#the sketch in question. i was gonna draw something but this is far more important i think
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today's keiji is: world's most devastating piece of official keiji art
#the sketch in question. i was gonna draw something but this is far more important i think#nankidai. WHY!!!!!!!#mr policeman comments on how big keiji's gotten in the caption by the way. screaming and crying and throwing up an#your turn to die#yttd#keiji shinogi#mr policeman#daily keiji
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diana, this might sound like a weird question, but how do you draw boobs/gock/vaginas and anatomy in general? i wanna improve my art and you seem to have a lot of experience with it
-alice in anon because im embarrassed lol
hmm good question! im gonna be honest i don't really use references most the time, and i recommend you absolutely use references very often when drawing something you're not the most confident in.
for anatomy, it sorta comes down to me focusing on how other artists draw specific parts of anatomy and getting a good feel of how they generally look enough to know what looks wrong in my own attempt so i can continue adjusting it. it's a shitty bruteforce method but for me i sorta just osmosis it from exposure. in general i have a decently trained eye in 3d space on account of my 3D modeling experience, so coming up with shapes at particular angles is a little less of a headache i imagine some others would deal with at my skill level. i still struggle with posing which is something i really gotta practice more. i know it'd be faster if i used references for practice but my art process is a bit too casual out of stubborness... but i will do what i can to improve my workflow at some point!
regarding stuff like sexual anatomy or what have you, i actually pull up a few different artist's works, specifically those who draw shapes i find most appealing, and apply their concepts to my own attempt. it's sorta hit or miss atm, i'm still very new to drawing sexual anatomy. at the very least, i try and draw bodies as they are. what i mean is, a chubbier body is going to have more pockets of fat pulling some parts down, and comparing with my own body and those whom i've been with, i just try and capture the practical "flaws" and do my best not to polish them out of the equation. sunken eyes, messy hair, folds of skin, muscle definition, wrinkles, hair, etc it's all very pretty and more than anything i want to appreciate those bodies.
use references, look at your own body and try and plan out angles and poses before you get too deep into the drawing! my biggest flaw at the moment is lack of forethought going into a piece which can make a lot of my art much more stiff because an idea i wanted occurs halfway through the drawing and retroactively adjusting things is just not gonna work and it'll look stilted. come up with your idea and sketch a very simple example so you know what you're aiming for the entire time instead of me who habitually draws heads and facial features long before deciding how i want the rest of the body, usually locking me into the same perspective and angle as always lol. i have been fixing this most of the time now and i hope that is more apparent in some of my recent works.
sorta just rambling, but yeah! the most simple way for me to tl;dr this is that i recommend using irl examples for references for poses or how particular pieces of the body are structured in 3D space, and looking at other's art for ideas or inspiration, reverse engineer their process and practice it until you feel satisfied it makes sense in the context of your drawing. take special attention of smaller details of the body and don't be afraid of making something look "unappealing" if you want to portray a specific feature. you might not draw something the way that looks good to you, but the most important thing is learning what it is that does look good in your opinion, and reviewing what you could do to help draw more like that.
i'm really sorry if this is far too convoluted and not great advice, i'm the literal embodiment of "fake it till you make it" and any skill i've learned is simply because i am stubborn and bruteforcing it till i accomplished whatever it is that i wanted. for someone who is more interested in learning and improving the "right way", i tried to offer some more rational strategies to what i do in hopes that it makes sense in helping better lol. hope this helps!
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Stuck With You.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x (female) Reader
Summary:��You and Eddie decide that you want to get matching tattoos, but as you are both low on cash you opt for doing stick and pokes in his trailer instead.
Warnings: Do NOT try this at home!!!!!, this is purely fluff/pure content. Mentions of needles for tattoo purposes? Unless you count a couple of curse words as needing a warning? Idk, I haven’t written fanfics in like 8 years so I’m a little rusty…
Note/Request: Requested by anonymous. “it would be so cool if you could write about Eddie and the reader getting matching stick and pokes in his room ;)”
Word Count: 1.4k
Send me prompts to write about!
“So, what are we gonna get?” Eddie asks, sitting with crossed legs on his bed.
He’s got a sketchbook in one hand and a pencil in the other, double page spread in front of him filled with various doodles and sketches that he had done in the time it took you both to brainstorm ideas for what you wanted to tattoo on one another.
Eddie was covered in a few little tattoos here and there, but you were a tattoo virgin. It took weeks of convincing for Eddie to pester you into getting a tattoo, you only agreed if it was small, hidden, and something important to you. You didn’t mind if people got tattoos just because the design was cute, everyone was entitled to their own decisions and autonomy, you just wanted your body to be covered in memories and stories.
“I don’t know, Dee. I can’t settle on one idea…” you huff, looking through one of his old tattoo magazines to get any form of inspiration as Eddie happily sat designing more and more potential options for you.
It had to be something that would look good on the both of you, you didn’t want it to ruin the scratchy flow of his own artwork, but you didn’t want something so uncharacteristically not-you plastered on your body for life for the sake of it.
He kept suggesting things like a guitar, a D20, bats to match his own, and you had to keep reminding him that those were his interests and not your own.
A pout permanently attached to your lips as you tried your best to pick something, fairly restricted as neither you or Eddie were artists or tattoo artists, so it was guaranteed to be a far worse design in reality than any book could prepare you for.
“1984?” Eddie asks, you’re snapped out of your thoughts whilst you glance across at him with a puzzled look on your face, “The year we met? 1984… We could just pick somewhere to write that on each other. Simple, relatively easy, meaningful,” he offers, checking off every box you had made.
“That’s… perfect, Dee. Yes!” you grin, throwing the magazine aside to climb up from the bed, following eagerly behind Eddie as he rushed off to the dining table of his trailer to start setting up the equipment for the stick and poke session you had planned.
You watched nervously as Eddie set everything up, the gloves, the needles, the inks, the alcohol wipes, the cling wrap for afterwards, paper towels at the ready in case of blood, and a sharpie to draw the design onto your body. He coaxed you over towards him like you were a scared kitten, eventually able to get you to sink into the seat opposite him as he smiles reassuringly in your direction.
“You wanna go first, or wanna watch me tattoo myself first?” he offers, knowing you had no tattoo knowledge and he had done this a few times, he would be the one manning the equipment today. It made you feel slightly more at ease knowing that you wouldn’t be in charge of any needles going near anyone’s skin.
“I-I’ll go first, I might chicken out if I have to watch you..” you confess, to which he nods in understanding and gives you a comforting glance.
“Where shall we put it?” he questions, taking a quick up and down glance of your body before simply smiling with his big doe eyes locking with your own, waiting patiently for you to decide.
“Maybe like… on my ribs? Where they meet in the middle cause my bra would cover it so no one would see it, but I would know it’s there? Plus, it’ll be close to my heart..” you shrug, biting on your lower lip as you awaited his approval.
“Perfect, babe. Uh… Go in my room and take off your shirt and bra? You can just steal one of my plaid shirts and just keep the top half unbuttoned so I can get to your ribs, but you can still be modest and comfortable.” He gives you a thumbs up as you nervously wander back to his room.
Once you are dressed in his red plaid shirt, buttons undone until the bottom of your rib cage like he suggested, you shyly walk back into the living room as he grins. You lay down on the dining room table and do your best to get comfortable as Eddie adjusts the shirt just a little to make sure you are as modest as possible.
You watch as he grabs the sharpie and lines up the design as best as he can, offering to let you get up and see in the mirror, but you know you’ll chicken out due to the fear you felt.
“It’s okay, I trust you.” You mumble, closing your eyes as your head falls back off the table.
Eddie is then quiet as he tugs on the sterile gloves, pours out some ink into his little cup, opening up the fresh needle and lightly massaging a small amount of rubbing alcohol over the area to prep the skin. He’s dipping the needle into the ink before glancing up at you, trying to gauge where your head was currently at.
“Are you ready?” he asks, voice full of comfort.
“I think so, yes..” you reply.
“Stay still, okay?” his voice soothing, you nod once and brace yourself to keep perfectly still.
Sticking his tongue out in concentration, Eddie pressed the needle into the ink before he started the slow and painful process of permanently marking your skin with the meaningful piece of artwork.
Reassuring you whenever you needed it, giving you words of encouragement and a promise that the pain would be worth it in the end, a fond smile on his face as you did your best to relax in his care. Once he was all done, he cleaned you up with a fresh wipe before patting the skin dry with a paper towel, taping a small piece of cling wrap over your fresh tattoo to protect it from dirt as it was an open wound.
“All done,” he beams in joy, admiring his handiwork.
Helping you to sit up, he’s then taking your hand once the gloves are removed, and he leads you to the hanging mirror in the hallway where you can appreciate the work. It was a little shaky and uneven, but it was perfect in your eyes, feeling yourself tearing up a little as the adrenaline leaves your body and makes you a soft and emotional mess.
“Dee, it’s beautiful…” you sighed, he immediately agreed.
“My turn!” he yells in excitement, rushing back to his temporary workstation whilst you continue to admire the tattoo in the mirror. Giving you time to yourself whilst he changed gloves and needles for health and safety reasons, glancing over himself as he tried to decide where to put his work.
You peak up at him as Eddie calls your name, wandering over to him with an endeared look on your face, taking the pen that he thrusts in your direction as he declares that he wanted you to write the tattoo on him so it would be in your handwriting. Asking him where he wants it, you nod in understanding before you delicately write the numbers ‘84’ on the patch of skin on the back of his hand in the space between his inner wrist and thumb.
Your cheeks aching from how hard you were smiling, the placement was perfect, it filled you with butterflies that he wants that memory of you plastered so proudly on his hand, where he would see it each and every day.
“Thanks, love.” He grinned, letting you sit back as he started the process on himself.
It took him a little more time to tattoo himself as he stopped to wince, or curse, or bitch about how it hurt more than he remembered, to which you give him a smug smirk and an ‘I told you so’ kind of look.
Once he was done, he cleaned it up and got your help with protecting the skin with the cling wrap, Eddie then throws away the trash and clears up the counter to keep it sanitary. You take his hand delicately between your own so you can bring it to your face and admire it, blushing cheeks as you were a permanent reminder on him now.
“You like it?” you ask, voice sounding slightly hopeful as you wanted him to be happy with the mark that would be forever on his skin because of you.
“I love it, gorgeous!” he pauses, “’84, baby!” Eddie grins, pressing a kiss to the centre of your forehead.
#Eddie Oneshot#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson smut#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x female reader#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fluff#stranger things smut#eddie munson#eddie munson edit#eddie fluff#Eddie munson imagine#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x you#stranger things#imagine#chrissy cunningham#eddie munson x chrissy cunningham#angst#fluff#oneshot#fanfic
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help
Okay so!! As of right now the site is down so I can't provide screenshots and I'm going off of memory so please bear with me. Also I don't know what you need help with specifically so I'm just gonna go over the basics and if you have any other questions feel free to ask :))
Just to make sure everyone is on the same page, art fight is a yearly event where you upload your own characters and are assigned a team. You attack people to gain points for your team, and attacking people is basically just drawing their oc.
And just a heads up, while I'm not too sure this will happen this year, almost every year so many new people join art fight and try to upload their attacks on the 1st of July the sites server's get overwhelmed and site goes down alot. It happens. I recommend saving a few refs before the games begin and draw them after July 1st (you aren't allowed to draw anyone's characters before the 1st, keeps things fair). Like I said, it happens. Sometimes the site is only down off and on during the first few days and is fine the rest of the month, sometimes it's down so long they add an extra week to the games. It really just depends lol. Like I said save refs now so you can actually start on the 1st.
You can have up to 100 active characters and as far as I know there isn't a limit to how many characters you can attack. Your artistic media doesn't matter, you can be a traditional artist and still participate, you can be a digital artist and still participate, hell you can be exclusively building physical sculptures of folk's characters and you're still allowed to participate.
You can find other users to attack a variety of ways, ranging from searching through tags or through spamming the random character button until you find one you like, you can also just ask around here on Tumblr and see if anyone is participating this year:))
Not everyone has a little card like this but here's mine! It has my username and my favorite/featured characters on it. Again you do not need to have one of these but if you want to find people on artfight you might wanna be on the lookout for cards like these.
As for uploading your characters, I'm gonna use my boy Smudge as an example.
You can only upload 7 pictures per character. Usually folks don't need many more than 3. I recommend having a full body ref
As nice as this drawing is, if anyone wants to draw him they need to see more.
Something like this is alot better, it shows what he looks like without his costume and again gives the potential attacker a better idea of who they're drawing.
You have the option to upload a description of your oc, alot of folks tend to leave it blank and honestly I don't recommend doing that. You don't need to put your OC's full 129 page google doc backstory in there but you should at least give a basic description of their personality and any important information (it might also be a good idea to put their pronouns, I have on multiple occasions accidentally misgendered a few characters because their pronouns weren't in their description)
Permissions are different than a description. Permissions basically means what you are and aren't okay with. For Smudge here I prefer if he keeps his costume. You generally don't have to specify to not draw gore of a character as I've only gotten gore of a character once since like 2017 (and I put that I would love to see some gore in their character permissions).
Uploading attacks is pretty simple. Like I said before you can attack others regardless of how you make your art. Traditional art tends to get less points than digital art. You get more points depending on what you do (ex. A digital headshot sketch would get less points than a fully lined fully colored and shaded traditional drawing, a colored simple animation gets more points than digital line art, ECT). Obviously don't lie about what you're making to get more points. From what I've seen other folks don't tend to lie so don't be a dick lol. And even if some does lie about what they did, I believe you can flag art and report it. Plus a week after art fight is over a bunch of mods go through the art and make sure everything has been properly marked (if you think you marked something wrong though don't worry!! You aren't gonna get in trouble or anything, worse case scenario you'll just lose a few points for your team).
I know this is a lot and I know I definitely forgot something but again feel free to ask if you have anymore questions :3
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I Gotta Talk + Some Molluck Stuff
Yeah, I have been thinking about what I’m gonna do with my blog. Last night, I got a bad self-hatred moment and I had to hide about everything to relieve myself. It felt bad to do so after all those lovely comments I have gotten on my art and stuff but it made me feel better. I’m in a better mood again but moments like these make me question that can I really be a content creator while suffering from self-hatred. I feel like I’m ruining many things with it and making interacting with me awkward. I need to hide regularly all my stuff to tolerate my stuff again. It’s like loading my batteries. I just find the Oddworld Tumblr timeline happier now. But I’m gonna publish my stuff in public again after I have taken a little break. I need to take small steps to tolerate my stuff for a longer period of time again. It’s always a rocky road for me to get up again from a bad self-hatred period. Being a fan of my content requires patience. Thank you for tolerating me!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually getting better but I always get these setbacks during my progress to heal from a bad self-hatred period. I don’t wanna lose this fight since it would mean that I wouldn’t be able to even work. I don’t wanna throw my skills away. I want to create all kinds of things. I haven’t really taken care of myself for years but now I do since being healthy is very important.
Your support has really helped me, don’t get that wrong too. It has given me more motivation to fight, hope and will to find that person you see in me. Those comments made me cry last night while doing that decision to hide my stuff. The thing what I’m trying to say is that I also wanna think your best. I hate to talk about my mental health issues but I wanna explain my behaviour and be honest. I just have to make myself happy before I can really do so to others. I just find my stuff lacking of something really important, something relating to soul. Yeah, I find my stuff kinda empty inside. I need to find the cure.
But hey, I also got something to show! I have been trying to practice drawing Molluck again since I can barely draw him without any reference. Today yesterday I drew this sketchy Molluck sketch from memory. It’s my best Molluck without any reference so far. Here:
There is nothing wrong with using references (they are important!) but I’m trying to develop a better understanding of his anatomy and drawing without reference is like putting my skills and knowledge to the test.
Since I have also been talking about that suit of mine and my bolo tie, here’s little something:
Molluck mode is on! The lighting doesn’t show the colour of the suit right since it’s actually much darker and those pinstripes are dark blue but it makes my suit look more like Molluck’s. (Y) Oh, I also wanna say that I have been thinking about my relationship with Molluck too. I told that loving someone while suffering from self-hatred feels like one-way love and it makes loving anyone hard. The thing I wanna say is that it would make me feel better even with my Molluck stuff if I learned to love myself. Like, self-shipping myself with Molluck feels kinda bad because of my self-hatred even I love him a lot. Yeah, I really need to work hard to get rid of my self-hatred, it just ruins things. It’s been a long journey already but I still have things to work on.
I hope you understand. I really wanna create things that people can enjoy but I can’t truly do that if I can’t enjoy my own content first.
~Thank you!
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Innocent Until Proven Guilty
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Synopsis: when the Avengers notice signs of Peter having a girlfriend, they suspect he’s not as innocent as he seems
Masterlist
“Hey Pete the treat.” Tony greeted Peter as he passed him in the hallway. “Have you seen my screwdriver with the orange handle?”
“Oh, yeah.” Peter remembered. “I used it to fix my web shooters. It’s on my desk in my room.”
“Mind if I grab it?”
“Would you listen if I said no?” Peter asked, assuming he knew the answer?
“Nope.” Tony smiled at how well Peter knew him. “I’ll go get it.”
Tony waltzed into Peters room and went straight to his desk, rummaging through the papers and sketches he had strewn about.
“Now where are you hiding?” Tony drummed his fingers on his chin as he looked around Peters desk. He opened the top drawer and found nothing, so he opened the next drawer and began to rummage around. After moving a notebook to the side, Tony found an unopened box of condoms among Peters things.
“Hm.” Tony furrowed his eyebrows at the surprising find. “Well it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
He put it down and continued searching through the draw before the box caught his eye again.
“Value pack?” Tony read off the box. “Jesus.”
He shut the drawer and found the screwdriver in the next drawer, mindlessly tucking it into his pocket. As he left Peters room, the box stayed in his mind. He walked into the living room and found the rest of the Avengers chatting.
“What do you guys think about Peter?” Tony wondered as he toyed with the screwdriver.
“I don’t think about Peter.” Sam deadpanned.
“He seems lonely, no?” Tony shrugged. “He could use a companion of the female variety.”
“We should set him up.” Steve suggested. “He could use someone.”
“I don’t know.” Nat scrunched her nose. “He seems too young to be dating.”
“He’s in college now. It’s about time he gets a girlfriend.” Tony decided. “I had dozens by the time I was his age.”
“Are we even sure he likes girls?” Rhodey asked.
“He complimented my hair color once.” Nat shrugged.
“There we go.” Tony nodded, getting excited now.
“What are you guys talking about?” Bucky asked quietly as he entered the room.
“We want to set Peter up on a date.” Steve told him.
“Parker? I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend.” Bucky said, making everyone look at him.
“What?” Tony asked. “No way.”
“Yeah. My room is next to his.” He shrugged. “He’s on the phone all night almost every night.”
“What?” Nat laughed in surprise. “With who?”
“Someone named Y/n I’m pretty sure.” Bucky went on. “I hear her name a lot.”
“Y/n.” Tony rolled it around his mind. “Interesting. I have to know more.”
“I think if Peter wanted us to know more, he’d tell us.” Nat clicked her tongue.
“And I think I don’t care.” Tony retorted. “I’m gonna find out more.”
That night, Tony sat in the dark as he waited for Peter to come home. He heard the elevator coming up and shivered with excitement at the incoming confrontation.
“Hey, Parker.” Tony dramatically turned on the light once Peter walked in the room, making Peter jump.
“Hi Mr. Stark.” Peter stammered as he took off his coat.
“Are you just getting back?” Tony asked coyly.
“Yeah, I was out with my…friend.” Peter shifted his eyes at the mention of you.
“Oh really?” Tony feigned a gasp. “What’s his name?”
“Her name is Y/n.” Peter said casually. “I was with her.”
“So I see.” Tony nodded. “Is she from school?”
“Yeah. She’s in my organic chemistry class.”
