#a lot of things get scrapped/fall to the wayside but. even though it is hard to look at LMFAO | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pangtasias-atelier · 4 years

Text

A Day In The Life

Title is based off of the comic for FEH.

Really wanted and was craving something soft and fluffy. Plus I recently got F!M!Corrin to +10 so I was extra motivated to do this.

This isn’t really WG based, it’s just a soft scene of relaxing but with them being fat lol. But did make sure to include a lot of descriptions about their size.

So here’s the first actual story (at 4.3k words) involving fat Tibarn and Grima after a year of saying I would and it also involves fat Corrin cause I love them all so much,,,

Glad how it came out and probably/hopefully do something else with them later

______________________

“Kiran...,” Taking short, shallow breaths, Corrin huffs as he rests his head on the soft large dome of Kiran’s belly.

The summoner known as Kiran past the stages of chunky, or even portly, their sizable, prodigious figure is easily shown despite their rather large and loose robes. Currently resting his back against a tree, Kiran gently yet firmly grasps Corrin’s left hand, his sausage fingers woven with Corrin’s. Eyes closed, small bags reside underneath them. Corrin residing in between the comforting spot in between Kiran’s hefty thighs, the warm sanctity of Kiran’s embrace reigns in his draconic blood. Kiran’s large gut tucked inside his cool, vibrant blue shirt, the hefty mass of fat slots itself comfortably in between Kiran’s girthy thighs. The fat from his thighs already necessitating the need for him to spread his legs, Corrin had taken up Kiran’s offer of resting in his lap.

Kiran staggeringly tall, a feat shocking to several of the heroes just as much as Kiran’s weight, Corrin’s averagely unremarkable height only accentuates Kiran’s tall figure. However, Corrin’s remarkable weight, even more remarkable than Kiran’s weight, downplays Kiran’s fat figure.

Originally trim and slim, as all the heroes from the World of Fates knew Corrin to be, Kiran’s eating habits had rubbed off on Corrin. Once used to rather barebone meals, the extra portions offered in Askr had been too tantalizing for the pampered yet neglected dragon. Even more extra portions offered due to being one of Kiran’s favorites, Corrin’s beastly state had been unable to remove all traits that his normal self contains, Corrin’s naive nature still residing inside him.

A limber yet toned, athletic figure epitomic of Corrin, the trait easily vanished as the meals began adding on the pounds. Form-fitting interlocked armor adorning his frame at all times, the extra pudge made putting on such a thing a struggle before, soon enough, the piece of metal had been scrapped all together. Transforming into his dragon state Corrin’s method of fighting, the loss of his armor was unfelt by Corrin. Especially as Kiran consoled Corrin, offering him kind words about his plump body, the extra weight a sign of his own caring for his body. Or jokes instead about how Corrin still weighed less than Kiran’s prodigious weight. The ease on his conscious made the ‘just one last plate’ or ‘a third desert’ weigh less and less heavily on Corrin’s mind, his gluttony soon growing unabashed. Soon left in nothing but the tight black spandex meant to go under his armor, the tight, stretchy fabric revealed all of Corrin’s many extra curves. His large rolling hill of a gut tucked tightly in the highly elastic waistband of his pants, his meaty, door-crushing thighs firmly wedged inside his spandex, his girthy flour bag for arms squished inside his sleeve, his cushiony pillows for breasts crammed inside the fabric of his shirt, each single body part of Corrin was visible to every hero. The extra weight easier to deny his body the draconic urges welling inside him, Corrin’s own excuse sufficiently placated him even as his body swelled up to Kiran’s size. And even further as he ate and gained even more. Even the shockingly high elasticity of his clothes stood no chance as Corrin swiftly and easily crammed increasingly higher amounts of food down his greedy maw. Kiran had taken his time getting an outfit for Corrin made, the outfit barely completed by the time Corrin’s shirt was nothing more than an ill-fitting makeshift bra.

Corrin lying down on the floor, his ridiculously round roll riddled gut rises high above him like eager yeast. His gut also blankets his body, the tucked in mound of fat going halfway down his thighs. His thighs unwilling to be left in the large doughy shadows of his gut, the girthy tubes of dough for thighs remain wider than his massive gut. The malleable flabby fat of his thighs smoosh down on the forest floor. Requiring a wide stance due to only being able to waddle, Corrin’s own legs are spread wide apart, even wider than Kiran, as a reflection of his massive cushions of fat needing copious amounts of room. His tail resting in between them, the appendage seemed to grow wider as Corrin did, the large tail resting in between Corrin’s own legs, his tail crammed inside the limited space. Corrin taking habitance in between Kiran’s thighs, Corrin’s rolls of fat overlap onto Kiran’s legs, the harsh color of Corrin’s black shirt and pants a stark contrast against Kiran’s bright white pants. Corrin’s soft jiggly stomach splays onto Kiran’s thighs, the doughy fat close to blanketing them. And it would if not for his large pants keeping his stomach and thighs contained. His ass also firmly contained inside his pants, the two cushiony mounds press up against Kiran’s spread out legs. Corrin’s breasts splay to the side similarly, the two large jugs also falling down the hill of his stomach and resting against the tire of fat known as Corrin’s neck. The neckline of Corrin’s shirt rather low, his fair creamy skin peeks out, his collarbone invisible with so much fat. The upper slivers of fat from Corrin’s sizable breasts show. Corrin rests both of his doughy, fat arms over Kiran’s lap, happily holding Kiran’s left hand with his own. Though the act is a bit more difficult than should be, Corrin’s chorizo-like fingers wedged firmly in between Kiran's sausage fingers.

“Kiran,” Corrin repeats, his face a bit strained as he grits his teeth. His chipmunk cheeks tighten up ever so slightly from the motion, but not before jiggling.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Kiran coos as he gazes down at Corrin’s closed eyes. Ruffling the soft silvery strands of Corrin’s hair with his free hand, Kiran runs his hands playfully through it. “You’re getting a lot better; trust yourself like I trust you,” Kiran removes his hand from Corrin’s hair; he grabs Corrin’s portly cheek, giving it a playful pinch.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” Corrin whines, letting out a gasp as a shiver runs down his spine. His dilated piercing red eyes opening wide, his back arches. Corrin’s dome of a belly rises before he falls back down, Corrin unable to get up as easily as he used to. Huffing, Corrin pants as he regains his breath.

Kiran’s hand never once leaving his own, the other reassuring hand rubs whatever part of Corrin's big body it can reach.

Corrin eye’s slowly undilate, his horns and wings no longer begging to form themselves, his breath slowly regains its normal composure. “I…” Corrin shifts his head to the side, Kiran’s warm belly conforming to it. “am nothing but a beast,”

Kiran wastes no time in responding. “You’re you,” Kiran bends slightly over, the upper flab of his stomach crinkling over Corrin’s face, Kiran’s stomach and moobs making more contact with Corrin’s vision than his face. “There are plenty of other heroes here with non-human traits. Some with draconic blood as well,” Kiran brushes Corrin’s bangs away, a warm smile offered his way. "And you try so hard, and that's what matters,"

Corrin lets out a sigh. “Thank you,” Corrin opens his mouth ever slightly but closes it before he can speak more.

"I'm glad you joined us at the castle; you're worthy of trust and care," Kiran continues strumming his fingers through Corrin's hair.

Corrin responds with a quiet hum, his free arm resting on his gut.

Kiran simply squeezes Corrin’s hand tightly in his.

The large flaps of wings sounding throughout the forest, Kiran instinctively glances up. Bringing a sizable hand to cover his eyes, a round tan mass of fat comes creeping through the trees.

Tibarn summoned quite some time ago, the rugged muscular hawk king was of a height and size comparable to that of Kiran’s. Only a few inches shorter than Kiran, Tibarn’s width had been accompanied with a heaping helping of muscle unlike Kiran’s fat frame. Prideful yet honorable, Tibarn’s outgoing nature helped facilitate bonds with other heroes, even those not hailing from the World of Radiance. Tibarn’s main method of doing so involved one of two methods: sparring or eating. Pheonicis’ mountains and cliffs not well suited for the progress of cuisine, Askr’s overflowing abundance of variety had Tibarn trying as much as he could. A grand meal often accompanied with every overwhelming victory of his, of which Tibarn’s stellar prowess in battle meant that said occurrence happened every battle, meant Tibarn’s hefty meals eventually began to add up despite his high activity. Glistening washboard abs washed away as a trickle of fat began to slowly soften them up. Once firm athletics tape unraveled and bulged from the unexpected extra pounds before Tibarn simply got rid of the tape altogether. Never shy about showing his body, Tibarn’s open green coat and unbuttoned shirt offering the perfect display of his body, soon even his shirt was tossed to the wayside. His jacket only split further down the side as the little onset of a tummy blossomed into a round dome of a gut. Able to shift into his hawk form unimpeded by his weight, the extra flab was irrelevant to him. The great conversations and the even greater meals worth the pounds. Kiran’s constant praise and side glances at Tibarn’s body only emboldened the prideful king. Tight beige pants that once illustrated his musculature instead began to illustrate his widening form, Tibarn’s pants often needing an upsizing to withstand his flabby ass. Relatively uncaring about others opinion on him, the only worthwhile opinion being on his character, Tibarn’s swelling size was unimportant to him even as he grew to Kiran’s size and even further.

Grunting, Tibarn’s face is flushed. The soft jowls offer a cuddlier depiction of Tibarn, his wide scar the only visual depiction of his rugged nature. Each massive flap of his wings creates a gust of wind, the leaves scattering all around from the gusts of air. His sizable frame a few inches from the ground, Tibarn simply lets himself down with a resounding thud. Resting a hand on his voluminous stomach, Tibarn catches his breath.

Accustomed to eating as he is to fighting, Tibarn’s great gut freely sags down. His coat uselessly flutters to the sides of his elliptical stomach. His inundated enjoyment of food visible, his stomach neatly partitions itself, a generously portioned love handle separating his two rolls for a stomach. His wave of a stomach uninhibited by fabric, the large lardy underside of his gut flows freely all the way down to his knees. The sides of his rolling gut spread out far, the blanket of fat as wide as his thighs. His overly generously sized moobs tiredly flop down on Tibarn’s shelf of a gut. Both splaying to the side, Tibarn’s saucer sized nipples jiggle freely. Another roll of fat forms under them, accentuating their bulk. The two melons for tits press up against each other, the upper curvature of them exaggerated even further. Tibarn’s sleeve once roomy, his gigantic bingo-wingo arms use up the entire expanse, Tibarn’s green coat seemingly painted onto his arm. His other arm free of the confines of a sleeve, the massive mound of fat rests down, the bunch of fat bundled up around his elbow and wrist. Tibarn’s arms alone are wider than his head. His thighs not as large as the top-heavy Tibarn, the restrictive fabric of his pants cling to his thighs, each of Tibarn’s jutting rolls of fat easily visible. The waistband of his pants no longer visible with melted icecream for a stomach covering it, the non button elastic band is invisible to all. Tibarn’s doughy hill of a back is covered by his coat, the abundant rolls hidden. His massive wings nearly touch the ground, Tibarn’s wings still far wider than his expansive frame. Though even with his strong wings, they struggle to carry his bulk for long while untransformed.

“I figured you’d be here,” Grinning at Kiran, Tibarn waddles his way over to the two. His heaping stomach in the way, his cushions for legs rub past one another. Stopping in his tracks, Tibarn hits his chest for a second before emitting a small belch, obviously having eaten before coming to find the two. “The wind tells me a lot of things. And my ears help fill me in on the rest,” Slowly waddling his way to Kiran and Corrin, Tibarn’s voluminous jet black hair bounces just as the rest of his corpulent frame does. “If you ever do lose yourself,” Tibarn offers a grin at Corrin, resting a meaty hand on his sizable love handle. “Then I’ll be there to stop you,”

“Thank you,” Corrin plainfully responds, no ill will taken from the threat.

Both of them ignore Kiran's tsk of disapproval.

Tibarn reaching the large tree, he lazily plops his ass down, resting all his weight on the tree with a heavy sigh. Resting a hand on his gut, Tibarn drapes his other arm around Kiran’s shoulder. “Though, I’d rather tie you to a bed and call it a day than kill you,” Grinning, Tibarn lets out a chuckle as Kiran scoffs.

Tibarn pressed up against Kiran, his beefy stomach digs into Kiran’s arms. Adjusting himself, wobbling and grunting accompanying it, Tibarn sighs as he rests against Kiran’s left side.

“Didn’t peg you as much of a nature person,” Tibarn lazily comments, his eyes watching the slow breezy winds flutter by.

“I have my moments,” Kiran keeps his left hand fixed to Corrin’s, his free right hand ruffling Corrin’s hair as Corrin lackadaisically remains in his lap. Both Tibarn and Corrin absolutely large, the cool evening weather offers a bit of a cooling down for Kiran with so much body heat produced from their weights. “Besides, it’s nice to get away from all the business once in a while,” Yawning, Kiran’s body tenses before unclenching as he shifts around a bit.

“I’m the opposite, I need some chaos every now and then,” Tibarn presses Kiran a bit more to himself, Corrin grumbling from the movement.

“Some? You certainly get enough for the both of us,” Removing his right hand from Corrin’s hair, he reaches around his own belly, patting the sides of Tibarn’s gut. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself before joining us,”

“Heh, I gotta show those heroes

I can still take 'em. I need to defend your honor and all that,”

Kiran scoffs once more, finding himself doing the act so often with Tibarn’s jovial nature. “I can defend my own honor. Besides, to me it looked like you did more eating than sparring,”

“You don’t mind it,”

“You’ve found me out so easily?” Kiran mockingly raises his right hand to his plump chest.

“It’s obvious,” Corrin mumbles, his eyes still closed as his fatigue continues to creep up on him. He fidgets for a moment before his breathing calms down, his chipmunk cheeks rising with each breath.

Tibarn lets out a roarous laughter. His body reverberates from the motion, his rolls for a stomach jiggling to and fro. Kiran chokes on his own words from the surprise interruption, Kiran having forgotten about Corrin’s presence despite being in his lap, so used to him being around. Kiran slowly regains his words; he clears his throat yet Tibarn is the first to speak.

“When are we heading back? The order would collapse without you,” Tibarn’s arms still draped over Kiran’s shoulders, he squeezes Kiran’s doughy arm.

“I find that personally hard to believe,” Kiran lowers his head as Tibarn’s shrewd gaze directs itself towards him, Tibarn’s piercing amber eyes no less harsh despite his rounded face. Kiran's retort of Phoenicis doing fine without it's king dies in his throat. “But, thank you,” Kiran pauses for a moment. “And I wanna enjoy the calm atmosphere a bit more,”

“You’re just waiting for him,” Corrin whines, his eyes opening. “He’s almost here,” Corrin lazily flicks his tail in between his legs.

“There goes the atmosphere,” Tibarn shrugs off the playful jab from Kiran with a grin, his gut absorbing the blow.

“You cursed worm,” Wheezing promptly following the sentence, Grima lumbers his way past a clearing of bushes.

Grima summoned long before Corrin and even quite some time before Tibarn, Grima’s brutish, rude nature had left him rather unpopular with several heroes. Most of all, those from the World of Awakening. Still, his arbitrary, at times, nature left somewhat of a nice taste in Kiran’s mouth. All humans far beneath him, the only heroes Grima could be considered on working terms was his fellow dragons. And even the term is rather loose, Grima’s biting tongue keeping a sizable distance between himself and them. The only true decent companionship Grima found in was Kiran, the summoner able to leverage his contract to reign him in. Kiran obedient, Grima went along with it, finding him to be a serviceable minion.

Food unnecessary for Grima’s vessel, Kiran’s innocuous offer of food had the Fell Dragon’s hunger spiraling downward. A simple snack a day soon turned into a bundle of snacks throughout the day. Soon, said snacks were often accompanied by full blown meals before those became a requirement too, Grima unwilling to accept any less. Said demands made of Kiran, Grima’s incessant tasks were met everyday, his hedonistic gluttony unchecked, everyone too afraid to mention anything. Everyone besides Kiran, Kiran lavishing praise upon the copious, wanton bubbling of fat caked upon Grima’s short stature. His twig of a body ballooned out further and further, Grima’s once thin limbs widening and filling his clothes. Grima uncaring about his appearance, the tears and rips littering his outfit was deemed unnecessary, Grima only upgrading his duds whenever Kiran gave him another offering of clothes.

