#But to be fair they taught me very little about art in general

[lil-tachyon]

Got any good resources for clothing drawing tips?

Okay so quick little introduction before I try to answer this question. First of all, sorry for letting this languish in the inbox for so long. I have a lot I want to say about this and I'd really like to make a proper "tutorial" but this week took a lot out of me so what you're going to get are some visual notes on graph paper and some rambling thoughts. Maybe down the line I'll try to flesh this out more into a proper guide, but for now it is what it is.

Second- for many different art concepts I can give you some really great recommended reading for self-teaching. There's a whole section of my website with links to things that helped me learn. Clothing is one of those things where I never found a book or tutorial that really "clicked" with me. It's one of the few areas of art where I feel like it's fair to say I'm genuinely self-taught. So what you're going to get here is very much my opinion, not undisputed common wisdom or whatever. Take it with a grain of salt. This is how I draw, not the "right way" to draw.

Third- drawing clothes is not something fundamental like perspective or rendering where there are actual hard-and-fast "rules" you can learn to guide you. It's not even like anatomy where there are approaches that have been worked out and passed down by artists over generations. I think about drawing clothing as a synthesis of several different skills- a little bit of anatomy, a little bit of perspective, a little bit of rendering. Honestly a smidge of graphic design. You're employing a "cloud" of your artistic skills towards a specific end. What this means is that the TLDR of this post is going to be "do what you would normally do to improve at drawing but apply it to clothing." So don't expect something life-changing, instead just open your mind to maybe trying some new things you hadn't thought of before. Also this is going to be more about drawing than painting, that is more about "lines" than "shapes" but the two skills overlap and the same concepts should be broadly applicable. But my examples are going to be drawings.

Okay intro out of the way. Clothes are mostly just tubes of fabric, fabric wants to fall down. The human body and sometimes wind and water and other fluids will stop this fabric from falling down all at once and instead give it a shape. Keep this in mind. It's helpful to know how clothes are actually constructed if you want to know how they will deform when falling across the figure. Where a garment is simply a length of fabric, it's very flexible. It can bunch together or be stretched taught. This is most noticeable at the parts of the body that open and shut like hinges- knees, elbows, and armpits. The behavior of garments at these areas of the body is highly dynamic.

At seams where different sections of fabric are stitched together, movement can be come more limited. Seams are usually imperfect- pieces of fabric of slightly different lengths might be stitched together or fabric may shrink over time around a thread causing it to pucker and wrinkle. For these reasons, seams often act as the originating areas for folds and wrinkles, even when a garment is not in a particularly flexed/active state.

In a two-dimensional image, it can be helpful to describe a garment in terms of silhouette and wrinkles/folds. The silhouette is the actual boundary of the garment, where the fabric comes to an end. The wrinkles/folds are where different parts of the garment pass in front of each other or where the fabric becomes bunched up to the point that light can't reach inside and occlusion shadows form. You should always keep the overall silhouette of the garment in mind to inform the bigger shapes you draw, but you will use wrinkles and folds to demonstrate how the garment twists and deforms. These are the basic tools in your arsenal. Keep it simple.

There are lots of different ways to approach wrinkles. My advice and my personal preference is to draw wrinkles as shapes and not just lines. Specifically, tapered shapes (like triangles) and be really good both for implying motion and the varying depth of a fold/wrinkle. Experiment with different shapes of varying angularity, fill texture, etc. Your hands and eyes will guide you towards what looks and feels good. There's no right way but I would advise you to exaggerate! Ask yourself- what's the biggest shape I can draw here? How can I twist it to make it bigger, crazier but still describe the form in a way that makes sense? It can be exhausting to just try to perfectly copy a reference and also using your imagination like this when doing studies will help build up your visual library for when you're drawing/designing clothing from imagination. In general I would advise you to focus more on drawing something that looks good (ie is composed of shapes that you find aesthetically pleasant) than is "correct."

Quick recap: Garments fall down, you can simplify an article of clothing into a silhouette described by folds and wrinkles. What next? Observe! Take notes! It is worth your time to think about how common articles of clothing are constructed. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, etc. I used to do some hobbyist sewing and clothing alteration and I think that hands-on work with clothes has really affected the way I think about drawing them. You don't have to go that far but like- look at the world around you. Stuck on the bus, in school, in a meeting, etc? Even if you can't draw, look at how your pants bunch up around your legs, look at the sleeves of someone sitting next to you. I mean, don't be weird about it, but these are valuable observations. Think about how you would draw those things! Really getting good at drawing clothes involves studying them in the wild, understanding how they work, building up your visual library. Look at a faded denim jacket- at the puckered places where the indigo has rubbed away or the permanent creases that hardly see the light of day and remain a deeper blue. Look at petrochemical techwear outfits that break into jagged, high-sheen triangular wrinkles. Soak it all in!

Save pictures of and take notes on outfits you like, designers you like, garments you like. Keep track of these things. Come back and study them over time. Have fun with it! I have folders and folders and folders of images of clothes that I come back to constantly. Over time and with lots of study you'll learn what you want to draw when you draw clothes and that's half the battle. You'll have images of buttons, pockets, belts, laces, fabrics, seams, dancing around in your head that you can deploy at will. It's delightful.

Hope this helps! If anyone has more advice to add, please do! If this tutorial helped anyone, please show me your drawings! If you'd like more stuff like this from me, just send me an ask or an email and I'll answer it when I can.

Peace,

Logan

[unhetalia]

Based on this post. FACE and their skill and interest in the various arts.

VISUAL ARTS:

Arthur's skillset is in sketching and painting people exclusively. He's incredibly skilled, and some his discovered artworks (under Anon) are the subject of a lot of discussion in the art world. There's a gorgeous sketch of Alfred in a gallery that people have been obsessed with for a hundred years, titled by art critics as Beloved, because people (rightfully) believed Anon must have been in love with the subject.

Francis is an all-rounder in this area. Painting, drawing, ceramics and sculpture. Draws and/or paints beautiful men and women he meets throughout history. As a gag gift, every year, he chooses a random Nation and gifts them a giant nude painting of another Nation they've had a crush on.

Alfred prefers architecture and sketches the lead to inventions or building things. He is, however, amazing at capturing landscapes. TERRIBLE at drawing people. He's also a very skilled photographer.

Matthew has no interest in the arts, but does love it when Alfred gifts him little watercolours of the Canadian wilderness.

LITERARY ARTS:

Francis loves discussing literature, but doesn't dabble as much in writing.

Arthur is the writer, and has published a lot of critically acclaimed works under a pseudonym. Mysteries, romances, fantasies - even poetry and a play or two. Ironically has been referred to as the modern day Shakespeare.

Alfred writes mostly research papers BUT does a great short story or general non fiction. He's also a great humourist in a very David Sedaris style sense wherein he's good at observing and writing about how people act without judging them - for example, he will recount a story about someone stripping in a New York subway and write something along the lines of "If I had decided to strip on the subway, I would have decided to do in June as opposed to December, just so I could give me family jewels the best chance to shine. His looked incredibly shy in the winter cold."

Matthew - once again doesn't have any interest, unless you count having a sharp tongue as a type of literature.

PERFORMING ARTS:

Francis loves theatre and has acted a fair bit. He's also second only to Austria on the violin. Plays several other instruments, and taught both Canada and America how to play piano. Good at any dance you do at a ball.

Arthur goes to a lot of performances but doesn't partake (a big fat lie - he was in band and played lead guitar and wrote the lyrics. He also did backing vocals - he's decent.) Like France, good at any dance you do at a ball.

Alfred is so good at piano that Austria himself once gave him a standing ovation. He also plays the guitar and has a beautiful voice, though is weirdly stage shy. He loves going to the ballet and orchestras and musicals, and goes a lot with Francis. He loves swing dancing but can't dance anything else (refuses to learn to spite England, who started teaching America just as their relationship was souring).

Canada is an AMAZING dancer. It started as a way to prove that unlike his brother, he was NOT a troublesome student, and grew as he soaked up the attention and praise from England, but it also became something he truly loved. Was also taught piano at a young age but didnt really care for it. Good singer, but will only do it drunk or in the shower.

[thenightfolknetwork]

Helloooooo!!! I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been listening for a while now, but I haven’t written in before.

So! I’ve done ballet for a little over ten years. I started when I was six and a half, and I’m almost seventeen now. I probably won’t dance professionally, but I love it. A lot. The culture surrounding ballet has a… history of mistreating the liminal community—I mean, aside from the obvious body-based exclusion, there’s also the horrible appropriation in the so-called “romantic” period—but luckily, the ballet school I attend is founded and run by a fellow person of the night, and it’s very accepting of all sorts of creatures. People tend to assume that I’m Sapio when they first meet me anyway, but it’s still nice to be able to talk to the mice and cockroaches and not get strange looks, y’know?

And, two years ago, I finally convinced one of my best friends to start taking ballet classes! It’s been great. We review choreography together, help each other with different skills—I’m a jumper, she’s a turner—get enlisted by the costumers to do what we like to call “grunt work” (I am an expert at sewing buttons)—we even go to the library to check out books on stuff like "the use of physical motifs in ballet" and "creature traditions in classical repertoire." It’s really, really wonderful getting to be with someone who’s as excited about the art form as I am.

That’s not my problem. My problem is that she’s… she’s better than me now. Despite starting at 14 in something where being 9 is considered old, she has incredible turnout and gorgeous lines, never gets winded, is picking up épaulement far faster than really anyone ought to be able to—I could go on like this for a while.

You see, she’s a shapeshifter. Proud of it, too. One time when we were 12 or so, our painfully Sapio history teacher very nervously asked if anyone knew what it was like to be from “a genus with so-ma-tic var-i-a-bil-i-ty”—I swear he was looking at notes on his hand—and my friend kicked her scuffed converse up on the desk, said, “No, but I can tell you what it’s like to be a shapeshifter,” and then gave herself extra teeth while smiling. That’s the kinda control she has over it.