“So one might say you two have…chemistry?” Tony shrugged as he walked closer to Peter.
“Anyone with our schedules would say that.” Peter laughed nervously.
“Whats she like?” Tony persisted. “Is she pretty?”
“She’s great.” Peter smiled. “She can talk circles around me about just about anything. I don’t even know why we’re in the same class. She’s so much smarter than everyone in the room, even the professor. She’s just...she’s great.”
“So I hear.” Tony smirked. Peter completely avoided the “pretty” question, and that told Tony everything he needed to know.
“Hear?” Peter asked curiously. “What did you hear?”
“Thin walls, buddy.” Tony knocked on the wall. “Bucky told us all about your late night phone calls with your lady friend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Peters face heated up. “I’ll be quieter.”
“You don’t have to be quieter.” Tony told him. “Bucky doesn’t deserve a peaceful nights sleep.”
“Why do you say that?” Peter asked.
“Because he murdered my parents. Night!” Tony threw up a peace sign before leaving the room. Peters jaw dropped a little before shutting. He quickly pulled out his phone and clicked on your contact.
“I think Mr. Stark is onto us” He texted you.
“Good. He can pay for our wedding 👀” You wrote, making him smile. He put his phone away and went to bed himself.
~
A few weeks later, Tony needed the screwdriver again and had an idea of where he could find it.
“Hey Pete. Did you use the screwdriver again?” Tony asked when he found Peter in the hallway.
“Yeah. It should be in the same place.” Peter informed him.
“Thanks.” Tony nodded and went into Peters room. He went to the desk, expecting to find the screwdriver in the same drawer it was in last time. When he didn’t find it there, he opened the drawer above it. Right on top of a pile of notebooks was the box from last time.
“I shouldn’t.” Tony sighed and chewed his lip. “But I’m feeling snoopy.”
Tony picked up the box and to his surprise, it was significantly lighter. Tony opened it up and peered inside, only to see it was nearly empty.
“Who did this to you?” Tony gasped. “Who took your goodies?”
Elsewhere in the tower, Peter was heading back to his room when he crashed into Natasha.
“Oh, sorry.” Peter apologized as he caught her before he could knock her over.
“It’s fine.” Natasha assured him, sniffing the air a little. “Why do you smell so good?”
“Hygiene is very important to me.” Peter straightened his shoulders to solidify his lie.
“Yeah, but,” she sniffed him again, “you smell fruity.”
“I’m a fruity boy.” Peter stated, regretting it immediately.
“Oh.” Natasha backed away a little, giving him a strange look.
“Not that kind of fruity.” Peter stammered. “I have to go.”
Just as Peter scurried away, Sam walked into the hallway.
“Am I crazy or did Peter smell like perfume?” Natasha pointed behind him.
“I don’t care.” Sam mumbled as he walked by.
“Romanoff.” Tony rounded the corner after leaving Peters room. “I think the Manchurian Candidiate was right. I think Peter has a girlfriend.”
“I think so too.” Natasha nodded. “He smelled like perfume just now.”
As Tony and Natasha exchanged evidence, Sam passed by Peters room just as he was going inside.
“Hey Sam.” Peter greeted before he shut his door.
“Don’t talk to me, Parker.” Sam mumbled without looking up.
“Sorry.” Peter chuckled and rolled his eyes, making Sam briefly look up.
“What’s that?” Sam narrowed his eyes when he spotted something peeking out over Peters collar.
“Whats what?” Peter asked as he pulled away.
“On your neck.” Sam caught his collar and pulled it down. “Is that a hickey?”
“No.” Peter said quickly as he covered his neck with his hand. “I burnt my neck with my curling iron.”
“Oh, okay.” Sam was satisfied with the answer. “Wait, what?”
“Bye Sam!” Peter stammered as he quickly shut the door.
~
Tony’s plans to interrogate Peter about his love life the following day were halted when he found Peters room empty. A quick check in with Friday showed Peter leaving earlier that morning with a few presents in hand. Tony sighed and went on with day, anxiously waiting for Peter to come home to get more information.
“Another late night.” Tony announced his presence as he flicked on the light. It wasn’t until after midnight that Peter had come back, so Tony waited him out in the living room.
“Oh, hi Mr. Stark.” Peter waved awkwardly, not having expected anyone to be there.
“Were you with Y/n again?” Tony asked casually.
“Yeah.” Peter smiled shyly as he shed his jacket. “It’s her birthday so I spent the day with her.”
“How come I never see her here?” Tony proceeded with caution, not wanting to overstep.
“She lives kinda far.” Peter shrugged. “That’s why we talk on the phone so much. I don’t want her driving all the way out here and she doesn’t want me swinging at night.”
“She knows?” Tony raised an eyebrow, not realizing they were at that level yet.
“Yes. But I only told her because I trust her.” Peter quickly assured him. “She won’t tell anyone. She promised me.”
“Oh, I’m not mad.” Tony smirked. “Trust is good. Especially in relationships, so I hear.”
“Yeah.” Peter smiled at the thought of you. “It’s good. We’re really good.”
“Have you told her you loved her yet?” Tony jumped to the point, taking Peter by surprise. “Because that smile on your face says you do.”
“I have.” Peter admitted as his face flushed. “And she told me she loves me too.”
“Aw.” Tony couldn’t help but smile at his protégé being in love. He was so moved that he took out one of his business cards and scribbled something on the back of it.
“Here.” He handed it to Peter. “Don’t abuse it.”
“Whats this?” Peter curiously looked at the number Tony had written in the card.
“It’s the number for my personal driver. One of them.” He corrected himself. “I always forget who I employ so I have about 18. This one makes unforgettable coffee cake, though.”
“Thanks Mr. Stark.” Peter smiled in appreciation. “But why are you giving this to me?”
“So you and Y/n can see each other.” Tony said simply. “And so more people can experience this coffee cake.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.” Peter said softly, knowing Tony wasn’t much for displays of affection.
“Don’t mention it.” Tony brushed it off. “Really, don’t. I don’t have enough personal drivers for everyone. I mean, I probably do, but I’m not known to share.”
“I won’t tell.” Peter nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”
Tony have Peter a fond smile before nodding as well.
“Night kid.”
~
“Mails here.” Tony announced the following morning as the team sat around the kitchen table.
“Thanks for bringing it in.” Steve reached for an envelope addressed to him. “Who delivered it today? Was it Michelle or Rodney?”
“Michelle.” Tony concurred.
“Oh, nice.” Steve smiled. “I like her. She’s always friendly to me.”
“Yeah. Nice girl. Nice name too.” Tony put the plan into action. “That was the name of the first girl I ever kissed.”
“I remember my first kiss.” Steve recalled. “It was at a school dance when I was in high school. I bought her a milkshake after and she never spoke to me again.”
“What about you, Peter?” Natasha asked causally. “Have you had your first kiss?”
“Um, yeah.” Peter chuckled like it was obvious.
“With who?” Steve asked curiously, and the rest of the team leaned in to hear the answer.
“Um, my girlfriend.” Peter flushed a deep red as he avoided eye contact with the group. Everyone collectively let out a gasp at the news, making Peter flush even deeper. He looked up to a table full of dropped jaws and wide eyes and felt his ears turn red.
“Isn’t it neat?” Tony tried to take the attention off Peter. “The innocence of young love.”
“Yeah. Innocence.” Sam narrowed his eyes at Peter as the hickey on his neck suddenly made sense.
“When can we meet her?” Nat asked, and everyone nodded softly. Peter looked around in surprise, not having expected everyone to care as much as they did.
“You want to meet her?” He asked with a small smile.
“Of course.” Tony shrugged. “You’re on our team and if she’s your girlfriend-“
“She’s on our team too.” Sam concluded with a gentle nod. Everyone nodded in agreement, making Peters heart swell in appreciation.
“She was gonna come over so I could swing her around the city.” Peter told them. “I could ask her to come up and say hello.”
“I think you should.” Natasha encouraged. Peters lips twitched into a smile as he pulled out his phone to tell you to come up. Within a few minutes, you were coming up the elevator and Peters heart was pounding in his chest. He met you at the elevator and escorted you to the rest of the Avengers, his hand holding yours.
“Hi.” You smiled shyly as you met the team. “It’s nice to meet all of you. I’m Y/n.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Steve said politely. “I’m-“
“Steve, right?” You smiled a little. “Um, Peter talks about you guys all the time. You’re also a little famous.” You chuckled, and everyone laughed as well, breaking the ice.
“Yeah, I guess we are.” Steve smiled back at you. “So you’re the girlfriend? I can’t say Peter has told us that much about you.”
Peter looked at you anxiously, hoping you wouldn’t take that the wrong way.
“It’s okay.” You laughed and rubbed his shoulder. “We agreed to keep it on the down low. Plus, I doubt there’s anything about me that could impress the Avengers.”
“That’s not true.” Peter cut in as he twirled your hair around his finger. “You’re very impressive.”
“Tell us more.” Nat smiled as she leaned on her hand. Everyone watched you and Peters display of affection with childlike wonder, a collective peace settling in the room as they watched the baby of the team experience happiness.
“Y/n volunteers as a candy striper at the children’s hospital a few blocks from here. When she’s not with me, she’s there.” Peter bragged about you. “And she’s a lifeguard in the summers, CPR certified, valedictorian of her class, organ donor-“
“These are not impressive things.” You laughed as you cut him off.
“Yes they are.” Peter insisted. “She can make the worlds best brownies, her ponytails are always perfect on the first try, she can parallel park, she-“
“She sounds amazing.” Tony cut him off as he smiled at you. “And we’re very happy to finally meet her.”
“I just can’t believe the guy who watches Dance Moms in the living room with no shame actually has a girlfriend.” Sam snorted. “And a normal one too.”
“Why is it so surprising?” You wondered as you leaned on Peter arm.
“Because he’s so innocent.” Sam shrugged. “I doubted he ever even held a girls hand.”
“Wait, you thought Peter was innocent?” You laughed abruptly. “He literally webbed me to the headboard last night and-“
“Ah ah ah.” Peter quickly cut you off. “Some things are better left unsaid.”
“I think she should say them.” Bucky chuckled as he sipped his coffee.
“One time, he used his-“
“Well, Y/n and I really need to get going.” Peter cut you off and quickly ushered you to the door. “We won’t be out late.”
“It was nice meeting you all.” You called as Peter pulled you out the door.
“Nice meeting you too.” Tony yelled back. He and the team exchanged knowing looks, a collective happiness for Peter settling among them.
Tag List 🏷
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#peter parker x reader#peter parker x y/n#peter parker x you#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker imagine#tom holland x reader#tom holland x you#iron man#tom holland fluff#tom holland fanfiction#avengers x you
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The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)
(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)
Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.
Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love
Rating: T
Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot
Word Count: 7000~
This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!
------
The University of Novi Grad
Fall 1996
Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.
Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.
From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.
There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.
You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.
That being said there was something else too…
Someone else to be specific.
The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.
He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.
All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.
You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.
If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?
Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.
Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.
Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.
So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.
As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.
Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.
Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.
When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.
The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.
He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.
He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.
You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.
“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”
Shit.
“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.
Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”
“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.
Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.
“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”
“It is not an accusation if it is true,”
“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”
“But you were. This happens every week,”
You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”
Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”
“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”
The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.
“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”
Fuck.
Friday was only two days away.
You were so screwed.
The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.
Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.
In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.
Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.
“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”
“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”
He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”
“Who isn’t?”
Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”
Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”
“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”
Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.
A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.
“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.
Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...
There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.
Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.
You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.
Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.
If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…
The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.
Your eyes scanned the wall.
Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…
Gilgamesh!
On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…
You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.
“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”
Of course they had stools.
If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.
In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”
You stopped short.
Oh.
Oh no.
You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.
There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.
He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.
“Would you like my help?”
“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.
“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”
“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”
In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.
“Thanks for that,”
“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”
You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”
“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.
You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.
“Your hair is really nice!”
“My hair?”
“Yeah… your hair,”
Smooth move, dumbass.
Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”
Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?
“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.
“It was definitely a compliment,”
Oh.
Your heart skipped a beat.
That was a new revelation.
You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.
“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”
He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”
“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”
With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.
“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.
“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”
The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.
“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”
Shit.
Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?
In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.
“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.
“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”
“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”
His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”
Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”
Once again, you were rendered speechless.
“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”
“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.
Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.
You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.
“Who said anything about letting you pay?”
True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.
The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.
Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.
“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.
Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”
“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”
“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”
You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”
“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”
“Absolutely,”
The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.
If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.
“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”
He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”
“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”
“Absolutely,”
“Then I can’t wait to try one,”
The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.
Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.
Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.
“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”
Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”
You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”
The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”
“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.
“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”
“Alright,”
There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.
You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”
“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.
He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”
It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”
Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.
“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”
Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”
“I think I would,”
“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”
Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.
“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”
Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”
Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”
The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”
“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”
“Then it’s a deal,”
“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”
“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”
With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.
Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.
He had invited you over to his apartment.
He liked you.
Easel boy really, honestly liked you.
No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.
Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.
You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.
Hel.
It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.
Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.
------
a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!
TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx , @be-cautious-around-bri , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car , @frothonthedaydreams
#zemo#helmut zemo#baron zemo#baron helmut zemo#zemo x reader#helmut zemo x reader#baron zemo x reader#baron helmut zemo x reader#fanfiction
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Butterfly Effect - Steve Rogers x reader
a/n - Hey lovely people! this is for @holylulusworld‘s 10,000 followers celebration, congrats!! (even though you have a lot more now lol). the divider is by the amazing @firefly-graphics. italics are for thoughts / flashbacks, and the first parts are all in chronological order. Enjoy!<3
Summary: The words on Steve’s arm point to the circumstances in which he will meet his soulmate, and they’re very specific, or so he thinks.
Prompt: 11 - soulmate AU
Word Count: ~2,070
Warnings: reader gets a tatoo but basically this is just a huge fluff fest:)
"That's a cute owl you're drawing there."
These are the words that were imprinted on Steve's arm since the moment he was born. When Steve could finally read, he asked his mother why are the words there.
"These words are very important," Sarah explained. "They are the first words your soulmate will ever say to you."
"What's a soulmate?" asked a confused Steve.
"A soulmate," his mother answered, "is someone you're gonna love very much. They're the person you'd probably choose to spend the rest of your life with. Their soul is connected to yours in inexplicable ways, almost as if they were one and the same. This," she pointed at the words, "is the sign for you to realize when you'll meet them. Somewhere out there, there's someone with the first words you're gonna say to them."
"So I'll be drawing an owl when I meet my soulfriend?" Steve asked.
"It's soulmate, dear. And I guess you probably will."
"And this… soulmate, will they buy me ice cream?" Steve asked hopefully, not quite getting the point.
Sarah giggled at her son. "Yes, I think they will if you'd want that. But also, they would love you so much, and you'll have the most fun in the world with them."
"Was da your soulmate?" Steve asked.
"He is," his mother answered, the smile on her face tinged with a little sadness that Steve hadn't picked up on.
Okay, so two round eyes, and then the body, and I should add some feathers and –
"Mr. Rogers!" the math teacher said sternly. "I haven’t assigned any equations yet, so I would appreciate it if you'd keep your attention on me instead of your notebook, for now."
"Yes, Ms. Williams," Steve replied sheepishly.
"You know you've already met everyone in this class right? No one here is your soulmate," Bucky whispered once their teacher turned back to the board.
"But I still want to get better at it," Steve shrugged defensively. "She's gonna say it's cute, Buck. For that to happen it needs to actually be cute."
"I don't get your whole fuss around soulmates Steve, but whatever. Suit yourself," Bucky rolled his eyes.
"You don't believe in soulmates?" Steve asked.
"Well, I wouldn't strictly say that, it's just… my words are 'watch it, weirdo.' Call me crazy, but I'm not that stoked to find that person," Bucky chuckled.
"Mr. Barnes! Something to share with the rest of us?" Ms. Williams said.
"No Ms. Williams, I'm sorry," Bucky said timidly and Steve snickered.
Steve could draw owls in his sleep if he needed to. Right now, his pencil was sketching over the page, lightly shading the wings of the owl and the –
"Rogers! You're on in five!" the stage manager called out to him.
Steve sighed and snapped his sketchbook shut. He kept hoping that maybe it was one of the girls on tour with him, but so far it wasn't going so well. The government-mandated entertainment had quite enough free time so Steve could draw as many owls as he wanted to in between shows.
He put the notebook aside and slipped on the cowl they had him wear. The Captain was needed on stage.
"So people take art classes… for fun?" Steve asked, puzzled.
"Yeah," Natasha answered. "Lately you're always drawing away in your little notebook, so if you want to, I could help you sign up for a class. Maybe they can teach an old dog some new tricks," she smirked.
"Ha ha," Steve answered dryly. Yet he couldn't help considering the idea.
The thing was, Steve wasn't sure if his soulmate was still out there to be found. You'd think he would feel a difference, some indication if his soulmate was dead, but when he went out of the ice, Steve felt nothing different. There was still a part of him that was hoping that maybe, just maybe, fate planned this. That his soulmate was still out there.
"That's a great color scheme, Steve," the instructor said, and Steve nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Thanks," he smiled, albeit a tad shakily.
This was the fifth class Steve took this month, and yet, no luck. He wasn't even drawing an owl, and yet the start of that sentence made him jump as if he didn't have super… well, everything.
But that doesn't mean he was giving up. His tattoo was still in place, even after all of these years, it hadn't faded. So he had to believe he could still find his soulmate.
These times were a lot more different than his. People here weren't always inclined to live by that philosophy of "soulmates". Some people chose to simply disregard that and find someone they loved regardless. Steve admired that, but he couldn't say he understood. If you're offered your perfect partner, why walk out of that?
"It's called instant gratification," Nat chuckled when he raised that question to her. "People like to have what they want as soon as possible. Besides, some people don't believe it's real, or don't believe it'll work for them. So, they take matters into their own hands."
Steve was more patient than the average person. He waited decades in ice, what's a few more years to find his soulmate?
Bucky had found his soulmate. Steve couldn't believe it.
Sure, he was happy for Bucky. When he came back today from the store with nothing but a small slip of paper, Steve had half a mind to smack him upright the head for not getting anything. Probably forgot his wallet.
But when Bucky showed him the paper he read the words scribbled onto it – "call me, weirdo, xx" and a phone number, Steve pulled Bucky into a tight hug, patting him on the back.
"Congrats, pal," he smiled.
Bucky beamed. Yes, Bucky Barnes, the terrifying Winter Soldier was beaming and his eyes were shining like a high-schooler in love. And Steve wished that could've been him.
He really was happy for Bucky. That's the thing – this was a good thing. Besides from his best friend finding the love of his life, it also meant that Steve's soulmate is almost definitely out there. But he couldn't help feeling a spark of resentment deep inside of him. It made him feel guilty, but he couldn't help the bitter thought that Bucky was never too keen on finding his soulmate while Steve did everything in his power to find them. And yet, Bucky found his while Steve's still in the dark.
So, to get out of his own head a little, Steve decided to go paint in the park.
To be honest, it was a wonder that Steve hadn't gotten awfully tired of drawing by now. But he still loved it, loved the quiet it cultivated in his mind.
Steve set up a canvas and looked around. People weren't noticing him, busy in their own endeavors. He almost started drawing an owl out of instinct, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Steve wanted to forget about the whole soulmate business for a while and just draw.
He saw a butterfly fly over and land on a nearby bush. Steve focused on the butterfly, trying to remember as much as he can. The rest he can improvise. The butterfly fluttered its wings for a few seconds before flying away.
Steve started drawing the butterfly. Once he had the pencil sketch, he started filling it in with the paints he had brought. He started with the little circles on its wings, filling them in so the shade will be just right, and he was about to move on to the rest on the wings when –
"That's a cute owl you're drawing there."
"It's a butterfly," Steve turned around, puzzled, before realizing what you had just said to him.
