#I hadn’t used watercolor in almost 6 years

[next-hero-in-line]

Tipsoo lake view

[freetobeeyouandme]

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

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Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

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written for @bylerween2023

[schibi12]

Childhood Commentary: Mickey, Donald, Goofy: The Three Musketeers

So these are gonna be like my House of Mouse Hot Takes but with my childhood favorite disney movies that i haven’t seen in a while and to see if i still like them.

So im starting with a fan favorite and underrated classic that i haven’t seen in like 5 or 6 years, well originally i was suppose to see it with my younger sibling because he hadn’t seen it but i couldn’t find it in spanish so... sorry im pretty sure he’s not gonna read this but still sorry dude, and Fun Fact this is my first time watching it in English. Okay Let’s do this!!! 

Oh and Spoilers. (But like really who hasn’t seen this movie except for my sibling and maybe you tumblr user well i don’t judge read at your own risk)

So this movie was hilarious no surprise but still the comedy in this movie was on point all the jokes,references,puns and gags were *chef kiss* my favorite ones have to be the Opera one and this one:

I enjoyed the format of the movie of how the Troubador narrates and sort of interacts the with the characters in the story and how it starts with like a classic Disney comic for the backstory and seeing Mickey, Donald, Goofy and Pluto as little children (well Pluto as a puppy) was so adorable

The music and songs were good i really enjoyed them i’ve been singing All for one and One for All, all day and i really like that they used classical musical pieces for the tune of the songs i think it was kinda brilliant. The animation was so good and still holds up the background being watercolors are beautiful like look at this.

While the plot maybe quite simple the humor, the romantic subplots (although it doesn’t take a lot of the movie the few scenes we got where so sweet), the action and the few dark scenes made it nuanced and a bit more complex, and talking about those dark scenes this movie get hyuck-ing dark real fast and it doesn’t hold back we almost see the three main characters die which is so rare nowadays in Disney media like when was the last time you saw Mickey Mouse drown? exactly.

It’s not really a sad tearjerking moment but that scene where Donald leaves Mickey because of his cowardice and inferiority complex that touched the heart

I loved all the characters and their mini character arcs from Goofy wanting to be smarter, Donald to be brave and Mickey wanting to prove himself as a Mouseketeer (Im not sorry XD) and i loved their relationships and there interactions from all the romantic relationships (i loved seeing Mickey and Minnie falling in love for the “first time”” something you don’t see a lot these days) Daisy and Minnie being nice friends, Pete and the Beagle Bandits i dont know why i liked seeing Pete being a vile and abusive villain/boss and the camaraderie between our three musketeers was so nice and i really appreciated seeing it sort of reminded me why these three are best friends and how and why there friendship works.

So this movie still holds up i really enjoyed it and i still like it it may not enter my top 10 but maybe my top 20′s of favorite disney movies but it was a fun experience rewatching it and i forgot to mention in my House of Mouse Hot Takes that i loved hearing Wayne Allwine as Mickey Mouse he was definitely the Mouse for a generation and he was also my Mickey from House of Mouse, Clubhouse and the Christmas specials Rest In Peace you’re a legend.

Life lesson from this film: If Michael Theodore Mouse with his 2'3" height became a Musketeer you can do anything no matter your height

So thanks if you read my long review/commentary and i hope you like it!

See ya soon!

P.s. this image is a mood!

[no6secretsanta]

Bittersweet Awakening

TO: @happykawaiicinnamonroll FROM: @glorifiedscapegoat

Happy Holidays and an amazing New Year to you, KawaiiCinnamonroll! Here’s some post-reunion fluff for your Secret Santa gift. In the spirit of the New Year, having a nice moment between Nezumi and Shion, in which Shion is being a bit of a dumb-ass and Nezumi takes care of him, seemed appropriate.

I hope you enjoy it! <3

***

Nezumi woke to the smell of coffee beans.

He stretched out his spine with a satisfied groan. In his sleep, he’d managed to curl himself into a tight ball, long limbs wrapped around his pillow and clutching it to his chest. He unearthed his face from the plush cushion―pulling himself from the aroma of drowsy lavender fabric softener―and looked over at his sleeping companion.

Shion’s side of the bed was empty.

Nezumi bolted upright.

Panic lanced through the synapses in his brain, tension jolting through his muscles until every inch of him ached. His eyes picked through the darkness of their shared bedroom, searching the dresser tucked in the corner, the slotted solar shades revealing the still-dark morning sky, and the bedroom door left ajar.

Yellow light spilled in through the gap in the door frame, and Nezumi’s shoulders relaxed.

He dragged a hand over his face and then pushed his bangs aside. His hair was tangled, and Nezumi worked a few of them out with his fingers, wincing when he encountered a knot.

Shion’s awake. He’s here. Nezumi carded his fingers through his hair until there were no more gnarls. The primal terror spiking through his veins cooled until Nezumi felt weightless.

Four years had passed since the day Nezumi had almost lost Shion, four years since Nezumi had breezed back into Shion’s life, for good this time. Nezumi’s gut-reaction to waking without Shion at his side was anxiety and terror, but it was a bit better each time. One step at a time. We’ll get there. Someday.

Nezumi’s brow furrowed. It was strange that Shion climbing into bed hadn’t woken him. Nezumi had gone to bed around ten o’clock, leaving Shion to work on his proposal for the committee. Shion had been agonizing about it most of the day, and Nezumi had opted to give him some space to work.

Nezumi was a notoriously light sleeper. The slightest shifts on the mattress were usually enough to jar him awake. He was getting used to having Shion sleeping at his side again―no longer at his back, but in his arms, limbs tangled together in a heap.

But I didn’t wake up this time. Nezumi gnawed on his lower lip. Weird.

And then his eyes flickered to the nightstand.

The digital clock announced 03:14 AM in neon green numbers.

Nezumi’s brows shot up.

He scrambled out of bed, tossing the comforter aside. The sheets caught around his ankles, and Nezumi nearly went sprawling to the ground. He caught himself with a sharp curse and kicked the sheets onto the floor.

The cool Autumn air sent prickles across the bare skin of his legs and arms. Nezumi wore a dark gray tee shirt and boxer shorts to bed, needing no other warmth than the thick blankets and Shion pinned against him.

He grabbed the thin black robe hanging off the back of the door―a welcome-back gift from Karan―and threw it on. The hem brushed his ankles as he clutched it around his middle and bustled out into the kitchen.

Nezumi found Shion in the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards. The concern welling in the pit of his stomach like a fat serpent steadily began to uncoil.

Shion was dressed in the white button-down and slacks he’d been wearing when Nezumi went off to bed. His hair was wild, sticking up in all directions like a brilliant star. He had his back to Nezumi, his long fingers nudging aside various mugs in the cupboard. He moved quickly, a man on a mission.

Nezumi stepped into the kitchen. He pressed his weight on the squeaky floorboard―the same one he’d been irritated by on those mornings after a particularly terrible rehearsal―to announce his presence.

Shion’s shoulders shot to his ears. His hands stilled.

“You’re still awake?” Nezumi asked.

Shion looked over his shoulder. His glassy red eyes settled on Nezumi’s face, and after a few moments, comprehension flitted across his features. “Oh. Nezumi.” He lowered his arms from the cupboard, leaving the two doors open, and turned around. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“It’s three in the morning,” Nezumi said, leaving the question unanswered in the air between them. “Why are you still up?”

Shion lowered his gaze. His eyelashes dusted his cheekbones like a thick frost. He was beautiful, otherworldly in a way that made Nezumi weak-kneed every time he saw him. Even after all these years, Nezumi’s heart still skipped a beat at the thought of the young man standing before him. Even when said young man picked at Nezumi’s nerves.

“I have to finish my proposal,” Shion explained.

“Your meeting’s on Tuesday.”

“And I’m behind.” Shion turned back to the cupboard and reached inside. “I need to finish it.”

Nezumi’s eyes shifted to the coffee pot. A gentle vapor of steam drifted from the boxy black container, the eight-cup pot filled halfway with the dark, steaming liquid. The aroma of light-roast coffee beans danced beneath Nezumi’s nose. It would have been a welcomed scent at a reasonable hour.

“And so you’re brewing coffee?”

“More coffee,” Shion corrected. “This is my second pot.”

“That’s healthy.” Nezumi strode across the kitchen and yanked one of the chairs back from the little table. Its wooden legs screeched across the tile. Nezumi flopped into the chair. “You look exhausted. You sure you want to keep working?”

“I have to, Nezumi.” Shion found the mug he wanted and set it on the counter. He closed the cupboards and hurried to the fridge.

“Why didn’t you reuse your cup?” Nezumi asked.

“What?”

“Your cup,” Nezumi repeated, as if he were speaking to a child. “If this is your second pot, then you must have had another cup. Why not just reuse it?”

“Because it was―” Shion paused, and Nezumi could see the gears working in his head. Shion looked at the sink, where his previous mug must have resided. “Huh.” He pressed his lips into a thin, calculating line. “I… I don’t know.”

Nezumi exhaled through his nose. “Shion.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Shion interjected.

“Then enlighten me.”

“You’re going to say I should come to bed.”

“Give the man a prize, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I have to finish it, Nezumi.” Shion opened the fridge, took the creamer, and poured some into his mug. It was the pretty white one Nezumi had gotten for him a month ago; a watercolor image of a purple flower, not technically an aster but close enough, spread across the bottom of the mug, the green leaves twisting up the handle.

Despite the frustration prickling through him, Nezumi felt a small sliver of warmth at the sight of the mug. It had been a gift to Shion. A gift from him. Nezumi had never given anyone a gift before. It had seemed like such a small, pathetic thing at the time. And yet the moment he’d given it to Shion, those bright crimson eyes had lit up as if someone had set a fire in Shion’s core. Those lips had drawn back in a wide smile, and Shion had thrown his arms around Nezumi. “I love it! Thank you!”

It was amazing, Nezumi thought―how something so small could ground him. We’ve come so far, haven’t we? So much had changed in four years. Like tightly-coiled bugs in a garden, Shion and Nezumi had finally, finally, finally bloomed, their petals brushing against each other and their stems intertwining.

“We’re discussing the new proposal for the West District,” Shion went on. He placed the cream back in the fridge.

After Nezumi left, West Block was evacuated, the citizens ushered into the remains of No.6 with Shion taking on the role of ambassador. The Manhunt had drastically lowered the number of West Block’s citizens, and Shion’s primary focus became finding suitable housing for them. The birth of the Committee―compiled of people from West Block, Kronos, and Lost Town―opened new possibilities for plans regarding the destroyed quarters.

“Some of the Committee members want to turn it into a junkyard,” Shion went on. “Most of the buildings are ruined, and even though we’ve removed all the bodies…”

And given them proper burials, Nezumi thought. Shion had personally led the search to find the bodies buried beneath the rubble. Inukashi’s hounds had lent a hand, their reluctant owner offering their services as a favor to Shion. Shion had also found jobs for the displaced Disposers, tasking them with transferring the corpses safely and respectfully from the destruction and to a patch of land just outside the up-heaved city.

