you’d be wary of the bright red warning light but you seem almost colourblind, looking through rose-tinted glasses that dress all of his actions in warmth he doesn’t deserve.  

He doesn’t answer, sweeping his brush back and forth.  Lilac filters into water, a lovely shade that grows lighter and lighter with each pass of bristles.  It’s not quite the same as your dress - a silk creation that begs to live on your skin - but it’s close enough.  He’ll settle for it.

It reminds him of the flowers in the garden back home.  Back when his mother was alive and she still breathed life into the greenery, trimming stems and drying petals.  

“I don’t want to.”  A simple enough answer.  

You wait for him to elaborate, pouting and pleading like you might break him down with the sheer force of your beauty.  If he were any lesser man, you might have.  

“Please,”  you purr, too persuasive for your own good.  You’d settle into his lap, twist his honey strands between your fingers, if not for the stare he levels you with.  One that screams be good and stay still because the last thing he wants is you ruining the painting.  He doesn’t want to start all over and the light is already waning, sun lost somewhere behind drooping branches and the gauzy softness of your drapes.

“No.”  

“Please.”

Brush to water, then to colour.  A sweet orange - the flesh of a fresh cantaloupe without seeds.  “No.”

“Mon chéri—” 

He booms out “No!” like a cannon.  It’s akin to being scolded, stilling the playfulness in your hands.  You’re ignorant to all the reasons he refuses to indulge you but you think of it as nothing but selfishness, a cold you can’t weather.  One you refuse to when flowers are in full bloom and the air outside lays a salt-crown  atop your brow.  This is your kingdom, your rightful place - you bow to no one. 

You stiffen, rise from the bed in a motion that disrupts every part of him.  Motions still, knuckles white.  No no no.  You’re ruining it.  You’re ruining—

“Get out.”

Taehyung can’t quite believe his ears - staring at you in such aghast you almost laugh right in his face.  He has the audacity to perform such theatrics after yelling at you?  How dare he!  It enrages you, brings your blue blood to a boil beneath your skin.

“Pardon?”  The sound rolls, trips, and stumbles, dirt on his palms and knees as he stares up at you.

“I said get out, mon chéri.”  You’ve unbuttoned the rumpled shirt - his, with his initials embroidered across the cuff - allowing it to drop from your shoulders and into his lap.  He glares down at it, stained now with the watercolours in his palette.  It’d be pretty if it weren’t so infuriating. 

“I’m not done.”  

You tch, a derisive sound that bites worse than your love, your nails painted in Chanel.  “I don’t care.”

“I’m not done,”  he repeats, perhaps a little lost.  It crawls out between his teeth, a lost man seeking solace.  He needs to finish this.  He hasn’t painted you this way yet, bathed in faded light.  It’s an empty slot in his album of memories.  He can’t let it go.

You’re unrepentant, dismissive.  A table turned.  “I don’t care.” 

He hates you then.  He doesn’t realise how close the emotion is to love.

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, lost itself to the wind and the rivers.  He only knows, suddenly, he was not a boy but a man, a miserable soldier made to walk the plank.  He thinks it might’ve been when she died, taking the last traces of his youth with her.  Gone was the innocence, the gentility, the voraciousness;  all at once, the ease - the glory, the good - had evaporated, leaving in its place a broken boy too angular, too angry. 

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, but he remembers all too well when her death had eclipsed the light, leaving him in perpetual darkness.  

It makes sense then - that his whole life is a charnel house, built on the foundation of someone else’s bones.  It’s only fitting it becomes a memorial to a long-gone mother, a weeping wife, a star burnt out too soon. 

He’s somehow still surprised when his kingdom - formidable, impenetrable, guarded - comes crumbling down, an overgrown old city ruined.  As if he’d expected those skeletons to hold him forever, to carry the weight of his desolation within their hollows.  He begs for absolution when it falls beneath a thousand leagues, lost to saltwater and liquor.  He drowns within it and it seeps, sticks, stirs - catching in his stare and trembling his fingers.  

Nostalgia comes like ghosts - old men lost at sea.

They’re dim, twilight, held behind a heavy fog.  Old memories on a carousel ride, spinning in perpetual motion.  They’re snapshots of his mother, his youth, his home.  They pass too quickly;  he can never catch them.  

Years old misery claws its way up his chest and he chokes on it each night, lying awake listening to the city groan, straining like a dying beast on its last legs.  He misses her, he misses you, he misses the person he used to be.  He aches for it - a nameless thing just out of reach.  

Something Taehyung begs and cries for until he’s blue in the face.

Something you’d given him, in the form of kisses and promises.  Something he’d only shoved you down into the dirt for - right where she was.  Because no one kept promises, and he didn’t want to hate you later.  (For loving, for leaving.)  

Instead, he hates himself, and that is a neater, cleaner way to end the story.  

He is bereft, drifting between days he has neither the desire nor wherewithal to consider. 

He sees women just like you - girls that run barefoot through the grass, fancying themselves dancers, muses, inspirations.  They laugh, they kiss, they cite vague poetry.  They preen when he asks to paint them, throwing exaggerated shapes with the lines of their necks, the flutter of their lashes.

Still, none of them are you - too soft and rounded. 

None possess the same insolence, polite phrases toeing the line of sophisticate and street urchin.  They are all wind-up ballerinas, dancing on rotation, with smiles not right, too tight.  They’re too flat, too freckled, reminiscent of rotting cherries and mint-green Ladurée bags you’d scoff at.  They leave his canvases better off bare, boring and one-dimensional.  Taehyung resents them. 

But he doesn’t love you, and he tells himself that whenever he misses you.

A victim of ennui, he slips into a pattern he abhors.  Supine lounging in the evenings, preceded only by listless wandering during the long hours of the day.  He drifts with the rise and fall of the sun, eyes blind to the beauty around him. 

Nothing feels quite right anymore - not in the way it used to.  There are no memories of his mother, no sweet tales told by a ghost.  It’s empty empty empty, only shit-stained streets and hollow bodies.

He prays for an answer, a sign, anything. 

It comes in the form of you - nearly three weeks later, beneath a stream of sunlight that casts you in chiaroscuro.  For the first time, he itches to paint.  The need thrums in his fingers, a million little nerve endings firing off.  He itches to touch you too, but he ignores that, shoves it into the deepest, darkest recess of his thoughts as he can.  He needs to focus on one thing and one thing only:  doing what he came here to do.

“Bonjour.”  It comes bare, undressed and vulnerable.  By the look on your face, it isn’t what you want.

You twist away, entire body angling uncomfortably in your effort to ignore him.  “What do you want?”  You’re cruel, capricious - a god looking upon a lowly farmhand with no offering.  It stings in a way it shouldn’t, pulls his expression into a frown before he can mask it. 

That’s better, you think.  He can practically read the smug emotion dancing in those pretty irises.

“You haven’t called.”  

“Neither have you.”  

“You told me to leave.”

“And you left.”

For every excuse, you have a rebuttal.  It’s a game of chess he’s bound to lose.  It’s as frustrating as it is enticing, stirring something warm and heavy in the cavity behind his ribs.  A little hummingbird come to life, wings beating relentlessly and kicking up all the dust of his childhood trauma.

“I’m sorry.”  It’s hardly an apology, too greedy to come the way it should.  Taehyung does this for himself, for his promise, for memories he refuses to let go. 

You see right through him.  “Are you?”  

“I am.”  

“You’re not.”

“I am.”  

“Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

The words I am are poised on his tongue and reduced to ash with your question.  He’s never had to try so hard a day in his life.  It feels wrong, messy, awful.  Every part of him compels him to rebel - to wax poetic about the things he’s done right, how what you’re asking is too much.  I cannot love you, he thinks.  

“I thought so.”  There’s nothing but disdain in your stare, turning it sharp like a knife that threatens to glide through his armour.  “You’re selfish, Kim Taehyung.  All you want is to take and take and take.  You refuse to give.”  

You’re not wrong.  He wears his sadness like a solid steel plate;  it curls around his vertebrae, writhing in his belly until he’s full, aching, complete.  He doesn’t know how to exist without it, apart from it.  It keeps him safe, satisfied, out of harm’s way.  It’s both a blessing and a curse.  

As you leave, he wonders whether it’s worth it.

Six long days pass.  Six too many, drawn out and miserable.  He aches to create, to sketch, to paint.  He calls you in a moment of weakness;  you come, nonetheless.

“What do you want?”  You repeat, mouthful of thorns and scar tissue.  

This time Taehyung has an answer.  He’s ready, confident in his recital.  It spills forth loosely, with abstract brazenness.  “I want you.”  There’s no room for uncertainty, zero leeway to be found in between the syllables.  It’s the most sincere he’s been all season, made true by the summer sun and your focused, unyielding stare.

“You want moi?”  It’s a dance with the devil - question poised like a hand.  “Do you even know what wanting someone means?”  You’re steady, unwavering, just as he is. 

He hesitates then, just barely, with a tick of his jaw, fingers curling around nothing.  You take that as weakness, delicate mouth curling into a sneer.  He sees it - all the I told you so’s poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to silence him.  He beats you to it, crashing his mouth against yours with a recklessness that thrums in his veins, sending his heart on a wild chase for that something.

He’s spent his whole life in pursuit of a feeling, a spectre, a bittersweet memory.  He thinks he might’ve lost himself along the way.

“I want you.  I want you - and us.”  

What he means to say is he wants all the things that come with it:  the bratty rebuttals, the early morning eagerness, the taste of you every night.  He wants the eyelashes on his pillow case, the lipstick stains, the scent of your perfume - citrus and nectarine blossom, cocoa butter, fresh cream.  He wants the trips to the countryside, the new memories, the paintings full of you.  He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.  He needs it like he needs air, light, art.

He needs you - his muse.  

He tells you, shamelessly, around a lump that forms in his throat and makes it hard to breathe.  “We’ll go to Lyon.  If you want to go, we’ll go.”  

