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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 4 years

Text

The Infamous Jethro Tull Incident

PART THIRTY-THREE OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: discussions of anxiety/panic attacks please read with caution, plentiful pop culture references, allergies

Word Count: 6.9K

Summary: Visiting Stars Hollow once again, Ella and Jess help Luke with his custody battle and see the Spring Fling.

A/N: The descriptions of panic attacks in this chapter and in this fic are based on research and my own experiences. Everyone is different. If you need to talk, I am always here. I just felt Gilmore Girls always kind of ignored Jess’s trauma, and the after-effects it would have had on him.

Though Chris and Matthew had invited them out, neither Jess nor Ella had any desire to eat at some fancy restaurant on a Sunday night. It was under the guise of a celebration over the monthly Zine including an interview with someone who had once interned for Dave Eggers. Not that it was a small feat, but both Ella and Jess knew it was simply just an excuse for Chris and Matthew to go on an expensive double date. Often, the two called them frugal. And they called the two of them unnecessarily hedonistic. Whatever the case, Ella was glad to have the apartment for the night. Two days into spring break, and she was still only just bouncing back from the mid-semester exhaustion.

She sat cross-legged in her pajamas on the couch, sketching, as the water on the stove began to boil. Once again, she was attempting dinner. Spaghetti, something simple, she’d told Jess earlier in the evening. She could totally manage it. She still couldn’t understand why her baking skills were never able to travel over into cooking territory. Just as she finished the lines around the eyes, the phone on the counter began ringing. Putting her sketchbook to the side, she rushed up to the counter and saw it was Jess’s cellphone alight with a number.

“Jess Mariano’s phone,” she said as she opened the phone, hoping to answer in time.

“Ella?” the voice came through the receiver.

“Luke?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

A smile came to her lips. “Hey, boss! How are you?”

Luke cleared his throat, hesitating a minute. “Oh, well I…”

“Jess is in the shower, but I can get him if you really need to talk,” she cut in, growing worried. Not only because she noticed the water on the stove was boiling over and hissing on the oven. She dashed over to the stove.

“No, that’s okay. I have no desire to speak to him while he’s any degree of naked,” Luke said gruffly.

Ella uttered a chuckle and she stirred the pot to lessen the overflow. “Well, that makes one of us.”

Only a heavy sigh came from the other side of the phone.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. As she broke the spaghetti in half, balancing the phone between her ear and her shoulder, several noodles flew across the kitchen. A few landed on the burner and started to smoke instantly. “Fuck!”

“What?” Luke asked, suddenly alarmed.

Growling under her breath in frustration, she sweeped the noodles from the burner with a damp kitchen towel. “Nothing, sorry. The spaghetti caught on fire but it’s fine now.”

“Why are you trying to make spaghetti? You can hardly make toast,” Luke groaned knowingly.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m broadening my horizons, alright? But that doesn’t matter. What’s going on?”

“Well, uh...you know April?”

“The name rings a bell, yes.”

“Well, Anna wants to move her to New Mexico,” Luke said, voice emotionless. “And I’m trying to get joint custody. The lawyer uh...he said Jess, or you, might be a good character reference. The trial, or whatever we should call it, is on Tuesday. If you can’t get here, that’s fine. They’re speeding up the process because they’re moving away so soon. You could just put it in writing, but I don’t know if it would get here in the mail. So, if you can’t, I completely-”

“Luke,” she interjected.

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be there,” Ella said with finality. “What time is the hearing?”

“Eight,” he answered.

Nodding, she stirred the spaghetti. Furrowing her brows, she considered the time. “Could we maybe stay over tomorrow night? Then, we can all go to the courthouse.”

“Really? Is Jess okay with that?” he asked.

“Jess won’t hear of anything else, I promise. The Zine just came out. The other guys will understand. We’ll call it a family emergency. And I’m on my spring break. It’s fine, boss,” Ella reassured him, face flushed over the steaming pot.

“Are you sure? I mean, only if you’re sure-”

She sighed again, a long exhale through her nose. “Luke, I’m sure. Just hang in there. We’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll bring you some of this spaghetti, if you want.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he said flatly.

“Noted.”

There was a long pause. “Ella?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

A sad smile ghosted over her face. “Don’t mention it.”

“Hey, it’s the Spring Fling, too. In case you guys need something to do tomorrow night,” Luke added, shifting the conversation away from emotions.

A pang of nostalgia hit her, and she could smell the greasy food. “Oh, well, I was on the fence about coming up there before. But the Spring Fling? There’s the thing to seal the deal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke grumbled, unamused by her sarcasm.

“Alright. Well, I gotta focus on this spaghetti, for the sake of public safety. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she said, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yeah. Okay, Ella. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Luke.”

“Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Ella flipped it closed and set it back on the counter. Waiting for the spaghetti to finish boiling, she tried to hum but couldn’t bring herself to. A knot sat in her stomach. She knew how much Luke loved April; she had seen it even through the few months she’d witnessed them together. And she knew how much April loved Luke. She wondered over how the girl would feel, if she were not allowed to see Luke ever again. Not exactly like her own mother’s death, but Ella could certainly sympathize.

She was too deep in thought to hear Jess emerge from the bathroom, hair damp and still dripping slightly.

“Is something burning?” he asked, coming up next to her.

She jumped slightly and then huffed out a breath when he smirked at her surprise. “For just a second, it was. But, now, everything is under control.”

“Whatever you say, Stevens,” he teased, brown eyes twinkling.

Pursing her lips, she finally took her eyes away from the water. “We have to go to Stars Hollow tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” he asked, his brow crinkling.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Luke is trying to get joint custody of April. The hearing is on Tuesday morning and he wants us to testify as references.”

“Huh,” Jess deadpanned, nodding slightly.

“If we get there tomorrow, we can make sure he doesn’t completely melt down during the dinner shift and then ride with him to the courthouse. Is that alright with you? If you can’t come, I could just-”

“Woah, Stevens. I’ll go. Obviously, I’ll go. Not like Matthew can’t babysit Chris all on his own for a couple days. He’s been doing it pretty much his whole life,” Jess said, pressing a kiss of reassurance to her cheek.

“Good. Just...making sure.” She bit at her thumbnail for a moment, nodding. “What if...what if he loses her?”

“I don’t know,” Jess said, shaking his head. “But, at least we can try to help. Here’s hoping it’s not too A Few Good Men.”

“There’s the bright side, Mr. Sunshine,” she said, smiling weakly.

Jess smirked a tiny smirk, then grabbed the wooden spoon as the pot began boiling over, spaghetti spilling onto the glass top, once again.

. . .

Misty March air seeped in through the cracked Station Wagon windows, the afternoon sun warming up the early spring day. Pollen and dust were stagnant in the air, flowers beginning to bloom in the Connecticut countryside. Television, “Marquee Moon,” played on the radio, Jess’s arm draped over Ella’s headrest. Hydrangeas were blooming, blue and purple and pink, on the sides of the road as they crossed over the edge of town into Stars Hollow.

As soon as they passed over the border, Ella’s eyes began to itch, and she started sneezing into the crook of her elbow.

“Jeez, Stevens. Bless you,” Jess said, eyebrows raised. “Are you getting a cold?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed, sniffling and blinking the irritated shine from her eyes. “Maybe it’ll make me more sympathetic to the judge.”

“There’s one way to win a case,” he chuckled.

“Hey, who am I to look down on a shortcut?” she said, shrugging lightly as she took the turn down Main Street.

As they reached town center, their eyes widened. Parking was one of the chief worries to pop into Ella’s mind, but not the only one. Hay was stacked up every which way, forming a maze. Stray straws littered the empty spaces, bales piled ten feet high and taking up space on every single street. Hitting the brakes, Ella came to a stop on the edge of the strip, next to the bookstore.

“What the hell is this?” Jess asked, flabbergasted.

Shaking her head, Ella was at a loss for words. Then, it dawned on her, and she groaned in frustration. “I forgot to tell you. Luke said it’s the Spring Fling this week. I guess now that means a hay bale maze?”

“Ugh,” Jess grunted, rolling his eyes. “The last time I was at this thing, Taylor almost called the cops on me because of my Jethro Tull t-shirt.”

She chuckled as she turned around, headed for the small parking lot with the dumpsters behind Luke’s. “Well, only time will tell what this year will bring.” Sneezing again, she sighed.

“Besides hay fever, that is,” Jess added, teasing, tucking a strand of hair which had fallen loose behind her ear again.

“We’re doing this for Luke, we’re doing this for Luke,” she muttered under her breath, feeling a headache already forming behind her eyes.

. . .

She felt transported to the past as they entered Luke’s through the back door, leading into the stock room. It still smelled of tomatoes, dirt, pine; an odd mixture but not unwelcome. The room dark and dank, Ella took Jess’s hand and led him carefully through the random crates and boxes. In his other hand, he held their old duffel, containing both of their only business-appropriate clothes. Apparently, she would be wearing the pencil skirt again much sooner than she had hoped. Jess could already hear Luke ranting before they got to the main room, flashbacks to the consequences of stealing gnomes and baseballs and dry erasers.

Lane passed by the stock room door and caught sight of them out of the corner of her eye. A panic filled her eyes and, immediately, she approached them, a dirty dish bin held in just one hand.

“He’s on the warpath, guys,” she began, retreating into the dim room and glancing over her shoulder anxiously.

“Well, hello to you too, Lane,” Ella smirked.

Lane’s face morphed into a delicate, rushed smile. “Right, sorry, sorry. How’s one of America’s most historical cities?”

Jess shrugged. “Historic.”

“Wow, your vocabulary had really grown since I last saw you,” Lane said, feigning amazement.

A crash sounded, followed by a yell, from out in the main room. The door slammed and Ella couldn’t mistake the sound of a fearful yelp from some customer.

“I think we can continue this love fest later,” Ella suggested, gesturing to the main room.

“Agreed,” Lane said, turning on her heel.

Jess and Ella followed her out of the stock room, finding the counter almost completely empty of customers. The tables were dotted with just a few customers, staring down silently at their plates, faces drawn in fear. Boots trodding heavily on the tiled floor, Luke was making his way back from the door to the kitchen. Caesar was nowhere in sight, and a thin cloud of smoke was billowing through the kitchen window. The front windows were a view of nothing but giant walls of hay. Nothing boded well. Ella glanced at Jess doubtfully, and he only gave a slight shake of his head in response.

“Can I get you guys something?” Lane asked, returning to the space behind the counter.

“No, I think I’d rather not risk it,” Jess said, taking a stool, placing the duffel on the floor next to him.

Ella hopped onto the seat next to him. “Says Mr. I-Live-On-The-Edge.”

“Even I have my limits,” he replied.

“I’m fine, too. Thanks Lane,” Ella told her friend.

A couple steaming plates appeared from the kitchen window, burgers blackened and fries soggy. Lane looked at them suspiciously, but placed them in front of Kirk, who sat on Jess’s other side. Kirk grinned and nodded emphatically.

“The gourmet experiments keep on coming,” he exclaimed, digging in with a fork and knife instead of his hands.

Ella’s brow crinkled. “Kirk, that’s-”

“Don’t,” Lane warned. “It’s...not worth it.”

Perking his head up from his food, Kirk craned his neck to see the two of them. “Oh. You’re back. I’ve missed your pies, Ella. I hope Luke has rhubarb.”

“Kirk, we’re not...moving back here. We’re only gonna be here until tomorrow,” she said, head tilted in confusion.

He narrowed his eyes, then turned to stare closely at Jess, who leaned back against Ella slightly. “You just had to take her to Philadelphia with you.”

Jess was about to respond, before Ella jumped in again, tone vehement.

“Excuse me, Kirk, but I moved to Philadelphia on my own to go to grad school. Jess just happened to be there.”

“The hand of fate, huh?” Kirk asked, unphased. “What a beautiful thing.”

Jess snickered, eyeing Ella to gauge a response. Instead of retaliating, her jaw tensed and she turned her head to the kitchen window.

“Luke, we’re here!”

Raising his eyebrows, Luke reappeared from the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up messily, his shirt splashed with grease. He didn’t look as though he’d been careful in the kitchen. A black baseball cap sat backwards on his head, the one he’d been wearing since he and Lorelai broke off their engagement. But Ella had heard, through her weekly phone calls with Lane, Lorelai and Christopher had divorced, breaking up once again. The constant romantic whiplash was beginning to make Ella dizzy.