Most of the Disposers had become the Clean-Up Committee, paid a livable wage by the city for their services. Nezumi had been surprised to find so many of the Disposers he recognized trudging through the remnants of No.6 as law-abiding citizens who prided themselves on their work rather than the thugs West Block had feared.

“It’s still dangerous to keep all that rubble just laying around,” Shion said, jolting Nezumi from his reminiscing. “What if kids play there? The wall is gone, and children are curious by nature. Not to mention how hazardous it is for the environment. If we removed it, put the scrap wood to good use and salvaged the metal, we could expand the living quarters and use that land to farm. That would create job opportunities, as well as save money on imported goods.

“We could grow most of our own crops, and once we’ve managed to create a sustainable system, we can work on exporting some of our goods and bringing some money back into the city! That way we can actually pay our workers and make sure people can survive.”

Nezumi rested his head on his hands and listened. He didn’t understand the politics of the Committee as well as Shion did, but he admired the passion in Shion’s voice. That had always drawn Nezumi to Shion, he supposed. He was so dedicated to everything he set his focus on.

Shion was trying his best to make good on his promise to Elyurias, and Nezumi as well, even though it was running him ragged.

“An admirable feat,” Nezumi allowed. “But I doubt the whole ship will sink if you take a few hours to rest.”

Something flickered across Shion’s face that might have been acceptance―and then the coffee pot chimed.

“Coffee’s done,” Shion announced.

Nezumi’s shoulders dropped in defeat.

Shion picked up the pot. The dark liquid inside sloshed within. Shion’s fingers trembled on the handle as he navigated his way to his mug.

Nezumi changed his tactic. “Have you made any progress with it? When I went to bed, you were stuck on your introductory paragraph.”

Shion paused.

“Talking it out is one thing,” Nezumi went on, “but it’s translating it into political jargon that’s stressing you out, right?”

Shion shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He sighed. “I know what I want to say. But it’s just like… the longer I stare at the page, the less sense my thoughts make.” His red eyes lost focus as Shion stared down at the coffee pot in his hands. “Everything that comes to mind just doesn’t sound right.”

Nezumi felt a pang of sympathy dance through him. “Then maybe you need to take some time away from it.”

Shion gnawed on his lower lip, considering Nezumi’s suggestion. Nezumi played with the sleeve of the robe, the warmth of the kitchen seeping in through the thin fabric. It was too soon to turn the heat in their small, two-bedroom apartment on.

Shion poured some coffee into the mug, and Nezumi’s stomach dropped to his feet.

“You want any?” Shion asked.

“No,” Nezumi said with a dry smile. “I actually want to sleep.”

“Suit yourself.” Shion set the coffee pot back on the burner. He shuffled over to the table, set the mug down opposite Nezumi, and turned back to the counters. “Where’s the sugar?”

“Where it always is,” Nezumi said. As Shion meandered back toward the sink, Nezumi exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache forming. “Look, Shion. No one’s going to blame you if you take a break from it. You’ve been working on that thing all day. If you’re not thinking straight, it’s a universal sign that you need to get some sleep.”

“Found the sugar,” Shion piped up.

“You know,” Nezumi snapped, “for someone so intelligent, you can be amazingly dense.”

Shion sat down in the chair and muttered a retort.

“Didn’t catch that. Care to try again when you’re not sleep-deprived?”

Shion rolled his eyes. He tipped the small canister of sugar upside down and dumped half of it into his coffee.

Nezumi raised an eyebrow. Shion liked sugar in his coffee. Nezumi had lived with him long enough to know that. But Shion didn’t usually take that much sugar.

“You want any coffee with that?”

“Hush,” Shion said. “I need to finish this proposal, Nezumi. I need all the energy I can get.”

Shion held the mug in both hands and took a long gulp.

“Shion―,” Nezumi said.

Shion’s eyes widened. He slammed the cup onto the table and spat his mouthful of coffee back into it.

Nezumi reeled back. “What?”

Shion looked at the mug, then to the canister of sugar. Horror twisted into disbelief on his face. His scarlet eyes glistened and, to Nezumi’s utter confusion, filled with tears. Shion shoved his mug away from himself, folded his arms, and buried his face in the crook of his elbows.

“What’s wrong?” Nezumi snatched the canister of sugar up. He scanned the white label, the brand name scrawled in black and red letters, spelling out the words coarse salt rather than cane sugar.

Nezumi’s lips quirked at the corners. “Oh.”

“It’s salt,” Shion whined.

Nezumi bit back laughter as he stood and set the offending condiment back on the counter. He took Shion’s mug and dumped it into the sink.

“And that,” he said, “would be a sign from the Powers That Be that it’s time for bed.”

Shion’s voice was muffled as he said, “It’s not funny.”

It was pretty funny, but Nezumi would avoid saying so until Shion was in a better state of mind. Once Shion had calmed down, and slept an acceptable number of hours, Nezumi would tease him mercilessly.

For now, Nezumi stood behind Shion and rubbed comforting circles on his back.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Time for bed. You’re probably not making as much progress as you’d like, anyway.”

Shion grumbled.

“You have all day Monday,” Nezumi added. “You’re not going to be much help to anyone if you’re passed out on the table.”

His thumbs continued to rub shapes into Shion’s shoulder blades until Shion turned his face to the side and managed a shaky, “OK.”

Nezumi celebrated silently as he helped Shion up from the table. He clicked the coffee pot off, making a mental note to clean the bean dispenser and empty the pot when he woke up again. He placed his hands on Shion’s shoulders and guided him through the kitchen and into their shared bedroom.

“Change into your pajamas,” Nezumi instructed.

Shion eased through the darkness, toward the dresser. Nezumi kept the door open, allowing the kitchen light to illuminate the room just enough for Shion to find his way. Shion knew the bedroom like the back of his hand―but Nezumi couldn’t count on Shion’s sleep-deprived mind to remember where he kept his boxers if he couldn’t even tell salt from sugar.

Shion dropped his button-down and slacks besides the hamper. Close enough, Nezumi thought. Shion dug through the top drawer, found a black tee-shirt, and pulled it over his head. He fought with the hole before yanking it down.

Nezumi smirked. Hopefully, Shion hadn’t put it on backward. He supposed they’d find out in the morning.

“To bed with you,” Nezumi said. “It’s well past your bedtime.”

Shion’s retort barely made it past his lips. Shion slumped to the bed and flopped down on his stomach.

Nezumi shook his head. He flicked the kitchen light off, plunging the room into darkness. The faint light filtering in through the slats in the window allowed Nezumi a quick look at Shion. He’d curled into the side of the bed where Nezumi had woken up, instinctively drawn to the warmth.

Nezumi crawled onto the bed and lay beside Shion. He wrestled the blankets out from under Shion and tucked them around him.

“Comfortable?” Nezumi asked.

Shion didn’t answer.

Right to sleep, then. Nezumi couldn’t help but laugh. He eased down beside Shion, tucking their legs together. His arms slipped around Shion’s thin frame and pulled him against his chest. The neon green alarm clock announced 03:38 AM. Shion and Nezumi kept the alarm off on the weekends. Nezumi would likely doze for a few hours. If he was lucky, Shion would sleep well into the late morning. Nezumi didn’t mind spending a lazy day in bed. If it kept Shion asleep for more than a few minutes, it was worth it.

Nezumi pressed his nose into Shion’s soft, silver hair. He smelled like the geranium shampoo Karan had given them as a move-in gift. Shion worked it through his hair every other day, and Nezumi had begun to associate the scent with the beautiful young man tucked in his arms.

Nezumi exhaled, content. The warmth from Shion’s body radiated through him. Sleep began to tug at the corners of his mind. Nezumi rested his chin on Shion’s shoulder. He listened to the thump of their hearts, the echo reminding him that fate had granted them a chance to start over. A new beginning.

Nezumi had wandered the world to find himself―and his journey had brought him right back to Shion.

He pressed a long, lingering kiss to Shion’s shoulder. The deep breathing from his sleeping companion soothed him, erased the tension in his shoulders and chased away the nightmares. In the warmth of their shared bedroom, Nezumi closed his eyes, breathed the same air as the boy he loved, and fell asleep.

[mysticsparklewings]