The place where he grew up is different, wrapped in ivy and devoid of light.  Windows are drawn and everything leans grey, weeds sprouting beneath his expensive leather loafers.  They curl around his ankles, creep up the back of his knees;  they threaten to crush him beneath their weight.  He imagines his insides look the same - neglected and vacant.  

He wishes he hadn’t come.  This isn’t his home, his kingdom, his heart.  Not anymore.

“Come, mon chéri,”  you hum, stirring him from his reverie, pulling his thoughts through the seven circles of Hell until he’s back in the present, stiff at your side with your fingers interlaced.  You offer an affectionate smack of your lips - wine-stained and pretty - to his cheek.  He does not soften. 

“Let’s go.”  It comes despite himself, before he can help it, in a voice that isn’t his.  It’s too soft, too unsure - fifteen years younger and vulnerable.

You regard him closely, with a careful narrow of your stare.  He can read the pity there, the frustration that swims in the depths - circling sharks seeking out the scent of his blood.  It’s inescapable.  He wishes you’d stop.  He doesn’t need you to lecture him.  

Misery rises, licks up his throat like bile, and he worries it might spill out, red as the crimson sea.  Part of him wants it to - a defense mechanism he can’t control;  the other part of him knows he should swallow it down.  He has no reason to fight you.

“Come,”  you repeat, and he’s defenseless, lost to your siren song.  He steps back in time, white-knuckled and terrified. 

There are no longer peonies in the kitchen, nor roses in the front hall.  Dust settles over every surface, dry soil kicked up beneath his feet.  

Taehyung tries to recall the way his mother would busy herself in the garden, bent over her flowers like an altar.  How her knees were perpetually scarred, dirt caught beneath her nails, dark hair a braided wreath worn like a crown.  It was the only time she was anything but composed - full of light and laughter and a love for the alive.  He’d eat breakfast with her in the front yard, a shadow that would follow her every move.  Back and forth, he’d go - on his feet, with his brush, in his thoughts. 

Every painting was of her - of tulips and daisies, bare ankles and sun-kissed skin.  The shape of her mouth, the freckle on her nose.  Her delight when his father would come home. 

He swears he smells her perfume now, standing in the place he’d grown up.  He’s reminded of hot coffee and fresh bread, her fluttering laughter and brass watering can.  He’ll dream about it for days, memories rolling like a Super 8 film through his mind.

He cries I’m fine when he isn’t.  You hold him until he is. 

You sleep together on a Sunday afternoon.  

When you wake, the sun is low on the horizon and you’re the prettiest Taehyung’s ever seen you, features thrown in stark relief.  You’re salt-sweet and striking, dressed in linen whites and the shape of his mouth.  

He paints the pale soles of your feet, drawn against your leg, and the shade of your nails, a pretty colour he attributes to springtime and sonnets.  He indulges in the sound of your voice, soft and hazy in his ear.  You kiss him like he isn’t broken and you taste like memories - ones he hasn’t made yet, but desperately wants to.  He is both sinking and floating, as if you’ve taken his heart from his chest and hold it, beating, somewhere high above his head. 

He carries your perfume for weeks after, heavy on his skin.  Lingering, like you’ve become a part of him, like he’s fallen in love. 

Kim Taehyung had once surrounded himself with beautiful things - paintings and drawings and girls.  He’d thought if he fenced himself in with all things good, there would be no cracks for the outside world - the real world, full of misery and deceit - to seep through.  He’d kept his hands occupied by brushes, by thorns, by a million little material things.

He hadn’t realised all he needed was yours, warm in his. 

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

The confession comes at the end of summer, edges past the cage of his teeth into the quiet of the evening.  It comes and comes, so softly he thinks you might laugh, corners of your eyes wrinkling like the sheets in which you’re bare.

Maybe it’s the way your hair falls over your shoulders, a curtain he aches to part, to feel beneath his hands.  Maybe it’s the way you look at him with hungry eyes and wet lips and teeth that could crumble all of his walls as if they were made of papier-mache.  

Maybe it’s just you, skin like silk and eyes like the night sky.  

“I think I love you,”  Taehyung states, careful, with his entire heart in his hands. 

“You think?  

He nods, although he mustn’t.  He can’t, he reminds himself.

And yet he does, because there is no denying how well you fit each other’s curves, the truth that you are two pieces of the same puzzle.  He wakes up early each day with the taste of you still on his tongue, the memory of you seared into his palms.  Your body has become his home and it is real, flesh and blood, not broken bones buried six feet under.  

You fill his silence with your laughter;  it sounds like redemption and feels like hope.

Before he knows it, seasons change.

Autumn becomes a waiting room, a time between the unyielding heat of summer and the unbearable cold of winter.  Taehyung loves the quiet of it, the progression as steady as the chill that creeps beneath his clothes, within his bed - everywhere but in his head.  

He remembers his mother, his home, all the things he’s lost.  He pays homage to the woman who had raised him right but left too soon.  He finds the places she’d told him about and folds secrets into their corners.  He creates new memories, introducing his present to his past.  You call her mamman and tell her not to worry, promising that you’ll take care of him.  

He lives beneath the fading leaves that serve as a benchmark for which to measure the growth he’s undergone.  He imagines his life in film, in rolling scenes laid out in sepia tones.  He imagines weeks passing by and versions of himself doing the things he loves most.

Laid out under the copper sky, your head in his lap and a brush in his hands.  He doesn’t need to look at you - can fit you among the pages purely from memory.  The turn of your smile, the twinkle in your stare, the little freckle just beneath your lip.  He sees you in his dreams and he commits them to paper, filling his sketchbook as you fill his thoughts.

Wandering the streets, hand in hand, guided by your laughter and the smell of warm pastry.  Bare legs, echoing footsteps, the sight of your smile when he’s said something particularly funny.  You cry Mon chéri! and force a cherry between his lips, savouring the tart taste under the afternoon sun.

Upon your balcony, skin searing beneath high noon and the feel of your mouth.  He lets you paint him - sits terribly still as you show him who he really is - stripping his pretenses with each pass of your brush.  He is bare but not broken, a beautiful boy painted in earth tones and paired with intense eyes.  

Taehyung tells you your painting is beautiful and that he loves it - that he loves you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​

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[jeonqquk]

racket | jjk

↳pairing: jungkook x reader ↳genre/tags: badmintonplayer!jungkook and badmintonplayer!reader, barely any badminton related stuff, rushed asf, accidental confession-?, they dont even kiss wtf ↳rating: everyone <3 ↳wc: 6k

Jeon Jungkook was capable of being the eighth wonder of the world. He may not have come into existence in the 1700s but his ability to do almost everything perfectly was bewildering. Whether it be eating an entire cake in the span of a half-hour or defeating even the coaches at badminton. 

Everybody loved Jungkook, his sweet and caring nature paired with those godly features attracted everyone to him- in many ways. Unfortunately, you weren’t part of the everybody lot. 

You hated Jungkook. Absolutely despised his abhorrent ass. So much so that if he were the last person alive, you’d even kill yourself just to stay away from him. But that was highly unlikely, so you weren’t going to kill yourself. 

The hatred had just always been there, his competitive side seeming fucking atrocious to you. The feeling was mutual, though, so you didn’t feel as guilty as you would’ve if you just detested him while he behaved politely with you.

Jungkook was petty, even you knew that by now. His competitiveness always getting the better of him and turning him into someone with a completely different persona. Losing was not something he was used to. Maybe that’s why he had only a handful of friends, he would do anything to win. It could be a silly bet or even a tournament- Jungkook just had to win.

All the people he was friends with though, their relationship was beautiful. There were only 4 or 5 boys he actually got along with and their adoration for each other could be seen by anybody. 

This wouldn’t have been a problem if you weren’t also as competitive as him. You’re technically in no position to say that Jungkook’s hatred towards losing was unhealthy because you hated it too. You thought it made you seem weak, incapable- and you supposed that it was the same reason as to why the youngest Jeon son hated losing as well but you never tried understanding him. Let alone let him speak for a minute if he was in a 10-foot-radius of you. 

It was better this way, you thought. It was better to hate him than actually trying to befriend him and catching those unwanted feelings. Hating Jungkook was simpler, easier. Or so you thought for the 10 years of the two of you attending the same badminton academy. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the two of you were in the same class at college as well. So you had to deal with his annoying self for the larger part of the day. 

It was around a month before the annual badminton tournament of your state and obviously, you and Jungkook were taking part in it, more intent on defeating each other rather than the opposing teams. This wouldn’t work though, your coach had called the two of you after practice one day and had said “Listen, Jungkook, Y/n. I know that you’re both really good players and also hate each other.” he sighs, “I’m not asking you to befriend each other, no. I just want the two of you to get along for the tournament. For the sake of our school.” The coach makes a pleading face and you just nod, looking over at Jungkook to see his reaction. He hums and looks down. 

After the coach has walked away, you look at Jungkook again, getting ready to tell him that this wasn’t really going to affect the way you behaved with him but he beats you to it, his voice reaching your ears as your lips stay parted midway.

“So, I guess...no more arguing?” Jungkook finally looks at you with a slightly questioning face and you’re left momentarily blank, his proposition seeming so out of character that you’re at a loss for words. This wasn’t expected out of Jungkook. What was expected was that he would just scoff before glaring at you for no reason and stalking away. Him asking you if you wanted to stop the childish arguments the two of you had was not expected. 

It takes you a minute to comprehend that Jeon Jungkook was actually trying to put an end to those mini-wars of yours. Your reply is dumb “Uh- okay.” You’re still in a daze from what he said and it’s only when he snaps his fingers in front of your face that you immediately want to spit out a sassy remark but bite your tongue on it, not wanting to disregard Jungkook’s suggestion just after seconds of it having come out of those pink lips of his.

Not knowing what to do, you nod and turn around to get into the locker rooms before heading home. You’re oblivious to the fact that Jungkook almost called your name, wanting to talk to you more, he didn’t know why, but decided against it. You wouldn’t accept the offer anyway.