His clothes still the same appearance, the massively upsized clothes caress and fondle his soft pale blubber. Grima’s massively fattened state is impossible to ignore; his prodigious, girthy thighs are much harder to ignore. Grima immensely bottom-heavy, his gelatinous thighs appear affixed to one another, the soft undulating rivulets of fat pressed up against one another despite his constantly wide stance. Two column-like thighs crammed inside the soft fabric, the material contours to his shape, the flabby overlapping fat jiggling for all to see. His fat pad melds in between his blubbery thighs, the outline of it evident. Thick engorged calves help fill out the bottom of Grima’s cramped pants, his calves bouncing and wobbling about as well as Grima tiredly lifts one encumbered leg over the other. His ass his defining feature, the massive chairs for cheeks jut out behind him like his stomach. Each alone larger than Grima’s torso once was, the bulbous yet squarish mounds of fat sag down as gravity tugs it closer to the earth. The shelf for an ass ridiculously wobbles behind him. The waistband of his pants gradually falls down on the rare occasion of Grima walking. His stomach still large, the soft jiggling mass remains tucked inside his shirt, his gut reaching past his crotch. His shirt and coat are just as small on Grima’s big body as his pants. The outline of Grima’s curvaceous stomach presses against the fabric, Grima’s plump breasts defined and visible as they rest on top of his gut. His face round as a ball, the extra chins and doughy cheeks helps diminish the outward appearance of Grima’s wrathful nature. But the extra eyes on his face negate said jovial look. Though the summoner’s presence reduces Grima’s nature to that of a petulant yet dangerous beast.

“You…” Face flushed, Grima attempts a growl, his sharp teeth barred. But his smushed cheeks make it difficult for him to accomplish the sound. Eyes darting between Tibarn and Corrin, Grima squints his eyes at them. Not as keen on sharing the summoner as the two of them, Grima accustomed to occupying Kiran all to himself, he bites his tongue as Kiran smiles at him. Letting out a grunt, Grima waddles his way to the fatty pile, Kiran patting the empty spot beside him on his right.

No care in the world, Grima lets himself fall with a deafening thud, his couch for an ass cushioning the blow for him, resting his back against the tree, Grima immediately latches onto Kiran’s free hand with his own. Still catching his breath, the labored sounds of his gulps of air fill the silence for a moment.

“Tired?” Kiran jokingly asks.

“I tire of your idiocy,” Grima bites back, his head leaning back against the tree.

“You do have a short temper. It matches your cute height” Kiran sagely nods, choicely ignoring Grima’s insult.

Turning to face Kiran, Grima glares at him.

“I’m kidding,” Kiran chuckles, his soft body jiggling as a consequence. The edge of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Kiran’s eyes follow the path of Grima’s, Grima glaring at Tibarn’s meaty arm wrapped over Kiran’s shoulder instead. “You’re getting better,” Kiran’s mind replays numerous instances of Grima snapping upon anyone touching him. Grima’s eyes gaze back as Kiran beams at him, Grima holding back a grumble in the depths of his throat. He tightens his grip on Kiran’s hand further, refusing to let go.

"How was your day?" Kiran asks. Corrin still peacefully in his lap, the feral prince's eyes remain closed. His breath slowing down, the dome of his stomach rises high in the air with each breath. Tibarn rests his head against Kiran's, the long soft black hair as pleasant to the touch as his fat. His eyes closed as well, he basks in the soft gentle winds and Kiran's presence.

"It was fine," Grima grumbles, still unused to any sort of actual respect or care for his well-being, so often needed for his strength and strength alone. A frown still eternally plastered on his face, the ends of his mouth squish from the fat, his harsh expression softer than before. Mentally aware of just how close Tibarn and Corrin are to his summoner, Grima scoots a bit closer to him, still keeping a small gap. "This damn tree is too small," Grima lies. Kiran's own chunky form pressing up against his, Grima refrains from holding back his smile, glad to dwarf the summoner in one aspect besides strength.

"Glad to see you enjoying yourself," Kiran closes his eyes, leaning his head against the tree. He yawns, his entire body suddenly wracked with exhaustion. Squished by Tibarn from the left and Corrin from the front, the gap of space still in between him and Grima feels unpleasant, too strange. "Come closer,"

Tibarn adjusts his arm a bit, the meaty appendage shifting from resting across the entirety of Kiran's shoulder to instead slink it around Kiran's head, Tibarn's hand on Kiran's doughy collarbone.

"There's no point,"

"The point is, I want you closer to me,"

"If it'll cease your grovelling,"

Kiran hums in the back of the throat as Grima struggles to shift himself closer, small grunts and complaints uttered at his usual quick, annoyed pace. Kiran expectantly bumps his arm against Grima's.

Eyes darting around the forest, Grima's tense body loosens. No worm around, Grima closes his eyes as he rests against Kiran.

"So warm…" Kiran purrs, a whine in the back of his throat.

Corrin tucked in the safety of Kiran's husky thighs, he tightly keeps his left hand interwoven with Kiran's. His right hand free, he rests it along the length of Kiran's wide leg, Corrin's head nestled on top of Kiran's gut. Corrin's gut spreads over Kiran's legs, the small little dam unable to withhold all of Corrin's fat.

Tibarn to the left of Kiran, Tibarn uses all his willpower to refrain from enveloping Kiran with all his might. His large wings tucked in, the top of Tibarn's head presses against Kiran's face, both leaning upon each other. Tibarn's gut digs into Kiran's side, smothering him as his portly ass presses up against Kiran's.

Grima to the right of Kiran, he steals Kiran's right hand, their hands fiercely interlocked. Much shorter, Grima's head rests against the soft surface of Kiran's arms. Unable to muster up a grumble, Grima's face retains a slight smile to it. His large ass envelops Kiran's side, his girthy stomach pressing up against Kiran as well.

Kiran smothered in between all three, his usual busily racing mind slows down. The cool refreshing air grazing against the bit of his flab that isn't smothered under his three favorite heroes offers a nice relaxing and cooling sensation, his body absolutely absorbed in warmth all around. So absorbed in ensuring the smooth daily ongoings of the Order of Heroes oftentimes, any time to himself is a rarity. Kiran slowly begins to doze off. He remains oblivious to the three men's alertness, all of them keeping an ear out for any hero dare intruding in on them.

All four quiet, nature's little sounds fill the ambience. The small trickle of water sounds out in the distance. The leaves rustle every so often, a random gust of wind taking a few with it each time. The small hurried footsteps of the local fauna occasionally occur, a few extra noises from their shouts or the ground stomped underneath them. The sporadic yet strong flurries of wind echo in their ears, the fabric of their coats swishing to and fro along with their hair.

Nestled up in a big bundle of fat, Kiran's breath slowly lightens up, Kiran's body growing a bit more limp as the land of dreams begin to envelop him.

Three eager men to keep watch, the entire area is clear. Kiran dozes off in between them. No one daring to approach, the three of them remain still, none of them willing to disturb Kiran or lose any time with him.

#my writing #fat!corrin #fat!tibarn #fat!grima #fat!heroes #fat!kiran #maleweightgain #male wg #male weight gain #weight gain #mwg #ssbhm #weight gain fiction #I'm really glad how this came out #so badly wanted something soft lol #hrgghhh

78 notes · View notes

jackdaniel69nice · 4 years

Text

The Lost Boys, of Ninjago

It was just like any other Wednesday. Jay had a routine, he’d do his training, spend some time with the other ninja and use the second half of the day visiting his parents, normal. Well that’s as far as everyone else knew anyway. He wasn’t technically lying, he did visit his parent…for a while. Have some tea, pick up some scrap, and be on his way. No his real target was somewhere else, a place no one else knew.

Jay inserted the large key into the gate of Cliff Gordon’s, or rather his, flat and pushed the electric bike through, closing it behind him. Now at this point it’s been nearly a year since Jay found out he was adopted (and a few other things we’ll refrain from mentioning) and he’s steadily been making progress with the fortunes of the deceased actor. He has made a few contracts, with strict confidentiality rules, and personally he thinks he’s done some real good. From anonymous donations to fueling their own necessary ninja needs, he’s thinks he’s made a difference. Of course the thing that drew most of his attention was here. Jay may have a short attention span but there are a few things that you simply can’t leave undone.

Echo was strange to say the least. With minimal programming of only a few vocal patterns, and damaged at that, to his curiousness and wonder towards all he saw, he could be described as childlike. Which is fair, he could of only been build within the last 5 years, not nearly enough time to learn all the important skills needed for even a normal Nindroid. Despite his disrepair it was obvious echo was sapient, which makes his abandonment harder to understand. Jay understood in a way, though he never had to deal with the effects of his…heritage at a young age it was easy to sympathize with the rust covered Nindroid. So he went back, it’s not like he could just leave him, but…things were difficult. There were other things holding him back, it was still to soon, to fresh to talk about. So he simply settled or secret visits at night, its not like he could sleep anyway. He started bringing things with him, things for repairs (it was hard to ignore when his arms kept falling off) and things to entertain him like books, crayons, and games. He spent hours just talking, teaching, and answering what questions he had, he was getting better over time. He looked so…overjoyed when he came back, almost surprised at times. Tai-D was good company but it was so much to him when he visited, he was lonely. So he moved. It took a lot of coaxing but he managed to convince him him to come to the flat, it was closer and more convenient for visits. Echo adored the large house and settled right in, Tai-D came too of course.

Things were great for a while, Echo started a true education with a passion for reading and excitement for the new world he had been introduced to. With an affinity for nature, he spends most time in the backyard drawing bugs and documenting them. Jay began making upgrades to his system including a brand knew copper plated “skin” upon his request as he had a likening to the color. Maybe if Jay hadn’t have been so preoccupied with him, he would of noticed Cole sooner. When they finally identified the fading, it was a shock, suddenly his attention had to shift and Echo had was pushed to the wayside. He still visited, just not as often. Even after day of the departed they were soon thrown into the problems with the time twins, and finally, master wu’s disappearance.

Now we were here, the search for master wu had been fruitless so far. It had only been a moth but still utterly consumed his time. Wednesday visits had been going on for a while now, and while it wasn’t ideal, this was the last time to introduce the copper colored Nindroid. Not that it was his decision to make. Echo had been…dodgy towards the topic when brought up, whether it was just nerves or the strange feelings he had toward his elder brother, he had yet to say. The Juliens were a topic he avoided at all times, something Jay hoped he would open about in the future.

Presently, Jay had rode his bike up the rest of the drive way and had parked it in his distracted state. He shook his head to clear his cluttered thoughts and pushing his guilt aside he walked up the path towards the front door but upon approach what he saw gave him pause. The door was open. Alright, strange but nothing to panic about, maybe he was just in the front yard, though he wasn’t supposed to be. He picked up the pace. He was within good sight of the porch and- Not only was the door actually knocked in and there were several windows broken, there were no lights on inside.

Alright time to panic. He broke into a run and removed the weapon from the bag on his back, Lightning already surging at his fingertips. Echo knew self defense and was quite capable in it too, his speed and skill could best him in sparing, and Jay had added his own upgrades to make him more battle suited. But that didn’t stop his heart from hammering away as he rocketed into the house. Rationale would tell him it was only petty thieves deciding to ransack an abandoned house full of valuables but he had never been an optimist. Knowing how things were in the life of the ninjas, it was safe to assume the worst.

He burst through the doorway, breathless and weapon raised, he looked around. The inside was trashed, there were obvious signs of a struggle, but no one to be seen. He was to late. Guilt crept around his heart but he pushed it down, he needed to focus. Keeping his guard up, he began to search the house. He had to be here, desperation clawed at him, scouring each room provided nothing until he got to the studio, his makeshift workspace. The place had been ransacked, scorch marks covered the metallic walls. All his blueprints and supplies were gone, with only piles of ash and rubble remaining, all his work, destroyed. Who did this, and why, Echo would of come to him if he had escaped. If he wasn’t here then that means he was taken, or destroyed. Growing ever weary, he scanned the piles for any remaining evidence. He didn’t find any clues, what did though was much worse.

Tai-D, or what was left of him, scraped beyond repair. Staring wide eyed in horror he could only sit in shock for a moment, tears pricked in his eyes. He gently touched one or the scrap pieces as if though he could sooth the long gone robotic friend. Biting his lip he turned his head away and closed his eyes. Grief, rotten and painful exploded from his chest. He was beyond angry. Turning back, he gently scooped the pieces into his shirt and carrying it out to the main entrance. He would search the whole place again he wouldn’t, couldn’t stop, not until-

Jay paused a moment in his searching, heart hammering. The secret room. With a glance it was obvious that it hadn’t been broken into. Echo knew about it, though he was told stay out of it. He was smart, if he was damaged it would be the safest place to hide. Carefully placing Tai-D on the wrecked coffee table, he leaped over to the secret latch and with an ounce of hope bound towards the doorway forcing his way inside before the door could even finish opening. With baited breath he stood, without the light of the windows he couldn’t see clearly and summoned a spark to light the crawl space. And just there, huddled in the corner he was.

Jay let out a sob and rushed to him calling out, but he was unresponsive. Upon closer inspection his arm had been completely torn off and a massive gash along his leg show it was unusable. His eyes had gone dark. Even if he was inoperable his head and torso had minor injuries, he could be salvaged. Clinging him to his chest he apologize profusely through his cries. He knew it was futile, he would never hear him, but the relief was overwhelming. He would protect him, do better, make him stronger. He wouldn’t leave him alone ever again. After a moment, he pulled back and wiping his eyes he attempted to drag the immobile Nindroid out into the open. He would work out everything later, right now echo needed help. Thinking fast he got out his phone and dialed the number, the sooner they left the better.

His parents soon arrived and he quickly explained the situation. They were shocked but more then willing to help. Getting Echo and Tai-D in the car, they headed back to the scrapyard. Jay released a sigh of relief letting his head fall towards Echo, who sat with him in the back. He still may not know who had done this but for now they were safe. When he woke up, Echo could explain what happened, he’d get answers, then retribution. But for now he was happy, even if Tai was…gone, he could only be glad Echo was ok. They were going to fix him, everything was going to be alright.

#ninjago #ninjago fic #ninjago writing #ninjago jay #ninjago echo zane #echo zane #jay walker #ed and edna walker #longer fic #lego ninjago #ninjago fanart

48 notes · View notes

freebooter4ever · 4 years

Text

Eugene's Second Date

AU where Sledge and Snafu meet before the war in 1940 Mobile, Alabama. Eugene and Merriell already had their first date where Merriell surprised him with Eugene's first kiss at the end, and now Eugene is dogging Merriell's steps like a lovesick puppy.

--------

That night Eugene floats home in a weird euphoria. It's not even necessarily happy, because he's half confused over his own emotions, but he's very joyful about it. He's so out of it he runs the car over his parent's mailbox.

He tells Shelton about this when they meet up for lunch at the lumberyard the next day. Shelton laughs.

"It was dark, I couldn't see a thing," Eugene protests in his defense.

"You're lucky it wasn't a tree," Shelton says. Still grinning. Eugene wonders if Shelton ever stopped grinning since last night.

"I would have seen a tree," Eugene argues.

"You said it was dark…"

"Not dark enough I couldn't see a tree, for goodness sake. I'm not blind."

"You couldn't see a mailbox."

"The height of my family's mailbox lines up almost exactly with the bottom of the car's windshield giving me at most an inch of warning that the damn thing is there."

"Should've let me drive...."

"I'm not a bad driver."

"Never said you weren't but you better let me drive next time just in case. Don't want to go hurting no more innocent mailboxes."

"There's gonna be a next time?" Eugene raises an eyebrow.

Shelton smiles and pauses the conversation to light his cigarette. Eugene turns back to his sketch of the dry docks.

