#the only other art thing that had to go was my metallic watercolors because they LEAKED EVERYWHERE
My Favorite Parts From: “The Patrick Show Sells Out”
1. Seeing Mr. Krabs and Plankton make a major appearance together
Seeing other characters we love like SpongeBob, Squidward, Mr. Krabs, or Plankton show up on “The Patrick Star Show” is always a treat. It’s like seeing an old friend pay a visit after being away for so long. And considering how long it’s been since these two characters showed up last, this felt extra special.
The last time we saw Mr. Krabs play even a semblance of a major role was in “Pearl Wants to be a Star”, and the last time we saw Plankton was in the first episode, “Late for Breakfast”, almost two years ago. I’m of course talking about appearances as their true selves and not as Snappy in "The Lil' Patscals" or Dr. Plankenstein in "Terror at 20,000 Leagues". Just good old Mr. Krabs and Plankton.
And as if seeing them both in the same episode wasn’t enough, we get to see them together, doing what they do best - interrupt, roast, and beat each other up. Just what we’ve come to expect from two iconic business rivals.
2. The stellar visuals
One of the things I’ve grown to appreciate in this show is the subtle yet intriguing changes in visuals - especially the backgrounds. Instead of the acrylic painted backgrounds typically seen in “SpongeBob SquarePants”, we get softer, more vibrant watercolor backgrounds.
Two areas that caught my eye in particular were the interiors of both the Krusty Krab and the Chum Bucket. This is the very first time they have ever been depicted in this show’s style, and what I saw did not disappoint.
The interior of the Krusty Krab feels like the same friendly and familiar greasy spoon we’ve come to love, only somehow even softer and warmer, with various colors of metal lining the wall and spots of soft aqua light tinting the rich red edges of the tables.
The interior of the Chum Bucket feels almost inviting, with a soft shade of green tinting the metal walls and the warm glow of the lights overhead. There’s also the enchanting reflections of light on the many metal instruments, including the telescope Plankton uses to spy on his competition across the street.
Then there’s the popping mid-20th century styled colors of the Patty Planet...
... the intense fiery sky in the fantastical action-packed land of “Pat the Hapless”...
... and the soft rainbow pinwheel design painted on the wall of doors Mr. Krabs and Plankton roast each other from.
Say what you want about this show, but I cannot deny the absolute beauty and treat for the eyes that is the background art.
If this is how Patrick sees the world as some people theorize, then it’s a truly bold and colorful world indeed!
There’s also an energetic panoply of expressive body language and facial expressions in this episode. I swear, the animators just get better and better at what they do with every episode!
3. The sing-off scene
After multiple scenes of Mr. Krabs and Plankton rudely interrupting and trying to one-up each other, we get a scene where they compete through jingles of all things, and we get to hear both Clancy Brown and Mr. Lawrence put their beautifully dulcet singing voices to good use for the first time since "There Will Be Grease". And they both sound amazing.
And of course, since they’re on Patrick’s show, they bring him onstage and have him sing the lyrics they wrote. I’m not going to lie - the fact that Mr. Krabs and Plankton happily joined in and sang along with him is adorable. Sure, it was mainly because they had businesses to promote, and literally singing their own praises with the amount of enthusiasm they had is not hard for them at all, but still - allowing Patrick to sing a few lines and then join along with him left me smiling all the same.
Also, apparently Plankton can play accordion and banjo now? Good for him!
Side note: him playing banjo is an absolutely brilliant idea in hindsight, as Plankton comes from a family full of hillbillies. It would make perfect sense for him to know how to play at least a few chords or so!
My Thoughts Overall
This was well and truly a fun episode. Many, many episodes have felt meh at best, but I well and truly believe this is my favorite episode of “The Patrick Star Show” I've seen so far next to "Backpay Payback". I honestly hope we get more episodes with other favorites from the original show’s main cast in the near future. SpongeBob, Squidward, Sandy, Mr. Krabs, Plankton - whoever shows up to guest star next, I’m more than certain they will add something great to whatever Patrick has in store on his very own show.
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I was just handed a rock and some oil paints by my bf’s mom.
I gotta paint a frog rock for rent.
Let’s Do This
Now how do i paint a frog??
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What do their bedrooms/living areas look like? I'm going to use all 3 of my asks to request this for all of the boys if that's ok! ❤
Man, I’ve had this one in my secret notes for a good while now!
Undertale:
Both the tale brothers live in a nice little gated community. Their house is one of the smaller ones and has the same layout as the one in Snowdin. The house is pretty basic with some cozy throws and wall tapestries to spruce it up
Sans: his room actually has a proper bed and frame this time. The sheets and blankets are still bundled up in a pile on the floor though. Sans also has his homemade trashnado in the corner. There’s a desk on the wall adjacent to the door which has his laptop. And several folders stacked next to it. Other than a dresser, there’s literally nothing else in there. Sans doesn’t care much about stuff
Papyrus: his room has bright orange walls. He left the race car bed behind underground but has a race car blanket to make up for it. His walls are covered in superhero and comic posters. He also has a display case for some old figurines and his comic collection. Papyrus’ desk is one of those nice fancy drafting ones where he can adjust it to tilt upwards. He has a ship wheel attached to his door for some reason.
Underswap
The swap bros home is only a few blocks from the classic brothers neighborhood. The only thing basic about it is the cream walls. All the furniture and decorations are bright colors. The kitchen especially is real nice. The oven and stove are top notch, and the counters are filled with mason jars full of goodies.
Star: his room can blind a lesser man when you walk in. The walls are bright yellow, the bed (which is a bunk bed by the way) is neon orange. Galaxy posters decorate the wall. Besides the clashing colors, the furniture is pretty basic. Only the top bunk actually has a mattress. The bottom bunk is used as a storage shelf. He also has a shoe rack by his door
Honey: you can practically feel the nerdy aura as you enter his room. The first thing you see is a display case housing some neat figurines of characters from his favorite shows. He’s also got a pretty nice bookshelf on the opposite wall that’s nearly full. Honeys bed has a curtain around it for extra privacy with a nice little wall lamp above the pillows
Underfell
They have a home a little closer to the city center but still far enough to be considered suburbs. It’s a very sleek and modern house with white walls, tile floors and sleek black and metal furniture. The only thing that doesn’t fit the rest of the theme is this nasty old patched up sofa in the living room. The thing is absolutely hideous but is sooo comfy.
Red: his room has soft grey walls and smells like miter oil. Makes sense since one wall is just a long basic table covered in machine parts that red tinkers with in his down time. He actually doesn’t have a bed. Instead he sleeps on this giant leather bean bag. He likes it that way. There’s a few car posters decorating the walls
Edge: he obviously put a lot of thought into his rooms decorations. Everything is pretty black marble or a sleek white wood. His bed covers are blood red with a nice geometric designs on top in silver. He has a beautiful black desk with some pretty jars filled to the brim with nothing but novelty pens. If you looked in his desk drawers you would find notebooks and even more pens
Swapfell
They don’t own a house and instead live in a two bedroom one bath apartment on the third floor of one of lords complexes. The furniture is pretty minimalistic but very nice quality. Most decorations are metal
Mal: the first thing you’ll see in his room is a large wooden drawing desk where pencils and watercolors are neatly arranged on the side. There’s also a vanity with a light up mirror and a nice collection of makeup. Also a huge slanted hunters knife. He uses it to make sure his eyeliner is extra sharp.
Cash: his bedroom is the perfect definition of organized chaos. It looks messy but for cash, he knows exactly where every thing is. There’s a small tv in there with some old game consoles hooked up to it. The bed is never made.
Horrortale
Their home rests in a neighborhood bordering the forest of ebott. The houses there all have a lot more yard space than most houses in the city. The horrortale home is super cozy with lots of knit throws and pillows scattered around. The back patio has a little dog door and there’s a 50% chance of seeing a chicken walk through lol
Oak: his room is also pretty basic. The bed however has so many blankets. Like way more than any person should need. Oak is a blanket hoarder. There’s a lot of notebooks stacked on his wooden desk along with a file of patterned paper for scrapbooking.
Willow: his room has a raised bed with a cute little ladder on the side so that his dog can jump up. You can tell a lot of the furniture has been homemade or refurbished. The room is larger and in the middle is a circular stone table that’s stained with paint. It’s usually housing his latest craft
Underlust
They used to live in the same neighborhood as the classic brothers but have recently moved closer to the inner city because of work. Their home is still in the process of being unpacked mostly, but their rooms are done! The house is actually pretty conservative looking with grey walls, white wooden furniture and soft pastel decor. They do have a stripper pole in the living room though lol
Charm: his room looks exactly how you expect from him. Dark walls with lots of bright rave type decorations. On his dresser is a large pretty cake display that stands out from the rest of the rooms theme lol. His room is always on a state of organized chaos with his desk and bed covered in nick knacks but the floors staying oddly clean
Sugar: his room has light lavender walls and black furniture. It’s a big difference from the soft feminine style people expect from him. Instead sugar has a more sleek modern style to his room. He also has a standard mannequin in the middle that always has a new dresses pinned to it.
Fellswap (red)
They own a pretty two story house only a block away from the two apartment complexes that lord owns. The front lawn/garden is in top shape with lots of those metal flower decorations stuck in the ground along the dirt outline. Inside the house is most worn but comfy looking furniture. Nothing special
Lord: his room is pretty basic with mostly brown and grey accents. He does have a large mostly filled bookcase. There’s also two white bean bags and a deep red rug that covers nearly the whole floor of the room.
Mutt: he actually has two rooms. The first is pretty simple with just his bed, a writing desk and a rack for some shoes. Also his bird cage for KFC (pet pigeon). The second room has a sink, and several cages and boxes for the injured animals that he rehabilitates. The second room is slightly larger than his actual room.
Fellswap gold
They actually live in a studio apartment above wines antique shop. The apartment used to be an unused storage static until wine bought the building and repurposed it. The living space itself is a little small, but they also have access to the roof which the gold bros use as a potted garden and dining area.
Wine: his room is very classy with silk curtains on the window and a silky cream canopy above his head. All the furniture is a dark grey wood with pretty carvings and designs. The walls are decorated with beautiful floral paintings from his brother. It’s a pretty well planned out room. Very cosy and luxurious
Coffee: he has two rooms as well. The smaller of the two is just his bed, dresser, closet and a tv with some consoles hooked up to it. The second room has shelves lining nearly every wall except for one which is just a big collab mural. On the shelves is various art supplies and projects. There’s one large sketch desk on one wall. And finally in the middle of the room is a tarp attached to the floor housing whatever piece of furniture coffee is restoring at the moment .
Dancetale
They also own an apartment, one of the flats in lords buildings on the ground floor. It’s the other building from the swapfell brothers. The walls are painted a cheery yellow and the house is mostly decorated with spring colors. There’s always a huge bowl of fresh fruit in the kitchen.
Pop: his room is mix and match of completely different furniture and gadgets. Pop isn’t someone who cares about themes so he will keep whatever catches his fancy. Instead of a bed, he has a hammock attacked to the ceiling with a pillow and some throw blankets casually tossed on top lol.
Rhythm: his room is pretty sparse with just his bed, a shoe rack, and a dresser. On the dresser are pictures of each of his face classes right before they graduate. Rhythm doesn’t really care all that much about decor so the walls are pretty bare too
Outertale
They live in the same gated community as the classic brothers! The outertale home has high ceilings and lots of windows. The living room is the real centerpiece of the home. It has several large antique bookcases and display cases. Inside the displays are various rocks and crystals and the occasional fossil. It’s really neat.
Pluto: his room is comprised of mostly blues grays and greens. He has a small bookcase on the side of his bed where he keeps the things he’s currently reading. There’s also a large fish-tank with an assortment of saltwater fish inside. Pluto’s room also has a large circular fluffy rug in the middle of the floor. The floor itself is hardwood
Jupiter: his room has a similar color scheme except instead of greens, Jupiter has gold instead. He has some exercise equipment stacked nicely on the side of his bed including weights. There’s a wall tapestry with a printed picture of the asteroid belt the outertale monsters used to live in.
Gastertale
The gaster brothers also live in the same neighborhood as the classic and outertale bros. They’re at the very end in the little cul-de-sac. The interior of the house is almost all white with cream carpet, metro grey walls, and white furniture. A few of the small decorations add a bit of color. There’s a lot of potted succulents.
G: his room is probably the only dark room of the house. His walls are a charcoal grey and the furniture is mostly jet black with a few mustard colored decorations. There’s a metal wire bookcase hanging on the wall. G also has a plastic anatomy dummy that he dresses up in his motorcycle gear when he’s not using it. G thinks he’s funny
Green: like the rest of the home, his room is also mostly white. He has a pretty pale green rack for all of his glasses on his dresser. Green also has his several degrees framed in silver on the walls. his room is always spotless
Farmtale:
The farm bros have an old Victorian home that they fixed up themselves. They’re home borders the acres of farmland they own and is about a 45 minute drive from ebott city. The inside is decorated with mostly wooden furniture. There’s like four rocking chairs on the porch lol
Peaches: his room fits the theme of the house with mostly wooden furniture and a lot of quilts and rugs to add color and soften it up. Peaches always has a vase of fresh wildflowers on his dresser. The walls have photographs of plants and animals taped to them that peaches took himself.