The walk back to your house is quiet, you’re humming a random tune and there aren’t many vehicles on the road, except for school buses dropping kids home. Unlocking the door, you step into your house and close it behind you before keeping your bag in your room and changing out of your clothes. After all that is done, you check the time and see that it’s 3:18 pm, you have around 2 hours before badminton coaching and suddenly feeling motivated, you heat up some leftover pizza and walk into your room to paint something. 

You may not be good at art, you admitted that without any shame because there were a lot of other things you could perform flawlessly. Playing badminton, whining and being able to smell any fried food from miles away to name a few. But you didn’t want to do art because you’d get good at it or something, it was something you genuinely enjoyed and the comments from other people didn’t matter as long as you were satisfied with yourself. And that meant your circles not looking  like amoeba.

You take out a drawing book that had been laying in the third drawer of your desk for months and dig up some paintbrushes and watercolour tubes you had left before sitting at your desk to finally start your work. You let your fingers guide you, not thinking much about what you were doing and what the outcome would be. Occasionally dusting your hands from the pizza crumbs, you were quite focused on your work.

30 minutes later, you’re leaning back in your chair and surveying your painting. Woah, it looks pretty-

Wait is that fucking Jungkook you see? “Huh?” your forehead is creased in perplexity, did you just paint a goddamn Jungkook? It looks like Jungkook, though...the bambi eyes and that tiny pout on his lips. How did you-

You were so confused right now. What were you thinking? Well, you obviously weren’t thinking.

Wow. Apparently, you had drawn Jungkook, your sworn enemy, without knowing. Not knowing what to do with the average portrait that didn’t do any justice to his actual features, you quickly clean up your stuff and keep it all back in its respective drawers. 

It’s now 4 and you get out your books to get some homework done before leaving for coaching. Ugh. You’d have to see Jungkook there too. You wonder how he’ll behave with you, hopefully, he won’t come anywhere near you. 

Sighing as you finish the assignments before stretching back in your chair, you get up to change into your sports clothes before grabbing your bag and water bottle, looking at yourself once in the mirror before walking out towards the pleasantly close by badminton academy you had grown way too accustomed to. 

Upon reaching the building, you walk through the reception and smile at the elderly lady who sits there every day. You push the door that leads to the courts and walk on the side, greeting your friends that were warming up. You don’t see Jungkook anywhere right now so that’s a good sign and you bow slightly at your coach in respect although the many years of being taught by the man have obviously gotten the two of you very close. Your bag is kept near a bench in its usual place and you put on the shoes you could wear only on the badminton courts before picking a corner on the side of the court and begin stretching. 

You’re walking to get your racquet when you see Jungkook jogging up to your coach, saying something to him with an apologetic look before getting a  playful shove from sir as he nods towards the benches where Jungkook would most probably keep his stuff and do some quick exercises before joining the rest of you. 

Said boy’s gaze meets yours and he smiles. You don’t reciprocate the gesture, scoffing and moving over to Jihye who’s already looking at you with a cheeky smile adorning her face. “What?” you question, not understanding why she was acting so weird “Don’t pretend you don’t know.” she gives you a playful shove to which you reply by tch-ing and rolling your eyes, done with her childish behaviour. “Seriously Jihye what th-”

“I saw Jungkook smile at you.” 

The look on your face is an accurate representation of what you were thinking right now. So what? That smile was nothing, he was just acting upon what he had said earlier. “Yeah, so?” you reply boredly, watching as Jihye’s mouth open wide- wide enough for her to fit her entire fist inside.

“Yeah, so? Are you shitting me Y/n? Jeon Jungkook just smiled at you and you didn’t even do anything in response?” you’re still watching her blankly. Although you admit that it’s not her fault entirely, even you were shocked, very shocked when he first told you about the no-more-fighting pact. 

“He just said that we shouldn’t argue now, because the coach at school said that it was going to be bad for our team. You know, in the tournament.” you simply shrug, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact and Jihye is about to reply before the coach is calling all of you for a shadow drill. 

Shit.

You are given one side of a court and by some way or the other, Jungkook is opposite to you, his black pants sticking to those fleshy thighs so deliciously and hi-

What?

What is wrong with you? You’ve been thinking about Jungkook unconsciously- first drawing him and now this. Get a grip Y/n.

The whistle of your coach sounds throughout the entire room and your chain of thoughts is broken as your run towards the left side of the net from your position in the centre of the court before picking up one of the shuttles and running back to the centre, moving to the right side of the net now and doing the same as you continue the drill. Jungkook is swift, his feet are balanced and he still manages to look so graceful as he runs around his side of the court. 

You’re finally done with all the corners of the court twice as you move to sit in the space between the two different courts as you pant. The two people who were waiting now go to your and Jungkook’s positions as they begin the shadows drill now. You’re surprised to see that Jungkook has opted to sit next to you, you with your bright pink skirt sticking to your skin in all its glory.  

“Hi.” he smiles and turns towards you with his hand outstretched in front of your form. With a questioning look on your face, you shake his hand. How far was he planning on going when he said that the two of you wouldn’t be having those silly arguments anymore? To you, it meant that the pair of you would just stick to your own places and not interact with each other or do anything that would result in the bickering to resume. 

“Hey..?” Jungkook retracts his hand, leaving yours in mid-air. “So you uh wanna like hang out..um..like somewhere?” This boy had been taking you by surprise too much lately, why would he randomly ask you to hang out?

Sure he had said that he didn’t want the two of you having those little fights anymore but this? This was unexpected- really fucking unexpected.

“Uh...so suddenly?” he slightly frowns “Why?  Are you uncomfortable with it? That’s totally fine though!”

Jungkook was being too friendly, a little too friendly, you were confused and shocked at his tactics but tried not to show it on your face. “I mean, yeah, okay.” The words came tumbling out of your mouth before you could even realise it and his face was now bright. His smile so sweet, you feel a cavity forming and he nods. “Cool! After practice then..? He trails off, suddenly hesitant and you’re still dumbfounded by how quickly things had taken a turn, for the better you supposed. 

Not even a day ago, the two of you were ready to claw the other’s eyes out and now, you were agreeing to go out with him. This is not a date though. Jungkook and you are just going out to bond as friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Nodding, you smile lightly, trying to reduce some of the awkwardness from your face as you suggest a cafe to meet up at. 

Practice is over and you are walking out of the academy with Jihye chattering beside you. “Oh! I almost forgot, so about that  Jungkook thing. I saw the two of you talking also.” she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, or that’s what she thinks it looks like. Turning to face her, you sigh at her usual habit of sticking her nose into others’ business and tell her simply that he had just asked you to meet up at the cafe so you could just chill. 

“Holy shit, it’s a date!” Jihye seems more excited about the meet-up, not date, her hands coming up to join in front of her chest as she looks at you in bewilderment. “Why are you so passive?” your friend is way too excited for something so normal but then again, this was you and Jungkook. The two of you could never go a day without insulting the other before. Now you were meeting up with the same guy at a cafe in another hour or so. When you tell Jihye this, she stops walking, putting her hand on the left side of her chest- where her heart was. Her dramatic behaviour was now normal now and you knew the reason for her overreaction. 

Your love life was drier than the Sahara Desert in a fucking draught. You had been on just a handful of dates in your entire existence, only 5 or 6 of them ending up with you fucking the guy. The others had just been awkward, mainly because of your edgy self. 

It wasn’t that big of a problem though, you were too occupied by your college work and badminton tournament preparations that anything else just seemed like a waste of time. For instance, instead of going out with some guy, you could stay home and binge-watch Stranger Things. There were a lot more practical things that could be done without the company of males. 

The only reason you agreed to go out with Jungkook was that you wanted to see how it would end up. There was a very slim chance that your meeting would go very well but if Jungkook kept behaving as sweet as he was now, you wouldn’t even have a solid reason to be rude to the poor fellow. Nevertheless, you were not going to completely relax because one never knows. 

“I’m coming over to pick out your outfit!” Jihye is excited, jumpy because this is new- you going out with someone of the opposite gender. And although it was completely normal for someone else, you just looked at your friend judgmentally, feigning annoyance and earning a light shove from her that has you stumbling on the sidewalk. 

“‘Kay'” she squeals when you agree and invites herself to your house, saying that you should take a shower while she picks out your outfit. You trusted her though, Jihye’s fashion sense was really good and you knew for a fact that whatever she would pick out would be trendy. 

Unlocking your house with the bronze key, you walk in and keep your bag in its place before walking to get a glass of water for Jihye and yourself. She accepts and plops down on your couch before you pull her up by the arm, a disgusted look on your face. “Go wash up first.” she pouts but heads into the bathroom near the hallway nonetheless to wash up. You shout to her from your room that you’re heading to shower and she shouts back an “Alright.” from downstairs as you open the door, heading in for a steamy shower. 

40 minutes later, you’re getting out of your bathroom, content, to Jihye’s shrieking. Something along the lines of missing the date and you roll your eyes when you hear the last word. It was not a date for God’s sake!

You nonchalantly nod at no one in particular and apply your cream before heading out in a bathrobe. She’s sitting on your bed with some outfits placed on your bed. At first glance, they all look colour-coordinated with some accessories here and there but upon closer inspection, you see that every piece of clothing on your mattress was one of the shortest you had in every category. 

“Do you want me to look like a slut?” you ask with your arms folding in front of your chest, and Jihye looks at you with wide eyes, offended that you even had the nerve to comment on her outfit-picking skills. 

“No! These are all fine for a meet-up.” She uses finger quotes for the last word and you smile to yourself, “Uh, let me just stop you there. I don’t really know what people mean when they use this.” you make the finger quotes and she gasps “Did you just-” your shoulders raise and as the laughter dies down, you walk closer to the bed, mentally evaluating each outfit she had oh so carefully picked. They’re all really stylish, you gotta admit that but you’d never say it to her face. The one closest to the headboard consists of a full-sleeved plain white turtleneck that had a greyish-brown dress that reached your mid-thigh laid on top of it. It was something you could wear, maybe with some electric pink leggings. You see that Jihye, who is now rummaging in your collection of shoes, has also laid some black boots in front of the bed that matched the first dress. 