"I'll fix it for you," Shelton drawls.

"Fix what?" Eugene asks distractedly, having already forgotten their conversation in his concentration over his drawing.

"You said it's one of those fancy mailboxes...shaped like a tiny house, yeah?" Shelton asks, "The boss saves the scrap lumber for us temp workers to take home. It'd be easy to get my hands on some small pieces. Make your little house good as new."

"You'd do that?"

"Sure," Shelton looks away from him, out to sea.

Eugene seizes the chance to draw his profile. It doesn't turn out well. He rips the page out of his notebook, crumples it, and tosses it down to the floor of the dock for the gulls to pick apart.

"I've got to go," Eugene says, "Need to get back before I'm missed." He doesn't mention that his class after lunch is woodshop, and how ironic it feels that he's building crooked decorative clocks while Shelton builds the infrastructure needed for warship production. Eugene stands and shoves his journal into his bookstrap.

Shelton hastily gets up to stand beside him, "Missed where?"

"School," Eugene admits. He feels like a child and he knows his embarrassment shows on his face. He can't look at Shelton as he packs up his lunch box and starts to climb down off the dock.

"Eugene," Shelton calls, following him down.

Eugene starts picking his way across the rickety wood. Their lunch spot is one of the ancient docks, probably from the 1800's. It's slowly being stripped away - any useful materials being put to work in the new, bigger, more robust docks.

"You mean to tell me you drove all the way downtown on your lunch break?" Shelton calls out to Eugene's back.

"No," Eugene replies over his shoulder, "I skipped third period so I could bicycle all the way downtown, for my health."

"Gene," Shelton finally catches up to him and grabs his hand, pulling him back.

Eugene gives in. He stops and turns around. Sometimes he wishes Shelton would just quit smiling for once.

Shelton bites his bottom lip, looking at Eugene. "You skipped class for me," he says.

"I did not say that," Eugene protests.

"Sure, Gene," Shelton says, tipping forward into Eugene's space.

Eugene fidgets, slinging his books over his shoulder, "It feels...useless; sitting in class, waiting to be able to do something meaningful. At least here I can see what's happening."

Shelton's expression goes serious then. He licks his lips and tightens his hold on Eugene's hand. "C'mon," he says.

"What?"

"I know what you need," is Shelton's only answer.

Eugene follows his lead. They climb around the docks and duck into the alley between the old waterfront dancehall and a warehouse. And much to Eugene's surprise - although it answers all of Eugene's unspoken wishes - Shelton pushes him up against the brick and kisses him. For a seemingly aloof, sometimes awkward guy, Shelton can be very demanding when he wants to be. And this kiss demands everything. They break apart whenever a car drives by on the busy city street a block away, but otherwise their necking goes uninterrupted.

Eugene's going to miss his fourth period class, for sure.

"I don't see how this is supporting the war effort either," Eugene teases during one break when a car actually parks in front of the alley opening and makes things difficult for them to kiss without being seen.

Shelton laughs. He is leaning languidly on the alley wall across from Eugene, his legs stretched out in front of him. He slides a little farther down the brick and lazily extends one leg until his foot is flat against the opposite wall.

"You're boosting worker morale," Shelton drawls.

"Oh god, don't say it like that," Eugene rolls his eyes and shoves Shelton's foot off the wall with his hip.

"I'm severely lacking in patriotism," Shelton continues, lifting his chin and putting on a fake serious air, "Multiple sessions may be needed to boost..." he flexes his hips and grabs at the baggy crotch of his work overalls in a rude gesture, "...my sagging morale."

"Shut up, Shelton," Eugene grins. He glances down the alley to make sure the car finally left. And then shoves off his side to close the distance between them and flatten Merriell's body against the opposite wall. Pressed against him like this, Eugene can feel Merriell's 'morale' and it is in no danger of sagging. Eugene kisses his neck just to be sure.

"If I boost it too much, we might end up with the opposite effect," Eugene whispers in his ear.

Merriell groans and latches his hands into Eugene's hair. "Oh, aren't you clever," he says glibly. He sounds sarcastic.

Though when Eugene moves to look Merriell in the eye again before locking lips with him once more, Merriell appears to be completely and totally in bliss.

This time if another car stops neither of them notice. Eugene doesn't think he could notice anything except Merriel, as long as Merriel keeps his hands around the back of Eugene's neck, and his knee wedged between Eugene's legs. Luckily they aren't seen. Cause, god, Eugene could kiss Merriell all day and forget about the time.

Fortunately as it turns out, there's plenty of warning when they eventually hear Merriell's name being called.

"Shelton?" a man's voice yells, husky from years of cigarettes, "Get your sorry ass out here, I saw you having a smoke. I need a hand with this."

"Fuck," Shelton breaks their kiss but doesn't push Eugene off.

Eugene groans quietly and presses his nose in the crook of Merriell's neck. He smells like the ocean and sawdust. Eugene wonders what he himself smells like. Probably musty old books.

"Gonna get me in trouble," Shelton smirks and disentangles himself from Eugene's arms. He backs off down the alley and gives Eugene a salute, "Uncle Sam thanks you for your service." And with a parting wink, Shelton jogs around the corner to meet his boss.

Eugene slides down the wall, breathing hard, and sits in the alley to give himself a moment before he goes back to school. It's only been a minute of separation from Merriell's body, and already Eugene's chest is aching terribly with need. Probably not a good sign for the days to come. He predicts a lot of his other responsibilities will fall by the wayside in favor of this.

He returns to the docks for lunch every single day after that. And with lunch always comes kisses that turn out to be addictive.

On the weekend Shelton comes over to Eugene's house. He drives the ugliest old Ford truck with rusted, chipped paint that might have been green at one point. But the engine purrs like a kitten.

Shelton notices Eugene's interest in his truck. He slaps the hood and announces, "I pour all my poker winnings into her."

"You must be shit at poker," Eugene replies.

Shelton laughs and maneuvers around the cab to pop the hood. He proudly displays the gleaming, beautiful engine and shiny parts to Eugene. Eugene makes appropriate admiring noises. He's never seen a car engine so clean that isn't fresh off the line - there's not a single speck of dust in sight.

"All new parts. Machined most of em custom myself," Shelton brags as he runs his hands through his hair and gazes at his vehicle proudly, "Impossible to get anything manufactured nowadays with rationing and shortages."

"How...?" Eugene asks.

"Just good with my hands," Shelton says, turning his face up to Eugene with a shit eating grin.

Eugene pinches Merriell's thigh through the hole in his jeans.

Shelton throws an arm over Eugene's shoulder and traps Eugene's hand between their bodies to deter anymore pinching. He bites his lip and grins with his nose close enough to almost touch Eugene's cheek.

Eugene doesn't dare turn his head. The temptation to kiss Shelton is too great, and his parents are a few short yards away in the house at the top of their driveway. His mom could be watching out the window right now. Eugene's hands tighten his grip on the truck's frame as he leans over the engine, pretending to take a closer look.

"Before he died my dad would collect old junkers and give 'em to me," Shelton explains, "I'd fix em up, get em working, even make em look pretty. Then he'd go and sell em. I never even got a chance to drive any. Only driving practice I ever got was on tractors."

Eugene looks up at him. "Well," he says, "It was worthwhile practice. This truck's beautiful."

Shelton laughs, "Yeah. Her shell may not look pretty, but she'll get me anywhere, guaranteed. And ain't nobody gonna steal her, cause who'd want a rust bucket?"

"If anybody turns their nose up at this truck, they're fools," Eugene tells him.

Shelton grins and squeezes Eugene's hip fondly, "C'mon. Help me unload."

Shelton grabs his toolbox and settles on the ground next to Eugene's knocked over mailbox. He arrays his tools around himself in organized chaos and picks up the mailbox to examine it. Next to him Eugene stacks neat piles of scrap wood from the bed of Shelton's truck.

As Shelton diligently works, Eugene lays down, props his sketchbook up in the grass and sketches.

Occasionally Shelton pauses to lean over and tickle Eugene's ear to get his attention.

"My buddy got his hands on this new synthetic adhesive," Shelton explains as he works, "They're testing it down at the lumberyard. They say it's completely waterproof. But look…" he runs a line of glue along the edge of a block of wood, and another line of glue on the edge of a second block of identical length and width. He clamps the two together, and holds it up in front of Eugene's face, "Give it a few hours and this scrap will be the perfect size for the wall of your splintered mailbox."

"Impressive," Eugene says blandly.

Shelton reaches over to ruffle Eugene's hair, but Eugene blocks him. "Hey, not with glue on your fingers," Eugene protests.

"You don't know enough about woodworking to appreciate my genius," Shelton taunts.

"I do appreciate your genius," Eugene insists as he continues to deflect all of Shelton's attempts to get glue in his hair.

And he shows that appreciation, later, after the mailbox is finished good as new - better than new. Shelton carved a beautiful gingerbread trim and added it to the eaves using his magical blackmarket adhesive. Eugene's mother thanks Shelton by gifting him a basket full of food and fresh baked cornbread. "I still can't believe our boy ran over a mailbox. Sometimes I worry Eugene would lose his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders," she says to Shelton right in front of Eugene before he leaves, "He spends so much of his time in the clouds."

"It was one accident, mother," Eugene sighs.

Eugene thanks Shelton by riding back with him in the truck, his bicycle waiting for him secure in the bed. He instructs Shelton to pull over after they cross the bridge and he leads him down to the creek. They sit on the wooden trestle underneath the road and kiss until long after the cornbread goes cold. Shelton doesn't seem to mind. Eugene even boosts Merriell's morale to completion crudely with his hand until Merriell is sagging against Eugene's shoulder, murmuring his pleasure.

Eventually they have to return to the park where Shelton lives and pick up Mairzy from the old neighbor lady who watches Merriell's little sister most evenings. Shelton picks flowers from the side of the road and presents them to the old woman as a bouquet. He smiles at her and asks after her own grandkids living two towns over, and Eugene can tell by her response that the old woman cares about both Shelton and Mairzy dearly.

"Let's go into town," Eugene suggests before the three of them walk over to Shelton's house.

"What for?" Shelton asks.

"I was thinking maybe ice cream," Eugene shrugs, "My treat."

Mairzy's eyes bug out of her head. She grabs onto Merriell's arm and swings on his elbow, "Ice cream! For dinner?!" Her imagination explodes and it's written all over the awe in her face.

"You are going to regret ever saying those words," Merriell informs Eugene gravely.

"Consider it a thank you for fixing my mailbox," Eugene replies.

"Thought it was my fault you ran over the damn thing in the first place," Shelton says.

"Ice cream!" Mairzy exclaims desperately, shaking Merriell's arm.

He gives in, feigning reluctance, but he smiles at Eugene over Mairzy's head. "I know just the place," Shelton says.

They don't go into town, they drive across the tracks, metaphorically speaking. Eugene receives odd looks when he climbs out of the truck behind Mairzy. But he schools his nerves and tries to be gracious as he holds the door open for Shelton to go into the ice cream parlor. The parlor is far from new, there's no jukebox, the overhead fans don't function, and as he and Shelton lean up against the clean but cracked tile counter, Eugene knows that he is getting away with this, in a place he doesn't fit in, but if Shelton tried this across town, in a place where any level of brown is too brown, Shelton might not be served.

They buy the largest banana split sundae Eugene can afford and Mairzy carries it proudly, worshipfully with both hands to a booth by the front windows. The window is wide open, with a brand new screen to keep out the bugs. But the music from the ragtag band playing outside on the porch filters through. Shelton slides into the booth next to Mairzy, and Eugene sits across from them. He passes out spoons, and Mairzy dips hers in eagerly to take the first bite. Merriell twirls his spoon in his hand, relaxes in his seat with his arm protectively thrown over the back of the booth, and he grins daringly at Eugene. Eugene digs his spoon into one of the chocolate brownies mixed into the sundae, takes a bite, and grins back.

Mairzy finishes the majority of the sundae. Shelton eats very little, he claims to not have much of a sweet tooth. Though Eugene notes for later reference that when Shelton does take bites he favors the vanilla and the apple crumble and whipped cream on one side of the dish.

When they're done, Mairzy pulls the gigantic bowl closer to her so she can scoop out the melted soupy leftovers with her spoon. Shelton reaches over her head and taps on the window during a break in the music. He asks the band if they know a specific song. The answer is yes, and Merriell slides open the window screen to pass some change through and the band strikes up again. Underneath the table Merriell starts tapping his foot to the beat against Eugene's own. Eugene laughs and jiggles his leg along with the music though he knows he can't hold a rhythm to save his life.

After Mairzy licks the last drop of ice cream off her spoon, she starts talking - mostly pestering her older brother with questions. In response Merriell starts telling stories, and Eugene settles in comfortably, happy to listen.

Eugene can't remember the last time he's spent a more pleasant evening.

When he announces this to Merriell, the other boy gets a highly suspect gleam in his eye, "Who says the night is over?"

Eugene raises his eyebrows in question.

Turns out the carnival is in town.

They park at the edge of the fairgrounds. People swarm in and out of the brightly lit fence. Eugene has to laugh because this vibrant, tacky, loud place is the last place he'd expect Merriell to go willingly. Sure enough, before they climb out of the truck Merriell leans in close over Mairzy's head and quietly explains, "the things I put up with for her." He grins and squeezes Eugene's hand tight, including Eugene in the conspiracy to make Mairzy happy. Merriell opens the door, Mairzy hops out, and he follows, giving Eugene a quick peck on the lips first.

As the three of them approach the gate, Mairzy starts skipping with extra sugar-induced energy, forcing Shelton to keep a tight grip on her hand for fear of losing her in the crowd. Eugene is running low on cash, so they don't have much money to spend at the ticket booth, but together they have enough to buy Mairzy a handful of rides.

Her favorite is the swings, with the whip-it a close second. Eugene and Merriell are left to lean up against the ride railings and wave and yell everytime she goes around. They use the tight press of the crowd to stand closer together than they might otherwise get away with. Merriell is pressed against Eugene's side, smiling and glowing and looking more handsome than Eugene's seen him before.

As luck would have it, the two of them come upon another couple with a child at the line for the ferris wheel. The four of them put Mairzy and the other little girl safely in a seat, which leaves Eugene and Merriell able to share one themselves. Shelton throws an arm tight over Eugene's shoulder, and traces patterns into Eugene's arm with his finger. He sneaks a quick kiss to the side of Eugene's head before anyone can notice.

Merriell spends his last coins at one of the midway games. Being preternaturally gifted at aim, Merriel wins handily and points to one of the stuffed bears hanging on the wall. The bear is wearing a miniature Marines campaign hat with a kerchief tied around its neck.

"No, this is for Eugene," Merriell announces as he hands the teddy bear to the boy beside him, "Something to hold onto at night." Merriell winks.

Eugene can feel himself turning bright red with embarrassment. To cover it, he steps up to the plate, pays the man behind the counter, and beats Merriell's score by more than a few points. Merriel laughs, and licks his lips while staring at Eugene in a way that tells Eugene he will be in trouble next time Merriell gets him alone. Eugene gifts the slightly bigger bear he wins to Mairzy, who is delighted and proclaims Eugene her new favorite person.

With their wallets thoroughly depleted the three walk back towards the carnival gate. Mairzy's sugar high finally crashes - whether by choice or not, hard to tell, but she convinces Merriell to carry her piggyback the rest of the way.

Eugene is happy to leave. Shelton has been riling him up for fun all night, and Eugene is desperate to get him back for it.

Until they pass a final booth just outside the gate erected on the side of the gravel path.

The military recruitment posters are impossible to miss. The lights trained on the booth are brighter than the entire carnival and there's a small cadre of beautiful girls in sequined costumes handing out flyers. A couple men in service uniforms stand behind the table answering questions posed by curious onlookers. Eugene can't help but stare.

A hand on the small of his back jolts Eugene out of his thoughts. Merriell leans in close and whispers, "Do I need to be jealous of the women...or the men?" He looks into Eugene's eyes and Eugene is surprised by the honest vulnerability reflected back at him.