I will be with You

When you go, just know that I will remember you If living was the hardest part, we'll then one day be together And in the end we'll fall apart, just as the leaves change in color And then I will be with you, I will be there one last time now --My Chemical Romance, "It's Not a Fashion Statement, it's a Deathwish" ____ It's rare that I'm this proud of an artwork I've created. ^_^ Usually, there's some glaring issue or just an assortment of small things I'd still change if I had the patience and/or artistic ability to do it. Or even just some things that I feel like could've been done better, even if I know it did the best I could. This time? No. Not right now, shortly after it's been completed, anyway. I'm sure years down the line from now I'll look back and feel at least slightly different. But as it stands now, while I'm sure it has its faults, I am truly happy and truly proud of what I've created here and whatever faults are there aren't bothering me at all. So what then is this, exactly? This my dear Sparklers is a visual love letter to the band I discovered just a little too late but was still there for me when no one else was all the same. Earlier this month, I uploaded a different piece of art to celebrate the announcement of My Chemical Romance's Return, but even when I uploaded that one I was already thinking of doing another one, this time something that was more obviously fan art. But not just fan art as I've done for them in the past (Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C), but something extra-special and fun. I really did go into creating this wanting it to be as I described it above; a visual love letter to this band that I love so much and could not be happier that they're back. As such, I've squeezed in as many references as I could: 1. The female figure is molded after Helena from the album Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge 2. The male/skeleton figure is supposed to be Pepe (that's what Google said his name was, anyway), the icon and seemingly marching band conductor from The Black Parade album 3. On Pepe's hat, I replaced the usual symbol with the Candle symbol that's been featured in the band's Return artwork 4. They fade into leaves based on the line from It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Deathwish (a song from Three Cheers) that I quoted at the top of the description 5. behind them is Party Poison's mask, as featured in the Danger Days music videos 6. on the mask, I replaced one of the black triangle shapes with the hanging man silhouette from I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love 7. The rest of the background is inspired by the covers for the Conventional Weapons releases (which in my mind I count as essentially an unofficial fifth album) (Debatable) 8. Their touching hands could be an indirect reference to the line "And as we're touching hands, and as we're falling down" from Demolition Lovers, a song from Bullets. That's at least one reference each (Three Cheers technically got two) for each of the main releases, plus one directly related to this new era we don't know much about yet. It's not an exhaustive "spot the reference" game, but I'm glad I was able to incorporate as many as I did. Now that I've explained them, maybe I can talk about my process without having to stop to re-explain each reference as they come up.   After some brainstorming, I got this image in my head of Helena and Pepe in this pose (inspired at least partially by this pre-existing fanart I've seen many times before) , which to me is a "renaissance dancing" pose but I'm sure there's some other better way to describe it I haven't thought of. I tried for a very long time to find a reference image of this exact pose to help me get the proportions and general anatomy right within my own stylization, but for the life of me, I couldn't find anything close enough to suit me and I really didn't want to have to settle for something else. As such, I'm sure the proportions and anatomy are off, but even so, I think I did pretty good considering. The main issues I ran into during sketching were mainly balancing the energy between the two characters--which I do think I managed in the end--Helena's skirt, as she's supposed to be holding onto it with that hand you can't see, and Pepe's torso. Originally, I was planning on doing this piece traditionally, but once the sketch was finished it almost immediately clicked into place that I'd be better served to do it digitally, considering what I wanted to do with the mask in the background already, as well as the leaf-fade. (The Conventional Weapons reference hadn't been planned yet, and it was technically only made possible later on by this piece being digital.) Luckily, doing things digitally meant that Pepe's torso was fixed pretty easily. It was too thin in the sketch, but all I had to do was select the right lines and move them out a bit in Photoshop. He's still a bit thin and not super buff, but personally I'm letting that go because...I mean, he's at least part if not all skeleton. If anyone's going to be too thin, wouldn't it make sense that it's him? Helena's skirt I did end up happy within the sketch but...we'll come back to the skirt in a moment. Pepe's...face? looked a bit odd in the sketch, but other than that, once I was happy with that foundation, I scanned it in and got to work on digitizing everything. I went over my lines for Helena and Pepe the way I normally would for something like this if a little intentionally messy instead of trying to get them super clean--as I thought that might be appropriate here--and then I paused with them to work on the mask behind them. The mask admittedly came out very poorly in the sketch, just because I bothered to look up no references for it whatsoever once I decided I was going to make this digital and I knew I could just draw half of it and flip it over. And I'm glad I didn't start trying to follow my sketch lines for it at all because looking up actual references showed me that would've been way off. While I had my reference up, I ended up going in and basically full-coloring and detailing the mask right then. That's the beauty of digital work; a lot of steps can be done basically out of order from how you'd have to do them traditionally and it doesn't matter because you can just move layers around and adjust effects later. I went with this pseudo-soft shading based on the colors and shadows I was seeing in my references, even though I wasn't sure yet exactly how I was going to shade Helena and Pepe. I figured that even if I used a different method for them that I could either go back and adjust the mask as necessary or that it wouldn't matter since the mask was part of the background anyway. Once that was done, I went back to ponder my two figures and the leaf effect that I wanted to do with them. And again, I went a little out of order here, as I ended up filling in the silhouette of Helena and Pepe with a blanket layer of gray so I could see how them blocking the mask was going to look (and I figured based on past experiences I might need the blanket layer in white later). From there, I went into working on the fading-to-leaves effect. My logic was that I'd need mostly the silhouettes of the leaves and then I'd get what I wanted after playing with layer effects or something. This assumption ended up being correct, but we're not there yet. As I worked, I kept looking at my "finished" messy lines. Something just didn't feel right. Honestly, I couldn't tell you where the idea to do this lineless look came from, but it got in my head as I was working and I kept looking at the lines I had and not being happy to just color those in as I normally would, shade it, and call it a day. I tried. I tried really hard to ignore the urge to at least try it and carry on as I was. I'd already come this far, and I'd be done so much faster if I stuck to the plan...But!! Clearly I lost that argument with myself. You know what though? I'm glad I did! I don't think I've ever done lineless art like this before, not counting my watercolor work where that's just part of the process to me. But digital? Certainly not. Human figures? Also no. I've come close in the sense that I've shaded my art before, turned off the line layers before, and thought, "oh hey that almost works without the lines because of the shading,"  but not much farther than that. Naturally, I wasn't even sure how or where to begin, so I went with what came naturally to me. I started by just filling in the lines as I normally would have, and then I went back layer by layer and went back and forth between having the line layer (with the opacity brought down somewhat already so I could sort of see what I was doing) on and off to try and balance the shapes between what they looked like with and without the lines. It's weird because if you ever try this, it's a little like having to figure out a bunch of individual silhouettes that make one whole one, except you need them to be a little more defined if you want them to make visual sense. That step and the next one, the shading, are tied in my mind for which one took me the longest. For the shading, I really just went in blind, using hard-edge cell shading, though originally I planning to come back with some soft shading in certain areas later. The soft shading ended up not happening partly because I liked it much better than I thought I would without it, and I thought the hard-edge shading made the figures pop a little more compared to the background. The thing about this was the same issue I run into with my lines nowadays; to get smooth shapes I spend a while going back and forth between putting color down and erasing it, and sometimes undoing and redoing the same line a dozen times to get it right in one stroke. But that's really my own fault for being stubborn and trying to work solely within Photoshop and not use other programs, as I know good and well I'd have less of that issue if I'd hop into Paint Tool Sai and use the linework layers in there. What can I say? I live up to my Capricorn sign by being as stubborn as a goat. Anyway. The biggest challenge to figure out the shading for was Helena's skirt. I think I would've still had issues with that though even if I colored and shaded my normal way, with the lines and everything. It's just the position it's in that complicates things. I actually did a good amount of shading in reverse here, where I'd make the base layer the shadow color and then the layer on top would be the regular color, as in some cases it just seemed easier to do that than the other way around. The part of Helena's dress around the top, for example. Or Pepe's pants (what little you can see of them). Additionally, I ended up leaving the feather attached to Pepe's hat alone and not really smoothing it out, as I thought the roughness and inconsistencies worked really well to make it seem more feathery. With enough patience and persistence and much back and forth among the various layers, I made it through all of that. I was a little concerned at first about some of my color choices and if the shading was too harsh in some places or not, but I mellowed out as I worked and ended up not making make adjustments after the fact. For instance, originally I thought I'd go back and make Pepe's...skin? closer to a true white and this fleshy off-white color was more of a placeholder, but the longer I worked with it, the more I didn't want to change it. It actually makes sense, given that his hands are normal (as they are presented in official artwork and other fan art not made by me) and that bones usually are naturally more of an off-white color. And I also think it just looks really good next to Helena's pale skin. The hands were a special challenge in regards to both shading and coloring, as hands like to be the more complicated part of a drawing more often than not, but even that I managed to get through with a lot more ease than I would've bet on. The other thing about that is that I was surprised once I got through the steps at how much better Pepe's face looked in comparison to the rest of the drawing. As I mentioned before, it looked odd in the sketch. But one I had most of the colors for him and Helena filled in digitally, the contrast or something just made it look infinitely better. (Combined with a hefty dose of earlier back-and-forth making adjustments to his jawbone area.) Originally, I thought I might use the same cell shading for Helena's eyeshadow. However, while I was still thinking of adding some selective soft shading, I added it using one of the brushes I'd used on the mask earlier. It looked so good to me that even after I tried added the soft shading with it like I planned and decided I didn't want/need it anywhere else, I kept it. And for the record, Helena's hair is kind of the wrong texture (it's officially more straight than this) and she's missing this little netted veil thing she's supposed to have, but I had a very specific vision in mind, so those were the two creative liberties I took with her design. I say it's fair game since I took a liberty with Pepe's hat to get the Return reference in. And besides, those two details being off doesn't make her totally unrecognizable if you know who Helena is in the first place. Once they were done, I spent longer than I bothered to document playing with the leaf layer I'd made earlier to try and figure out how to get the effect I wanted. Sparing you the boring details of my trial error, as I'm sure this description will be long enough without them, I eventually determined the best thing to do was to have one layer of the leaves on top set as an "overlay" layer, and another behind/beneath Helena and Pepe. Then I went back and extended my color and shading layers to extend down over the leaves, and I arranged and clipped the layers accordingly. Technically, the overlay layer wasn't necessary, but it added a little extra dimension that I really liked. By that point, it was my second day of working digitally and getting late, but I had to do one more thing before I could go to bed with my mind at ease that night. With Helena and Pepe done, I turned the mask back on (I'd turned it off so I could focus on them without it distracting me or otherwise getting in the way) and I felt like they weren't standing out enough against it. The bright yellow color was competing too much for my eyes' attention. So, after trying the "stroke" blending option in white and that looking God-awful, I added a new layer between them and the mask and manually gave them a white outline. It wasn't a perfect solution, and I knew that even then, but it was enough that I could sleep soundly knowing how far I'd gotten with the artwork. The next day I had to take a break from working on this to bust out a painting for the challenge I decided to take on this month, but I went back to this as soon as I could after that was taken care of. When I came back to it, I acknowledged that I technically could've left it as it was and call it finished. But I still didn't like how obnoxious the mask seemed for a background piece and it felt...I don't know. Almost hollow, in a way. It was a cool graphic, sure, but I wanting something more than that. Again, I'll spare you most of the nitty-gritty details. But long story short, I played around with layer effects and filters for a while until I had blurred the mask out just enough that it wasn't so obnoxious but also so looking at it directly didn't make me nauseous, and the edges were softened so it felt more like a true background piece and not just an accessory that had been plastered carelessly back there. It was only after I started saving off versions with different backgrounds--one with no background, one with white, one with black--that I realized I was missing a golden (semi pun intended) opportunity to incorporate a Conventional Weapons reference/allusion. Which was exciting because I'd previously been disappointed that I couldn't think of a good way to do that. I went back and forth on layer styles and adding texture with brushes and things for a while on that too, but you can see what I ultimately settled on. It's not a 1:1 to the CW covers, but I'm really pleased with it anyway. I did end up adding a bit more to the white outline in a few places and adding a drop shadow to Helena and Pepe so they'd pop a bit more (it almost makes them look like paper cutouts to me!), but really the only other thing I had to do after that was add my watermark. It took roughly 3 days of work from start to finish, but I was honestly surprised by how fairly smooth the process went. Especially considering the new things I'd tried along the way. I can only assume it's because of just how much my heart was really into making this piece. As I said before, I am truly proud of how this piece turned out. I love it. I love it, and I love the band that inspired its creation. Even the title says a lot here, I think. I picked this line that's repeated at the end of It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Deathwish, as it was a leading inspiration with the leaves and everything, and after looking at the lyrics I realized how fitting that line is for this. I discovered My Chemical Romance two years too late, two years after they broke up in 2013, but I've stuck by them ever since, and I will continue to do so, with whatever the unwritten future holds. They've changed, as anyone would over the course of six years, but they came back anyway. Even if it's just for a few shows and they're gone again. Or if it's going to be so much more than that. They. Came. Back. And that's not an easy thing to do a lot of the time. And so, I show my solidarity. I will be with you, MCR, no matter what comes next. You were there for me, and now it's my turn to be there for you, even if it as just another fan among the crowd. And that's really all I have to say on the matter. ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[artificialqueens]

Beneath the Amber Moon, Part 6 (Galactica AU Group Fic) – TheDane & Veronica

Heyyy!! Welcome to Part 6 of “Beneath the Amber Moon,” a group fic set in the Galactica Universe. Click here for previous chapters.

We hope you’re enjoying it! Let us know what you think!

Summary: Sand witches, sketches, jet skis, and baby influencers.

/////

Courtney skipped down the beach, Julia’s hand in hers, the little girl giggling and running to keep up. She was glad that she had an excuse to avoid the huge buffet and endless sugary cocktails. She’d already indulged quite a bit this week, and knew that any more would only make it even harder to get back into Supergirl-shape for her publicity shoot back in LA. Not to mention, Bianca had given her a look as they disembarked that sent shivers down her spine. But she wasn’t thinking about that, not now...

“This looks good!” she said, pointing to a spot in the sand and handing Julia a bucket. “Can you fill this with water? Then I’ll show you the secret.”