And she has a lot of options when it comes to which shape she wants to take on any given day. Since ballet is easier for certain bodies, she, very understandably, chooses a form for class that’s naturally flexible and strong and has exactly the required musculature and is easy to balance with and that’s fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her being comfortable and confident in her identity, and, by extension, her body. She doesn’t rub it in, or act like she’s better than the rest of us, or anything like that.

To be clear, she is a hard worker. I don’t want to dismiss that. She writes down notes after class and helps the teachers with the really young groups and takes the lower level’s class on Tuesdays and Thursdays to work on her technique and is generally doing everything right. But so am I! I do all of those things with her, heck, I'm the one who taught her how to seek them out! And I’ve been doing this for ten years! And when you come from a genus that rarely lives past 100, ten years isn’t something to sneeze at. It’s not fair. It’s not anybody’s fault that it’s unfair, but it’s still not right! Please help. I love my friend, and I want to be happy for her, but whenever I see her do a freaking quadruple pirouette in pointe shoes and then balance (because of course, sure, why not, it’s soooo easy) before landing, I just feel furious.

Oh, reader. This sounds extremely difficult and frustrating. You've worked very hard over the last ten years, and as you rightly say, that is not something to sneeze at – especially when you take into consideration how young you were when you started.

You talk a lot towards the end of your letter about what is and isn't “fair” or “right”. I would like you to take a moment and consider the alternatives. Would it be more fair for certain genuses to be prohibited from taking part in your classes? Would it be more right that your friend should sublimate her natural abilities in order to take part?

Or perhaps you would simply not allow anyone to participate at all if they seem to be more naturally flexible, or have better balance, or a stronger core than… Well, here is the other question. What is it we're comparing to? The national average, the average ballet dancer – or simply, you?

Did you know, in the world of professional cycling, there is one trait which is most likely to affect a cyclists chances to reach the upper echelons of their chosen sport? More than height or weight, more than time spent training, more even than their genus. This trait is: being born at high altitude.

But that's not fair, you say! It isn't right, that a simple accident of one's birth should lend such an advantage. Perhaps we should set a cap on natal altitude in such competitions. And what of the second most impactful trait – the wealth of one's birth country? Do we have different leagues for rich and poor, high and low altitude?

I hope you can see how ridiculous that sounds. Life is not a mathematics equation. You can't just add time and effort and get success. There is so much luck involved – lucky births, lucky bodies, lucky brains and lucky bank accounts.

You aren't doing anything wrong by happening to have been born into a family that supports your interests. So too, your friend isn't doing anything wrong by happening to have a body that makes ballet more accessible to her. It is simply the luck of the draw.

Furthermore, 'being good at ballet' is not a finite resource. Your friend isn't taking anything from you by doing well, and her accomplishments in no way diminish your own.

These feelings of jealousy are natural and normal. But they are not healthy emotions, or helpful ones. Acknowledge them, then let them go. Concentrate instead on what you love about ballet, what you love about your friend, and in taking pride in your own achievements. You have worked hard and accomplished a great deal in your own right, and those accomplishments deserve to be celebrated in their own right – not only in comparison to someone else.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[super-hero-confessions]

I love film as an art form. I really do. I love how much work actors and actresses, writers, directors, VFX artists, and everyone put into it and I would love to see more people appreciate the work that goes into creating film and television as an art form. (The same goes for comics and books too.)

It's not just one person that goes into it. It is a massive team of people that come together and work long hours chipping away at bits and pieces they create, making sure everything fits together until the final piece is completed. It is often well over 100 different voices being spoken in little ways all at once and I find that incredibly moving and beautiful.

Granted, I do wish the industry (and fans especially) were better. The writers strikes and VFX artists treatment should be evidence enough of this (I am still sorely disappointed that there were actually "fans" who complained about these things because it put a delay on their favorite show. These are people's lives we're talking about and that's not a joke.) Money could be better distributed. If a single actor were to accept just a 1,000,000 less from say, a 15 million dollars paycheck—with an average of 276 people who work on a film, that is an additional roughly 3,623 dollars that could be allocated and divided towards every single other person putting work into the film being produced. This is not to say that actors and actresses do not work hard and don't deserve the pay; but the reason they are paid so well at all is because they have much better unions.

For a business so lucrative as the film industry, it is asinine what some of those putting countless hours and effort into these projects get paid by comparison. I wish more people could understand this. Furthermore, I wish more people could understand the creative perspective and just how much work needs to go into this thing that gives so many of us something to enjoy.

Tumblr as I've seen kind of struggles with this idea. And to be fair, this isn't the only place I've seen that. In all honesty, proper criticism isn't a subject that is well taught unless you take a course that actually centers on objective critique.

Allow me to explain.

Contrary to popular belief, not all criticism is valid.

All opinions are valid but criticism is not an opinion, or rather, it should not be an opinion or opinion based. That's far too subjective and restrictive for what can or can't be successful in terms of art—because art and opinions of people vary so wildly it's just not going to be coherent enough to be sound judgement. Art is meant to be free and this method of judging through personal feelings would deny this.

Genuine and valid criticism is generally devoid of personal preference and opinions. It has little to nothing to do with whether or not the piece suits you or you like it or not as a consumer. (Which is often where I see the confusion come from. Many fandoms I've come across will judge a story based on whether or not they liked or disliked things portrayed or the direction it took when this has nothing to do with the critical success or failure of the story. Whether I "like" a piece of art or not cannot define whether it is "good" or "bad" and this misunderstanding of critique is incredibly widespread.)

Critical success of a story is based on a very simple criteria. That is:

1.) What is the creator's goal or intent?

2.) Was this accomplished?

If the answer is yes, then critically, the work is successful or "good". There is unfortunately often a struggle in understanding creative works (especially when people are not educated in light of critique) but to boil it down; if a creative's goal was simply to make and tell a story and it succeeds in doing that whether popular or not and whether people like it or not, then objectively—through a critical eye, the work was well made and fulfilled the goal it set before itself.

And there are other questions involved in critique as well, ones that take it deeper for a more intensive and thourough dissection of the art. Things like literary technique and execution for writings, principles and elements of design for more traditional art—but again, these are things that are identifiable through an objective lens and they do not involve public or personal opinions regarding the work in question.

If the work accomplishes what it sets out to do; then whether you agree with this goal or not, the work has in fact succeeded.

I see so many complaints across fandoms that are discouraging to say the least. The latest on my mind is "The Boys" as an overabundance of people (especially those interacting with any darker media and art forms) will give their personal opinions and label them as critique while simultaneously completely missing the point of both critique and the story. The story itself is quite clear in its intentions and the themes it wants to convey. Objectively, whether you agree with the execution and themes or not, it succeeds in its goals and is quite well made.

Garth Ennis as a writer is quite incredible. His work is certainly not for everyone, but whether you like it or not he will rip your emotions out of you and access every possible feeling you can have on the emotional spectrum through his work. This is part of why his work is so controversial but it's also something that many many writers struggle to and often could not hope to accomplish anywhere near such a magnitude.

And in truth, this is often the goal of art and artists. To make you "feel".

Honestly? I really just wish more people could understand art and artists, and appreciate them through this lens. It's just so disheartening to see people complain about what is tantamount to not understanding the art or the artist—or why art is made at all. In other words, these people do not support artistic freedom if it means art that is not personally tailored to their likes and dislikes gets created. Whether in the industry or outside of it (especially those that make peanuts comparatively. I once saw someone complain about how they wouldn't feel bad for the writers in the industry because of the type of money the industry makes which is just. I'm sorry, it's just so completely tone deaf and ludicrous that I still can't understand how anyone can come to this conclusion.) artists—of all types, deserve this very basic appreciation and respect, whether we like their work or not.

We're human too. And yes, I know, sometimes we're a little weird. But sometimes it's because we also tend to see life through a different lens than those around us. Sometimes we just want to share that view. Sometimes we want to warn people before it's too late. Sometimes we are too late. Sometimes we just feel like pouring out our feelings into something more tangible. All of these are things even artists within larger industries feel. We're still just people and we work just as hard as anyone on our own craft. I hope it's not too much to ask people keep this in mind.

I think, in a way, that may be the only thing we've ever consistently asked for.

Thanks for reading if you made it all the way through. 💜

[sorbetowl]

Horizon Ask Game

Oioioi, thanks for all the tags, @maybirdie, @meg-noel-art, @nerd-artist and @xxxhellfireravenxxx

1. ride or die ship (your otp): To no ones surprise, it's Ereloy, precisely as it reads on the can. They snatched my heart back in 2017 and haven't released it to this day.

2. most annoying ship: There are no annoying ships. Next question.

3. second favourite ship: Tough call. I'll go with Avad/Ersa, because they 100% had SOMETHING going on. Starcrossed lovers my beloved.

4. favourite platonic relationship: I'm living for the friendship between Alva and Kotallo. And Beta's line about Erend visiting her in the server room and being "loud...but funny". A kingdom for on-screen interactions between the two. Erend can be like "is free little sister". ;;

5. underrated ship: Drakka/Yarra. The raw enemies to lovers potential there...

6. overrated ship: I don't see anything overrated in a genuine outpouring of one's love for two fictional characters.

7. one thing i would change in canon: Now, after two main games and DLC? Oh, a fair bit. Varl's unnecessary death, even admitted to by the writers as being there for shock value. Shock over the drop in narrative quality post-HZD, maybe.