Shelton isn't exaggerating or teasing, he is self-conscious. And making his jealousy plain.

"Neither," Eugene responds firmly, risking a quick squeeze of Merriell's hand.

"You want to go talk to them?" Merriell asks. He coaxes Mairzy off his back and guides her to sit down on a nearby park bench.

"No," Eugene shakes his head, "No, I'd be...shamed."

Merriell's expression turns cold and haughty, "Ain't got nothing to be ashamed of," and he marches confidently over to the table on his own.

Eugene hesitates. He hangs back to watch as Shelton turns on his smile, strides straight up to the men in uniform, and shakes their hands. Eugene can't hear what they're saying, but the military men are all smiles too, and everyone is clearly getting along well.

Eugene burns with jealousy.

He's about to shyly sneak away, not too far that Shelton couldn't find him after, but far enough he can't be seen. Then a third man joins the table. This man is older, and in the Marine Corps - there's no mistaking that distinctive hat. He's tall, and broad shouldered with a little bit of a barrel chest - enough to cut an imposing figure and not enough to distract from the silhouette of the uniform. He's clean shaven, and regimented, and he greets Shelton warmly but without a smile. This man takes his job seriously.

If Eugene could be anything, he'd be a Marine. He wants that pride - to know he is making a decisive choice about which side of history he'll be on.

"Gene?" Shelton's voice asks carefully.

Eugene looks to his right and discovers at some point while Eugene was daydreaming Shelton returned and ended up directly beside his elbow. "I'm fine," Eugene says, "Let's go."

"Don't you want to...I could introduce you…?" Shelton gestures to the table.

"I said, let's go," Eugene repeats. He picks up Mairzy this time and carries her back to the parking lot.

Shelton nods once, "Okay, Eugene," and follows.

The car ride home is silent. Mairzy falls asleep between them, completely oblivious to the tension. Her head is propped against Shelton's leg and her feet are on top of Eugene's lap.

Shelton's truck rolls a few feet into Eugene's driveway and Eugene signals for him to stop.

"Do you mind getting out for a minute?" Eugene asks softly.

"Sure thing," Shelton says without emotion in his voice.

They both slide out of the cab and leave Mairzy sleeping soundly on the seat. Shelton lingers on his side of the truck, forcing Eugene to come to him. Eugene takes Merriell's face in his hands and tilts his head back for a kiss. At first Merriell responds, grabbing Gene's wrists and pulling him closer. But then he shoves away.

It hurts. Not physically, but Eugene can feel it like an ache - even worse than the ache days ago when he wanted Merriell but didn't know how to act on it.

"Gene, I can't," Shelton whispers harshly.

"What, because I was admiring the uniform of some Marine I don't even know? Are you really that jealous?" Eugene demands an answer.

"What?" Shelton asks, "No!"

"Then why not?" Eugene exclaims.

"Because I'm not gonna be someone's shame," Shelton says in a rush, "Not again."

"Why would I be ashamed of you?" Eugene is confused.

"You said…" Shelton's nerves get the better of him and he can barely talk straight with his accent, "You said you wouldn't talk to the recruiting officers because you were ashamed."

"Yeah, ashamed of myself, knowing that they'd never take some skinny kid with a heart defect who gets winded climbing stairs," Eugene says irritably.

"You weren't...thinking of us…?" Shelton is skeptical, "Us, being together?"

"Didn't even cross my mind," Eugene says, "Though now that I do think about it, probably a good idea not to bring it up at recruitment."

Shelton laughs.

Eugene takes a step closer, takes Merriell's big hands in his. "Can't think of any reason why I'd ever be ashamed of you."

Merriell laughs again, "More fool on you."

"If anything, I'm the shameful one," Eugene argues.

Merriell grins and scoffs, "You? The son of the doctor?"

"Yeah, the one who, if we get into this war, is going to be stuck back here, looking on from afar, waiting. In agony of not knowing what's happening, no doubt," Eugene says, mostly serious though he likes that Merriell is smiling again, "I'll be left with nothing to do except track battle movements like I'm a kid playing soldier again."

"You won't be alone," Merriell says meaningfully and takes a step forward.

Eugene isn't really registering what Merriell is saying. He's too focused on the fact that finally, finally Merriell is kissing him again, passionately. He slips his fingers through Merriell's belt loops and tugs him close. Sometimes while they're kissing Eugene thinks about bringing Merriell home for reasons beyond fixing mailboxes. A stuffed teddy bear is nice and soft, but he thinks Merriell would be a better fit in his bed. He can imagine holding Merriell all night long, and it's still not enough. His imagination doesn't go much further than that, but he knows if he lets his thoughts run wild they would. Easily.

Just one slip over the edge and…

"Wait," Eugene pulls away, "Why won't I be alone?"

Merriell looks wry, "Well, I'm not planning on enlisting anytime soon."

"You're not?" Eugene extends his arms to put distance between them.

"No," Merriell laughs.

"I don't see how that's funny," Eugene says defensively.

Merriell shrugs, looking confused.

Eugene lets go of him and opens the truck door to pull his bear out of the cab. He clutches the teddy tight to his chest and asks, "You're not going to enlist?"

"No!" Shelton confirms, more certain and stubborn this time. He's not laughing anymore.

Eugene turns around and starts walking up the hill, "Good night, Shelton."

"Gene," Merriell grabs his hand and pulls him back.

Eugene twists out of his grip, "I can't believe you're not planning on enlisting. They predict the United States will enter war soon - and not just as an arsenal for the Allies this time. The question is no longer if, but when. We're going to need every able man." He gets right up into Shelton's face and glares, "Have you even seen the latest news reels from Europe?"

"Don't watch 'em," Shelton says. He's gone emotionless again, and that irritates Eugene more than anything.

"You don't care?" Eugene scoffs, "You don't care, you're going to let other men die for you while you stay here and, what...build tiny houses? Kiss me in back alleys for the war effort?"

"Eugene…"

"I can't enlist. Even if I was of age I'd be declined because of my health. Do you know what it's like to be so goddamned useless? And you...you…" Eugene loses control of his own thoughts.

"I'm not dying for nobody but myself," Shelton says.

Eugene stares at him with stunned shock. "You're fucked up, Shelton," Eugene says. He turns his back on the other boy and walks away.

"You ashamed of me, then?" Shelton calls to him in a mocking voice.

Eugene lets himself into the house, but he lingers at the front window. He pushes himself into the curtains and presses his ear to the cold glass. The truck engine starts, nearly silent even in the quiet night. Eugene buries his face in the top of the teddy bear's head and tries not to cry. He sits there till he hears the tires rumble across the bridge. And then he goes to his room, kicks off his shoes, and falls into bed.

He does cry then. But it's not for Shelton. It's for himself, and his own failings. And it feels almost guilty.

tag list @xmxisxforxmaybe

#sledgefu #bad germs

29 notes · View notes

clownbasedintrigue · 4 years

Text

You and I // cryptalore

as part of @apex-legends-champion‘s writing collaboration, for @kamizaki-53,

bangalore/crypto, prompt word ‘singer’, sfw

more under the break

words: 2,713

note: this was meant to be out a lot earlier (think like, three or four months ago) but with everything going to absolute shit where i am, as well as personal happenings, this fell to the wayside. very to the wayside. sorry about that :/

the song used is ‘you and i’ by barns courtney, but i wouldn’t suggest listening to it as you read, the pacing i had in mind for the fic is not the same as the actual song. just keep that in mind. however, it’s a good song so i DO suggest listening to it beforehand.

this might eventually end up on ao3, if i get the chance. if so, i’ll link it. i also scrapped about another 2k words from this because they just didnt fit the way i wanted them to. if i find the energy, i plan to make that into a fic as well.

ft. gratuitous headcanons and dubious hacking

--------------------

“We’re sitting ducks up here, any rookie with a scope could pick us off.” she says, but judging by the way she leans back against the air conditioning unit, she’s not bothered by the idea.

Crypto hums in response, and tucks his legs underneath him. She’s not wrong, the wide expanse of desert does nothing to obscure their spot on the rooftop. As worrying as that would be anywhere else, his drone hovers above them, constantly scanning. If there’s anyone around, the drone will tell them.

Pulling the bag between them into his lap, which they filled with drinks and snacks before escaping to the quiet of the roof, he digs through it, hands closing around two glass bottles. He passes one off to Bangalore, and rests the other beside him as he rifles around for the bottle opener.

They rest out here sometimes. When the noise of social nights or tenseness of a newcomer makes the compound unwelcoming. The flat concrete and the surrounding sand offers peace and quiet, something the building below them often lacks. The quiet is a welcome relief.

Emerging triumphantly with the opener, he goes to pass that, too, to her, only to realize she already has the edge of her utility knife wedged underneath the cap. A bit of leverage, and it flies off with a pop, bouncing further across the rooftop and landing with the din of metal on concrete. They watch it in silence. The weight of the bottle opener-now obsolete-resting solidly in his palm.

Bangalore holds out her hand to him. He blinks, sets the bottle opener down, and softly places his atop her opened one, feeling the way hers have calloused from her work. The impressions left behind by years of artillery work and battle not having faded yet.

She turns to face him with raised eyebrows, “The bottle, TJ.”

Oh. He huffs a breath at her, stomach twisting at the abbreviated use of his real name, nervous butterflies and anxiety alike. It’s not something he hears often. Hasn’t, since Mila happened. He’s not sure how wise using it is, but he can’t say he doesn’t like it.

Before he can pull his hand back, she laces her fingers with his and drags it down to rest between them. His nerves turn to warmth as he gives her the bottle with his other hand, and relishes in the feeling of her palm on his.

What they have is quiet, on the down-low, moments stolen in the corner of the dropship when no one’s watching, or gentle nights like this, sitting away from the rest of the legends.

The clatter of the bottle cap draws his attention back to her, and taking the bottle from it’s spot wedged between her knees, Anita sneaks a swig before handing it to him. With the utility knife safely covered and slipped back into her boot, she leans into his side.

They sip at their drinks underneath the tranquil sky. Double moons, and stars bright enough to light up the area, the night was clear and the breeze was crisp.

Through their silence, the bass of the music in the common room reaches them, though barely. Three stories up, not a lot makes it up here, save for stray sand and the occasional legend looking for a quiet space. But tonight had been movie night, and those rarely stay quiet.

Movie night is a time where a few of them make a snack run at noon to the city, and the others pick a host of movies to watch. When the snack runners get back, usually a few hours later, they all have ‘dinner’, if junk food and sugar can count as dinner, and from ‘dinner’ to midnight, they feast, watch, and argue about the others’ lack of taste in movies. A weekly routine he’s gotten used to. Looks forward to, almost.

Even though neither of them are particularly shy about public affection, they never hesitate to take advantage of movie night, the dark of the room during which allows for the two to lean against each other, hold hands, and sneak quiet kisses without the others noticing.

Tonight, they had sat for the movie, as they usually did, and slipped into the hall before the last movie ended. Things could get loud afterwards. After a quick raid of the kitchen, and grabbing a few things from their room, including blankets, they made for the roof. Which had led to them sitting up here, with only the company of the moons, themselves, and TJ’s drone, perched up high, keeping a watchful eye from the sky.

Lowly, music drifts up from the commons room. it’s muffled by laughter and concrete, but not so much that they cannot hear the vague baritone of the singer.

“They must’ve opened the balcony,” Crypto murmurs in displeasure, resting his head on her shoulder, “The quiet was better,”

“Yeah, I’m with you,” Anita falls silent, leaning her head on top of his and drinking in the melody. She pulls back for a moment, her brows scrunch and her gaze drifts away as she focuses in on the music. He lifts his head, and as he’s about to ask what’s wrong, she speaks, softly.

“I think I know this song.”

Crypto shuts his mouth and strains to listen. He hears the beat, the tune, although the actual words elude him. The notes lead each other in a waltz, music twirling out off the balcony into the desert air, a lullaby, or maybe a love ballad. He doesn’t know where it’s from, and it’s different from his usual taste, but Anita must enjoy it, from the way she sways and nods along to it

She smiles at him and relaxes, taking a drink from her bottle and resting back on the metal, closing her eyes. Her mouth moves with the words of the song, reciting a long-engrained memory.

When the chorus peters out, she is left humming to the bridge. The double moons cast double lights onto her upturned face, silhouetting the slope of her nose, brows, and soft cheeks. The moonlight paints silver on her skin, every ridge and bone reflecting the glimmer of the night sky.

“Sounds like something we used to play at home. Could be wrong, though,” she says, setting the bottle at her side. Crypto sets his aside as well, turning his full attention to her.

”Back on Gridiron, we had this crate of discs,” Bangalore mimes a box with her hands, “Along with this vintage radio. An old hunk of a thing, big as the box itself, and just about as functional. They were our grandma’s, from her grandma, and hers before that. They’ve been in the family forever.”

Looking out over the desert, she continues, “You’d put in one of the discs, and it’d play music. Old stuff. Back from when they still made ‘em. Don’t see them around much anymore. I used to pick them up anytime I saw one, maybe in salvage or a second-hand store, and add it to the box. Then when Thanksgiving came around, or some other family dinner, we’d dig out the box and try out all the new ones. We all had a blast dancing around drunk on moonshine and full of cake.”

She tears her eyes away from the skyline, and turns to him, “I miss it, y’know. Them, mostly, but the little things too. Being able to annoy the hell out of my brothers. Grandma’s red velvet. The tacky oldies music, especially.”

Crypto nods, solemn, and reaches out to cup her cheek, fingertips brushing over her cheekbones. Losing family-it’s a pain he understands well, just not one he can fix. Or would even know how. Anita rests her hand atop his and tips her face against his palm. She knows this, knows their shared pain, knows how he wants to do something about it. Right now, what happened to their families is a wrong that can’t be righted. Though he wishes there was something he could do to ease the weight of it. For both of them.

Ideas strike him like lightning. He jerks up, nearly knocking his drink over, and pulls his hand away, already putting it to use digging through their backpack before Anita can so much as blink.

”Hold on,” Crypto says, and when she reaches out to him, he looks up at her, “Trust me.”

She watches with fond confusion as he pulls out what he was searching for. His laptop, which he flips open and boots up. It takes a minute, fingers tapping on its side in the meantime. As soon as the screen comes to life, he sets about finding the artist. He can, at the least, do this much.

Pulling up code, he types a bit, scrolls through the numbers some, and slips into the compound’s encrypted network like it’s butter and his weapon of choice is a hot knife. From there, it’s a matter of getting past the password-locked music app, and pulling up the corresponding artist’s page, which he slides over to her when he’s done.

“There, not hard to do,” he leans back into Anita as she adjusts the laptop to rest in her lap, “You said you recognized the music. Is that them?”

The real-time display totes the current song in the bottom corner, while a dark page lists the artist at the top, along with their songs below. Words scroll past as Anita takes control of the touchpad and flicks down the list. Eyebrows drawn together in focus, she scans page.

With a hum, and without taking her eyes off the screen, she says to Crypto, “The problem’s not that I don’t remember the songs, it’s that I don’t remember the titles. There’s a few that use the choruses as titles, I think. I’ll look for those.”

When she doesn’t seem to remember any right away, he presses a kiss to her cheek, and settles down onto her shoulder, content to stay snuggled into her side for the time being.

They stay like that for a while, nothing but the click of the keyboard and quiet music as one song ends and another begins. It’s peaceful, and if they weren’t out in the open like this, he’d have fallen asleep where he was.

Eventually, the arm underneath him jostles upward, and her warm voice calls him.

“TJ,” he lifts his head to see Anita gazing gently at him, “I found one.” He rubs his eyes and shifts upward off his place against her shoulder as she hits play.

The current song cuts off abruptly, causing a chorus of objections and confused cries to erupt from below. After a moment, the meandering music fades in and drifts above the stray noise, leaving them with only each other. Anita hums along, and Tae Joon feels his heart thrum.

“Used to dance to this one with my mom. It’s her favorite,” she pulls herself to her feet and holds out her hand to him, “C’mon. Can’t not dance to it.”