Rancher: this mad lad has a large moose skull hanging above his four poster log cabin bed. He also hangs his favorite hunting rifles just below the moose lol. His bedroom is mostly wooden of course but is also decorated with lots of red and orange plaids.
Horrorfell
They live in the same neighborhood as the horrortale and horrorswap brothers. Their home is literally right in between the two. Inside it’s decorated in a mix between sleek modern metals and frumpy cozy style. Somehow the horrorfell bros still have their original sofa from the underground. There’s a lot of little homemade staircases for their cat doomfanger who’s too old to claim on top of things herself now
Rust: his walls are painted a soft heather grey and have some basic wooden decorations that noir painted for fun. The furniture is pretty normal with the exception of a large treasure style chest next to his bed. Open it up and you’ll find a collection of drawings and gifts from the kids he’s watched over the years. Rust didn’t have the heart to throw them away.
Noir: unsurprisingly, his room is littered in canvases and paintings on the walls. It’s divided into two sides: the messy paint side and his nice neat living side. He even has a line of tape going down the middle to complete the divide. On his living side is his bed, closet, and a low bookcase that he uses as a second dresser. The actual bookcase is in the living room
Horrorswap
As y’all all know, their house is right next to the horrorfells and one house away from the horrortales. They like bright colors and have a sort of summery themed house. The best part is the back garden which is filled with garden boxes of veggies, fruit bushes, and fruit trees.
Lilac: his rooms main color is a pretty powder blue along with canary yellow and some bright green. He has a yoga mat on the floor in place of a rug. The walls have some neat sunrise posters
Basil: his room is pretty cosy with lots of knit blankets and fluffy pillows. He has a massive poster of Pixar’s ratatouille that rust got him as a joke. Basil has like five coconut planters, each housing a different herb plant making his room smell like an Italian restaurant
The Mafias (tale, fell, swap)
The mafia brothers live in an apartment complex masquerading as a warehouse. The ground and top two floors are working area while there were three secret basement levels. The mafia bros home consists of the whole bottom level with all their rooms connected to a hallway. At the end of the hallway is a living space and the kitchen.
Snipe: his room is the one closest to the living area. Inside is sage walls with a few house plants that can survive in low light. His bed is almost never made lol. If one was to tear the room apart, they would find at least six different guns stashed in hidden compartments
Bruiser: his room is the closest to the staircase. Inside the room somehow looks super messy but is actually spotless. Bruiser decorates the walls with all kinds of gifts people randomly give him during his vigilante escapes. Stuff from pocket mirrors, to foreign currency to even a small collection of sea shells. He drilled holes into them and hung them up on strings. Other than his walls, the furniture is pretty plain
Butch: his room is a mix of greys, blacks an silvers with the basics of furniture and a small black leather sofa. On the walls are some pretty hand melded metal decorations that butch made himself. He smokes in his room so it reeks of cigars
Boss: his room fits him perfectly with clean white plaster walls, sleek metal furniture and black and gold marble decor. Everything in that room has a specific place. If anyone moved his stuff, he’d know. It’s the only mafia bro room that doesn’t caught smell like smoke somehow. There’s a male model mannequin that he uses to practice designing clothes on
Ace: the most eye catching part of his room is a large vanity with several lamps attached and a very extensive makeup kit. I’m talking professional grade. Ace isn’t the spy for nothing. He also has an open closet so all his clothing is out on display. The main color of his room is mauve funny enough
Slim: his room is a drab grey and has a large desk taking up a whole wall. It’s filled with screens and monitors. He also has a few tv screens hooked up to the wall. It almost looks like a security room. On the other side is his bed with a canopy curtain for privacy. There’s a few anime posters on the wall as well
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Meet cute
summary: going through harry and Loralie's normal day... until Harry meets someone.
warnings/ disclaimers: none :)
“Daddy!” Harry hears, tearing his head up from his big metal desk where he was looking over his students' art work. He teaches art at a primary school and is lucky enough to work in a school that has care for younger kids, so his daughter Loralie attends the preschool there. “Darling, why are you out of class already? The first bell hasn't rung yet.” At this school they have a three bell system. The first is for kids who ride the bus home, then the ones who get picked up by a parent or walk home, and the third bell is for kids who live further out and take the bus- the buses come back from their first trip and come around for them to take them to their long trip back home. The teacher's assistant always escorts Loralie to Harry's classroom after the first bell.
“I'm done!” she says, waving a bye to the teachers assistant whale Harry thanks her. He pulls her up on a chair next to the wooden stool he was sitting in, pulling her paisley printed backpack off of her and unzipping it to look through her folder. He looks over his class (full of seven and eight year olds) making sure they are all doing what they should be- reading a library book while they wait for their number bell to ring. He looks through some of the work she had done, the two pockets sorted into one that had her work of colorings, trying to write her name, and crafts. The other pocket filled with papers her and Harry needed to study together, her ABC’s, her numbers up to ten, colors, and notes to parents.
Harry gasps dramatically, pulling his classes' attention away from their books. “You got two golden stars today?!” he asks Loralie, making her nod, giggling. In her class they have a reward system, if the teacher or teachers assistant catches them doing a good deed they will reward them with a golden star sticker to encourage them to keep doing it, all the teachers here do it with the younger kids. Today Loralie was caught helping a kid pick up his crayons and then sat with a lonely kid while they were on the story time rug- now Harry is having a total proud dad moment reading the note her teacher had written him.
Just then the bell rings, “have a good night everyone!” Harry calls out to the first-bellers. He turns back to his daughter seeing her cover her ears from the loud ring of the school bell. Harry laughs, pulling Loralie to sit on his lap, ignoring the art he was working on. “So, tell me all about your day, baby.” Harry says, one arm wrapped her back and the other pulled her backpack down and shoving her folder and lunchbox into it. Loralie babbles on about her day for a while, ignoring the other listening ears and telling her daddy everything that had happened. She goes on about story time and how they had read one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish by dr.seuss, how they sang some songs, and how they colored until the third bell rings leaving Harry and Loralie all alone.
“We can't go home just get, baby. I've got a few things to do before we can leave.” Harry informs his daughter, pulling his earlier classes paintings off of the drying rack and stacking them so he could hand them out easier tomorrow. Loralie has no response, instead getting in Harry's big metal desk drawers and pulling out the couple of toys she kept here for times like this when Harry kept them after school a bit longer than she wanted. Harry lets Loralie help him when he puts the watercolor paints in the back storage room.
He hears feet on the steps leading to the art room making him peek his head out, reaching out for Loralie so she would grab his hand. He hears a bit of whispering, declaring it safe while he clasps his hand with Loralie and walks out. “Hi, could I help you?” Harry asks, looking at the mother and son. The woman politely smiles, her hand resting on her toddlers back- Harry knows him, he teaches the preschoolers art every Wednesday and he just had this little boy in his class today so he must be in Loralies class.
“Um, he left his folder down here today. It's got the baby shark stuff on it and it says Milo on it in gold sharpie. Mrs. Hannah had told me that it would probably be down here.” the woman says, their children apparently knowing each other because they are already talking. Harry was right, he is in Loralies class. Harry turns back to his desk with a smile on his face, “here.” he says, walking back. “I was gonna give it to Mrs. Hannah so he could get it back first thing in the morning.”
She smiles, taking it from his hands. She notes how his hands are rather large and stained in different colors of paint, even a couple of his rings have splatters of paint over them- but they all seem to be to be only for fashion not a wedding ring. “Thank you. And Mrs. Hannah told me what Loralie did today, she's such a sweetheart.” Harry furrows his eyebrows a bit, confused, “oh! Sorry, she sat with him during story time. He's kinda shy so it was really nice of her, she seems to really get him to branch out.” she looks down at her son and smiles seeing him talk to the girl.
“Oh, yeah. Thank you.” Harry smiles, finally letting go of the folder. She smiles, turning away and pulling Milo up on her hip, bidding the both of them a good bye. “Oh, I never caught your name.” Harry says, turning his chin up. She turned her head back smiling, “Y/n.” Harry smiles at her teasing tone, his cheeks turning the lightest shade of pink. “I'm Harry.”
Eventually Harry takes Loralie home, bringing them back to their small home. Harry knows its small, it got two bedrooms- one that isn't even used because Loralie sleeps in his bed with him every night (he's a single parents and he's not taking anyone home- it's just what happens), a small cramped kitchen, only one full bathroom then just a half one in the master bedroom, a normal sized living room, then a small dining room. It's not perfect but it's perfect for them, there are only two people, one man and a mini monster running around.
“Dinner then a bath, my love. You know the drill.” Harry hollers over to Loralie who is laying in the living room and playing with her stuffed animals while paw patrol plays in the background. He pushes over the markers on the table, setting down her plate waiting for her to crawl up and eat what he had prepared for her. She joins him soon, digging into the pesto pasta and fruit he prepared. “So, what was the best part of your day, baby?” Harry asks, smiling at his daughter and setting down his own plate while she sips at her sippy cup.
“Seeing daddy!” she yells, making Harry laugh. He smiles kissing her nose, “My favorite part was seeing you*, munchkin.” He smiles, making her squeal, shoving fruit in her mouth. Harry kisses her hand looking at her in adoration, he's so happy he has his little girl.
**
“Bubbles, daddy.” Loralie says, collecting the bubbles from her bath into her hand and blowing them. Harry nods, smiling, continuing to lather her hair. “What do you think about Milo, baby?” He asks, not being able to get his mind off of what had happened just before him and Loralie left.
Loralie looks up at him, “Milo?” She asks, her cheeks turning blush from the bath. Harry nods, giving her a warm smile while he cups his hand in front of her forehead to prevent any shampoo getting in her eyes before he starts to wash it out. “Nice.” She says, Harry nodding his head along with her.
Harry wishes he got to know Milo's mother a bit more. She seemed like someone that he would like. She was so sweet and her teasing tone made him even more attracted to her, she was gorgeous, and not to mention he didn't see a ring on her finger. Harry continues her bath, pulling her out and changing her into her pajamas. His mind wanders off a bit, thinking about the pretty woman he met today. He hopes he will see her again and little does he know she hopes she will see him again.
“Let's go to bed, baby.”
tag list: @romionefp @iaalien @hopeyoustaythenight @evanjh if you dont want to be on the tag list for this series please let me know but if you want to be on it please let me know as well !!!
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duly noted
you've never been one to obsess about your soulmate, assuming you'll figure it out when the time is right. but seriously, what kind of nonsense has yours been writing about recently?
(eventual moonbyul / wheein x gender neutral reader, soulmate!au, trainee/idol!au, ~1.2k words)
a/n: wheein bias wrecker anon! I might've had too much fun with your req and so this is gonna be my first soulmate au 🤠 while byul and wheein don't actually appear in this part (does that make this a prologue? idk), I promise they'll make their appearance soon enough :)
cw: struggles of being a trainee (weight + food talk)
The claps from your dance instructor ring out in the mirrored studio, calling everyone to attention before they send you off for the day. Everyone stands around listening to whatever niceties they're talking about, asking the rhetorical questions of whether all of you want this, how everyone needs to work harder, etc. How many years has it been now, almost three? Evaluations went pretty well recently and you've certainly demonstrated signs of growth since you started, but debut? Who knows. Does anyone, really?
But right now it's late and you're hungry, hoping that your growling stomach isn't loud enough to pierce through the lecture. You're respectfully tuned out anyway, since it's all old news. Nothing you haven't heard before. They clap again once their spiel ends and everyone disperses. Your eyes catch Hyejin's on your way out of the studio, sharing a funny face and an eyeroll before disappearing into the herd of trainees shuffling to the lockers.
Your locker opens with a routine spin of the dial, taking care to slow down and line up the numbers properly so you're not stuck having to do it over again. The inside's pretty cute for a metallic rectangle— it's really the only space of your own besides your notebook. Pictures of your family, old school friends, and fellow trainee friends line the sides beneath a tiny string of battery-powered fairy lights. It's not much, but always a humbling reminder of why you're here.
Unzipping your bag, you take out a pair of slides and drop them on the floor while stepping out of your sneakers. There's not much else in your bag, just a change of clothes and your notebook, of course. Everyone has one. Anything inside could be drawn, written, scribbled, painted. It’s your personal creative space and no one else's, but with two conditions:
You can't write your name in it, not even your initials. Of course everyone tried to as kids against their parents commands, but letters simply sink into the page, disappearing as if they'd never been written at all.
You can only mark up one side. Pages on the right side are for you, and the left side pages fill themselves. Fill themselves with what? you asked your parents. They gave you a non-answer, saying you'd figure it out someday. Great. Only other thing they bothered to tell you was that your right-hand pages were someone's left-hand ones. So someone can see what I put here? Their confirmation sounded rather casual, which you found weird. Someone out there was watching what you put in? But you got used to it, especially since every person owns one. It's a novelty for children anyway. Mark up a page however you want, knowing that someone out in the would will see, and sit back to watch whatever randomness shows up on the left side.