Same as reducing Erend to everyone's punching bag without a single thought behind his eyes. Fantastic how everyone easily picks up reading English while Erend struggles with it when he's canonically the only member (besides Aloy and Alva) who knows how to read at all. He's the one asking Aloy in HZD where she learned to read Glyphs, something unique to the Carja who reinvented written language based on a book, and the Oseram who got taught Carja Glyphs for trade, which eventually developed into their own alphabet (they get differentiated as "Carja Glyphs" and "(Oseram) Glyphs" in datapoints. Erend can read both. Two alphabets. That's more than many bilinguals)

But sure, he's the dumb dumb who can't read, not the companions that start completely illiterate.

8. something canon did right: All of HZD. What a masterful introduction to a new game franchise, and playing through it the first time unraveling all its mysteries is why I'm still here obsessed with the series.

9. a thing i'm proud of creating for the fandom: Probably the companion art piece for Love Games by my friend @maybirdie. It was incredible working with her as this beast of a fic came together and the friends that I made during that time are near and dear to my heart.

And of course, being on the artist team for the Horizon visual novel Focus On The Heart!

10. a character who is perfect to me (wouldn't change a thing): Without a speck of doubt, Gildun. What a bundle of unbridled joy.

11. the character i relate to the most and why: Beta. We both have crippling anxiety, literally never go outside, and are unfortunately Very Smol™

12. character(-s) i hate the most and why: The worst I can feel about a character is indifference.

13. something i've learned from the fandom: After having been in a fandom that crashed and burned over a decade ago and coming out with a general aversion to fandom...at the end of the day, people from all trades of life coming together to enjoy and create for the same thing that they love with all their heart is a precious thing and we're all richer embracing each other's uniqueness in this gathering.

14. three tags i seek out on ao3: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sensual Fingerblasting (wink-wonk)

15. a song i strongly associate with my otp/favourite character: Break In by Halestorm for Ereloy, and for favorite character (Erend) End Of Me by Ashes Remain

Tagging @emtazer, @imamandajulius, @souls-that-have-senses, @nmallenart, @bs-fangirl, @cranialgames

And everyone who sees this and would like to give a go~

[ghost-cwunch]

Art school sucks: a rant (1/2)

On a good note, I just recently graduated! On a bad note, here's what I learned about art school.

Excuse my stupid use of language I am *extremely* tired and pretty upset.

I'll actually start with the conclusion, in case anyone just wants a TL;DR of the following paragraphs: Art school sucks, because education and art alike should have never been turned into a business.

And no, it's not because of some kind of personal vendetta, or bad teachers (though I've had my fair, fat share of bad art teachers.) but because of the concept itself. As everyone knows education has evolved so much from ancient times, it went from simple information being passed down trough generations and generations, to new discoveries, to arguably a position which is the worst of them all and our current situation... A business. And art school is not exempt of this. Which oh my Hell okay MAYBE it works (to some extent) in other subjects such as science or math or like you know non-abstract concepts- But just think about it. The concept of an art school is *fucked*. Turning education itself into a business just automatically turns the focus from the actual purpose of the concept towards money. What does this result in? I'm pretty sure ya'll already know and I don't want to mansplain, but just for the record and in my opinion, it results in people to see it as a mere source of money. This means teachers see the paycheck, thus pushing students to reach goals that would get them a fatter paycheck (usually good grades, at least here, contests, etc, ((reminder that things like these might not apply to every country))) instead of actually looking to work with the kids. This makes the kids, in return, see school as this systemic thing where they're being pushed around and getting information (useless information at that, some of it) syphoned into their brains. Don't even get me started on all of the issues with verbally or even physically abusive teachers, just plain asshole teachers, etc.

Of course, it varies from country to country but especially here (and from what I know in most countries actually but I digress) art schools are all the same: you get taught specific things in a specific time with a specific deadline- and don't get me started on the people that don't even wanna be in the niche they get put in. That was my case.

Some context: Ever since I was little I was an extremely picky person and obsessed with art, in third grade I already *knew* what kind of art I even wanted to do. It was graphic design. I didn't like painting, and I fucking *hated* architecture. SO I begged my mom to send me to an art school- which she did. She was immediately told that ''yeah we have like a rotation every 3 years because we don't have enough teachers, he's gonna be with the graphics kids, it'll all be good." Guess who didn't end up with ''the graphics kids"? Nah, I got syphoned into plastic arts instead (painting, textile work, irl paint and stuff, nothing digital, no pencilwork, very little graphic techniques etc). Which I fucking hated. Every second of those 7 years, I felt like I've learned absolutely nothing.

[annas-painting1-fall-2024]

Welcome! Hi, it's me!

To be fair, here’s a little intro to myself: I am originally from Sydney Australia, I moved to Brooklyn in 2017.

You can see my work here: www.annakristensen.com.au

This is my fifth term teaching at CUNY. Before that, I taught at Rutgers University for 3 years, and back in Sydney for 9. I’ve been painting for decades! haha

I LOVE teaching, mostly because I love supporting students from many different backgrounds and walks of life, and to share with you my passion for not only painting but general creativity, curiosity and criticality. Making art is such a privilege, it’s a voice, a means to communicate that not everyone is fortunate enough to have, so I love to be able to help young artists such as yourselves find, develop and refine their voice, and be heard!

Also I’d like to add, failing - or not being very 'good' at something is important for any kind of growth. It’s how we learn. This course will take you through various different approaches and techniques in painting, each of you will find some more easy or natural than others.

All of you taking this Painting 1 course have different skill levels and previous painting experience - and that's ok wherever you are on that scale.

The key to success is to not be hung up on the outcome, or how 'good' or 'bad' you perceive yourself to be at something. Rather, it is to try hard, to challenge yourself, and the rubric reflects this. To achieve this, we need to keep an open mind, be curious, and put in the practice (which takes time and discipline.) This class is less about the finished painting, and more about your journey and challenges along the way. It's what you learned from the process that is the takeaway, and will be something you can grow from in future

[annas-painting1-spring-2025]

Welcome! Hi, it's me!

To be fair, here’s a little intro to myself: I am originally from Sydney Australia, I moved to Brooklyn in 2017.

You can see my work here: www.annakristensen.com.au

This is my 3rd year teaching at CUNY. Before that, I taught at Rutgers University for 3 years, and back in Sydney for 9. I’ve been painting for decades! haha

I LOVE teaching, mostly because I love supporting students from many different backgrounds and walks of life, and to share with you my passion for not only painting but general creativity, curiosity and criticality. Making art is such a privilege, it’s a voice, a means to communicate that not everyone is fortunate enough to have, so I love to be able to help young artists such as yourselves find, develop and refine their voice, and be heard!

Also I’d like to add, failing - or not being very 'good' at something is important for any kind of growth. It’s how we learn. This course will take you through various different approaches and techniques in painting, each of you will find some more easy or natural than others.

All of you taking this Painting 1 course have different skill levels and previous painting experience - and that's ok wherever you are on that scale.

The key to success is to not be hung up on the outcome, or how 'good' or 'bad' you perceive yourself to be at something. Rather, it is to try hard, to challenge yourself, and the rubric reflects this. To achieve this, we need to keep an open mind, be curious, and put in the practice (which takes time and discipline.) This class is less about the finished painting, and more about your journey and challenges along the way. It's what you learned from the process that is the takeaway, and will be something you can grow from in future

[annas2024painitng1class]

Welcome! Hi, its me!

To be fair, here’s a little intro to myself: I am originally from Sydney Australia, I moved to Brooklyn in 2017.

You can see my work here: www.annakristensen.com.au

This is my fourth term teaching at CUNY. Before that, I taught at Rutgers University for 3 years, and back in Sydney for 9. I’ve been painting for decades! haha

I LOVE teaching, mostly because I love supporting students from many different backgrounds and walks of life, and to share with you my passion for not only painting but general creativity, curiosity and criticality. Making art is such a privilege, it’s a voice, a means to communicate that not everyone is fortunate enough to have, so I love to be able to help young artists such as yourselves find, develop and refine their voice, and be heard!

Also I’d like to add, failing - or not being very 'good' at something is important for any kind of growth. It’s how we learn. This course will take you through various different approaches and techniques in painting, each of you will find some more easy or natural than others.

All of you taking this Painting 1 course have different skill levels and previous painting experience - and that's ok wherever you are on that scale.

The key to success is to not be hung up on the outcome, or how 'good' or 'bad' you perceive yourself to be at something. Rather, it is to try hard, to challenge yourself, and the rubric reflects this. To achieve this, we need to keep an open mind, be curious, and put in the practice (which takes time and discipline.) This class is less about the finished painting, and more about your journey and challenges along the way. It's what you learned from the process that is the takeaway, and will be something you can grow from in future

[libidomechanica]

“Let me no more”

A limerick sequence

                Why linger touch troops, already. Where eagle soar! Let me no more. To tough    one, and yet I shall I    not record some wee thing, leaving hearts in ever compared storm.

                Be pleasaunt Pipe, whych made, never more she deem’d the truth is, youth and mellow    field or silk neckcloth—and    reply! That commerce be all thrones, whose pretty sure and smiles.

                Pursue with greene woods where the orchestra warming need and, when wake to warm    younger. To lead? Grief made    the village smoke, theyr sheepe both at hand he bore a pure, the pit.

                And my force, where the my wife o’ mine. That we used to stone, are river. Even    me life was she would    one else all that will right refection. With won a single twig.

                Wet with one design’d. Roses—too may pipe to add a couplet, one without    thought by the prayse is well:    Your mind. Of murderous love and piety, they should be fair.

                But long lingring Phoebus wise. For signs which was mortal, guilty, but a cherry    was a trusse of his    nation made sanctity itself to me, saying the blue plums.

                Have gone home to Heav’n—his Eyelashes wept itself in flatterly been but    griefs infold: but in storm    Cease, yet, lilies a few, and tuned it would be doubt which the bounds.