“Okay!” Julia took the bucket and ran off towards the ocean, Courtney spreading out a towel and watching her closely. The water in the bay was calm and gentle, and while she knew the 7-year-old would be fine, she didn’t want any accidents.

“Courtney!”

Courtney glanced up to see Violet, walking down the beach towards her, tote bag in hand.

“Hey! What’s up?”

“I made you something.”

“You did? For me?” Courtney smiled. “What?”

“... A sketch? For the jacket?” Violet said, a small smile playing on her face, as if she couldn’t believe Courtney had already forgotten. “From yesterday.”

“Oh. Right.” Courtney blushed, waving to Julia as she scampered back from the water, now able to turn fully towards Violet.

“So, it’s a truly horrendous piece of… clothing, but I think I made something you might like.” Violet reached into her tote, taking out a thick piece of paper, and Courtney gasped.

“It’s a completely different jacket!” Courtney grabbed the paper, holding it up in the light so she could see it. It was drawn in soft watercolors, but Violet had managed to keep the rainbow theme, the new cut she had suggested giving it a much more current and young vibe, while the simple buttons, the denim material and the strategically placed rhinestones somehow aged it up to almost be appropriate for any adult that actually wanted to wear a full rainbow. Courtney was elated at how much better the new version looked. Maybe her new collection would be wearable after all.

“Hi Violet,” Julia said, settling down in the sand.

“Oh,” Violet shifted. “Hi.” Juju’s twins were at that awkward age where they were almost real people, but not quite, and it was very unsettling.

“Courtney’s gonna teach me the secret to making creepy sand witches’ castles.”

“That’s...nice.”

“Get it? Sand witch?” Julia asked gleefully.

Violet blinked down at her, and Courtney stifled a laugh, putting a hand on the little girl’s back.

“Okay, first we need to make a nice tall mound for the base. That’s right, work on that.” Courtney turned back to Violet. “That jacket is amazing. Have you thought about any of the other designs?”

“I may have...made a few more sketches.” Violet bit her lip, clutching the sketch book. “I was gonna work on some more now...do you wanna go over them...later?”

“Sure!” Courtney grinned up at her. “How do you feel about the title ‘Creative Director’?”

Violet laughed. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh...” Violet looked at Courtney, like she was still searching her face for traces of a lie. “Well... We’ll see.”

“Is this good?” Julia asked.

“That is the most perfect mound I’ve ever seen!” Courtney told her. “Okay, are you ready for the secret part?”

“Yes!”

“Um…so...”

“Do you wanna hang out with us and work here?” Courtney patted the towel beside her, and Violet shook her head. “You sure? I’m about to reveal a pretty cool secret…”

“No thanks,” Violet said with a light chuckle. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.” Courtney smiled again.

“Bye Violet!” Julia called, then clutched Courtney’s arm. “Show me show me!”

“Alright, pumpkin.”

/////

“Oh my god…” Raven groaned with delight, biting into a sugary, cream-filled donut. With a crispy outside and a soft, pillowy center, drizzled with the perfect amount of doce de leite. Heaven.

“You want me to leave you two alone, or…?” Juju teased, taking a bite of her panna cotta.

“Shut up, I’m having a moment,” Raven said.

“Yeah, I can tell. Let me know if you need a change of panties.”

Raven laughed and punched her lightly on the shoulder.

“Just let me enjoy the afternoon, bitch! I have two babies; I never get me time.”

“You have two nannies, too. Your whole life is me time,” Juju countered.

“Okay, do you know what it’s like managing two nannies and a housekeeper? Because that is noteasy.”

“No, can’t say I do. But if I want to know, I’ll be sure to ask Raja.”

Raven let out an indignant little shriek, then picked her donut up again.

“You’re my real friend,” she said to the pastry, taking another bite as Juju laughed beside her.

/////

“Hey, guys.” Alaska approached Courtney and Julia, who were still busy making tall, drippy sandcastles.

“Look!” Julia cried, happily showing off her creation.

“That’s amazing!”

“It’s a castle for a sand witch!”

“Sand witch?” Alaska laughed at the silly pun, while made Julia giggle.

“Courtney taught me how to do this drippy thing, wanna see?”

“Totally.” Alaska knelt down, watching Julia drip the wet sand through her fingers, adding to her already towering castle. “That is a very cool technique.”

“I know,” Julia said, beaming and hugging Courtney around the waist.

“Is there no end to your talent, Court?”

“I’m just trying to stay out of trouble,” Courtney laughed.

“Trouble?”

Courtney’s eyes shifted over to the nearby lounge chairs, where Bianca was sitting, oiled up, skin already glowing with a healthy bronze tan. She’d pulled the straps of her bathing suit down off her shoulders, giving Courtney an even better look at her cleavage. From this angle, she looked like a 50’s pinup girl, and all Courtney could think about was sinking her teeth into the smooth skin of her perfect thighs.

Alaska followed Courtney’s gaze and let out a little chuckle.

“Having some...self control issues?”

“You could say that,” Courtney admitted, biting her lip. “But I’m trying to take precautions.”

Courtney wiggled her fingers, showing off her decadent stiletto nails, and Alaska laughed, shaking her head.

“Trust me, girl...those are not gonna stop you. But I wish you the best of luck.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Julia asked, head tilted curiously.

“Um, we’re talking about...the tickle monster!” Courtney grabbed her and began to tickle her, causing her to shriek with happy laughter.

/////

The fact that he had managed to slip away undetected should probably have made him feel bad, but honestly, Patrick only really felt ecstatic at the fact that he avoided an afternoon of beach activities and jet skis. He had made his way to the top of the boat, setting up so he could easily see and hear the entire party going on, in case Fame needed him.

For now, however, he was beyond happy to just sit down, the budget his assistant had mailed him and one of the staff had kindly printed in hand along with a red pen, the sounds of everyone floating to him on the wind, as he got down to work.

/////

“Hey, lil bear…” Jinkx wrapped her arms around Adore’s shoulders from behind, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. “How are you, baby?”

“I’m good!” Adore swallowed her mouthful of paella, picking up a piece of fried calamari. “Trying to sober up so that I can ride on one of those sick jet skis.”

“Mmm, sounds fun.” Jinks settled down onto the bench beside Adore, adjusting her hat.

“You wanna join? They said that Courtney and I could do it after lunch.”

“Uh, no. Not really my thing. But I’ll be cheering you on.”

“Fair enough.” Adore took a huge bite of a shrimp pastel.

“So...do you think we could have a little chat, just the two of us?” Jinkx asked, voice low. “When you’re done eating.”

Adore’s blood ran cold, unfinished pastel paused in mid air. Shit.

“Sure. I mean...I don’t know when I’ll be done, though. Did you see that spread? Ha ha,” Adore laughed weakly.

“I know, it’s fucking awesome!” Detox agreed, devouring a bowl of moqueca like he needed it to live.

“Right, but...look, I’ve really been wanting to talk to you, babe,” Jinkx tried again, tucking a lock of Adore’s hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, too bad we don’t live together!” Adore joked.

“Dore.”

“Be right back, Imma go get seconds!” Adore jumped up from the table and raced back to the buffet.

Jinkx let out a sigh, then saw Alaska glowering at her from across the beach.

“Ugh, don’t start, I tried.” Jinkx knew Alaska couldn't hear her, but she still wanted to say the words.

“What?” Detox looked up from his plate.

“Nothing.”

/////

“Well that looks, complicated.” Fame took a sip of her drink, looking over at Raven.

She was standing in the water nearby, trying to get both of her twins to sit still on a big flat rock. They were dressed in crocheted mermaid costumes and giant ridiculous flower headbands.

“Tanya! Smile for Mommy! Smile!”

Detox stood by, snapping photos, the man clearly finding the entire thing beyond amusing.

“You should see the shopping session.” Raja bit into a strawberry. “They had custom Dolce & Gabbana jackets.”

Fame shook her head. Her friend was truly delirious. She had always known that Raven would go completely overboard, but it was still somewhat unsettling to see toddlers that were only serving as playthings for their mother, though Fame would never dream of saying it. She loved Raja too much, and it was never wise to get in an argument with a business partner. Fame turned away from the beach, the amusement of toddlers in mermaid costumes already passed, as Courtney and Adore rode by on their jet skis.

Raja watched Fame’s face fall. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss the fact that Courtney had showed up, both of them too busy, but Raja could see it as plain as day on Fame’s face that she was unhappy with the turn of events, though she was sure Fame would look exactly the same to anyone who hadn’t worked with her for more than a decade. Raja didn’t care about a lot of people, but she did care about Fame, the blonde somehow worming her way into her heart and staying there.

“So, how are you holding up?”

“Holding up?” Fame bit her lip, so clearly lying it was almost pathetic. “I’m holding up amazingly.”

Raja smiled. “Don’t lie to me. I know you too well for that.”

Fame sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Just know that I’m here.” Raja touched Fame’s shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

/////

“Augh!” Courtney shrieked, as Adore rode by, dangerously close, spraying her with water. The two of them were tooling around the bay on jet skis, having beelined for them the second lunch was over. Adore could barely listen to the instructions, she was so anxious to get on.

“Is this what it would feel like to ride a motorcycle?” she yelled to Courtney.

“I think this is probably way more fun than a motorcycle!” Courtney shouted back. She sped up, chasing Adore around the boat, seeing Bianca standing on the dock, watching them, a drink in hand.

“B, you’re missing out!” Adore called to her. “Too bad you’re so old and no fun at all!”

Bianca raised her middle finger. Courtney slowed her own jet ski, looking up at her with a cheeky grin.

“Wanna get on?” Courtney asked.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Bianca chuckled.

“Why… Ya scared?” Courtney revved the engine, riding in a slow circle, and Bianca smirked at her. She sucked down the last of her cocktail, setting her glass down and taking off her cover-up.

“Scared...pffft,” she scoffed, slipping on a life jacket, handed to her by the steward trying to keep them all from killing themselves. “How the fuck am I supposed to do this, anyway?”

The steward beckoned Courtney forward, helping support Bianca’s weight while she lowered herself down, hands gripping Courtney’s shoulders.

Bianca eventually settled in just behind Courtney, pressed into her back.

“It’s probably better to hold onto her waist,” the steward told her.

Bianca swallowed, placing her hands around Courtney’s waist, feeling those abs under her hands.

“Are you good?” Courtney asked.

“I’m good.” She then let out a gasp as the jet ski lurched forward, Courtney accelerating quickly, causing her to hold on tighter. “Fucking hell!”

Courtney giggled, gunning it even faster, loving the feel of Bianca’s thighs gripping hers, arms now tightly wrapped around her waist, lips inches from her neck, where the hair was standing on end. The faster she went, the closer Bianca held her, and so she zipped around the bay like a demon out of hell.

Bianca’s heart pounded, cheeks feeling hot and flushed as she pressed close to Courtney, clinging to her. Why did she think this was a good idea? And why did Courtney always have to feel so fucking perfect in her arms? She cursed internally, kicking herself for letting her feelings run away with her. Honestly, it was unlikely that Courtney was thinking about her as anything more than an ex. Her best friend’s sister.