Crypto hesitates, arm half-risen at his side. He doesn’t dance. He doesn’t know how to, at least not the way she wants to. The closest he’s ever gotten to dancing is with Mila, bouncing around their shared room at a young age, or trying to learn choreographies with her, and badly, as Mystik watched from the doorway. But that was a long time ago, and they were young. This is different.

He’s about to say no, that he’d only make a fool out of himself, when she kneels down and takes his hands in hers.

She doesn’t pull him up, instead she brings them to her lips, humming still. Ever so lightly, she brushes the back of his hand with a kiss, and his stomach flips. Distantly, he realizes there’s someone singing, in the song, though it’s too quiet to make out the words. More presently, he realizes Anita is singing along, lowly, quietly, against his skin.

“Suitcase in your hand,” it comes out warmly, and his words catch in his throat as he feels her lips move, “Wave goodbye to mom and dad.”

That’s ironic, he’s pretty sure.

She turns it over, and presses a tender kiss to his palm, “Never thought I would see the back of you.”

Her voice is his favorite sound in the world, he decides. In a more poetic moment, he’d describe it as sugar and amber, like the sweet syrup she puts too much of on her pancakes, or the rising sun drifting through their window in the morning. For now, it takes his breath away and leaves his heart hammering.

She rises, and pulls him up. This time, he goes with her. He doesn’t need any more convincing.

“Mixtape’s wearing down,” she pulls him close and he takes a moment to reflect on how perfectly their hands fit together, “Crystal ships are sailing out.”

They’re close enough that he can feel her breath on his face when she sings, “Now the doors are opening for you.”

When she takes a step back away from their seat, and towards the flat expanse of the rest of the roof, he follows without question.

Hand in hand, she leads him out as she sings, “I wanna swim, swim out into the dark night,” each footstep in sync with the song.

“I wanna melt you down into the stars,” they take slow, deliberate steps. It’s in time with the steady flow of the music, low notes like a heartbeat.

“I wanna crumble, tumble, like a landslide.” as they reach the wide, open portion of the roof, she stops. One hand slips free of his, and finds its way to rest on his neck, fingers brushing over the shaved stubble of his undercut

She rests their foreheads together, and sings, “I wanna live, die, wherever you are.”

Crypto thrills at the touch, as he always does, and untangles his other hand to rest it tentatively at her waist. Yet again, he wonders how he got so lucky.

She dips down and brushes the corner of his mouth with a ghost of a kiss, “Just you and I.”

As the singer echoes the ending of the phrase, she presses her lips to his in a firm kiss that he doesn’t hesitate to return. With each ‘you and i’ that the song brings, she kisses him again. Peppers him with affection as they sway to the tune. A kiss to the cheek, the corner of his mouth, his nose, his lips again.

“Just you and I,” she hums against him before she pulls back, “Just you and I.”

Her thumb sweeps over his cheek as she cups his chin, her enamored gaze never leaving his. They sway in place to the music, and as the singing fades out, she hums to the tune.

In a way, he still can’t believe that he’s with her. He doesn’t know how a man like him ends up with someone like her.

She starts to sing again, voice sweet as honey, “Lovesick melody, carry my words across the sea.”

She looks at him like he’s the stars, eyes full of admiration and awe.

“Tell her I miss her,” her thumb drifts over his lips, “Tell her I’m torn in two.”

In the pit of his stomach, he has a feeling this is where he’s supposed to be.

“Salt burns in my eyes, none of these streets feel right tonight.”

Because being with her? It’s a tether in a storm, a lull in the chaos. It’s home.

“I’ll be your wild man, you’ll be my baby blue,” and when she kisses him again, he can feel her smile.

He loves it when she smiles, so he pulls her back in, and kisses her. Again, and again, and again, and he doesn’t stop. Not even as the song slips into the chorus again. The laugh she makes as he digs his fingers into her coat to keep her close, it’s enchanting, and he thinks, briefly, that hearing it again is worth any price.

He thinks that he’d do just about anything for her, anything to keep that smile on her face, anything to hear her sing again. Anything to remain by her side.

And then he stops thinking, because he’s back to kissing her, and that is far more important.

#apex legends #apex legends crypto #apex legends bangalore #apex writing collab #bangalore #crypto #tae joon park #dark barns courtney show me the forbidden slow songs #titanfall fans peep the one (1) line of dialogue..u kno the one #laz writes

10 notes · View notes

omgkatsudonplease · 5 years

Note

I love your YP LWJ ficlets, and I’m stunned that JYL is the one who gave MXY the ritual. Now the question is if JGY is still the villain in this or is it someone we don’t expect. I would love to see the meeting in Yunmeng post YP conversion if it’s changed. Thank you.

Apologies, I forgot to add this to my previous ask. 恭喜发财!

thank you!! as for jgy ;3c it’s mostly a canon divergence; all of these characters have the same base personalities as before, but some of them have shifted and changed because circumstances around them have changed… probably the most noticeable is lan xichen and nie mingjue (and lan xichen and jiang cheng) suddenly switching roles ahaha

but ofc not everyone changes, so,,,

Wei Wuxian looks up at the magnificent tea-house in Caiyi Town, apprehension curling in his gut as he looks back down on the scrap of paper that had been delivered to him by a raven this morning. Meet me, Lan Wangji had written in his careful script, followed by the location where he stands now.

Strange of Lan Wangji to pick a tea-house in Caiyi, but Wei Wuxian isn’t going to turn down the opportunity for a meal and the chance to see Lan Wangji again. Throughout the years it’d been him visiting Lan Wangji at the Cloud Recesses, where he’d been tucked into his rooms with no other visitors or anyone else wanting to check on him, but even the most homebody of cultivators might still go stir-crazy sometimes.

Lan Wangji never spoke much during those meetings. Wei Wuxian would usually do the talking for both of them, over tea and small games of weiqi. Lan Wangji would always soundly beat him for the first couple rounds, only to be defeated by Wei Wuxian in the last game. Wei Wuxian suspects those victories are usually Lan Wangji letting him win, but he says nothing about it.

He’s gotten a lot calmer in the years since he recovered his core. He’s not quite sure why.

He enters the tea-house, and is escorted upstairs to a private room. Lan Wangji is already waiting for him, tea set and weiqi laid out ready to go. Wei Wuxian smiles brightly, taking a seat across from him.

“So, Lan Zhan, maybe this time I’ll finally beat you.”

“Unlikely,” replies Lan Wangji, already pouring them both cups of tea. Wei Wuxian laughs at that, tapping the table in thanks as he receives his cup.

“No need to crush my hopes and dreams out the gate like this, Lan Zhan,” he teases, placing the first black piece onto the board. One corner of Lan Wangji’s lips twitch slightly upwards, before he places down a white one on his side.

The game is relatively quiet, companionable. Lan Wangji’s gaze is brooding, contemplative; Wei Wuxian could almost pretend that they were teenagers again, spending an afternoon in Caiyi playing weiqi together. Of course, when he was younger he would never have had any patience for the game, preferring instead to load his arms with sweets and Emperor’s Smile and drift his afternoon away in a boat down the town’s many canals. But the thought still persists.

(Maybe if he pretends hard enough, Lan Wangji would still be clad in white. Still a jade of the Gusu Lan sect, revered and respected by all. But pretenses have to drop at some point.)

“How have you been?” he asks. “It’s been a while since I last visited you. You never come to Yunmeng. I’d almost have thought you didn’t care about me.”

Lan Wangji’s fingers tremble slightly, but he says nothing, only places down another piece.

“How’s your… path been going for you? I’m worried about you, you know. Walking the one-plank bridge like this, without the support you’ve been used to all your life – it must be lonely.”

Even when he was considered unapproachable and pure, Hanguang-jun had never been truly lonely. He had his brother, his uncle, the entire sect holding him on a pedestal of lofty expectations. But now? Wei Wuxian surveys Lan Wangji as he places his piece, trying to capture a small cadre of white ones.

Lan Wangji in turn captures him quite quickly.

“Come to Yunmeng with me,” suggests Wei Wuxian, though he has some idea what the answer will be.

And sure enough: “No,” replies Lan Wangji, though his hands are still shaking with something barely suppressed.

“Why not? We can hunt pheasants, chase after pretty girls, drink wine – surely now that you’re the black sheep of your clan you won’t mind breaking some more rules?”

“Liquor is prohibited,” mumbles Lan Wangji, though Wei Wuxian suspects he’s still reciting Lan sect rules for the old familiarity of them. He’s already broken so many other ones.

“We don’t have to,” he says. “We could do the other things without the wine. Please, Lan Zhan? You look like you could use a break.”

“I am on break,” says Lan Wangji, capturing even more of his pieces.

“What are you like when you’re not on break? What do you even study now, now that you’re walking the demonic path?” Wei Wuxian examines his face closely, as if hoping he’d be able to detect any signs of what Lan Wangji might be up to in the flicker of his topaz eyes. “Do you look for new and exciting ways to raise the dead? I mean, it’s all the same in the end, right? A dead person comes back to life. Big whoop.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes flash ruby. His knuckles turn white against his teacup.

Wei Wuxian grins. “Come on, Lan Zhan. What have you been up to? You can tell me.”

Lan Wangji remains silent, though his fingers tremble as they place another piece. Wei Wuxian sighs, and captures some of his pieces.

“You know, I never thought it could be possible, given how it’s so forbidden to the rest of us, but I can’t believe you managed to make demonic cultivation boring. That’s got to be a new feat.”

At that, the weiqi board goes flying, along with the pieces themselves. They rain across the floor, scattering everywhere in all directions. Wei Wuxian barely has time to look up before Lan Wangji is upon him, his lips pressed tight against Wei Wuxian’s.

Now this is something Wei Wuxian understands a little better.

Lan Wangji had not kissed him again since the hunt at Baifeng Mountain, but since then Wei Wuxian had not thought of kissing anyone else but him. Desire clouds his mind, makes him throw the last vestiges of restraint out the window as he wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s shoulders. In turn, Lan Wangji pins him hard against the ground, opening his mouth almost like a demand.

“Lan Zhan, when did you learn how to kiss like this?” Wei Wuxian wonders, when they break apart. “And at Baifeng Mountain, too – did you practice with someone?”

“No,” says Lan Wangji, chasing Wei Wuxian’s lips with soft, chaste pecks. “Only you.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” says Wei Wuxian, pressing their foreheads together. “Same here. You stole my first kiss, Lan Zhan. Please return it.”

Lan Wangji exhales, his mouth twitching into a half-smile before he leans in and does just that. Wei Wuxian’s hands move through the folds of Lan Wangji’s black robes, tugging insistently at his belt. In turn, Lan Wangji makes short work of Wei Wuxian’s Yunmeng robes as well, fingers deftly undoing laces and ties until Wei Wuxian can shrug out of his clothes and place Lan Wangji’s hands on his already heated skin.

“Wei Ying,” chokes out Lan Wangji, his eyes unexpectedly shining with tears. Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow at him.

“What’s wrong, Lan Zhan?” he asks. “Don’t you want this?”

Lan Wangji swallows, nods. He wipes his eyes briefly with his sleeve, before shrugging out of his robes as well and bringing Wei Wuxian’s body close to his. Wei Wuxian gasps at the first spark of skin on skin, arching into Lan Wangji’s touch with a soft moan.

Wei Wuxian had grown up with many different ideas of how his first time would’ve been like. When he was younger, of course, it had always been with some beautiful girl whose name he’d never know, whose face keeps changing depending on the season. After Baifeng Mountain, though, it had invariably been Lan Wangji, but even then he’d have expected a bed at the very least. Not like this: amidst a sea of black-and-white weiqi tiles, and Lan Wangji’s guqin-calloused fingers working him open until he’s certain he could not go any further.

“Lan Zhan, please,” he begs. “Stop teasing me and just get to it already.”

Lan Wangji freezes, a shadow briefly flickering over his face. His eyes flash red – Wei Wuxian shivers – and then he’s thrusting forward, breaching Wei Wuxian in a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain.

He had always expected Lan Wangji to be gentle, too. Perhaps it came from the regal grace he exhibited even as Hanguang-jun, or maybe his alleged prudishness. But this is so much better than he could have ever imagined. Lan Wangji fucks him with a desperation Wei Wuxian can feel in every thrust, as if the world will end if he stops – and Wei Wuxian is certain, when Lan Wangji’s cock brushes against that spot his fingers kept teasing earlier, that it might if he does.

Soon, his remaining cogent thoughts fall by the wayside. The room fills with nothing more than the sound of skin against skin and Wei Wuxian’s breathless moans.

He’s not sure how long he lasts, or how long Lan Wangji lasts. It could have been minutes, or hours for all he knows. But when Lan Wangji does come, it is with a soft gasp of Wei Wuxian’s name, followed by a half-choked sob. Wei Wuxian, in turn, comes with his fingers fisted in Lan Wangji’s hair, fingers tangling in the faded Gusu Lan ribbon still tying his hair back.

Lan Wangji kisses his forehead before he goes to find a cloth to clean them both. Wei Wuxian lies for a moment longer on the makeshift bed of his own clothes, his heart still rabbiting furiously in his chest.

“Is this why you brought me here?” he teases, as Lan Wangji cleans his abdomen and thighs with remarkable gentleness. The other cultivator’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing more, only pops a soft peck onto Wei Wuxian’s shoulder before placing the first of his undergarments over it.

When they are both decently clothed again, Wei Wuxian laughs as he examines the mess the rest of the room has suffered. “We should probably pick up the tiles,” he laments. Lan Wangji hums, kneeling down to do just that.

The tea has long since gone cold, but Wei Wuxian’s heart is the warmest it’s felt in ages.

#yiling patriarch lwj au #魔道祖师 #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #lily's dabbles #red envelope ficlets #ask #ladylilyanne #naughty #this is like at least 30% influenced by suspiciouspopsicle's a day in series #i just love that entire series ok

78 notes · View notes

rkmason · 5 years

Photo

▰▰▰▰▰▰ TO ALL THE PEOPLE THAT HATE ME, LET ME SAY GOODBYE ˟ ( LET IT GO, I DON’T CARE ‘BOUT NOTHING, SO WHAT ) ▰▰▰▰▰▰

“your father was right. your studio is a mess.”

hands thrown up in the air, he shakes his head. this is what happens whenever he lets anyone from his family take a look, he guesses. he left seoul after the first few comeback performances of confused with his father and came back just in time for every night with his mother. she’s the one most willing to make jokes at his expense. jokes like “hey good choice” while gesturing at the stage during their performance or “she sings so much better than you” when listening to the album would hurt a helluva lot more comin’ from anyone else but his ma.

“i’m surprised you have anything resembling books in here.”

okay, this time he has to say “ma” which only gets him a mocking echo of his tone and a shake of her shoulders. but he does feel the need to look into what she’s talking about and he finds remnants from the years, half-used notepads and scraps of paper tossed into a corner of the studio for ‘sorting when he had the time’ which translated to ‘never gonna happen.’

finding the original napkin he started writing statue on is surreal when he’s finally finished it by now, finally sang it for mijoo months ago even if it was only a recording. his mom snatches it from his hand and he groans as she reads it off, the words of the initial draft too embarrassing for him to handle. covering his ears with his hands, he yells over her, a childish la la la la la can’t hear you loud enough to echo throughout the whole warehouse if not for the immaculate design of the built-in room. pays off having an architect father, really does.

it’s only later than he goes through the rest of the scraps, having gathered them into a box. his mother is off meeting up with some old friends because she’s quote ‘gotten tired of seeing her least favorite idol son [ to which he reminds her that he is the only one and an ex-idol, which aha is what she wanted him to say judging by the smug, amused look on her face— gee, thanks ma, no holding back there ] unquote, so he’s free to look at them all.

that’s when a few texts come in and he’s distracted for better or worse.