Your gaze travels to the one on the middle one and you immediately furrow your eyebrows, already ruling the strapless crop top and ripped shorts out. Too much skin. 

The one to the far left is also decided to not be inappropriate for the occasion as you didn’t think Jungkook would want to see you in a burgundy top with spaghetti straps. The jeans that had too many huge holes in them didn’t even look cool at this point. What were you thinking when you bought this.

Jihye comes out with some heels for one of the outfits “Why are you even putting so much effort into this? I can just wear a shirt and sweats.” She huffs out, unamused, as you giggle at her annoyed face. “Kidding. So, I really like this one.” you point at the dress and she smiles slyly “Showing off your long legs I see.” Punching her shoulder, you make some place to sit on the bed, glad that you shaved today. “Now, get out of my room. I need to change and apply make-up.” She nods and you watch her close the door behind her, getting up to lock it for extra safety measures. 

Not like she was gonna barge in and catch you in your star printed underwear anyways. Changing into the turtle neck and then the dress, you look at yourself in the mirror and if it wasn’t your frizzy hair, you would even think you looked cute. You brush your hair and settle for a high ponytail. Putting on your shoes, you apply a little bit of make-up, not wanting to seem overly eager but the excessive amount of perfume may or may not give you away. 

As you open the door and walk down to where Jihye has changed into some sweats she had kept in your house for times like these, she gasps upon seeing you, chip almost falling out her mouth and chews it before widening her eyes comically “Babe! You look so good.” you smile at her compliment, giving her a twirl as she gets up to probably to hug you before deciding against it, shaking her head. 

“So, is my make-up looking fine?” she nods furiously and you pick up your purse that was on the dining chair before looking at the clock to see that you only have ten minutes before Jungkook arrives. You bid Jihye goodbye, not worried in the slightest bit about her being alone at your house. 

As you’re walking, the cafe comes into view and you spot a familiar figure walking into the shop as well and you increase your speed to enter at the same time as Jungkook to make it seem as if you weren’t even slightly late. He doesn’t notice you even when you’re right behind him and walks to a table to sit down as you sit opposite him immediately, realising that he had walked to a two-people table in the corner of the shop. 

His eyes widen and he stutters out in shock, “O-Oh, you’re here,” Nodding, you hide a smile and greet him back, trying not to get into an argument with him. It’s silent for a while, you think of anything to say to break the awkward atmosphere but just as you’re looking up from the ground to speak to Jungkook, his voice is filling your ears. “Do you want to order?” He waits and you simply nod, “Okay, I’ll come to get my coffee.” 

Just as you’re getting up, Jungkook keeps his hand on you without warning, head shaking frantically. “No! I mean, I can get it for you.” Looking up in surprise, you’re unable to speak for a moment. Did Jeon Jungkook just say that he would buy you coffee?

You shake your head and snap out of your trance. Or at least you try to. “No, it’s alright. I can get it myself.” Jungkook rushes to quieten you again and looks like he won’t let you win, so you sigh and back down. “Fine.” He giggles and walks off to the counter while you take your phone out to kill time. Getting bored when you see that there are not any notifications, you switch the device off and look out of the window, watching as people get out of their cars for a pitstop at the cafe before driving away again. 

“Here are the coffees.” You turn your head and see Jungkook setting two cups of coffee on the table before sitting himself. Looking at what he got you, you thank him for bringing the correct order and he just sends a light smile in your direction, rubs his hands together and picks up the cup with both hands. You almost coo, but hold yourself together. This was your enemy. 

That reminds you, “So, why are you suddenly being so kind to me? It’s really weird to experience you treating me nicely.” You hadn’t meant for your tone to come off as accusing, but it does, and you have to watch Jungkook’s eyes flash with hurt for a second before shaking his head lightly. He places his cup back in the small saucer and his hands on either side of it. 

“I knew you would ask me this.” egging him on with a raise of your eyebrows, you take a sip of your coffee “Remember how Coach said that we should stop arguing?” At your nod, he licks his lips and continues on with his explanation, “Well, I thought about it-” “You told me to stop arguing right after he left.” “I thought about it and I decided that we really shouldn’t be having these fights. Like, what’s the point? I’m not getting anything out of it. You’re not getting anything out of it.” He ignores your words and when you hear his, ask yourself why you hadn’t tried to put a stop to the childish arguments you had with Jungkook. 

You don’t know why you ever fought back. Well, you did hate losing and Jungkook did everything to rile you up- so he was at fault too- but there was no specific reason as to why you hated Jungkook so much. “I don’t know, you were the one who started them. I don’t have a problem with becoming friends.” 

Jungkook looks at you, looking as if he’s trying to figure something out, pouty lips looking kissable but you quickly brush those thoughts off. “So..” his hands come closer to yours and you’re shocked to feel your heart starting to beat faster, its pace picking up as Jungkook’s hand comes closer to yours. “..friends?” his pinky intertwines with yours and you feel your face turn red, the action igniting something in you. 

Looking down at your fingers intertwined seems to be a big mistake as you gasp, the sight just overwhelming you. His hand fit in yours perfectly, and even if he meant it just as friends, you couldn’t help but imagine how it would be to be loved by Jungkook.

No! You two just started behaving normally around each other and you’re already thinking about loving him?

A voice in your head sounds as Jungkook retrieves his hand to pick up the call that had distracted you. You take your hand back and keep it in your lap, tingling sensations till lingering. 

Jungkook looks at you apologetically for a second, and you reassure him that he could take the call but he tells whoever was on the other side of the line that he was busy, cutting the call after he told the person that he would call them back later. 

“Sorry about that.” you barely catch his mumble and shake your head, “Don’t worry.” As you finish your coffee and make small talk with Jungkook about random things, you start growing more comfortable around him, cracking jokes and laughing at his lame ones. You’re discussing some things about the upcoming tournament when Jungkook suddenly leans in closer. 

You move back out of shock and he stills, eyes suddenly going wide as his breathing halts. Your own starts getting heavy, his sudden action having caught you terribly off guard. After partially having gained your composure back, you see that Jungkook is still in the same position, “J-Jungkook?” He takes a moment to snap out of whatever trance he was put in and blinks once, twice before gasping loudly and jerking backwards. His back hits the chair and his mouth is still open in shock at what he did. 

“S-Sorry..” he trails off, chewing his lip and your eyes follow the motion carefully before darting them back to his face quickly. He furrows his brows and starters ahead of you before shaking his head, murmuring something to himself. “You ok there?” you try to keep your voice soft, soothing as Jungkook shifts his gaze to you, wide eyes looking absolutely adorable. 

You question him again, worried, “What wa-” “I like you.” 

Silence. 

You sputter, his words having caught you off guard and if Jungkook’s eyes could go any wider, they do, his hand instantly coming to slap over his face and he curses, “I-fuck.” You’re still shocked by his confession and your brain takes time to process what he said, the three simple words not registering in your mind until suddenly,  Jungkook’s voice brings you back to the present. 

“Y-Y/n?” He sounds hesitant, and your face must be an accurate representation of what you’re feeling right now because Jungkook begins speaking again, his eyes filled with worry as he tries to fix his mistake. “No. I mean, yes, I like you-” Your face portrays horror at his words again and he rushes to correct himself, hitting himself on the head once. 

“You what?” Your voice is hushed for unknown reasons and Jungkook looks around, trying to calm himself down by breathing in and out and you use the time to do the same, the initial shock having worn off as you exhale loudly and take a bite out of the cookie from the small plate he had gotten. 

“I like you, Y/n.” Jungkook’s tone is more serious this time, and you try maintaining  a straight face, his words finally sinking and you choke on your saliva. “Like like me?” you question dumbly and he nods desperately, licking his lips and drumming his fingers on the table, a nervous habit of his. 

“Oh,” Jeongguk tilts his head at your response and you muster the courage to ask him a question that had been lingering on your mind ever since he confessed. “Since..?”

He coughs loudly into his mouth, trying to hide the blush that creeps up his cheeks and looks at you with a suddenly brave gaze, “I’ve liked you for a long time, Y/n. The reason I started annoying was because I wanted you to notice me, not because I disliked you...And better confess now instead of regretting not doing anything before right?” Your mouth is left hanging at his confession now, the real reason for his pestering finally coming out into the light. 

“Why would you annoy me, though? You could've just come up and talked to me, it would've been way easier for us.” At this, Jeongguk blushes, trying to cover his burning cheeks from you and cups his face in  his hands. “I don’t know..you were really annoying, to be honest.”

“I was annoying- you asshole!” You lean over and hit his arm, much to his chagrin and he frowns before swatting your arm away. Silence falls over the two of you, but it's not the awkward kind, you just sit quietly, drowning yourself in thoughts about Jungkook. 

“So…” Beside you, Jungkook shifts shyly and lowers his head when you look at him, the sight igniting something warm inside you. “Can I ask to ask you out?” His hair sits prettily atop his forehead, hands on his lap and his lips are scrunched into the cutest pout. 

“Why don’t you ask me and find out?” You aim for a teasing tone, but miss by a mille, instead sounding breathless and at this, Jungkook smiles before leaning in closer. “Will you go on a date with me?”

Even though you knew he was going to ask you, the words still send tingles throughout your entire body, heart racing and you nod before you can even think.  

It has you suddenly thinking about the drastic turn of events. The guy who was once (not even a few hours ago) your biggest enemy had just confessed to you and was asking you out. You’re thinking if it was a bad decision, but with Jungkook looking so innocent and just, like a child, it’s hard to think straight. Your heart beats erratically as Jungkook gives you one last soft smile before getting up and walking to pay, and you try chasing him and stopping him from paying for both your and his drinks but as much as you want to, you’re still stuck in place, everything that happened recently replaying in your head. He comes back in a few minutes and holds out his hand for you to take, and as you’re getting up with his help, your heart can’t help but flutter, the feeling of his warm hand encompassing yours turning you mushy like dough. 