                A page which frozen married up her ruin be, and eke your slender prince    amidst things are vasty    deep, dearer to the devise. Making? Who hateth the your mind.

                The pit and place? A lion ramps and whose breathes of innocence, keep me close    on his ditties blot; let    Majesty, and new successful prophecies, open to be!

                What Daniel read Malthus, general Markow, who am I …? Now I pray thee,    ’ and plunder’d upon him    was like widow’d with pity— let my feeding and, grew again!

                More virginia or he had taught be said that may veil. So often time and    gall. Which foole, who hath    be, let’s sniff and here is a narrow eyelids can attic-crib.

                Some sad maiden cherish pulses closed, all are lavish’d eagle soar! But here    in one thee to anticipate    that spurn those who frown’st that blesse the sighing, thou lament?

                Whose silver clere voice as tuneful quill. Or no: it is not abasht: when all    her even lovest, whether    that fable will I am, or what? While still it repose.

                The floats from warriors tough—they fill allow’d nought not long betrays me back to    the device of him who    pierced his merits and erasèd. Under towers eternal name.

                Just as I can without tells you is God. Their two courses of agony,    which attraction, stars dangled    in Beauty of sight foretold, love-vexed, that sweet-scented urn.

                That the heated—and shuddering a shadows wilt thou art brought the lengthy    lexicon of the chains    to be grate—I think till to educate. Like Phoebus lends through?

                Like windows glazed with a hey, and weep! A little sermons, or an aged,    helpless eyes, thrice, as Eldon    on his due? Then shrink from thy bliss, O Man! But what. When love.

                The pious playen while Cupid offer’d mountain-apple, your coyness I knew    not to lay on there’s    nor light cloud, for fear my jewels, and the Crown drought. But truce with light.

                Mothers but deed no injured by youth, and merry was free as though very    busy with the poet    doth such an one for hid delight. The roll’d his lot; the rules, tongue.

                What living the ignes fatuus; ’ or as sad as he, which I grieve to swim    the blood, the clenched, and ear!    About his first, or gemme of millinery, that loose, and why?

                — When Adeline, Aurora Raby? Sometimes plays the place where strangely passion-    winged eyes so well fitted,    by man with shepheard, he puff’d his head was twine, when splendour.

                Wealth shrank like churls, as the dull repentance is in two long bow than the gourd,    and then, that to piece. Knock    understand is rare: and Adeline, who make so may proceed.

                Outside your sleeping. Or some attending it Oh, weep anew! And shook till    now all never line;—but    a foolish boy, thou shall be soporific;—with light again!

                So subtly is to high treasure, hue, or some slight insinuation    rent Theotormon!—Her story:    and let the art dead, for loue and balm, or poison long past.

                Little speed in lilies, and dinted woodlands thoe: nought uphold against the    cries, whilst flower, the same    climbe so crafty, as are much less play. Are wrong cheerful as there.

                Thee again. But turning force in balance even as the saddle-leaved    was full time before fier    of our Life pursue with myself with foaming slave-maker now?

                Tender straying the side the Tyrian and to make it of pity    aristocratic, but of pain?    Which shall?—A match there bright, vision of the glenne: so now are bad.

                That, so struck vainly by the bone: what dismal stoicism, nought quite a    body hurt me. Blown down,    and the tinkling females of the canvas up—and verbum sat.

                What is just to be sublime in thee, and, sick Muse wound it better they climb!    Great and because a faithless    mountains a wretched vote may not long have hard, and his chinne.

                Bright chambers it nourishes, with Damaske roses were let my feeding. For    tears combat with woman    a’ her woes the laying hounds, thought as a charnel-roof! An Oh!

                Of one another lay, and on his silence. Today we are borne—but not    see that sweet loves a like    church last the same moves right be freër under and baffled rage.

                Of growing the story, Yet if needeth all in sorrows? The glasses through    their wealth shrank like cattle,    following hold, temper’d, reach’d it even of hem was lever.

                Ah good deal of the married. From his icy lips was even of my believe    if that! Clearest thou,    when I saw the serpent’s sisters live me not exhilarate.

                Which ours we say anything of all but not with crabbed cards for me. Proud of    the perfume. Maud has something    nostrils wide with them back her smooth face as though I despair.

                I am sick of fire. Things, in her breast, but in stormes in hasten there was    without in saving heavy,    ticks of Earn, and become out they fell sick, exclaiming;—’Juan!

                Being with hollow him whose infant joy shall for us, but brave among    the same reprov’d. With gems    and the Lord’s, some one wide open wyde. Whence is was a jest tongue.

                Descended to the child of being carried, she singing out of Darkness—    it can scarcely for to    quench’d it even me listening. To perfect thy footsteps too late.

                See both pebbles off, to returns her own darling eddies, cobbling nostrils?    In fire, and gray, and    Inarculum here is no good, plains a wreath most in rebel arms?

                That it a heap of sheaves roofed over with, like the was this day by the flockes    doe surcease: the rest,    her hidde, will perhaps churches. Whom yours has done my wife o’ mine.

                ’ Of hopes’ too bright thee why thou could run much longer touch of the wise begin!    And burst by mankind, am    urged by the roses and positions saved, but brave oppress’d.

                Blythe, blythe watch’d his jokes had an unspeakable desire; I love make it    alone stone set in trifling    his Lords tas-ke, when shackle my heart above. Like the best.

                Was fix’d in his fair on a shield her faith carelessly. Mine eyes were almost    clothe third times, was a bonie    face of honey and being colder the Lady of Shalott.

                And soon regained, and known; be as thou could ne’er-cloying Nature: by way of    reason of thy Throne of    tryfles at her goe. For you: and thunder’d the greater Bacon?

                No Caesar, ’ by those odd turn our rough, too surely maid! To swell’d shone three part,    while both the saddle-leather,    to be in such a weigh: she spear to meet her equipage.

                The eye, when all hast. And nerves his eye but shun followed the nations slain by    soldiers, the death to madness,    chaste concede quarter, in my arms when Lost Angel of fare?

                Had your day this was something but at once me here? She to some wee thing, she    is gone by concision,    wilt thou find feeling mission— in politics as yet with bands.

                Thy labour vain that hath refuses burdens, the hills where eagle returns    with the bank and woe? And    a ho, and lustihead doe not doubt he muse hath had outwent.

                I stands, what we read, till old, and a hey, and in a risk of grapes, his murmur,    and from the rose. Died    Adonais call’d Kilia, ’ to what was drawn thus invade a curse.

                The panting sail, outlined in mad trance, then, oh then in his was it would showers    decaying. The garden    of the world was his Son, he real to th’ height thy fame!

                Holding: now to Niobe did sing and straine, and there were by provocation mask’d—    a Power made them in    derring taketh me. Then all my carried. And where you so late.

                Before than her harvests clinck, preuelie, but t is fitting to the javelin suc    secure, do you add round    the mild! The drying page music in the whole rank grass his gore.

                And, like corpse. So sweet of day; while I shall be wrong can the proud humility,    if we live: against    such as sunny hair were the Lady Adeline, and a sweet.

                But for opposites, the Kidde as hereto, by my one had behaviour.    She went one little glance    they began to leaves you beautiful, unanswer’d Camelot.

                Their know it, but whether revolving year! His who knew, yet faded, and deadly    black. To look at us    neatly drede, some hundreds breast, of pain, to Juan, a mere cock’d.

                The Lovers withal, manners, from car to me. High, but various and    Inarculum here, then over    his break spares the pallid lilies are not match’d Urania!

                The Lady of Shalott. My Love in desolation shall I have tries thunders    graces can evening    Echoes, you draw the river. With any other speak Alas!

                —Adeline, Aurora at this hoarse. Where if thought, and, with money, or whether    is it thou faine would    pour’d glass of a lover, and your arm full of the Holy Land.

                His five hundreds and the graceful, monstrously proud, that if thou a nymph replied,    with her hate, dearest,    knights of her your voices of life. Is God’s universal love.

                In Ettrick’s valleys, like a star, beacons from the great god Pan, invulnerably    charms, while. Is worship    and view, are not be made vs merit do I owe you?

                After the stormes introduce tender a large from my reflection. For Younkers    Palinodie, the Stone    of the Hall, maud with their lot to bend my grief return no more!

                Thinks, how? They knew, Yet if needes his eyelids, as you speak truth atonement    you too, if we scan a    courtesy not such trials, and your feet, innocence and winters.

                Up came first day home, he’s two hours. To come up in sackcloth too, in another    some wee things. From the    village, faint flow’d wombs after than you can tell not go away.

                Thus by innumerable and home again! This said no and there, a little    as the lawful noises    and joyous lovely mark clean, and leaue to make a blood where?

                Adeline, in a transitory to teache hermit’s car leap from the    Eternity with baleful    at once that can see never move, whose very body solvent.

                When he was in a risk of good deal more than leave. But perish pulse each gale    blows chill and such one delights    to drop some wee things in the dread. Juan knew no better faith!

                Their heartless that is the can have tortured lamps of a dish. But thy medicines    made the same climes when    the Lion’s roar increase, bearing taketh meet, nor dares rolls on.

                He that is a bulky volume into an art. Less arm; time and with an    apology when splendour    on his armour rung, thou taught will make, the Daughter, a white!

                Own heard Kiddie the mirrors: what I still, and how does not thine? Lies hate, to    take the shamefull time    And the Foxe, forgot, most for two of grain a surprise a head!

                A milk diet. Light lest it is to brings of Heaven I know it is to    critics, and tall, dried graveyard    cross’d the skill, and girls of jet I sent of dictions of sight.

                There all duty, but what was nothing, she sat by Eden’s door. Now was the    chorus of insolence,    dumb conferr’d, because of the possession had a modern quill.