< ✉ : adonis johnson >

» hey hey have you heard about the trc triple threat competition » i’m not saying you should join but » pretty sure you can sing, dance, and rap 🙌

it’s a lofty suggestion considering his situation, is he even allowed to do that kind of shit? he didn’t think to ask sphere when he left and the companies are under the same umbrella company. would they bother with him? who cares about a washed-up idol that got kicked out within months of debut?

but he can’t say that to chanyeol, least of all him when he’s sunshine and rainbows in a giant human form. it’d be nice to debut together, their entire friend dream had this same kind of lofty dream too. now yien and yixing are in convex without him, chanyeol is in trc, bobby is off doing his own thing, and rome can’t make up his mind from left and right. trying to come off as a triple threat? yeah, sure he was definitely a threat to convex with his scandal.

'course he knows better than to think it’ll end there and he hears all about it from dabin too. the difference being, dabin is going to do it. “you can decide if you’re waiting in line with me or watching me from the crowd.” he almost punches dabin’s arm for deliberately saying it in a way that’ll remind him of what baek jiyoung said to him before. is he willing to be a face in the crowd again? is that really his destiny? does he give up here or not?

truth is, he’s made his choice before coming back from australia. because he could’ve stayed, could’ve gone on that trip with chris, could’ve gone back to uni. he left behind a list of could’a, should’a, wouldn’t, and it’s about more than coming back to seoul for mijoo. it was about him loving dance and whether he follows through on opening his own dance studio, working in someone else’s, or helping the guys produce and edit videos, this can’t be it for him.

“i don’t have a song to use, man. i’ve got nothing.”

“you’ve got me,” the cheeky grin chanyeol gives him makes him laugh and he’s shaking his head. but it’s what chanyeol says next that’s got him. “you’ve got excuses.”

dabin is quick to add in that of all the things rome’s done and said, he’s never had nothing.

so he’s back in front of that damned box, digging through for inspiration and he says this is it, if he can’t find anything, he’ll see it as good reason to keep working hard ‘til he’s ready instead of forcing it.

what he does find is something he wrote as a whim, something he never finished before. the idea came to him once and he was going to work on it with yerim years ago but plans fell to the wayside. his idea got lost, buried under everything, and when he reads the start again, the rework of the melody plays in his mind. yeah, this is it.

his studio becomes messier once he gets to work and instead of complaining or making fun of him, his mom brings him food on one of the nights he’s working past 4am to finish in time. it has to sound just right and while he knows it can’t sound complete without the entire group he has in mind for the performance, he can make it work for this one in particular. “my hard working little princess,” his mom teases when he tells her the song he’s remixing and he laughs harder when the reaction chanyeol gives him is “WTF” via text. the final reveal is only for the day of and he’s endured all the new jokes for this moment, jokes of should he wear a blue tiara, a cape, or even a sparkly blue dress. every time, he said it’s okay, he’d just take it off so he can “let it go” anyway.

even though he said all that, dabin shakes an icy looking tiara in his face on the day of, lining up with him, and rome yells ya whenever dabin tries to put it on his head until he gets tired of it, giving in and letting it rest there to the point that he forgets when it’s his turn. the laughs and giggles from the crowd tips him off when he gets onstage and he’s chuckling as he holds it in place when he bows. might as well go with it, right? why the hell not?

“the name’s yu barom. i go by bboybyu or rome. romeo’s good too if you like tragedies,” he jokes, both about the shakespearean tale and what happened. “i’m here ‘cause, aw man, i just can’t hold it back anymore.” he’d asked the staff with a number of “please” and “thank you” to start the music when he said aw man, and he’s tossing the tiara to the side as he sings, let it go let it go.

00:06 to 01:14

like the last performance he’d felt so into, the last performance that was entirely his own, his own stage, one of the last evaluations they did for convex before going into the debut album preparation, he sings first, trying to throw off the judges who probably expect him to shy away from it. lord knows, he thought he would too but what’s a cover of let it go without singing even a little?

the wall people built to lock me up pretending to be okay because of people’s eyes on me i learned while falling have you ever had a feeling like everyday, you’re walking on thin ice

the first time he wrote the lyrics, it’d been who he was in high school, how he felt after the mgas, how he felt in nova, and now it’s about how he feels after leaving convex and sphere. his father had a point, he does act like he’s okay but really he’s walking on thin ice, faking it until he tricks even himself into believing.

oh i want to get away from the things that bother me oh let it go, let it be me become alive and breathe in this freedom look closely at how far i will go to the people that hate me, let me say goodbye

he almost decided to run away from everything. it would’ve been easy, go back to sydney like nothing happened, but this can’t be it. every time he thinks it could be, he keeps going.

don’t let them in don’t let them see be the good boy you always have to be conceal, don’t feel don’t let them know well now they know

TURN UP let it go, let it let it go let it go, let it let it go I DON’T CARE ‘BOUT NOTHING SO WHAT

this is where he really shines, his true element. this is what his father really spoke of, how rome doesn’t let anything hold him back in the long run and he has to let it go. this time, this is how he does it. this is how he moves on.

“let’s switch it up!”

00:07 to 00:45

the lyrics are changed to be more public-audience friendly but the connection to frozen is why he chose it but the main reason? it’s fun. most of it he made up on whim in a few hours, freestyle that gave way to a choreography. the power behind his movements aren’t his top priority the way his style used to be but it’s about fluidity, about his transitions, and how he ends it with a grin. yeah, he let it go.

#rkttc2 #.solo #.audition #rkmijoo #rkpcy #kdfhkf before i forget #temp for the gfx linked #arc:aftermath

10 notes · View notes

defunctblogtobedeleted · 3 years

Text

05/27/2021, 05:58 am - new ends, new beginnings

I’m approaching the precipice of departure.

In 4 short weeks my time in North Carolina will finally be coming to an end. I suppose it’s only appropriate that this blog is coming to an end as well.

I always meant to catch up with what quarantine was doing. but getting back together with jill and watching a million shows and playing games weren’t exactly noteworthy writings. Even still it almost seemed like it’d be a cool time piece, since it was a pretty historic event, the year we spent indoors.

Instead I found the inspiration to take weilin up on learning how to code. I quit my job in february, and I’m spending the next year bouncing around friends and families houses hoping to practice hard enough that I can get a good job next year. switch careers. get out of healthcare and into a new field where I can actually take advantage of the potential I have.

It’s kind of sad to be wrapping this blog up. I never really expected to end it. But to be honest I’m kind of afraid of its continued existence. Not for the personal shame or anything, but for the first time I’m seeking out work in a field where they might try to pore over this content and deem me unfit.

Pretty weak and fearful a reason. Maybe I am a little embarrassed. Partially of my obsession with andi at the end, moreso my potential objectification and degradation of the physical form. We all need to grow up from our mistakes, but I’d rather my growth continue to be personal and not corporate, I suppose. I just am so afraid of it being tied to my online personas and divulging more personal content than I’m comfortable with. Even more afraid than my fetlife for some reason. It’s weird, my fet is so much more explicit, and yet I feel like it’s so much less compromising lmao. Maybe that’s foolhardy logic though.

I’m really sad. Goodbyes are always the hardest. And the worst part is every time I get sappy and start to cry a little I think of that time at Brown summer camp when I cried in my dorm with the door open and two more popular kids saw me and laughed. I could have been crying about anything, though. Maybe they’re just assholes. But I get embarrassed nonetheless.

The relationships I’ve built up here in NC I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. I really hope I manage to keep them going long distance. Unfortunately I know many of my smash friends are fallen to the wayside already... bar friends from greensboro forgotten... raleigh friends soon to be departed... but there are the few from each avenue of life that will stay in touch, I’m sure.

It’s sad that many of my thoughts these days are plagued by how frustrated I get with my roommates’ behavior, and moreso how they’re similar to my own and how I regret how I once acted. I wish I had spent more time with Aaron and Ash instead of trying to start those weird streaming ambitions. I wish I had been quieter when playing league and hadn’t kept my downstairs neighbors and jstu up all night when I lived in brewer. I wish I had been a better person when speaking of the opposite sex when I was drunk in gboro. I wish I had been more tolerant and understanding of andi’s mental health issues, and less of a bitch about money all the time. I wish I hadn’t been so shitty to Kailey when things were over and I was resentful and angry, and I wish I had been more vocal and deliberate about the boundaries that I had set, and more understanding when they were crossed because they were so arbitrarily and lackadaisically set. I wish I had done my goddamn dishes the same night I made them dirty at literally ANY other point in my life prior to now. God, I’m such an excuse making lazy fuck lmao. But here we are. And I own all my mistakes and there’s no way to make amends than to continue to become a better person every day.

It’s too hard to end things. I meant to split things off with Jill at the end of March. and April. and now may. But as excited as I am to move on to independent living and focusing on myself and my work, I really haven’t been able to bring myself to tell her I can’t see her anymore. Why can’t I just be stronger and work harder on myself AND spend time watching shows with her? well poor self control, for sure. Why can’t we continue to see each other long distance or something? mmph. I don’t know. Jill’s character has developed a lot and she really has authentically taken an interest in many of the things I love, and it’s brought us closer together. We put 420 hours into the witcher 3 and it was one of the best gaming experiences I’ve ever had in my life. But I still don’t see us compatible long term, and our sex life has faltered from month to month. I guess I am excited for something new. Will I always? I still wonder if I’m destined to be alone, like my father or (maternal) grandfather. Get it from both sides, I suppose.

To be honest I still daydream that one of my last days here I can hang out with MJ and have a one night stand. I don’t even know why anymore. We’ve sort of stayed in touch through quarantine. The only bar friend who really has, I suppose. But with quarantine that’s as much my fault as anyones. for the first time in my life I’m not seeking people out and checking in, pursuing friendship or time together. But I don’t know MJ still kind of fascinates me. I always wonder what would’ve happened if I had tried to make out with her the first time we met... but alas.

I kind of see this year of being 29 as a redemption arc for myself, academically. See if I can really be successful and actually try, put aside all the social ambitions and dedicate myself to something better. Staying with my friends and family makes it easier, I think. I’ll get to catch up and live with some of the people I’ve cared most about in my life. Sad that I never really felt comfortable asking if I could stay with manu maya and christina though... with their new baby on the way I’m just worried it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to crash on one of their couches. I don’t want to be a burden on them or anything, and I know as good as a houseguest as I intend on being at everywhere I stay I’m just... not... that good. I’m so much better than I was a decade ago, even half a decade ago. I’m finally an adult lmao. But it seems like only in the rearview mirror am I able to see how frustrating a person I am to deal with on a long term scale.

Maybe I’m not as bad as I think... Jill seems to enjoy my company now... But now that I’m unemployed I feel myself starting to fall into annoying greedy money behavior. She offered to pay for me to get sushi a couple weeks ago and really nearly started bawling. I cant afford to reciprocate anymore and it had felt so freeing to actually have a shred of money to throw around with my old job. and it’s so touching that she understands how I feel and really just wants to help me how she can. I’ve finally gotten over feeling like I can’t take anything from her and over my savior complex of trying to help her, but it still feels pretty sad to be the one that needs help again.

But I guess I did pay for our vacation to lake week, which was a blast as usual. It’s not as one sided as I imagine, it just always feels worse than it is.

Soon things will be better, though. I have confidence in myself that I’ll be successful, and this will be one of the best undertakings I’ve ever done. I’ll find a new path for myself, and reach a new height in this silly capitalist conventional life, and all the happy little tidings that come with it.

Also random thought, but my DUI finally worked out, but I’m not gonna publish that story anyway due to laziness. Just cost another $1000 having to go through trial. Fuck the legal system, fuck capitalism, fuck the government. I’m ready for the singularity to occur and for machines to take over the earth and I’ll just be a little housepet for them, communicating in my scraps of javascript lmfao.

There’s so much more potential than I ever had. Even with my RPSGT and knowing I could go to work anywhere, there was too much inertia here to actually want to move away. Now, I can really go wherever opportunity takes me. And once I find a career somewhere maybe I’ll find new romance and friendship and excitement. But with google moving down here I wonder if I’m just destined to come back, eventually. Who knows.

But for the first time in a long time I’m ready to break free and put my all into becoming something new.

Wish me luck 💕💕 I’m gonna need it.

0 notes

greenishbucket · 7 years

Text

For Always

The wintery morning light is still so pale where it comes in through the window. Lardo can think of a million things they could do today alone, big and small and everything in between.

1.6k, also on ao3

Lardo wakes up for about half a minute when Ford gets out of bed at a quarter past five to shower.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Ford says, a little husky from her own sleep, before Lardo has even got out her usual garbled oh shit dude it’s so fucking early why do you do this go back to sleep oh god.

“Mmmnuhgh,” Lardo says in reply, wriggling over to the warmth left behind where Ford had been and wrapping the blankets tighter around herself.

Ford bangs her toe against the bedside cabinet in the dark and swears loudly and efficiently, disembodied in the still dark room, and Lardo finds herself making some grossly fond face into the pillow. She just catches the beginnings of Ford’s almost-tuneful shower singing before the fact that it’s fucking five in the morning pulls her back into sleep.

Of course, once she’s been woken up once she’s not gonna be able to go back to sleep for long. Ford always makes sure to close the front door extra quiet like Lardo’s a baby she’s just got down to nap so Lardo usually misses her leaving but before long the neighbourhood wakes up and brings noise with it. When Lardo wakes up the second time, the apartment is still and cold and quiet, even for all the rumble of cars and people outside, and for a moment she feels kinda desolate.

It lasts for about a second. The side of the bed she’s migrated over to still smells like Ford’s products – and not enough like their detergent, she notes, so they’re probs going to need to change the sheets sometime soon – and it’s still early enough that she can feel the possibilities of the day stretching out before her. As much as Lardo likes to sleep in until the sun actually rises, she knows she always turns snappy and irritable when she wakes up way late to a day half gone.

Ford’s forgotten again to crack the window open to allow the shower steam out when Lardo makes it to the bathroom and the whole place, floor to walls to toilet seat, is slick with condensation. Lardo is going to make a sign and get it laminated and stick it somewhere Ford can’t miss, just so there’s more than a 20 percent chance they’ll get their deposit back if they ever want to move.

The air is shockingly cold when she pushes the stiff window open and Lardo wants to brush her teeth extra hard, plus mouthwash, and then take a deep breath in like she was a kid. When she does it sears her throat enough to make her eyes water, the mouthwash they have now a lot stronger than the for-kids version her mom had supervised her through using way back when.

She’s pretty sure the sweats and hoodie she pulls on after her own shower are both further down the line of should-this-go-in-laundry than she’d like to admit, but neither actively smell bad so Lardo figures she can stretch it out for today at least.

The kitchen is a lot colder than the humidity of the bathroom; they both forgot to pull the blinds down the night before. Again. Fuck knows what their neighbours have seen going on in their kitchen over the years.

Lardo’s just checking the apples in the fruit bowl through a series of pokes and squeezes when there’s the familiar scrabble-whine-clunk of the lock mechanism’s slow death – one day, they’re either gonna get locked out or locked in and everyone in their contacts is going to reply with nothing but a ‘told you so’, Lardo can sense it – and the sound of Ford throwing her embarrassing running fanny pack in the pile of bags.

She’s all glistening with sweat still when she comes in from the hall. Lardo appreciates most sport at a level of sorta to actual personal enjoyment, but her appreciation for Ford’s running is a heavy part aesthetic. Ford energised and keen and sporty in the still-early light in their kitchen strikes something emotional in Lardo’s chest, sure, because sometimes it’s still something to grasp that they’re really doing this, but as a concept it also falls pretty perfectly on the line between wow I wanna art her and wow I wanna make out with her. It’s a tricky balance but, in honesty, it plays a big part in how little Lardo complains about being woken up at bullshit hours three times a week, if the way Ford bounces on the balls of her feet when she talks about her running bros wasn’t enough.

“You’re up,” Ford says, pleased, like Lardo isn’t always up when she gets back, apart from the times where she only goes to sleep a little before Ford leaves.

Ford smells strongly of sweat when she leans in to fill her water bottle up in the sink and kisses Lardo on the cheek, but at least it’s the fresh and clean kind and not the stale and embedded kind that both of them swear they still catch a whiff of sometimes, hockey-kit free though their apartment may be. Lardo would try and pull Ford in for a for real kiss, because energised and keen and sporty and hot, but she’d just taken a bite of the least squishy apple and now juice is running all down her chin where Ford jostled her.