Your mouth opened in a gentle gasp. Your hair and clothes were a little messy from your long day at work. And at that moment, when you were caught completely off guard, Steve first met you. You were the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on, and he was an artist. He stared at you in utter shock while you returned him a similar look.
"Are you sure you wanna do this?" your friend asked, sitting next to you with a worried look.
"I'm tired of looking for my soulmate. Do you know how hard it is to make conversation about butterflies?" you looked back at her. "I want to do this," you told her.
The tattoo artist came closer. "Okay ma'am, you wanted a simple butterfly, right?"
"Yes," you answered decisively. "On my left wrist." Your right hand had your words on it. "It's a butterfly." Maybe if you had a tattoo your soulmate would see it, would find you.
You closed your eyes and braced for what came next.
You weren't sure about this blind date thing, but why not. You trusted your friend that she set you up with a nice guy, at least.
You set up to meet in a park, and from there walk to a nearby restaurant. Right when the guy showed up, there was a butterfly next to you.
"What’s that?" you asked quickly, pointing towards it.
Your date turned his head to look, but by the time he did the butterfly was already flying away. "I don't know, it was probably a bug or something."
You stifled your groan of disappointment. At least you'd get a dinner out of this.
You and Steve were staring at each other in amazement. Finally, you were the one to speak up. "You're Steve Rogers," you said, frowning in disbelief.
"And you're my… soulmate," he returned the same disbelieving look.
You introduced yourself quickly, smiling at him timidly when you finished.
"So, you wanna get ice cream or something?" Steve asked, unsure of what exactly to do. But apparently he said exactly the right thing, because your face lit up.
"Right now though? You're in the middle of your painting and I wouldn't wanna –"
"It doesn't matter," Steve said quickly and stashed the canvas and paints underneath a bench nearby. "No one passes here anyways," he shrugged. "Until today," he smiled and you giggled.
You made your way to an ice cream shop across the street from the park, walking side by side.
"So, what is the great Captain America doing drawing owl-looking butterflies in a local park?" you asked, smiling.
"I was just looking to clear my head a little," Steve said dismissively. "To be honest, the fact that you didn't find me drawing an actual owl is very ironic, looking back," Steve chuckled. "I spent pretty much my entire life drawing owls, attending painting classes, anything I could to find you," his gaze met yours and he smiled softly. "And I find you in a random park while drawing a butterfly."
"Don't underestimate nature's camouflage," you chuckled. "And hey, you think that's ironic? Butterflies are so scarce I got this," you rolled up your left sleeve a little, revealing your butterfly tattoo.
Steve's eyes widened. "It's beautiful," he automatically reached out to trace the lines on your arm, then withdraws his arm when he understands what he's doing. "It's not as beautiful as you," he says with a smile on his face.
You avert your eyes to the ground in front of you. "Thank you," you bashfully say.
You and Steve got your ice cream, and you exchanged plenty of stories of your adventures in search of each other, most of which were devastating when they happened but when you look back at them now, they were actually pretty funny.
"I hope I can see you again," Steve said when it was getting a little late.
He looked so hopeful, but the question in itself made you want to laugh at the obviousness of the answer. Instead, you rose onto your tiptoes, and planted your lips on his soft ones in a sweet kiss.
Once you parted you took a napkin and wrote down your number. "I sure hope to see you soon," you smiled.
"I'll call you, butterfly," Steve grinned and you beamed at the nickname.
And that night you both went home with huge smiles smeared across your faces. Finally, your quest to find your soulmate was at an end, and you could start a new journey, together.
Taglist: @horny-nd-bored @shannon124 @perfectlyharolds @wintersoldierslut @iceebabies @sleepingpapermouse @steverogerswasalwaysworthy @holtzkinnon @angelicl-y @stydia-4-ever @thatoneperson5000 @fangirlfree @kaitcordx25 @bequeening @steve-barry-damon-logan @itscrazycherryblossomcollection @hollandxmarvel @stargazingfangirl18 @readsreblogsfics @onetwo3000 @beritmetal @harrystylesholland @jazbot2000
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#lulu's 10k follower challenge#chris evans x reader#chris evans#chris evans x female reader#chris evans x y/n#chris evans x you#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers#steve rogers x female reader#steve rogers x y/n#steve rogers x you#steve rogers fluff#soulmate au
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Okey serious question here. How much do you actually believe that Oda ships Frobin? Like do you think he actually have like doodles/sketchs of them in a pairing kind of way? like for the strong world film riding the motorbug? (Personally i would love it to be true but he has stated one piece isn't about romance in that way)
Hey there anon! Thank you so much for your question and I hope I can answer it seriously enough. Also once more sorry for the late response. I felt like a question like that needs some research and that is what I did these last few days.
So... I think I'll start with the tl;dr because that way people can read that and ignore the rest.
So, long answer short: I 100% believe that Oda has one or more sketchbooks with drawings of his characters that are absolutely self-indulgent. I am 98% sure that he has drawn Franky and Robin in a romantic way at least once (and supported the ship). I am 80% sure he still is shipping FRobin.
Little disclaimer: I actually have no idea if any of this is true. I pull everything in my arguments out of my own experiences and knowledge and since I'm not a 46 year old Japanese Mangaka my perspective might be WAY OFF.
argument - reason- example - conclusion... behind the cut (or in the google doc)
So, why do I think that Oda has a secret sketchbook?
Simple answer is that he is an artist. He is drawing a lot and no artist will publish everything. That can have multiple reasons like imposter syndrome or because the artist thinks it’s not good or interesting enough or they just forget. There are even more reasons I forget and every person has their own.
For Oda I can imagine two big reasons as to why he would keep secret sketchbooks.
First: He is a horndog. You can skip this part if you don’t want to read about it, to the second reason.
Anyway, we know thanks to answers in the SBS, the way he likes to draw big-breasted women and how some of his characters are classified as perverts that he can be considered one too.
Let me show you a few of a few lewd SBS questions he likes to answer in a funny way:
Chapter 228, Page 46
D: How are ya, Odacchi? I know how much you like getting butt-naked, so this must be a favourite season for you. <3
O: Yes, yes. I just LOVE getting completely naked. In the summertime, after I take a bath I just run STRAIGHT OUTSIDE!! And when the girls' softball team running on the sidewalk looks over at me, they say, "Yup, it's really summer now!!" ... AS IF!! I'D GET ARRESTED!!!
(x)
Chapter 433, Page 68
D: If Lady Robin can use her Hana Hana Powers to make any part of her body sprout somewhere else, does that mean she can do it with her ample bosom as well? "Nyurin-zaki" (Breast Sprout) Boy, I'd like to take a hit from that sometime... P.N. Ero Ero no Mi Devil Fruit User.
O: "Ichirin-zaki" (Single Sprout) "Nirin-zaki" (Double Sprout) "Nyurin-zaki" (Breast Sprout) Very clever!! NO IT'S NOT!! STOP THAT!! I'm sure she CAN do it though ♡
(x)
Chapter 798, Page 64
D: Oddachi, I'll give you a pornographic book, so please answer my question. Sanji won't allow anyone to waste food, but what will he do if a woman does so? P.N. Smoker's Cigar
O: I think he would grab the plate and eat it up. Now please give me the pornographic book.
(x)
Nowadays I’m sure there is a focus on those lewder questions compared to the beginning because that is what 13 year old boys laugh about and we all know that is Oda's main demographic (of course).
I think a very good picture of that is given by Tekking101 in his breakdown video of SBS Volume 100.
youtube
“Let’s get diving into these questions (...) now, this is a huge moment. I mean, not many Manga manage to reach 100 Volumes, Okay? Now I know Oda usually starts these off with questions relating to boobs and things that don’t really… you know, aren’t really relevant but you know, this is a big celebration so we’re gonna dive right into it. I bet the most important things that we need to know about the One Piece Story are right here in these pages, okay? I printed them out. That is how important this is. So let’s start off, shall we? Epic voice, Barry!
‘Mister Oda, there is a UFO over there with huge big-breasted beauties on it. That memorable 100 Volume of the SBS is about to begin.’
[pause] Yeah, like the first five of these are all related to boobs in some way. You know what Oda? Sticking true to your guns! Godspeed, Sir Oda. Godspeed.”
(end at around 2:30)
So, Oda is a man who likes beautiful women and who draws.
Coming to the conclusion that he will draw his own characters in suggestive poses, naked and even doing adult stuff is not hard.
Obviously he would not show these sketches just around. He would probably keep them in a secret sketchbook that he keeps at a safe location. Maybe his wife and some close friends know about it? Maybe it is his and only his little secret.
I don’t think it would be unlikely to learn about this years into the future, maybe the next generation of Anime Fans will hear about this.
And it would not be the first time that something like this happened.
Not that long ago the daughter of Osamu Tezuka - groundbreaking Mangaka, known for his works of “Astro Boy”, “Kimba the white lion” and many more - found his adult Furry art. Source; Japanese article;
It’s a fact that many Mangaka did indeed start their career with art of the more risque kind and/or as doujinshi artists.
So again, I have no doubt that Oda, a known pervert, has one or more secret sketchbooks with „the p0rnography“ in it. Is there only hot stuff in there? Not necessarily.
The second reason to keep a secret sketchbook would be to collect information in there, that could be considered canon but he is not willing to use it in the Manga. Maybe they are not important enough or will be used later.
What am I imagining here? Anything that could be considered too weird for the normal sketchbook but isn‘t too risque. Funny things that might still not be „appropriate.“
Like a sketch of the male Strawhat ding-dongs with the sizes beside it. All the lewd jokes the fans did about Luffy's stretching qualities? I’m sure Oda thought about them too and drew that in the past if he had the time and it made him laugh enough.
But also maybe there are scenes in there that never made it in the Manga. The Strawhats interacting with each other in their daily lives, ideas for colorspreads and maybe chapter-titles. Oda probably has noted/sketched down a lot of unofficial stuff somewhere.
Another example, even an artist like Oda himself would have needed to exercise drawing two people kissing. Why not use Characters he thinks that might work out together?
Why not Franky and Robin? I would imagine he sketched up a few panels of Franky and Robin having a romantic date, going shopping together in Dressrosa, having a conversation that we never got to see because it was too on the nose.
Which brings us to the second point of me being very sure that Oda had drawn FrankyXRobin at one point.
I’m sure in those sketchbooks there is at least one drawing of them doing anything couple-related together. Again it does not have to be downright nasty but it could be them holding hands, kissing or even just Robin leaning onto Franky while reading, like all those fanarts that exist out there.
It’s not hard to imagine. Even for other Characters I think that is possible
And there might even be proof for that idea. The sketch of the Strong World movie you also mentioned, anon. The one movie that can be considered canon is Strong World. It was basically written/directed by Oda. Shiki the antagonist had an appearance in the Manga.
This sketch is drawn by Oda. Robin is holding onto Franky.
Can it be read as romantic? Yes. Can it be read as Robin holding onto Franky because there is nothing else to hold onto? Also Yes. But couldn't she just have used her power to keep herself secured on the bike without holding onto Franky? WELL YES. Could Oda never have thought in these circles like I do right now? I hope he did not because I hate it and I don’t wish it upon him.
In the movie Robin is NOT holding onto Franky. Now the really interesting thing - that is neither proof pro nor anti FRobin - is that we can see the sketch provided by Oda as a “between the scenes”.
In the movie Strong World the old trio is collecting information at the Pirate assembly. The next time we see them they use the Batta GT-7000 to slowly approach the destroyed village, which had been ravaged by the animals, and start to look for their friends. No need to hold onto Franky and no need for Brook to lean back. They are looking around.
The sketch is clearly not the same scene as the one we see in the movie.
In conclusion the drawing is indeed a between the scenes drawing. And yes if there exists one, who is to say there aren’t more?
Talking about Animal-Bikes...
Is there any meaning about the fact that in the opening scene (that is part of the talked intro after the opening ‘We Go’ - a huge thanks to antiherofangirl, ccb0nnet, JFL_Estudios and Maems, over at twitter!) Franky and Robin build another grasshopper-based vehicle? Maybe not but I still feel like it’s quite a callback.
Where did the idea to put this in the beginning come from? a) an editor had the idea inspired by Strong World; b) maybe it’s another sketch that Oda provided.
Neither seems very far-fetched in my opinion.
So yes, I am very sure that Oda has drawn things that we would consider FRobin.
Now to the last point (the first being Oda having a secret sketchbook, the second me arguing that Oda might have drawn FRobin).
As I said in the beginning I’m very sure that at one point Oda did and kinda that he still does ship Franky and Robin. Because even though every Interaction of two characters can be depicted as romantic or platonic, Oda used ROMANTIC TROPES with Franky and Robin.
They have never kissed on screen but we had
finishing each other's sentences
coordinated clothes
one using the others lap as pillow
hand on cheek caressing
and we can’t forget that Robin had answered Franky's invitation to ride on another animal-themed bike with a heart.
Edit: I didn‘t say anything about „no romance in OP“ so ask again if you want me to talk a bit about that. Sorry!
Those are things an author of Oda's level would not write or draw without being aware about how teasing this is. He has to be aware that every single line he draws will be analyzed to the end of the universe and back. People earn money by saying their opinion and interpretations about the Manga on Youtube.
These interactions are not something outlandish like “There was once an Anime Scene in which Robin was wearing something blue and exactly 28 episodes later Franky was wearing something violet and then 39 episodes later they both stood beside each other for exactly 69 seconds.”
Whenever I think about these facts, things that are not about interpreting but are factual, black ink on white paper but also about the little things, about how Frank and Robin help each other to become better, how they support each other… I want to say YES! ODA IS 100% on board! While in reality I’m 80% sure and 20% of me is wondering if I’m not actually analyzing too much into it. If maybe he really is abandoning ship. Maybe I will become the person who will curse his name and throw my Mangas and fanfictions in an active volcano?
I don’t know and it’s impossible to say what is going to happen.
And with that I've concluded this answer, and it only took me around 2k words and four days.
#FRobin#One Piece#One Piece Meta#Odas secret sketchbook#One Piece analysis#Adult themes#Notreally Frobin#long post#2k words#ask#modpost#kon#boy this was something#sorry about any mistakes
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Where the Sea Meets Earth
Ao3 Link
Summary:
Tang's life has fallen into a steady, comfortable routine, one he feels no need to change.
So he doesn’t.
Until he has to.
Note: Hi! Lowkey used an idea from @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off when it came to Pigsy's rival. They make great content, give them a look! As always, shout out to my beta reader, @imnotcameraready, the most kind and patient editor out there. She edited this all in one night, the mad lad. Send love her way!! She goes by UncrownedKing on Ao3, check out her stuff! Anyway, have fun!
Tang’s routine is simple. Get up, watch Pigsy make breakfast. Steal an egg or two that Pigsy definitely didn’t make in preparation for such thievery. Follow Pigsy around as the noodle shop is set up for the morning. Listen to the hiss of oil in a hot wok, water bubbling in a tall pot, knife against the wooden cutting board, each slice precise with practice.
Admire the way Pigsy’s arms bulge with muscle as he lifts heavy boxes of spices, meat and vegetables. Watch the sweat on his brow build up as he tosses the ingredients in the wok, stirs the broth, sticks a pinkie in before pulling it out to taste the concoction, tilting his head to the side in thought every time before reaching for a different spice—
Chuckle when MK scrambles down the stairs, a second before being late. Wave back when MK greets him enthusiastically. Listen to Pigsy bark orders. Watch MK vanish out the store door, listen to the sound of the delivery cart starting up. Wait for the customers to come in.
Sometimes, between the breakfast and lunch rush, he will vanish into the town. He’ll peruse the shelves of a bookstore, maybe get a book or two. Then, he’ll come back to the restaurant and watch Pigsy work until closing, with the occasional interruption from MK or Mei. Pigsy will make dinner, and they’ll eat while watching TV before ending the night, asleep next to each other.
It’s a steady routine, one Tang feels no need to change.
So he doesn’t.
Routines are brought on by repeated motions and consistent action. He finds himself considering them more and more, these days. Tang follows the lines back, through time, to trace where each routine began, as Pigsy yells at MK to get going.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He lives off a trust fund from his late parents, as well as a few checks from his work in historic preservation. His family has passed down the stories of old for years, and he knows them well and by heart, because at 18 his memories had come flooding in, and suddenly he was older than time itself and yet just old enough to have sake enough that creating books and speaking on historical inaccuracies is easy to turn into a living.
A few years ago, he gave it up because it hadn’t seemed important to bother anymore after his parents died. The next year he’d wasted time coasting through town after town, sharing random tales for a meal, trying to forget that he was alone, until….
Two years ago, he watched Pigsy throw a customer out of his shop, threatening the unruly guest within an inch of his life, and thought Well then. Something interesting.
Tang had actually gone to the rival noodle shop first. It seemed a bit more inviting. Pigsy, for all his culinary achievements, is still very closed off, and his shop certainly reflects that. Sometimes, Tang wonders if Pigsy would get more customers if he’d change his attitude, but he never brings it up, because what would Pigsy’s Noodles be without Pigsy?
He watches from afar a few days, until the Pigsy’s rival shop owner not so subtly nudges him over, and the moment he walks in, he’s knocked to the ground by a very exuberant noodle delivery boy.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry—are you alright?” Tang sits himself upright to the sound of frantic apologies, seeing a kid no older than 18 fretting over him as if he’d been stabbed instead of simply knocked over.
“It’s fine,” he starts, a little annoyed but not rude enough to make the boy more panicked than he already looks to be.
“MK, what did you do?!” Comes the familiar gruff voice from the kitchen, and the boy—MK, Tang has gathered—helps him stand as the chef walks out of the kitchen, hands on his hips.
“I didn’t notice him coming in—I just knocked into him—it was an accident!” Tang worries, then, because MK seems scared, but those worries are swept away when the chef takes a deep breath and slowly, his stance relaxes.
“It’s fine, kid, just get those deliveries out, ‘kay?” his voice is so gentle, Tang remembers now he was taken aback. Now it feels so natural for Pigsy’s voice to be gentle. “I’ll take care of this.”
MK nods to that, jittery and anxious, and walks out with a forced slowness that Tang can tell is from worry and guilt. Once he’s left, Tang turns back to Pigsy, who lets out a breath and mutters something about how ‘this kid is gonna be the death of me’ before looking up at Tang with what Tang later learned is his customer service expression.
“Alright, c’mon in. Welcome to Pigsy’s Noodles, home of the longest noodles.”
At that, Tang has to snort. He saunters over to the barstools and sits as Pigsy goes back behind the counter, into the kitchen.
“I don’t know if long is the metric you want to brag about,” he snarks, settling easily.
Pigsy grunts in reply, already back to cooking.
Two minutes later, Tang gets a bowl of noodles placed in front of him.
“On the house,” Pigsy grouches, before Tang even thinks to reach into his coin purse. “For the trouble.”
“That doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Tang laughs, taking a sip of the broth after it cools a little.
It was the best he had ever tasted.
“Don’t get any ideas about it.” Pigsy fidgets with his chef’s hat, face settling into a scowl, and yet Tang can tell it was all bluster with no substance.
He pulls a pair of chopsticks out of the free container, snaps them apart, and eats as customers flit in and out of the shop.
Despite the fact that he never stays in one place for too long, Tang finds himself sticking around more than just a few weeks, trailing through the streets and eventually finding himself back at the noodle shop. The noodles are delicious, cheap, and he finds the company of the chef a comfortable one.
Things get far more interesting when the delivery boy, MK, comes down late and gets an earful for it.
“Sorry—I stayed up late drawing the autobiography of Monkey King and I missed my alarm!” MK bows in apology, frantic, and Pigsy runs a hand over his face, pointing MK to a dirty table to clean.
MK gets to work quickly, but Tang turns to him with a curious expression.
“You like Monkey King?” he asks, and he hears Pigsy groan from the kitchen.
“Here we go,” Pigsy mutters, but he does nothing to stop MK from turning to face Tang with a wide, blinding smile on his face.