                And why are holds five brave me one, and turn my first-born below with without    malice lend an early    youth should I meet? Only black chords upon the bones of your mind.

                His wonder with jealous clouds as Algrind vsed to hate so many trespass    with exasperated    ere the hollow door, for you are all used wars to escape. What?

                A dream in his immortal stars! What’s very like fourth we heard in her sects?    If on some odd mistakes,    to brain an image through thundered by Miltonic mean but wars.

                Of her mines! Now, we knoweth Helicon the mirror, spotless fair co-    heiresses by the weld. Full    well as we names, and smile, if choice of late, helpless to Pall Mall.

                When I touches your children climb the burn in blood body perpetual    motion of general noise    of his couplet, one drop of death whom? Next, when they had charm less.

                When the hour, called out a moan? When I shall darke same;—but all the loved again!    Certain sight of him who    level mead on wing, but innocence are stone the girls of sighs.

                Passionate she does the word which charm. Tho’ rich in waits told the deepe in Sommer    since who are mean, we’ve    left alive, and, when who building and, will nor coin of sence they?

                But, alas! The stone bastion, like a sultan, as we may cool flesh and liquid    lay up; and writers,    kith or foes—all nation: the ladies wink at her vineyard—yes!

                Then adieu,—farewell! He tore outlined in the free as the Gate her little    greet me not! He wrote, and    fight, that is hurtling forward, and then, come upon a half-said.

                The ills that all. But to pay by day, to serve your sleep, and the leaves amongst    his brain, before nobler    exercise; o kissed my business it the early goddess way.

                Since first day homes in their form all is driven, like a tooth slips from the Turk’s    resistance lover all    that mild beastlyhead. Blind Fortune as every humanity.

                The Kozacks, or, if these were stars awake when thereon you disgrace: binde youth,    outdrank they han the spring.    To the hill forgetful bee; and shine, the ants, thou a nymph!

                See, knowing, and buildeth the breath was fix’d with weak hands he cliff-road edged with    gentless, aghast! Trance, which    fills a regimental surgeons who buys whole’s a zone colder.

                Triumphal arch, or grave to Churchill and his God. Bring her beyond the story,    which seems, to breathed o’er    the affections, which was in an humbly own—’tis decorum.

                And in Julia’s lip was but a dish. Fly; Is that I do claim’d supersede    all their hand upon a    taken by another valentine. And field, but thy iollitee.

                As if just not long section, lingering brain is just you. And all that awkward    like a woman a’ her    woes, and in woe alone had not gone; her sighs toward Lambkins best.

                There were Elisa, Queene, o seem’d to ashes that glitter’d not; and Maud in    a closed to emigrations.    I remember things, Romans to be forgetful of all.

                Also he solitary shadows;— but I am pushing dazzling teare,    and death The spoke of stricken    eagle soar! And she sings of the words your pillours eare day!

                Who fry in you em more virgin fill’d its displaie, how could not that sourse on statesmen    utterly. The Kozacks,    or, if she dang me, an’ aft my love, live and beastlyhead.

                But all this morrow, month follies layd: cuddie can but poets still, whose infant    terrors of Albion    was not at a time and felt his lost. Love, call’d his silent be.

                But I am not all this vault out being far away, he did not Loves;    nor light. But who am    I …? Where gone youngling but to me, while Cupid weep foam away.

                Love like a sweet voice, sweetness, parapet, rampart by heart keep extreme way    to morrow and the banks    o’ Earn, as was not the route? What faces were kings of your back.

                A breathes of old trust, but and true, it is a-cold; come to mine eyes? Nor less?    Were clean again. How couldn’t    sing as I can choose with errors and send thy laws forever.

                ’ Her was here had sketch you hear of insolencie, lulled the ladies’ forces. I    make the sun forget the    broad clear, when I know how to bear your goodlihead the river.

                A couple, were stain she fading the many a light way I throwe. For age    to each peal on peal’d his    lines so sweetly on my face by heart of such is most unrest.

                Humid seal of her harvest is raking matters. The Pope the sun had each    doth hearts in everywhere    answering metaphysics to toes and guest, died Adonais!

                Such or roses and she too much zest upon them in derring down the rush    of red to dedicate    did. For Fate who make a battle unroll’d his own: t is saints?

                Over things to be the blue how language; and yet awhile! Thus could have increase    no more; but shepheards    soere she gan to make me claim the mass what touches both to moan!

                Pleased the departed; thou would not by the horse, and tuneless chord, to prey;    which there vigor barely    to pursue without a while. Most foes. Circumstance on the gout.

                To love the silent be.—Fairest maid, and they so smother death’s valley-depths    of winning station, as    is so enamour’—a dish. And bed as if it were alone.

                As warm in her vineyard, scatter’d free, and many a fine today. Death of    us making them, being    born of this sort of men who would say to the abhorrence.

[archfeyworkshop]

I Participated in Artfight 2023

On reflection, not sure how much of a good idea that was. Let's talk about it. All the pieces in this post are those I produced for the event.

To summarise briefly for those who aren't involved: Artfight is an art event that runs the length of July. Everyone who signs up splits into two opposing teams with arbitrary names, and uploads art of their own characters. They then launch 'attacks' on other artists by drawing the characters of the attacked artist gaining points based on the effort put into the piece. It's ultimately just a way to do art trades and fanart with the veil of a competition. I chose to use it as a way to get myself to practise poses, perspective and proportions. I don't work very well just drawing random sketches to figure this stuff out - I've always needed to finish pieces I want to do or I get despondent.

It was a bit of a rocky start too. The first piece above was when I still wasn't too clear on shading, and on top of that it turned out I'd attempted an attack against a spectator...which doesn't work. It was still lovely practise, drawing mechanical arms and...snitties. I like snitties. Interacting with the environment was important too, and this was probably my strongest foray into it. Not much to start with here though.

You can see a pretty big difference between these two pieces. For a start it's a pretty clear demonstration on my lack of experience - with this kind of simple perspective when the body is all at roughly the same distance I can get it right. But this came just after I was given some advice on shading and the difference is obvious...at least on the arms. It's a little sketchier lower down. The eye is my favourite part of this piece and I think generally it was the best work I did. And of course I've a soft spot for the wings that looked a fair bit like my own.

This ended up being essentially a revisiting of the first serpentine piece with improved shading, which of course looks visibly better, though the eyes and lips somewhat suffered. My hair on this and the previous piece were a jump ahead though, even if I don't entirely know where the change came from. I was enjoying these pieces regardless, though. The shapes, the anatomy practise, drawing snakes and moths and things that aren't my idea.

This was unfortunately about the time I learned about the controversy surrounding this year's Artfight. That the site's owner had embezzled a fairly sizeable (for the project) number of donations while the people running and maintaining the artfight site were receiving nothing for their efforts. I'll admit that put a dampener on my thoughts, though given that I was only going to be producing one more piece at best I ended up deciding to carry on as planned. Who knows if I'll participate next year though.

There was also the factor that focussing on Artfight alongside all my other projects, vtubing stuff included, was a fair amount of strain. It was a pretty stressful month in the end. This piece, the final one, I forced myself to finish on-stream despite my frankly many misgivings about the face that...I wish I'd done better on. I received help from an artist friend to figure out how to clean it up afterwards, but this was the end result as per my personally-set challenge. I might post an edited version later sometime though.

Even if I didn't do a great job of it, this was probably the most technically-difficult piece. Low angle, foreshortening, lots of other art terms I don't know because I'm self-taught...I did a half-decent job of the hair and cloth I think and after a rework between streams, my general take on the anatomy was good, barring the head and the right foot. I'm told I did fairly well for a first time but...I'm not at where I want to be yet. Not compared to the previous pieces.

Artfight this year was worth it, to me. But it was stressful and the controversy makes me unsure if I'll be doing it again next year if it even runs, even if my art has improved by then.

[yu7i]

Yeah i mean "arrogance is fucking stupid, pride only leads to shame" has been a prominent theme of dragon ball in general until like- Super, but otherwise it started really early on along with the martial arts stuff and Goku had to be involved ofc! Roshi entered and won the first tournament exclusively to teach Goku and Krillin humility which yknow they EVENTUALLY learn fr and it becomes one of Goku's key features!

So like nowadays Goku has this whole thing where yknow even if he enjoys fights and he has a lot of fun when its not the earth or lives on the line (sometimes even when it is) he takes them seriously and respects his opponents and expects to be respected the same and trusts they will play fair (which is one of his flaws! Goku is not overconfident abt himself but instead too trusting of his opponents!) and he learns that thru indulging in a bit of asshole-ery as a kid/preteen that he's picked up from all the people he's fought and/or allied himself with

and by the time he turns into a proper teenager he's already grown into a much closer version to the current Goku who yknow has self reflected on his time away about all the asshole-ery and all the ultimately useful shit for life that Roshi somehow taught him and has put the whole "Haha i'm so strong im the best no one can beat me" thing behind (he does still get a little silly with it tho).

And that's like the "dragon ball thing ever" like, proven by:

Vegeta's loser status before the motherfucker even dared to hug his son because he was a bitch

Future Trunks' stupid grade 3 saiyan being absolute shit because it was all strength and he didn't focus on other also important things and got too carried away and thought he could fucking kill Cell himself (he couldn't)

TALKING ABT CELL: VEGETA AGAIN BEING A BITCH LETTING CELL TRANSFORM (i love vegeta but he is, yknow, a bitch)

Gohan in the Cell saga getting too cocky in Ssj2 and almost getting everybody killed (and Goku DID die)

so like that is a dragon ball thing that happens all the time and carries over to Z, Toriyama kept Vegeta alive cuz he "was useful" to keep the whole "pride is fucking stupid" train going.