Ford wipes at the juice with her thumb for her, amused and apologetic, and says, “I’m going to shower and then we should eat.”

Lardo holds up her apple.

“Actual breakfast, I’m starving,” Ford clarifies. “Plus those apples are all mushy and grainy, I meant to cut them up for the birds the other day.”

Lardo shrugs; the apple tastes a little weird, but not too bad.

Ford’s singing isn’t as audible from the kitchen, but Lardo lets the hum of the pipes keep her company instead as she tries to piece together something filling from the remains of their grocery trip two and a bit weeks ago. It’s been a busy period, both of them in and out of the house at all kinda hours and too exhausted to do much but curl up on the couch in shared peace and quiet each evening, and groceries have fallen to the wayside pretty badly.

Breakfast manages to be toast: a savoury slice each with tomato-y paste and one slice of chicken on it for Lardo and two chicken slices for Ford because protein, and a dessert slice each with the last scraps of an apricot jam from Bitty spread as evenly as Lardo can. She puts some cereal bars by Ford’s plate to make up for it, and fills two mugs with the only herbal tea they can both agree on, feeling a mix of pride and warm, comfortable familiarity when she sets the mugs down not thirty seconds before Ford comes back from the shower.

“We need to get some groceries, huh?” she says, taking a seat and a bite of the savoury toast enthusiastically enough all the same.

“We’re all out of cereal, fruit, most vegetables, juice, almost all the bread and the milk,” Lardo confirms. “And we have a fuck load of rice but about a handful of pasta.”

“What about pancakes?” Ford asks. “We have the ingredients for those, don’t we?”

Lardo could spot the sneaky teasing look in Ford’s eye a mile off. “So it’s gotta be pancakes now? Stale chicken tomato apricot toast isn’t good enough?”

“Hey, I ran so much today already. Like, all the runs.”

“Out of your own choice,” Lardo reminds her. “You could’ve slept in with me. I can think of some fitness stuff we coulda done instead.”

Ford kicks Lardo under the table, leaves her bare ankle against Lardo’s after. “You don’t know the shame of the ‘we missed you!’ wall. I deserve pancakes and sex just for the exhaustion of having that hanging over me.”

“If you wanted pancakes and sex you shouldn’t have signed up for a running club that starts at the asscrack of dawn,” Lardo says, mock-sniffy as she can be around a mouthful of toast. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood anymore.”

Ford sighs and says, forlorn, “Where did the romance go, all that spark. They’re right, it all dries up in the end,” but her ankle is still pressed against Lardo’s and the corner of her mouth is turned up slyly, mutedly, like she can’t help it. When Lardo makes an unimpressed face at her, the smile emerges for real, her cheeks all bunched up like in the photos Ford’s mom insists on pulling out whenever they visit.

The wintery morning light is still so pale where it comes in through the window. Lardo can think of a million things they could do today alone, big and small and everything in between.

“Let’s go grocery shopping, and then we can buy something with a fuck load of sugar and split it after we have sex but before we have to get back to, like, actually doing shit,” Lardo says, the day unfolding in her mind. “How’s that for romance?”

“Be still my beating heart,” Ford says, dry, and steals the crusts of Lardo’s toast that she was gonna get to in a minute.

There’s a moment, then, where Lardo remembers time ago would have been the moment they would have shared an I love you, back when saying the words still had a sickening, jittery, breathless rush. It passes. They don’t need to, now; Lardo knows it like a bedrock truth.

Ford huffs a laugh to herself as she scrolls through her phone, mugs still half-full of still steaming tea between them on the table, and Lardo sketches out in her mind the laminated bathroom sign she’s gonna make so Ford remembers to open the damn window. She can already hear the way Ford will laugh, bright and caught out, and march back out to Lardo with the offending sign in hand, probs wrapped in the same ugly multicolored towel she’s had since undergrad, like a certainty.

#my writing #check please fic #uhhhhh #fordo

38 notes · View notes

bravegirlwrites · 6 years

Text

painted rocks

I have lived in western Washington for over half my life now and I’ve learned a thing or two from all the rain. Getting wet is inevitable, for one, so there’s really no need to arm myself with an umbrella at all times. It can stay stashed in the trunk of my car underneath the pile of Amazon boxes I’ve been meaning to recycle or remain forever lost in the back nether regions of my coat closet, useless and unused.

I’ve also learned that in the wintertime when the rain relents, it’s go time. Never mind that it may still be 35 degrees outside, so cold I’m surrounded by smoky clouds of my own breath. The moment I notice that the puddles outside are still and smooth as glass, no longer rippling with split second bullet marks from the rain’s merciless falling, I’m outside. It may seem a bit overboard, staying on such high alert during the darker, drearier months, ready to pounce on any scrap of sunlight or clear sky Nature sends my way. But I’ve yet to find a better way to ensure that I do not spend the whole of winter stowed away inside.

Which is why I found myself at Fish Park the other day, one of December’s first, dropping bits of Chex Mix into my children’s open, waiting mouths like they were baby birds. The miserably cold air bit at their hands each time they braved the outside of their tiny pockets, rendering them helpless to eat the picnic lunch I’d packed all on their own. Without a single raindrop in sight though, I’d led the charge to explore the outdoors while we had the chance.

Fish Park sits close to our house, just a two minute drive through the heart of our small town’s main street to get there. Void of any swings or slides, or the splash of primary colored handprint murals that seem the hallmark of any thoughtfully constructed community playground, there’s only wide open wetlands and winding paths throughout. My kids love to walk here, feet stomping fast upon the gravel spread smooth in neat lines, bounding down the boardwalks built up over every mushy place. Mostly we look for rocks.

Our community has a program where people paint rocks and then hide them in any number of public places for others to find. We’ve planted plenty of our own stony masterpieces, but nothing is more fun than stumbling upon the surprise of one that’s been left behind by someone else. I usually spot them first, slight specks of bright shooting through the sandy browns of nature. The kids will stop sword fighting with sticks or hunting in the tall grasses for any manner of wildlife and follow my hints to the end, where the newfound treasure lays waiting to belong to them. (Except for the two times when I’ve kept my mouth shut and snagged the rock for myself. One purple hued, with ‘Be Free’ brushed boldly across the top; a second, emblazoned with a giant red bow and the words ‘Love Yourself’).

During our last visit, I knew the freezing cold and never-ending string of rainy days meant any continued searching would be fruitless. No one was taking the time to carefully conceal rocks just for the fun of it in these conditions. Still, as my kids busied themselves seeing how far they could stray from me while remaining in my line of sight (family rule #4), I couldn’t help but scan every inch of ground around my plodding feet in hopes of spying just a bit of color. With each step my pursuit grew both in purpose and in passion, and though barely twenty paces from the trailhead, I completely lost myself in seeking. I mean, I was really going for it, even attempting to administer the law of attraction I’d read about in my husband’s battered copy of The Secret. (I will find a rock. I know it. I will find a rock.)

I feel compelled to side step my little story here and fill you in. As a young child my parents led me to Jesus, and in so doing, gave me Everything. All the other stuff that came along with being raised in a conservative, evangelical Christian home was simply part of the package. Spiritual warfare was a whole big thing and I had a pretty far-reaching knowledge of demons, hell and (worst of all!) backsliding before my age was even in the double digits. I never let my eyes scan the horoscopes in the newspaper for more than a passing second in fear that some black voodoo magic might lob onto me and never let me go, and at birthday parties when someone pulled out a ouija board, I’d go sit in the corner by myself and wait out all the debauchery until the game was over. I understood that dark, demonic forces were very real and that I could never be quite sure which MTV show or secular song they lurked in. Every single religion besides Christianity, even Catholicism (sorry guys, so close), was also lumped into Bad Stuff That Isn’t Good Or True. The lines drawn in the sand for me were hard and fast. Buddhism? You might as well be a witch.

This is why employing the power of my own mind and using visualization as a tool in order to scout out a painted rock in the park made me laugh at myself. Emily of 1999 (hell, even the Emily of 2012), would never be caught participating in such sinful schemes. Back then I wouldn’t have opened up the front cover of The Secret, dismissing it without even reading it because it wasn’t the Bible and that made it Bad. God’s clued me in on some of my own ignorance since then, and as He’s continued to draw me closer and closer to Himself, a lot of the ‘hard and fast’ has fallen by the wayside. A lot of the fear, too.

So I walked and I walked, looking high and low all over Fish Park, trying to maintain a responsible enough watch on my kiddos while envisioning the rock I just knew lay waiting for me to find it. The sight of it formed crystal like in my mind: small, smooth, rich glossy paint, the word ‘YOU’ sprawled across the top. Suddenly I was searching for myself, or rather some way in which to commemorate the hunt that’d become the whole of my life in this last season. A sense of urgency began to grow within me, more excitement than panic because I knew the rock would turn up, even if it wasn’t till my very last step before hopping in the car to leave.

Except it didn’t. There were no painted rocks. And then it was time to go.

The sun had teased us the entire time we were there, shining forth in spurts and slivers for minutes at a time, until finally it seemed to cover itself in clouds for good and we all realized just how frozen cold we were. Immediately, we hightailed it back to the parking lot where our car waited with its glorious warm heat. While the kids piled in and fumbled to do their buckles with their numb, little fingers, I stooped down and scraped at the packed dirt, prying free a rock. It took a nearby stick to get the job done, and my coat and hands were dirtied in the process, but still I picked it up and brought it home with me.

Later, after a quick rinse in my kitchen sink and time to dry, (and also a special trip to the store just for a new art brush), I painted it. Blue, both bright and deep, with the word ‘YOU’ scripted on top in cool, clear white.

When my husband came home from work that evening, I shared my search with him, including a description of the rock I’d been visualizing in my mind. Before I was able to add the detail of my disappointment, we were interrupted by a whole host of whines and groans when the kids came into the kitchen looking for dinner. Our conversation picked back up after I’d started heating up the Costco package of pulled pork (did I mention I’m a gourmet chef?), but by then we’d moved on to another subject.

It wasn’t until much later, as I was readying to head to bed, that my husband came across the rock I’d painted laying on the windowsill in the kitchen. Calling out to me from across the house he said, “Oh hey, you ended up finding your rock, your YOU!”

And by then I’d realized that I had.

2 notes · View notes

readingraebow · 5 years

Photo

Les Misérables Section Eleven

Part 5: Books 4-9

1. Why does Javert feel so conflicted? Because he let Jean Valjean go. And because Jean Valjean let him go. He saved Jean Valjean's life because Jean Valjean first saved his life. But as a law enforcement man, he knows he should go back and arrest Jean Valjean. But he can't. And he feels that he is worse than a criminal. Especially since he realizes the life Jean Valjean has been living and that he's good and deserves to keep his life. And Javert can't handle this conflict and throws himself into the river.

2. How does M. Gillenormand respond to Marius’s announcement that he wants to marry Cosette? Marius was all ready for it to be a fight when he announced that he wanted to get married and his grandfather was just like "I know." Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And easily accepted Marius's marriage. He said that Cosette had been coming every day, disguised as an old man and bringing bandages. So M. Gillenormand had checked into her background, discovered who she was and found no fault with her. So he readily agreed that Cosette and Marius would be married. And Marius was stunned, to say the least, haha.

3. How does Jean Valjean have 600,000 francs to give to Cosette? It was all the money that he had made as M. Madeline. He withdrew it and kept it hidden in a box, buried in the ground. When he needed money, he would go dig up the box. He had originally had more than 600,000 francs but he withdrew the money over ten years ago and had to live on it since then. The stay in the convent had cost around 5,000 francs. And he's spent money since they left it. But he knew the rest of the money was to be Cosette's inheritance so when he knew she was going to marry Marius, he dug up the box and kept 500 francs for himself, leaving Cosette with just under 600,000 to take into her new marriage. So now Cosette is effectively rich when, before, it had seemed she was to be a pauper. But now Marius and Cosette will be comfortable for the rest of their lives.

4. What does Jean Valjean keep in 'Inseparable'? He kept Cosette's old clothes from ten years ago when he took her in. He kept the full outfit. He bought her these things when he took her from Montfermeil. She had been shivering in rags, her feet red from the clogs that didn't keep them warm. But he bought her new clothes, black, to mourn her mother. Cosette was alone then but Jean Valjean took her in and became all the world to her.

5. What assumptions does Marius make after Jean Valjean’s confession? Basically Marius overthinks the whole thing and believes Jean Valjean to be a deadly criminal. He assumes that Jean Valjean showed up at the barricade because he knew Javert was there and that there was some vendetta between them and he came just to kill Javert. And he also believes that the fortune Jean Valjean passed on to Cosette was stolen and he intends to find whoever it was stolen from and return the money.

6. How does Jean Valjean’s visit with Cosette after his discussion with Marius go? Not well?? He tells her she can no longer call him father but must address him as Monsieur Jean or just Jean. She asks why he's changed his name and he says that she changed her name. He also addresses her by the informal 'tu' and corrects himself to vous. And he calls her Madame. So basically he starts breaking all ties and separating them so Cosette can have her own life. And at first Cosette is hurt by this, but gradually she comes to think of him as a completely different person from the man who raised her. And even though their meetings are no longer familiar, he still comes. Until they drive him out, that is. Jean Valjean starts staying longer and longer until the room begins to change. First, there is no fire and Jean Valjean doesn't stay very long. Then there's a fire but the chairs have been moved away from it. He moves them back and stays longer then usual. Then, finally, the chairs are just gone. And after that night, Jean Valjean gets the message and he doesn't go back. And Cosette barely even notices?? She's so happy that she doesn't realize he hasn't been coming until two nights have passed. And even then, she isn't greatly affected. So Jean Valjean did, indeed, succeed in distancing them.

7. What secrets does Thénardier reveal to Marius? Well his first secrets are that Jean Valjean is an ex-convict and Marius is like "I already knew that" and then Thénardier doesn't know what to think. But Marius tells him that he knows the secrets Thénardier was about to reveal: that Jean Valjean stole his fortune from Monsieur Madeline and that he killed Javert. And here is where Thénardier does know something that Marius doesn't. He produces two articles proving that what Marius said isn't true. Jean Valjean WAS Monsieur Madeline and, therefore, made the fortune which he withdrew and gave to Cosette. And Jean Valjean spared Javert's life only for Javert to commit suicide. But then Thénardier goes one step further and says that although he has cleared Jean Valjean of those two charges, that doesn't mean that he isn't a thief and a murderer. He then tells his version of what happened in the sewers and says that he kept a piece of the cloth from the corpse and he believes the corpse was a wealthy foreigner. But then Marius produces the rest of the coat, which the scrap of cloth definitely came from, and says that he was the corpse. And by trying to prove Jean Valjean a criminal, he cleared his name. And then Marius gives Thénardier the money to go to America so that he will never have to see him again.

8. What did you think of the ending and of the book in general? OKAY. SO. I CAN'T STOP CRYING. I AM SO UPSET. Ugh. I just. I wish they would've visited Jean Valjean earlier before he literally STARVED HIMSELF TO DEATH. Or that Marius hadn't been so much of a pompous ass that he drove Jean Valjean away. Honestly, Marius annoyed me a lot in this last section??? And, honestly, Cosette kind of did too. I hated how she just threw Jean Valjean by the wayside because she's so in love with Marius. Jean Valjean SAVED her and then raised her. And then gave her his entire fortune. And, yet, Marius drives them apart. So. I was honestly upset for, like, this entire section. It's fine. Overall, though, I LOVED this book. Except for the, you know, unnecessary bits, haha. But, honestly, even those weren't terrible. Because those are what make Hugo Hugo?? Even with all of his rambling, I love Hugo's books. It gives them character. So. I loved this book a lot and I'm so glad to have finally read it!!! What a ride!

Section Eleven Reading Journal

Wow. So. Here we are. I can finally say that I’ve read Les Mis. What a journey. And, honestly, my copy is literally falling apart so it’s good that we’re finally done. (I literally glued the cover back on four times, haha.)