Your left side pages were actually empty for quite a while, save for the occasional "UGGHHH" followed by a typical childish annoyance scrawled messily across the entirety of the page in marker. Not that notebook use was mandatory, but parents usually encouraged it because it kept their kids occupied. There wasn't much you could do about empty pages, nor did you care most of the time, but it did leave you a little jealous of other kids at school who'd sometimes open theirs and be greeted with cute watercolor paintings, mini murals, or skillfully written poetry.
For you, the notebook's served many uses. As a kid it was random doodles and poorly-drawn fantasy scenarios— escapism, perhaps. In middle school it was angsty poems and random journal entries about the random happenings of your life. For the first half of high school it became your to-do list, keeping track of school assignments. And on the rarest occasion, song lyrics. Visual art was never your medium of choice, music came more easily. But drawing staff lines for music notation in the notebook usually ended up being too tedious, so your original stuff was mostly relegated to voice memos on your phone. And now? Who knows. Trainee life may as well be a blur. Sing, dance, talk, eat if you can afford to, sleep, repeat. It's hard to find the energy to write anything most days. Whenever you feel like checking, the left side has random jottings, nearly illegible most of the time.
It wasn't until you got older that you realized that whoever read your entries on the was the same person generating content on the left. And supposedly the person you're supposed to be with for the rest of time? What kind of system is that? I'm just supposed to trust blindly? having asked your parents in exasperation after figuring it out. Again with more non-answers— it had worked for them, didn't it? There's also the obvious question of why people don't just write directly to each other, but whatever. You're still young, no need to obsess over "the one" unlike some of your classmates. If it's meant to be, it'll happen, you figure. And it obviously is, you've got a notebook with (semi-)filled left side pages. What more could you ask for?
The cacophony of clanging lockers opening and closing starts to die down as people leave. Hyejin's head pops out from behind the locker door, laughing in your face when you flinch.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, one sec. Man, I'm starving,” you remark while slipping the bag straps on your back and closing the locker door. You don't even want to know how strapped for cash you are, probably in for another night of boiled eggs and canned kimchi.
“Wanna go out for food?” she immediately asks, eyes alight at the prospect of getting to eat something besides convenience store food.
"I wish. Actually, you wish," you smirk with longing in your eyes. The "no" doesn't even have to be said, weigh-ins are way too soon to risk it. She hangs her head, jokingly dejected as you swing an arm around her shoulder to walk out of the company building together.
~~~~
After scrounging up whatever food you call dinner, taking a shower, and flopping into bed, you open up your notebook and grab the random pen laying on your dresser, unsure of what you'll write about tonight. There's chicken scratch on the left page already, ballpoint pen. It's actually legible today, though: In my room every day I see your smile.
What the hell does that mean? Whose smile, yours? You haven't even met yet.
Call me everyday every night, hug me everywhere every time
Utter nonsense. Maybe meeting soulmates is just a huge game of catch-up once everything's finally revealed, surely yours will be. There’s just so many questions. Moving to the right side, you jot down a list of cheat meal ideas along with some assorted notes and pointers from practice that you want to work on tomorrow, drawing little characters next to each list item for fun. After accidentally drawing a random squiggle from jolting yourself awake and feeling the heaviness in your eyelids, you cap your pen and shut your notebook, placing it back in your bag. With the lights out, the last thought you have before sleep consumes you is why haven't you ever tried writing directly to each other after all this time?
[next]
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It’s been forever since I was on tumblr, but I’d like to get back into it again. I’ve been mostly avoiding social media for a few months and doing a lot of personal art things, one of which is learning how to paint. At the moment I’ve been working on watercolors. I was super excited when I saw that one of the lessons had us painting a sky with constellations! Concordia, the main country in the Unexpected Inspiration series, has a ton of history and mythology about their constellations, which they call the Muses.
It’s said that these were beings who came down from the sky to teach the original Concordians art and magic. This is partly true. There were beings who granted this magic and knowledge, but they came from other worlds via a portal, not the sky. The humans simply assumed the sky when the beings seemingly popped out of nowhere when they heard the call for help. Each of these constellations became the Muse of a specific branch of art/magic because they granted that particular flavor of arcane creativity. Most of the Muses are no longer remembered as their original appearance; over the centuries stories have made them larger and stronger (or at least stranger) than they were.
They're not in quite the right locations, but artistic interpretation, right? I included all nine Muses that make up my world's sky. From sort of left to right: Piquant, Pritchel, Chiaroscuro, Stele, Andante, Mortise, Tessera, Twisen (which is Whorl and Weft in one spiral constellation), and Scriven. Here's a bit about them:
Piquant: Muse of the culinary arts. I introduced him ages ago as a human-shaped imp who had a few small mushrooms "growing" on his body. He is now remembered because of the mushrooms; his constellation is a mushroom turned on its side. His name comes from a flavor. He helped grant food magic to the early Concordians because he saw they were hungry and wanted to help.
Pritchel: Muse of metalwork. Pritchel (along with Scriven and Stele) were Creators, who were beings from another world who moved into what became Concordia and joined together with the humans there to create one culture. At some point, these three Creators lost their human forms, however briefly, because they’re remembered for what they actually looked like. (They’re also remembered for their human forms, too; somehow the humans never made the connection that these three beings were the same as the “human” newcomers who helped unite the two groups of people into one. This means Pritchel, Scriven, and Stele are remembered separately as the founders Petra, Dee, and Elda.) The Creators’ original forms, before they crossed through the portal that shifted them to human, were all of one species, but took on the appearance of the material they worked most. This means Pritchel was golden with flecks of silver to represent iron. Her constellation is based on her namesake: “a pritchel is a type of punch used in forging, particularly in making nail holes in horseshoes.” In this case, the constellations is the punch and the horseshoe. Concordians have never kept horses, but back before the Concordian humans were sent to Concordia, they did. Pritchel had lightning and metal magic, so she granted the ability to work metal, as well as use lightning to power magical inventions.
Chiaroscuro: Muse of illustration. He’s a celestial being of both light and shadow, who had come to Concordia's world centuries before events of the Muses. This makes him very, very old, even at the time these Muses visited Concordia. He had no physical form except as an amorphous dark spot with glowing golden eyes. Mostly it's his eyes that are remembered and the constellation is simply these. “Chiaroscuro” means “the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.” I know Chiaroscuro best of all because he’s important to both Concordia and Montglace and he comes into play in the current books. He granted illustration and illusion magic.
Stele: Muse of sculpture and another Creator. In her case, her appearance took on the look of either marble or clay. A “stele” is a variation on “stela,” which is “an upright stone slab or column typically bearing a commemorative inscription or relief design, often serving as a gravestone.” The constellation was supposed to be an upside-down gravestone. It became a clay teacup pretty quickly because this was too morbid for a Muse remembered as fondly as Stele. The reason Stele is associated with memorials was because when she was alive, she helped create the walls that contain the names of everyone in Concordia who has passed since the founding; these update automatically because of the magic tied into them.
Andante: Muse of music. He was originally some sort of bird person and is somehow still remembered as a bird person. The fact that this constellation looks like a bird person with wings and a tail is probably the reason. I’m still amazed that the program I used to generate stars threw some together in a way that made this shape form so well! His name is a musical term involving tempo. The magic he granted involves sound, both in terms of music but also in recording and amplifying.
Mortise: Muse of woodwork. They were a being of the same species as Chiaroscuro, but even older than Chiaro. While Chiaro stayed a celestial, Mortise bonded with the land and became one with the planet. They're remembered as a tree because their voice came from the grotto at the center of the early Concordians' homes. It's not barbaric to have a tree be the Muse of woodwork because Concordians use fallen wood whenever possible and always replant. The earth magic granted by Mortise makes the land flourish; they've grown weaker over the centuries so now their magic can only stretch as far as Concordia. A “mortise” is a woodworking joint and Mortise granted magic over wood.
Tessera: Muse of glasswork. She was originally a Salamander, a human-sized lizard person, but over time she was remembered as a dragon. Possibly this is because large, scary dragons are more exciting than lizards, but more likely because the constellation’s arms got mistaken for wings. The tail probably didn’t help since the constellation is all tail. Tessera did have a tail, though, so that part’s okay. “Tessera” means an “individual tile, usually formed in the shape of a cube, used in creating a mosaic.” She granted light and heat magic, which generally manifests in control over glass.
Twisen (Whorl and Weft): Muses of textiles. They were sisters or at least appeared to be sisters. They're from the same world as the Concordians, but their kind was there long before the humans arrived and long long before Concordian's founding. Their species lives deep underwater and most of the world doesn't realize that they share their planet with other people, even now. These two are remembered as a pair of waterspouts and they’re closely tied into wind and water, such as the wind in the sails of boats. Their names are spinning and weaving terms because they granted textile magic.
Scriven: Muse of words. This also includes poetry, stories, and words both spoken and written. Scriven was the third of the Creator-Muses and was the Creator who called on the other beings and their worlds for help. This constellation looks weird, but I see it as the side view of a person holding a book or a piece of paper. It could also be an old-fashioned desk where the chair is connected. Either would work for Scriven. While Pritchel looked almost like metal in her true form and Stele looked like stone, Scriven's skin had the appearance of parchment and whenever he used magic, his words would show on his body. He granted power over words, such as an ability to bring emotion from the audience/reader.
Concordia's culture revolves around art, hence the art-themed names, so painting this felt wonderfully appropriate. Chiaroscuro, the Muse of illustration, would approve. Years ago I introduced three of the Muses and I’d like to get back into that soon.
I know I had a tag list going, but at this point I’m not really sure who’s still around, so if you’d like to be added, let me know!
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Hey I can't find this in your FAQ so sorry if it's been asked before! Your traditional art is so stunning and vibrant, would you happen to have any brand recommendations for people trying to get into painting? Maybe specific gouche paint, brushes, papers etc. Thank you so much and have a nice day!
no one has ever asked me this before because this is like the first time ive started putting traditional art on my blog! LOL umm to be honest I’m very far from pro on this front, most of my knowledge comes from a handful of classes I didn’t pay a lot of attention to and lots of youtube videos but here’s my recommendations:
Paint
A lot of my paints are winsor newton designer’s gouache because this is what my teachers made me buy when I was a freshman at art school LOL. it’s definitely kind of pricey, I think it’s like $10.99 for a tube which I was NOT a fan of as a college student and is still not my favorite thing now. But they’re overall worth the price if you really want solid, high quality opaque paints. Though I’ve heard their student grade winton paints are decent as well?
I’ve heard less good things about brands like reeves and artist loft... but I think turner is alright? m.graham is supposedly great.
I also bought a set of holbein acryla gouache when it was discounted on amazon a while ago and have found it very solid. One thing you have to know about acryla gouache is that it uses a binder more like acrylic paint (hence the name acryla). Paints are made out of pigment + binder and most gouache is essentially watercolor but with extra pigment/chalk to make it opaque - the binder is water soluble so these paints can be reactivated with water. Acryla gouache is NOT water soluble when dry and it dries pretty fast so it’s overall less flexible. But other than that you can pretty much treat it like any other gouache and I find they keep a little better too, less likely to get gunky or stiff.
All paint brands have a handful of starter packs which are slightly discounted but if you want to build your own starting palette I’d say get a warm and cool tint of all the primaries, get a lot of white (working with gouache somehow involves a lot of mixing with white lol), and get a brown, maybe like burnt sienna or raw umber for underpaintings. No need to get a black, mixing darks builds character, looks better, and having one out of the tube can become a crutch. If you find a white watercolor paint tube that’s cheaper you can buy that instead of a gouache white. Again, they have pretty much the same make-up. And white paints are generally opaque enough that the composition between gouache/watercolor shouldn’t matter too much.
I’ve never used a block tray of gouache. Like those paints that come in little blocks in a tray? I know there's a bunch out there but I’ve never used them and I don’t know anyone else who does so I have no opinion on them.
Brushes
I’ve been kind of exploring this myself. I recently bought a cheap set of flat brushes off amazon LOL and I like them a lot?
Theyre probably not The Best or anything but I found flat brushes suit gouache plein air painting really well because its suits the kind of color blocking shapes I want to make. Also these had the right handle length to fit in my painting bag. That’s like the main reason I chose them tbh.
Honestly a lot of my art supplies philosophy is “give it a whirl with whatever you have lying around and when it feels like you're missing something specific keep an eye out for when that stuff goes on sale”
Paper
GOTTA BE HONEST I’m using cheapo paper. Because I’m making these paintings half for study and half to give my parents something to hang in the living room.
You can actually see some of them curling in on themselves here lol. If you’ve seen the sketchbook I’m holding in any of my pics of paintings it’s one of the canson mixed media books.
and its FINE... I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it lol.. I like that the texture is very fine but it doesn’t hold a lot of water and definitely distorts. Also I keep ripping off the surface with painters tape but that might just be on me. Oh buy artist tape. Just because its so satisfying to have clean edges.
I’m using painters tape instead of artist tape because I found it in the basement but if youre buying supplies buy artist tape because it’ll be kinder to your paper.
SPEAKING OF PAPER.