“Oh. Hey, guys. How was the drive?” Luke asked.

“Well, I don’t know about Eleanor, but that huge ball of twine gets more interesting every time I pass it,” Jess deadpanned, arms crossed over his t-shirt, elbows on the counter.

Ella smiled thinly. “Jess is thrilled about the Spring Fling, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, I might’ve guessed. I mean, who could forget that Jethro Tull incident?” Luke replied.

She was about to respond, but instead Ella buried her nose in her sleeve again and sneezed.

“Bless you,” Jess said.

She sneezed again.

“Bless you,” he repeated, smirking.

A moment more, and she sneezed a third time.

“And one more for good measure,” Jess continued, increasingly smug. “Bless you.”

Luke furrowed his brows at Ella. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“The hay doesn’t agree with Rudolph,” Jess chimed in, smoothing a hand over Ella’s back.

Blinking the wateriness from her eyes again, she shot Jess a look. “Bite me.”

“Just like old times,” Luke grumbled, going over to the register when two meek customers came up to pay.

Catching her breath, Ella got down from the stool again. “I’m gonna go to Doose’s. Try to get something to handle this new reindeer look I’ve got going for me.”

“You want me to go with you?” Jess asked, almost hopefully.

“As much as I would love that, cutie, I think your existence would probably be a catalyst for Taylor’s flashbacks. I’ll be back in like ten minutes. I think you’ll survive.”

“That’s debatable,” he said.

She turned away and sneezed into her elbow yet again, growling under her breath in annoyance.

“Debatable for me and you both,” he added, smirking once more.

Flipping him off, she made her way to the front door, preparing to brave the wall of hay which was about to meet her eye-to-eye.

. . .

“Don’t touch!” Ella exclaimed, exchanging a flathead screwdriver for a phillip’s head on the counter next to her.

“Do you see me touching anything?” Jess shot back, rounding the counter to make his way to the dish pit.

She snorted a bitter laugh. “You were getting too close. I think you just coming in this register’s dance space would be enough to break it more.”

“If you make one more Dirty Dancing reference-”

“Need I remind you of the shower head?” she continued, ignoring his complaints.

He sighed heavily.

“Oh, please, remind him of the shower head,” Luke piped up from where he was wiping off the red tables.

“In January, the shower was leaking,” Ella began, straightening up from her spot tinkering with the cash register drawer.

“C’mon, Elle,” Jess moaned from the dish pit.

“Jess, both Luke and I are privy to the swan attack. This is far less humiliating, I promise.”

“Fine,” he said, turning the boiling hot tap back on. Only a few more mugs and he would finally be finished. He was careful to avoid any stray kitchen knives.

“The shower was leaking. I had class, but I said I would fix it when I got home. Because, somehow, Chris, Matthew, and Jess are all completely devoid of home improvement skills,” Ella said. “Jess tried, which was so sweet of him. But then the entire shower head and the faucet ended up coming off the wall. It took me four hours to get them back on.”

“Hence the register dance space,” Luke replied, biting back laughter.

“Exactly.”

“Hey, I fixed that toaster out there!” Jess shouted over the sound of the water.

“And it only took you six years to admit it,” Ella said.

“Shut up,” Jess retorted.

“There’s the charm,” she mocked. She pushed the small gold button, and the register drawer popped out silently. A bright smile crossed her face. “This might be the first time this hasn’t sounded like Janet Leigh since I started working here.”

She wondered in the back of her mind why Luke hadn’t fixed the cash register sooner. It was antique; maybe he thought a screeching drawer just came with the territory. Or, maybe it was because nearly every single repair he had done in the past few years was on either the Gilmore house or the Dragonfly Inn.

“I told you guys you didn’t have to work,” Luke said, rolling his eyes guiltily. He began flipping the chairs up onto the tables, stuffing his damp rag into his apron.

“For the last time, we wanted to!” Jess called from the back, wiping his hands on a stained dish towel as he finished up with the mugs.

“Well, you’ve done enough. I can finish closing. Go see the Spring Fling.” Luke came over and took the screwdrivers from Ella’s hand, putting them back in his toolbox and shutting it with a snap! before she could protest.

“Oh, yes, it’s bound to get wild out there in the hay bale maze,” Ella quipped, going to grab her coat from the rack with Jess following behind.

“You’re tellin’ me. Just go see it. Taylor certainly spent enough on it.” Luke went back to the tables, upturning the chairs rhythmically, as he had for so many nights and so many years, wearing the same thing.

“We’ll be back before midnight,” Ella said, shrugging on her leather jacket and tugging her long hair, half-up, half-down, out from beneath the collar.

“And, now that we’re grown up, we can go get involved with as many ritual cults as we want while we’re out,” Jess added, grabbing Ella’s hand.

“Don’t mention that in the deposition tomorrow,” Luke warned.

“It’s good you said something. Otherwise, I definitely would have mentioned it,” Jess shot back smugly.

As they emerged into the evening, the stars were just beginning to appear, Luke having closed up early at around eight o’clock. Ella looked around, trying to see any other way into the maze besides the opening just in front of Luke’s. She’d thought about popping into her old house, surprising Fiona and Adam after school. But, she’d gotten busy with the dinner shift and could see no physical way to get there in the dim light of the twinkly strings somewhere beyond the maze.

“How the hell do they pay for stuff like this?” Jess asked as they began strolling through the maze.

“Beats me,” Ella replied, shaking her head. “This place makes no economic sense. I stopped guessing a long time ago, my friend.”

He hummed, eyes roaming over the seemingly endless yellow straw. “Tax fraud, you think?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Taylor,” Ella said, smirking.

“Oh, now how could you accuse a sweet old man like that of such a crime?” he asked, feigning shock.

She shrugged, grinning. “Since he conveniently ‘lost’ the money for the bridge renovations and we had to start the whole fundraiser over again.”

“Y’know I was the one who took that money, right?” Jess asked, thinking back to his first two weeks in Stars Hollow.

“No, I meant the first time. I was like eleven,” she explained, feeling a pleasant night time breeze ghost through her hair.

“What?” Jess chirped. “It happened before?”

“Yeah, and Taylor kept saying someone stole it. But I had a sneaking suspicion it was an inside job.”

Breathing deeply, she could smell nothing but the hay. It seemed odd, considering the Spring Fling usually had booths with caramel apples and popcorn and all other sorts of junk. But, she was also just glad she could breathe through her nose again with the help of the allergy medicine she’d picked up at Doose’s, though her eyes were still a bit itchy.

“How very Watergate.”

“I’m telling you,” Ella insisted, only half-joking, “Taylor could be an evil genius for all we know.”

“It would explain a lot,” Jess agreed, nodding. They’d taken many turns, and he figured they must be nearing the end. The carnival in town square was what he remembered as the main event.

“Yes, all the sweater vests would be perfect for establishing a mild-mannered cover,” she continued, speaking with her free hand.

“Well, with that logic, Chris is also an evil mastermind,” Jess pointed out.

Ella pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “I think Chris is probably more of a Jekyll and Hyde situation.”

“I just love how much faith you have in humanity,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair.

She laughed, and was about to retort, when they turned a corner and she almost ran straight into Lorelai. Her stomach did a quick flip, and her hand tightened slightly on Jess’s. But then, her old instincts kicked in, and she plastered a small, polite smile on her lips. On Lorelai’s right side, Rory stood hand-in-hand with some blonde guy.

“Oh, hey!” Lorelai greeted them brightly, looking between them. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Only for today and tomorrow. Just taking care of some stuff, y’know?” Ella said, unsure of whether Lorelai would be aware of the custody battle. Then, she turned to Rory. “What about you guys?”

“Visiting. We just had to come down for the Spring Fling,” Rory explained. She turned to the man at her side, gesturing between him and the two of them. “This is my boyfriend, Logan.”

“Oh, hi,” Ella said, shaking Logan’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure,” he grinned slyly, one dimple on his left cheek. “Strong handshake.”

“That’s what I’m famous for,” she replied. “I’m Ella.” Tilting her head to Jess, she broke hands with Logan. “And that’s Jess.”

“Hey,” Jess said shortly, also shaking Logan’s hand.

Logan’s smile didn’t even falter in the wake of Jess’s tight demeanor. “Nice to meet you, Jess.”

“So, how about this hay bale maze? Gives you Labyrinth vibes, doesn’t it?” Lorelai asked, smiling warmly.

“Yeah. All that’s missing is Bowie,” Ella agreed, nodding.

Intertwining their fingers again, Jess leaned into Ella’s side slightly against the chilly spring breeze.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him in that costume,” Lorelai continued.

“Agreed,” Rory chimed in.

It occurred to Ella how long it had been since they had seen each other. Rory’s hair was longer and straighter, with side bangs and a redder tone. And her clothes seemed different, as well. Kate Spade and Coach and other brands Ella couldn’t have named. As far as first impressions went, she couldn’t quite figure out Logan. His smirk seemed constant, but not genuine like Jess’s. It wasn’t endearing, as though he were about to laugh at a private joke. Instead, it was almost smarmy. She wondered in the back of her mind what he was trying to sell her. Seeing Lorelai, though, was welcome. Images of movie nights and sleepovers and quiet afternoons reading flashed across her memory. Ella could recognize Lorelai just fine in the memories; Rory was not as easy.

“Not sure it’s worth it for how long we’ve been wandering around, though,” Lorelai added. Ella could see new, blonde-ish highlights in her hair. A pang of guilt hit her; with as much Lorelai had done for her, she should’ve checked in more. Even if she and Luke were still, inexplicably, on the outs.

Jess furrowed his brows. “What? I thought we were near the end.”

“Far from it,” Rory said.

“What about the caramel apple stand and stuff?” Ella asked.

“The budget wouldn’t allow it. Not after Taylor bought all the hay in Connecticut,” Lorelai said, gesturing to the maze around them. “This is it.”

Ella scoffed, shaking her head. “I’ll say it again. Evil mastermind.”

“What?” Logan asked, laughing.

Before she could answer, Ella’s nose began to tickle and she caught another sneeze in the crook of her elbow.

“Gesundheit!” Lorelai exclaimed.

“Well,” Jess began, looking between Ella and the other three, “we should probably start making our way to the other side. Seems like sneezy’s allergy medicine is wearing off.”

“Anyone who starts naming the other six dwarves will be in grave danger,” Ella warned, sniffling and blinking harshly.

They bid each other goodbye and were about to part ways when Rory suddenly spun around and called Ella’s name.

“Yeah?” Ella asked.

“Do you wanna maybe...go to lunch at Weston’s tomorrow? If you’re still gonna be in town,” Rory offered, her voice soft and hopeful. Her blue eyes were large in the moonlight.

Ella blew out a breath, considering it for only a moment. “Sure. Meet you at noon, alright?”

Rory nodded, and was soon whisked away again by Lorelai and Logan. They turned a corner and were masked by the hay.

. . .

She had never been to the Hartford courthouse, and it shocked her how much the place smelled like a dentist’s office. Chilly and plasticy and devoid of all human feeling. Painted in white with mahogany accents and bright lights, the building had supposedly been standing since before the Salem witch trials. Or so the plaque on the front of the red brick structure read. The minute hand on her watch ticked on silently, as nine o’clock rolled around. Ella had tried sketching, but couldn’t keep her focus on the portrait of her grandmother surrounded by sunflowers. Jess was halfway through a worn Bukowski volume, scribbling penciled notes in the margins, despite the faded writing already there. Ella’s head rested gently on his shoulder, dozing. Neither of them had slept especially well, nervous over the deposition. And neither of them were willing to take Luke’s bed again, and had squeezed onto the old brown couch. They considered the old twin bed, but decided falling off wasn’t worth it.

Ella was nearly asleep, her sketchbook shut and stuffed into her purse next to her, when she felt Jess shifting beneath her. His form tightened, and his breathing had become labored. Immediately, Ella’s eyes shot open, as she recognized the noise. She turned to find the novel shaking in his hands, his eyes wide and watery as his breathing began to pick up.

“Whoa, Jess, hey,” she began calmly, taking the book from his hands and placing it absently on the bench behind her. She faced him fully and reached out, but then hesitated. “Can I touch you?”