Anyway, this was not my favorite section of the book. I mean, it wasn’t terrible. But all of my favorites are dead and everyone who is left annoys me (except Jean Valjean bUT HE DIED TOO. IT’S FINE. I’M FINE.) so I had a slight struggle getting through this section. And I literally wanted to smack Marius through most of it. Could he be anymore obtuse????

AND THE ENDING WAS SUPER NOT OKAY. A lot of crying has been happening and there’s probably still more to come. Ugh. I love Jean Valjean and, honestly, I thought he deserved better. I ranted about Cosette basically just throwing him by the wayside up there ^^ so I won’t repeat it here. But, basically, Jean Valjean tried so hard to be good and noble and then he gets Marius for a son-in-law and I just WHY. *mumbles incoherently*

Well, anyway, I think that’s about all I have. Hugo did wrap the whole thing up quite nicely. And, as a whole, I really did enjoy this book. There are so many awesome characters. I just wish Les Amis had been in this book more.

And now that I’ve finished the book, I can finally watch the movie! I bought it when it first came out and, uh, was waiting to read the book. And so here we are. I can’t wait to watch it! I’ll definitely post my thoughts here when I do.

So. Wow. It’s really over. What was that, three years? Au revoir, Les Mis! What a wonderful ride it’s been. I will miss you. But I will definitely be back sometime in the future! Just, uh, after I buy a new copy, ahaha.

>> End of 2015 Reading Challenge <<

#trcbooks #2015: les miserables #2015 reading challenge

0 notes

runesrule · 7 years

Text

More than just your plot device

If there were a line between antagonist and love interest, it would probably intersect with the Other Woman. This character is the wedge driven between the couple, the driving force behind a new plot progression. Her involvement seems to always end in either her death or a catfight.

(First of all, I hate it when the term ‘cat-fight’ is used patronisingly. Have you ever seen cats fight?? Be afraid. Be very afraid, for there will be blood in the gutters and fur in the air)

All writers rely on tropes, but seeing as how this isn’t the fifties anymore, I vote that the ‘Heroine V Other Woman catfight’ gets left in the last century. There’s two reasons why: Firstly, to quote the masterpiece ‘Mean Girls’; “If you (girls) keep calling each other sluts and bitches, it makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and bitches.” Secondly, there are no winners from that fight. Either the Heroine has lowered herself to the level of scrapping it out over some guy, or the Other Woman, now mauled, humiliated and loveless, becomes an Evil Bitch in order to gain herself a bit of pride back. Mostly though, the Other Woman is simply forgotten, shunted to the wayside in an effort to repair the bonds of true love between the saga’s couple.

Even if her character has more to offer the story, even if she is has interesting potential as her own person, she must eventually bow to the more demanding narrative of the Hero and his Heroine.

Asha Barlow of James Cameron’s ‘Dark Angel’ is a one such example of lost potential that I will forever mourn. (If you haven’t seen ‘Dark Angel’, there’s a fairly a good summary, here.) While rebelling against the dire circumstances of her post-Electromagnetic-Pulse police state world, Asha falls in love with the heroine Max’s True Love, Logan Cale. Now, at the time, Logan thinks Max is dead, and when she does return from imprisonment, she’s been injected with a virus targeted to Logan’s gene sequence, so if they touch, he dies…

As you can imagine, this puts the kybosh on the romance, and Asha steps up to be there for Logan while he’s caught up in the whirl-wind of If I so much as shake the hand of the woman I love, I’ll die a long, slow, painful death.

To begin with, Max doesn’t exactly step aside and give Logan her blessing to run away with Asha. Since Max’s return means Logan nearly dies, Asha’s not exactly Max’s biggest fan either. As Season Two’s plot progresses, Max helps Asha out on a number of occasions, like breaking her out of jail and hiding evidence that would incriminate her in the S1W’s outlaw activities.

She’s unceremoniously written out of the narrative because her actress moves on. On one hand, it sucks because there was a whole lot of potential for Asha in the Terminal City story-line. On the other hand, by the time Asha flees over the border to Canada, Max has told Logan she’s with somebody else. Since Asha had managed to side-step the love interest category, I would have hated to have seen her shoved back into it. It seems to be an easy thing for people to do, despite the fact that the first time we see Asha she jumps on a table and fires a round from a big-ass handgun into the ceiling of a corrupt Veteran’s Affairs office, she gets shunted to the side as a nothing more than a complication in Max and Logan’s love affair.

Asha Barlow is not here to be your goddamn plot device: She’s a sweetheart with a spine of iron, a freedom fighter who probably rescues stray kittens and is basically too genuinely lovely for half the hard-asses she has to deal with.

Asha’s character disappearing from the narrative obviously has more to do with outside forces than the convenience of advancing Max and Logan’s storyline, but that convenience cannot be ignored. After all, once Asha disappears, Max finally admits she was never with Alec, becomes friends with Logan again and he helps her to try and decipher the mysterious message coded in her DNA. The series ends on a cliffhanger, but it’s pretty obvious from the double-surgical-gloved hand-holding at the end of the episode that they’re back on track.

I have mixed feelings about the cancellation of ‘Dark Angel’ as it heralded the beginning of ‘Firefly’ which infamously ran for a single season before it’s own untimely demise. Mostly, those feelings can be neatly summarised as; what the fuck, Fox?

(Notice that I’m not giving a link for a synopsis of ‘Firefly’. That’s coz you have to go watch it.)

‘Firefly’ had a couple of Other Women intrude on the central romance between Inara Serra and Captain Malcolm Reynolds. The narrative deals with both of those women—one an antagonist and one a heroine—differently and interestingly.

Femme fatales are always great fun, especially one as intricate and multifaceted as Yo-Saff-Bridg. When we first meet her, she pretends to be a gullible, sweet, innocent virgin who ‘marries’ a drunken Mal in order to take over his ship and steal it. As it turns out ‘Saffron’ (AKA Yolanda, AKA Bridget,) is a serial bride, conwoman and liar. We never really get her back story, which I think is great because I can pretend that they wouldn’t have written her some terrible tragedy to explain why she likes sex and money, isn’t afraid of breaking the rules and enjoys allowing people to underestimate her because she’s a woman, then taking them for all they’re worth.

She is a catalyst in a way for Inara at least admitting her true feelings for Mal. When she drugs Mal unconscious with a kiss delivered sedative, she runs into Inara on route to the control room to take over the ship. They engage in some truly graceful fisticuffs and Saffron runs off while Inara rushes to check on Mal. Upon finding him unconscious but alive on the floor of his bedroom, she delivers a relieved kiss to his mouth…thereby giving herself a dose of the sedative.

She doggedly lies to the rest of the crew that she ‘hit her head’ and at the end of the episode Mal seems to be under the impression that it was Saffron’s kiss that knocked her out, not his own.

(I have a theory that Mal knew she kissed him the moment he saw her face when he begins to confront her, but that the fear and acceptance in her eyes made him back off.)

The last time we see Yo-Saff-Bridg, she is being locked into a trash disposal by Inara, who is rightfully smug in her victory. The point is, despite drugging Mal, knocking Wash out, leaving Mal naked in a desert and attempting to steal the beloved Serenity, Saffron lives to run another con.

Saffron is a debatably good example of how a love interest can introduce drama to a love triangle while still maintaining her own character arc outside of her attachment to the hero. Debatable because her time as a legitimate love interest is outweighed by her time as an antagonist.

Unlike the second woman to enter the secondary love interest spot in the Inara/Mal relationship-that-never-was. If there was ever a heart-breaking example of the Other Woman’s untimely demise to push the relationship forward, it’s Nandi. Here we meet a strong, beautiful, sensual woman who is alike and yet completely opposite of Inara. When Inara catches Mal exiting Nandi’s room, still pulling his shirt over his shoulders, she plays it cool and cutting, while Mal’s clenched jaw at her dismissiveness give away his own inner turmoil. In the next scene, we see Inara sobbing on the floor, heartbroken.

Nandi, upon realising that Mal’s feelings for Inara are not unrequited, is herself heartbroken that she would do such a thing to her dearest friend.

And then? Then she dies.

In the bitter aftermath of her murder by a small-town psychopath and sexual predator, Mal finally confronts Inara and admits his true feelings.

Of course, Inara flees in the face of it, likely equally as rattled by Nandi’s violent death as she is terrified of the prospect of choosing between the job she loves and the man she has fallen in love with. That’s not the point; it’s the fact that Nandi had to die to force Mal to face his feelings, and that Damsel Dies for Manpain bullshit is old as fuck.

However, her death is not nearly as tragic as those of any number of women killed off to advance the narrative of the hero and/or heroine. Nandi is her own woman, from her dark eyes to her beautiful mother-of-pearl pistols. Many characters don’t get that consideration. A character being introduced for the sole purpose of romantic narrative should have their own arc, something that makes them more than the single dimension of adding drama to a romance. Furthermore, we must learn to defend the Other Woman, even if we don’t agree with her actions, even if we otherwise despise her character. As women, we must protect women.

PS: if your boyfriend cheats, girl, take out his kneecaps and the side-chick out for coffee.

#Chevy speaks #dark angel #feminism #firefly #nandi #inara serra #captain malcolm reynolds #Max Guevara #Logan Cale #asha barlow #love triangles #blog #women #love #pop culture

2 notes · View notes

altermidgard · 7 years

Text

Star Wars Custom Playmat 100+ Characters

Just make it look cool.

Right. Anything specific you wanted?

Not really...Just get as many characters on thee as you can.

Challenge Accepted.

Yes today on the blog, one slightly vague choice of words leads to the most characters ever on one of my mats. Not by a small margin either, especially if you include vehicles (Which I do, objects are objects in programming) I'll be going over the phases of the mats design from concept to colouring telling stories as I go. We've got a lot to get through, so lets jump right in to my latest Star Wars mat.

0 To 30

Thirty is a nice number, I've done mats with around that before, there should be enough space for everyone and more importantly it should be enough slots to cover all the main hero's and villains.

Step 1: Lets make a list.

If your playing along at home it's at this point you realise there might be a few more than thirty people in the Star Wars universe. It's Ok we can deal with this, we just have to organise everyone into some sort of hierarchy, most popular to least well known. OK, wow, yeah still quite a few people in category one.

This is where I was at. Making lists. I've been making mats a while now, you get an instinct for how many and how large the components of the design need to be. Thirty wasn’t an arbitrary number, it's what I considered the upper limit for readable characters to be. In first panel bellow that's how many names I finally settled on. There were many brave souls that fell by the wayside though and to be honest I wasn’t happy about it.

31 To 60

Writing the names on a scrap piece of A4 set the trend for the majority of the sketching phase. Usually I would draw thumbnails, four to eight images on one piece of paper but in this instance I needed to go bigger sooner. The second panel shows the most readable of my early sketches. All the previously names characters are there plus I'm starting to think that if I can get them all in at this size with extra space to spare there might be room to add a few more. Circles for heads is all they get right now but it might work. It just goes to show though. Until you actually start on something properly you cant know how its going to turn out.

The next panel is a more comprehensive redraw, more thought gets given to the layout and how the eye will flow around the image. While the rest of the design process is one of refinement and addition it.s here where the design mostly comes together. That's actuality one of the nice things about doing these blog posts. Looking back and trying to explain your thoughts and processed to others gives you insights on your own work you might never have noticed, I recommend people try it

Next up. Working on a light-box in pen gives me the opportunity to add even more detail. For some people this might not be the case but having that extra contrast and a finer point than most pencils really helps me out. The other nice thing about changing medium is that it alters the art style slightly. I'm making quicker more precise marks and it leads to a more dynamic atmosphere. The real trick will be trying to preserve that feel though the rest of the production

60 To 80

A different style again as I go digital. I'm using the airbrush tool and am less interested in line than I am the shape and weight of each object. It's also an early chance to test where the light should be coming fom. Where I've placed the vanishing point is causing a few hiccups. Triangular spaceships are especially hard to get right and a lot of their final placement has to do with that.

The silly thing is I could add more elements to the design. There's still plenty of room, think of the final total!. But no, at some point you have to take a step back and say 'this is a silly amount of work already and adding to it is going to do more harm to the design than good.

80 To,.. Who the heck knows.

I stopped counting at this point, didn't really want to know. We are almost there though. Most lines are either vertical, horizontal, or pointing at the vanishing point, I've got piles of spirals, and grievous's arms finally look right. Although Obi-Wan needs some work if they are going to duel. There are still questions to answer though. Things like what colour Lightsaber should Starkiller have and why is Luke's head not attached to his body. Enough sketching though, lets get started on the colouring,

Balancing the Force

I say colouring. What I mean is 'lets use a light grey to work out the lighting'. The grey will be easily overwritten so we have a bit of room to experiment and it keep me from doing the outlines first. Another option would be to use yellow, it just comes down to what tone you want your image to take on. There's a lot of ships and metallic in this piece so I went with the grey.

Notice how the left half of the image is always darker? Tha'ts intentional. By loading up on characters there's just going to be more dark there. Why have I done this? Because it offsets the big blob of dark on the right that is the Emperor and Darth. Basically I'm looking to balance the force. Its also why Luke and Leia are in white. That and so they are the main focus of the image I want the ye to start or end thee.

It's a Trap

I don’t want to be using that many colours on this piece. With all the different people and objects here the composition could easily start to break up if everything got its own pallet. This stage then is about making sure that doesn’t happen, all the blues are the same blue, all the browns likewise. I think I even managed to stick with this rule all the way though which is good because it can be so tempting to just think, hmm what if I just add a smidge of this colour here?

I should really have added the ships at this stage though. You can already see how areas of the image I'm less sure about are falling behind the others in terms of how far along they are. (keep an eye on Darth for example)

This is the Droid I was Looking for

I was tempted to stop here.

I don’t normally do pastel shades but this was working, all I had to do was come up with a background and...

… Yeah, no, space is dark, I've designed myself into a comer so we will have to keep going.

If you have been wondering about why characters are where they are, beyond the timeline aspect, there were three other considerations.

1. Are you a bad-guy? If yes your probably a big floaty head the rest of the cast can anchor around.

2. Are you a hero? If yes, you probably have most or all of a body, good job you.

3. Are you someone I like? I'm colouring I don’t know how many people and have free reign, naturally your going to find that my preferences bleed into the design.

Yes that is why chopper is font and center.

Space is Big, Like Really Big.

I found these glitter gel pens. No idea if they would wok on this material but if they did it would make colouring stars way easier. Not particularly economical, I used them up just on the background but the nice thing about them is that the glitter breaks up the colours and gives a sense of depth to areas that would otherwise be large and flat. Time will tell if the stars stay on the mat, But you have to experiment right, how else do you learn new things?

I gave it an extra few layers of sealant just for go measure.

Back on topic. I might have gone a little hard on the quantity of red in Maul's face, it's started to spread. Luckily Thawn has darker hair so it's an easy fix but it's still a reminder not to get carried away.

Mostly Harmless

Hey Darth finally has arms, The pose took some time to get right to be honest. It had to fit the existing upper chest and head and align with the vanishing point since its so close. In the end I fond a one that had the Lightsaber out horizontal and after that it was just a case of getting the other arm right. I went back and forth on the city scene, easing the buildings then adding them back in. something needed to be there to contrast with the stuff in front but I just wasn’t feeling it. turns out they just hadn’t been dark enough and making them practically black with little window lights was the way forward.

Almost everything is in now, but as usual I still have the eyes on most of these people to add. I also need to do something with the Emperor. He's the biggest thing on the mat, he needs a little more respect/detail than I have given him so far.

The Final Frontier.

Add clouds to the planets atmosphere, make the stars and Lightsabers glow in the dark (glow under UV light actually) and just generally go around tiding up. I'm just about done here. OK applying the sealant and taking pictures comes last but close enough.

I guess I should actually count the number of things on the mat then. Just a sec...

110ish! Give or take. That's quite a big number, and not something I think I'm going to be beating anytime soon. Probably...

Next time, lets simplify things a bit huh.

#altermidgard #custom playmat #playmat #star wars

0 notes