I guess anything heavyweight for watercolor/mixed media will be fine? some people like a lot of texture but if you’re painting small you might want to avoid it and pick hot press over cold press. Honestly I feel like a lot of this is going to depend on what your specific needs are.. how big do you want the paper to be.. do you want a sketchbook or would you rather carry around loose paper... etc. Maybe go to an art store and touch all their paper. I feel like its easier to understand sizes and texture when you’re seeing it physically.
When I go on a trip, I normally bring a softcover heavyweight stillman & birn sketchbook because I tend to obliterate metal spiral books in my bag LOL. Also I don’t rip any pages out of my travel sketchbooks so I don’t need perforation or anything. Also they go on sale a lot in the art store I go to haha. I havent used gouache extensively in it but it takes inkwash/maker pretty well.
On the higher end, I personally haven’t used it that much but my friends who do traditional illustration professionally swear by arches watercolor paper. It comes in lots of different sizes.
Whatever you use, if you really want it to lie flat you’re gonna want to soak and stretch it on a board but I don’t bother with that because I am lazy.
Palette
You didn’t ask about palette but I’m taking the opportunity to be a shill because I personally use a sta-wet palette and I LOVE it.
One of the biggest frustrations about gouache for me was how quickly it dries after it leaves the tube. And even if you can reawaken it with water its not quite the same? and consistency is SO important when it comes to applying gouache so I don’t want to be over-watering my paint.. ugh. Anyways, I don’t have to worry about that with the sta-wet palette and really its been a game changer for me. sta-wet is a brand name but there are a bunch of other wet palettes not by masterson that I’m sure are just as good. I mean, it’s just a box with a sponge basically, that can’t be hard to replicate.
The only thing - and I personally have not had this issue but I have friends who have - is that if you leave it wet for too long it could grow mold? or a mouldy smell? Just wash your palette with soap and don’t leave it for weeks on end and it should be fine.
If you’re not feeling a palette that’s always moist, the best palette I used in school was a simple glass palette. you can buy one I guess but it’s so easy to DIY, I think the way we did it in school is getting a piece of glass and mdf from the hardware store cut the same size and then duct taped them together on the sides so it wouldn’t be sharp.
costs like nothing.
what else...get a palette knife if you like to mix paints? and like to save paints... mixing with the brush means you lose paint in your brush in the mixing process so a knife is a good way to maximize that process. I don’t use it much but sometime if I have to mix a lot of one color I’ll pull it out of my bag.
I don’t know anything about easels, I sit on the dirty ground like a gremlin when I paint.
Ok yeah that’s all the supplies tips I have. hope some of it was helpful! always try to save money with art supplies, I think. Especially if you’re just starting out - it’s less stressful to use cheap supplies too lol. Good luck! Happy painting!
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Show your process
To continue supporting content makers, this tag game is meant to show the entire process of making creative content: this can be for any creation.
RULES - When your work is tagged, show the process of its creation from planning to posting, then tag up to 5 people with a specific link to one of their creative works you’d like to see the process of. Use the tag #showyourprocess so we can find yours.
Thank you Anni @whatagreatproblemtohave for the tag! This is even more fun because this is her notebook I’m making.
Planning
Well, I’m a terrible planner, I don’t really plan things. I feel like they happen by accident and luck most of the time lol it started when I was using some leftover dyed paper to make a junk journal, and I’ve realized that making signatures with A5 paper was about the same size as a photograph and they would make nice covers. Then by luck I found some really cool A5 acrylic/mixed media and watercolor papers at the dollar store (I was there to get something else, but I always go through the whole store because I might find something cool) and I’d printed some of my favorite Louis/Harry/Liam pics, inspired by my desire to own copies of the House of Solo outtakes. It all sort of came together and I just had to make these.
Materials
# Cover:
Kraft board 935gsm 1.5mm
Black paper A5 220gsm
Strong glue stick
Strong clear glue
Sandpaper
Picture
# Interior:
White paper A5 160gsm
Watercolor paper A5 190gsm
Acrylic/mixed media paper A5 190gsm
# Binding
Waxed cord 0.5mm
Awl
Curved needle
Scrap cardboard
# Etc
Cutting mat
Metal ruler
Craft knife/box cutter
Fine tip pen/marker
Making
I’ve been a subscriber to SeaLemon’s channel for years, and while I only started book binding this year, I always found it very relaxing watching her videos. I’m using her old Coptic Stich videos for these journals, both for how I make the cover as well as the binding method itself.
I started by cutting the cover boards. I’m making two notebooks at once, so I cut 4 boards by first tracing the picture, then using the ruler and box cutter to cut it to size. I sand any stray bit of the cardboard I don’t want it, or any uneven part.
This board is thick enough that I could just paint it, and I tried that at first with acrylic paint on my test notebook (Louis drinking milk), but the first and last page were getting a bit of transfer from the paint and looking dirty. I tested on a scrap piece of board painting and doing a clear coat, but the even when the can said “matte coat”, it still came out shiny and I didn’t like the look, so I decided to go with the paper wrap path.
It’s important to use a glue that is not very wet, or else the board warps, so I do as much as I can with the glue stick and set the board the dry under heavy books (or a book press, if you have one of those). I use the clear glue to glue the inside as it’s a bit stronger and the edges that are exposed need to really stick down. To make sure nothing warps, I use a glue brush so the layer is very thin, and set it to dry under the books to make sure everything is flat.
While that is drying, I fold my signatures (paper folded in half and stacked in groups). For the white paper, as it’s a bit lighter, I do 3 pages per signature, and the thicker watercolor and mixed media paper I do just 2. For each notebook I do 5 signatures of white, 3 of mixed media and 2 of watercolor paper, giving me a total of 50 pages per notebook. It’s not a big journal, and I don’t know how practical it is to really paint on them, but I’m using the coptic stich, which makes sure every page opens completely flat without harming the other pages, and I also saw videos of Slew painting a full oil painting on his notebook, so I know it’s not impossible. I still think the writing or sketching experience will be pretty good on this because of the paper type. Also, they get to look at those pictures, that’s always a plus.
Once the signatures are all stacked, I create a template using an extra paper to measure where the holes will be. I use the spare cardboard in a V shape as a punching cradle, and with the help of the template I pierce through all the signatures.
This is where I’ll diverge a bit from the pictures. Initially, I bound the signatures and cover first, then glued the picture over the cover stitch, and let it dry at least a couple hours under the heavy books to make sure there was no warping or bubbles. Looked pretty cool because the thread I’m using is very thing, and it didn’t really show under the picture. However, because the thread is very thin, I didn’t like how it opened and closed. The thread feels strong and I didn’t think it would snap, but I decided to cut the binding and redo it with a double thread. As the picture was already glued to the cover, I had to pierce the picture to do the binding. I ended up liking the look better with the exposed thread anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal. Also, not shown here is Evi's final notebook, because I've decided to redo it. I had an issue with the cover (used a different folding technique for the paper and it was bulkier than I wanted to, so her cover is currently under very heavy books drying right now. So the final picture I chose will be a surprise for when she gets her mail in a week or so.
Not counting all the drying time, the whole process takes me about two hours per notebook.
Posting
Well, I shared it on the Larry Library, but I didn’t post it here until now. It’s not original art or an edit so I just didn't 🤷🏻♀️
☆ • ☆
I haven’t seen if these were done, but I really liked them, so I’m tagging it.
@sunsmile-lou for this moodboard. Moodboards fascinate me and I want to learn how to make them.
@whatagreatproblemtohave for her Tired Tired Sea art. I feel like I was there for some of it, but it’s just one of my favorites.
@killmygoldenn for the Faith in the Future edit
@essercipertuttienonperse for the Livestream tickets or her rainbow series which I love so much
@evilovesyou for A Song Not for Whispering
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RECREATIONAL HEADCANONS
i hope you can envision the look of horror and appalment that crossed my face when i saw there was no. uh. content on this.
so naturally i had to make it. here i covered nords, khajiits, bretons, and strangely enough, dremora too.
nords.
- board games, like tafl and chess and backgammon.
- marbles! small, clay oven-baked marbles. little glass ones! maybe some made out of precious metals if you're like that.
- pottery. clay cups. pitchers and vases with legs. glazed urns painted to show scenes or gods or. the name of the person in it-
- wood carving!
- they’d carve amulets for loved ones, or little figures/toys for children. also, game pieces for chess and tafl.
- painting. a very valid art form and most commonly used to tell stories and legends. so. watercolors. pigments made from pressing flowers. and made into murals in your house. a little sewn together book for a child so they grow up with bedtime stories and tales and have a reference other than memory alone.
- cooking. a true nord knows how to make the best beef stew in town.
- boxing and wrestling. very competetive sports.
- children play tag and hide and seek.
- knot tying. i hc that most nords carry around a strip of leather/rope and tie and untie knots in them, partially to not forget and also as a timekiller/nervous habit.
- tarot card readings. the cards have celtic knotwork in gold leaf on the borders. talos worshippers have a talos card in their decks, along with the nordic pantheon. runes are inscribed on the cards. thank you @memaidraws for informing me of tarot cards and for my new obsession-
- debates. a sharp mind is just as important as a good sword arm. they're careful not to let it escalate into an argument, but a lot of quips and questions answered with questions. some get very heated though, v entertaining to watch. note: never bring up politics or religion.
- fishing. the lakes are usually pretty calm so you have a nice time and get a meal.
- darts. throwy and sharp.
- knowing how to take care of clothing, or weapons or armor is also very important. like. it's a basic thing to know how to take care of yourself and your stuff. anyways your big burly nord warrior can absolutely sew and stitch and haggle.
khajiits.
- grooming. self care and image is huge in their culture.
- so like. combing fur, trimming facial hair and whiskers.
- filing/buffing claws, and making sure they’re not overgrown or chipped.
- however. the only time you would show claws is if you're threatening someone, and it's a grave offense to show them. it means you're ready to fight, literally tooth and nail. never, and i mean never, show claws in someone else's home. you will be mauled.
- senches and alfiqs are more prone to ingrown claws. the best way to prevent that is for them to regularly sharpen their claws on trees or a scratching post. if the claw does become ingrown, a trusted friend or family member with hands can help have it trimmed down to size.
- swimming is kind of out of the question lmao (i mean. tigers love water but senche tigers and senches are kinda dif but whatever you want)
- i think that they’d be very social people. they spend a lot of time with friends and family and take gatherings and holidays very seriously.
- weaving. tapestries and rugs and stuff. if you catch a khajiit caravan, they have big and heavy and warm and vibrant colored tapestries depicting the moons and the mane and historical stuff.
- casual gift giving! small things, like something you picked up at the market if it reminded you of your loved one. it could be a charm for a chain, or a new sugar pipe, or some paint or a little carved comb.
- moon sugar. it's not a big deal for them, it's a normal food. but they might have a small pouch of it on them, for snacking and stuff.
- i kind of want to say wood carving, with their claws, but i don't think it works like that. plus the retractable claws, getting splinters or wood dust in there is, ugh.
breton.
- swimming and rock climbing. idk why.
- javelin throwing, archery, darts. ranged stuff, because throwing stuff is cool.
- card games like poker, karnöffel, and écarté. (oh god i know these are all from dif places and times but. please.)
- dice. it's a big deal what you bring to the table! bone carved, ebony, glass, or whatever. along with your cards.
- reading books, or, making them. as in, bookbinding and copying and translating older ones. it's really cool and a status symbol to have a massive library in your house, to show how big brain you are.
- just. learning in general. it's always cool to learn new things, but be warned. don't ever. correct someone in their own house. or they will very politely summon a flame atronach to show you the door.
- herbs! little perfumes, and balms.
- cooking and baking. flaky pastries? yes. pot pies? absolutely. other stuff i can't name right now? hell yeah.
- stitching. small embroideries or knotwork or symbols in clothing, either super subtle or bold and noticeable, but always very detailed and perfect.
dremora.
- oh, this is an odd one, i know.
- they take good care of their horns though, similar to a khajiit with their claws. appearances, people.
- longer horns, the better. super curved ones like a ram are also very cool.
- sharp tips? very good.
- also. hc that they have pointy nails. not quite claws. but they do naturally forms points. and are very hard and strong.
- they paint them. yes.
- face paint. nail paint. horn paint. elegant swirls, or markings.
- paint color varies, but i imagine they stick to a blood red, or a deep black. they might paint spirals and swirls on their horns, and follow up with stripes on their face, or go with black for a v subtle but awesome look.
- armor and robes are always in top shape. why? because.
- they value knowledge as much as their appearance. some very openly share what they learn with everyone, and others are very secretive.
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abstract: chapter 2
chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader
Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?
Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.
Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!
A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.
You hate it.
In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.
Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.
You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.
There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.
You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.
You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.
The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.
You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.
You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.
***
At least you can move on from the watercolors.
Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.
You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.
“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.
But Steve takes two mirrors.
You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.
It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.
“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.
“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.
You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”
Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”
The question catches you off guard.
“What?”
Steve sets his mirror down.
Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.
“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”
Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”
He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.
“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”
“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.
“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”
You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”
“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.
Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.
You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.
Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.