“Do I! He’s so cool, and strong, and handsome, and interesting! I’ve watched the animated series like, fifteen times!” he rushes up to Tang, pushing a very worn, bound together book.
Tang flips through it, more out of politeness than anything else, and finds himself pleasantly surprised by the intricacy of the sketches, the love poured into pages, notes on the stories themselves scrawled out next to the drawings.
“This is...surprisingly accurate,” He glances over at MK, who preens at the praise.
“Thanks! I’ve been drawing these, since, like, forever! It’s going to be Monkey King’s autobiography. Uh, unofficially, anyway,” MK rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so interested in history,” Tang grins with pride as he adds, “You know, I know essentially every Monkey King story. I even wrote an academic paper on them. Published.”
He watches MK’s excitement grow. “Really?! Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Can you tell me one? Pretty please?!” He’s bouncing on his toes, and Tang can’t help but chuckle.
“I could tell you a tale or two,” he starts, watching as the shine in MK’s eyes grow. “But I need something in return. A bowl of noodles, perhaps?”
MK’s smile drops, and he fidgets.
“I don’t know if I have the money…” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and then he turns to Pigsy, a question in his eyes.
“No,” Pigsy says, immediately.
Tang has never seen someone use puppy dog eyes like a weapon before, but MK pulls them off like a pro.
MK’s hands are clasped together. “Please?”
“I got bills to pay, kid! I can’t be giving free meals to strangers!”
“Well, I’m hardly a stranger,” Tang teases, smile widening when Pigsy reddens. “We met yesterday, remember~?”
“Shut yer yap,” Pigsy grinds out, but Tang has seen Pigsy far angrier, from his reconnaissance days at the shop across the street, so he isn’t worried.
Pigsy turns back to MK, mouth clearly open to rebuff the kid, but MK’s puppy dog eyes have been turned up past 100%. Tang watches as Pigsy crumbles beneath their gaze.
“Fine,” he grits it out between clenched teeth. “But this is a one time thing! I don’t have time for freeloaders around here. And not now! I got ten orders to make, that you have to take out,” he points to MK, who is nodding his head so quickly his face becomes a blur.
“Okay! So, in like an hour, okay Mr.Tang?” he turns to Tang, who grins, calm as ever.
“I’ll be here,” he responds, voice even, and MK busies himself with cleaning up the tables before Pigsy hands him the orders.
When MK disappears, Pigsy sighs.
“You know, pretty sure it’s rude to use kids to get free food,” he says, and Tang can only chuckle again.
“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve used my knowledge to score many a meal before, this is no different. You’d be surprised what people will give for an interesting story.”
Pigsy snorts, at that, and rolls his eyes.“You a good storyteller, at least?” he asks, and Tang puffs out his chest proudly.
“The best.” After all, his papers got him a pretty good amount of wealth, so he’d hope he’s good enough to earn that.
Pigsy turns back to his prep work, shaking his head, but Tang sees the barest hint of a smile, before Pigsy turns away.
Despite protests from Pigsy, Tang comes back the next day with another story and receives the same free bowl of noodles. He doesn’t get noodles every day, not stupid enough to think that Pigsy could afford to give him one daily, but he appears at the noodle shop every day regardless, if only to watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch Pigsy work.
Pigsy works with practiced motions, not a single measuring cup or spoon appearing in his hand. Pinches, handfuls of colorful spices thrown in with fresh vegetables. Tang watches him string out the noodles from fresh made dough, dropping them in the broth, stirring, always test tasting, constantly adding something else, another pinch of spice, until he’s only somewhat satisfied.
It’s a familiar feeling. The need to constantly make better, the chase for perfection. Is it any wonder, then, that Pigsy’s shop thrives? Customers learn that deliveries are often better than eating in, because Pigsy’s attitude is abrasive and he’s loud in the kitchen. Regardless, he runs a big enough business and makes good money, enough to keep MK as an employee despite MK’s many missteps.
Tang learns, through snippets of conversations, that MK lives upstairs. Pigsy gave him the job and the room. MK doesn’t talk of his parents, or any of his family really, but he has a friend, Mei.
Mei is as loud as MK is, and she’s familiar in the same way Pigsy. These people he meets at the noodle shop who come for company just like he does, lives slotting into each other with ease. Talking to them is like picking up a conversation left off a thousand years ago, stumbling only for a second before falling into the familiar groove.
Tang slowly learns the group dynamic, learns that MK’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he was kicked out, that Mei stays as far away from her home as she can for as long as possible, that Pigsy has nothing to his name besides his shop and himself.
Sees the family, the foundation, centered around the little hole in the wall restaurant, and keeps himself rooted, just for a little while.
The shop is closed every third Sunday of the month. That is the only day that it is consistently closed. Pigsy works seven days a week, twelve hours a day, without fail, except for that third Sunday. Tang forgets, one month, and catches Pigsy heading out in the early morning.
“What, forgot you can’t steal food today?” Pigsy greets him with a frown that softens into something like a smile.
“Maybe I don’t come for the food,” is Tang’s snappy reply, and he watches with satisfaction as Pigsy pauses, thinks, and then turns a dusty rose color.
Turns out, Pigsy’s ears blush with his cheeks. “Anyway, going on a walk? I might join you,” he turns.
Pigsy stares at him, as if he can’t tell if Tang is serious or not, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking. “I’m going shopping. Don’t get in my way,” is the response, and Tang takes it for the acceptance of the company that it is, and catches up to Pigsy with ease, stepping in time with him.
The perks of having long legs.
Tang watches as Pigsy charges his way into the market, eyes sharp for the best ingredients, the ripest vegetables—or, the vegetables soon to be ripe, to save for the later weeks. He gets a practiced amount for every ingredient that goes into his food.
“Have to get the meat weekly, but the produce can last if I make it,” Pigsy explains, and Tang nods.
“That makes sense. I never notice a drop in quality, regardless of the week,” he comments.
Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure anything tastes great to a freeloader,” he grumbles.
“I’ll have you know I have a refined palette,” Tang huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
Pigsy laughs then, raucous and loud, a sound Tang has never heard from him before. His heart pitter-patters quickly in his chest, and he thanks everything that his scarf hides his face and that Pigsy is short enough to not be able to spot his blush.
“Okay, wise guy,” Pigsy’s voice draws him back in. “You ever cooked yourself a meal before, then?” He elbows Tang gently, or as gentle as Pigsy is able to be, and Tang stumbles a bit before replying.
“Well…,” his voice alludes to the obvious answer, and Pigsy laughs at him all over again.
Tang decides he likes the sound.
A few months after Tang has cemented his spot at the noodle bar, Pigsy goes to usher him out of the shop one evening as he closes for the night and stops, right before heading up the stairs. He turns to Tang with an unplacable look.
“Where are you even staying?” Pigsy asks. “Not a resident, I think I’d’ve noticed a newcomer that was moving in.”
Tang shrugs at the thought. “Wherever.”
Typically, he’ll head out to a busy bar and ingratiate himself to someone, convince them to let him join their party, and sleep on a random couch. He’s always gone before anyone wakes up, to be sure he misses the questions that would come from the house’s inhabitants. If he can’t manage that, well, he’s not above sleeping on a bench somewhere. It isn’t cold out yet, so he doesn’t worry about it.
Tang very well could get an apartment, with the amount of money he has saved. He could, but then he’d be trapped.
He’d have to say that he’s settling down, that a place is going to become home. And no place has really been home, not since his parents died and he walked through empty hallways and empty rooms that once meant something and now meant nothing to anyone besides himself. He’d sold the house, stored the memories away, burned the rest and ran before the smoke cleared.
How could he stay, when there was nothing left? He’d settled in for the long hall, cemented himself as something soft like the earth, and then it had been ripped away from him like roots, tearing up the soil and leaving a mess in its wake.
So he became stone, and left without a word.
Pigsy stares at him, something almost like concern on his face. Tang watches Pigsy’s eyes glance up towards the stairs, and then back to him. Deliberating. Tang tilts his head to the side, ever curious about the concern. He knows Pigsy cares, and he knows Pigsy, beyond the gruff exterior, is pretty soft, but he’s surprised by this development. He didn’t think that care would be extended to, in Pigsy’s words, a freeloader.
Then, Pigsy sighs.
“I’ve got a couch, if you’re interested,” he says, and Tang
Tang just follows Pigsy up to his apartment. There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door they pass by that Tang can hear pop music playing in.
“MK’s place,” Pigsy says, before Tang can ever ask the question.
They reach Pigsy’s apartment door, at the end of the hall, and head in.
It’s a cluttered space. Well, everything save for the kitchen is cluttered. The kitchen is pristine, so much so that the rest of the apartment pales in comparison. It’s not dirty, there’s no trash or dishes left out, but there are just random items, magazines, cookbooks strewn about the rest of the living space.
“Sorry about the mess.” Pigsy says as he pulls off his chef’s hat and coat, hanging it up by the door.
He takes off his dress shoes, and pulls out a pair of slippers from a bin, putting them to walk on the carpet. He glances back at Tang expectantly. Tang pulls off his scarf and hangs it up.
“It’s no problem. I wasn’t an expected guest, I’m guessing?”
Tang takes off his shoes and pulls a pair of slippers from the bin. He isn’t surprised by the kitchen being clean, but he is a bit confused by the clutter. Pigsy takes care to keep his work space pristine, scrubbing it to sparking at the end of each work day. Perhaps this is a product of that, and Pigsy just is too tired to care as much in a space that is more his than it is his profession.
Somehow, that makes Tang concerned. He can’t pinpoint why.
Pigsy pulls off the random items from the couch, throwing them aside but scattering them further. He grunts in response to the rhetorical question.
“I’m gonna get a pillow and blanket. Don’t break anything.” Pigsy trudges off, and Tang looks at the clutter, and then at the perfectly good, half empty bookshelf.
By the time Pigsy gets back, Tang is sliding the last book onto the shelf. There’s still the other items that are less easy to categorize, but Tang would be remiss if he left perfectly good reading material to collect dust on the floor.
Pigsy opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly closes it. He tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch.
“Uh...bathroom’s down the hall on your left. Night.”
Then, he vanishes into his room.
Tang finishes cleaning, and then goes to bed himself.
It becomes part of the routine. Pigsy never demands he come upstairs, but he never shuts the door on Tang, either, and Tang will never shoot down a free place to stay. Pigsy gets used to him, even. Sees Tang sitting on the couch, makes dinner, hands Tang a plate whatever it is and drops down on the couch to watch TV.
If it isn’t making fun of trash TV, Pigsy screams at cooking shows.
“You can’t just throw onion in it and expect it to work out!” he shouts.
Tang laughs. “Very bold from the guy who only serves one type of dish.”
Pigsy turns red. “I can make other food!” The argument is sound.
“I know,” Tang assures him, taking a bite of the steak salad Pigsy prepared. It’s the best he’s ever tasted. “You just choose not to, which I don’t understand. Why only noodles?”
The question throws Pigsy off guard, and Tang waits patiently for him to collect his thoughts. Finally, Pigsy sighs.
“They’re what I like to eat, I guess. Besides, if I made a full scale restaurant, I’d hafta get more cooks, hire waiters, ugh,” Pigsy looks disgusted just thinking about it. “The kitchen’s my place, I don’t trust any two bit cook to get it. I mean, just look at the ones on TV!”
He gestures to the television, as if Tang hasn’t been watching. Tang nods, glances at the screen anyway. “I like how the shop is. It’s small, but it’s good. Bigger doesn’t mean better.”
At that, Tang has to laugh. “You would think that,” he responds, and at Pigsy’s confused look, he gestures to Pigsy’s stature.
“Shut up,” Pigsy says with a blush. Tang can’t stop laughing, and Pigsy cracks a smile.
Living with Pigsy, Tang finds out, means dealing with all of Pigsy. This includes the moments where Pigsy can no longer keep a lid on his already hair-thin temper.
The clutter of the house suddenly makes sense when he comes up to the apartment to see Pigsy throwing books around the room, raging face red and pained and furious in a way Tang has never seen before.
“Bastards!” Pigsy shouts, voice hoarse.
He’s been clearly shouting for a while. His knuckles are bruised, and Tang spots a few dents in the wall.
“I’ll kill em! I-,” He freezes, upon seeing Tang standing by the door.
Tang watches as Pigsy reigns in his rage, somehow, forcing his shoulders to drop, standing up straight, letting out a breath. It looks painful.
“I see something’s bothering you,” Tang comments, direct and gentle as one can be when trying to talk to someone on the precipice of blind rage, as Pigsy breathes heavily.
“Leave.” Pigsy spits it out with a vitriol that is not aimed at Tang, but at something Tang isn’t a part of.
Tang knows this, and he won’t let Pigsy drown in it. He stands still, as the storm rages in blue eyes.
“No,” he is stone, hands clasped together. Pigsy grits his teeth, clenches his fists. The wave rises and crashes down.
“GET OUT!”
It’s loud enough to make Tang wince, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
At that, Pigsy goes boneless, slumping down on himself. Tang steps forward, carefully, quietly, and directs Pigsy to the untouched couch.
Untouched because it’s Tang’s bed, Tang’s space. Because Pigsy would only destroy himself and his things, would only rage at the things he deems worthy, and Tang wonders, why does Pigsy think himself worthy of this hatred, the anger that sits in Pigsy’s heart?
Pigsy sinks into the cushions. Tang takes his bruised hands and holds them, letting Pigsy breathe.
“MK’s folks,” Pigsy finally spits out. “They found out the kid’s got a good job and an okay place, and now they want a cut of his earnings.”
The tone of Pigsy’s voice is nothing short of derisive, and Tang understands the fury now. It’s funny, that he knows Pigsy enough to tell the difference between rage that’s performative and fury that’s real, but it’s not that hard for him.
Fury like this comes from care, and there is no one Pigsy cares more about than MK. MK, the boy with the sunshine smile who likes Monkey King and drawing and will work himself to death for anyone’s approval.
“I’d have told em to shove it, but MK’s got a soft heart, and they told him it was paying back for all the trouble they had raising him.” Pigsy laughs, and it’s very, very bitter. “Like they raised him. Mei probably was a better parent than they were, and she’s his age. Bastards.”
Tang swallows the information, takes a deep breath. He wouldn’t consider himself easily angered, but this? This makes him furious. He doesn’t express his fury like Pigsy does, isn’t destructive, is cold and quiet and deadly. But he saves that for later, for when he can look up MK’s parents and figure out how to ruin them when it comes to their jobs, their social standings, their lives.
“Technically, that could be charged as harassment,” he suggests.
Pigsy snorts at that, at least.
“Yeah, but MK’s only 17. He’s turning 18 in a few months, but until then they could drag him back, charge me with kidnapping, ruin his whole life just because he isn’t their fucking lap dog,” The rage returns, and Tang watches as Pigsy carefully clenches his fists, as if he were too quick about it he could hurt Tang.
It strikes Tang, then, that he has never been afraid that Pigsy would hit him. It never crossed his mind. Because how could it?
“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Pigsy mutters.
Tang snickers. “I’ll drive,” he responds.
Pigsy looks up at him, and Tang hopes the expression on his face bleeds the sincerity he feels.
“As if I’d let you anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” Pigsy smirks as he says it, and he relaxes a bit more, the anger draining out of him like water through a sieve.
Tang wasn’t aware that he was tense himself, but he relaxes a bit, too.
“But you’ll get blood on the steering wheel. And besides, it’s no fun not having a criminal record. I ought to start it sometime, right?”
“You don’t know anything about me, if you think this’ll be the beginning of my record,” Pigsy half laughs.
Tang shrugs. “You’re right. But, I’d like to.”
Pigsy looks up at him, then, the red in his face smoothing to something dusty and rosy and beautiful. Tang looks away first. “But, first, you need some ice and bandages for your hands.” He gets up to grab it.
When he comes back, Pigsy tells him all about the boy who would come in with exact change for the cheapest bowl of noodles, once a week every Friday. How the boy would ramble on and on about everything, and Pigsy would listen out of politeness, and somehow that turned to a fondness he couldn’t shake. How that boy came rushing in, half soaked in the rain, hiding out just for the moment before he was going to keep running. How Pigsy had thrown caution to the wind and moved mountains to get the kid to stay.
Tang listens, disinfecting the areas on Pigsy’s knuckles that are cut instead of just being bruised. He wraps them, gentle, and places ice on both. Even then, he doesn’t let go of the hands, lets them settle in his grip like they’d always belonged there.
“You’re a kind person, you know,” he says, when Pigsy is done. And he means it, too, thinking of MK alone on the streets, thinking of MK turning out like he did but without the funds to support him, a drifter with nothing and no one. It makes his stomach churn.
“Nah,” Pigsy shrugs his shoulders. “Just had a lot of time to get into practice with it.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Tang lets the conversation end, and turns on the TV. He cleans up the room when Pigsy falls asleep.
Pigsy makes him noodles the next day, without comment. Tang smiles and eats.
A lot of people miscategorize Pigsy as fire. Tang would like to propose a different point of view.
When he sees Pigsy, he sees the sea.
The ocean is never calm, but it can fall into a rhythm. Small waves, rippling waters. Crashing against the obstacle that is land, constantly pushing, constantly trying, constantly moving.
Pigsy will rage like a storm, he will shine like water in the sun, and he will fall into a rhythm as he works. He will push back against the rock that is indifference, and, like the ocean, he surrounds anything and everything, connecting every person he comes into contact with, as if they were the continents themselves. He ebbs and flows, forcing himself into the issues that plagues those he cares about, and yet pulls back and gives them space, never demanding anything other than their time, if they could give it.
The ocean is not harsh, nor is it merciful, but it is a force of nature all the same. And, if you weather its storms, it will carry you wherever you need to go.
And Tang sees a man who gives MK a reason to stick around when all MK wanted to do is run, Tang sees a man who never lets Mei skip a meal regardless of her status and wealth, Tang sees a man that makes sure Tang has a warm and safe place to stay, and sees the ocean carrying battered ships to shore.
Learning about MK’s family has opened up certain topics. Tang knows it’s only a matter of time before Pigsy asks about his life. That doesn’t stop him from stiffening, from going stone faced, when Pigsy finally brings it up.
“I don’t hear you talk about your folks,” Pigsy mentions offhandedly.
When he turns around and sees the expression on Tang’s face, he frowns.
“No,” Tang responds.
He says nothing else. Pigsy doesn’t press. Just turns back to making dinner. And Tang stares at his reflection in the teacup. He takes a sip. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t feel it.
“They died. Nearly two years, now,” he finally says, and it’s like dropping a weight off of his shoulders.
Pigsy grunts in acknowledgment. Doesn’t give him the sad stare, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, he just glances back with something softer than pity and closer to empathy.
Somehow, it lessens the dull ache in his chest.
“They good ones?” Pigsy asks.
Tang smiles, just a little. “Yes,” he breathes, and it hitches, thinking about how they pushed him forward, how they never demanded but always encouraged. Tang wasn’t good at making friends, not close ones anyway. But that never mattered, because his parents were there.
And now…
“Mine are gone too,” Pigsy says, after some time and mostly as an afterthought. “It ain’t easy, dealing with it.”
Tang huffs a wet laugh, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.“No, it isn’t,” He responds.
Pigsy slides a bowl yanduxian soup, with some some skewers of meat, and sugar coated haws for dessert. Quite the array of a meal. Pigsy sits across from him, and starts in on his own meal.
Tang eats. It’s the best he’s ever tasted, as always.
Looking up at Pigsy, something in his chest warms. He thinks about his parents and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.
“I think they’d have liked you, if you’d met them,” he says, softer than he feels, because he’s never said anything about love but this is as close as he can get.
Pigsy looks up, cheeks glowing, and he smiles and Tang melts, just a little.