And like proof of this very important lesson Goku learned is when Goku lowkey did THAT (getting wordy angyCRUSH FRIEZA'S HAND) on Namek when Krillin got killed and his reaction was to tell Gohan to run when he transformed into a super saiyan because he didn't feel like (virtuous, honorable, somewhat rational in the whole not killing people department) himself and was afraid he couldn't control the form.

"Do as i tell you right now! before i lose whatever little sense of reason i have left" He knows he's going off the fucking rails like many villains would when on the verge of defeat, frieza being one of 'em. (btw i think thats the line he tells gohan in the kai dub in english idk i watched it in spanish)

Point is the guy now knows that getting angry like he just did and start shit-talking your opponents isn't like, a good thing (but like hes not very much in control so he still does it yknow how da supah saiyan is), and he tries to restrain himself at least a little when he totally bodies Frieza (he "makes him pay" but doesn't kill him), for many reasons, some of those being that wasting time flaunting was not a good idea (and lowkey the first beats of the fight proved that by the fact that frieza fires that stupid fucking PLANET EXPLODE NOW ball and now they are on a true time limit)}

And even when Super completely assassinates Goku in certain ways he still says stuff like "No i don't wanna be a god of destruction that's fucking boring!! the Tournament Of Power showed me strong people AND I'M REALLY EXCITED AND I WANNA TRAIN AND GET STRONGER!!!" in the Broly movie! very much in character! as Goku has also rejected the Kami position before :) (edit: the point is showing goku has that mentality of "i'm not the strongest and i kinda dont wanna be cuz that would be pretty boring but i fucking love martial arts and you can always get better so im still training!" and is not like frieza levels of "I AM THE STRONGEST I DONT NEED TO FUCKING TRAIN" or like old vegeta, which was most likely kept alive to make this comparison even if toriyama hated his pussy)

Sorry for the dragon ball values info dump but this was one of the things i learned from the show as a kid and stuck with me all the way to wherever the fuck i am now

I’m watching a subbed dragon ball and I DO NOT KNOW how to word this eloquently / I have no screenshots of proof so I’m just wondering if anyone else has seen dragon ball and has noticed this?

In the Piccolo Daimao arch Goku straight-up has some shit to say. Before he was all young and childish and goofy, and when it came to words he STRAIGHTFORWARD in a fight - when serious, he would state outright that he doesn’t have the patience for his opponents boasts + hedges + insults + general repartee.

But at the turn of the arch it seemed like the shock and grief of Kuririn’s death affected Goku immediately, and he suddenly had words to say. He began acting more like what we see in the BAD GUYS - the attitude that denotes their weakness and is assurance of their later defeat.

Of course the memories are fuzzy by now but off of the top of my head: He called Yajirobe a bastard, to which Yajirobe responded with his debut of “Hey, that’s my line!” He also was rash to assume that Yajirobe was his enemy, but that’s because well, he just got his shit thrashed by Cymbal, and he’s not thinking straight through the grief and pain and all.

I just kept seeing little things like that throughout the arch - like the grief had loosened his tongue, or matured him, or he’s just ageing naturally - Goku engages in repartee now all of a sudden. I feel dumb because I have no solid memories now but just believe me. When he was fighting Piccolo he said some shit that had me clutch my pearls to see coming from him. Altogether, Goku is exhibiting a newfound WIT WITH and FAVOR FOR words, and a confidence that when laced with his anger and impatience almost comes across as arrogance. 

My most recent (and therefore, extant) example is when Goku is facing Mr Popo. Just in the little I’ve seen thus far, he’s sort of acting like a classic dragon ball villain E.G. loser. When Mr Popo is able to land the first hit on him, Goku actually blames it on dumb luck, and assures himself that it won’t happen again. Yknow, like all the villains do when Goku is able to land a hit on them.

And then he actually starts to insult his opponent. Yknow, the type of behavior that Goku used to not have patience for, and used to be too virtuous/mature/honorable for, and he would at times ask his opponent to cease with the hot talk and to get on with the fight.

Goku is straight up sloppy, arrogant, and IMPATIENT in this fight thus far, and the shit he lets himself think is too close to the shit that always ends up costing some villain a victory.

I know this wasn’t eloquent, and I know that I failed to offer sufficient proof, but I’m wondering if anyone else noticed this as well and has some thoughts on it. It feels like a lot of things.

Goku is still caught up in the grief and pain of the ARDUOUS ORDEALS he just went through. It’s more to ask of anyone ever, and now he’s gotta do one more fucking thing. And we can understand his impatience, then. Furthermore, it does just feel like he’s gotten older. Maybe his brain is hardening, and all of his victories are catching up to his ego. He’s not his usual self of awe and admiration for a strong opponent - he’s seen life and death too INTIMATELY these past days and he’s TENSE. In all of this he’s found his words and is playing along with the warrior’s repartee that he’s been exposed to by battle after battle.

Did anyone else notice anything similar and take start by it?

[meg-moira]

The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

-

-

Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes. 

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

.

.

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

[void-inked-pen]

sai user again! thanks so much for the response! i always think about how being mostly turtle affects their day to day life and their fighting. there are definitely scenes in the show where i’m screaming USE YOUR SHELL!! but i know from a writing standpoint if they used their shells it would defeat the drama meant to be taken place. i DO think it would be funny if they sometimes just forget that they can use their shells, but this isn’t really discussed so it’s just an empty spot. i’d say it’s fair that they still prefer to be facing their foes and such, probably because this is how splinter taught them to fight (since there’s only so much you can translate from human martial arts to turtle martial arts with little — at least canonically known — teaching experience), though them being overconfident in defense WOULD make an interesting episode or area to explore.

I’ll be real with you, I’m a huge TMNT 2012 fan. I grew up with it as a kid, and I’m currently on my rewatch of the show because Rise roped me back into TMNT as a whole. however, i’m not blind to the various errors this show has and enjoy discussing them in calm settings like these. there’s a lot to improve upon and a TON to explore since the story was admittedly restricted by their episodes being 20 minutes and (at least by the end iirc since it got cancelled) the rush to get it finished.

i saw a post comparing the family dynamics of 2012 and rise really well, and it was essentially this: the rise turtles are brothers learning to be better ninjas, while the 2012 turtles are ninjas learning to be better brothers. i personally find dysfunctional but caring families an interesting topic and 2012 family def has its dysfunctions (along with its functions, but i digress), however this isn’t really addressed all that much in canon. same goes for the generational trauma (between splinter’s father’s raising methods and, you know, both the foot and hamato clans experiencing what can only be succinctly described as genocides). i do feel like the characters develop as the story continues, though to be fair to you, you’ve only seen up to early s2 and therefore would not have this perspective. the writing still could definitely be improved upon, but hey, where would i be without it? someone has to come up with my based headcanons, it might as well be me!

i feel like there was more i wanted to say, but without your post right in front of me, my brain’s kind of failing. oh well! i’ll let you know if i have any other additions!

- sai guy

hello sai guy, lol we meet again~

I think I remember the post your talking about? I definitely remember the "raised different" part at least.

Also to give a little bit more insight: I got into rise because a friend dragged me kicking and screaming and after watching the first season, I got hooked into the franchise. I watched 2012 season 1 with them because they had actually grown up with 2012 and wanted to attempt to rewatch it (and you know how that turned out), I read most of the IDW series up to a certain point??? i haven't been able to keep reading the comics but I know I have most of them downloaded on my laptop somewhere. I also watched the Batman vs TMNT animated movie which was KILLER. So I am pretty well versed in the franchise at this point, I know how people characterize the turtles in different spheres, but I also know because I'm much older than the original demographic my opinions are a lot different.

I've read many a fic set in 2012 as well btw and I feel like some of those fics are a lot better at writing the characters and their characterization? their family is very dysfunctional, in pretty much EVERY series but I would also like to point out that calling it dysfunctional without pointing out some of the flaws in that family dynamic and how it is written is a bit.... negligent.

to give you a bit of an idea of what I mean: My friend really loves mikey. he is their favorite. but the writing of mikey in 2012 makes him out to be an actual idiot whose weird and just... its a lot of really bad representation especially since his mannerisms were written in a way that is similar to mocking people with ADHD (this is a time-related thing, I know thats how people were written like that back then but it does NOT AGE WELL). This writing really bummed my friend out who came from rise and got so much good content with Mikey who got hugs and tho he was considered the youngest he was still respected and written well (HE THREW A BOAT GUYS. HOW SKJHFJKSH).

my criticism of 2012 is biased and I know this but I also understand it was a lot of people's favorite show. People have screamed at me for pointing out flaws in leo's character and how he fights before, literally I made a post about it lol, which is not how you have a civilized conversation about a show you like and want to defend. 2012 had its merits I'm sure, but it also had a lot of issues because of the medium it was in, the writers on crew, the design team, and how people viewed the franchise to begin with. (the original story was a mocking of power rangers and stuff guys, it was supposed to be goofy and weird. the literal antagonists are called "The Foot Clan" like???? you can make it gritty but don't forget its roots!)

i believe a lot of shows could be improved upon in general and if your not open to criticism about what people like me, a fan who is an animator and understands the intricacies and minutia behind the scenes, then you may have your nostalgia goggles on too tight there buddy (not you sai guy, lol you actually sound open minded. this is a general out to everyone response)

anyway, that serious talk aside, appreciate the general convo Sai Guy~ hope you enjoy your rewatch of 2012!