He swallowed dryly, trying to fight the tears blurring his vision. One second, he had been underlining a sentence; the next, his entire being became rigid and his heart was pounding. Not long after, he felt his throat tightening. Harsh shivers rolled through his body. He simply couldn’t control his erratic breathing.

Then, his eyes flitted to her face, the crease between her brows, and he nodded slightly.

“Okay,” she replied. Grabbing his wrist with a gentle hand, she brought his palm to her chest, the fabric of her blouse soft beneath his fingers. “Just breathe with me, cutie. Everything will be fine.”

“Pretty optimistic, Stevens,” he grumbled breathlessly, raising a doubtful eyebrow.

“Desperate times, Mariano. C’mon, just breathe with me,” she said softly, breathing in a long breath through her nose, exhaling out her mouth.

Beneath his hand, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Though he felt a little silly, he focused on the earnestness in her face. A few pedestrians passed by them, tossing uncertain glances their way, but Ella paid them absolutely no mind. She only focused on Jess. His cheeks were flushed as he ran his free hand over his mouth, nodding at her again as he finally began to mimic her breaths. Air hitching in his throat, he had to try more than a few times to steady himself.

“Good job, James Dean,” she smiled, watching him eventually begin to relax. His cheeks were glistening in the fluorescent light, and she wiped them dry with her thumb. “You okay? I can find you some water.”

“I’m pretty sure all they have here is burnt coffee,” he said, voice still uneven. The stench of stale coffee permeating the air in the whole building only added to the dentist office vibe.

She gave a breathy chuckle. “Hey, anything’s possible. My powers of persuasion are pretty strong.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, averting his eyes from her. His cheeks burned hotly.

“Hey,” she said, tone serious once again, as she placed a hand on the back of his neck, “are you sure? If you can’t do the deposition, you can just write something down. I’m sure I could just go in.”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, eyes widening emphatically. “Don’t worry, Daria.”

“Impossible,” Ella said, dropping her hand from his neck and intertwining their fingers instead.

Jess cleared his throat. She saw his eyes flicker nervously over to the door of the room Luke had disappeared into over an hour earlier. Jess almost raised a hand to run through his hair, but then stopped as he remembered they were supposed to look professional in front of the lawyers. He felt fidgety and anxious.

“You’ll do fine, cutie,” she told him.

He faced her again, trying to force a confident smirk on his face. But he couldn’t bring himself to. “I know, just...like you said. What if he loses her? Or if-”

“‘You’ll never get anywhere if you go about what-iffing like that,’” she interjected.

He stared at her curiously for a moment before he ventured a guess. “Chuck Palahniuk?”

“Roald Dahl,” she answered.

“Huh,” he chirped indifferently.

Her eyes lingered on his distracted expression, watching his gaze be drawn again to the door to the deposition. He pursed his lips, a wistful, guarded look.

“Jess,” she started warily, her voice a sigh, “did you ever think about seeing someone? I mean, is this only the second time-”

“Can we please not talk about this, Doctor Laura?” he snapped quietly. Not unkindly, simply impatient. Ella hadn’t previously realized just how nervous he was for the deposition, considering how neutrally he’d reacted when she’d first told him about it.

She sighed again through her nose, jaw tensing. But she reminded herself where they were, and who they were. She told herself not to push too hard, not to worry about him getting scared and running off again. But still, a familiar fear threatened to rise in her throat. She swallowed thickly, then gave a slow nod. She pressed a quick kiss to the back of his hand and disentangled their fingers.

“Okay, James Dean,” she said flatly, handing him back his book. “To be continued.”

“Thank you,” he replied, flashing her a weak, half-hearted smile.

She tried to quiet the uneasiness whispering in her mind.

. . .

Weston’s looked much the same. The outdoor tables were adorned with vases of gerber daisies, fluttering in the light breeze. Bright sunlight warmed up the afternoon. Rory came back to the table with a tall coffee in one hand and a tea in the other. A tin of pound cake sat in between them on the frilly lace tablecloth, two forks beside it. Back in her plain purple dress and leather jacket, Ella felt more comfortable. And the judge had, thankfully, ruled in favor of Luke. Ella’s heart was alight with joy at just the thought of the verdict.

But an odd sense of deja-vu filled her. After Saturdays swimming in the Stars Hollow Community Pool, she and her father would come to the bakery, sunburnt and exhausted. She would get an apple tart and he would get a slice of chocolate satin pie. Just the two of them while her mother and brothers were at home playing board games. It had been their place, a father and a daughter, before everything fell apart. Her mind wandered to Jake for only a moment, wondering where he was and what he was doing. She wondered if he ever remembered their post-pool bakery visits, sitting outside with towels wrapped around them, damp bathing suits sticking to their bodies.

But then Taylor rode by, in the front seat on a bus of tourists, blasting his words through a megaphone. She snapped out of it. Offering a grateful smile to Rory, she took a sip of her tea. “Really, Rory, you didn’t have to get my tea.”

Rory waved a dismissive hand as she sat down. “It’s fine, Ella. Consider it making up for those last few birthdays when I wasn’t there to force presents on you.”

Ella smirked through a chuckle. “Okay. Thank you.”

“So,” Rory began, leaning in, conspiratory. “Tell me everything.”

“Well,” Ella said, shrugging and glancing over to her left. She forgot that her vision of the lush green square would be obscured by the wall of dry yellow hay. Having dosed up again on allergy medicine, she was glad to soon be leaving. She snickered under her breath, then turned back to Rory. She had a small smile on her pink lips. For a moment, Ella saw her as she had when they were teenagers. Bookish and shy, similar to Jess in a lot of ways. “I’m pretty busy with grad school. My students are all so fucking smart though, so it’s honestly not all that hard getting things to stick with them.”

“Yeah, Lane told me you graduated early,” Rory nodded along, almost jealous.

“Just took a bunch of summer classes and stuff. Luke gave me so much time to study. I wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise,” Ella shrugged, spinning the tea mug around as she spoke.

“And how’s living with Jess? Above the publishing company, right? Is it Truncheon? I can’t remember. It seems like so long since Luke told me about it,” Rory said, giggling through her words.

Ella’s smile widened. “Yeah, Truncheon. They sell books and local art. Even some of mine, actually. But we live with Chris and Matthew, Jess’s partners, above the store. They’re...interesting. Matthew can do these crazy, Good Will Hunting math problems in his head. And Chris has, like, forty Red Bulls worth of energy everyday, but he hardly ever drinks caffeine. He just has a natural, endless supply. Kinda reminds me of your mom.”

“Sounds eventful,” Rory chimed in.

“That it is. But...it’s really fun. The city...it’s so lively. Everyday I walk outside and it’s a whole new place,” Ella said, blushing slightly at the sentimental words as she spoke them. But it was true. Returning to Stars Hollow always reminded her how much she enjoyed Philly. “But, what about you? Let’s hear about this Logan character.”

“Oh,” Rory began, looking down at her drink. “He’s good. We’re good. He’s really smart and we have a lot in common. And he’s really well-traveled. We’re great. He’s great.”

Eyes widening marginally, suspiciously, Ella nodded at Rory’s babbling. “So, you’re great, I hear. Alright. He makes you happy?”

“He does,” Rory answered, taking a sip of her coffee. Then, after a moment of pause: “It’s just…”

“What’s up, Ror?” Ella asked softly, furrowing her brows. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Rory finally met her eyes again. “It’s just...I got offered this job at a newspaper in Rhode Island. And it’s solid and steady. My mom thinks I should take it.”

“That’s awesome, Rory! You’re gonna be at the Washington Post before we know it!” Ella exclaimed.

Rory offered her a weak smile. “Yeah, but, I also applied for this big scholarship. Only like five people get it every year. But it could be huge, and Logan thinks I could go for it. But, he also just lost about a million dollars and quit his job at his father’s company.”

“Hm,” Ella hummed, trying to keep her face expressionless as Rory continued. They were nowhere near close enough anymore for Ella to criticize her boyfriend.

“And then, the other day, I found this ring...”

“Oh, fuck,” Ella said, leaning back in her chair.

“Yeah,” Rory sighed. “And I have no idea what to do. I don’t know when he’s gonna ask me, if he’s gonna ask me, if he’s gonna want to follow me to Rhode Island, and...I mean, do you wanna spend the rest of your life with Jess?”

Taken aback by the question, Ella bit the inside of her cheek and paused. “Um...I...I hardly believed in love before I met Jess. Sometimes change doesn’t happen all at once. But...I mean...I would always rather be with him than not with him. If that means I want to spend the rest of my life with him…then, yeah. I do.”

Rory tucked her hair behind both her ears, shrugging. “I guess it’s not the same type of thing. I mean, you’ve been the Catherine to his Heathcliff forever.”

“Nothing’s perfect, though, Ror,” Ella said. She thought back to a few hours earlier in the courthouse, Jess’s stony expression. She could practically see the scowl he was sporting back the diner, where she’d find him after Weston’s to drive back home. “I mean, marrying someone doesn’t solve everything. Living together doesn’t solve everything. Jess and I argue. We fight.”

“Yeah, I think we all remember what it was like when you two worked at the diner together,” Rory scoffed nostalgically.

Ella snorted a laugh. “Believe me, I know. Jess and I don’t love each other because it’s easy. We don’t communicate the best sometimes. He’s not the chattiest, if you remember. And I’m not the most flexible. He turns the heat up in the apartment way too high. And, sometimes, I swear he’s got the worst taste. But we promised each other a long time ago we would always try for each other. That’s all it is. We try for each other.”

“You sound like a Nicholas Sparks novel,” Rory said, giggling once more.

“I do not!” Ella exclaimed, a blush creeping further up her skin.

“Oh, really?” Rory asked doubtfully. “Tell me what you love about him, then. Tell me the little details about the man who melted the icy Ella Stevens.”

Ella snorted again, shaking her head. “It wasn’t some sexist Taming of the Shrew situation. He’s just...he’s my best friend. That’s it.”

“Come on, you have to get back to Philly soon, don’t you? Humor me for the sake of this advice session,” Rory continued.

Rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically, Ella shifted in her seat and sighed. “Fine. For old time’s sake, Rory. He...he’s such a good writer. He writes like nothing I’ve ever read before. It’s thoughtful and deep and...I don’t know. He does that thing where he bites his lip when he’s nervous. And he’s probably the biggest romantic I’ve ever met. I used to think it was absurd, but now it’s just cute. He rubs circles on my back sometimes, for no reason. He just…always likes to be touching. And, as much as that man loves words, it’s the actions. He doesn’t need to say something for me to know...I guess. He’ll show me instead. Does that make sense?”

After a moment of gaping, Rory burst out in laughter. “I knew it was serious. I didn’t know it was a Tennyson poem.”

“Alright, alright, enough,” Ella grumbled in embarrassment. “The point is: do you want to be with Logan for the rest of your life?”

Rory’s face fell slightly, and she could only manage a non-committal shrug.

As the breeze blew past them again, and Ella watched Rory’s expression falter, she felt her stomach fill with nerves. She hadn’t realized it before, quite how committed she was. When she imagined her life, Jess was always there. It wasn’t even a question. She didn’t know exactly when she’d decided he would be a permanent fixture, if he wanted. But apparently she had. And no matter how frustrated she was with his refusal to talk about his panic attacks, or the anxiety which had been following him for, perhaps, years, it didn’t matter. It had been a tough trip for him. She just wanted to get back to him, to make sure he was alright. To see if he was feeling better.

38 notes · View notes

comicteaparty · 4 years

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June 13th-June 19th, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from June 13th, 2020 to June 19th, 2020. The chat focused on the following question:

What is your physical and digital workspace like when you’re working on your story?

🌈ERROR404 🌈

LOL it really depends on what stage I'm in of the process - My storyboarding space is at home, as comfortable as I can be, a beer and some food at the ready and pure silence. The cats have to be freshly fed, otherwise I'll be harassed and lose my headspace entirely LOL. I usually work on my story boards digitally, just at a very small scale, with my script/outline on my computer and working on my ipad! The double screen helps a LOT, although i would just print out the script if I had access to a printer, haha. When I'm working on the actual page itself, it's a very different story. I usually just try and work on it in tiny little batches during the day when I'm stuck at home, and usually work around the animals as best i can, lmao. Truthfully, I really prefer to be in a coffee shop when I'm working on finishing pages, it makes me so much more productive than i am in this house with so many things to take care of right in front of me, but, obviously, that's a bit difficult to do these days. ;; I usually reserve food and drink until after I pass a milestone in inking/sketching to help motivate me to keep going for as much as I can before taking a break, and I need some kind of music or video playing in the background to keep myself from being absolutely bored out of my mind. My shading process, since it's in black and white, is very easy and i can finish it in one setting, easy, no matter what I'm working with. I also work digitally for my pages, of course, although I don't need more than my ipad and clip studio for it!