The apartment becomes lived in. During one of their shopping trips, Pigsy gets Tang a different outfit, muttering something about Tang needing something to wear when his clothes are being washed. Two outfits becomes three, becomes four, all hung up right beside Pigsy’s sleep shirts and chef coats. Tang gets his own toothbrush.
He buys himself books and they fill up the empty space on the bookshelves. He buys alcohol, stores it in Pigsy’s fridge and laughs off the comments about his poor taste in baijiu. He was never one to settle in, he never thought he could again, but slowly Pigsy’s apartment becomes their apartment and the change in his mind as he thinks of it leaves him wide eyed and spiraling.
Pigsy takes it all in stride, greeting Tang in the morning with something on his face that looks...pleased? Tang doesn’t understand it, and yet it makes his face feel warm when he thinks about it.
The winter months roll in, because while they have a weather tower to regulate weather it does not mean that they can ignore the need for seasons, and the apartment becomes colder.
“Do you not have A/C?” he curls up tight, beneath his blanket, and still shivers.
Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you didn’t freeload all the time, I could afford to use it!”
Later, Tang will find this all as a facade. He knows Pigsy would never blame him for being without the funds to pay for heating. In fact, the noodle shop does better in the winter months, because of the desire for warm, filling food to combat the chill. He will later find out that Pigsy forgoes the A/C in his apartment to save up money to give MK a yearly Christmas bonus, both as a present and so MK can heat up his room.
In the moment, however, he just turns away with a huff.
Pigsy sighs. “The bed’s warmer,” he says.
Tang stares, blankly, until it finally hits him what Pigsy is suggesting. “Why, you cad! Trying to bed me when we’ve barely courted!” He leans back on the couch dramatically.
“Shut up!” Pigsy looks very flustered, and Tang grins, leading Pigsy to snap some more. “You were the one complaining about being cold!”
Tang sips his tea, and shrugs. Pigsy turns back to dinner to hide his blushing face.
That night, he moves to sleep in Pigsy’s bed. It’s a pretty large one, it isn’t as if there isn’t room for the both of them. The move is purely practical, after all.
Pigsy sleeps in a tank top and boxers. Tang wonders if the tank top is for his sake. They both get in the bed very stiff, neither wanting to acknowledge what’s happening. Tang curls up under covers, back to Pigsy. The bedroom is indeed warmer. Tang imagines the small heater sitting in the corner is likely the reason.
He turns his head. Pigsy is already asleep, trails of light from the outside signs segmenting his face. He’s snoring. He looks calm.
Tang stares for longer than he thinks he should, before he lets his eyes slide shut.
It becomes routine.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
As whole, as Tang reminisces on the moments bringing him to his position, he’s quite glad he decided to stick around. It’s a strange place, this city, full of danger and mystery, now that MK is the monkie kid, now that the demons are free, but at the same time little has changed, and that is something Tang can appreciate. Every morning he settles at the noodle shop and lets life continue, predictable, comfortable.
And maybe that’s his mistake. That he thinks he can coast forever. The sea is many things, but predictable is not one of them.
The downfall starts when Mei mentions that one of her aunts has been trying speed dating.
“She made the mistake of signing up for the straight couple’s night. She told me that when she realized, she left faster than the speed date itself!” Mei taps her fingers on the noodle bar, giggling along with MK at the thought.
“Speed dating doesn’t make sense. I mean, how can you figure out if you like someone in a minute?” MK crosses his arms over his chest and ponders.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I knew I liked you in sixty seconds,” Mei boops Mk on the nose, and he laughs, before making a face. There’s a mixture of emotions there—disgust, confusion, fear?
“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re friends,” he stresses that last word, looking at Mei expectantly. “Just friends.”
“Well, duh! I was just saying,” Mei rolls her eyes.
Tang watches the tension roll out of MK like a breeze. He wonders...but will never waste an opportunity to snark, so he sets the thoughts aside for a moment and leans back on the counter.
“I’m sure I could charm anyone in sixty seconds. Where is this happening, exactly?” he asks.
Mei gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure speed dating isn’t for people who are already taken,” she tells him, and Tang blinks, confusion painting his features.
“What do you mean?” he asks.He jumps when Pigsy’s knife slams hard against the wood of the cutting board, harder than normal.
Tang frowns. “Pigsy, you alright?”
“Peachy,” Pigsy growls out, from the kitchen.
Tang stares, before shrugging it off. Pigsy’s moods aren’t entirely predictable, after all, and it isn’t as if anything terrible has happened today. Pigsy’s cooking smells as heavenly as ever.
He turns back to Mei and MK, but they’re disappearing out the door, MK with the next batch of deliveries in hand. Tang tilts his head to the side in confusion, before shrugging.
Oh well.
Pigsy is still stilted, when they head upstairs that night. He’s quiet during dinner, quiet after dinner, and instead of watching TV he goes back to the kitchen to make a dessert. Tang follows, sitting at the kitchen island, watching how Pigsy shuffles about, glancing occasionally at a recipe. Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, different ingredients come out. The oven is preheated.
“Something’s clearly bothering you,” Tang says, finally.
Pigsy stiffens. Runs a hand down his face. Sighs.
He keeps working, throws the dessert in the oven, sets a careful timer.
Tang waits, and waits.
The kitchen is silent, save for the ambience.
“What is this, Tang?” Pigsy’s voice is hard, hands resting on the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched as he finally speaks up. He sounds exhausted, from days and days of work. Tang frowns. “You steal food from my shop, you sleep in my house—you live with me, for pete’s sake, you—what is this that we have?”
And Tang, Tang doesn’t know what to say.
“Is this even something?”
He’s basked in the freedom to be himself, with Pigsy. A label defines, a label makes you inseparable. Tang comes and goes as he pleases, he doesn’t get pinned down, he’s one and alone, with Pigsy by his side.
He has called himself a ‘father figure’ to MK, but that is inherently different. There’s a degree of separation, with that label. He can still leave, and MK will not be too bereft. MK has others, Tang is just one. Pigsy wants more than that, he doesn’t want the separation, and Tang is always unsure.
“I just—” And there’s something quiet and breaking in Pigsy’s voice.
Tang says nothing.
“Whatever you want from me, Tang, you have it. I’ll-I’ll give you everything, just—”
Blue eyes, like the constant tide of the ocean, meet earth in Tang’s brown ones.
Tang is afraid he could erode.
If he stayed.
What would he become, if he shifted his foundation?
“Is there a point to this?” Pigsy asks. “Or am I just something you keep around? To say you have one?”
Tang knows that he is a man of words, of stories, knows he is Triptaka, is Tang Sanzang, and myriad others placed in the body of a single man, knows he has more knowledge in an inch of his brain than most gain in their entire lives, but he has nothing to say now.
His thoughts halt at the wounded expression on Pigsy’s face.
More than just anger and softer than just hurt, settled between an aching heart and a broken one.
“I…,” he starts, and then his mouth clicks shut, because he is, before and now, a coward eventually.
Whether he is captured by demons or putting his foot down against others’ bad behavior, he falters. And he is terrified, because the swell of his heart, the affection that warms him enough to burn, is too much to bear, to articulate.
So instead, he says nothing at all.
And he knows he’s erred, because Pigsy turns his back as the timer dings.
He pulls the set of mini cakes from the oven, sets them down on the counter with forced gentleness. Tang flinches at the harsh bang of the oven closing. Watches Pigsy’s chest rise and fall with harsh breaths that hitch with an emotion Tang can’t place, before Pigsy swallows, steels himself, stills. Clenches his fists as if readying himself for a fight. Tang doesn’t know what the battle is, wonders what side he’s on.
“Forget it.” He hears, finally, and Tang feels his heart jump in his throat.
The words sound like a relent, like something giving way. It strikes him like a spear through the chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.
The mini cakes cool in a few minutes, but it may as well be hours with how silent and still the kitchen is, and Pigsy sets one on a plate for Tang, placing it in front of him with a fork. Chocolate lava cake, something Tang had mentioned off handedly as an interesting dessert to try. Of course Pigsy remembered. Why wouldn’t he?
Pigsy vanishes into his room. The door slams shut. Tang eats.
It’s the best he’s ever tasted, like always.
He sleeps on the couch. It’s cold.
Pigsy doesn’t open the shop, the next day. Tang leaves early in the morning, before breakfast, to give him some space, and comes back from his leisurely morning walk to a closed sign hanging on the door. Unlike the last time, MK waves at Tang, hopping down the stairs excitedly. Pigsy gave him the day off, because Pigsy isn’t feeling well, apparently.
Tang sees the worried lines in MK’s expression and promises he will make sure Pigsy is okay. MK runs off, to meet Mei at the arcade, and Tang heads up the stairs. He passes MK’s apartment door and stands in front of Pigsy’s door.
He knocks.
“Pigsy?” He calls, loud enough that he can’t be missed. “It’s me. Can I come in?”
Silence.
Tang doesn’t know how to handle rejection, didn’t think it possible, from Pigsy. In the two years they’ve known each other, he has never been rebuffed. Has never been told, in no uncertain terms, to leave. Pigsy has shouted it without heat, before, but it has never rang true.
He stands outside the door for twenty minutes, trying to swallow something akin to fear crawling up his chest, as he slowly realizes the door isn’t going to open. He waits another ten minutes after that, processing the realization, the pain in his chest.
“Alright,” He says, finally, and he prays Pigsy doesn’t hear how his voice shakes. “Get well soon. I’ll see you in the shop.”
He should demand to be let in. He should kick down the door, do something. Be bold, be brave, courageous.
But he never was a fighter, so he turns on his heel, and leaves what is left of their relationship on the welcome mat.
He walks through the city, again, because he has nothing better to do now. There is no comfort from stepping into the noodle shop and feeling like home. There is no barstool with his name on it, no random bowl of noodles appearing at his seat inconspicuously, no begging for a story from MK, no fond looks from blue eyes in the kitchen.
Tang had settled into routines and expectations. The rug has been pulled from beneath his feet as he tries to grasp the idea that the comforts have crashed into dysfunction. He tracks every minute of the two years he’s spent here, tries to trace the beginning of the end like a true crime investigator, and still, he can’t decipher why the equilibrium shattered.
Change is a product of existence, Comes a memory from his days as a monk. You must let life flow like a river, accepting the directions it will take.
But Tang isn’t a monk anymore, and he is not flowing like a river or any such nonsense that sounds far more like what Sandy would say. He is analytical, he is intelligent, he is knowledgeable. Despite all of that, he is stumped by this situation, by what he is to do.
The answer, of course, is the simplest, but Tang is pretending not to be ignoring it, because acknowledging the solution means making a choice he can’t undo. To decide if he wants this to be set in stone. Can he tie himself down like this, can he make that choice to stay, forever if it comes to it?
At the same time, hasn’t he already? Just a day without being able to go into the noodle shop leaves him aimless. A day without Pigsy and he is lost, without much to do or see. He has centered himself about the warm air of noodles and the gruff smile of the chef making them.
And that is so, so terrifying. When you give everything, when someone is your everything, what happens when they leave? He’s dealt with that enough with his parents, and to become a pair, to be a part of something, he doesn’t think he has the strength for it.
But Pigsy gives and gives, and promised Tang everything, if only Tang would stay. And Tang is a coward, but not enough to ruin something so simple, so kind, and so honest.
He makes a decision, and heads to the bank.
The next day, the noodle shop opens. Tang is there when it does, settling into his barstool without fanfare. He follows Pigsy’s movements with sharp eyes, notes the rumpled form of his shirt, how his pants aren’t tucked into his dress shoes, how his feet shuffle against the tile instead of stomping with purpose. Pigsy moves slow, turns to look at Tang and has bags under his eyes—or could they be red from crying? Tang isn’t sure.
His heart aches, as Pigsy regards him with something like heartbreak. Pigsy says nothing, turns back to his work, and Tang watches.
Step one.
He heads to the market between the lunch and dinner rushes, picks out the ingredients from memory. He’s walked with Pigsy enough times to know what it is that he has to get. He comes back to the shop with an armful of grocery bags, heading upstairs to their apartment. Pigsy never locks it during the workday, and Tang uses that fact and knowledge to his advantage.
He has no idea how to do this, but he chops the vegetables and meat and sets the water to boil. Brings forth the memories of two years of watching Pigsy make the same thing over and over, and maybe looks up a recipe or two on his phone for reference.
By the time Pigsy comes upstairs, when the shop closes, it’s ready. Tang pours the servings into two bowls, and nearly jumps and drops everything when the door opens.
“Welcome home,” he says, braver than he feels.
Pigsy stares at him, at the bowl of steaming broth, and sets his chef’s hat on its hook. He pulls off his shoes, puts up his chef’s coat, leaving him in a t-shirt and slacks.
Tang watches Pigsy’s movements instead of thinking about how to approach the situation. He gets a little distracted, until Pigsy hops up onto one of the island chairs, pulling a bowl towards himself. Tang sits across from him, waiting for Pigsy to take a sip.
Pigsy takes the chopsticks offered, as well as the spoon. He takes a sip. His face remains carefully neutral.
Tang takes a sip a few moments after. He promptly sputters into his bowl, and laughs.
“God, this is terrible!” he can’t stop laughing, and he can see a smile peeking at the edges of Pigsy’s mouth. “I tried to make it like yours, but I guess I’m coming up short,” he glances at Pigsy, looks him up and down.
Pigsy’s face is dusted with a pleased blush. “Shaddup. And hey, it ain’t worse than my first attempt at cooking.”
Tang snorts at that one. “I doubt that. But, do tell. I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you decided to become a cook in the first place, anyway.”
This is the start. Tang makes Pigsy a meal, and Pigsy tells him a story.
That night, he sleeps next Pigsy, like usual, and traces the way the moonlight sets upon Pigsy’s face. He needs to do more. He needs to be more, and he’s pretty sure financial support would be somewhat helpful, so he schemes.
Step two.
A few days later, as the air between them settles into something like normal, he appears one afternoon, change in his pocket and bills in his wallet.
“A bowl of noodles, please.” He sets the money on the counter. It’s enough for at least three bowls of noodles, but that’s by design.
“Keep the change.” He evene winks, like it’s a joke
Pigsy eyes the money and then gets the most offended look on his face, as expected. Before he can make a move to either argue or even respond, Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and explains.
“Didn’t you know? This month is my charity month. I go to different establishments and pay to keep them afloat.”
Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pshh, I don’t need your charity to keep this place runnin’! Pigsy’s Noodles is a thriving establishment,” he rebuffs.
“So you’re refusing my service?” Tang responds, like a challenge.
He raises a brow, and watches as Pigsy gets redder and redder.
“One bowl of noodles, coming right up,” Pigsy manages through gritted teeth.
Tang hides a laugh behind his hand as Pigsy scoops up the money and grumbles, shoving two of the bills into the cash register and one into the tip jar.
Because MK had been bemoaning a lack of sketchbook paper, a lack of money for replacing such, and just like every time MK talks about something he wants, off handed or to complain because that’s how he deals, Pigsy will take some of the money that should go to the shop into the tip jar when MK doesn’t look, smiling to himself when MK excitedly realizes that, thanks to the tip jar, he can get what it was he thought he couldn’t—
Because Pigsy gives and gives and gives, pieces of himself scattered across and holding together the people he’s chosen to keep close, regardless if Pigsy is the one who ends up falling apart in the end, and Tang wants to fill up the spaces that Pigsy has lost from his generosity.
Tang takes his bowl of noodles and smirks, like he’s won. That night, when they’re sitting on the couch and watching TV, Pigsy leans his head on Tang’s shoulder.
“You coulda just said you wanted to start payin’ rent,” he mutters.
Tang snickers. “Where’s the fun in that? You got so red, I thought you were going to become a tomato.”
At that, Pigsy sits up.
“I’ll show you a tomato—c’mere!”
Maybe it’s a bit dangerous to challenge someone who knows all of your ticklish spots. Tang laughs until he cries, and concedes to Pigsy’s victory.
Step three doesn’t really register. He doesn’t think about it, because the first two steps have brought him back into that comfortable routine. Maybe he might have fallen into the same bad habits, if not for his hyperawareness of Pigsy’s moods in the following weeks. He doesn’t want to miss something, like he did before. He wants to be attentive, be kind.
He wants Pigsy to never again think of or ask the questions he did, that night. He wants Pigsy to know, immediately, what they are. Even if Tang is afraid to define it.
It’s a typical day at the shop, but Pigsy is a bit more tired than normal. Some days, this happens. Pigsy would never hire another chef, even though he has enough business to afford it, and being the only cook in a bustling restaurant means little breaks and consistent exhaustion.
Tang still makes them dinner, most nights. He tries a new recipe each day, because why not? Pigsy takes to each one like a food critic, and his descriptions have Tang in stitches every time—
“I never thought you could turn broccoli into soup.”
“Okay, so I cooked it too long!”
“You liquified a vegetable! Without blending! That’s like...did you use magic on this? Tang, did you use magic on this.”
—He’s not a very good cook, yet, but Pigsy eats anything he makes anyway.
Today, Pigsy is already tired, and he clearly doesn’t have the energy to deal with an annoying customer.
He has to anyways.
“This isn’t what I ordered last time! I ordered your original noodle bowl two weeks ago, and it tasted far better than this!” The irate woman slams her empty bowl on the counter.
Tang wonders if she understands the irony of complaining about a meal she finished.
“Ma’am, I make every bowl of noodles the same. I’m the only cook here. You either ordered somethin’ else, or your taste buds changed in two weeks.” Pigsy isn’t polite to customers like these, but Tang has to commend him for holding back, for still calling her ‘Ma’am’. Tang has a few different names he’d call her.
“I know what I ordered, and my tastebuds didn’t change. You clearly made it wrong! I demand a refund immediately!” She shouts in his face.
Pigsy goes from pink to red. “Look, lady, you finished your meal. I ain’t giving you back the money for shit you ate.” He spits, and she leans back, aghast.
“The nerve!” She leans back, aghast. “I don’t know what I expected from a pig—”
She freezes as a pair of chopsticks sticks its way between the two angry faces.
“Excuse me,” Tang starts.
His glasses flash, and he doesn’t bother standing. His arm divides the space, as he leans back in his chair with a bowl in his free hand. He pushes her back, ignores the look of confusion on Pigsy’s face. “I suggest you get over yourself. This behavior certainly isn’t doing anything for your looks.”
The woman leans back, crosses her arms.
“And you are?” She hisses.
“I’m his partner,” Tang says, and surprises himself with how easily the title falls out of his mouth. “And you don’t get to talk to him that way. If anyone is acting in poor taste, it’s you.”
Pigsy’s face is slack, his eyes are wide, and the red of anger on his face has given way to the dusty rose Tang has come to expect as Pigsy’s blush.
The woman opens her mouth, finger raised. Tang raises his eyebrow in waiting. But then she huffs, turns on her heel, and leaves.
Tang doesn’t give her a second thought, turning back to his own bowl of noodles—which have tasted the same in the two years he’s been eating here, so she’s full of it, clearly—before glancing over at Pigsy, who is staring at him with eyes full of something.
He has never seen Pigsy’s eyes shine like that before.
His face warms, and he buries it in his scarf and bowl. Pigsy smiles, and turns back to work.
That night, they’re sitting on the couch after eating another concoction that could barely be called food— “You’re getting better at this.” “You don’t have to lie to me.” “Bold of you to assume I would spare your feelings when it comes to your cooking skills.”—and Pigsy’s hand slides away from his lap and rests on top of Tang’s. Casual.
“My partner, huh?” Pigsy says over the buzz of the television.
Tang flushes. “It seemed an appropriate word to use.”
“Sure.”
Pigsy’s voice holds a laugh, and Tang could leave it here, he could. It would be far too easy to settle, to let it fall complacent.
But Tang has let the ocean lap at his heels, and now all he wants to do is dive.
“Hey,” he turns Pigsy’s face towards his, and—
Pigsy’s lips are warm.