“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”
You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.
“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”
He blushes.
“Use people you know.”
You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.
At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.
“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.
“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”
You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.
Okay- lame.
But also, like, funny.
Then it starts to click.
“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.
Or maybe he just wants you to leave.
“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”
“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.
That’s exactly it.
“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”
You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.
You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.
Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.
***
He’s not genuinely interested.
This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-
To his basic peace of mind.
He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.
There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.
He doesn’t care.
The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.
There is a lot of information.
Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.
He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.
Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.
A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.
And there’s lots of yellow.
And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.
Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.
It makes his head hurt.
He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.
Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.
The twenty-first century is stupid like that.
When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.
Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.
He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.
“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.
“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.
To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.
“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.
Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”
“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.
“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.
He can handle himself.
Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.
***
He doesn’t need to go.
Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.
Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.
You start right on time. Always so prompt.
“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”
You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.
You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.
“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”
Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.
He takes the yellow one.
You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.
“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.
“Your shoe is untied.”
Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.
Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.
“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”
He considers the question. “Fine.”
“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.
He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.
“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”
Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.
“They just are,” he says.
You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?
“Awesome,” you say.
Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.
“Wait, one more thing.”
You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.
You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.
Floor-length. V-neck.
“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”
He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.
Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.
A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.
“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”
You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”
“Out of town.”
Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.
Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.
It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.
“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”
You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-
“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.
Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.
“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”
You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.
It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.
Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.
*
You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.
You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”
“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.
She’s not leaving early.
You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.
“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.
“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”
Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.
Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.
All by yourself.
Or not.
Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?
“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”
Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.
“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”
You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.
You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.
But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?
“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”
He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.
It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.
“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.
***
Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.
“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”
You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.
He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”
In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.
It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.
Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.
There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-
He’s there.
Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.
“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.
“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.
God.
You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.
“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”
Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.
“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.
If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.
Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.
“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”
You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.
Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.
*
Acrylic paint- the love of your life.
“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”
That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.
Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.
It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.
You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.
Then, of course, you head to the back.
Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.
You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.
Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.
“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.
He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.
Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?
You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.
It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!
You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.
It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.
You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.
Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.
Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.
Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.
He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?
Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.
*
The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.
You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.
The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.
You didn’t talk to him that much, today.
“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.
“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.
And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.
Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.
“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.
Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.
“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.
“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.
He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.
Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.
“Why, is there something you-”
Steve cuts himself off. He understands.
“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”
He leaves.
“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”
No, but he’ll do it, if...
“Yeah.”
You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.
“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”
He starts to wipe down the tables.
You get the sink running.
The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.
Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.
What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.
It sets up the atmosphere.
You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”
He shrugs.
It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.
“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”
He gets it.
“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.
You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.
“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Is Bucky your real name?”
The fuck?
You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.
“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”
You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.
“My real name is James.”
You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”
“Really.”
You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.
“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.
He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.
“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”
“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.
His heart leaps to his throat.
“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.
“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”
That was not smooth.
At all.
But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.
“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.
“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.
Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.
He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.
“When will I hear from you?”
He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.
You’re pretty.
“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.
Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.
Right now, he’s all thawed out.
“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.
You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”
“Mystery girl.”
“You know it.”
His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.
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Survey #397
“you’re my religion, you’re my reason to live / you are the heaven in my hell”
Do you think that you’ll always love who you love now? Even if we're never together again romantically, I will ALWAYS love her at least as a best friend.
Have you ever made out with a random person? Yeah, no.
If you could do your first kiss over, would you? No. I'm lucky that my first kiss was honestly cute as hell.
Do you like your country’s president or prime minister? Well I voted for him, so I obviously can't hate him. He seems to be doing fine so far, though take that with a grain of salt seeing as I don't keep up with politics. Even before voting for him, I just did a small bit of researching on his values.
What color is your house? Yellow with white accents.
Do you listen to Christmas music during the holiday season? No, I don't enjoy it. Man, Jason's mom sure did, though... I loved how in the spirit she'd get and always played Christmas music in the car during that time of year. I miss that woman and I sure as hell hope she rests easy now.
Do you like ginger ale? Solely if I have a stomach bug, and I can only ever sip it.
What are you listening to? "Electric Sugar Pop" by Jeffree Star.
What’s the last thing you watched on TV? The TMS office has the TV on, and the woman who overlooks it (I have zero idea what her position is called) tends to have it either on a cooking channel or a home improvement one. Today was a cooking one.
Is your favorite author the author of your favorite book? I don't have a favorite author.
Describe someone you find really attractive: M-Mark Fischbach. *___*
If you HAD to look like someone else, but could choose who, who would you choose? Hm... maybe my friend Alon. I've mentioned I feel like a million times that she is like, ethereal with how gorgeous she is.
Have you ever seen someone get a tattoo done? If so, what was it? Did they cry or were they in a lot of pain? Yeah; it was a watercolor feather with "ohana" written below it. She didn't cry at all, but she grit her teeth a few times.
Do you have anything you couldn’t go a day without? Some form of technology.
Have you ever gotten caught doing something illegal? No.
What’s your favorite flavor of Vitamin Water? I don't even think I've ever tried it.
Is there someone you wanna date right now? Yeah.
What first attracted you to the last person you kissed? If we're talking the very first, our vast similar interests.
How many brothers does your father have? None.
Does your best friend have any tattoos? No.
Do you like Ben + Jerry’s? Yep. Man, I want their Phish Food ice cream now.
Would you ever wish to be the opposite sex? Nah.
Do you think you’re attractive? Nope.
What is your favorite card game to play? Magic: The Gathering. I really miss my PS3 where I had Duel of the Planeswalkers installed on it, it was really fun.
Do you own a globe? I don't think we still do.
What is your favorite wild cat? Perhaps clouded leopards.
If your bedroom had three portals to anywhere, where would they lead? South Africa, Sara's place, and maybe a nice little cabin in the mountains for when I'm feeling a peaceful getaway.
You can ask any author one question about their story. What do you ask? I have zero idea.
What’s a place you have a strong emotional connection to? The pond behind the local community college. Jason and I took our first prom pictures there.
Do you take yoga classes? No, but I'm actually considering it since they offer those at the YMCA Mom and I now go to.
What is a decision you’ve made that changed your entire life? To let Jason go. It's pretty great, my PTSD has been less of a bother lately!
Have you ever made any money from a side-hustle? Could you consider being paid to take pictures once in a blue moon a "side hustle" when I don't even have a main job?
Do you ever wonder what kind of person you’d have turned out to be if a certain event never happened to you? Ugh... it's incredibly painful to wonder how life would be if Jason never left.
If you could have anyone’s singing voice, whose would you choose? Adele's or Amy Lee's, probs.
What are your top 3 favorite genres of music? Metal, hard rock, alternative.
Do you think Mars will be colonized in your lifetime? No.
Have you ever been homeless? If so, what led to your homelessness? Technically, yes, because Mom couldn't afford the rent. She, my little sister (who still lived with us at the time), and I each were accepted into the homes of willing, kind people, though.
Have you ever been on a ship? No.
Who was Van Halen’s better singer - David Lee Roth, or Sammy Hagar? David.
Which fictional character has the most memorable quotes? Heath Ledger's Joker is quoted all the time, so probably him.
What do you think of the "Healthy At Every Size" movement/philosophy? Before I answer this, I want you to keep in mind that this is coming from someone who is obese, so I would positively love to agree with that for my own self-confidence, but I don't. I believe it's a very dangerous mentality. I think you should cherish your body unconditionally, like it's an amazing machine, but I firmly believe you should have an active interest in becoming what is physically healthy. You couldn't pay me millions to convince me that, say, a 300 lb. person is healthy.
What was the name of the first person you ever had a crush on? Why did you like them? I think my first *real* crush was this guy Sebastian my freshman year of high school. I thought he was very sweet, funny, caring, and attractiveness was a bonus.
What food will you absolutely not, under any circumstances, eat? Sashimi, caviar, raw eggs...
Which famous person would you like to be BFFs with? Bindi Irwin, for one.
What kind of natural disaster is most common where you live? Hurricanes.
Have you ever had an animal get into your attic? No.
Have you ever been bitten so hard that there teeth marks were there after? I mean I've had hickeys before if that's what you're asking.
Ever gave one? Oh, I guess you were. Yeah.
Do you think its weird if guys wear make-up like eyeliner? Not at all.
Would you ever date a disabled person? (Be honest) Yes.
Would you rather adopt or have your own child? IF I wanted kids, I'd rather have one myself because I'm well aware I personally need that special connection. Stepkids count, too, because they'd be my partner's and therefore very important for me too.
What is the most personal question you have ever been asked? Probably TMI, so here's your fair warning, but I've been asked before if I "touch" myself and I was absolutely repulsed that someone would ask me that.
Were you abused by your parents? No.
If you’re not straight, who was the first person you came out to? Sara.
Were you one of the smartest in your class? Up to finishing high school, modestly, I was.
Where did you meet your first crush? Art class my freshman year of high school.
Do you ever go places with wet hair? Yeah, idc.
Who is your favorite little girl? My niece Aubree. She's such a wonderful girl.
Does your best friend have kids? No.
If you were pregnant, would you want a boy or a girl? Hypothetically, a girl.
What place outside of your own home do you spend the most time at? Um, maybe my older sister's house?
Have you ever participated in a medical study? No.
Do you have any family members who are cancer survivors? Yes, including my mother. Twice.
Are you allergic to any medications? None that I've tried.
Do you have any licenses other than your driver's license? I don't even have that.
If you’re atheist, would you raise you kids believing in God or not? No; I wouldn't intervene with their own spiritual (or lack thereof) journey. They'd learn what they'd learn and decide themselves what they believe.
Do you like reading self-help books? No, I just can't get invested in those.
What is your opinion on sex change? If you're unhappy with your body, you're more than free to surgically change that with no judgment from me.
Do you have any goals for this summer? If so, what are they? Yes, to lose weight.
Can you get a strike at bowling? I have before. There was one occasion where my first go was a strike RIGHT after saying I sucked at bowling, hahaha.
Do you ever take pictures of negative moments? Well, I photograph roadkill, and that's one hell of a sad moment. I actually wouldn't mind broadening my horizons of photographing negative moments (with permission of course), because I actually find these very impactful and even builds empathy. I will never, ever forget this one picture I saw sometime of an emaciated boy huddled in the dirt with a vulture close by watching him... like fuck, it made me want to sob. No one should ever have to live like that, especially a child.
Would you ever post a picture of yourself crying on social media? No. I know that sounds contradictory to what I just said, I just wouldn't be able to do it myself.
Have you ever held a newborn baby? Once, when my last niece was born. I'm terrified of holding them because they're just so fragile.
Do you know anyone who has twins? My friend just had triplets.
What is your favorite country in Europe? Germany.
Are you thriving in your life right now? BOY HOWDY-
Do you remember to water plants? I don't keep plants.
Name three YouTubers you aspire to be like. 1.) Markiplier in a vast plethora of ways; 2.) Jeffree Star for his incredible work ethic; and 3.) Shane Dawson for his incredible compassion. Yes. I know the controversy, but regardless, he cares a lot about people.
Who is your favorite character from Harry Potter? I wouldn't know, given I haven't read the books or seen the movies.
Do you watch PewDiePie? Not anymore; his content doesn't interest me anymore. I watched him religiously back in the day when he was a serious let's player, though.
Do you have a Steam account? Yes.
Have you ever played Five Nights at Freddy’s? No, not personally. I like watching LPs of it and I find the story fascinating, but it's not the kind of game I'd enjoy playing.
Have you ever tried Akinator? Yes. I don't think I ever beat it, except maybe once.
Are you wearing socks right now? No; unless I'm wearing closed-toe shoes like sneakers, I never do. I hate the feeling of them.
Can you twerk? Haven't tried, don't wanna.
Do you like dabbing? No, it looks stupid.
Do you like fishing? I honestly do think it's fun with all the anticipation and thrill of seeing how big the fish is, however I don't support it anymore unless, like hunting, you genuinely need it for food. The only case where I'd go again was if my dad asked me, because that's always been our bonding experience.
Do you have a Spotify account? Yes.
Have you heard of Blizzard Entertainment? Well, they're the company behind World of Warcraft, so obviously.
Do you like bananas? Yes, but only for a VERY short window of time. I am beyond picky with the ripeness of bananas.
Are you addicted to anything? Caffeine and technology.
Do you know your phone number? I actually don't.
Do you swear in front of children? No.
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C6: Put You In Your Place
Book: A Good Kid
It has been about a week since I’ve moved in with the Sanders’ and things were going good. Well, as good as I expected it to be, maybe even a little bit better. Patton was still super nice to me and everyday he drags me to sit at his lunch table. I don’t think Roman doesn’t like that too much. Trust me, it doesn’t take a mind reader to figure it out.
Roman never says anything, of course, but it’s pretty heavily implied. He is always shooting me death glares and hitting me with insults and nicknames. It kind of reminds me of my brother in that way (only without the physical violence). When Janus would have a good day he’d only result in harsh insults and nicknames. Roman isn’t as bad as him but that doesn’t make him any better. But I’m used to it by now and I know how to handle it.