DaeofthePast

freshly fed cats

🌈ERROR404 🌈

They are BEASTS when hungry, the little bastards (love them)

I may only work in peace when they're post-food napping lmao

DaeofthePast

we only have one, but same

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

I work almost entirely in the corner of my IKEA couch at home I used to work at a proper desk with a Cintiq, but when I switched to Procreate on an iPad, I migrated to the couch and surrounded myself with a nest of clothes and blankets and books and... here I am, bein' cozy. With terrible posture But when I was between jobs last year, I did rent a little coworking space down the street so I could get out of my pajamas and go get comic stuff done there. It was a godsend. I like drawing at my favorite coffee shop every so often too, but I tend to hide my work while I draw, and there, everyone can look over my shoulder The coworking space had a tall artist desk that was rarely used, so I often grabbed that one. Not cheap, but to stave off cabin fever, heck yes, worth it.

🌈ERROR404 🌈

Ahhh I've been really thinking about getting a studio space one of these days I really shouldn't rn, with my finances as they are, but I could REALLY make use of one recently

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

I loved the space I used last year. They recently had to close for... current-event reasons... and are going to reopen with all sorts of plexiglass barriers between the desks I feel so bad for them. Good studio spaces are wonderful, I would support them again if I ever was out of a job!

🌈ERROR404 🌈

it's good they've found ways to make it safer, though!

carcarchu

My old workspace was in the basement of my home in canada and it was always perpetually freezing even in the summer and i was frequently visited by spiders so my current workspace is a huge improvement in that regard. I do miss my old ergonomic desk chair though. I'm definitely not the kind of person who can draw in bed or on the couch. I need to be in workmode and having a designated space just for that is necessary for me to get in the right headspace for that.

DaeofthePast

my workspace rn is just my desk with my laptop and my drawing tablet. my laptop is stacked on top of a pile of books so i can see the screen (otherwise my tablet blocks my line of sight). it's kinda simple

chalcara [Nyx+Nyssa]

Depends. I have a Cintiq Mobile Studio, so I can draw pretty much every where and sometimes in the oddest position, but most of the time I am on my desk with the cintiq hooked up to a second monitor so I don't have to look down so much.(edited)

Holmeaa - working on WAYFINDERS

For Wayfinders: Thumbnails are somewhere cozy and the only physical work. Me and Q sit and plan them out together. The rest of wayfinders are made on Photoshop, and flat colors in clip paint studio. In the world I would love a nice studio place in an office with others. During corentine I have been working from home, and I am not that good at it, being quite the extrovert. Before corentine I was in a artist residency where I worked on Wayfinders which had a workstation and all the programs we could need. It is so nice and me and Q are going to return there when it opens up again!

Miranda

I have an iPad so usually on the couch, cozied up with coffee and pillows and blankets. But sometimes at the table. But usually on the couch like the gremlin I am

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

I have a large drafting table, a mini drafting table, and a lapdesk in my papasan when we ink/draw! Toning and letters are all done on the desktop in its own space

Miranda

I need to get a good lap desk. But that sounds like a grand setup!

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

My first time hearing about a lapdesk

Omg I need one

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

They are the best things ever Mine has just the pencil holder !(some come with cup holders and its a waste of space imo)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Wow I like your setup of the drafting tables

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

I wanna show pics of them....if im allowed in this chat?

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I hope so, I'm not sure which channel we can post studio photos at? I did see some did before?

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

Ill post in shop talk since creator babble gets archived

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

my current space is uh.... a bit better than my last one. I used to work on an old writers desk for a decade and I did most of my comic work sitting there cramped up with my desktop taking most of the space. Now I have an L shaped desk where I have my desktop on the shorter end. The longer end it's my pen, pencils, and watercolor stuff. my display tablet occupy the space at times so switching from digital and traditional without worrying about setup hassle is a lot better than what I dealt with before lol.

I'm glad the days I had to curl up and draw with no privacy are long gone now

kayotics

I’ve got a little drafting table where I draw all my comic pages. I’m messy with my pens so they’re kind of strewn about until I start to lose them. Then I put them back. I’m not particularly neat. I spend most of the comic process off the computer, so most of my digital work is just on an iPad where I can sit anywhere. I try to keep good lighting around my drafting table and there’s always loose eraser shavings all over.

Natasha Berlin (Pot of Gold)

I got myself a lil corner desk by the dining table. Not as well-lit as I'd like, but it's decently ergonomic and I started putting posters on my wall Plus I can leave work mindset easily by turning off my computer and forgetting about the dark corner in the dining room XD(edited)

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

My desk is really sloppy and covered in all kinds of junk. I have a harmonica, a ball of yarn, a bunch of ink bottles, etc on my desk. I have my sketchbook under my tablet and usually a notebook somewhere for writing. My tablet sits to the right of my laptop (on top of sketchbook) while I'm not using it and when I'm using it it goes over my computer keyboard. I sometimes have a glass of water or some food sitting to the lefthand side

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

The only thing I wanna share about my workspace is this

once i spent over three hours looking for that damned pen

never again

🌈ERROR404 🌈

Ajkdhfkjs the models for hte magazine im crying

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh my God

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

mad giggling

Deo101 [Millennium]

youre gonna manage to lose the string

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

omg

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

i know in my heart deo is right but still i hope

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

You should weld a metal chain to it

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

Watch me lose the whole tablet

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh nooo

I believe in you!

TaliePlume

My workspace is a black table with a white, yellow, blue and green tablecloth with 3 black chairs. It's next to the kitchen. On it, is my laptop and the left side is my clipboard, 3 blue folders full of writing. Then above it, is 3 sketchbooks and another blue folder from a class that I took in community college.

June 16, 2020

sagaholmgaard

I have one long desk at almost three meters. On the left side is all my coffee and tea supplies, in the middle is my work space and on the right is my dining table xD I get everything done from there, despite having a mobilestudio so I COULD sit anywhere and work, lol. It's a blessing during holiday seasons to be able to bring it everywhere, but at some I like my designated working space. Although I am moving in a few weeks, so who knows what my new workspace will be

Moral_Gutpunch

My workspace is anywhere I can draw or write. It's more of a "Will I be interrupted over something petty or stupid" issue than space. Not that I don't want more space.

Mitzi (Trophallaxis)

My workspace is a big, broken corner desk I managed to lug out of an old apartment when it was gonna be trashed. Before then, I'd just draw in bed. I don't remember, but I'm pretty sure the folding chair I sit at is a similar affair. It's got a Dollar General throw pillow on it so I can at least say I'm trying to save my back. The top of the desk is a mess of mostly old bottles and cans, pencils, incense ash, and my old tarot deck. I love this setup dearly. This is the first time I've ever had my own desk space, much less a space I can decorate or leave as messy as I want. Got my own art up on the walls with sticky tack and all! Also the cat's scratching post is directly behind me, because we've learned the cat won't use it unless it's as in the way as possible. What can ya do, lol.

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Oh cats...

Desnik

I got spoiled with an adjustable desk. It is six feet long, and has a whiteboard top for noodling with dry erase markers

my main computer is set up on an adjustable stand so it floats over the desk, and then I have my cintiq, which we tried to mount on a similar stand but then it was just too heavy

I keep my dice collection nearby because fidgeting helps think things through sometimes

and rolling to make odd decisions never hurts

lately during the quarantine I've been sharing the office with my spouse so we've had to establish rules over when it's okay to bug each other(edited)

oh yeah and we also have a whiteboard installed in the office, and it rules!(edited)

Shizamura 🌟 O Sarilho

Mine is pretty simple: I have a laptop that's long stopped being portable and is now mostly just sitting at my desk at all times and a 19 inch Ugee as my display. I usually keep a lot of stuff on top of my desk, but it's mostly just a mess because I have been using it for work too for a while now

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

I suppose I'll talk about my setup too :) My main setup is where I do digital art. I share an office with my SO, so we both have workspaces on opposite walls from each other. I work on a corner desk that holds my beefy computer, two monitors, and a Huion Kamvas GT-191. That's where I draw my comic and pretty much everything else done digitally. Ngl, it's a mess right now. I have comic notes and location floor plans in sketchbooks and DnD character sheets spread out all over the surface, and random pens and sticky notes. In the corner of the room, we have a nice large-format printer where I produce prints for conventions. I actually sketch my pages on an iPad pro in Procreate, so during the sketch phase, sometimes I'll just bundle up on my couch and do it, or before quarantine, sometimes I'd sketch on the go. My other workspace (which hasn't gotten much love as of late tbh) is a drafting table in the corner of our living room. I keep a tabletop easel on it and my Copic markers, as well as whatever I'm working on at the moment. (RN it's some ink washes.) The drawers hold all my ink, pencils, erasers, etc. Next to the drafting table is where I keep all my large charcoal, graphite, and oil pastel drawings (mostly school projects), and my large paintings. Other than that, I have a nifty little cart where I keep painting supplies :) I will say, this setup is by far an enormous improvement from my previous setups.

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #comic tea party #ctp #creator interview #comic creator interview #creator babble

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artboitrash · 4 years

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His Bloody Rose (Stefano Valentini fanfiction) Chapter 3 - Working Day

Days passed since I had met Stefano on my Wednesday shift; the weekend came and let me move through the motions of daily life. I never ended up looking up his name. While I was curious, I didn't need to go snooping around for information on a stranger.

I sat quietly in the gallery the following Monday, scrolling through my Facebook page, absentmindedly wondering about some more distant friends that I didn't interact with online. Everything, as far as I was aware, was going smoothly in my classes, and I didn't have anything too pressing for the next few weeks. Pet pictures and photos of family members went through my feed interspersed with articles about politics and science breakthroughs.

A new article posted a few hours ago came across my dash, linked to a statement from the Krimson City's police department about an urgent matter. The headline read "Mutilated Woman's Body Found Over the Weekend - Search for Identity Matches Missing Woman from Krimson City" and continued with an introduction to the article.

I clicked on the link and began to scroll through the story, reading about how the body was missing its arms and head, rendering it as barely more than a torso. A crime scene photo, blurred for those who didn't want to see it, showed her crumpled frame laying in a small pool of blood in an alleyway once the filter was removed. There was barely any blood left, showing that the majority of the wounds and bloodletting occurred elsewhere.

"Due to some defensive wounds, police are saying this person was alive while they were being dismembered. Identity of body suspected to be Genevieve Wavers, a young woman pursuing an acting and modeling career. She was last seen in a bar downtown before disappearing six days ago. The police chief will be making a statement today about the series of murders that have been occurring within our beloved town."

I frown slightly as I continue scrolling, discussing how the family of the woman is reacting to the news, how it hasn't been completely confirmed until the DNA testing comes back conclusive, and discussion of how similar murders have been ongoing within the city.

A serial murderer is an interesting idea to study in terms of true crime interests, but it doesn't actually feel fun when there's a real threat living in your city and walking around as though they are a real person.

I shut out of the tab on my phone. That's enough internet for right now, I don't need to become wildly paranoid. So far I think I'm safe from the supposed serial killer, or whoever is killing and dismembering young women in Krimson. Sure I'm a young woman too, but I doubt I'm the ideal victim for them.

I guess I wouldn't really know that, though.

A student walked into the gallery, meandering in slowly. I sat down my phone, sitting attentive to make sure they knew I was there to answer any questions they might have. The waved slightly at me, acknowledging me, then started to walk around the exhibit.

I turned to my sketchbook, staring at the sketch I had been working on before becoming frustrated and turning to my phone for entertainment. I frowned, then picked up my block eraser and began to erase the entire thing. I didn't like how it was turning out, and I knew I would never come back to it, so might as well get rid of it now before it becomes a mental burden to the book and an embarrassment to me.

The student walked towards the desk, causing me to look up at him. He was a student I was familiar with, as he had been in several of my art classes.