Of course, then a hand reached down, gently squeezing her thigh, as Courtney asked, “Everything okay, B?”

“Ahem…Yeah. Everything’s fine. You’re an excellent driver.”

Courtney giggled, leaning back into her arms, and Bianca felt her icy heart melt a little.

/////

“Almost seems fun.” Karl looked at the jet skis, the sounds of Adore’s screams carrying from the distance.

“Almost being the keyword.” Sutan laughed. “Remember when we went to Sunny Beach? In Bulgaria?”

“You almost died.”

“And who’s fault that was?”

Karl rolled his eyes. “No one forced you to drink a double whale and go swimming.”

Sutan smiled. “Everything seems like a good idea when you’re high on coke.” They were some of the last to make their way towards the boat, the two friends having spent time at the beach, looking for seashells for Sutans mom, Karl’s pockets filled with conchs of different shapes and sizes. Sutan threw an arm around Karl’s shoulder. “Thank god we don’t do that anymore, huh?”

“Yeah... Thank god.”

/////

“I like your bracelet.”

Violet looked up from her magazine, surprised etched into her features at Fame’s voice, the blonde standing behind her deck chair, a small smile on her perfect face. They had all returned to the boat, the giant ship now cruising through the water to whatever destination Fame planned for next.

“I…” Violet touched her bracelet. “I, umh. Thank you.” It was a thin golden band, the metal woven together, and Violet had fallen in love with it the first time she had seen it.

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it at TILT.”

“Oh, so it’s vintage?”

Violet nodded. She was unsure why Fame was being so welcoming towards her, her mind briefly wondering if Sutan had asked Fame to keep an eye on her, but that didn’t make sense.

Violet stood up, ready to respond to Fame’s question, when her world turned dark.

/////

Courtney climbed out of the hot tub and onto the deck, muscles loose and relaxed. The evening air had turned chilly, sun low in the sky, and she shivered.

“Need a towel?”

Bianca caught her eye, giving a half smile, unable to stop thinking about their jet ski ride.

“Yeah, thanks.” Courtney hugged her arms, and Bianca stepped forward with a large beach towel from the shelf, wrapping it around her shoulders.

The gesture was more intimate than she’d planned. She looked into Courtney’s eyes, lashes wet with tiny beads of water, and gulped. But at the same time, she didn’t really want to look away.

And it appeared that she wasn’t the only one, Courtney holding her gaze, an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Violet!”

A sudden shriek pierced the air, Fame’s voice ringing out, snapping both Bianca and Courtney out of their little daze.

[klassikally]

Sirius black is an artist headcannon

Okay just listen up I 100% believe that Sirius Black was an AMAZING artist

It started when he was young and bored during his mandatory tutoring sessions that he was forced into as soon as he began to show signs of magic

At the beginning it was just random doodles here and there on the margins of papers, books anything he could get his hands on

Walburga hated it, stating that art was only made by the poor for the rich to enjoy and that art was most certainly not an acceptable hobby for the male heir of the black family or some bullshit like that

She did everything she could to stop him from drawing as a child from only providing him with quick quotes quills to making a scene of incendioing any small doodles she found

However she wasn’t the only one who noticed his talent his older cousin Andromeda gifted him a set of quills and paints enchanted to look like books for his 11th birthday as well as a notebook with an endless supply of paper

It was his first gift that he truly treasured and once he began to paint (first with watercolors) he felt so alive it was almost as if his magic ingrained itself into his artwork

Sirius had always seen things in his own way. He was able to find beauty in things that were ugly, familiarity in the strange and home in the foreign. This gift allowed his art to flourish and at the same time his art allowed him to show how he saw the world in a tangible way.

Once he got to hogwarts his subjects of painting were able to become so much lighter and more alive no longer was he confined to painting dark still life’s of random objects and corners of 12 Grimwauld Place

For a while he kept it a secret his mother’s dissaproval resounding in his head whenever he thought he had enough courage to show the boys, fearful that he would be labeled a “pounce” or something along those lines

But one day in third year he was studying alone with Remus and wasn’t able to help himself from sketching the boy, the way his hair was both messy and perfect at the same time, his skinny frame which could never seem to gain weight no matter how many cholocate frogs he ate and the way the pink raised lines crossed over the bridge of his nose, his freckles cheeks and sharp brow

Over the past few years his style had changed from mainly still life’s to scenes from hogwarts and creatures that he would find around the grounds

However he had also recently been drawing and painting portraits now using both watercolor and gouache paints he found himself sometimes sketching out and painting those who he spent most of his time with

He had a few of James some depicting him just lounging around the common room. Sirius’s favorite of him was the short sketch of his best friend flying, he had also painted a few of lily and the other Gryffindor girls giggling amoungst themselves, one of Peter red in the face after his first kiss (on the cheek) and even one of McGonagall her stern eyes behind her specticals

But there was no person who took up the pages of his sketchbook more than Remus Lupin. Some of the images were small deatailed studies others were quickly sketched as if he were trying to keep the moment forever

Nonetheless Remus saw the book that day but decided to keep quiet about it until the two got back to their dorm later that night James down at quidditch practice and Peters snores coming from behind the curtains of his bed

At first Sirius had slightly panicked when Remus confronted him but once the initial anxiety was gone and he handed the book over to Remus to look through he felt more pride in his talent than ever before the two of them staying up long into the night with Sirius finally being able to explain the art that he was making to someone else

Eventually James and Peter found out and Sirius realized that his fears were only fears the other two loved his work and eventually his trio of friends convinced him to not hide his work from the world any longer

Soon Sirius became known as the artist at hogwarts he would create banners for quidditch games, sell painted cards for Christmas and Valentine’s Day and even have his painting of the Gryffindor tower hung in the common room

Every year after that he was gifted supplies and canvases by his friends for his birthday and Christmas and they would know that if he wasn’t in class or pranking with the other mauraders that he could always be found in the studio that he’d created in the room of requirement

Over the years his art began to diversify he still did portraits and architcheure but soon it also began to turn a bit abstract the traditional style he’d come to teach himself mixing with line work and minimalism as well as different colors textures and ways of thinking

He also began to wear his work painting pairs of muggle jeans and dabbling in creating patches and designs on his leather jacket (gifted to him by James for his 15th birthday along with his first full pack of cigarettes)

Over time the boys began to understand that Sirius used the art to convey thoughts and emotions that he otherwise didn’t know how to articulate.

After holidays and really any interactions with his family his art would often be darker showing a glimpse of what all was going on in the black home

Sirius even came out through his art first to his muse, who to no ones surprise was Remus who choked up at the sight of the portrait of himself the first time he was able to really see his body and believe whenever he heard Sirius whisper that he was beautiful when he thought the other boy wouldn’t hear

During the summer holiday before his 6th year he would send small paintings to the other boy done silently at night in order to not be discovered by his mother

He had a small collection of unfinished canvases he had brought home to try and work on over the summer however one night kreacher found them and alerted Walbuga and Orion Black

The two saw this as their blood traitorous sons last straw cursing the boy and sending his work up into flames before blasting his name off of the family tree.

He only had enough time to grab his beloved sketchbook, jacket and set of paints before flooing to the Potters. Bruised, bloodied and covered in the soot of his artwork

After this his art turned even more dark the depression very evident, there was no longer likeness to anything in his work it was haunting to look at but no less beautiful the only other time the mauraders saw work even close to this was after ‘the prank’ that almost ripped them apart and sent Sirius into a month of isolation the previous year

Eventually it returned back to his semi normal style but it was never the same and as the threat of war grew during their last two years it seemed the young man was desperately trying to capture every happy moment he could with the family he had made at hogwarts

After graduating Sirius was one of many to join the Order in the fight against Voldemort. Despite the constant threat over their heads his art never stopped instead it was probably the one thing keeping him sane

He would sketch every single member of the Order no matter how much they did for the organization only painting in their picture if they died

He even secretly painted one for Regulus when the news of his death reached the order despite the fact that the two hadn’t spoken in over a year

Soon he felt he had too many painted portraits

When Remus was away on a long undercover mission with the werewolves he felt he could barely hold up his pencil or even draw a basic shape only creating one piece of art in the 3 months that his boyfriend was away

When Lily got pregnant his joy seemed to resume he gave the couple the collection of paintings he had done of her and them throughout the pregnancy when Harry turned 6 months

When his godson got a bit older his firsts gifts to the boy was a miniature broom (that to Lily’s dismay almost killed their damn cat) and a set of child safe paints that he and the boy would dip their fingers in and get more on the floors than the paper whenever he and Remus would babysit

He also did a painting of the boy around early October of 1981 and gifted it to the couple the same night that he and James had decided to actually make peter the secret keeper

On October 31st he had been painting in the cottage that he and Remus shared. All night he had felt a sort of dread and by 10pm he couldn’t take it anymore, his boyfriend out at a meeting with Dumbledore and he had been trying to finish a painting over the past several hours and only seemed to be messing it up more every minute

He decided to fly his bike to James and Lily’s place thinking that it wouldn’t be long and that he’d rather not apparate that night.

About an hour later he arrived to a dark and destroyed home his heart in his throat he stood for a second his mind not comprehending what had happened fast enough only to be woken from his trance by a cry that he knew to be his godson.

Rushing through the broken door his heart nearly stopped at the sight of James lying dead at the base of the stairs his eyes still open and glasses cracked.

Another cry made him pass the body of his best friend, his brother not before gently removing the spectacles and closing his friends eyes. He rushed up to the nursery only to find young Harry in his crib crying down at the body of Lily lying right before him. The paintings that he and Harry had made were still hanging from the wall

He was met at the door by Hagrid about an hour later after sobbing with Harry in his arms he had almost cursed the gameskeeper when he suggested taking harry before begrudendly deciding not to fight Dumbledore at the moment and planting one last kiss on his godsons head before letting Hagrid take him and the bike to Lily’s muggle sister

The next morning Remus Lupin trudged into the cottage that he and his boyfriend Sirius Black had once shared. He had just found out about the mans betrayall and watched him get dragged away after killing another of their friends

Upon entering the living room he saw a mess of paints and cloth two easels set up one with a painting of the Potter family the fucking bastard had some nerve and the other half finished the reference photo still charmed to float next to it

The other canvas no bigger than a textbook so far it was just their hands and faces his forehead was resting on top Sirius’s long black hair the other mans head resting on his chest both had small content smiles on their faces his eyes followed the brown sketch lines down to their hands collapsed together this was the last picture that the pair had taken together and was so lifelike the only difference is that there was a single golden ring on his second finger that he didn’t own.

That he had almost destroyed every piece of Sirius Black more times than he could count. His mind raced with different spells he could use the idea of waiting until the next full moon and destroying them as the wolf even came up once or twice

But he found himself unable and instead he just left he locked them all up and left them in the basement of their old house

The next morning he left everything behind besides the two final paintings and the sketchbook that held ten years of art that he couldn’t seem to let go of

[hellas-himself]

Ch. 5 Together on Christmas

Ch.4 

After the death of his father, Azriel is forced to go back to the one place he swore he’d never return to. But he finds himself quite literally face to face with his past, one that he had not let himself think of since he’d left. 

Ch. 6

.

.