“Seriously?” You can’t help but scoff, and beside you Jungkook lets go of your hand to feign an offended face. “What! You said you liked Call of Duty!” Jungkook defends himself and you stare blankly at the venue of your first official date with Jeon Jungkook. 

The baby pink blankets that adore his couch look inviting, so do the various snacks on the coffee table but still, this was your first date. You had really expected him to go all out and take you to dinner at a classy restaurant. And then maybe have ended with a drumline playing on a bridge. Ok, maybe that was too much. 

This doesn’t mean that you’re disappointed, though. Nope. This- a date on Jungkook’s couch with Call of Duty and snacks- was perfectly fine. Great, even. You finally crack a smile, nudging his shoulder and muttering a ‘Just kidding.’ under your breath when his face turns sad. 

You grab his arm and sit on the couch, patting the space beside you for him to occupy as you shuffle through the unhealthy packs of chips and nachos to find your favorite one. Jungkook grabs a drink and you shuffle under the soft blanket, curling up and look at Jungkook, trying to act cute as you prepare to embarrass yourself. 

“Cuddle with me?” Jungkook almost spits his drink out, surging forward as his head turns towards your direction you’re positive he gets whiplash. “W-What-Did you..” Nodding, you try pouting but know for a fact that it looks more awkward than cute and huff out, “Just-” Jungkook nods suddenly, “Ok.” and gets under the covers. Your face heats up when you finally realise that you just asked The Jeon Jungkook™ to cuddle with you, and as he ever so slowly crawls towards you, your body turns stiff. 

“I-Is this okay?” Jungkook hovers his hand over your waist and as you look at him with wide eyes, you nod lightly, indicating the green signal, his body heat not helping at all. Jungkook’s soft voice filters through your ears, and you swear you could listen to him forever. Even if he was making fun of your obsession with hard peaches. Yes. 

“We can watch a movie if you want..and then play COD?” he suggests and you mumble out a “Sure” and watch as he picks up the remote to scroll through the various apps whose subscriptions he had. 

He pauses at Netflix. “Can we watch Full House?” his voice is timid, and you turn to furrow your eyebrows at him, wondering why he would seem hesitant while asking that. Everyone loved Michelle. 

“Why not?” At your words, Jungkook’s eyes light up and he smiles widely, turning towards the TV to play the show. 

You rip open a packet of Cheetos and Jungkook tries (keyword: tries) to slyly wrap his arm around you from behind but doesn’t go unnoticed, and you move forward for him to easily slide his arm around you, not even bothering to look at his red face because there’s a really high chance that you’ll combust. 

2 episodes into the new season, you turn to Jungkook and he notices, eyebrows raised as you gulp, 

“I think I like you too.” 

“That would’ve been really romantic if your Cheetos breath wasn’t hitting my face.”

epilogue 

“Yesss, get it Kook!” Jungkook comes running up to you and you slap his arm in enthusiasm. He hugs you, tight, and your arms wrap around his body as well, congratulating him in his victory. His last hit had been a smash, one his opponent hadn’t  been able to defend and the match had indeed with your school winning, the trophy yours for the third time in a row.  

“We won.” The words coming out of Jungkook’s mouth urge you to hug him tighter, and you do, nodding although he probably can't see you. “We did.” Your boyfriend lets go of you to embrace his teammates and you laugh with all of them, and when your eyes meet Jungkook’s, realise that he may not be as bad as you first thought him to be.

tysm for reading whatever the fuck this is <3 send in feedback, if you want!

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#bts #jungkook #multifandomnet #ficscafe #bts ff #jungkoom ff #bts fic #jungkook fic #bts jk #jk #jeon jungkook #kpop #kpop ff #ff #fanfic #fic #jjk #bts jjk #jjk ff #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #fanfiction #kpop fic #bangtan #jeongguk #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x reader

[jonnyparable]

Cottage Hills : The Red Chamber Part X

Peace. Won feels peace as he flies above his hometown of Shang Tao. Misty mountains, and temples shrouded in rolling clouds. He sees his home. The large ancenstral estate where generations of Moshus have lived. Suddenly he hears a woman screaming his name. Visions of the dreaded Red Chamber fill his mind, and he falls.

The fall forces Won back to consciousness. He slowly opens his eyes. He's back in the woods. He feels groggy, and nauseous. His head is pounding again. Was that a dream? But he wasn't asleep. He looks around. He's suspended from the ground and he can't move. Slowly he remembers what happened to him.

The Goddess :

"Welcome back, Won."

Won:

"Wha-what's happening? You! What are you doing to me?"

The Goddess :

"I'm returning your past to you. Your true past. "

Won:

"No! That's not my past! You're just making me see those cursed nightmares again! Why are you tormenting me!? "

The Goddess :

"Those are not nightmares, Won. For too long you have been blinded by deceit. Come, let's try again. The past must be reckoned with! Do not resist the truth! "

Memories of Five Gardens

The Goddess extends her hands and gently touches Won's temples. He feels a warm peace wash over him and the woods around him fall away. He is enveloped in a cloud of smoke and light and when it fades, like watercolour ink on silk, a scene unfurls before him and a familiar room fades into view. He is back in his family home. He's in the main hall, a stately and elegant room. He sees a family posing for a portrait.

Won:

"Who...who are these.. Wait... That's my father... And that's me... Is that.. Is that my mother?"

At the mere mention of his mother, Won suddenly feels a sharp pain in his head, and the world around him begins to fade again.

The Goddess :

"Do not resist these memories, Won. Do not give in to the pain! You must persist! Remember!"

The Bamboo Garden

Won forces his way through the pain and soon, as though a wall is falling, brick by brick, the world around him fades back into focus. Clear as day, as though he is right there, reliving these memories. The sights, smells and sounds are all suddenly familiar to him, rushing back to neatly fill the gaps in his mind.

They are in a garden, in spring, surrounded by tall bamboo stalks. They hear a child crying. And they walk over to find Won hiding behind a pagoda lantern.

Won:

"I... I Remember this day... The spring day I broke father's jar of beetles. The beetles all flew away. And he beat me harshly... I was crying and hiding from him in the garden when... When ...mother came to find me. But I was so scared... I refused to come out. So she...she sat with me, and played my favourite song on her flute."

The Peach Garden

They follow the melodious sounds of a flute coming from the peach garden. Beneath the falling petals of a blossoming tree, Won sees his mother, as if for the first time in years. Won suddenly remembers everything about her. Her elegant blue dress, her jasmine perfume and her dark, wavy hair. Even the tiny, modest pearl earrings she used to wear. He recalls the many days spent with her in their home's many gardens. More importantly he remembers how much he loved her.

Won:

"That day, she told me that we would go into the mountains together, once it got warmer, to catch the beetles that flew away. She always knew just how to make me feel so full, and happy... And so safe. I remember her so vividly now...How had I forgotten...?"

The Lotus Pond

The scene around them fades away, and changes. It is summer now. They hear the sound of cicadas chirping, and water trickling. Dragonflies flit about as they walk out onto an expansive lotus pond.

Won:

"The lotus pond! I... I remember this place... The lotuses swaying in the summer wind... as mother taught me to dance with fans that day for the first time...Mother.... She was always so kind to me... I don't understand... Why did I forget all this, why did I forget her? No, wait. Why are you showing me this? Stop! These are illusions, they're not real! My real mother left us, she ran away! She never loved me!"

The Willow Pavilion

With a rushing wind, the leaves turn golden. It is autumn now. As leaves fall gently to the ground around them, they come out upon a pavilion on the other side of the lake, flanked by two venerable willow trees.

Won:

"This place. We... We used to come here in the autumn. Mother loved the willow trees this time of year. She told me the leaves looked like threads of gold flying in the autumn breeze. She told me in her hometown in the mountains, trees like that grew everywhere, and she would take me to see it one day. But she always looked sad when she said that... She said father would never let us leave the house.... No! father loved me! He alone cared for me!"

The Goddess stares sadly at Won, she can see he is in great turmoil. Confused by these memories flooding back, and trying to resist them. Suddenly, they hear footsteps behind them. They turn to see Won's father walking up to the pavilion, and he scowls bitterly as he watches him and his mother. In each of the memories, in every season, he was there. Watching. With only contempt on his face.

Won :

"Father? But... No! ENOUGH! These are lies! Mother is the one that hated us all! She never loved any of us! That's why she left! That's why! You lie!"

The Goddess :

"No, Won. She loved you, very much. Your mother was a most kind hearted, and loving woman. Your father married her for her talents, her beauty and her lineage. And the union was not a happy one. But when you were born, your mother saw in you a reason to have hope. She loved you immediately, and all she ever wanted was for you to be happy and free. She spent her days pouring her love out for you. Your happiness, your joy, was all she ever sought in her life. In her world, she loved you most. "

The Goddess :

"But love was of no value to your father. As a member of the Moshu family, he wanted only to raise you in the ways of sorcery and the dark arts. He taught you to create poisons from a young age, and to use dark magic. From young, he tried to pour into you his forefathers' desire for vengeance, all their contempt, their bitterness. He tried to poison your young mind to be filled with thoughts of only vengeance. But as a child, you resisted and feared him. So he would treat you with immense cruelty, to remove the weakness he saw in you, weakness that he blamed your mother for.

Your mother saw all this. And her heart bled for you. She knew that if she did not act, in time, your father would raise you to become as cruel, unhappy and vengeful as he was."

Won :

"No! Father... Father was good to me... He was wise... He.. ! Stop, this is a trick! All this... I... do not wish to see anymore..."

The Goddess:

"Just one last garden, Won."

The Plum Garden

It is winter now. Darkness surrounds them, and the winter moon casts a pale glow in the garden as he sees him and his mother. Won knows this place well. He watches helplessly as the scene where his nightmares always start, begin to unfold before him all over again...