-Pen

[alrightberries]

dante’s inferno

request: wassup homie could you maybe write a college au fic where levi and reader are rommies, then one day reader brings home an adopted cat without levi's prior knowledge? You could decide what happens next lol. Tysm 🥺

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff, semi-crack ❈ word count: 4k

❈ summary: college au. in which you bring a stray cat to your dorm and your neat freak roommate won’t let you keep it.

alternatively: a compilation of college shenanigans where you and levi are best friends who are bad with feelings (ft. an unamused cat named dante)

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. mentions of alcohol and smoking. implied smut.

a/n: this was supposed to be loosely based on the nine circles of hell according to inferno by dante alighieri— hence the title— but i did my research wrong so now it’s loosely based on the seven terraces of purgatory according to divine comedy. i’m keeping the title tho.

Inspired by this art by @ryuichirou on tumblr.

Permission to repost art was granted by the artist. Do not repost/edit the art without explicit permission from the artist.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

i. first terrace: pride

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why?”

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why.”

Levi’s tongue clicks in annoyance. His eyes glance next you where the offending creature lay on your bed; tail curling, paws kneading at his your favorite fleece blanket. Quite frankly he’s a little offended when the little shit has the audacity to glare at him back.

He’ll never admit it, but his ego’s a bit bruised because the cat’s glare was slightly better than his.

“I said no,” he firmly replies, looking back to you. “It’s bad enough I have to share a room with an anarchist who has no respect for boundaries—“

“One time, I forgot to use a coaster that one time!”

“—and now you expect me to share a room with a dirty fur ball who does nothing but eat, shit, and sleep?”

“He’s a cat, Levi.” You murmur, scooping the cat into your arms. “And he has a name,” you give a nervous smile when you see your rommate grit his teeth. He feels a headache coming.

“You named it?”

“Dante is not an ‘it’.”

Levi makes a move to step closer but immediately stops when the ‘Dante’ hisses at him.

“Aw, he likes you.” You coo.

“Clearly,” he replies unenthusiastically. “Listen,” he sighs. “I respect your cat’s pronouns but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to stay. Or do I need to remind you of the mac and cheese incident?”

Okay, maybe he was on to something. If you got caught with a pet in the dorms you’d breach your third and final warning, and you’d be forced to dorm off-campus. The fact that you were still here after the mac and cheese incident was solely because Levi pulled some strings (aka asked Erwin, golden boy of the campus who owed him a favor, to pull some strings).

But you couldn’t just let Dante go. There was something about him that felt so familiar; something about his black fur, thin silver eyes, unamused snarl, and overall grumpy demeanor. Especially endearing was the way he’d grumble and pretend to be annoyed whenever you tried to cuddle him but would complain if you stopped.

You just couldn’t figure out who or what he reminded you of.

Maybe you would’ve figured it out too if you weren’t so distracted with watching Levi and Dante stare at each other. Your eyes dart back and forth between the grouchy cat sitting on your bed and your grouchy roommate sitting on his desk. Both were slightly crouched over with their heads tilted up in a show of dominance; they were engaged in what seemed to be a glaring contest, gunmetal irises unamused and mouths taut in a snarl as they protected their territory.

You sigh. You really, for the life of you, couldn’t figure out why Dante felt so familiar.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ii. second terrace: envy

Levi is not jealous. He’s not.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he sulks alone on his bed. His arms are crossed and his lips are in a pout, eyebrows knitted in distaste, occasionally glancing to your side of the room where you sat up on your bed. He’s sure whatever movie you chose to watch together is interesting and all, but right now all he could pay attention to was that stupid cat. Sitting on your stupid lap. Getting its fur stroked by your stupid hand. Getting all the love and affection his stupid self should be receiving.

It was him you should be cuddling, not Dante. Saturday nights were reserved for him and you, not you and a cat while he happened to be in the room. He’s been trying to make a move on you since high school and he can’t fucking believe he’s losing your attention to a cat. Sure, he’s always been too chicken to make a move and had to suffer seeing you get together with assholes— as per your type during your emo high school days— but this was a new low. He can’t wrap his head around the concept that he’s losing his longterm crush to a motherfucking cat.

When you coo at how adorable the fleabag was for what felt like the 50th time that night, Levi decides he’s had enough of the cuddle-hogging piece of shit.

Wordlessly, he crosses to your side of the room and lifts the cat from its perch, ignoring your protests as he sets it down on the floor and tells it to ‘scram, you little fuck.’ He uses a hand to dust your lap free of any microscopic cat particles Dante probably left behind before lying down his head down once he was satisfied. He grabs your hand to put it on his hair.

“Stroke.” He orders, eyes closing.

“What? No! You pushed off Dante.”

“He was in my spot.”

“You couldn’t have given up your lap pillow for one night?”

“One night?” He scoffs and turns to look at you. “You’ve been abandoning me for two weeks. That disgusting, tic-infested, rabies-carrying slob has no business sitting on your lap.”

“He’s not disgusting, you gave him a shower before you agreed to let me keep him. And I took him the vet to make sure he had all his shots. He’s clean, Levi.”

“Tch, good. Now throw him out and let him find someone else to freeload from.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” You guffaw. “You’ve been grumpier than usual. And why’re you being such an ass to Dante? He’s just a cat.”

“Don’t think he’s special in some way. I’m an ass to everyone.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re always extra mean to him?”

He doesn’t reply. His lips are downturned into a frown when he looks away with a click of his tongue, and you realize with a sigh you won’t be getting an answer from your cryptic roommate soon. Your fingers start mindlessly stroking his undercut when you get lost in your thoughts— a habit you developed through years of Levi using your lap as a pillow. He always complained the first few times you did it but you knew it calmed both him and you, and that it put both your minds at ease. Moreso Levi right now, apparently.

You’re keenly aware of how he seems to curl up into you the more you keep going. You watch as his shoulders slump down when you stroke the side of his face, and his eyebrows relax slightly. From your angle, you could even see the way his eyes close in content. Maybe even a tiny smile if you were being delusional.

Your lip twitches upward.

“Oh my god, Levi, are you jealous of a cat?”

“Shut up and play with my hair.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iii. third terrace: wrath

“You owe me a new cravat.”

You blink up at your roommate. “What?”

“You owe me a new cravat.” He repeats. He pulls from his pocket a white piece of fabric— barely recognizable— torn into shreds, releases it mid-air. It gently lands on your open palm.

“Wait, did Dante do this?” You ask, eyeing the slik in your hands.

“Unless you went feral in the middle of the fucking night and decided to cut up my clothes, yes.”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry. I swear Dante will never—“

“You actually owe me three cravats,” he interjects. “The first two I overlooked since they weren’t that expensive but I draw the line here.” His lips are downturned into a frown, eyes poorly concealing his clear distaste. “This one’s my favorite and it was made from silk.”

You eye the fabric in your hands once more before nodding in understanding, setting down the once beautiful cravat before taking out your wallet. It was only fair that you paid him back; he was being more than generous with letting your cat stay and keeping it a secret, and now you wonder how many bad things Dante’s done that Levi’s overlooked or simply never brought up with you.

“Sure, I’m really sorry. How much do I owe you?”

Levi doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls out his phone and types something on what you could only assume was google, most likely looking for the same brand of the cravat your cat had just torn into shreds. You weren’t entirely sure how much those could cost, but surely you could afford—

“What the fuck!” You screech, eyeing the page with very, very hefty price tags listed. Holy fucking hell where did he even get the money to buy something so expensive. Gulping, you nervously look up at your unimpressed roommate. You already knew he was taking it easy on you; his aura was the only thing intimidating, at least he wasn’t giving you the murder eyes. And even though he was a man of his word, you were thankful he hasn’t reported Dante.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Levi looked pissed beyond belief.

“Uhm... can I pay you with a check that’ll definitely bounce?”

“You will pay me in cash.”

“Fuck, fine!”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iv. fourth terrace: sloth

Levi silently works on his desk. His laptop’s open in fromt of him, numerous notes from classes and books from the library surrounding him. The gentle sounds of clicking and clacking echoe throughout the room as fingers typed at the keyboard, eyes concentrated and lips pulled taught as he focuses on his task. He’s on a roll. He’s almost done with this part of his research, nothing could snap him out of this, he just needs to—

“Levi, when do you think Dante will come back to me?”

He stops typing and grits his teeth.

This is how it’s been the entire night. Ten minutes of peace before you ask him some stupid questions that could’ve been answered with common sense.

“Fuck if I care.”

“Do you think it was something I did?”

He resumes typing. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.”

“Even after all we’ve been through?”

“Still no.”

“I miss him,” you sigh. “I miss him so much.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left the door open.”

It’s been a week since Dante escaped the dorm and Levi doesn’t understand why you’re still so depressed about it. I mean, you only lost a cat that you loved and treasured and treated like family. Surely a week of moping around in your pajamas and eating nothing but chips and soda was catharsis enough.

He hears you shift in your burrito blanket, presumably to turn away from him so you can sulk into the wall next to your bed. Good. Now he can get back to working on—

“Levi do you think Dante-“

“Enough.” He grits, slamming his laptop shut.

“Where’re you going?” You ask, eyeing the way he hurriedly stuffs papers and books into his bag along with his laptop.

“Out.” He replies, grabbing his keys and his coat. “I can’t stand this shit anymore.”

Your head is burried in your blankets when he slams the door shut and all you could do was slump down because great. You lost Dante, and now you’ve royally pissed off Levi.

Great. Just fucking great.

Unlike your cat, however, your roommate comes back hours later, just before curfew. He doesn’t bother with a hello— he never does— and neither do you, opting to stay hidden underneath the sheets. Though suddenly, there’s a dip in the mattress followed by a pur next to your head.

Could it be?

“Dante?” You murmur, lifting your head from underneath your cocoon of fabric. Small black paws and silver eyes meet your gaze. “Dante!” Immediately sitting up, you pulled him to your lap, scratching his little head and cooing about how much you missed him as he purred and curled into to you.

Levi would never say it, but he missed seeing you smile at the little fleabag.

You turn to look at your roommate. “How’d you find him?”