"Hey, it's nice to see you again!" He said with a smile, polite as he usually was.

I nodded towards him. "Always good to see you." I made a mental note that I didn't know or remember his name.

"Do you know what this piece is called?" he held up his phone, showing a photograph of a piece from the last gallery installment. "I meant to get it before it came down, but I wasn't able to remember it, and I've asked around my class that needs the paper, but no one knows what it's called."

Someone else walked in, but I didn't pay attention to them while I was preoccupied with the student in front of me. I knew a few teachers in the art department had set a short paper to talk free form about a piece of their selection. A few other students from other classes have come in with the same question, but I'm normally not helpful. Especially now since this installment has been up for nearly a month. I stared at the photo for a moment, recognizing the image but not remembering the name, then shrugged.

"Sorry, I didn't catch most of the names from the last rotation." I said, leaning back in my seat. "I would recommend talking to your teacher and asking if you could do a paper on one of the pieces from this one."

"Oh, alright..." His voice trailed off, turning his phone to himself to look at the photograph again and scratching his neck.

I smiled halfheartedly, turning my attention the other patron. The student was a woman with long brown hair lingering close to the desk I was sitting at, obviously waiting for my attention. The man I was talking to turned and began to wander around the room to look at the pieces again.

The girl walked to my desk. "Uhm, sorry, but do you have any of the last paintings from the last gallery?"

I shook my head. "Only one or two in the backroom since they were sold, but all the name plates are in a pile in a tray mixed with other rotations."

"Okay. . ." her voice hesitated, then she pulled out her phone from her bag and scrolled through it. "Do you know the name of this one?"

She held out her phone with a photograph from the last installment. It was a different piece from what the other student had asked me to remember, but I was still at a loss for the names. I kept my polite smile but sighed internally. Props to her for not eavesdropping on my last conversation. Working in the gallery is fun, but when someone puts off their paper until a month after their reference is pulled off the walls, I tend to feel like it's not worth it.

"Sorry, no." I said. "I don't know the name. If you need it for a paper, I'd recommend asking your teacher if you can change the subject of the paper."

She nods, then puts her phone away, frowning as though she was embarrassed. "Well, thank you anyway."

She walked out of the gallery, hung head a little. I could tell the poor girl was severely anxious. I slid my mouth to the side. I mentally apologized again, though knowing it wasn't my fault, I felt bad that so many people didn't realize that the gallery attendants weren't completely infallible. If I knew the names of each piece from the last artist, I would certainly help the people that came in and asked. However, for now each of the students were on their own until I can get photographic memory like the phones that didn't capture the names of the pieces the students are trying to reference.

I continue trying to work with a sketch on the now blank page laying open in my sketchbook. I play with the lines, trying to turn light scribbles into a full piece, starting over and trying to use the page as a character sheet or as a thumbnail experiment page for paintings. However, I don't seem to be able to make anything work, and I eventually give up on the now messy and greyed page. Perhaps today just isn't my day to continue my drawings.

I sigh and pick up my phone again. I open Facebook again, scrolling through my feed. I come across some more articles discussing the current climate of fear in Krimson, more talks about who might be the serial killer running amongst the citizens. Comments sections full of "Anyone could have done this, we aren't being told anything by the police" and "These officials don't know how to do their jobs, no wonder multiple serial killers have lived here in the past decade."

I frown and try not to think about the current state of the city. Too many police went missing in one of the last incidents in Krimson, so I'm not surprised if they're understaffed or waiting for new personnel. When there aren't as many people to keep the criminals in check, it seems the criminals will run rampant like an invasive species.

Someone walked into the gallery, causing me to look up. It was my coworker, Angela, come to take my place since my shift was now over. I smiled at her and began to pick up my things. We began to make conversation and talked quietly as I stood to leave the gallery. We made jokes about shared experiences from working the gallery, discussing family life and bonding over mutual things.

Finally, I turned and began to leave for my class. I was sure I had wasted enough time chatting, but when I made connections with people I couldn't help investing whatever time was available to be with them. It was exhausting sometimes, but worth it when I can make a strong connection with someone.

Walking out the door from the gallery, I waved and said "see you" to Angela. I walked a few paces, then walked into something. I backed up, stumbling, trying to regain my balance.

I fell as I failed to regain my composure, stumbling backwards over my own feet. The concrete flooring was cold and unflinching, rather painful as my leg bent roughly underneath me. I heard someone's voice cry out with a loud slamming into the ground that wasn't me. It dawned on me that I had run into a person and knocked them over.

I looked over to the person saying "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

A man with a single eye obscured by his bangs lay in front of me on the floor, now sitting up and staring at me. It was Stefano, and I could see his portfolio from last time laying across the floor where he had dropped it. His face was twisted in rage, a taught frown on his face and visible eyebrow turned down, casting a dark shadow over his eye. Then his face softened, and he began to get up.

"Well, Miss Rose, I didn't expect to see you again today." He spoke through a tense voice, masking almost pure rage coming through as he spoke. He reached for his portfolio as he stood, then brushed his off, patting down some of the dirt his black suit picked up while on the floor. The top button was undone on his pristine shirt collar, the black coat protecting the pure white fabric from a smudge of dirt across his side.

I hurriedly got up, grabbing my book bag, forgetting that I was in a rush to get to my next class. "I'm so, so sorry, I didn't see you while I was walking."

"Nor did I see you." He said, no longer speaking with an enraged tone. "Though, I would recommend you watch where you are going next time. I doubt few would be as forgiving as me."

I blinked, taken aback from his comment.

His face shifted, then a smile spread across his lips. He lifted his portfolio, then gestured me to follow him. I walked with him as he sat down on a bench across the hall from where I had been standing.

"You are responsible for one of my newest creations, bella." he chuckled quietly as I sat down next to him. "After you had shown me those photos from Miss Sally Mann, I was struck with such inspiration that I had to create something new."

I didn't notice how low he was speaking at first. He opened his leather portfolio, the echo of the zipper bouncing through the hall.

"You developed a new photograph, or. . ."

"I created several, though I am only carrying the best with me in this."

He flipped gently through the transparent folders holding his pictures, as though checking to make sure none were damaged from falling. Once he got closer to the ending, he turned the portfolio to me and set it on my lap. Two pictures looked back at me, one of an eye buried under dozens of hands, staring out at the viewer. I stared at it for a moment, seeing the crispness of the shadows meeting and contrasting with the skin tones of the hands and what was visible of the face. The eye shone in terror it seemed, bloodshot, and almost begging to be saved from the inevitable fate of being touched.

A low rumble of laughter came from the man sitting next to me. "I admire your appreciation, but I was speaking about this one." His gloved hand guided me to the opposite page and tapped it slightly.

It was a woman with missing limbs and head dislocated from her body, face obscured by roses and tree leaves. She was wearing a red dress that turned into a river at her feet, simulating a river of blood flowing through a forest. Large trees overlapped and faded into the background, implying that the focus of the woman was that she was part of a waterfall, leaning back in a near bliss at bringing life to the land around her despite her obvious death.

I felt my heart pound, something about the way the girl stood reminded me of the police report and crime photo I had seen earlier. I blinked and shook my head.

"What are your thoughts?" Stefano shattered my train of thought, a smile crossing his face as I looked up at him. "You are the first. To see this newest work of mine."

I turned back to it, taking in the composition of this photograph, ignoring the gnawing thoughts in the back of my head. I stared, taking in the sharp contrast colors, scarlet dress and crimson flowing liquid clashing like a kiss with the warm brown of the trees and cool leaves. I realized there was a ripple of wind, pushing the dress and leaves in movement swaying to the left of the picture.

"It's. . ." my voice trailed off, not sure how to describe the strange feeling it was evoking in me. "Wonderful."

Silence ensued next to me. I saw his face change in my peripheral vision. I could have sworn his smile had fallen to a frown or a neutral expression. I didn't look at him, but kept staring to absorb each detail.

"It's a little busy with all the details in the bark," I traced the weathered trees with all the heavy lines pointing up and down in near parallel lines. "But the shading, and the lighting, and the contrast... It fits the image perfectly. The leaves by her face are so well contrasted to her dress, and her skin stands out perfectly with the trees."

"Perfectly. . ." he whispered.

I looked up at Stefano, seeing he was staring at me. His gaze was intense and almost distant. He wasn't lost in his thoughts, but his eyes were shifting around me as though seeing something. I turned around to see what he was looking at.

Instantly a hand grabbed my chin, pulling my face back around. Stefano's hand had pulled me back around to stare at him, grip firm and unrelenting. He had leaned forward to grab me, and his concentration was partially lost. Soon the intense gaze resumed and looked around my face and passed me. The cool leather shaping my chin didn't leave, holding me in place as he continued to gaze at me. A slight smirk appeared on his lips, causing me to notice, then turn my own gaze away in embarrassment. I could see his green eye widening, in mania or excitement I wasn't sure.

We sat there like that as people passed us, some I noticed were staring since we were both sitting like statues on the bench. I realized a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. Most people caused an uncomfortable feeling when they touched me, like cactus needles rubbing underneath my skin. However, this wasn't being triggered while Stefano held my head in place. I could smell his cologne again more faintly this time and the scent of a photography lab, causing a memory to surface from when I took a traditional photography class for my degree.

Finally he let go of me and I backed up. My back protested as I sat up, realizing he had been pulling me slowly towards him. It popped loudly as I sat straight, pulling away from his figure to grab my bag again.

"Excuse me for that, a new image came to my mind and I had to form it properly." He laughed it off slightly.

I looked down at my watch out of habit, then realized I was several minutes late to my first morning class. I grasped the portfolio, still laying in my lap, and handed it to Stefano who had begun to stand up.

"I'm so sorry, I need to leave. I'm late for my class, and I--"

A hand grabbed mine, pulling me up. The strength of the pull made me land awkwardly into the chest of the man who had grabbed me. I looked up into Stefano's eye, a neutral look on his face, but a strange glint in his eye. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed.

"Well, I too am late, bella Rosa," he said while frowning. "I was on my way to a meeting when you ran into me."

His tone implied he hadn't stopped me again and chose to show me his pictures a few minutes ago.

"But, I shall forgive you," he said quietly as he leaned down. "If only you live up to your charm from the first time we met."

He pressed his lips against my forehead, a hand pressing flat against the back of my head. They were warm and soft against my skin. My eyes fluttered closed, making my other senses more noticeable. I was aware of a warmth in my stomach, something odd and new, like a fire or a sick nauseous feeling spreading through me. I swallowed as a lump formed in my throat. His lips against my forehead were gentle, and they lingered probably a little longer than was socially acceptable. His fingertips twitched against my skull, then pulled away. His lips slid up my forehead as he pulled away, lifting his head. My eyes fluttered back open, still not sure this had really happened.

"Hopefully you are still my good luck charm, bella Rosa." Stefano chuckled, smile stretching to one side of his face. He backed away a little, tucking his portfolio under his left arm. "Perhaps we will meet again, and if we have enough time you may model for me to complete the new image flourishing in my mind."

He walked past me slowly, and I turned with him as he walked away. He turned back and glanced at me with a smile still on his face.

I stood, frozen, as I watched him walk away and disappear around the corner. It took me several moments to recollect myself. I came back to the present as I blinked several times. I ignored the odd ache and burn in my stomach, recollecting my thoughts. I shook my head as I made sure I had all my things and began walking to my class. I couldn't care about being late now, my thoughts more scrambling about a near stranger kissing me on the head.

I tried to push down the thoughts and emotions that continued to surface as I walked into my class. I ignored the people that turned and looked at me as I opened the door and made my way through the back of the room.

My mind wouldn't process whatever was the topic of class that day. I pulled out my sketchbook and eventually started drawing on a new page, just trying to push my mind away from the look in his eyes as he had stared at me.

#Stefano Valentini #the evil within stefano #tew #tew2 #The Evil Within 2 #writing #fanfiction #stefano valentini fanfiction #His Bloody Rose #Chapter 3 #working day

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

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ask your destiny to dance [1] {Roger Taylor}

A/N: Here it is, folks, the first installment of my long-running OC fic. Please leave feedback if you have anything! My inbox is always open!

[masterpost]

Love at first sight isn’t real, or, not with people at least, but when Ash sets her eyes on the dingy little bar that’s three blocks from her dingy little apartment, she thinks she’s as close as she’s ever gotten.