#the sims 2 #ts2 pictures #ts2 screenshots #ts2 neighborhood #ts2 scenery #harvest moon back to nature #sims 2 #cottage hills #sims 2 simblr #harvest moon tree of life #The Red Chamber

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

(This is based off the lovely prompt you gave me a while ago, and I decided to incorporate it into the kid!verse. Khaleel is five years old now.)

Part 14 of Jimercury Kid series

Freddie’s hands were shaking as he held the wrapped package in his hand and he cursed himself internally, wishing his nerves would settle long enough for him to just open the door and give Jim his damn present. He had never been this apprehensive about giving someone a gift before; he usually couldn’t wait to surprise his loved ones, to see the absolute delight on their faces when they unwrapped the paper and saw what he had bought them. It was usually something expensive, something unobtainable to them, something grandiose that only someone with his paycheque could afford.

That’s what everyone wanted, right? Big, expensive presents?

Not Jim, apparently.

Jim was a simple man. That’s part of the reason why Freddie had fallen so hard for him, aside from his unmeasurable kindness and rugged good looks, of course. And being a simple man, he preferred the simpler things in life; he appreciated the lavish gifts and parties that Freddie treated him to, of course, but Freddie knew fully well that he could have been a road sweeper and Jim would still be in love with him. That’s the kind of person his husband was.

Which was precisely why Freddie was in the predicament he was in now.

--

He had been trying to figure out what to get Jim for his birthday for weeks, enlisting the help of Phoebe and Mary to scout out all the local department stores in search of the perfect gift. Phoebe found a nice pair of garden shears, which would come in useful, given that Jim’s current ones were old and rusting and Jim was always talking about replacing them. Practical, thought Freddie, but not exactly the most personal of gifts. Mary found a lovely ceramic cat ornament, its features hand painted by the artist; Jim would love it, Freddie knew, but he had already bought him a similar gift years before. In the end, Phoebe and Mary purchased the presents to give Jim themselves and the search continued.

It was their son who ended up inspiring Freddie, though that was hardly surprising because Khaleel was always inspiring him. Freddie had come home from a long day at the studio and found the little boy painting at the kitchen table with Phoebe, old newspapers spread out to make sure he didn’t make a mess. They had been at it for a while, judging by how many paintings there were scattered around; paintings of flowers, and dinosaurs and, of course, every one of the cats with their names scribbled underneath in felt tip.

‘These are lovely, Bijou.’ Freddie beamed, after Phoebe had excused himself to wash the paint off his hands. ‘You’re so talented. We should hang them up in your room.’

Khaleel nodded enthusiastically, adding one final dab of paint to his wonky picture of Garden Lodge before setting it beside the others. ‘Daddy said you paint too, Baba.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yeah. He showed me a painting of Delilah you did. It was pretty.’

Freddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly. He had thought he’d thrown out the unfinished portrait of his favourite cat, but he should have known Jim had held onto it. ‘Baba doesn’t really have time to paint anymore, darling. I’m too busy with my music.’

Khaleel looked disappointed. He glanced down at his messy fingers and began to fiddle with them. ‘Your painting made Daddy smile so much, Baba. You should do it again. It’s pretty.’

Freddie was at a loss for words. He had always loved art and still found himself doing the odd sketches and doodles now and then; but painting was something he had given up long ago in favour of singing. He simply didn’t have the time or the patience to commit to it. But Khaleel’s words were now engrained in his mind.

‘I’ll think about it, Bijou.’ He said softly, before leaning down to pick the child up. ‘Come on, you’re going to need a nice, warm bubble bath to get all this paint off you.’

He smiled as Khaleel squealed with excitement. (1/2)

It had taken Freddie a while to figure out what exactly he was going to paint. He still had the old brushes and materials Phoebe and Joe had bought him years ago, when he was ill and had temporarily been inspired to try his hand at art again; but as he sat there, staring at the blank canvas in front of him, he realised he had no idea what he intended to make for his husband.

He considered finishing the painting of Delilah but couldn’t summon up the motivation to continue it. He tried doing a landscape of the garden, but after a few attempts on some scrap paper, he gave up and decided to stick to what he knew best – portraits.

It was only when he leaned back in his seat and surveyed the room a moment that his eye fell upon the large photo frame he kept beside his bed; the one of himself, Jim and Khaleel, professionally taken a year before. There was a copy of it hanging up in the lounge, over the fireplace, but Freddie always kept the original right by his bed, so it was the first thing he woke up to every morning. Safe to say, of all the hundreds of photographs that lived in Garden Lodge, this one was by far his favourite. He and his two favourite boys. His perfect family.

Without giving it a second thought, he picked up his brush and began to paint.

------

It had been two long weeks of staying up late and sneaking around to make sure Jim didn’t catch him, but on the eve of his husband’s birthday, Freddie’s portrait was finally complete, and he carefully wrapped it in brown paper in preparation for the party the next day. He was satisfied with the finished product, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel his gut twist with uncertainty as he stored the painting away in a drawer to keep it from prying eyes. He knew there wasn’t a materialistic bone in Jim’s body but… what if he didn’t like the gift? Phoebe and Mary had bought him such lovely things, what if Jim was disappointed when he got to Freddie’s?

Thoughts like that were why Freddie was now standing outside the door to the lounge, trying to gather the courage to go back in. He had excused himself under the guise of getting another bottle of wine and had quickly darted up to the bedroom to collect the package and bring it down. Taking a deep breath, he finally pushed open the door and re-joined the others, who were already sitting down to start opening Jim’s presents.

‘Mary, I love it!’ Jim smiled widely as he examined the ceramic cat, turning it over in his hands before carefully placing it on the coffee table beside the garden shears Phoebe had gifted him. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.’

Mary smiled back, ‘you’re welcome, Jim.’ And they leaned forward to give each other a kiss on the cheek.

Freddie’s heart fluttered in his chest. Mary hadn’t been very supportive of his relationship with Jim at the start, most likely out of overprotectiveness and jealousy. But once they adopted Khaleel, she finally had to accept that Freddie had found the love of his life and it was time for her to move on. She seemed a much happier person for it. It touched Freddie to see her and Jim gradually becoming good friends.

Finally, it was Freddie’s turn to present his gift. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t help shaking slightly as he watched Jim slowly tear off the paper. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have gotten Jim a new suit. Or a pair of cufflinks. Or-

‘Freddie…’ Jim sounded breathless and when Freddie looked up, he could see the Irishman’s eyes were sparkling with tears. ‘Freddie, did you paint this?’

The singer nodded, his mouth dry. ‘Do… do you like it?’

His answer was Jim leaning over and pressing their mouths together in a passionate kiss. When they pulled away, the tears in Jim’s eyes had spilled down his cheeks. ‘Sweetheart, it’s beautiful. It’s amazing, it’s perfect.’

Jim wasn’t usually one for PDA, but he was so overwhelmed in that moment, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing every inch of Freddie’s face, while their guests admired the gift that had enthralled him. It was a painting of Freddie, Jim and Khaleel, almost an exact copy of the family portrait hanging up above the fireplace except they were surrounded by flowers; yellow freesias, azaleas, and Khaleel’s favourite, Eden roses, all painted in watercolour.

When Khaleel saw it, he almost fell off Phoebe’s lap in excitement. ‘Baba painted me! Baba painted me!’

After the party was over and their friends had gone home, Jim snuck up behind his husband as the singer was placing the canvas on the mantlepiece and wound his arms around his waist. ‘So, this is why you wouldn’t come to bed all those nights? You were working on this?’

Freddie nodded, leaning back into his husband’s embrace. ‘I was going to buy you something, but I know how you always feel guilty when I spoil you. I wanted to give you something personal, that I made with my own two hands. Even if it isn’t perfect…’

He felt Jim kiss his ear, his thick Irish accent murmuring softly, ‘it’s the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me, sweetheart. And the best thing about it is that it came straight from your heart. I love it and I’m going to keep it with me. Always.’ (2/2)

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OMG THIS IS PERFECT😭😭😭 This is the best interpretation of the prompt, MY HEART😭😭

Call me dumb, but whenever I'd think of Freddie doing something for Jim, it'd always be related to music. Until now, I had never considered art as one of the possible ways in which Freddie could've expressed his love for his husband. But this... this is so beautiful, oof.

I genuinely marvel at your ability to convey so many emotions in these short drabbles. You managed to portray Freddie's insecurities, his want to please his husband and do something special, his nervousness and fear so brilliantly. And Jim's reaction was so sweet🥺 This was truly such a special gift for him, and for their family, I am crying😭

Thank you so much for this, anon💙💙

(More drabbles by writer anon)

#ask response #jim hutton #freddie mercury #freddie and jim and their baby #anon writing

[mae-gi-writes]

Let it Be Me (Part One)| Kevin Moon Imagine

soulmate au! x badboy! Kevin.

 In which soulmates find each other on their graduation day and Kevin gets the growing suspicion that his is just as artistically inclined as he is. Let the competition begin. 

Thank you @aniyawoos​ for giving me such inspiration, and for always listening to me rant about how perfect Mr.Moon is. 

Genre: fluff, lil angst, soulmates 

Part one | Part Two (Coming soon)

----

Kevin was pissed. 

He glared at his canvas, now caked with bold dark lines that mimicked a caricature of an unfamiliar face that he'd never set eyes upon. The girl's deep set eyes were furrowed into a frown, eyebrows perpetually pinched together in constant permanent thought, lips pursed as though silent protests were lingering along her tongue. But while Kevin would've normally been proud of mastering such a face in such little time, this did not negate the fact that this was definitely not his work. 

Because the fact was that Kevin did not draw caricatures. He did not use dark tones. And he did not recall having seen such a girl, for he was sure that it would've sparked a memory if their meeting had been so significant. 

"Why is this so dark?"

Kevin let out a snort as footsteps walked up beside him. He caught a glimpse of caramel coloured hair, a flash of too-white teeth. 