Pigsy’s eyes are blown wide, and Tang closes his quickly, worried about the response, worried about Pigsy’s reaction.
Dimly, in the back of his head, he thinks ‘It’s the best he’s ever tasted’ and he has to squash the laugh that bubbles up his throat, because it isn’t appropriate right now. Pigsy's snout practically crushes his nose, and the sharp hairs on his face prickle Tang's skin.
He breaks away. Pigsy’s smile is blinding, a rare event. His face is flushed, both of them are flushed and Tang fidgets with his glasses. There’s a beat of silence, as they stare at each other, before they both turn back to the TV to avoid the ever so awkward eye contact.
They watch whatever’s on, for a minute of crushing silence.
“Alright,” Pigsy finally sighs, long sufferingly fond, and he leans against Tang as if tang were his rock. The ocean crashes against the sea, and the rock stays steady. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”
Tang inclines his head so it’s resting on top of Pigsy’s. The rock erodes, and becomes something new. Moves with the ocean, given enough time.
“Where else would I get free food?”
Pigsy laughs.
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Maybe one with Kima and Allura? The reader is an artist and one day they start to leave little notes with sketches for them in random places where they can find them and it's just them being a good friend trying to make them smile during the day.
Aww, I love Kima and Allura so much, their relationship is just so precious 🥰 I hope this turned out well
Also might’ve let myself get carried away with the idea, it’s a bit long 😅
Little Notes
Allura & Kima & Artist!Reader (Platonic)
You were making your way over to Allura's for a visit knowing she had been stressing out over Kima being missing from her mission in Kraghammer and hoping to calm some of those nerves. You walk up to the doors of her tower and give a knock, after a small wait the door opens to reveal the arcanist herself.
"(Y/n)! It’s been awhile, how are you?" She asks slightly surprised by your sudden appearance.
"Hello Allura, sorry about not informing you of my arrival." You sheepishly scratch at the back of your head in apology. "Do you mind if I come in? If not I can just-"
"No no, it’s alright." She stops you and steps out of the way for you to enter the tower. You welcome yourself in and go to sit in your usual spot whenever you’d visit. "I’m actually glad you decided to pop in, I’ve needed a distraction what with everything going on." Allura admits. At this point you pull out your sketchbook and pencil you always carry with you and start to add some fine line work to a piece you’d been working on for weeks now, never seeming to get it quite right.
"I know you’ve been stressing over this, which is exactly why I wanted to come over. So why don’t you tell me about what you’ve been up to recently." You suggest, not looking away from your drawing. You knew this wouldn’t bother Allura because for the years you've known each other, while it looked like you weren’t paying attention to the conversation you actually were, listening very carefully to every word being spoken to you. Allura went on to tell you about her work with the council and some of the worries she has for Kima, you adding in your own thoughts to the conversation every now and again. She then told you about her allies, the adventuring group known as Vox Machina that she asked to help find Kima, you knew about this group and what they did for the royal family but didn’t know them as personally as Allura did.
"I just hope nothing terrible has happened." Allura finally concludes after her long rant. You give an amused hum and sigh, taking proper notice that you’d wandered away from your project and had several random doodles covering the page. However instead of hindering you this placed a wonderful idea into your head.
"Relax Ally, if these people are as capable as you say then they’ll find Kima in no time. Just relax and breath, alright." You look up at her this time seeing her nod and take a few deep breaths. While she was distracted with that you carefully tear out some of the doodles, writing little messages of encouragement on the back of them and stand up. You sneakily slipping one of the notes between the cushion of the chair having it stick out just enough to be noticeable but not too obvious. "It’s been lovely, thank you for having me over but it’s getting late. I should really be making my way home."
"Allow me to walk you out." Allura offers which you happily accept, sneakily hiding the little drawings along the way in various places for Allura to hopefully find later. "I really appreciated the visit, helps to confide in a friend. You’re welcome back anytime." Allura gives you a quick hug that you return before the two of you part ways until next time.
It had been a while since your little visit and felt it only fair to check in and see how everything was going. When you arrive you’re relieved to see that Kima had returned in one piece, while Allura was occupied with thanking Vox Machina for their efforts you quietly shuffle over. You then watch as Kima and Allura share a small moment by staring at each other before they run into each other’s arms, you smile a little at this before deciding to quickly jump in.
"No it’s fine, just pretend I’m not here." You joke gaining everyone’s attention, you walk over to the two and without missing a beat Kima gives you a playful punch in the arm. "I swear to Bahamut Kima, you’re gonna break my arm one of these days." You slightly hiss from the pain.
"Nah if I meant to do that, it'd already be broken." Kima says slyly, you roll your eyes before properly hugging your friend, slipping a little note you’d made into her armour.
"Well now who’s this one?" The red Dragonborn asks. After some proper introductions with the group Allura invites everyone into her tower for tea, you hang back a second unsure if you should join them or just head home early.
"Don’t just stand there, the offer stands for you too." Allura gives a warm smile and ushers you inside.
"I know I just didn’t want to feel like I was overcrowding the place, plus I’m sure you’d like to catch up with Kima." You say meekly. You make your way up and automatically go to sit in your usual spot, pulling out your sketchbook as both a distraction and to continue on a commission for a client you’d received. Enjoying some tea and listening to the conversation between everyone else, Kima leans over your shoulder to look at your work.
"The hell is that supposed to be?" She asks quietly, staring at your drawing.
"Art." You reply cheekily. You catch her rolling her eyes at the corner of yours.
"I know what it is, but what is it?"
"The client asked for something abstract, so this is the result so far." You precede to erase and redraw a few of the lines you’d made until you felt satisfied.
"I don’t get it." You stifle a laugh, Kima didn’t really have an artistic eye but you appreciated that she at least tried to understand your craft whenever the two of you got to interact with each other.
"Shouldn’t you be involved in this conversation? Not to be rude or anything but it sounds important." You look up at Kima now to which she scratches at the back of her head, you can now see the blush on her cheeks.
"His questions were making me a little uncomfortable." She gestures over to the goliath, Grog. You give a reassuring pat her on the shoulder, sneaking another note into her armour before you realize something.
"Sorry to interrupt but what time is it?" After some fumbled reply’s Allura gives you her best estimation. "I have to go, I’ve got client to meet today and sooo much work to do. Thank you for the tea Allura, it was lovely to meet you all and thank you for safely bringing Kima back." You give a bit of a rushed goodbye as you gather up your things and hurry out of the tower, pausing briefly at the door to hide one more note for Allura to find later.
Time came and went, work piled up leaving you busy to no end, the only contact you had with your friends being the letters you’d write each other telling of what you’d been up to. However once the dragons came your world went crashing down, you had longed for a break away from all the work on your shoulders but not like this. Your home was in shambles, your hard work that took you months to complete destroyed in seconds, you considered yourself lucky to have made it out alive. Now you were but another refugee in Whitestone praying for a miracle while doodling in your sketchbook, the only thing that survived with you albeit slightly charred at the corners.
"Oh my gosh! You’re alive!" You hear a familiar voice call, looking over to see Kima run up to you. You give each other hug and once you let go Kima punches your arm.
"Every time I swear." You sigh with a small laugh, rubbing your arm.
"Gotta keep that arm strength up for your art stuff." Kima jokes, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "Anyways, do you know where Ally is?" You shake your head.
"I don’t, but I assume she’s alive, that woman’s a tough cookie." Kima nods in agreement.
"Would you like to help us?" Keyleth asks.
"Me? No I couldn’t, I’ve never really been the adventuring type, I much prefer swinging around a paintbrush over a sword." You politely decline the offer. "But I would like to advise one thing," you pat Kima's shoulder, once again slipping in a note you’d made into her armour in hopes of bringing encouragement. "Don’t do anything rash that could get you killed." Kima gives a quiet "yeah I know" and with that you watch the party continue on their way.
You did what you could with what little resources you had to build up and regain some normality to your life, starting a little side business of making motivational cards for anyone needing an extra pick me up. Folks seemed to really like it, each card having a personalized picture and message written on it, doing what you could to help keep hope alive in these trying times. When you met up with Kima and Allura again Allura was relived to see you were still alive and standing strong. They invited you over to the abode they were staying at together, which put a new idea into your head. Before you arrived for your visit with them you had made more of your little notes for them, this time making a few that you hoped would help spark the romance between the two you’ve seen since day one (secret wingman). When you arrived they gave you a quick tour of the place, leaving opportunities for you to slip the notes into various places around the house, making you wonder if this time they were doing it on purpose having finally caught on to your little gimmick. You all sat down and sipped away at some tea or coffee while talking about the actions going forward, as the evening came you bid your friends a goodnight and made your way back to your temporary living quarters…
More time flew by, the Chroma Conclave was since defeated and Emon was slowly rebuilding itself, a time of peace finally setting in and you had a lot of work ahead of you if you were ever going to be able to buildup your home from scratch. The only downside was you didn’t have the gold to pay for everything, your work as an artist didn’t always pay a lot but it was enough to keep you stable but having to pay to acquire materials for the house and art studio was another story entirely. Your then approached by two very familiar people.
"Allura! Kima! So good to see you both again. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to write or visit often lately, been quite busy trying to re-establish myself." You greet your friends and notice the large bag Kima's carrying.
"It’s alright we’ve been rather busy ourselves with everything going on. We actually wished to talk with you." Allura gives you a gentle smile.
"Well I’d normally like to welcome you into my home, but as you can see it’s… not much of a home yet." You half-joke gesturing to the still ruined state of your house, the broken paintings you once had all having been stripped away when the Cinder King still ruled.
"That was actually one of the things we wished to speak with you about, Kima if you would." She turns to Kima who in turn hulls the bag over her shoulder letting it clatter to the ground, and you can hear the jangling of coin inside. "I believe this should help accommodate everything you need for your home and work." You stare jaw dropped at the bag filled to the brim with gold.
"I-This is very generous of you. I simply can’t just take your money." You say out of shock at the large gold pile in front of you.
"Think of it as payment for all you’ve done for us." Allura smiles and gives you an expectant look.
"All I’ve done? I haven’t really done anything to help."
"Sure you have, back when Kima was missing finding those papers with the little drawings and messages really helped keep me calm and cheer me up through all the stress." Allura explains.
"Yeah, or the ones you managed to slip into my armour. Little distracting at first but invigorating when I was in a tough spot in battle." Kima jumps in. You just smile, all you were doing was trying to be nice and encouraging to your friends unknowing of the effects it apparently lead to.
"Still, not all is from us." Allura suddenly cuts into your thoughts, you look at her confused. "That was the second thing we wanted to talk with you about. Some of this is a sort of upfront payment for a few commissions from our friends, half now to help you and half later once you've completed their requests."
"There’s more!?" You were almost lightheaded from the information, but shake it off and refocus yourself. "I’d love to, please fill me in on all the details."
"First off Keyleth asked for a landscape piece of her home in Zephrah, Keyleth will easily help bring you to and from her home whenever you’re ready. Next Percy wanted a portrait made for castle Whitestone, he said he’d fill in the rest of the details upon your arrival. Finally," Allura gives a bit of a sigh, "there’s Taryon… he wants a, and I quote, 'self portrait made with nothing but the finest oil paints you can get your hands on for the Slayer's Cake.'"
"So basically the plan is to visit Whitestone once my home's rebuilt. That should be fine, one question though, who’s Taryon?"
"Trust me, you’ll know who he is when you meet him."
"Sounds like quite the character." You say with a hint of nervousness. "Well if that’s everything, I should get to work. Thank you again for everything." You go to collect the heavy bag of gold only to pause when you hear Kima speak up.
"Ally did you still wanna… you know ask about the thing?" She had leaned closer to Allura to ask but you still heard her.
"What thing?" You question to which Allura perks up a bit in realization.
"I almost completely forgotten. Right, there was one more, very special request." You look at the two in silence, Allura walks up to you and takes one of your hands in hers. "(Y/n), Kima and I have a very important and special request of you." You just nod and wait for her to continue. "We were wondering if you could make us something special for… for our wedding." You stare wide eyed in awe.
"You two are getting married? That’s amazing! About time too." You cheer.
"Not so loud please, we just want a simple and private wedding you know, a few eye witnesses for the event. You don’t have to make anything grand, if anything we’d like what you make to be similar to the notes you’ve always left us." You press your hands together and hold back the urge to just scream to the heavens in happiness for them. When you manage to calm yourself enough you look back that the couple and give them a large smile.
"I’d be honoured to make something for your wedding." You give them both a hug and reset your sights on your shambled home. "Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a house to get built."
"Hold on, I still have one more thing for you." Kima interrupts this time. Before you can ask you feel a punch impact your arm, you suck back the pain as you rub the spot she hit. "Alright now your free to start." She gives you a smug look.
"Every. Single. Time." You playfully glare back. You had a long road ahead of you and you were certain it’d only be a matter of time before the peace is disturbed again but for now you wanted to focus on the present. Like you said, you had a lot of work to do.
#critical role#critical role & reader#vox machina#vox machina & reader#allura#allura vysoren#kima#kima of vord#allura x kima#allura & reader#kima & reader#npc appreciation month#nothing romantic here
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Rustic House Club chapter 2
Jrum had a crayon in one hand as he laid on the ground, drawing on a blank map. “Okay, then which way?”
Jrum’s friend had been helping him make a fun treasure map to play with today. It had been something they had suggested before and now it seemed like the perfect time.
“Well, from the sign platform, you’ll go down to the big doors on the mansion in front of you.”
The robot nodded as he drew a line going to a sketch which he made look like his dad’s mansion. “Then what?”
“That’s the end! You’ll find something really cool there! Even better than a rustic house!”
“What could be so good that you think it’s better than a rustic house?” Jrum asked his friends with a giggle.
“It’s a surprise!”
“Well, okay then! I’m gonna go tell my dads what I’m doing and then I’ll start!”
Jrums friend agreed and Jrum headed back to the mansion, glad to find his dad there and not out at the shopping district or somewhere else. “Daaaad!”
“Hi Jrum. Are you done playing already?”
Jrum shook his head. “No, my friend and I made a treasure map and I’m gonna go looking for the treasure at the end!”
“Is that so?” Grian asked. “Can I see your treasure map?” Jrum handed him the paper and he looked over it. It wasn’t really that legible to him, but he saw the start and end points being the magic village and the mansion, so it seemed fine. He handed the map back and patted Jrum on the head. “Alright. Remember to stay safe and call me or your daddy if you need help, okay?”
Jrum nodded before running off again, returning to the village and then following the path. The hardest part of the journey was through the nether. His dads haven’t figured out how to make special elytra that would work for him and his brother since their bodies were much heavier than what the wings could deal with at their size. He was careful as he built up to the path on the map. After that, it was just a really long walk with a surprising amount of bees. This was the nether, why were there so many bees in this tunnel?
Finally, Jrum reached the end of the tunnel. He checked his battery level which was rather low, so he ate one of his snacks - some charged redstone dust - before continuing. It took a bit of scaffolding, but eventually Jrum got down to a platform hanging over the lava lake of the cavern. It was hung up by chains that looked sturdy, but it still made Jrumbot a little wary.
But it wasn’t like he needed to stay there too long, as right in front of it, just a chunk or two away, was a mansion. It looked just like his dad’s, except it was red instead of blue. Also it was built completely upside down.
Jrum nervously looked around, making sure there were no ghasts around, before he started to bridge out towards the building. The minute he heard even the distant cry of a ghast, he booked it back to the little hanging platform and make sure everything was safe again before continuing.
After many minutes and one close call with a ghast later, Jrum reached the door of the mansion. He struggled a little pushing it open, but eventually managed. Jrum was expecting some kind of prize or treasure at the end. Maybe a stack of diamond blocks piled up. Or maybe even some netherite. It could have been something fun to explore. Or anything really. Instead the place looked mostly empty and somewhat abandoned. There were the remains of an incomplete farm in one area of the building, but otherwise, there wasn’t much.
Jrum closed the door behind him and made a safe area for himself before letting himself fall to the ground. He laid on his back, staring up at the roof - floor? - for around a minute before he started crying in frustration. He had come all this way and for nothing! He thought maybe for a second, it might have been the building itself that was the prize, but that would just rub in how bad of a builder he was. But his friend had said to go inside the building, so it should have been some other prize.
Once Jrum had exhausted himself enough, he sat back up and started to send a message to his dad. He was so frustrated, he didn’t notice two important things. The first was the person coming up behind him. The second was his battery which was giving him a warning with it in the low single digits. But Jrum was too focused on getting home.
<Jrumbot> Dad. I finished my treasure hunt, but there wasn’t anything at the end. I’m really far away and tired. Can you please come g
Jrum wasn’t able to finish writing the message out before he heard a noise close behind him. He whirled around to see someone. It was his dad! “Dad! I wanna go home! There wasn’t anything here!”
Then the person moved forward and Jrum froze. At a glance it looked like his dad, but looking again, it wasn’t. His eyes weren’t the right color and he seemed to have metallic plating on his face. Along with that he didn’t seem to move quite right, all his movements having a jittered and halting form of movement.
“Y-You’re not dad…” Jrum pushed himself back a little in fear and then also noticed his battery level. 1%. Jrum didn’t have time to make a new message, so he quickly added what he could before sending it with the last bit of energy he had. And then, he powered off, collapsing to the ground.
Grian had completely lost track of time while working in Aqua Town. He had just finished up renovating his new buildings when his comm buzzed. It pulled him out from hyper-focusing on building and caused him to look around. He looked out the window to see it was well past midnight.
He was so sure the message was likely Mumbo asking him where he was and that the kids were worried, so Grian packed up his stuff and flew back home. Once he arrived at the mansion, he put all his shulkers down before going upstairs. The avian looked in the bedrooms to find them all empty. That was fine. Mumbo had likely put them to sleep at his base.
Grian grabbed something quick to eat before flying to the ancient monument, easily finding Mumbo who was just in his storage area. Grian carefully snuck up on the redstoner, trying to be as quiet as possible, though he also couldn’t help humming as he approached.
Mumbo finally noticed the humming and froze with what he was doing to pay more attention. “Why do I hear boss music?” His question was quickly answered by Grian tackling him from behind and pinning him to the ground. “Grian!”
“Sorry! You just looked so lost in thought and I couldn’t help it!” The avian laughed before helping Mumbo back to his feet. “Thanks for getting the boys to sleep. I completely lost track of time. I hope Jrum wasn’t too bad tonight.”
The smile on Mumbo’s face turned to a look of confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Huh?”
“I thought Jrum was with you. I only put Grum to bed.”
“But Jrum wasn’t at the mansion. M-Maybe he snuck into bed here?”
Mumbo didn’t answer. He just ran with Grian to the bots’ bedroom. There they found only one of the beds occupied. Grian’s wings puffed up immediately when they saw the sight, which nearly knocked over Mumbo, but he wasn’t complaining about that.
“Mumbo, you look around here and I’ll check the mansion again. If you find anything, message me. If not we check Scar’s village and Jrum’s houses, got that?”
The redstoner nodded and then Grian was in the air, flapping his wings as fast as he could to get back to the mansion. He scoured the place from top to bottom. The boys’ bedroom? Empty. His room? No one there. The basement bed? Nothing but cows. The nest? Barely there since it had mostly been disassembled.
Grian took a second look around just in case before pulling out his comm to tell Mumbo which place he was headed to next. But before he could, he noticed a message from Jrum. Grian breathed a sigh of relief. If only he had checked sooner. Jrum was likely saying where he was. Probably one of his houses or even with another hermit.
But then Grian’s brow furrowed with confusion that quickly turned to worry. He didn’t just have a message from Jrum. He also had a status message. Shortly after the incident with Grum and Iskall, Mumbo had added one last thing to the bots. It would send messages on the boys if something happened that was a cause for concern.
Grian opened up the message for Jrum first. Maybe that would explain it. Maybe what happened was he lost track of time too and shut himself down to conserve power. That would be the best case scenario. As Grian started to read the message, he was sure that’s what was going on. But his heart dropped when he got to the end.