“Listen,” the gruff owner of the pub, Uncle Dave, as the regulars call him though he’s not really anyone’s uncle, claps a hand on her shoulder, “you’ve gotta be made of stern stuff to work here, girlie, you think you got what it takes?” He’d been sceptical of her, barely five-foot-three and soft faced, but her character references had been glowing enough for him to put her through training behind the bar.

“I think I can give it a go.” She grinned up at him, expression one of unwavering determination. It’s that determination that gets her through her first shift, thrown in the deep end on a Saturday night during the second week of term for the university half a block away, and everyone’s already looking to blow off steam. The band they’ve hired is... mediocre, and getting progressively worse as they fuel up on their free drinks between sets, and the guy they’ve got on bass slaps her on the ass when she’s going around picking up empty glasses. Even so, she manages to keep smiling, and doesn’t throw the leftover beer that someone had put out a cigarette in, in his face.

“You alright, honey?” Maureen, the only other female bartender, pouring a beer for a kid who looks suspiciously young, gives her a concerned look, but Ash gives her a sunny smile, and heads to the back, arms piled high with empty glasses, to start washing up. Despite the groping, the snide remarks, and occasionally spilled drinks, she loves it, the hum of people talking, of music playing, the smell of smoke and stale beer that she had become so accustomed to during her first year, now a place she hopes she’ll find herself a regular within.

Her saving grace of the night is Freddie, who shows up halfway into the second set, grinning brightly and waving at her over the bar.

“What is the fanciest drink this establishment offers?” He’s leaning both his elbows on the bar, chin resting on his hands when she comes to serve him. She can see the amusement sparkling in his eyes, and playing along, she leans against the bar on her side considering.

“We have the Long Island Iced Tea,” she’d heard a woman at the bar order it about an hour ago, though Maureen was the one serving her, and she recalls what she can where she had been half paying attention to the process, half pouring a beer for a guy who had told her to smile more, “it involves several of the bottles we have behind the bar, and a fancy glass from the back.” She mused, faux serious.

“And you know how to make it already?” Freddie seemed part-surprised, part-impressed, and Ash struggled to keep a straight face.

“No I do not. Would you like a pint?” She asked, already pouring the drink for him, anticipating his answer. He, unsurprisingly, broke out into a grin, agreeing, handing over the money for the drink.

“Do you know when Don’t Forget To Smile is playing next?” Freddie leans against the bar, beer in one hand, watching the band with mild interest, but Ash can’t answer for the customer beside him.

“Dunno, Freds, it’s my first day.” She reminded him pointedly, smiling brightly at the other patron as she passed over his drink and collected his money. To his credit, Freddie lets her finish her job, hanging around the bar and cringing as the band crashed to an uneven end for most, if not all of their songs.

She’s given her second break of the night at the start of their third set, having been at the bar since six, her feet killing her as it just edged on eleven, and Freddie joins her as she sits on a milk crate out the back, lighting up a cigarette.

“Enjoying it?” His eyes are closed, enjoying the thump of the bass and drums though the building without having to endure the actual song. Ash takes a long drag, pulling a notepad from the back pocket of her jeans, along with a pencil she’d swiped from the gambling section.

“It’s fun,” she admitted, sketching out an idea she had gotten when admiring a girl’s fringe skirt across the room. “’m mad that I can’t tell some of the blokes to shove it,” she let out a humourless laugh, taking another a long drag from her cigarette, pausing in her drawing to pull a few bills from where she’d had them tucked into her bra, “but I’ve made like twenty bucks in tips so,” and she shrugs instead of finishing the thought, putting the money back to her bra before passing off her cigarette to him. Hunching over for a moment, she struggles to add detail with the little pencil, but settles for what she can manage.

“Homework?” Freddie breathes in a lung full of smoke and lets it out with a chuckle as she affirms. “Still haven’t finished the ten thumbnails we need by Monday?” Again, she affirms, and he just laughs harder.

“I’ve been making my own clothes for years, it’s dumb that I need to take Intro to Fashion Design before I can get into any of the higher grade subjects.” Frowning at her work, Ash pauses for a long moment, considering her own words. Snapping her notebook shut, she shoves it back into her back pocket and takes the cigarette back from Freddie, leaning her head back against the wall as she inhaled out of frustration.

“I know darling, you’re a powerhouse and they’re holding you back.” Freddie pet her knee affectionately, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“They just want all this commercial bullshit.” Ash played up the childish whine in her voice, before leaning forward, suddenly intense as she stared off into the middle distance. “Where’s the pizzazz?” She demanded, looking back at where Freddie had his eyebrows raised. Without breaking eye contact, as if still demanding an answer, she takes another drag on her cigarette, before putting it out on the wall behind them.

“The pizzazz is with you, it’s always been with you, fuck what they think.” Freddie told her, and Ash’s expression softened from intense to fond as she tucked the half remaining cigarette in the breast pocket of her blouse.

“Fuck what they think.” She parroted back with a nod, and Freddie smiled at her, accepting her hand as she stood, getting ready to head back inside. After stretching out her legs, getting ready to spend the rest of her shift on them, she turns to him as he leaned against the door. “Is Smile really that good?” She’d been hearing about them for weeks now from Freddie, who presently, smiled, amused.

“They have potential.” He conceded, to which Ash narrowed her eyes.

“They better than these clowns?” She pointed at him, past the door to where the band was struggling it’s way through it’s final set. That gave Freddie pause.

“Yes?” Though it sounded more like a question, which only made Ash more suspicious.

“Fredward, if you bring garbage music into my establishment-” She warned, but Freddie just recoiled, expression disgusted.

“Fredward? That’s awful, and like I said, they have potential.” After a beat, he moved, opening the door, mouth twitching into a smile. “And it’s hardly your establishment, darling, you’ve been here a day.” Which, okay he’s got a point.

Until he doesn’t. She goes home at the end of the night with almost forty dollars in tips, and Dave looks rather proud, promising that he’d have Maureen teach her how to mix drinks. He asks her to come in the next day, for the Sunday lunch crowd, and she doesn’t say no.

Ash works weekends now, starts on Friday afternoons, finishes on Sunday nights, learns her way around the bar, learns the faces of the regulars. The men who come in on Sunday, drink beer and watch the dog races, they take to calling her the Pocket Rocket, for her stature and bright red hair, and her boundless enthusiasm. She’s found the brighter she smiles, the more she laughs at their stupid jokes, the more they tip her, and as a poor uni student, she wouldn’t dare pass up the opportunity.

The nickname carries over with Dave and Maureen, as well as the other staff, as Ash becomes known and liked for being able to put up with the uni students the best, and for being a quick study when it comes to mixing drinks. They favour the nickname, actually, they think it’s cute and quirky, and it does make her smile.

If she’s not Pocket Rocket, she’s just Ash, rather than Ashley, which was on her resume, and though she’s thankful, it’s what she prefers. She’s Ash on Friday and Saturday nights, when the uni students flood the pub and she’s the shortest one in the room, and on her second night, two different people also answered when Maureen called to her through the crowd. It’s easier, it’s less of a mouthful to yell when help is needed at the bar.

Her classmates frequent the bar, Freddie included, and so even to them the nickname spreads; no longer Ashley, as read from the roll, Ash, who might be failing Intro to Fashion Design, who’s always quiet in class, but wears a smile as big as she is at the pub.

“Do you know when Smile’s playing?” Freddie’s almost finished his drink by the time he asks, which is a new record for him. It’s a quiet Friday, they’ve got the jukebox going tonight instead of a band, and Ash is drying glasses behind the bar and hanging them up, everyone having been served at the bar.

“Tomorrow.” She informs nonchalantly, and he actually rises from the stool he had been sitting on, affronted.

“And how long have you known?” He demanded in mock outrage. She’s been at the bar for almost a month before she realised that the band didn’t actually play at her pub. After a word to her boss, telling him about the reputation the band had for bringing in customers, basing all her information off of things Freddie had told her, he looked into them.

“I had a hunch, but Dave confirmed it for me earlier today.” She grinned at Freddie, who’s eyes lit up with excitement. “They don’t play here, Fred, why’d you keep asking me-?”

“Because I wanted to show you for a while, but you’re always working when they’re playing, my dear.” He sighed dramatically, though it was all for show, and he let up with a grin. “Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this.” He mused, finishing off the last drops of his drink, pushing the empty glass towards her. “They really are quite good.” He assured, and Ash let herself smile.

“I thought they just ‘had potential’.” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she washed his glass in the sink behind the bar.

“They’ve been practicing.” Freddie told her with an air of finality, and Ash chose not to pry into whatever that truly entailed, as it seemed Freddie was heading home for the night.

The next day, Dave calls her from where she’s sipping water behind the bar, where she sees three guys all standing by the stage they had set up in the corner of the pub.

“If ya need anything, Pocket Rocket’ll be the one you go to.” It’s clear by his tone that Dave’s already tired of dealing with uni students, and Ash realises he’s talking to the band, here to set up. She picks up her step, brightens her smile, and fixes the way her shorts are sitting against her thighs. There’s no uniform at the pub, and Dave is pretty much of the opinion that everyone can dress however they want, as long as there’s no high heels.

Both Ash and Maureen wear black blouses, with the sleeves rolled up past their elbows, showing perhaps more cleavage than was strictly necessary, though it did garner more tips. Maureen usually opts for black pants, though Ash, still in uni, can get away with wearing sheer tights with very short shorts over the top. No-one’s complained thus far, and she’s pretty sure they’re not going to.

“Pocket Rocket?” She hears one of the band members scoff, and her smile gets a little stiff at the derision, but she straightens her posture, tightens her ponytail, and makes her way to her place by Dave’s side.

“That’s me!” Her usually chipper tone ringing out loud and clear as she looked over the three guys.

“Ash, this is Smile, uh,” Dave held out his hand, as if to introduce them to her, though he seemed to have already forgotten their individual names. When Ash holds out her hand to shake theirs, Dave takes that as his cue to leave, and he heads for the back door, probably to have a smoke.

“I’m Ash, they call me the Pocket Rocket ‘round here. I guess I’ll be your contact for tonight, lemme know if you need anything.” She rattles of automatically, as the first one grasps her hand, shaking.

“Well, I’m Tim, and this is-” the man with the dark hair and a dopey smile was waved off almost as soon as he started to shake hands with her.

“People who are capable of introducing themselves. I’m Roger.” The moment Roger looked at her, his smile was all teeth and the promise of a bigger bite, pretty and charming in a way that was so effortless. She knew that smile, the way his gaze dipped for just a moment, and how his eyes followed her once she had shook hands with Brian and began showing them around the space. She’d watched playboys work at the bar far too often to be blind to one right in front of her.

This was the band Freddie raved about? Brian seemed okay enough, Tim was a bit dopey but alright, but then there was Roger. After showing them around, still smiling, as was her job, she headed back to the bar, taking a long drink of water.

They caught her attention once more as they began a sound check later in the night, and when she looked up, she watched for a moment before Roger caught her gaze, and he grinned, sharp and mischievous. She did not smile back, just raised her eyebrows at him, which only made him grin wider; they both knew exactly the type of person he was.

So no, love at first sight isn’t real, of this Ash is sure, but as she looks away, called by another customer, her mind still fixed on Roger’s infuriating grin, she knows one thing; hate, absolute loathing at first sight, it was entirely possible.

Tag List: @deakydickfanpage

message me or comment if you wanna be added xx

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x oc #freddie mercury #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #don't forget to smile #ask your destiny to dance fic #brian may #the angry lizard writes

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punkgarden · 5 years

Photo

Final Comic vs Thumbnails!!

It’s always fun to step back and compare how they look! Under the readmore, I’m going to go into length of how I did this comic! I’m a kinda decent artist who Sort Of knows what they’re doing so hopefully its helpful!

I always knew how I wanted this comic to turn out, but it’s still extremely helpful to have a typed up summary and script (including both dialogue And blocking)

from my google doc:

This is the ENTIRE thing that I went off of to make the comic--- and I do admit it’s different from how I usually do it, but the fact that the comic had no spoken dialogue gave it a special circumstance.

Then I sketched up tiny thumbnails as shown above!! I do this on a large canvas (don’t draw on white canvases!!) and I only let the thumbnails cover a specific side so I can use the other parts for extra drawing space if I need it. I do things this way so I can test out different ways I may draw a panel. If the pose is a lil difficult for me to draw in a tiny way, I would draw it to the side and then copy/paste/resize it later.