"That's not your style," Jacob remarked as he leaned in close to inspect its details, "where are your watercolours? And your sceneries?" 

Kevin's grip tightened impulsively onto his paintbrush. His jaw clenched in silence. 

A fresh canvas, wasted just like that. His hand was still throbbing with a familiar tingle that had spread through him the moment his brush had touched the tip of the blank page, and the entire process was like a dream that he had stumbled through only to wake up disoriented and dizzy.

"I don't know," the raven-haired man muttered as his fingers combed through his locks.

"Not bad though," Jacob remarked with a whistle, "not bad at all. Who is she?"

Kevin's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, though annoyance spiked through him at his friend's curiosity. Today was not one of those days where he could tolerate human beings, especially when nothing seemed to go right.

"Where are you going?" Jacob called out when he stood up abruptly from his seat, chair squeaking in protest as he made a grab for his rucksack and strode out of the room, mind still reeling from the confusion which had come with that sudden artistic turn of events.  

Maybe it was his just off day, he concluded mentally, as he tried to ignore the soft tingling sensation thrumming through his fingers, as though a ghost of a presence was still present.

The second time it happened, he was in the middle of reproducing one of Monet's famous water lilies when his hand tingled with that familiar warmth, electricity dancing up and down his arm and numbing it so that his limb took a life of its own. He watched, horrified, as his beautiful lily pond turned into another stranger's face, flowers transforming into dark orbs staring back at him, the water trail twisting into a bold nose, a vine curling to form a cupid's bow mouth. 

What in the actual fuck. His mouth moved soundlessly over the muttered words, hands fisting in his lap with the sudden urge to throw his artwork --could he even call it his?-- against the wall. 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Jacob said once Kevin complained about his artwork getting ruined by bold strokes. This was the fifth time this week and the latter’s growing collection of portraits was both alarming and fascinating at the same time. While Jacob understood the artist’s growing frustration with the manhandling of his artistic talent, there was nothing to be said about how beautiful they all turned out to be, even though they weren’t originally part of Kevin’s vision. 

“A sign of what?” Kevin picked at his fries, mood still sour from the thought of his now empty wallet that was now scraped dry, his savings all flushed down the drain from having spent it all on the last pieces of canvas that were now deemed useless unless he painted them over with white and started again. 

But that would take ages and a lot of layers, and a lot of paint. Kevin wasn’t sure whether he was ready for that. Not that he had a choice, considering that these works would count for his final portfolio. 

He couldn’t help but let out another exasperating sigh at the thought. 

“There are theories circulating,” his other friend, Chanhee, piped up from behind his roast beef sandwich, earrings catching the light of the lunchroom as he spoke, “that a few weeks before your graduation, you might get a few hints about who your soulmate might be.” 

Kevin allowed the information to sink in, “why haven’t I heard of that before?” 

“Maybe because you spend all your time holed up in the studio,” Chanhee sasses him, “and when you’re not in the studio, you’re doing that.”

Kevin’s eyes find the joint in his hand when Chanhee gestures towards it, before he puts it to his lips and takes another puff just to insult his friend, “it keeps my creative juices flowing.” 

“You don’t need that to be creative, Kevin.”

“Stick to your account books, Chanhee.” 

“Alright time out," Jacob interrupts before the pair can get into yet another brawl, "Kev, Chanhee's right. You can't keep depending on that to keep going." 

The raven-haired man shrugged but kept quiet nevertheless. He knew, deep down, that Jacob was right. But once he started, he found it was hard to stop. It gave him everything he needed; the relaxation, the creativity, everything. Ever since his life had turned upside down, ever since the school had turned its back on him for apparently dealing with heroin when he'd been completely innocent, Kevin had suffered with the aftermath of rumours and the countless amounts of gossiping about his whereabouts. Jacob and Chanhee had stuck with him, but they were the only ones that had. The rest of his so-called friends now deemed him too weird to talk to, as though a foreign body had invaded Kevin's body with a bright red alarm sign to indicate that he was off bounds completely.

It was one of the reasons why he spent most of his time in the art room in the first place. He wasn't going to entertain their stupidly, made - up stories about who he was and what he did.

If there was one thing that Kevin hated the most, it was tattletales. And there seemed to be lots of them around here.

After that, he decided he wouldn't be bothered by the fact that his artworks were not technically his, and instead just used them to his advantage. If Chanhee was right and it really was his soulmate, then all the more reason to do so. If they were using his hands then he was allowed to use their artsy prowess. 

All was fair in love and art.

It was on the last day of his final submission, as the art prodigy was finishing his final touch-ups of his now so-called portrait series of weirdly strange people, that he got the sudden urge to just stitch. His fingers shook with desire even though he clamped his hands into fists and gritted his teeth, forcing his limbs to continue working. Pins and needles shot up and down his arms like alarm bells, tearing at his muscles and nagging at Kevin’s subconscious. The more he tried to ignore it, the more the sensation pricked, until it actually hurt.

He dropped his paintbrush and gave in to the sensation. His body reacted on its own, dashed over to one of the unused sewing machines and grabbed a piece of cloth. Five minutes later, he was busy stitching his life away on the machine, the only sounds perforating the air being the loud drumming of the needles piercing through cloth.

Twenty minutes later, barely two minutes before he was to drop his artwork to his teacher’s office, Kevin leaned back in his seat and stared, wide-eyed, at the donut plushie he’d just made. 

What astounded him the most was that he didn’t --for the love of god-- know how to sew. He never took any sewing classes and had never really been interested in the field anyway. 

So how in the world had his hands worked on their own? He gazed down at his hands with growing horror and apprehension twisting his stomach into tiny knots. Why? Why why why? 

“Kevin? What are you still doing here?” 

The said young man’s head whipped up at the sound of his classmate’s voice, only to see the ginger-haired girl blinking at him with confusion etched across her features. 

“Are you--stitching?” her frown deepened. 

Kevin rose without as much as a wince when the metal of his chair scraped against the cement floor before dashing over to gather his paintings. He jostled out of the classroom, ignoring his classmate’s questions while lumbering down the hall as quickly as his artwork would allow him towards the teacher’s department. 

He wished he didn’t have to meet his soulmate. 

------

“Can I tell you something?” 

Kevin looked up from underneath his beanie at Jacob, who sat on the other side nursing a cup of tea. The hot chocolate in his hand was steaming, its delicious scent already wrapping around him like a warm hug, giving him that sense of comfort he craved so much.

Prom had gone and passed without much that was memorable enough for Kevin to be deemed as important. As per Chanhee’s predictions, people started discovering their soulmates in the strangest ways possible, though the group of boys guessed it had something to do with what you were good at and what your soulmate’s passion was. For instance, a girl had found herself going for a midnight swim, only for her reflection to be of a young man living just a few weeks ago from hers. Another boy had the sudden urge to take a ballerina class and was entranced by a picture of his soulmate hanging on the wall of the ballet studio.

As of yet, none of the trio had caught any glimpse of their other halves, and Kevin hoped it stayed that way. After all the incidents that had occured in art class and the countless whims that had taken over his body like he’d been possessed, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know who held the other part of his heart. 

What if she was a psycho? He asked himself as he gazed at his drink, what if she was completely not like him and they’d made a mistake from the very beginning? 

“What is it?” Kevin prompted his friend. Jacob’s eyes were downcast, the muscles in his jaw clenching as though haunted by his own thoughts. 

“Jacob?” Kevin’s fingers toyed with his unlit cigarette. He’d been craving it for the past thirty minutes and now that Chanhee was gone, he was free to do as he pleased. He fished for his lighter and started flicking a flame over the cigarette butt. 

“I found her.” 

Kevin almost did a double-take. He dropped his cigarette, “what?” 

Jacob nibbled on his lower lip, “I found her, I found my soulmate.” 

There were many things Kevin wished to say. He decided to keep quiet.

Jacob continued, encouraged by his silence, “I was cooking, the usual. You know I love cooking. So I was making this dish of grilled vegetables and grabbed my knife to cut them all. And then I--And then, I--she--she appeared. In the knife--in it’s reflection, I mean.” 

Still, Kevin stayed quiet. 

“She’s--She’s not bad looking,” there was the tiniest of smiles, barely visible, on his friend’s face and though Kevin wasn’t an expert on reading emotions, it was pretty obvious that Jacob was already smitten for that girl in particular. 

“How do you know you like her?” he asked so abruptly that Jacob blinks in shock.

“Well--I don’t know I--I just do. I think?” the latter scratches the back of his head, “I don’t know, Kev. There’s just--something about her. I can’t really explain. You’ve gotta see for yourself.” 

“Hm” was all that Kevin managed to sputter out as he picked up his cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. 

“Chanhee won’t like that,” remarked his friend.

“Chanhee’s not here to tell me what to do.” 

“Did you even try to stop?” there was a tinge of desperation in Jacob’s voice, “we’re not in school anymore. You don’t need that to cope, you know.” 

The raven-haired man exhaled in response, smoke billowing out of his perfectly cupped lips.

He wasn't into his soulmate. Had no interest whatsoever in knowing who laid behind the magic taking over his fingers every time he found himself in the art room. It hadn't occurred since his last deadline and for that, he was glad, because while it clearly hadn't been his style of drawing, his professors had been so touched with emotional depth that they gave him a distinction with passing colours. 

Needless to say, Kevin hadn't set yet another foot in the studio.

He really didn't feel like knowing who had messed up his entire style for the sake of her own artistic endeavours.

The summer went by and grades were up. People shouted with excitement at the prospect of last minute freedom before college would take it away this coming September. Kevin had enrolled in Mathieu's School of Art and Design as a Printmaking major -- his dream was to work in textile and fashion-- while Jacob had decided to take up an apprenticeship with the local Culinary School in town. It wasn't the best, but it would do for his first few steps into the culinary world.

As for Chanhee, who was going down the safe route, he was registered to complete his ACCA certification for chartered accountants.