<Jrumbot> Dad. I finished my treasure hunt, but there wasn’t anything at the end. I’m really far away and tired. Can you please come gHELP! There’s someone scary and I’m out of power!
Grian then looked at the other message. If Jrum had powered down. It would have his coordinates. He read it, and then his heart managed to drop even more.
[Bot Status] Jrum lost power at X Y Z in the nether dimension.
The nether. The Nether! Why was Jrum in the nether?! His hands trembled as he tried to message Mumbo, but instead he just selected the world chat. That was probably okay. He might wake a few people, but this was an emergency that could need help.
<Grian> Mumbo, have you looked at your status messages?
<MumboJumbo> No let me do that
<MumboJumbo> The nether?!
<Renthedog> What about the nether?
<Xisuma> Do you mean status as in the messages you get for the bots?
<Grian> YES
<Iskall85> Oh no. What about the nether?
<MumboJumbo> It says that Jrum completely lost power while in the nether
<Xisuma> What were the coordinates?
<Grian> He also sent a message before he powered off that’s really concerning
<MumboJumbo> X Y Z
<StressMonster> What was the message?
<Grian> It was the start of one he almost sent before which was a normal one
<Xisuma> Let me check where that is
<Iskall85> What was the message
<StressMonster> Grian?
<MumboJumbo> Give him a second, he’s probably trying to copy it down.
<Grian> Dad. I finished my treasure hunt, but there wasn’t anything at the end. I’m really far away and tired. Can you please come gHELP! There’s someone scary and I’m out of power!
<Renthedog> Oh that is not good
<MumboJumbo> Is that the only message?
<Grian> Yeah.
<Xisuma> Those coordinates are within the upside down.
<Grian> How’d he manage to get all the way out there?!
<Xisuma> Because this is an emergency, I can teleport the two of you there.
<MumboJumbo> Please!
<Grian> PLEASE
Grian put his comm away and watched as the purple energy from Xisuma’s admit powers surrounded him for a moment. The next moment, he, Mumbo and X were standing in the interior of the red mansion.
Immediately Grian was looking around, Mumbo doing the same. They didn’t get far though until X stopped them. “He would have been right in front of us when we teleported in. In fact…” Xisuma pointed, and while there wasn’t Jrum’s powered down body or a scattering of items that would signify someone dying, there were a few stray items left on the ground.
Mumbo was closer and picked them up. “Some of the charged dust I gave him for snacks. He didn’t even have enough time to eat that to get some more power. There’s also this map drawn in crayon.”
“Jrum showed it to me this morning. He said he was going on a treasure hunt or adventure or something. It started in the village and ended at the mansion. But I didn’t think it meant this mansion. How did he even know about this place?!”
“I don’t know. Did you ever tell him about it?” Mumbo asked.
“No. It never came up! And I don’t think any of the other hermits brought it up!” Grian then remembered that morning. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Jrum said he made the map with his ‘friend’ in the village. I thought it might have been imaginary, or maybe a Jellie… but now…” Grian looked over to X, who immediately pulled his admin panels out.
“I should have realized something was up. There had been some errors popping up here and there. They seemed consistent, but for the life of me I could not figure out the source. I couldn’t find anything dangerous or threatening connected to them, so I didn't worry too much. I thought it might have just been a bug. But…” Xisuma moved his hands and Grian watched as the panels shifted. “A similar message, but this time, instead of the usual area it showed up in, it instead appeared in the world joining messages.”
Grian paled. “So whoever or whatever this is was communicating with my son for weeks and now has shown up and kidnapped him?!” Mumbo pulled Grian closer as the avian started hyperventilating. “W-We… it could be anyone. B-But who? W-Why Jrum? I- Was i-it the Watchers? N-No I would know. But wh-” Grian cut himself off as someone came to mind. “No. No no no no nonononono! Not him, not him!”
“C-Calm down Grian. I’m sure it wasn’t. X, please tell me you can try and find an origin for whatever this was?”
X nodded and messed with his panels while Mumbo tried to help keep Grian from getting completely hysterical. “Here we go. Whatever it was seems to be some sort of player entity, but also not at the same time.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s similar to the code for Grum and Jrum or Biffa. Someone who wasn’t so much born as they were created.”
“Alright. Is that all?” Mumbo asked, earning a shake of the head from Xisuma.
“No, there’s some data here that’s very interesting. They have five worlds listed as ones they’ve been to before. Two of them being ones Grian had been in. Technically there’s six if you include this world since they just entered, but-”
“Wh-what worlds?” Grian managed to ask.
“Not the one you were in when you went to highschool.” Xisuma started with his answer, making Grian give a small sigh of relief and calm slightly. “That being said, The first two worlds are Grian’s solo world as well as the Evolution world. There’s also one connected to Evo called… The Down Side Up?”
Grian’s eyes widened. He had talked about his solo world plenty of times. He had talked about Evo a lot as well. But the last one he had only heard about. Heard about from the one person who had been there. Someone who had been in Grian’s solo world and Evo. And that someone… had… also been in… the highschool.
The builder only half recognized Mumbo talking, but it did bring him back into paying attention to what was going on. “And what are the other two?”
Xisuma hesitated, which made Grian worry. And by the way Mumbo shifted, he was worried too. “The two other worlds… are the fourth and fifth worlds of Helscraft.”
“-W about two rustic houses?”
“No.”
“Okay, you’re really driving a hard bargain. I can build you three rustic houses.”
Jrumbot half registered the people talking nearby. He was really out of it. Even though he was a robot, he still felt sore from walking all the way to that weird mansion.
“I don’t want any of your bloody fucking rustic houses!”
“Well then what do you want?”
“What I want, is for you to go back to season 4 and find Grifter to bring him back here!”
“Hmmm… Sorry Sense, I can’t do that. True might get upset and Xannes would get really mad.”
“You think I give a fuck? You and EX are the only ones who can get in and out of here. So What I want is-”
Jrum had sat up and in his bleary eyed like state, he saw his daddy and ran over to them with a hug. “Daddy, I’m sorry for going too far out. I didn’t know it was gonna be that far away.”
But Jrum didn’t get a hug back, instead his daddy stiffened up and then spoke in a dark tone. “If you don’t pull this thing off me right now, I will tear it limb from limb and harvest its redstone for my experiments.”
Jrum was pulled away by someone behind him, and this time the robot got a better look at the person he hugged. It looked like his dad, except his suit was messy with burn holes and redstone dust everywhere. His tie was a blue color instead of the normal red, also with similar burn markings. His mustache seemed like it was hardly cared for, it was frizzy and lopsided, singed to the point where small embers seemed to be resting in the hairs. And finally, the look in his eyes was familiar and yet not. It looked like when he had spent days on a redstone project and still hadn’t figured it out, but turned up a thousand percent.
“So, how about two rustic houses and a rustic mansion?”
“I already told you what I want!”
“Fine, just one rustic house. I know about that project you’re working on and wouldn’t it look nice if instead of that concrete base-”
“Fine! Fine! I don’t want anything. Just don’t fuck up my redstone!”
“Okay!”
Jrum watched as the daddy clone stomped off before looking to see who had helped him. When he turned to look, he saw a familiar face. “Dad?” Then his memory from just before powering off came back. “N-no… y-you’re not my dad! Wh-who are you?!”
The person smiled. “Don’t worry! I’m your friend! It’s nice to meet you!”
“What do you mean?” Jrum asked warily.
“You kept coming to visit me in the village, didn’t you?”
Jrum paused. Though this person looked like his dad, their voice wasn’t quite the same. But it did match the voice of his friend. “Why do you look like my dad?”
“Oh! Because we’re not just friends. We’re also family!”
Jrum tilted his head. “Is that why you look like my dad?”
“Yeah! Because he’s my dad too! In fact, he named me NPC Grian, but I normally get called NPG.”
“Wait… so does that mean you’re also my brother?”
“Yep! In fact, I’m the oldest! From what you’ve said, you’re the youngest?”
Jrum nodded. “Yeah, I guess you got built first and then Grum got built and then me!”
NPG smiled and then hugged his younger brother. “Well, now that we can see each other face to face, how about we explore the world? We’ll have to stay together because not everyone is nice, but I’m sure you’ll be fine!
“Okay! That sounds fun! But um… can you carry me? Walking so far before wasn’t fun…”
NPG tilted his head in confusion. “Why didn’t you use elytra?”
“Grum and I can’t use them. Daddy says it’s ‘cause of our proportions or something.”
“Well then! We’ll have to see if Prof can do anything about that! He’s pretty nice, I think you’ll like him!”
“Do we have to go far?”
“Nope! We can use the aether to get there! Since it’s faster!”
“What’s that?”
“Well it seems to be whatever is here instead of the nether. Everything is really backwards here. But it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, like with rustic houses!”
Jrum frowned at that. Like rustic houses. He couldn’t wrap his head around those. So he was probably going to just get more confused here.
“Alright! Let’s go!” NPG picked up Jrum and walked off, going to a portal with glowing blocks and blue magic in the middle. Jrum rested his head on his brother’s shoulder as the magic swirled around them before moving them to another dimension.
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Headcanons: The Magic Knight Captains & Their Art Styles
Just some random idea that came to me today while reminiscing on what the Captains do in their free time. I began to picture how it would play out if each of them were instructed to show us their art skills! Here's what I came up with.
Captain William Vangeance:
This man is not too bad at art! He doesn't put a lot of pressure on himself to make perfect sketches and he has low expectations for himself... So he mainly considers it a hobby set aside for his rare moments of leisure time. Since he's so chill about it, his sketches come out looking nice when he's more relaxed. This is usually the case since he prefers using his bird journal - he likes to bird-watch and put together little drawings of the winged friends he sees while laying all content out in his garden. He's no prodigy but his hand-eye coordination is pretty good and after years of practice his birds and trees turn out pretty impressive. Very embarrassed if asked to show people though.
Credit: Found in a "how to draw" guide.. no name
Captain Nozel Silva:
He prefers appreciating sophisticated art made by others.. and really doesn't care much for making it himself. If he draws anything, it'll usually be rushed - as he knows he's got more important matters to focus on.. Still, he is capable of putting together a sketch every now and again of something simple. Usually plain posable objects. At the end of the day, he's not really a big art freak and even at a nice art museum he gets bored after an hour or so.
Credit: unlisted. Message if you know where it's from!
Captain Fuegoleon Vermillion:
He likes art, a lot! Like William he's no prodigy, but it makes him happy so that's enough for him. He prefers to paint, and his subjects are often women, focusing on anatomy because he enjoys exploring movement / dimension through bodily posing. He likes painting silhouettes that are dancing and often have flowing clothing, or hair. Definitely focuses on the beauty, passion, and artistic self expression side of it. He isn't as open about it because Mereoleonna poked fun at him for it so much and he'd rather not deal with any of that again.. but people who know about it always talk about how he's quite talented.
Credit: Anastassia Orehova
Captain Yami Sukehiro:
He's listed in the manga's assorted questions brigade as the #2 ( Behind Rill) judge of artistic style and taste! He's got an excellent eye for art, and he can be really creative medium wise, but I still feel like he's a bit too lazy to sit down for a long time and really commit to a canvas or sketchbook. He doesn't find it rewarding enough for his attention span.. but he seems to be pretty good at making simplistic, cartoon styles really expressive.
Credit: Olga Shvartsur
Captain Rill Boismortier:
He is ALL about color, vibrancy, and bold presentation! His paintings are always so full of vivid life and brightness, it's clear to see he's a person carrying a wondrous imagination and endless creativity. Everything he's made seems like it's bursting with optimism and excitement, as if the artist couldn't contain himself. He is extremely versatile and can tackle almost any subject, which is super impressive for his age. His one flaw I'd say is that sometimes his paintings, despite being gorgeous technicality wise, can get a little busy or cluttered as he struggles to not get carried away with all the different expressive ideas he comes up with. He's still learning!! ( Bonus headcanon: Rill has a mandatory weekly art class set aside as "training" for the Aqua Deer magic knights.. Everyone attends regardless of their actual interest levels because nobody wants to handle seeing Rill devastated that people didn't show.)
Credit: Svenja Jodicke
Captain Dorothy Unsworth:
Pretty self explanatory? She's a kawaii sailor moon theme anime waifu. All her drawings are magical anime girls... But they only appear in her dreams, so nobody knows she can draw well!!
Credit: source link to deviantart page was a removed account 😭 please lmk if you know the artist
Captain Jack the Ripper:
Nobody wants to talk about Jack's art. He doesn't wanna draw and nobody wants him to draw. Anything he makes is simply a cursed image, no questions asked. He's got the artistic skills of a grade schooler... And even though he can be somewhat creative, the fact that there's always some kind of disturbing / violent undertone incorporated within the picture... It just looks like a demented child's drawing.
Credit: could not find name but it's a canvas displayed in "The Museum of Bad Artwork" labelled as "The Butcher" and tbh that makes it even more terrifying
Captain Charlotte Roselei
She's listed in the top three WORST artists / judges of fine arts in canon... Which is interesting to me, lol. I think she probably stopped trying a long time ago after being teased for how her stuff turns out, lol. She tried drawing or painting and would get frustrated with her inability to create an image she's picturing in her mind.
Credit: could not find name but it's a canvas displayed in "The Museum of Bad Artwork"
Captain Kaiser Granvorka:
I don't know a whole lot about him tbh but I know he is also listed as an excellent artist next to Yami. I think he'd be really into sophisticated art! Kinda like Nozel but far more dedicated and passionate about it. Still-picture images, but he finds a lot of joy in shapes and objects, and messing around with shading.
Credit: unlisted. Message if you know where it's from!
And that is all my friends!! I am still trying to hunt down some art credit for these images, some were on Pinterest or just unlisted altogether. I'm gonna put them down once I come back and edit this post when it's not 3am 😂 plz let me know if y'all can help me out with that. I know there's an online site somewhere that's made for this but I forgot what it's called???
This was a lot of fun to make though. If you disagree or have thoughts, feel free to reblog or come chat in my ask box! Goodnight luvs 🥰
#black clover#black clover imagine#black clover scenario#scenario#imagine#headcanon#headcanons#captains#william vangeance#yami sukehiro#nozel silva#dorothy unsworth#rill boismortier#fuegoleon vermillion#kaiser granvorka#charlotte roselei
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Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 7 - Memories
Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, was it a memory?, 2.6k
@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
“Don’t look down ‘cuz we’re still rising up right now...and even if we hit the ground...we’ll still fly, keep dreaming like we’ll live forever but live it like it’s now or never…”
Willie bobbed along as the song played from the tinny radio speaker outside the bodega. Sheldon was curled on his lap, purring contentedly as Willie pet him absentmindedly.
“You gonna take any chamoy candy, amigo?” Escobar asked, peeking his head out the door.
Willie shook his head.
“Not tonight.”
As Escobar disappeared again, Willie kept nodding to the beat of the song. It wasn’t exactly like being at a concert, but he had been happily surprised to hear the local station playing their songs - they’d been repeating them, in fact. By now he’d been able to assign faces to the voices singing different parts, and hearing Alex’s come through in the harmonies and the occasional solo was comforting.
“We ain’t searching for tomorrow…’cuz we got all we need today…”
The lines were strangely fitting. If Willie could’ve chosen how to spend his last day on Earth, he knew he would’ve spent it just like he had yesterday without question. If only that could make the Alex-sized hole hurt a little less than it had today.
“Can we turn it back to my station now?” Escobar called out. “We’ve heard the same songs, like, four times.”
“It’s Alex’s band, though,” Willie contested. The radio was already playing rancheras. As he stood up, Sheldon leapt off of his lap and went to eat more food.
“Que tiene este muchacho, anyway?” Escobar asked. “You knew him for, like, five seconds and he didn’t leave you a number.”
There was no way to properly express in words the feeling he got about Alex. Their interactions weren’t based on words, even when they had spoken.
“You don’t have to get it, Escobar,” he said, grabbing his board and helmet from leaning against the counter. He hadn't let himself hope it would magically last forever, but the memory was worth it. “I’ll see you later.”
“Adios,” the man said, sweeping up the store and singing along to his music. “Una piedra en el camino...me enseño que mi destino...era rodar y rodar…”
Shaking his head and smiling, Willie kicked off into the late night. He’d spent all morning cleaning hotel rooms, and he tried to remember which number had been the one for Alex and his band, but he never figured it out. The rest of the day, he’d run errands for Caleb and let the one memory he had regained play on loop in his mind. There was nothing that specifically indicated that the man in the truck was his dad, but he simply knew it was. They had the same squint when they smiled.
He hadn’t bothered telling Caleb about it. It would’ve been irrelevant, since he’d apparently been in the foster care system for quite some time. Those were some of the important details he’d gotten from him, but Caleb was rather stingy about the rest - he’d said it was so Willie could live unbiased and make himself into whoever he wanted. It didn’t feel that way, though. Eventually Willie had stopped trying to weasel things out of him and accepted that he might never regain his memories. Of course, it was different now that he knew they could return.
The wind in his hair was nice, but lacked something he couldn’t put a finger on. As he came upon a large home, he skated onto the driveway around the back. He was headed past the pool in the backyard toward his shed and was surprised by a sudden voice from the water.
“William, I’ve asked you so many times not to skate around the pool,” Caleb said, wading over from where he had been doing some laps. Slowing to a stop and picking his board up, Willie gave him an apologetic nod, continuing toward the shed.
“Wait,” he heard from behind. Turning, he saw Caleb climb out of the pool and move toward him.
“You’ve been running around all day, so I’m sure you want some rest. I’ve just been worried about where you go when it’s so late. That’s two nights in a row. Is there anything you need to tell me?”
Put on the spot, everything went blank in his mind. What was there to worry about? Did he know about Sheldon? Even if he did, it wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong keeping the cat at the bodega.
“Not anything to tell,” he replied, trying to mask the strange guilt that had arisen. “Just been skating around.”
Caleb looked down at him, and Willie could never tell what was making those gears turn in his head. He knew he was just looking out for him, but sometimes he just wanted not to give some kind of report at the end of the day like he was doing business.
“I just think about what would happen if you were out there and something were to hurt you,” Caleb told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Or someone. Wouldn’t want another accident.”
Willie nodded solemnly. Caleb’s tone was serious, but for the first time he just felt that it was...insincere. His stomach flipped at the thought and he drove it down into the depths of his mind. That was an awful thing to think about the person who literally provided everything for him, especially when he wasn’t blood-related.
“I’m being careful, I promise,” he said, not meeting the man’s eyes.
“I’ll take your word,” Caleb said. He let go of Willie’s shoulder and strolled back toward the pool.
Walking to the shed, Willie shut the door behind him and confusion swept over his whole being. His dad’s face rose to the front of his mind again. If only he knew more about him to compare the two men, then he could understand why he felt so strangely about Caleb. Looking around the shed, he wondered if an answer could be found.
It was big enough for his bed, some shelves and a desk, with a small closet and bathroom. Apparently he had been living in there instead of the house even before his accident. In his first memory of seeing it, it was the bare necessities and nothing else. While Willie still wasn’t much to keep lots of clutter, he had dozens of sketches that he’d put up on the walls to make it feel more at home. It was quiet and thankfully Caleb didn’t bother him too often in there.
Sitting at the desk, he picked up a pencil and opened to a blank page in his sketchbook. Slowly shaping out a face, he tried his best to remember the details as clearly as he could. Willie wanted it to be as close to reality as possible, even though it wasn’t his usual drawing style. That way if his memory slipped, he could have something to keep him steady. So far the best thing about it was the eyes, but it wasn’t hard because all he had to do was check his own face in the mirror every once in a while. The smile was a little more crooked and wrinkly, and it took several attempts, but he was determined to get it right. He knew it was probably a good idea to get some sleep, since he had a full day of work in the morning, but this was more important.