The way I tend to thumbnail is unique to me, meaning that there’s no right or wrong way to do things! My thumbnails tend to be more detailed than others (I know people who just use basic blobs to block out their comic) because I prefer it that way and it’s easier for me to read. As long as you can read your own thumbnail, you’re fine!!

Why thumbnail? It’s to help you plan the composition of your comic, ya dingus. Jokes aside, well drawn comics have a good Flow to them--- something that makes it easy for the readers’ eyes to follow along. Placing dialogue before (or at least, at the same time) you thumbnail helps you do this!

And now here’s a few screenshots of how I did one of my favorite backgrounds in this comic---

NO I did Not do this in one layer like some of the other backgrounds I did haha. I just....idfk how to explain this LMAO, I just blocked out colors with my polygon tool, added lines where there needed to be lines, more colors, shadows, textures, etc. The floor leading to the door is darker because I imagined it would be more decayed than the rest of the wood. Added some foliage because nature would try to reclaim and grow through the building. A few snow piles. Realistically there should be more snow but I spent Time painting that wood and dammit you are all going to look at it. I’d much rather go with something that looks nicer/cooler than what is realistic

and it turned out pretty damn good imo

I don’t have much to say about this one except---

NEVER.....GIVE....UP..!!

This one WAS a single layer painting and I regretted it because a month after I painted it, I ended up hating how it looked because the trees look like snow cones and really bad and I live in a world where snow doesn’t exist I JUST DIDNT KNOW, but I fixed it eventually

im running out of things to say and im tired

bye.

(if you have any specific questions, i encourage you to send me an ask!)

#sdv #stardew valley #sdv sebastian #sdv oc #kyledraws #theyspeak

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kae-karo · 5 years

Text

Sea Glass - Bonus Scene

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEN @laddyplester you deserve to have a lovely day. this is for you, i hope you enjoy <3 and the most gracious of thanks to @imnotinclinedtomaturity for betaing this for me!!!

read sea glass first! (x)

bonus scene: Pearlescent (one year later) - 3.1k - internalized angst and soft comfort

read on ao3

I exhale a loud sigh - it’s childishly petty, sure, but I can’t be bothered to care.

Phil’s sat in the lounge with some show or other turned on, though, and I apparently didn’t express my annoyance loudly enough because he doesn’t react. So I exaggerate it a little more, until I’m sure my sigh can be heard over the sound of the TV.

“Dan?” The show pauses, silence following Phil’s voice. I frown down at the page under my fingertips; the drawing’s good, but not what I need.

“Nothing,” I lie. Which is exactly how Phil knows, I think, and he’s soon stood behind me, hands resting on my shoulders. He sets his chin on my head and it digs in, reassuring in spite of my headache. Comfortable, even, because it means he’s here. He understands. Or he’s trying.

“It looks incredible, Dan.” He says it every time I complain - or rather don’t complain - about some project or other I’m meant to be doing for class. This one’s a sort of free assignment, at least, but for the life of me I can’t get it right. And I’ve been trying for three fucking weeks.

“It’s meant to express true happiness.” I clarify, even though Phil knows. Because I told him. Three weeks ago. And pretty much every day since, when I pulled out my damn sketchpad or set up an easel or pulled out a pen to doodle a thumbnail on the corner of a takeaway napkin.

Phil never failed to encourage, not once, and it’s been...well, it’s been sweet, but I still can’t get it right.

And not for the first time, I wonder if maybe I just can’t. If maybe there are insurmountable limits to what I’m capable of, and I’ve finally hit them. I’ve peaked, and my art will always be good but not what I want. Aesthetically pleasing in the kind of way I can make - and have made - a few bucks on, perhaps, but there’s a difference between creating something that pleases the arbitrary audience and something that means something to me.

For this project, for happiness, I’d started with the cave - a thing I’ve not seen in person in nearly a year, in spite of my grandma’s insistence I visit her at least once a semester, because it’s always storming or rainy or some other inconvenience has stood in the way. Except the cave hadn’t felt right, not really.

So, after much insistence from him that I should try a new subject, I’d decided to draw Phil - he’d dutifully posed in spite of his slight embarrassment, made comments using terms he’s heard but really doesn’t fully understand about techniques and shading and angles, and asked if any of the drawings had The Spark.

He says it like that, too, when he’s talking about that spark I’d described to him - he can’t see it, he’s admitted, but I tried to explain it and he’s tried to understand and it means a lot.

But even still, it’d been...wrong. Not wrong in a bad way, but I’ve failed a thousand times now to capture the happiness I see when I look at Phil - I know it’s there, but every drawing turns into a mixture of something beautiful and light and something bitter or melancholy or darker. And it’s never his fault, he’s always bright and sunny and everything I could ask for, but I can somehow never really get that on paper without something less positive dripping into it - the apprehension I’d felt when I met him carved into creases between his brows, my occasional sleepless nights reflected in dark circles under his eyes. And the few times I’ve managed to keep some layer of unnecessary gloom out of it, it ends up lacking depth, looking and feeling tacky, plasticky.

Phil doesn’t quite get it, but it’s there. It’s like...I can’t get the real meaningfulness without something more harrowing, some layer that takes away the fake-ness but makes the whole thing a shade too pensive or too intense.

It took a while, but I think I’ve figured it out - I just don’t feel that happiness without other layers, without some background mental commentary that drags things down. I can’t draw the uninhibited happiness Phil exudes, the kind I’m meant to be drawing - or maybe that I want to be drawing - because I’ve never actually felt it.

“‘Incredible’? No, Phil, it’s really not,” I argue, though I know the reaction I’ll get and it never makes things better. I’ll probably scrap this one and start again, draw the same unrealistically false-looking grin that exists in reality but can’t possibly be captured on a page. Or, I guess, it just can’t be captured by me.

“Dan?” There’s a sudden warmth wrapped entirely around my shoulders, Phil’s warmth. His incredible, uninhibited warmth. Everything about him is genuine, true. Bright and real and most definitely uninhibited, untarnished by the layers of melancholy I can’t keep out of my drawings. I even fucking tried with color this time, but even the lightest blues look too dark and pull the yellows and bright oranges down with them, into something more fitting for a drawing of me.

It’s not til the third teardrop splashes on the corner of the page that I realize I’ve started crying - because of course I have.

“I can’t,” I shrug, though Phil doesn’t let go. He never does if I have a bad day, if I’m not feeling good or confident or whatever it is I happen to be feeling or not feeling, if it’s a day where I need him.

“You can’t?” He mumbles into my ear, low and soft and perfectly comforting. I’ve long since stopped saying I don’t deserve him, not out loud, but it’s days like today I really feel it, deep down in my bones. I don’t deserve the light he brings, the patience and caring and the effort. He tries so fucking hard to understand, even when he doesn’t.

In place of a proper response, I shake my head and slide the paper aside. Phil won’t let me throw it out, I know, but it’s getting really painful to see the growing piles of failure in every corner. I can’t even work at the desk in my room anymore, now stacked high with imperfect pages; I’ve relegated myself to the breakfast bar, where only a few discarded drawings sit in the corner. I flip the page over on top of the pile, hiding the latest in my line of not-right creations.

I recall one of the first classes I’d taken, early on in the summer last year, the professor reminding us over and over and over that imperfection is the first step on the path to perfection, but it just sounds like a false platitude now that I’m not the recipient of compliment after compliment on my excellent technique or realistic depictions. Sure, I can draw, but I’m starting to feel like a proper failure at capturing.

Because it’s there, I know it is. I see that happiness when I look at Phil, but I can’t feel it. I can’t put it down on a page and make someone else see it. I can’t feel it when I look at the drawing afterward. Phil says he can, but I know he’s just saying what he thinks I need to hear. I’ve asked him to stop.

“Maybe take a break for a bit, love?” Phil’s suggestion feels almost like an assault at this point, he’s said it so many times. It’s sweet, and I know it’s because he cares, but the project’s due in a few days and I’ve got nothing.

“I don’t have time.” I argue, though my voice comes out hoarse and unconvincing. I’m just sick of it, sick of pretending to be something I’m not, pretending I’m capable of something that’s clearly just an impossible task for me. Pretending I’m capable of feeling that happiness, of capturing it and putting it down on a page.

“Maybe…” Phil trails off, hesitant and clearly cautious. I dip my head into the crook of his arm and hum, just enough to hint at my curiosity. “Maybe just turn in the best of what you’ve drawn so far and be done?” He says the words into my hair, as if he can use it as a barrier to prevent whatever backlash he’s clearly expecting, and his arms shift around me anxiously. “If you want?” His trademark ‘softening the blow’ technique, when he says something he already knows I won’t like hearing.

I almost fight - it’s in me, I can feel it, that desire to argue and lash out, but it isn’t his fault. How could it ever be his fault that I’m incapable of capturing something? That my skills have turned out subpar, that I’m the failure? So I blow out a soft breath, one far less exasperated than the one that’d drawn him over from the sofa.

“Okay.” If he’s surprised at my answer, he doesn’t show it, but I can’t exactly see his face, so I’ve no real idea.

Besides, I’ve resigned myself to giving up, and the low relief and overarching sense of failure, of incompetence, swell up and roll over me, replacing whatever thoughts and emotions I’d been feeling toward Phil in that moment.

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

“Did you turn it in?” Phil’s stood frowning at the calendar on the far wall, one of the few things he’d insisted I get made to sell properly, featuring a selection of seasonally-appropriate nature drawings I’ve done over the past few months. People ate that shit up, apparently, as I’d sold out in a matter of a few weeks.

“Turn- shit,” I grumble, pushing back from the chair so quickly it tips and nearly clatters to the ground behind me - I manage to catch it at the last second, then I’m off to my room and rifling through the sketches scattered across my desk with frantic fingers.

I probably shouldn’t have put off the choosing of my subpar ‘true happiness’ drawing until the literal last minute.

“Do you need help?” Phil follows me into my room, and I can feel his presence at my shoulder even though he’s not touching me. I think it helps, though my mind’s running at a mile a minute and I can hardly think straight; as I page through each sketch, staring critically at the lines that stare right back at me, I’m thrown into the same melancholic funk I’d been in a few days ago, because none of them are good enough.

But, I suppose if I’m sifting through old sketches anyway, I can go further back, right? Not like the professor will know.

So I slide open the desk drawer, the only one not stuffed to the brim with various utensils and miscellaneous cables. It’s funny, now that I’m tugging the pages out, but I don’t think I’ve even looked in most of these drawers since I requested my grandma ship the worn old desk out to the new flat in Manchester.

“I haven’t seen these,” Phil presses closer to my side, peeking down at the sketches. I guess I haven’t taken these out, then. I go slow, letting him appraise each page as I sift through them - most are too old, really, and I think my style has evolved far too much to pass them off as recent, but my hands pause on a single page.

“Forgot I did that,” I note, my cheeks flushing with warmth at the unusual and almost childish styling of the cartoon doodle; Phil’s hand tugs the drawing from mine.

“You did this?” His tone comes out soft, and I’m suddenly nervous - it’s a silly kind of nervous, I know, because he’s never been anything but honest and kind about everything I’ve ever done. But he’s never seen this sketch, and it feels a little childish and maybe a little sad - these simplistic outlines are a far cry from my proper drawings.

“I mean, yeah,” I mumble, “like ages ago, though. They’re pretty rubbish, just, like, scribbles really.” I hate the feeling in my stomach, the one I’d kept at bay for so long, the one that’d reemerged with the advent of this project, that one that feels a hell of a lot like failure. Disappointment. Insignificance.

“Remember when I got stuck outside last week?” Phil says, then, and it throws me for a complete loop; I huff out a breath of laughter at the unexpected turn in conversation. And at the comical image of Phil stood outside the door in his emoji pajamas, peeking through the frosted glass window.

“Yeah, of course, but I don’t-”

Phil holds up the drawing toward me, as if I’ve not actually seen it properly myself - as if I didn’t draw it myself - and grins.

“Do that, but like this!” He’s nearly shouting, that excited, high voice he gets when he’s seen an animal and he nudges into my arm and says my name to get my attention before pointing it out.