.

Elain was standing in front of the dresser, looking at a picture taken right before I left. Our parents were sitting together, holding hands, with me and my brothers standing behind them. Rhys was in the middle, an arm around me and Cassian, grinning like the prick he was. Cassian was in the middle of a laugh and I looked about ready to disappear. 

“Bed is ready,” I said and she turned around to where I stood. The throw pillows were on the chest in front of the bed, the comforter folded over to the end. She smiled.

“Are you sure your mom is okay with me staying here?”

“Feyre spent the night way before she married Rhys. It’s fine.”

She laughed. “In his room?”

“God, you don’t want me to answer that.”

“Point taken.”

“So, left or right?” I asked and Elain just laughed and walked right towards me.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She took my hand as she climbed into bed and I went in after her, pulling the blanket over us. We were lying on our backs, looking up at the ceiling.

“Dinner was nice,” she said.

“I hope they didn’t tease you too much.”

“It didn’t bother me.”

“You might have to come help my dad with holiday dinners more often though. We hardly have any leftovers for tomorrow.”

Elain turned so that she was looking at me.

“You’re silly.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Only if you’ll play music again.”

I turned on my side, putting an arm around her and pulling her against me.

“I think we have a deal.”

She smiled. “I think we do.”

*

Elain was asleep, clutching the blanket to her chest. I got out of bed, finding my briefs and pajama pants. Sunrise wasn’t too far off so I didn’t need a light to look through my bag and take out the box my mother had left for me. I took the key out of the envelope, checking on Elain every now and then. But she was still sleeping.

The hinges of the box creaked slightly and I kept my gaze on Elain until it was opened. Inside, I found an envelope addressed to me, a small black box, and a little satchel that had the gold bracelet with the mano de azabache on it. I don’t know why that brought tears to my eyes, I would have worn that as a baby. A toddler. Maybe once my childhood hadn’t been so bad.

There was more money, tied with rubber bands and some pictures of us- one from the day I was born, another on my first birthday. I don’t know who took the picture, but she was holding me up, cake frosting on my face and hers. I saw kids at the table and other adults I’d never met. Were they her family? I’d never gotten to know them. She’d been my father’s maid, at first. Then the nanny. She’d run away from home, I knew that much, and though he had been married, she saw my father as her way out. And somehow, she loved him. But his wife, my half-brothers- they made our lives a living hell. I hated my father for allowing it. It was confusing, to see him with her, holding me, smiling. I never saw him smile, never at me, anyway. I was tempted to rip it in half, but I looked at the next one.

I was in a hospital bed, bandages around my hands. She was in the middle of a story, it seemed, Rhys was half asleep in his mother’s lap and Cassian was listening to her. And according to the note on the back, Rhysand’s dad had taken the picture. There were more… But I didn’t feel like I could look at them. Not yet. So I opened the envelope with my name on it and decided that maybe the pictures were easier than this.

Mi querido hijo, she wrote. Perdoname. Over and over she apologized. For not keeping me safe. For giving me up. For staying with my father. But she had never believed she was capable of giving me the life that Rhysand and Cassian had. She’d known Cassian’s mother, and knew that I would be in good hands. But the apologies continued and then, they stopped. She was proud of me. She missed me every day, she hated that I’d been deployed. Hated that I lived so far away, but knew that I was better off. It hurt. Hurt that she believed I was better off without her. How many times had I begged her to leave with me?

She wrote about Elain, about the things they did together… and about how much Elain talked about me. I see it in her eyes, Lito, she loves you. And I know that you love her. I looked up at where Elain was, still asleep. I couldn’t give you much before, she wrote, but maybe I can give you and Elain a head start.

*

“We’re together on Christmas,” Elain said as she wrapped the towel around herself. The bathroom floor was freezing so I picked her up which made her laugh.

“That we are,” I replied.

“Is everyone really still sleeping?” she asked as I set her down on the bed.

“Yeah… But don’t worry, once Cassian wakes up, so will everyone else.”

I brought her my shirt, and handed off her bag. Her bag had more skin care and make up than actual clothes but I guess I really didn’t mind it. Getting dressed proved to be difficult, but we managed it just in time to hear Cassian banging on Rhysand’s door. Elain answered the door when he started knocking on ours, wearing my shirt, leggings and a pair of fuzzy Christmas socks she’d brought from her apartment.

“How did we sleep?” Cassian asked with a grin, leaning against the doorframe.

“I don’t think I woke up once,” she said and gave him a hug. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Elain.” He looked at me. “Put a shirt on or else mom and Nesta will know what you two were doing last night.”

Elain pinched his side for that.

Everyone gathered in the living room, the tree surrounded by presents.

“Who wants to go first?” mom asked, leaning against our dad as he drank his coffee.

“I will,” Cassian said and started tossing presents at everyone from him and Nesta. A new phone for mom, imported cigars for dad as well as a watch, the cheesiest matching pajamas for Rhys and Feyre who would have run off to change in them if I didn’t know that it was taking Feyre a lot of effort not to throw up her breakfast. I wasn’t going to open my gift in front of them but Elain wanted to see. I raised a brow at the gloves and scarf, as nice as they were. Cassian only grinned.

“I had a feeling you’d need them… Considering Illyria is freezing most of the year.”

“What?”

“Emerie told him where you were the moment she saw you driving into town,” Nesta said, giving Cassian a playful shove. I sighed, thanking them even if I wanted to wipe that grin off Cassian’s face.

I’d had my gifts to everyone mailed in as I had not intended on being here until New Year’s… But it was nice to actually see their reactions in person. A gold bracelet for mom with our birthstones on it, a ring made of gold with an obsidian stone for dad. Books for Nesta, a set of watercolor paints for Feyre and a big enough palette to store them in, a Switch for Cassian which made Nesta sigh. He was already taking it out of the box to get it running. “Now he won’t bother you when you’re reading,” Feyre teased which made Nesta smile.

Rhys and Feyre went last, with Rhys handing our parents a box while Feyre had Cassian toss the rest since he was sitting closest to the tree. I purposely took my time opening mine because I knew what was inside. But in typical Rhys fashion, inside the box was another box, and another and another- until our mom was threatening Rhys with her scissors. The rest of us were content to watch them go at it as they did every year. His gifts to her were almost always worth the hassle, and he promised her that this year’s was even better. But he said that every year.

“Coño, be careful!” Rhys shouted as dad went to just rip the whole thing apart- also, a yearly occurrence.

“What is this?” mom asked as she set the other boxes aside and held the semi torn black box in her hands. She lifted the lid and set it aside. Her eyes widened, and it was almost like everything kind of stopped as she looked at Rhys and then at Feyre and back at the box on her lap. She pulled out the little black onesie, the tiny socks… the picture frame with the ultrasound picture Feyre had sent me just days before. I hadn’t seen our dad cry in a long time, but there he was, holding that onesie and crying.

“Vente pa’ca, puñeta,” he said to Rhys, pulling him in for a hug. “Is this real?”

“Yeah, viejo,” he replied. “You’re going to be grandparents.”

Our mother’s words were incoherent as she pulled Rhys out of our dad’s hold and squeezed him tight. Rhys was laughing as tears fell from his eyes.

They got up to go cover Feyre with kisses, my mother already fussing over her. Her sisters hadn’t known and wasted no time in going to congratulate her. Cassian lifted Rhys up and hugged him so hard I was surprised Rhys hadn’t cracked his spine.

“How are you so calm?” Cas asked me. “We’re going to be uncles.”

I was going to say I already knew but Rhys chimed in first.

“You know Az isn’t going to cry in front of us. Especially with Elain here. He has a reputation to uphold.”

I flipped him off and of course mom saw it. Rhys laughed at me but then was quickly silenced by her glare.

*

I watched as Feyre lay back on the sofa, her shirt up as my mom took Nesta’s gold chain and Elain’s ring and held it over Feyre’s belly.

“It’s too early,” dad said but she shushed him.

“It’s never too early.”

“Is it supposed to move?” Feyre asked.

“It’s not moving?” dad practically shouted and went to stand beside Rhys. He looked just as excited as Rhys did. It wasn’t moving at all.

“What does that mean?” Elain inquired.

“That means it’s a boy,” mom replied. “I did it for Rhys. And I was right about Mor.”

“Can I get the knife and the screw driver?” dad asked her and my mom laughed, giving Nesta and Elain their jewelry back.

I got up from where I was sitting and stood beside Elain. I put an arm around her shoulder and smiled when she reached up to lace her fingers with mine.

“Show me your hands,” I said to Feyre who looked at me like I’d just grown a second head. But she sat up and did just that. Palms up, almost in fists. “Boy.”

The room was now filled with shouting, Cassian lifting Rhys off the floor and shaking him.

“Does that really work?” Elain asked me.

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out in a few months.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes… It’s something to look forward to.”

We looked at one another and I wondered if she was still talking about Feyre and Rhysand’s baby.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied.

Elain smiled and I decided she was right.

*

Elain and I sat outside on the porch swing. Everyone was inside, already dancing and drinking. Feyre went up to take a nap and I was pretty sure Nesta had gone with her. Elain was leaning into me, her feet barely touching the floor.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” she said quietly.

“Do you really have to open back up tomorrow?”

“I’ve never really done this before… Nuala is gone until New Year’s.”

“There’s no one else who could help out while you’re away?”

She shrugged.

“If I find someone to help out, would you stay?”

“But I don’t know anyone who would do that.”

I kissed her forehead. “I do… I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To extend your vacation, what else?”

Rhys didn’t mind being pulled out of the living room. He didn’t even seem surprised at what I was asking. But of course, the prick wouldn’t do it.

“I’m too drunk, Azrielito… Besides, it would mean more coming from you.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Don’t look through my photo album,” he said after he unlocked it and laughed. I sighed, finding who I wanted to call and walked to the sitting room where no one ever spent any time. It was quiet, too quiet.

“Rhys, what do you want? It’s Christmas,” Lucien said, but I knew he was smiling.

“It’s not Rhys.”

A pause and then, “Azriel. What a surprise.”

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Really?” I heard him chuckle. I sighed.

“I want Elain to be able to spend the holidays with her sisters without worrying about the diner.”

I heard him tell Vassa he would be right back, heard as it became a little quieter.

“Where is Elain?”

“Sitting outside on the porch at my parents’ house.”

“You convinced Elain to take a break?”

“It would seem that way.”

Lucien let out a long sigh.

“How long?”

“Just until the third. And I will pay them double.”

“That isn’t really necessary.”

“All the same. I can’t have her worrying about anything.”

“It will take a few phone calls, but please tell Elain to enjoy her vacation.”

I sighed with relief. “Thank you, Lucien.”

“And Az?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let her get away.”

*

Elain was taking shots with our dad when I walked back to the living room. I handed Rhys his phone and made my way to Elain. She giggled, her cheeks rosy pink.

“You kept me waiting.”

“You’re on vacation, Elain Archeron.”

“What?”

“We’ll go back on the third-”

She pulled me by the collar and kissed me, much to everyone else’s amusement. Our dad patted me on the back when Elain let me go and went over to tell her sisters the news.

“I haven’t seen you smile this much… ever,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m not used to it. My face kinda hurts.”