Logan, on the other hand, is completely different. I don’t think he tries to be insensitive but ends up doing it, even if it’s unknowing. He tends to ask me personal questions that I’m super uncomfortable answering. Some of them are basic getting to know you stuff; such as my likes and dislikes, but most of them are about Foster Care and my past.
A few days ago he asked why I’m in the system and I ended up running off and hiding in the bathroom because the question triggered a panic attack. Luckily no one found out about it but Logan has since then stopped with the questions.
Out of the three of them, Patton is probably my favorite. He has this overwhelming joy and is always socializing, but he’s nothing but sweet and kind to me. One thing that really surprised me about Patton is how careful he is to not overstep my boundaries. I don’t think I have ever had a foster sibling who’s cared so much.
I don’t see a lot of Thomas, Patton explained that he’s been doing a lot of work on the upcoming play that his students are putting on. When I do see Thomas he is nothing but nice and caring, always asking how I’m doing and if I need anything. He’s told me more than once that if I ever need anything to let him know and he will do everything within his power to make it help.
Despite the Sanders’ never ending kindness I’m going to stay wary and I will not let my guard down. Sure these people were nicer than most families I’ve stayed with, but I know that it won’t last long. And once that time is up they’ll send me back. After all, I could never fit in with this family.
-------
For the first time since this morning I finally had a moment to myself, it was lunch time now and I was able to slip away from Patton and his friends. Normally my foster brother would beg me to stay with them, and I’d always end up doing so out of guilt. But today he let me leave which I was really grateful for.
I was grabbing my sketchbook from my locker, with plans on sitting in the library and drawing. The book I was getting wasn’t the one that I use in class and turn into Ms. Adwin. This was my personal sketchbook, full of drawings that no one will ever see. I was spinning the combination on the metal door of my locker when I heard someone speak behind me.
“Hey! Newbie!” Turning around I saw an older looking girl walking towards me with a few other kids behind her.
I had a sense of déjà vu, this is what always happened right before… “Hey!” A pair of fingers snapped in front of my face making me jump “are you listening to me?” The Leader asked.
“Uh no sorry…” I mumbled.
“Speak up and look at me” The Leader ordered, I flinched at her tone and shrank away. She was just like Janus. The girl waited a few seconds before letting out a dramatic sigh “it seems as if you haven’t yet learned your place” Out of the corner of my eye I could see her turning to her friends with a smirk, “lets give this little punk a proper welcome.” And with a crack her knuckles she gave me a hard punch to the gut.
------
The bullies only beat me up for about ten minutes before leaving to terrorize some other poor student. And truth be told I was surprised, normally beatings went on for much longer. All these kids did was give me a few punches and kicks to the ribs and none of them was as bad as I was used to.
Standing up, I opened my locker and grabbed the sketchbook sitting inside and walked off the library to get some drawing time before lunch ended. Acting as if nothing had happened.
------
That night I got the chance to examine my injuries, it ended up being nothing more than a couple of bruises. Nothing I couldn’t handle. After I dealt with my bruises I sat and worked on some of my art homework. For my first assignment Ms. Adwin wanted me to draw something that would help give her an idea of the extent of my drawing abilities and what I needed to work on.
I ended up doing a sketch of The Horned King from the movie ‘Black Cauldron.’ I did the drawing in all black and white, choosing to focus more on shading than coloring. When I was done my hands were covered in graphite but I was pretty proud of the finished product.
I wasn’t very good at a lot of things, drawing was one of the few things I’m good at. Art was my only escape from the horrors of my life with my Dad and brother. During that period of time I used to draw doodles on little scraps of paper with a broken pencil. After I entered the system I managed to get enough money together to buy myself a proper notebook and some colored pencils.
During the past year I spent a lot of time drawing, both as an escape and as entertainment. I hadn’t been lying to Thomas when I said that I have never taken an art class before, everything I know is from things I taught myself and from the occasional YouTube video. Because I had never had the chance to take a traditional art class I am planning on working and learning as much as I can.
Along with getting better at my drawing skills I’m also hoping to learn how to use other materials and forms other than pencil and my current style. I really want to learn how to draw with chalk and pastels, I’ve never painted before but it's something I want to learn. Especially with watercolors, maybe even with oil paints as well.
I don’t know how long I’ll be with this family, but you can bet that I won’t let that stop me from learning everything I can.
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"Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it's one thing and one thing only: it's doing what you have to do." -Cheryl Strayed
This is a very rambling sort of thing, but it’s a thing I’ve wanted to write, and as I’ve been having spectacular trouble writing anything lately I decided to go with it. Thanks to @katrani for sponsoring! Takes place in MaS.
The sun rose in Paris.
It had probably also, Michiru reasoned, risen in Tokyo, but she had not been able to see these things. Tokyo was where Haruka had been, and then wasn’t, and for that reason she found the entire place completely unforgivable. It is a strange thing, to have a human being own an entire sprawling city, and yet in Michiru’s heart, Haruka did.
Tokyo. Michiru would never have stayed there but for Haruka’s love. It had belonged to her brother before it had belonged to Haruka, and oh how delightful to discover that it had been meant for someone else all along! How could Michiru have been so foolish as to imagine the bustling noodle shops with rich, thick broth and 1000 yen specials had been built for him? How could the cherry blossoms, pink as her cheeks when she blushed, be meant for a man whose soul was without beauty? He could could walk carelessly through the food halls, but Haruka prickled with delight at every booth, because they were meant for her. The sneaking alleys full of bars in Shinjuku, the kaleidoscope of lights and sounds as tourists and locals alike passed in Shibuya, even the lined streets of her own childhood district, all had been built for the pleasure of one Haruka Tenoh.
It was a dead place, now, signifying nothing. A place where the forest had burnt to ash, and her heart was the same.
She had left Tokyo because she had to. She could not survive it. This might have sounded cruel, considering her children, but her children were not of Tokyo so much as they lived there. Her children were of her own heart, and she could see any city in the world and be reminded of them. But Haruka was of Tokyo, and so Michiru had to leave it before the ghosts of Haruka’s love suffocated her.
MIchiru had been here for three weeks. Haruka had always hated Paris, even before she had to attempt to navigate it in a wheelchair, and so it had always uniquely belonged to Michiru. She brought her girls here every year, to practice and shop and sip in the wine bars. It was her sharing something of herself with them, in a way she could not quite define. Perhaps she would live here forever. Perhaps she could never bear the pain of returning.
It was impossible. She could not, she knew, so long as she was as bound to Haruka as Haruka to Tokyo. One or the other would have to uncouple in order to allow her back. But how could Tokyo, and how could she, belong to more than one person, ever? Especially that person being Haruka, who she had loved since she was a child?
She laughed, a little. She had thought of herself as a woman in those days, like a fool.
And so, because Tokyo had belonged to Haruka, she had to leave it. You cannot rebuild in a house that is on fire, Michiru had reasoned. She could no more stay where they had raised their children then she could wade into the into Tokyo Bay and hope to come out on the other side. There were things a human body could not bear.
Her daughters had understood, at the least. Tokyo was burned for her, and so she had to try and grow something elsewhere, and the run rose in Paris. The sun rose, and the flower sellers painted the side streets with bright washes of color and rich perfumes in the air, and for a moment Michiru knew what it was to be a girl again, the excitement of walking the bridges and getting ice cream on the Ile Saint-Louis, hearing the tolling of the Notre Dame bells.
Paris bubbled like champagne at her nose, the poetry of French filling her ears.
“Japanese is not much of a sea language.” She stood, wrapping herself warmly in a cashmere cape against the chill of the evening, “It is, I think, the language of a cliff face.”
“Uh,” Haruka’s face furrowed in confusion, “It’s...babe, Japan is surrounded by the ocean.”
Michiru laughed as she passed the wine bar she frequented, Haruka’s young face clearly in her mind, allowing the pain that accompanied it, and waving it off like smoke in the darkness.
She laughed then, too.
“No, of course my love, what I mean to say is, Japanese is so very brisk, and sharp. It is ice, maybe, and rocks, and,” She looking dreamily out at the ocean, “defined. The sea is undulous and constantly sliding one bit into the next. It is watercolor and wave. Perhaps like French. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been happy there.”
“I dunno if I want to give the ocean to France, just saying.” She pulled her knees up on the rock where they sat, and shrugged, “I like Japanese.”
Michiru would have laughed, then, and told her she had experience with nothing else, but she knew even as early as it was that would hurt her, make her feel less-than, that she would tell herself she was stupid. It was true, that Haruka had never understood, even as she struggled to try and make a real show of learning English. The soul of a language, the art of the way it fell in the air, each language had a different sort of style, and to know many was to move from one museum room to the next.
Immersing herself in the warm bath of French was like slipping into the Mediterranean sea, so different from where she had been and yet a place she always knew she would come back to. There was nothing sharp on the ear, no ending that reminded her of a certain social position or moment, nothing that echoed back the perfect syllables of Haruka’s name.
She had divorced herself from the idea so entirely that when a pair of Japanese tourists had asked for directions, she had pretended not to understand. Rei would have snorted and called her petty, more than likely, and perhaps she would not be wrong, but it was Michiru’s life to live, in any case. To live. She had the right to go on. She had the right to do whatever it took to breathe again.
She should write Rei. She certainly intended to. Michiru had left Tokyo so quickly, and though she had told everyone where she was going, and though she spoke to her children, always in French, which they were polite enough to make little comment of, it was simply too much to pick up the phone when Rei called.
It was more than just Tokyo. It was more than just Japan. It was that so many years after everything had happened, Michiru sometimes still looked to her right hand, now weakened, and wondered if she’d lost the ring. A teal aquamarine, framed by the delicate swirl of silver water. Rei’s had almost seemed to belong to a queen, lacking the delicacy of Michiru’s. It had changed on their hand. It knew them. It bound them together.
She could think of nothing else, when she spoke to Rei. She did not blame the moon for Haruka’s death, not even Michiru could be that silly, but she had been angry forevermore that she had the moon to thank for the gift of Haruka. Rei reminded her of that gift, wrapped herself by the moon and delivered in friendship to Michiru’s hands.
But she should write her. A postcard, if nothing else. To tell her that she was doing well, that her apartment was quite lovely, and she had taken to eating at a small brasserie nearby for most of her dinners. That she had taken care to drink something other than wine, most nights. That the view of the city charmed.
She had even purchased a postcard, some silly thing for one euro that had a filter-toned view down a small street, flowers and the red door of a bakery laid perfectly against the grey of the ancient stone. She’d purchased it two days ago, and imagined, since then, what she would say. A postcard is, of course, the most gracious of correspondence in such times, leaving you little room to have to say all the things people would like. Two sentences, perhaps.
Still, she could not say them. She opened the door to her apartment, and scolded herself once again. When had she ever balked from confrontation? Confrontation, she laughed. Rei was her friend. She certainly wouldn’t be pleased that she hadn’t heard from Michiru for weeks, but it was ridiculous of her to assume Rei would wish to fight with her.
Thus resolved, Michiru sat down to her small desk near the bar cart, and set the postcard in front of her. The pen was heavy and cool in her hand, stone and metal waiting to express itself on the page.
I am well. Paris is lovely.
She discarded the idea before she ever wrote it out. It was such a nicety as to nearly be dishonesty. She and Rei hardly had such a surface relationship, and it was an unkindness to treat it as such. She pulled a dram of gin and lillet from the bar cart. That was the entire purpose in having it there, after all. Really, it should be chilled, but if one cannot drink lukewarm gin as a recent widow swanning about a Parisian apartment, when could one?
Paris is ever so lovely this time of year, and I have plenty of room if ever you would like to visit.
Michiru shook her head, laughing at herself again, the foolish and selfish child she always was inside of her. She did not want Rei to visit. She had no desire to take Rei to the little cafes and shops near her apartment, to lie with her by the river and eat a baguette with some cheese. She didn’t want to take a train to London for the weekend, the two of them holed up in the Ritz, lunching with oysters and champagne. She loved Rei, and Rei was a reminder of an entire life that now cut with furious line through her, and both of these things could be true and terrible.
Haruka has been dead for six weeks, and I cannot bear to be reminded of her.
Michiru had meant not to write that, either, and she certainly hadn’t meant to write it in Japanese, the characters of Haruka’s name stark against the cream of the postcard, the black ink already drying, impossible to remove. She turned the postcard over with irritation, only to see that she had written so hard those characters poked through the Parisian alleyway, nestling in next to the flowers.
She downed the gin and lillet--it wanted for a bit of citrus, but needs must--in one sharp quaff, and looked out the glass door to her balcony. It was spring, and yet still here in Paris the winter clung on at the corners, the sun lowering in the sky even in the late afternoon, slipping below the parapets of stone. Michiru touched her hand to the raised flowers, and then snatched up the postcard, flicking a match and setting fire to the edge of it before she quite knew what she was doing. She dropped the match on the desk, extinguishing it, but continued to stare at the burning card, Haruka’s name beginning to meld with the blackness of what had gone through the flame.
She tossed it into her metal wastebin, atop the others she had failed to send.
The sun set in Paris too, the red of it catching the city on fire, that burnt thing that would help her to rise.