Hours into the drawing, making sure everything was as close as he could get, Willie looked down at the portrait of his dad, steering wheel in hand, happy as could be. It was a really nice image, and if this were the only way he would ever remember him, Willie was glad it was happy. Checking the time, it was a little past three in the morning. He’d probably hate himself later for staying up so late, but it didn’t make him any less proud of his work. Aside from preserving his memory, it had been a great artistic challenge.
Finally climbing into bed, Willie tried to focus on something else. He brought Alex’s eyes to the forefront of his mind and let himself get lost in the soft crashing of the waves again. It had been rhythmic, which was so fitting for Alex. Allowing the rhythm to repeat continuously, he eventually nodded off to sleep.
Sirens blared and red and blue lights surrounded his vision. Willie was lying on the pavement, not moving and fading in and out of lucidity. The pain in his head was overwhelming. For a few moments, he stayed that way, watching the lights flash indefinitely. Slowly, he watched as all the lights and sirens pulled away, and above his face, the front bumper of a car came in view. A man that he couldn’t see clearly appeared, moving backwards, going from the side of the car to kneeling over Willie’s motionless body in a panic.
After a few moments, the man went back to the car in the same backwards fashion, and Willie’s body lifted in the air. His vision tumbled and he made contact with the car a few times, and when his head hit the pain vanished. Strangely, he landed perfectly on his board and it was like watching the city in reverse. Aware this was a dream, he felt so puzzled by the whole thing. This was a part of the city he could’ve sworn he’d never been through before. Willie had his corners that he’d memorized, but Vegas was big enough to confuse him still.
The backwards skating seemed to be endless, until finally he was running back into Caleb’s home. Caleb was yelling, and Willie couldn’t make out what he was saying at all. Then suddenly they were at a social worker’s office, and Willie looked down at a file with his picture on it. He couldn’t make out anything it said, but he simply sat there as Caleb and the social worker blabbed in backwards gibberish.
The scene changed again, and Willie found himself sitting in the shed, crying. He was repeating a name but it made no sense. A deep loneliness filled his entire body and a strange force seemed to try to compress him into as small a space as possible. The tears and the shaking only intensified, ringing loudly in his ears. Everything was miserable, overwhelming, and he just kept crying out into the dark.
Willie opened his eyes and sat up in his bed. Looking around his room, there was too little light to make out any shapes, and after blinking his eyes he found they were wet. Huddling his knees into his chest, he just sat there in his confusion and fear, breathing in and out. Had those been memories? It was so hard to tell, especially since watching everything in reverse had been so trippy. If they had been, he wondered if they were warped in any fashion. Who would have their memories return through a dream in reverse, anway? The frustrating thing about amnesia was that it had very few absolutes and every case was different.
A pit of anger grew in his chest. Willie felt like some higher power was having fun at his expense. The tears that fell were more from quiet fury than pain. Glancing over at his desk, he saw the drawing of his dad smiling back at him again. Unfolding himself and laying down on his side, Willie stared at the picture and let the tears run until either his eyes dried up or he fell asleep again, whichever came first.
Loud banging on his door was what woke him up. Rising groggily from his bed, he opened the door to find Quetzal, one of the girls from the diner.
“You just woke up?” she was saying. “Come on, Willie, Caleb doesn’t know I rushed over here to get you, you better hurry up.”
Sighing wordlessly, Willie pulled on some clothes, followed Quetzal to her car and clambered inside.
“You’ve been off the past couple of days, you okay?”
Willie took in a deep breath and tried to blink himself more awake as they drove to the diner.
“Just in a funk, that’s all,” he breathed. “Thanks for coming to get me, though.”
“Let’s just pray we don’t get caught.”
“We won’t get caught, he’s doing some kind of new deal today. I heard him on the phone a while ago about some record label he was thinking of buying.”
“A record label? How many businesses does the guy own now, like five?”
“I stopped keeping track. Anyway, Dolores is probably managing today.”
“Oh, thank God,” she sighed. “You had me so worried when you didn’t show up on time. I was ready to get fired for leaving during my shift. At least we don’t have to worry about it now.”
Willie didn’t respond. He knew Quetzal was one of those people who would go out on a limb for anyone, but it still surprised him when she did it for him. He never felt deserving. As they parked at the diner and hurried out of the car, he shook his head. It wasn’t always successful but he always hoped it worked like an Etch-A-Sketch, to get rid of the many things cluttering up his brain.
That was it. Enter the kitchen, punch in, grab an apron, and he was in his corner by the dishwasher again. He ignored the eyes of everyone else who clearly wanted to express their upset by his tardiness. He was there now, right? Heaven forbid. Willie’s mind, of course, only remained cleared from the shaking for a few minutes. As he got into the groove of spraying and moving things into the industrial trays, he tried to remember more details of the dream, but most had been forgotten. All that was left were sirens and lights.
He’d walked back home at the end of his long shift, since he hadn’t taken his board like usual in the morning. That also meant he couldn’t go to the bodega for lunch, and he desperately needed to check on Sheldon. Willie had peeked into the house and called to see if Caleb was home at all. His own voice echoed back followed by silence. Taking that as a confirmation the man was still busy, he gathered his board and helmet and made his way out to the street.
The wind wasn’t its usual soothing sensation against his face. Willie knew he was tired, but was disappointed to feel that the one thing that felt most freeing to him wasn’t doing its job. It should’ve been enough to lose his thoughts to the sound of the low roll from the wheels, only interrupted by the gentle clacks here and there. There was too much noise inside of him. Suddenly, he understood why Alex had chosen to play drums.
Sheldon was already pattering toward him as he came through the doorway. Scooping the cat into his arms, he held him close and stroked his fur in an attempt to find some comfort. When he started purring, Willie made a little sigh of relief.
“Busy day?” Escobar asked as he organized a shelf.
Willie only nodded. Sheldon was rubbing his head against his face, and it did more to soothe him than the wind.
“Sorry I didn’t come for lunch,” he apologized. “I haven’t been doing my part for Sheldon and I owe you.”
“I would like it if you could be around more,’ Escobar said. “But he’s a pretty good cat, so it isn’t too much, amigo.”
Nodding again, Willie finally heard the music playing in the background. Was it…?
“I thought you were tired of their songs,” he commented.
Escobar shrugged.
“Eh, I had an idea you wanted to listen to them. And they’re not all too bad.”
A surprised giggle came from Willie’s throat, and he smiled for probably the first time that day. He went to give Sheldon some food and let his mind replace the red and blue lights with soft green eyes.
#julie and the phantoms#jatp#fanfic#jatp fanfic#willex#alive au#alex mercer#willie#luke patterson#reggie peters#bobby wilson#caleb covington#viva las vegas#memories#fiddlepickdouglas#memory
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ok abm concept how about one of the girls getting really into astrology/tarot card readings or something like that (they keep on coming up on my tiktok and i’m giving that inspiration to you)
This was so much fun write! 💟
“Can’t you do this with your sisters?”
“Clementine’s too stubborn – it’s all that Scorpio in her. And Penelope is too scared.” Lucy answered as she shuffled the cards in her hand.
“I’m not scared. I just don’t believe in that.” Penelope answered from the corner of the sectional sofa, sketchbook tucked up behind her bent knees as she flicked her pencil over the paper to draw the outline of her father’s profile as he sat on the rug across from Lucy.
Lucy made a face.
“What’s wrong with being a Scorpio?” Clementine asked, flicking her youngest sister’s cheek as she climbed up behind her on the couch and tossed a few pistachios in her mouth.
“It’s the most annoying sign.” Lucy answered matter-of-factly. “And you have it in moon and rising. Double trouble.”
Daniel chuckled at Clementine’s eye roll. He crossed his legs on the rug and shuffled closer to the coffee table as Lucy shuffled out the cards in a fan in her hands.
“Pick three cards, Daddy.”
“Any?”
“Any.”
“Do I show you?”
“It’s not a magic trick. But no. Don’t look at them. Just set them in a row on the table face down.” Lucy instructed. “Follow your instinct of what your hand is drawn to.”
Daniel let his fingers glide over the fan of fresh cards and landed on one. He pulled it out and set it to the left and repeated the motion two more times. When the three cards were lined out in a row between them, Lucy tucked the rest of the deck away and flipped open the small book that came with the tarot deck.
“Okay,” she shifted onto her knees and smiled excitedly at her father, “I’m going to tell you your past, present, and future.”
“Alright.”
“This is past.” Lucy turned over the first card on the left. She analyzed it and then turned to her instruction book to figure out what it was and what it meant.
Florence came into the living room and she shared a small smile with her husband as she passed him a can of Coke. He thanked her quietly and focused back on their youngest.
“Oo, okay.” Lucy grinned, setting her finger under the line in the book, “Upright Temperance: ‘the blending, mixing, and combining diverse elements in a way that creates something new and even more valuable than its separate parts. Blending can take on many forms; for example, a blended family.’ That’s funny. We don’t have one of those. I wonder what it means for you then.”
Daniel sipped his pop quietly and Florence shuffled off to the kitchen without a word. Penelope sketched on. Clementine scrolled through her phone.
Lucy continued reading, “It says finding order and balance and being set on the right path.”
“That makes sense.” Daniel agreed to her latter statement outright.
“Good! Next is present.” Lucy said without question and flipped over the middle card. “10 of wands. Upside down.”
She turned back to her book and flipped a page to find it.
She read, “‘Ten of Wands reversed suggests that you are carrying a heavy weight on your shoulders, but you are keeping this private and are unwilling to share your burden with others. You may be grappling with emotional trauma, carrying a dark secret, or dealing with increased responsibilities.’”
“Oh…that’s deep.” Daniel said.
“Are you emotionally traumatized, Dad?” Clementine giggled.
Lucy turned around and smacked her leg, “What if he is? Don’t be insensitive.”
Daniel chuckled lightly, “I think I’m fine. Work’s busy but I’m certainly not emotionally traumatized.”
“Good. Now the future.” Lucy turned over the right-most card. “Three of swords. Juicy.”
She flicked back a page in her book and skimmed for the description. Her eyes went wide, “Oh. ‘Three of Swords, upright, expresses that you are feeling deeply hurt and disappointed. Your heart has been pierced by the sharp blades of others’ hurtful words, actions and intentions, and they have inflicted intense emotions of pain, sadness, grief, and heartbreak. These events are often unexpected and come out of the blue, making them even more painful.’”
The three daughters’ eyes raised to their father’s surprised face.
“Heartbreak or grief.” Lucy breathed. “That’s scary.”
“It’s made-up nonsense.” Penelope said, her pencil held off the paper in midair.
“I don’t like this one. Pick a different card for future.” Lucy shoved the deck towards her father.
Clementine scoffed, “Luce, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Yes, it does.” Lucy said quickly as Daniel slid out another card and set it face down on the table as instructed.
Lucy flipped it over. Daniel and Lucy’s matching blue eyes went wide as they stared down at it. Death.
“Lucy!” Penelope gasped, tossing her sketchbook to the side, suddenly invested, and leaned forward to see better. “What did you do?”
Clementine peered over Lucy shoulder and her mouth fell open in shock.
“What?! What does it mean?” Daniel asked quickly.
Lucy skimmed her book with her finger and read, “‘The Death card symbolises the end of a major phase or aspect of your life that you realise is no longer serving you, opening up the possibility of something far more valuable and essential. You must close one door to open another. You need to put the past behind you and part ways, ready to embrace new opportunities and possibilities. It may be difficult to let go of the past, almost heartbreaking, especially in terms of relationships, but you will soon see its importance and the promise of renewal and transformation.’”
“Letting go of relationships?” Clementine repeated. “After the first one said heartbreak and grief?”
“Divorce!” Lucy squeaked and all three girls’ heads whipped to the kitchen where their mother was making herself a mug of tea. Even Daniel stared at her with wide eyes. Florence glanced up from her mug and froze under the frightened stares of her family.
“You’ve doomed our family, Lu-Lu.” Penelope whispered.
“Oh God.” Lucy squeaked, hurriedly shoving the cards back in the deck. “Oh gosh.”
“Okay, relax, no one is getting a divorce.” Daniel assured them quickly. “I promise.”
“Uhm, yeah. No divorce here, thank you very much.” Florence added as she joined her family in the living room and helped herself to a spot on Daniel’s lap on the floor.
Lucy stuffed the cards and the book back in the small box they came in, “I hope not. Oh gosh…I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”
“Don’t panic yourself, Princess, it’s just cards.” Daniel chuckled.
Lucy quickly shut her eyes and did the sign of the cross, making her parents laugh as she mumbled a quick pleading prayer under her breath.
Clementine scoffed through a laugh and got up from the couch, giving her youngest sister’s shoulder a shove on her way past, “The sign of the cross isn’t going to save you; Christianity doesn't believe in tarot. You’re gonna go to hell.”
“What?!” Lucy looked between her sisters and her parents.
The box was down the garbage chute by that evening.
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Anon said: How are you just like "Oh these are just some warm up sketches" and post a full finished piece, while I'm over here sketching a triangle person and calling it a finished piece.
I dunno if this was a legit question asking for a legit answer, but I do happen to have a legit answer so I might as well give it! If I wanted to go into detals with it it’d take me forever though, so allow me to separate it into two points to make it easier
I learnt how to be very fast in putting down my lines and trained myself into not overthinking every single dot I put down. This took about five or six years of drawing daily and a whole life of drawing occasionally before then, because to do so you need to reach a point where you’re drawing something you’ve drawn so many times that by now your hand sort of goes without you needing to think about it much, so it’s not a fast process, but boy is it worth it. Mostly learning how to not overthink it, overthinking it used to be 90% of my time spent on a drawing and dear god did it suck the joy out of everything I drew
I have two very distinctive ways of approaching a drawing, one where I actually put effort in it and the other where I just want to let the squiggles out of my pen, and warm ups are the second one - the lack of effort I’m putting in can have different forms and show in different ways, so a warm up could be a fully colored piece as it could be just a pencil doodle, depending on where and on what exactly I’m being lazy: it could be the type of tool I’m using that allows me to draw without having to line, it could be a very tiny canvas that lets me avoid a ton of details a big canvas would demand. I might be cutting the time I usually put in making sure my anatomy is correct, I might be using a shading technique that takes a tenth of the time my usual one would, I might be using a style that’s just easier and faster to draw, or drawing characters I’ve drawn a trillion times in extremely generic poses and clothes. There’s a lot of things that I can do to make things faster for me! It’s skills you gain as you draw a lot - you learn how to draw things the hard way, and then you realize that along the way you learnt how to do them the easy way too
hope this actually answers your question! If it was a question at all lol if it wasn’t then sorry for rambling, please pretend I didn’t say anything hahaha
Anon said: I love your newest comic!!! So adorable!! I noticed Bakugou's mom does the affectionate hair rustle thing to him in the manga/anime, do you think Bakugou subconsciously does the same to show affection cause of it? I love the way you draw faces and poses, it's so expressive!!
Ahhhhh thank you so much!!! And yeah, it might be! After all we do take a lot from the people we live with even without realizing, and he’s already so similar to his mom!
Anon said: I saw your bakushima comic from October 9th (2019) where Bakugo falls asleep studying and Kirishima sets him down on the table properly and it was so soft my heart is crying
;;;;; !!!!!!!! I’m glad you liked it!! <3<3
Anon said: If it not to much, could I possibly get a Ochamina doodle pls? I just love some sweet lesbeans 👉👈
Awww I’m not taking requests right now, but I’ll keep it in mind for next time I want to doodle and don’t know what!
Anon said: I love your art! I envy you.
Please don’t! There’s a lot of reasons why being me isn’t a lot of fun - if it’s just my skill you envy, then all you gotta do is draw a lot!
Anon said: i just went through your entire kiribaku tag and omg it was beautiful seeing the progression in your art skills but still keeping the same funny/cute/heartwarming/etc traits you thought up for their dynamic!! i hope that makes sense haha !! love your art keep it up
It does make sense!!! Thank you so much both for looking through the whole tag and for thinking so, it means a lot to me!! ;;; <3<3
Anon said: Hey fran! I hope you're doing well(especially with quarantine and all)!! I really love your anatomy and how fluid and stylistic it can be! It's super fun to look at! I wanted to ask you if you ever did any in depth studies on anatomy? Like muscles and bones. I've heard a lot of artists mention the necessity of studying bones/muscles, i'd really like to know your opinion on the subject
Ahhh god thank you so much!! And... hmm let’s see if I can word this properly and have it make sense - always keeping in mind that this is just my opinion, of course!
If all you want to do is to draw, then all you need to do is to pick up your pencil and draw - it’s really that easy as far as I’m concerned. You don’t need to know anatomy in depth to just draw, everyone has seen a person, everyone knows how a person looks. That is, if all you want to do is to draw for the sake of drawing. If you want to draw an anatomically correct looking human being, though, you do need to know how anatomy works - and the deeper you’ll go into studying it the more correct your people will look. It’s kind how everyone can draw a bicycle, but if you want to draw a realistic bicycle you’re gonna need to look up references for it, you know? It’s all on the level at which you’re interested in drawing, the more technically skilled you want to be the more you’ll have to study
As for my personal experience with this, I hate studying with a passion. Studying puts a damper on my enjoyement of everything, and drawing isn’t excluded from this - you put a book in front of me expecting me to study it and suddenly I never want to pick up a pencil again. This means that I never sat down and studied anatomy in depth and all in one go just to learn how to draw a human being, but it doesn’t mean that I didn’t, slowly and now and again and in bits and pieces, study parts of the body to get a better understanding of it. I know better about the skeleton than I do about muscles, and I still have enough to learn about everything that anyone who’s studied anatomy properly would find a trillion mistakes in everything I draw, but my way of going about drawing has always been and always will be putting my enjoyement of it first and foremost, so I’m not interested in putting myself through a tour-de-force to learn everything there is to know about anatomy just to make my doodles look appealing to someone with a medical degree haha I’m just doing me, and when the mood is right I look up how to properly draw something, but until then I just do it as best as I can with my limited knowledge, being fully aware that what I’m producing is far from accurate but being willing to make that compromise for my own comfort
So that’s my opinion on it lol it all boils down to how important it is for you to know how to properly draw the human body - of course it’s gonna look more professional and better if you’ve studied it, but everyone has their own priorities, you know?
Anon said: Thank you for your hard work, seeing an upload from you is so nice, and the colors are so pretty
Thank you so muuuuccchhhhh!!!! TTATT <3<3<3
Anon said: Opinions on Tokoyami Fumikage 💕
One of my top faves in the whole manga, actually! I have a drawing in the making of him, I should get back to it..........
Anon said: HOLY SHIT FRAN THE TOES HOW YOU DRAW THE TOES SO WELL FEET ARE THE DEATH OF ME AND YOU’RE OVER HERE DRAWING TOES THEY’RE SO GOOD PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!!! -❤️
Thank you!!!!!!!! So pretty much my way of learning this specific skill was being obsessed with elves when I was fifteen and wanting to draw them all the time and also for whatever reason being convinced that they were not supposed to wear shoes so I just drew a lot of feet with references and tutorials and stuff till I could draw my elves properly. Which isn’t necessarily what you need to do to learn how to draw feet, but, I mean, it worked for me lol
Anon said: I love ur Bnha ships and all but what would u do if some of them didn’t become canon??
Oh, I actually don’t care about that at all? I don’t expect most of them to become canon anyway - like, ochadeku sounds reasonable and kamijirou seems to be getting there, but everything else I never even considered it as an actual possibilily. I don’t really ship because I want to see my ships become canon, I just like the potential in what I can make with them? If that makes sense? They’re just fun to think about and I like making fancontent, that’s all there is to it really haha honestly if I had my way no ship would ever be canon ever ha ha ha
Anon said: Slep is for the wek
No actually sleep is for Frans who want a chance at getting up tomorrow morning without an headache for once, so I should do that and go to sleep already lmao
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