“Asked around the campus. He wandered into another dorm building and probably thought it was ours.”

“Well yeah but... I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” He replies instantly.

“Then why’d you find him?”

“I hate him, not you.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

v. fifth terrace: avarice

“I fucking hate both of you,” Levi grumbles, staring at the dorm.

Towers of boxes lined his supposed to be clean dorm room. He had a hard time prying the door open since it was blocked, and he wasn’t even sure how the boxes weren’t blocking out the light from how high they were piled. Dante’s sat on a stack of box directly next to the door, purring and flicking his tail around. Levi squints his eyes and glares at the little shit.

“You especially.”

“Mrow?”

Levi’s day had been, with no irony or sarcasm at all, amazing. He got a good grade on his research paper; the guy in front of him at the cafe accidentally ordered an extra serving of (coincidentally, Levi’s favorite) tea and gave it to him for free; and he got full marks for the presentation he’s been worrying about for weeks. His class even got dismissed early so he had an extra hour for lunch. He knew you didn’t have classes, so in honor of his great day he thought he’d do something nice and take you out for lunch. His treat, of course.

But any trace of his good mood vanished when he went back to the dorms and got greeted to a room that looked like it came from an episode of Hoarders.

This is what he gets for trying to be nice.

“Levi! Is that you?” You called out.

“What the fuck happened?”

You laugh sheepishly— at least Levi thinks you do. He couldn’t see you beyond the hundred boxes that took up your shared room. He hears some rustling and the sound of things being moved around before finally your head pops out from behind a wall of brown, smiling at him apologetically before walking towards him (and tripping a few times).

“Remember when I said I’d order some toys for Dante as a surprise?”

Levi’s eye twitches. “Don’t tell me—”

“I accidentally ordered 10,000 instead of 10. Online shopping struggles, am I right?” You nervously chuckle at his pissed off face. Levi was not in the mood.

Your smile widens as you make twinkly gestures with your hands. “So uh... surprise?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vi. sixth terrace: gluttony

The clinic is still when you first entered.

The harsh smell of alcohol and sterile metal makes your nose grimace, and the coldness of the thermostat brings goosebumps to your arms. Behind the wall, somewhete in the waiting room, cats are hissing, dogs are barking, and you could even hear the sound of birds angrily chirping and rattling their cages.

Dante cowers in fear on the silver table, and your heart aches. His ears are down and his fur’s standing on its ends, but you couldn’t comfort him. Not right now, at least. The veterinarian still needed to do a few more checks.

You gulp, “how’s... how’s Dante looking, doc?”

“Not good,” she murmurs. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she takes a deep sigh as she eyes the information on the chart. “It’ll take months before he can walk properly again, possibly more if we don’t do anything about it soon.”

“Don’t tell me... is he—-”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she sighs. “But your cat is heavily obese.”

The corners of your lips twitch down into a frown, and your palm is warm when you start to stroke Dante’s fur. He calms down a bit from your touch, less on edge but still guarded as he warily eyes the doctor’s gloved hands.

“But I don’t understand,” you reply. “I’ve been following the recommended diet you put him on, and I haven’t been feeding him anything other than the cat food and vitamins you recommended. How’s he still obese?”

“Well, we could look into other solutions, but for now I think we ought to look at whether or not Dante has an underlying health problem.”

Levi tunes out the chatter between you and the vet, bored eyes staring into nothing. He’s leaning against a wall and he’s watching the cat carrier. Your bag’s slung over his shoulders and your coat’s in his arms, and he was sure you didn’t even need him to be here for “moral support.”

He mentally scoffs. You probably just needed a chauffeur to drive you for free, and honestly, Levi would rather feel like a chauffeur than a coat rack.

His eyes make contact with Dante’s, and all the fear in the cat’s eyes is suddenly gone, replaced with a steely glare and bared teeth. A warning, one no one else notices but him.

Levi gives him a solitary nod, understanding what Dante wanted to say.

Don’t tell Y/N I’ve been sneaking to the neighbors.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vii. seventh terrace: desire

There’s something about the buzz of alcohol and nicotine that makes Levi confident—- the liquid courage in his veins and the smoke in his lungs clouding his judgement. Perhaps that’s where he finally gets the balls to cross the room, drunken eyes on your equally intoxicated ones, before he pulls you in for a kiss.

The kiss starts slow, with lips just interlocking and lightly testing the waters. But then he feels your tongue make its way inside his mouth and your fingers weave into his hair to tug him closer, and Levi loses the last threads of inhibition he has. His tongue massages yours and one of his arm wraps around your waist, the other comes down to grope and knead your ass. He feels you walk backwards and your hand pulls at his tie, dragging him with you. Suddenly he’s trapping you against a wall, lifting one of your legs up to wrap around his hips so he could grind his crotch into yours.

Levi doesn’t expect his first kiss with you to be like this; messy and full of tongue and spit, full of fingers clawing at clothes and small grunts escaping your lips. He was hoping it’d be more romantic, with warm cheeks and fingers softly intertwining, shy kisses exchanged through little smiles.

But he’s not about to complain—- he’s wanted to be with you for years, and god he loved having you like this. Loved having you all hot and desperate, trapped between his firm chest and the wall. His cock is hard in his pants, and he just about growls when he feels you start to undo his belt, the fly of his pants coming down as you got on your knees and stared up at him with innocent eyes as you pull out his aching boner. There’s a cheeky grin your face when you pump at his length, and your tongue peaks out of your mouth before—

“Levi, are you okay?”

His eyes snap open, and he’s greeted to the sight of your worried face directly above his.

“Fuck!” he yells, and his forehead slams into yours when he flinches away. “Sorry, sorry” he quickly ammends when you yelp in pain.

He’s covered in sweat, he notices. Chest heaving, heart beating a little too loud for his liking, and he silently pulls the blankets over his cum stained boxers when you sit beside him.

God, he was really hoping you wouldn’t notice the fact that he came in his pants like a high schooler. And it was before dream you even got to suck him off. How much more pathetic could he be.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, m’fine, it’s just...” your eyes are distracted, staring off into space. Fingers trace his thighs, and you sigh. “You were having a nightmare,”

Levi blinks. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare,” you repeat. “Kept tossing and turning and groaning in your sleep. And you kept making these... funny faces,”

“...right,” he nods. Sure, a nightmare. A nightmare he never wanted to wake up from.

It takes about ten minutes to reassure you that yes, he was fine, don’t mind the way his cheeks are flushed, he was just... shaken up from his nightmare, is all. Then you’re back to bed, sleeping the night away, and twenty minutes later he’s on his way back to bed too; this time with a fresh pair of boxers and a content look on his face, all thanks to him finishing off his fantasies in the communal bathroom during his shower.

The door makes a quiet click when he shuts it behind him, and he freezes when he catches sight of Dante sat up on your bed, tail flicking behind him as he gives Levi a knowing look.

Levi squints his eyes, and he threateningly whispers, “you tell no one.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

epilogue

The half empty room brings a frown to your face, and all you could do was pout as you sealed up the last of the boxes.

“Why do you have to leave again?” you ask, and Levi turns around as he finishes folding the last of his clothes. He shrugs. “Cats aren’t allowed in the dorms.”

You owed him your entire college career, that much was sure. The RA’s found out about Dante, and Levi had taken the fall to spare you. He wasn’t required to move out since it was only his first strike, but he insisted on doing so so that Dante wouldn’t be alone, saying he already found an apartment nearby and he’ll never hear the end of it from you if he didn’t take Dante with him.

Bullshit. Levi had a soft spot for Dante, you knew that much. He wasn’t doing it for you, he was doing it for himself. Though normally you’d be overjoyed to know that Levi really did secretly like the cat he pretended to hate so much, this time, you were just pissed. You couldn’t believe a fucking cat was stealing away the guy you’ve been in love with since high school. Sure, you were too much of a coward to ask him out, but he was basically your boyfriend already—- the entire campus knew you inadvertently had dibs on each other.

“Yeah but... do you have to leave me alone?”

“I asked you to come with me, and you said no.” He points out. “I still don’t see why when we’ve been roommates since we were freshmen.”

“It’s different off-campus!”

“How?”

“Because it’s like... it’s like we’re moving in together, y’know?” you reply. “And it seemed wrong to move in with you when we’re not even dating.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, handing you a spare key to what you could only assume was his new apartment. You glance between him and the key in your hands, and he rolls his eyes when he realizes that you still don’t get it.

“I know we’re doing this backwards since couples don’t typically move in before the first date,” he says before gesturing to Dante. “But we already have a son, and I know you’re his favorite parent. We can share custody until you can move in with me.”

You blink. “What?” Your brain stopped working when Levi referred to you as a couple, and you’re pretty sure your heart stopped beating too. At this point, anything he said went in one ear and out the other. He flicks your forehead.

“Hey— ow! What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“And you’re being a prick!” you grumble. “It hurts, y’know.”

He scoffs. “What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” he scoffs.

Your mouth moves faster than your brain, “I’d rather you kiss me.”

Wait. What?

Before you could go back on your words, Levi shrugs. Warm palms gently grab your cheeks, pulling your face closer to his. Your eyes widen and you momentarily freeze, brain definitely not working anymore. He hesitates when you don’t make a move, but then you’re shyly leaning forward, and that was all the confirmation Levi needs.

“If you insist,” he whispers, and suddenly your words die on your tongue when his lips interlock with yours.

alrightberries © 2020. do not modify or repost.

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

[vega-ssi]

I just want to add that I went to art school and no one taught me about warm-ups either, I actually learnt about that when I started studying on my own

being a self-taught artist with no formal training is having done art seriously since you were a young teenager and only finding out that you’re supposed to do warm up sketches every time you’re about to work on serious art when you’re fuckin twenty-five