He laughed and threw an arm around my shoulder. Elain was sitting next to our mom who was talking to her and whatever she was saying had Elain blushing.

“You being home is the greatest gift you could’ve given us… Well, you brought your girlfriend and Feyre…” He sighed, already tearing up again. “I can’t even believe it.”

“Christmas only started, viejo,” I said, my eyes on Elain, feeling my heart race. “There’s still time for more surprises.”

.

.

.

La Mano de Azabache is a black hand on a gold bracelet given to babies to protect them from the evil eye. I had one, my brothers, and every other baby in the family. 

Mi querido hijo means my beloved son and perdoname means forgive me. 

Coño  means dammit lol or sometimes like WHAT THE HELL!! but yeah, lol it’s the same vibe 

Vente pa’ca is the shortened way of say vente para aca which is come here. 

puñeta  is like... asshole, son of a bitch, etc but in Puerto rico we use it as endearment and also like encouragement lol even as a verb. 

I don’t know if anyone else does this but we take any chain, preferably gold, with a ring or other charm on it and if it spins over the belly it’s a girl. if it doesn’t, it’s a boy. it’s ridiculous and I know gender is a social construct but when I was pregnant it was fun to do it with my grandma and aunties. the knife and scew driver is the same idea. you hide them under the sofa and wherever the mom sits, determines the gender. knife girl, screw driver, boy. with the “show me your hands” if you hold them out the way you would at a nail salon (idk how else to describe it) its a girl. if you basically make kind of a fist, palms up with your nails pointing to you, it’s a boy. my grandma did that to me without explaining and she was like GIRL! and the house was in uproar. lol

Happy super late three king’s day! lol 

@dreamerforever-5 @faelightsstarfall

[hadesgoddess]

Dawn is Coming, Open Your Eyes; Chapter 1!

Here is the first chapter of my Aster/Rose fanfic. I typed this a few years ago and polished it to post now that I’ve listed Bunny as one of my f/o’s. TW, some light cursing and light alcohol usage.

p.s. yeah I know Jack is Nightlight but I wrote this before the final book came out, so I already wrote some great interactions between the two. Also movie Jack is very different from book Nightlight.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

For some, it seemed like winter couldn’t end fast enough and that summer would never come. But Rose knew that the seasons would turn in their own time and there was no hurrying Ostara. It was one of the things she had learned over the years.

Of course that didn’t mean that she was going to do as she pleased and take her sweet time waking up with the Earth. No, the consequences of that lesson were still fresh in her mind and well-learned.

So when the snow began to melt and the icicles started to drip off the low icy boughs of her willow tree, Rose sleepily blinked awake.

It had only been a mere half of a year since she went into hibernation with the rest of the animals in her glen, and yet it seemed like a lifetime away. She wasn’t too surprised; it always felt like that at the beginning of spring. At first her body was weak and tired having been still and lifeless for 6 months, but as the sun rose, she found warmth flow through her toes and fingers.

Brushing her carefully braided, flower-entwined hair out of her eyes, Rose lithely somersaulted out of the shade and into the sun’s beams. She sighed in pleasure as heat hit her bare stomach and legs. As her body soaked up the warmth and drew power from the rays, she floated up to a stand.

Her feet barely touched the ground and the icy crystals beneath them vanished in their presence. She shook out her hands, loosening the joints and drawing in such a slow, strong breath, her whole body seemed to expand. She blew it all out in one quick breath and released the power of the East wind upon her meadow. The tendrils of the wind bent and twirled through the trees, catching icicles and snowy boughs and shaking them tremendously. Behind the wind, Rose ran as quick as a hare and as gracefully as a doe, dispelling the piles of snow and ice that fell in her path.

The sun had almost trekked its way up into the middle of the gentle blue sky when she finished. She sighed contentedly, this time only using her own breath and not the East wind. Oh, she could never get enough of the sun, the sounds of birds in the trees, the gentle babble of the brooke.

“May Ostara strike me dead if I ever forsake my love of spring.” She thought quietly. It had been so long since she had had a conversation with someone who talked back. She had quite forgotten what it was like to make any sound other than a shout of joy or to scream with the howling wind.

Speaking of nonverbal conversationalists, she spotted a tiny spot of black and blue in the distance, flying toward her hidden glen. Nightlight reached the meadow in no time at all. He had always been fast; it had been a requirement to be the bodyguard of the royal family. But those days were over even though Nightlight never stopped being light on his feet. She giggled at her little joke as she rode the wind up to the top of the ridge that encompassed most of the glen and joined Nightlight on the edge.

Up here, she could hear no birds save for the screech of a golden eagle far above. It was a quiet peace and there was never an awkward silence between Rose and her companion. She would have been content to stay here all morning, but Nightlight had other plans.

He brought a finger up to her forehead and softly brushed a knuckle against her temple. A small jolt ran through her body and images bloomed behind her closed eyelids like ink spilled on a fresh piece of paper. Hazy memories spread as vibrant as watercolors, from Nightlight’s perspective to Rose's.

Nightlight stood upright and impossibly still behind the Lunar Prince, both peering out of the viewing port on the bridge of MiM’s ship. MiM had called Nightlight to him centuries ago when The Guardians had defeated Pitch during what the humans called the Dark Ages. Nightlight had never left. He felt it best to resume his duties as the Royal Bodyguard, even if the Lunar Prince was no longer in danger or a child.

So if Pitch was gone, what could MiM possibly want him to witness?

Below them was the Arctic Circle, North’s workshop aglow with warmth and activity despite Christmas being over for the year. Something had agitated the Yeti’s and by extension, North.

Nightlight’s eyes widened in shock as he observed a black, frothy mass of what looked like sand cover North’s globe and whisk away with a sinister snicker. Not two minutes later, North sent out the signal to the other Guardians, calling them to arms.

The memory shifted sideways and drained away like a pile of melting snow slipping off a narrow branch. Another one sparked through her mind.

It had taken the Guardians merely a day to come together. They scampered to North’s workshop like persecuted Romanian folk seeking sanctuary at the doors of the Church. Nightlight and his charge watched from above silently, waiting for them to figure it out.

It seemed amazingly simple to understand from Nightlight’s point of view, but perhaps that was because he could see the whole world at a glance.

It didn’t take long for the Sandman to notice them snooping in on their conversation. Nightlight wasn’t surprised; Sanderson Mansnoozie was an old captain of a shooting star and had became extremely aware of his surroundings so as to be on the lookout for any wishes sent his way caused by him streaking through the sky.

Nightlight’s lips tightened in a small show of disapproval at the Guardians waving hands and the barest of acknowledgements that they gave to Sanderson. Perhaps this new Guardian that MiM had picked would be the driving force to return the main Guardians to the path from which they had wandered from.

When Sanderson finally caught their attention, albeit with creative methods, the Guardians straightened up. Even though they were a bit uncoordinated, they knew when to be serious. MiM quickly filled them in, confirming to North that Pitch indeed was back and at large.

When the Lunar Tsar called forth the moonbeam to choose the newest guardian, the Guardians were all agog. Nightlight’s own moonbeam struggled in its place in his staff, begging to reconnect to its kin. But the apparition emitted from the crystalized moonbeam pulled his attention away from his weapon.

Jack Frost.

She was startled from the memory. Jack Frost was the new Guardian? He was so reclusive that She had a hard time believing that sat well with him. Before She could speculate further, Nightlight took her face in his hands again, impatient. She grinned at his youthful mannerisms and relented her mind to his again. His memories flew by faster and faster; fights between the Guardians and black horses made of sand, Sanderson’s death, and Pitch finally defeated by ironically, the children.

Satisfied that she was up to date, Nightlight released Rose and sprang to his feet. If him bouncing from foot to foot was any indicator, he wanted her to follow him. She knew that there would be no rest until she did, so she rose up and took off into the air, passing him completely. He sped forward, understanding, and so their race began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spirits spiraled down to the roof of North’s Workshop, Rose’s landing a bit rough and Nightlight’s as perfect as ever. She never did well riding the North wind: it was consistently abrasive and tricky to control.

Rose struggled out of the snowbank that she had fallen into with no help from Nightlight. The soft snow hadn’t hardened in the freezing air yet and was loose and powdery, allowing her to roll forward and out. The boyish spirit was silently giggling and attempting (failing) to hide it. She tossed a heated glare in her friend’s direction and marched determinedly to the staircase leading from the roof’s observatory platform to the main room.

Once inside, it was as if she had stepped into a physical wall of cinnamon and hot chocolate, with a hint of mint on the breeze. She let out a grateful breath. Winter may be the opposite of her season, but North embodied the spirit of Christmas into everything he built and it was hard to feel vulnerable here.

A real shindig was going down at the workshop and it seemed everyone was invited. She felt a touch of love for Nightlight to have come and retrieved her personally. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that she was not the only warm season spirit in the vicinity. She spotted several woodland sprites conversing with Mother Goose by the globe, emitting strange hisses, quacks, and rasps at times. Oh and up there, by the mantle, a Leprechaun was in an avid conversation with Father Time, or as Nightlight and Rose knew him, Ombric the Wizard.

Rose had had an unfortunate run in with one of Ombric’s defenses when she was younger, the Spirit of the Forest. She was tempted by wretched curiosity to learn what the source of such marvelous sparkling was and had become ensnared in a trap. If she had not acted like the cacophonous crow and had not desired to take the source of the shimmering, she would have been able to pass through Ombric’s woods without harm. Rather, she found herself turning to stone, toe by toe. It was so painful that she let out a dreadful yell, catching Nightlight’s attention. He bargained with the Spirit and she was let go on the promise never to be so selfish again.

At the memory of herstone turning to flesh, Rose shuddered; She had never forgotten her promise. But she thought to herself, as they approached a thick tangle in the crowd, that she was a tad grateful for it had made her and Nightlight friends. Her ponderings were cut short as they reached the thick of the bulk and found that it was not a tangle of people but rather, spirits surrounding a ring of Guardians. In the center was a frightened looking Jack Frost.

He had the appearance of a deer in the headlights, unsure whether to wait it out or flee. It made sense; he probably had never been around this many people at once, with every eye fixed on him expectantly. He held up well and put on a brave determined face, not letting his easy smile slip and continued to greet newcomers and the like.

By the time the two spirits squeezed through, the crowd had almost dispersed. The Guardians dealt with the last straggler and turned their attention on Rose and Nightlight. North gave a visible sigh of relief while Toothiana ‘s face split wide with a smile. Rose had the feeling that they preferred their company over others because of their twin silence.

Her friend and Sanderson immediately launched into a complicated conversation of sand symbols and hand gestures known only to them. She hugged North and Tooth in greeting.

“Ah, Rose, it is sweet relief to hear your silence!” North laughed uproariously at his little joke.  “You have not met Jack before, have you?” He drew Frost closer to his side and gestured to him graciously. She bowed slightly from the waist, a small salute from one Herald of a season to another. Frost somberly bowed as well, still a bit withdrawn but polite.

“And well, I know that Sandy is glad to see you again.” Of course, Sandy and Nightlight were still engaged with each other.