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Nico Attacks: A Campfire Tale, Ch. 2
LL, NicoMaki, KotoUmi, 1.5K, 2/4
And Then There Were Two
Umi examined the ground where the path opened, her keychain flashlight still working, “Definitely more sets of feet than just Eli and Nico, one of them smaller.”
“So one of the children?”
Umi shrugged, “It doesn’t look like anyone got dragged off so Eli must have gone...willingly?”
Maki was only half listening to Umi. The music had been gone for awhile now, but now a more insistent, probably artificial, wind noise started to rise.
“Something’s going to happen.” Maki hissed.
“Sprint across or move along the trees?”
“If that’s a portable lantern, we should grab it. And I’m going to head for the house. I think it’s that way.” Maki pointed to the right.
“So would that be a predictable choice?”
Maki huffed, “Probably.”
Umi unbelted her hatchet.
“This isn’t war.”
Umi’s face, in the LED bright of the keychain flashlight, was Honoka choosing bread serious, “you know Nico better than I do, what do you think is going to happen?”
Maki deflated, “Yeah, you might have to cut us out of netting.”
“Is everything between you two a duel?”
“Maybe.” Unexpectedly, Maki grinned, “Nico never backs down, never stops pushing. It’s always an adventure.”
“She could decide to call it a night and I would be thrilled.”
Maki chuckled, “Won’t happen.”
“Whose side are you on?”
Maki sprinted for the lantern but as she grabbed it, a howl started, one voice joined by another then another. Maki headed for what she thought was the path to the house but before she took more than two steps, the scarecrow started to move. Umi saw it grab her by the throat.
“Maki!”
It seemed like an hour, but it was probably only nine seconds before Umi moved, sprinting to where Maki was struggling and cursing. As Umi was realizing Maki was in no real danger, Maki threw the camping lantern away, and the scarecrow was dragged forward by the wires attaching it, just far enough that Umi’s legs were entangled as she approached. Umi pitched toward Maki, twisting so the hatchet threatened no one. Maki grumped, skipping to the side.
“Keep that away from me. Nico forgot you’re always armed.”
“I am always prepared.” Umi sheathed her hatchet again.
Maki kicked the scarecrow, then decided to stomp on it for more catharsis.
“That’s Eli’s jacket.”
“I don’t care.”
The howls were picking up, and music was back.
“Really, Nico, can’t you come up with anything other than Bach?” Maki shouted into the night.
“It is a classic horror mood.”
Maki rolled her eyes, “She could have at least thrown in Saint-Saëns Danse Macabre. Or something modern.” Another shout into the night. “It’s not like she doesn’t know death metal exists.”
The sounds started changing, a shift from organ to a screech of metal crashing in a guitar riff.
“Thank you!” Maki shouted.
“Let’s not help the people attempting to terrify us.” Umi was taking cautious steps toward the tree line as branches shook menacingly. Suddenly, a spotlight glared directly in their eyes, and after it dimmed, black spots swimming in their vision, howls and guitars speeding up, gritty voices grinding out indecipherable lyrics, at least three songs shoved into a sonic blender, with that cacophony as a backdrop, the shifting shadows ahead turned animal. And started to growl.
###
When Eli saw the light, it triggered a rushing need to get closer. She couldn’t see anything ahead of her, barely felt anything as she pushed between Maki and Umi, her feet speeding her through the cloying darkness, even though part of her mind was screaming “That’s how the flame gets the moth,” it was not screaming loud enough to silence the terror of DARK.
As soon as there were no tree branches for Eli to thrash through, she felt hands pulling her to the side.
“HE…” She yelled but a grimy, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth and two people wrestled her forward. A child stood, shadowed by the camping lantern that was her current obsession, one of the twins.
Eli relaxed slightly when she heard Vik’s bright voice whispering “We’re saving you, Mom.”
Nico and Rin had Eli in a fairly tight grip, Nico hissing, “You say anything or run, I kill the light.”
Vik was smiling up at Eli, in a gray hoodie with adorable wolf ears. Rin and Nico were also wearing them.
“I’m going to sit,” Eli whispered softly, her legs too shaky to do anything.
Nico sighed, but nodded. “Gimme your shirt?”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Vik stood next to Eli, blue eyes wide, “Are Auntie Umi and Maki scared? Dia said her Mama was so grumpy about the pumpkin guts. How come we never have fun like this?”
Because Nozomi doesn’t enjoy terrifying me when small children are awake, Eli answered in her head, but she hugged Vik, “Every family has their own traditions.”
“This is so cool.” Vik was literally bouncing, spinning around the tilting pole while Nico was attaching wires to the scarecrow, while Vik was putting their ballet warm up exercises to good use. “Auntie Nico is the best.”
Eli shook her head, amused, happy that a Vik she was getting too used to seeing sullen and withdrawn was giving every sign they were having a great time. For that, she would forgive Nico many things.
Vik handed Eli a gray hoodie, “Help us howl, Mom.”
Eli thought about the DARK and then she looked at the brilliant smile on her child’s face. This was a crossroad and she knew which path to pick.
“Your mother always says I’d look cute with a tail.”
###
Maki and Umi backed up, instinctively.
“You know that’s probably just Nico and Rin, right?” Umi hissed.
“My feet won’t move forward.”
The shadows pushed closer, the forest was moving forward as metal guitar strings shrieked ‘til they shredded and clanks and chalkboard scratches answered growls. It was amazingly effective,
Umi recovered first. Which Maki only realized when she backed into something solid.
“Nico doesn’t scare me.” Umi stated, with zero conviction.
“Liar.”
And then three running, hunched ‘creatures’ rushed toward them, circling them, growling, laughing, unrecognizable, faces smeared with dark makeup. Umi braced herself, Maki went for the treeline, but the middle ‘creature’, rolled in front, so Maki stumbled forward over them, grabbing at them but only pulling off their hoodie.
Someone pulled Maki up and as she turned, she screamed at a looming HUGE inflatable glow in the dark skeleton bobbing behind Umi. Throwing the hoodie in frustration at Umi, Maki leaned over, hands on knees to catch her breath. “Dammit, Nico.”
And then Umi said something unexpected. “I apologize.”
“For what?”
“This is not solely your fault.”
Umi got weirdly formal at the strangest times. Maki raised her head and waited for the full explanation as Umi examined the hoodie.
“Nico is not working alone. Kotori made these. I recognize them.”
“So what did you do?” Maki snapped.
“Nothing.”
Silence. Bordering on angry silence. Maki never liked teasing. Umi sighed.
“Kotori might have remembered that after the Halloween Hell Cruise, I wrote Aizuwakamatsu no Yurei.”
Her award winning play. Maki knew Umi hadn’t been writing. So Kotori was worried. Ha. Everyone has interfering wives. And the Halloween Hell Cruise had been a Nico Nightmare. Maki shuddered at the memory.
“So if my wife is devious and diabolical, what’s yours?"
“Crafty.” Umi said proudly. “And caring.”
Maki stomped into the darkness, muttering something that rhymed with “tripped.”
Umi stood, watching the bobbing, grinning, glowing skeleton. Then she reached into a pocket, pulled out her clasp knife, opened the blade, and punctured Mx. Bones with one swift motion. Air escaped with a whispering scream. Umi nodded her head, satisfied.
“Hey, that looked fun.” Maki grumped.
"Maybe you shouldn’t have stomped off.”
“Show off.”
Umi grinned.
“So how many more of these do you think Nico has planned?”
Maki shrugged, “She still seems to have infinite energy.”
“So not maturing?”
“Ha ha.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Aren’t you? It’s” Maki paused, “invigorating.” Maki and the lantern did a circle of the clearing, to check for clues, “Why’d you stop writing?”
“Exhausted. Kaito is a fine, intelligent child, but it’s exhausting.”
“I know.” Maki shot a glare back at Umi, “And Dia’s picked up some very judgy habits from a certain babysitter.”
“Your daughter’s manners are impeccable. She’s nothing like Nico.”
“You’re wrong there.” Maki pulled on a wire but it didn’t seem to connect to anything. “‘S funny, when I was younger I would have imagined me at a fancy black tie Halloween charity event with my supportive spouse who did most of the childcare while I lived at the hospital and then I met Nico and here we are.”
Umi considered that, “What else do you do when you fall in love with a brilliant, hard working career woman who wants a family and for you to keep being yourself? Support them like they support you.”
“Yeah.” Maki got to spend every day with music and people she loved. Because of Muse. And Nico. Other generations of Nishikinos had paintings, portraits stiff in oil to hang on walls, but for her family, it was a quick watercolor sketch Hanayo had made while Maki and Nico were having an impromptu concert with their daughters. It was Maki’s favorite piece of art, quick, lively, bright, made with love.
Maki found another wire and pulled. Netting crashed down around here, leaves scraping her cheeks. Nico wasn’t done yet.
A/N: Hey.
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IT IS FINISHED no seriously, this took ages. First couple of days were fine and motoring along with progress, then I was laid out for a week-ish with health problems. Then once I was well enough again I was back to being fixated on finishing this piece of my lad Joshua here for another handful of days, so I’m super glad this is done now.
More talk about the painting, details and process under the cut:
Art Entry 01, Joshua Rook, Junior Deputy of Hope County. Regarding the painting’s execution, stylistic choices, practiced methods, and speculation on further experimentation for skill and stylization.
_____________________________
Honestly I thought that the uniform’s large swatches of green fabric would be more difficult than it actually was. Turns out that was the easier part compared to the shoulder patch and metal badge. x’D The metal badge design is based off of and inspired by a custom-ordered cosplay badge design I found while looking for references, in this post here (link,) from v-i-d-e-n-o-i-r’s blog and Far Cry 5 cosplay. There are some differences in the painting’s rendition above, namely I flattened the middle section and made it all concentric polished metal instead of painted and the great seal rendition in the middle doesn’t have silver lineart either. Those choices are as much for aesthetic reasons of eliminating the blue ring so it was all a fairly simple mono-material-looking surface as it was for simplifying having to forego painting the foreshortening that a spherical dome might entail. Also just because the rest of the metal turned out looking good enough that an additional bit of shiny metal seemed like it’d fit right in for this. That being said, the badge design that inspired this one is rad and awesome looking—and I totally didn’t realize it wasn’t quite like the badges from in-game assets until after I’d painted it. x’D So, I decided to stick with this one since it’s simpler and has cleaner lines, and less engraving to pick out highlights on. Metal is very hit or miss for me to get right, so I’m very pleased with how this one came out! :D I think I did well on that one.
The shoulder patch originally I was looking at real world references and ended up changing the shape once I actually looked at in-game references on Staci and Joey—who I discovered have slightly different details on their uniforms, like the font for their name tags—Staci’s has an old-timey-looking-font with serifs, Joey’s is a non-serif more modern-style font. Some pictures have them having different buttons on their uniforms either in color or shape (the former being exported assets, the latter being in-game gifs/screenies/etc.) This is also how I learned that the little landscape with the shovel, pickaxe and plough/plow are part of the great seal of Montana. I had no flipping idea that was what it was, looking at the patches in-game. The cosplay community does some great work for that, for which I’m grateful. I ended up looking up references of what the state seal’s design was so as to see the smaller details, and to find out what the motto meant ”Oro y Plata,” meant, leading to etymology googling adventures from there, as usual. All important details to paint though I think here, since Joshua’s deputy uniform is symbolically significant to him and will remain so throughout his story as part of his internal conflict for a couple of reasons.
One thing I knew I should’ve done from the start, and reminded myself to do, was the fact that I should paint all skin sections at the same time, so as to ensure they all came out the same shades. I did not do this. x’D I’ll have to actually try to do that next time honestly. Same with the hair sections, while I like how they came out, I do feel the differences between the three major segments in terms of brushwork is not as coherent as I’d like, even if beard hair is not necessarily similar in how it lays to scalp hair, particularly with length and such taken into consideration. Still, not bad. Could’ve used more refs for the backlighting and figuring out how the highlights would fit best on the ponytail, but I think the hair curves turned out nice there in particular. Overall, Joshua’s hair ended up messier than I’d thought with how the locks all end up looping this way and that across his head, but it does actually fit him well as a character for his hairstyle to be messy and loosely held together, but functional. It did end up longer than I’d intended, so we have him likely ending up with a nerdy Jesus hairstyle when it’s down. x’D (Thanks to @undead-gearhead for that mental imagery, I shall take great amusement in that should I get around to drawing Joshua with his hair down.)
Aside from that, I think I’m slowly improving on figuring out how to paint glasses, though I’m thinking in the future I should test more layered reflective light on them or something where the frames are in contact or close to skin, particularly around the glasses’ bridge across the nose and such.