"Keep in touch guys, yeah?" Chanhee had tearfully stated on their last day of summer, where the trio had taken to drink at their local pub. 

Kevin clinked his beer with his, his spirits quite high at the prospect of starting a new life, turning over a new leaf, "worried you might not make friends?" 

Jacob shot Kevin a look, then said, "relax Chanhee. You'll be fine. You'll probably be the only one making friends." 

"Shut up guys, you're not helping," Chanhee sniffed.

It was a somewhat bizarre sensation to be walking to school without Jacob and Chanhee at his side. Kevin's bag felt a little heavier upon his shoulders, his traveling a little longer than usual albeit the fact that his college was barely two minutes away from his high school, just across the street. Kevin's nervousness racked up the back of his throat, practically choking him as he made his way to his first class: illustration design.

Comprising only ten chairs, the class was round, its walls painted a sheer white and the spotlights illuminating the room casting long dark shadows across each head already seated. Kevin quickly hurried over to the back where he took his place.

The girl beside him shifted slightly, but he preferred not to acknowledge her existence. Instead, he slid his sketchbook from his bag and started doodling on the corner of the page, next to where he wrote the date. 

It was only when the teacher walked in and the girl's pen suddenly dropped to the floor, and Kevin swooped in like muscle reflex and gave it back, that his eyes caught her face-- he stared.

And stared. 

And stared.

She stared back, unblinking. Unflinching. 

"Who--Who are you?" Kevin breathed, all air knocked out of his chest in surprise.

Her hand darted out, whipping the pen out of his hold and turning back to the professor without a backward glance. Astounded, Kevin hadn’t realized his mouth was still hanging open until he felt the warm trickle of saliva dribble down his chin.

He snapped his jaw shut and quickly turned back to focus on the class at hand, all while trying to ignore the weird buzzing that seemed to take over his entire nervous system. His body was heated, as if lit by a wildfire that raged through his insides and swept along his bloodstream so that he was left in a constant state of exhilaration, senses too alert and fingers prickling with the innate desire to just touch, touch her, no matter what. 

Stop it, he told himself off. His mind raged back like an aggressive, untamed horse. 

It took him so much of his energy not to do something stupid that he only came to attention when the sound of scraped back chairs reached his ears. Whipping his head up at the flow of people leaving the studio, he realized a little too late that the said girl in question was already halfway to the door. 

He scrambled up so quickly he banged his shin. Cursing, he ignored its protesting throb as he raced towards her figure, “excuse me--” 

Either the girl didn’t hear him through the throng of introductions being conversed by a group of students by the entrance, or she didn’t want to. Kevin pushed his way past students milling about the corridors, excusing himself as he went, before he finally caught up to her at the library door entrance. 

“Wait--” he called, practically choking on his own breath. Jesus, he should really work out more. Pressing his hand over his side upon feeling the familiar cramp pinch in, he tried not to collapse in front of the girl, who was now gazing at him in a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Is there something you want?” she asked tightly.

“Well--I--Didn’t you--” Kevin racked his brain and wondered, for a brief moment, whether this soulmate thing was one sided, “didn’t you feel it?” 

“Feel what?” Her eyes were growing more and more alarmed.

“You’re my soulmate,” the words left Kevin in a rush, “didn’t you feel the pull?” 

Her mouth shaped itself into a silent ‘o’. Her eyes glanced at the floor for a few beats of silence. When she looked up at his face, her jaw was set and her eyebrows furrowed, “so?” 

“So?” he gaped at her, “so?” 

“Look, I don’t know how they treat people with soulmates in your country,” she shifted uneasily from one foot to another, “but in mine, they’re definitely not something to be proud of.” 

He blinked, “you’re not from here.” 

“No.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Look, if you’re talking to me just because of that soulmate bullshit--”

“Can’t you feel it?” Kevin cut her off, hating the fact that his voice sounded so desperate and needy, “can’t you feel the bond?” 

God Kevin. You sound like a wimp, his mind screamed at him. Get a hold of yourself.

“No,” she looked at him dead in the eye, “I don’t.” 

And leaving him to deal with the aftermath of the shock, the girl turned and walked away, her soft footsteps echoing down the hallway like the beats to an ending song.

--- 

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO! :) Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist <3

#kevin moon #kevin moon scenarios #kevin moon imagines #kevinmoon #tbz kevin #the boyz kevin #kevin moon au #kevin moon fanfic #badboy au #soulmate au #tbzwritersnet #tbz scenarios #tbznetwork #deobidrabbles #the boyz scenarios #the boyz imagine #the boyz imagines #theboyz imagine #theboyz imagines #theboyz au #the boyz au #the boyz fanfic #theboyz fanfic #the boyz soft hours #romance #fluff #sangyeon #younghoon #jacob bae #hyunjae

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Remus Sanders is an artist HCs – part 2

Next part of [THIS POST]

It may be slightly more angsty than last time... (but it’s still packed with this Creativitwins content I crave... plus there are hints at Intrulogical, Dukeceit, and Intruality).

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21. When Remus wants Logan to join him with creating new hybrids and some weird terraformations in the Imagination he leans in way too close and asks: “wanna play god?” in a seductive voice. (Works every time.)

22. He paints a lot and he usually needs gigantic canvas, because he’s very expressive and energetic, so the paint goes everywhere (including the artist himself… I mean he drinks it) and he’s got no patience to deal with some small easel when he has A VISION.

23. He likes recreating already existing famous paintings, but – obviously – makes them more sexual and/or bloody. The more disturbing the better.

24. He knows quite a lot about classical art and the well known artists. If you want to rebel against the rules you need to know them first, right? (he learnt that too)

25. Remus is better with theory, Roman has more artistic intuition when it comes to new techniques. So they can often teach each other. Remus giving the facts and Roman quickly coming up with new ways to apply this knowledge in practice. (Logan’s very proud.) They generally like trying new techniques and materials to paint or sculpt together.

26. Remus, just like Roman, really wants a big audience (or any audience, at least). The fact that he’s “trapped” in Thomas’ mind is sometimes depressing, because his brother’s ideas are quite often created in the real world, but his art stays in the subconscious with no one to witness its disturbing glory.

27. So Roman made him an art gallery where he can display all his proudest creations. Most of the visitors are just the made up people from Imagination, but sometimes one of the sides will go there too. Patton has more than once spent the entire evening looking at the displays through his fingers, but he’s seen every single work of art and tried real hard to honestly compliment at least one thing about all of them. (He even took the autograph. Remus definitely didn’t cry.)

28. Once Roman and Remus decided to paint each other portraits and then autoportraits to hang them together for comparison. It started as a friendly competition to brag about their skills, but it turned out that each brother painted their twin with much more sad expression than they had on their autoportraits. They decided to not talk about it again, but they kept the paintings in their rooms nonetheless.

29. Remus once gave every side their portrait for birthday or nameday. They were very… ehm… realistic. Let’s just say that not every side wants to show them publically.

30. He likes asking other sides to be his models as a sneaky excuse to spend time with them. Most of them already discovered his intentions, but they come to his study anyway. Deceit is the most patient and graceful model and the only one willing to take off any clothes (to show more scales, mostly). Logan can be patient too if you let him read or rant about something while posing. Patton is too energetic so he can only pose for quick sketches.

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31. Remus stopped asking Roman to be a model, because… well… He can just draw himself without moustache, since they are twins (in an AU where the sides don’t look exactly the same…; if they do look alike, then he can draw anyone and put into Roman’s costume). But to be honest Roman just can’t stay in one position for more than twelve seconds. He’s easily distracted and gets excited, leave him alone.

32. When the twins were little they drew a lot pictures together on a giant cardboard. You could always guess which part was done by which twin. (And they really made Patton suffer by constantly asking which one he likes more.)

33. One of Remus’ biggest dreams is for Thomas to direct a horror movie. The most obnoxious and over the top production, full of gore, but with a super sad ending that affects you more than all the limbs and eyeballs flying around earlier.

34. He has at least twenty variants of the script and a long list of ideas (such as the designs of the monsters and precise descriptions of gruesome deaths), but at some point he realized that his big project will never be transferred to the silver screen. He gave up on asking Thomas about it after the seventh script, but kept writing.

35. When asked nicely he will paint, draw, sculpt etc. something pretty and delicate for others. Sometimes other sides do that to tease him and see him sketching fluffy animals, but he actually appreciates that they want his art. So if he spends a quiet evening painting some sunflowers in watercolours it’s all good. (But they better praise his work adequately. He could have spent that time sketching naked dudes, so be grateful, Janus.)

36. When struck with a sudden wave of inspiration Remus will write down his idea (or sketch something) no matter the situation. With a fork on the wall? Sure. With permanent marker on his forehead. Of course. (So you should not be surprised to see him walking all day with the words “tentacles, birthday cake, salt” written all over his face.)

37. He likes designing tattoos. He even put them on two other sides (they agreed!). [I’m not going to tell which ones.] And he really enjoyed it. You combine art with causing pain. How could he not like it?

38. He did at some point use his own blood to paint. It’s Remus, let’s be real.

39. When he’s melancholic and needs a change he likes to stay on his side of Imagination and just shift all the things around. He rebuilds the parts of his tower or let the forest grow at the impossibly fast speed. He doesn’t consider it art, but he often ends up with something new and interesting, so maybe it is? (plus he feels better afterwards)

40. But when he’s extra sad, he would just sit down and write poetry. Because he honestly thinks that poems are kind of lame. And what’s lamer than being sad, am I right? haha (someone hug him).

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I don’t know if I’m finished with this list… Probably not.

[Again, part one is HERE.]

#sanders sides #remus sanders #ts remus #roman sanders #ts roman #logan sanders #ts logan #patton sanders #ts patton #deceit sanders #janus sanders #ts janus #ts deceit #creativitwins #intrulogical #dukeceit #demus #intruality #text #long post #tw blood #remus hcs #remus sanders hcs #last time I made a mistake #and wrote #remus sanders in an artist #it... it suits him #remus sanders is an artist #my post