“Do- what, for my project?” I can feel my face scrunching up, but he can’t be serious, can he? How pathetic and unsophisticated would that look? I’m meant to be evolving my skills, not falling back to some childish doodling and cartoon panels.

Phil doesn’t respond aloud, though, just nods and grins that bright, impossible grin and grabs my hand and drags me back out and into the lounge. Before I can properly process it, he’s shoving down on my shoulders and sticking a pen in my hand and flipping over the page of the half-assed drawing on the coffee table in front of me - I’ve long since filled the breakfast bar with failed sketches as well, and I briefly wonder how long Phil’s going to put up with the mess.

“I can’t-”

“No, no, shush, just- just do your thing, it’s perfect, trust me.” He’s stood on the other side now, between the table and the TV, and he’s grinning again - I’m honestly not even sure he’d ever stopped.

“Phil, I can’t turn in-”

“Shush, just do it!” He’s stood and staring and he even gives me an overexaggerated fake frown when I widen my eyes and quirk a brow at him, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about Phil, it’s that he’s a force to be reckoned with when he gets determined like this. Besides, a quick few doodles about Phil getting stuck outside? Shouldn’t take me long, and it’ll be funny at least. Maybe I can hang it on the fridge, a continuous reminder for us both of his hilarious misadventure. Hilarious for me, anyway.

He stands over me and stares while I draw - I hardly mind, it’s not the first time he’s done it and it certainly won’t be the last, and I’ve already decided I’ve no intention of turning this in. It’ll be better to just get it over with to appease him, then I’ll send some other proper drawing in later tonight, just before the deadline.

I fall into my zone quite easily, so I hardly notice when Phil moves closer, when he settles on the sofa behind me and watches over my shoulder. The lines come effortlessly, hardly any real requisite technique involved, and I find myself done before my hand even starts to cramp up.

“There,” I mumble, peeking over at Phil. “Satisfied?” But he’s just grinning, so I shake my head, roll my eyes, and prepare to leave him to it. He can enjoy the doodles, at least, while I decide on something proper to submit.

“Dan, you- it’s-” he stops mid-attempt-at-speaking, then, and I frown at the unblinking wide blue eyes. Surely it’s not that bad, is it? I mean, not that I’d really been trying, but...it still fucking hurts to do something poorly, no matter how casual the attempt.

I turn back to scan the page with twisted lips and a discerning eye, but I can’t pick out whatever Phil must be seeing - the whole thing looks technically simple but pretty clean, and aside from the slightly lopsided framing of the panels, the drawings themselves do a pretty good job of capturing- of capturing.

My eyes race over the story again, the comically wide eyes of the cartoon Phil, my own lanky limbs as I climb down the stairs, rubbing my eye with a fist. It’s good, it’s light and funny and...it’s happy. It’s not incredible or perfect or whatever I’d been chasing so desperately, but I actually fucking feel it.

“I really really like it.” Phil says, and I can hear the grin in his voice without looking. I sort of don’t want to, not yet, not until the light feeling in my chest dissolves a little - I really don’t feel like crying right now, not even a good kind of crying. I just want this drawing to be what it is, to mean what it means without any extra unnecessary layers.

Because it doesn’t need them, the depth is there, it’s in the domestic comedy of errors that’d left me literally belly-laughing at the face glaring at me through the window. It’s in the garish design of Phil’s emoji pajamas that’d almost made me let him in just so nobody else would see him. It’s in the frustrated ‘Dan!’ whisper-shouted through the crack in the door, too early on a Sunday for a proper yell. It’s in the taunting and the elicited promises of laundry done for a month and that candle I’d really wanted and actually picking up his socks for once, in the exasperated ‘finally!’ once I’d given in, and the dramatic arm-crossing and foot-tapping that Phil couldn’t even manage for more than two seconds before devolving into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah?” I ask in spite of myself, and my cheeks hurt from the grin that settles there the moment Phil nods into my shoulder, presses a kiss to my cheek.

I’m not sure why it had to matter so much, but it feels really fucking good to be able to create something that exists in its own right, that doesn’t require hours spent on technique and perfection and meeting impossible standards but still manages to mean something.

“You should do that more.” Phil’s hand slides up and down my arm, soothing and comforting, and I tilt my head until it’s leaned against his and consider it - the simplicity, the raw and unmanufactured vibe, it actually feels good in spite of the urge to correct and nitpick and improve tingling under my skin. But it doesn’t feel necessary, not the way it usually does.

“I think I will.”

#phanfic #dnp #dan and phil #sea glass #emotional angst/comfort #ya lads are back nearly ten months later #ironically that's about how long has passed #both in the fic #and since i last wrote for sea glass #anyway jen #hope you enjoy b!#happy birthday #sea glass fic

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consilium-games · 5 years

Text

Genresick, or: Six Ways to Heartache

As I discussed allll the way back in this post in March, I've been working busily on the supplement to Lovesick. And at very long last, it's finally, finally done:

Genresick

Go on, click on it, I worked hard on it! I'll wait!

. . .

You're back? You took a look at least? Excellent. Cause I'd like to say a few things about it here.

First, "what could have been": my initial idea was a lot more weird and high-concept. I'll probably realize it in some form later, but it entailed a bigger focus on collaboration in storytelling, and in particular, loosening up the focus on "a few main characters (PCs) in the hands of cooperating players".

Instead, it was going to or will in the future use a whole ensemble of characters that players would make, terse thumbnail sketches at first, and maneuver together and against one another, striving for one of three 'endings' to the shared story. Still centered very much on passion, internal motivations, psychological damages, and unhealthy fixation, and still both very self-aware and very determined to tell its kind of story. But that concept needs to stew more.

I've been thinking a lot lately on some of the more abstract ideas involved in storytelling: how stories about ourselves often define us, how we build ourselves out of these stories, and how dissonance between stories can feel like you've actually entered some other kind of reality, where even the laws of nature don't match what you've grown to trust as much as gravity.

Heady, nerdy stuff, in short, and I think the untitled game I didn't make--because it basically would and should be its own full game--is both a necessary step to getting where I want to work on, and still a bit beyond my reach.

Second, "what is": Genresick is a few things at once. It's a supplement obviously, a pile of toys and backdrops for Lovesick surely, but it's also a kind of reassessment. I think characters by themselves can make for a really compelling story--as long as they want things, for reasons, and do things to get them, you have a story. So people wanting relatable things to an unreasonable degree and doing dramatic things to get them seems like a perfect pitch to me!

Not so much the people who find their way to click on my downloads.

Now, I'm not defeated or even disheartened by this, so much as attentive: "hmm, that didn't work . . ." So, let's see what people make of something packaged more in the traditional trappings and tropes of Geek Culture[tm]: science fiction, unpronounceable names, airbrushed paperback covers, the kind of genre fiction set-dressing that "stories for nerds" often comes with.

Thirdly--let me dig into that a bit.

Still inflamatory after all these books

I could go dig up citations and quotations from better commentators than I, citing the operation of a kind of "low-brow chic" in the many intersecting and overlapping orbits that enclose "people who read, buy, play, and make roleplaying games". I won't though, I trust that it's not a foreign concept, but I'd like to stake out how I see it a bit, and what I think it means.

To put it really briefly and only a little reductively, science fiction and fantasy as we know them today were very strongly influenced by being relegated to the gutters of culture. Most recently as Young Adult[tm] books and over-contracted mandatory-trilogy series and hypercapitalist conventions, but prior to that, low-budget TV series, three-color comic books, and before that, B-movies and 'cult classics'. You can even see a lot of that in the earliest incarnations of Dungeons and Dragons--there's an actual robot wizard in there. An actual robot that is an actual wizard.

This influence isn't any weaker today, it's just weirder: genre mashups and "what even is genre, really" sensibilities, and the slow dissolution of previously-stable subcultural boundaries mean that the idea of a "space western" isn't a radical new thing--it's Firefly. But, what hasn't left? The genre fiction domain, and the tendency to live entirely inside it.

When a piece of Geek Culture[tm] tries to articulate itself, to position itself and give itself context, to say what it's about and what it's doing, the points of reference are always firmly inside the spheres of genre fiction, the low-budget, the literarily maligned, the 'nerdy' rather than 'intellectual'. This has to include my own work, too--RPGs as an artistic medium live more or less entirely inside the geekosphere, and I credit FROM Software in my first book--a video-game company, who made the sword-and-sorcery game that inspired Succession. Good work can come out of the genre fiction ecosystem, but . . .

But. The fact that anyone needs to point that out, even as a defensive disclaimer, is not a very healthy sign. A story set in the future exploring the possible effects of technology on society can be a true work of art--just look at Mary Shelley. But when the wealthy and lettered at some point decided that the only good stories, worth studying, involve wealthy and lettered literature professors contemplating an affair--well. Two things happened:

Firstly the academics set the standard for Good Art[tm], which you've probably seen some reaction against, say, Duchamp's 'Fountain'. But standard it remained and to a large degree remains: severe attitudes, reserved speech, refined vocabulary, abstract and sometimes even indiscernible stakes and ideas and goals, when it comes to stories and how they're conveyed. The groove carved into (white Western anglophonic) culture's psyche at large is "this is what Good Art is, and if you wish to be a Good Artist, you must aspire to this; if you cannot appreciate this Good Art, you are no artist or intellectual at all!"

Secondly they deprived the rest of us of a vocabulary, half by claiming it themselves and using it only for their kind of "Good Art", half by everyone else identifying even trying to form such a vocabulary as one of those effete ivory-tower intellectuals here only to sneer on Bad Art or even Non-Art. So weirdos like me have to travel far and dig deep to piece together analytical tools to understand how "Bad Art" stories work, what they do, how they function, what makes them work and what makes them fail.

But, as a consequence of that second thing, in Geek Culture people kept making art! But they didn't have a vocabulary for the many new concepts they kept forming and inventing independently and from scratch, and then borrowing and elaborating from one another. I think this is both why application of basic storytelling techniques like foreshadowing and mixed motivations can be so captivating for a nerd-as-a-first-language audience even when bungled: they're the same techniques refined over centuries over there in "Good Art", good techniques that work--but that don't work without adjustment. Adjustment that outsiders lack the vocabulary to discuss, and thus can't really derive for their own needs.

All this boils down to Geek Culture more often than not tending to shy away from something that looks "intellectual" unless it first looks "sci-fi" or "fantasy" or some other identifiable public forswearing of the scary ivory tower. You can see a lot of this in video-games' audience: "it's just video-games, don't put politics in my video-games, can't it just be a video-game?!" Of course it can. There will always be games for the sake of games (Chess), and songs for the sake of songs (most any pop song), and now video-games and movies just for the sake of something flashy to look at and something to do for awhile after earning a daily wage. That's not what bothers a person making that kind of complaint.

What bothers them is a lot more complicated than I have the energy left to get into, but hey, I think if I can develop and popularize and expand that vocabulary we've been denied (and denied ourselves), we can use it to make some really wicked cool things. I'm not about to tell anyone to toss out their Dragonlance and instead read Dante's Inferno--honestly, I'd have to rate them on a par if you look at the work and not at the reception. Both are fantastical fan-fiction, though Dante's is a lot meaner in spirit and departs more from the source material, though it certainly has more technical execution on its side.

Instead what I want is for us to have, as a "Geek Culture", a way to understand something like Dragonlance as thoroughly as Dante's Inferno. And we're getting there! Meanwhile, if the only way to sell people on "intense character-study and focus on relationships" is to put on a space-suit, then suit me up.

So what's up next?

Aside from stirring the new pot bubbling over on r/consilium_games, and hopefully starting some form of discourse, next is a full RPG in its own right, in keeping with my self-appointed schedule of "full game and supplement"! And since I've implicitly asked my readers and/or the RPG community at large to stretch so much in looking at Lovesick, it's only fair that I stretch myself too.

Specifically, I'm working now on a very mechanics-heavy, combat-oriented game, applying the same mechanical components I've used since Succession and especially some of the ideas in Substitute Reagents, but building them around concrete, reified, 'gamey' interactions rather than purely narrative beats and character-focused stakes.

I also intend it to dig into identity formation, structures and systems of power, how people 'cast' themselves and one another, and a few other themes very close to my heart. Come for the crunchy cinematic action, stay for the pensive meditation on selfhood!

#lovesick #genresick #rpgs #books #commentary

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