Then there are the other deviation details added—like using dark green instead of the black for the uniform accents. The faded black looks great in-game, but I do think the buttons pop more against dark green instead for this painting. I’m a little bit surprised how well the button-placket section came out, Clip Studio Paint crashed when I painted the first rendition of it, sadly losing all that work. I thought it’d be okay but turns out it didn’t quite get to auto-save that recently enough, but the second go around turned out quite well I think, possibly better. I was originally planning to try to put more textured brushwork across the flat sections of the uniform material, but decided to skip it for speed—I’ll test that elsewhere perhaps, though I think it came out well with the watercolor brushes layered on top of one another like that as is. Among the other smaller details, there’s some tweaks and such for how Joshua’s eye shape, eyebrows, nose shape, hairline etc came out compared to references of Greg Bryk in his role as Joseph Seed. I think Joshua did come out looking like he’s obviously related to the Seeds as I was hoping for, but I’m kind of on the fence that people would look at him and automatically assume it’s Joseph specifically that he’s descended from. I hope so, but either way, that’s how he’s written in-fic. x’D
Overall, I would consider this painting a success, though as usual I do wish it’d been faster to finish. I do think this was good practice for detail work, and metal shading, also: buttons. Still haven’t figured out how to paint lips with more pink or red tones, I don’t like the way they look when painted sadly, unless it’s lipstick. That may end up being a stylistic element perhaps, along with how I paint the lines for fingernails and other such details. Fun fact: I have to leave the shading on the eyes for last, or else my brain goes “The eyes are done! We’re done! Call it a day.” I’m not sure why, but so far, leaving them as flats until the end seems to work a treat for keeping me focused on finishing the rest of the work with less mental dissonance.
Now if only I could figure out why despite knowing I should do all the exposed skin portions at the same time, I don’t follow through on that naturally as far as inclinations go. Maybe it’s a layer organization thing and perception of wanting, say, the cloth to be done first before working “down” to the hands and such in the sense of working from the head down? I’ll have to think on that some more and test things in the next painting. Perhaps color coding the order of layers to paint will help? CSP does have a nice layer-icon-color function that I’ve dabbled with here and there. There are so many brushes, I really do need to test out more of them, I use, what, four or five total, but primarily somewhere around two or three. Hm, but what to do with texture, and how to utilize it so?
Hmmm, as far as personal appeal for methodology goes, I might prefer to use textures in select pieces for more emotional emphasis? If I can figure out how to do that in a messier speed-paint style of things. Rougher textures for conflict, for example. That sounds like an interesting idea to explore, I’ll have to remember that for a later piece. Maybe more heavily textured brushes will also help with the mental itch to refine things to a cleaner-level of refining instead of leaving it in a more organically rough state. Hm, maybe it’s a “mental texture” aversion or something, as far as an interplay between the brush’s texture and the flow of the linework/brushstroke. Perhaps more uneven brushes echo that in a complimentary fashion to better allow less mental discomfort for me personally when trying to paint in a faster, looser fashion?
Honestly, very tempting to go try that out sooner rather than later on some art ideas I have, but I’ve been missing my writing very much of late with two time-demanding paintings back to back. So, ideas for a later time to experiment with.
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Distant Connection - 3/11
Pairing: Bucky x Harmonia (OC)
Warnings: a bit of angst, a lot of domestic fluff
Summary: After an unknown group of goons took her mom’s life and tried to get her for the dark magic powers she possesses, this untaught witch is saved by the Avengers and brought to the compound where her new life unfolds.
MASTERLIST || Distant Connection Masterlist
She had been practicing her magic skills for the last hour before somebody came into the training room.
“They did something to your DNA or the DNA of your ancestors. Didn’t they?” Wanda's voice echoed through the room.
The green energy ball she had been forming in her hands disintegrated. “I don’t know. I wish I knew. I’ve always been interested in witchcraft and felt different every time I did it. That’s how I found out I have powers but I don’t know where they came from, how they found out or why they killed my mother to get me. It’s all so confusing to me.” she said with her chest getting heavier.
“I want to help you find out more. I want to keep you company learning magic. So much about it isn’t controllable and just intuition. You shouldn’t go through this alone. I’m sorry I’m just talking to you now but it was...weird for me to have someone else here with magical powers.” Wanda said with a soft and regretful voice.
“It’s okay. I’m already getting better, but I was about to take a break. Later maybe? I still need to...talk to someone.” Harmony tried putting it into words. She was uncomfortable and exhausted and she really needed to get something done.
“Of course, you’ve been in here for a long time. Just tell me whenever you’re ready.” Wanda smiled at her very understanding of her conflicted feelings.
Harmony went to her little room she had in the compound and grabbed the bag she had totally forgotten about overnight. She grabbed Steve’s art supplies out of it and went down the hallway to his room. He was still gone and she didn’t want to make a bad impression for forgetting about it.
She quietly opened the door, stepped inside and saw his room for the first time. There were shelves with a lot of 40s things, pictures on the wall and boxes filled to the brim with his old stuff and his closet was color coded but chaotic.
Just as she stepped forward to put down the art supplies the door behind her opened and both stopped in their tracks.
“Sorry, I was just bringing your stuff back because-” She was interrupted.
“No, it’s totally okay. Just wasn’t expecting you standing there.” He smiled, came at her and gave her a small hug.
“That looks like it hurts.” She said with a grimace and pointed at a cut in his cheek.
“I’m used to it.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “While you’re here...could you?”
He pointed at his back that had a zipper going a little bit to the left side that made it easier for him to get out of the suit.
“Uuuh, sure.” She said, a bit confused before opening the side of the suit.
“Just realized how weird it was to ask you for this...hope you really didn’t mind...but I’m kinda in pain and that helped a lot.” He said after realizing the situation. Reacting like the dumb dork he was sometimes.
“What hurts?” She asked alert.
“Bruised arm.” He said holding his right arm up.
She took his shield out of his hand and looked at him with a little frown on her face. “Show me your arm.”
“It’s not bad. My cells rebuild faster than yours.” He said smiling a little at how concerned she was.
“Show me your arm, Rogers.” She said a little bit more demanding and he wiggled himself out of the top part of his suit to satisfy her demands.
She walked past his right grabbing a shirt from the half open closet and putting it into his other hand while inspecting and holding up his arm.
It was blue, yellow and red. Almost resembling a watercolor painting of kinds.
“How are you not screaming in pain from me just holding your arm?” She was in front of him again and lifted a brow.
“I’m trying not to, don’t wanna scare you away.” He chuckled.
“Put on a shirt you dork.” She said rolling her eyes with a smile and he did as he was told.
She was still looking at his arm with concern after he put on the shirt and he pulled her into a hug to hide her concerned face on his chest.
“Thanks for telling me to stay safe.” He said into her hair with closed eyes.
“You have no means of self preservation. You need to hear that frequently and apparently nobody is telling you what a dumbass you are so I’m taking the position.” She said into his chest and giggled.
She smiled up at him. “I request from you not to die and I think I should leave you alone now ‘cause I’m not your personal wardrobe assistant.” He let her go and got his hair ruffled by her before she left the room.
She left the room and James, who was walking down the hallway with his coffee, stopped and looked at her in confusion.
“Brought him his art supplies. How was the mission?” She asked him. Sam, James, Steve, Nat and Tony were on the mission and she hadn’t seen them since the morning the day before.
“Was interesting. Steve getting his own shield thrown at his arm sounds funnier than it looked.” She shuddered.
“What?” He asked, lifting a brow and taking a sip.
“I saw his arm. Could be a freaking watercolor painting if you ask me.” She said, clearly feeling uncomfortable about his state.
“You’ll not even see it by tomorrow morning.” He smiled cupping her face with his free hand.
She almost fell into him to finally hug him. That was the only thing she needed right now after her exhausting training session.
“You okay?” He asked, a little bit concerned.
“I trained for over an hour today. I need to recharge. UGH.” She almost yelled into his shoulder with him acknowledging it with a little huff, a smile and another sip from his coffee.
Without a warning he got down a little bit and put his arm around her thighs to pick her up.
“Fall asleep if you want to. I planned on reading a book anyway.” He said without minding her grabbing onto him like a koala.
“You’re the best, do you know that?” She mumbled on his shoulder.
“I’m the only reason why you fall asleep in seconds. Yes, I think I know.” He smiled before taking a last sip, putting the mug onto the table in the common area and going to the part of the room that had a little couch and a few books laying around.
After he sat down and she readjusted herself to be more comfortable. It really only took seconds for her to fall asleep.
Nat walked in with wet hair and a smile at both of them but she stayed silent and grabbed a snack from the fridge before sitting down with it at the coffee table in the corner of the room.
After that Sam came in wiggling his eyebrows “Bucky getting all the ladies, huh?” Which was met with the ultimate death glare and a throat cutting gesture from Bucky, which ended up looking hilarious with Harmony’s face smushed on his shoulder. Finally Steve came in and at the sight of his best friend giving her comfort, his heart made an extra jump so he decided to sit down next to them and play with his phone.
James didn’t change his position for hours and the others kept moving, leaving the room and went to their rooms as it got darker.
Her eyes slowly opened to see his metal hand laying on a closed book in the dark and she instinctively put her hand on his which made him stop his calm breathing pattern.
She went over the little patterns in his fingers one by one and he just kept watching her hand while trying to not change his breathing again.
Her head went up to where he could see her expression. There was a mix of comfort, fascination and empathy in her sparkling eyes.
“I think...this is what makes you human.” She whispers softly not taking her eyes off of his metal hand.
“A metal arm makes me human?” He asked with a smile at her.
“It shows that you’re vulnerable. That you have a story to tell.” She whispered and met his eyes with hers.
There was a silence between them that he couldn’t describe. Something about what she just said made his heart go a little faster. There was a confusion if she felt that too.
“Do you hate that part of you?” She broke the silence suddenly putting her guards up again but still staying vulnerable enough for him to notice.
“It reminds me of everything bad that happened to me...I hate touching people with it.” He answered honestly.
“Your past is what makes you the person you are, right? Even if it was a bad one.” She asked and got a slight nod.
“I like the person you are now. That’s a part of it too.” She continued and went over his arm with her fingers.
He couldn’t decide if it made him uncomfortable because he thought of it as possibly dangerous or if it made him relax because she touched it without any harm expected.
She dragged it onto the leg she had still around his front and made little circles on his forearm with both of her hands.
Now his mind decided on finding it relaxing and his whole body just visibly got less intimidating.
“I’m not scared of you. I never will be. I trust you, James.” She said with her hand and his hand open against each other showing him how small her hands were. There was a feeling in his chest that he hadn’t felt in 80 years suddenly blooming freely. He couldn’t speak, his heart was beating faster than ever and his vision was focused on her beautiful concentrated face.
She became nervous not hearing a response and looked back at his face. His eyes were glued to her and his mouth stood open in awe.
“Did I do something wrong? I-” She started but got a quick and intense head shake back.
How was he going to tell her this? Was he going to tell her this? Should he even do it?
“Do you trust me too?” She asked shyly.
“Of course.” He blurted out like a shy little boy.
“Is everything alright?” She looked at him concerned.
“Yes. I just...had a little thought spiral.” He tried to put it into words.
She smiled at him “About what?”
“Uuuh. I don’t know if I should talk about this with you now. It’s...it can wait.” He said anxiously.
“You’re nervous. I’ve never seen you nervous. Is it that bad?” She asked staring him down.
“It’s nothing bad. Just very...conflicting, I guess.” He really tried his hardest not to tell her how he felt right now and how weird it was. She was only here for a few weeks and really started talking deeply in the last few days. He didn’t want to overwhelm her but the connection they had was special from the beginning.
“I never keep secrets from you. I told you everything about me. It concerns me that something makes you nervous.” She was really worried.
“Did I trigger your PTSD because I touched your arm? Please, tell me!” Now she was getting upset.
“Harmony. I said it wasn’t a bad thing. Just something you made me think about. Relax, I’m fine.” He said more serious and calm before pulling her waist closer for a hug.
“I really don’t want you to feel bad. If I ever do please stop me, okay?” She said still upset.
“You didn’t make me feel bad. You made me feel good actually.” He said running his hand through her hair.
“Are you concerned and nervous about feeling okay? ‘Cause I know that from when I had depression. It’s-” She broke the hug apart.
“Listen! I need you to calm down right now. I feel fine and not worried. There is nothing to be upset about and I just need a little bit of time to process what you said to me about me. Okay?” He interrupted her and it broke his heart a little to do that.
“Did...Did nobody ever tell you that?” She whispered looking him straight into his soul. At least that’s how it felt like to him.
“Not...really?” He answered slowly.
“Can I uuuh, try to give you more thoughts of mine like this?” She held up her left hand with a little bit of blue lighting up in it.
“I don’t know. I- It- Yes, I think that’s actually not a bad idea.” He said after processing it. She was the only person he ever trusted doing something so close to the torture he went through. His mind was guarded at all times but something about her just made him say yes every single time.
She went into his brain again and it felt like he was bombarded with validation and positivity. As if she uploaded reminders into his brain but he didn’t know what she might see again.
When her hand left his head again she smiled at him awkwardly and stood up. “Um, I think I should go to my room now.”
“Wha- Why?” He asked confused.
“You said you had to process what I said a bit.” She acted weird and it concerned him.
“Harmony. Did you see something bad again?” He asked frowning.
“No. Don’t worry. I’m gonna go and paint a bit...if you need me I’m probably up ‘till 4.” She said with a soft smile and left the room shortly after.
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