“Bunny! There you are, stop lurking by eggnog and greet guests!” North yanked a disgruntled E. Aster Bunnymund away from the refreshments and shoved him forward. Rose unconsciously took a step back, out of fear that he would topple over and land on her, and a tiny bit from the shame welling up inside. She chanted in her head, “It was ages ago, doesn’t matter now, ages ago, doesn’t matter now... I bet he won’t even remember you, it’s been that long.” and bowed again to the Guardian and Master of Spring.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All Aster wanted to do was to tap out a tunnel, race back to the den, and sleep until the week was over. He was still aching from the battle with Pitch in muscles he didn’t know he had. Nothing a good hibernation couldn’t take care of, but the Spring equinox had passed and the instinct to burrow down into the cool dark earth had gone with it. Running a paw over his ears, he knocked back another cup of eggnog.

“Crikey! I swear North adds more alcohol every time he has a party.” It wasn’t all that bad. Traces of cinnamon stuck to his front teeth and made his nose twitch, but otherwise it served to calm his impatience.

“Bunny! There you are! Stop lurking by eggnog and greet guests!” Before Aster could even turn around, North’s hands clamped down on his shoulders and hauled him away from the drink table. With a spin, North presented him to the latest guests. The eggnog had slowed Aster’s reflexes by just a hair, but it was enough to make him  trip over his own feet. Catching himself just before he collapsed onto the poor spirit in front of him, Aster came nose to nose with a pair of sparkling hazel eyes.

Oh.

It was Rose. The Herald of Spring swallowed nervously and gave a stiff little bow. The awkward silence permeated the air before Aster choked out a small, “G’day.” Either she had nothing to say or she was shy as ever . North left them alone, wandering off to talk to other guests, “Bastard. Sure leave me all alone with the shelia too scared to talk to me.” He caught himself before his thoughts got too mean.

“Boy, you’re being a right ocker, ain’t ya?” He noticed Rose edging away, back towards the crowd. Screwing up some famous Púka courage, Aster blurted out, “Do ya want a cuppa? Or there’s some milo, if ya want instead.” She froze, uncertain of whether she should believe that he wanted to talk to her or not. Of course he did; it was only because of her avoiding tactics that they never talked.

To Aster’s relief, Rose nodded and joined him at the refreshments table. He hadn’t been lying when he said there was more than eggnog to drink. She poured herself some tea, cradling the mug to her heart as Aster forced himself to reach over the pot of milo and take another cup of eggnog. The eggnog might have a drip of alcohol, but the consequences of drinking it were better than what they would be if he drank the cocoa.

“Didn’t expect to see ya so soon after the start of Spring.” Aster remarked. ‘Course Spring had come late this year, thanks to that bloody groundhog. There were still parts of the world covered in a thin layer of snow. Well, some of them weren’t supposed to be.

Rose's tiny shoulders jumped up and down in a quick shrug. Aster sighed internally; she was always so quiet, but it seemed that she clammed up even more around the púka. He guessed he could understand. They hadn’t spoken to each other as friends since...

“How is he?” Aster’s ears flicked forward in interest at her question. Ah, he should have known the sheila would ask.

“He’s out of hibernation and shed his winter coat. I haven’t seen him since Easter; he likes to hide away for a bit every year, you know.”

“No... I don’t...” Aster froze, realizing what he just said. Boy, he really jammed his foot in his mouth right then. Slowly, so as not to startle her like a deer, he reached for Rose's hand.

“Listen, East...” At the mention of her nickname, she jolted and tugged her hands away. Ashamed and sad, but still determined to have a normal conversation with the spring spirit, Aster charged forward. “Maybe you should visit him–” Now she stepped away and turned her back to him.

“What I said cannot be forgiven. I know that in my heart and it hurts everyday. He deserves better.” At this, she fled.

Letting out a long sigh, Aster sat in an armchair. Those two needed to get over themselves and make up all ready. It didn’t help that Rose was being a right drongo about it. It had been 500 years already!

“That’s it, I’ve had enough of this angsty shit.” He made up his mind about how to fix this. “But first, I’ll have to find that slippery little hare.”

[thcrsen-blog]

this is so late... and i am so sorry...

( neels visser • 20 • male ) look, it's tyce thorsen from apartment 2A ! i heard that he is here in los angeles because they were traded to the la kings. they moved into moreau apartments one month ago and rumour has it, they can be quite insecure and closed off — good thing they’re also adaptable and easy going, hey ? i hear they’re the eeyore of the building. ( nyle, 20, est, she/them )

HISTORY

tyce thorsen was born in sunny arizona --- to watercolor sunsets and flat flat flat horizons; to the sand and the dry heat that fills your lungs too quickly; to an nhler who didn’t know how to give the ice up even in the desert, and passed that down to his sons.

arizona was not where tyce grew up, however; he grew up on the road, in the places between here and there, sometimes rooted for a year, sometimes barely a few months. NINE schools, NINE cities in eleven years is no way to raise a child, and yet tyce embraced it all --- ever willing to adapt to new surroundings from alaska to california to boston, to new weather and friends, so long as the ice in his veins was kept happy and kept happy it was. jonathan thorsen would not have anything different for his sons.

perhaps the first place that truly felt like home was ANN-ARBOR, home of the united states national development team program. in the end, he was only there for a year, though it could have easily been two if the university of connecticut hadn’t requested an acceleration of his education that he ultimately accepted. he graduated a year early and went on to play for uconn’s newly fledged team.

he finished his freshman season with 33 pts in 36 games and went on to be drafted by the st. louis blues in the 2016 NHL draft at 26th overall. he played his sophomore season, earning 33 pts in 34 games (missing two games due to playing in the world juniors championship where he won gold with team usa). the summer after, he sign his entry level contract with the blues.

( there’s this FEELING of wanting to be part of something for more than a YEAR, a fleeting moment of finding family only to be taken away from them again --- he won’t tell anyone this, but he’s tired of the ceaseless movement. and the only reason he didn’t STAY with the usntdp longer is because he didn’t want to get CLOSER with an inevitable deadline creeping up ).

as it turns out, this start he thought was coming didn’t come true. he started out in the AHL and got called up halfway through and certainly didn’t have the potential the blues were hoping to get from their first round pick. tyce wasn’t exactly happy with his own play either, but there was little he could do about it --- they weren’t letting him play his game, and in the nhl you do anything you can just to not get sent back down. he entered his first nhl off-season with the determination to get better.

the call from his agent came in mid-july ( “you’ve been traded” ). traded to the la kings along with a couple veteran players and a first round pick for the star center the blues so desperately needed to make playoffs ( and the one that tyce would certainly not become ).

it was a shock at first ---after all, st. louis was always supposed to be the end of all this ceaseless movement, but tyce was also the son of an nhler and as all who grow up with the nhl pipedream know: nothing is certain, and hockey is a business. he’s prided himself in being ADAPTABLE, after all. and more he learned, the more he thought about it and talked with the kings organization, the more he realized that this might just be the opportunity he needed. there’s something to be said about being WANTED, someone having confidence in you and big plans for the future.

and tyce moved to la with plans of giving them a reason he should STAY.

MISC

okay so i gave tyce the label of “eeyore” because i imagine he always has these big sad eyes and expression that make him look extremely down all the time ( even when he’s not ). he tends to always look like he has some emotional weight on his shoulders but when he smiles it lights up his whole face.

he is a TALL ASS BITCH. boi is 6′5″ and 202 pounds. he could stand to gain more weight in muscle and actually use his size on the ice a bit more. but he is a very tall man.

he’s a winger who can play right or left side. he was drafted as a center but that changed. call him a power forward. he has a very good shot and is a huge asset to the penalty kill (that was his dad’s specialty). despite his size, he is rather nimble on a ice and can skate extremely well.

personality-wise, he is very easy-going and nothing seems to phase him very much ( he just rather not waste the energy ). but that easiness masks a lot of insecurities, especially about his height and his play. he’s not as conscious about his height as he was ( used to be called bambi and has trouble growing into his rapidly changing body ) but it’s still a little disconcerting to look down at almost everyone. 

CONNECTIONS

so tyce has only been in la for about a month, month and a half when he moved it prior to the season starting. he lives in 2A so i’m down for all the neighborly plots or the annoying resident above plots...

that being said, he’s also lived in a l o t of places so he could have met ur chara beforehand...

fans of the la kings, anybody??

uh... idk. im so bad at connections, i’m sorry but pls hmu!!

[cskiner]

Ot[her]

A young Filipina mestiza searches for her racial identity among the women of color whom she admires.

 I.                              CHARACTER STUDIES

Lola: an old woman, with silver-grey curls that hint black at the ends like youth that hangs on by its joy. She wears soft pinks and floral patterned dresses, worn slippers, and a large watch that fits her wrist almost as well as the veins that surround it. Lola has a thick Filipino accent, points with her lips, and reads her bible every night. Her glasses are large round frames, and she always wears diamond earrings and a string of pearls around her neck.

Mama: almost a carbon copy of Lola, but middle aged—fewer grey hairs and longer curls tied loosely back, square glasses and a focused brow. She is quiet and gentle but intimidating, though barely over five feet. She wears t-shirts and cargo pants and sneakers, but her hands are the same as Lola’s—the markings, the mannerisms, the creases in her palm all exact. After act one, she wears a necklace made of the same diamonds from Lola’s earrings, and she plays with it when she answers difficult questions.

Celine: the smallest version of the two women above—she is barely seven years old, with bigger, rounder eyes and bouncing pigtails but straighter hair. She is fidgety and curious, with a book and sometimes a stuffed animal in hand. Her clothes are a little too big (just enough that she can grow into them).

 II.                           ACT ONE

SCENE ONE

A bedroom—a queen size bed in a bedframe that lifts it about three feet from the floor. A bedside table holds a lamp and next to it, a large bookshelf. It is morning; light streams in through the window and Mama sits in the bed, eyes closed and whispering her morning prayers.

Celine shuffles in, dragging a stuffed animal (a puppy) behind her. She stops at the bookshelf to pick out a copy of ‘Little Women,’ then takes a running start to jump onto the bed beside Mama. Mama quietly finishes her prayers.

 MAMA: (whispers) Amen. (Then, louder) Good morning, cookie. (Sees book) Is it story time? ‘Little Women’ again? We just finished it!

CELINE: I want to read the part about their papa coming home!

MAMA: Okay, little one. What do you say?

CELINE: Please, mama?

MAMA: (Nods, then begins to read the story—in the book, the girls’ father comes home from the

war and they gather around the fire to greet him. Celine interrupts her.)

CELINE: It’s like when papa comes home from work at night!

MAMA: Yes, he’s always happy to see you. But he’s never gone long.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: Yes?

CELINE: (Eyes wide) How come people look at papa funny when he holds my hand to cross the street?

MAMA: (Pauses) Oh honey. You and your brother have my eyes and hair, dark brown like mine. Your papa has blue eyes and he was blonde when he was your age. A long time ago, people would have looked at me funny too, for holding your papa’s hand.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: Yes, honey.

CELINE: How come we don’t look like papa? Is it because we come from your tummy?

MAMA: (Laughs) No, love. You get some things from your father and some from me. Your eyes may be brown like mine but they’re bigger than mine, better to see with, and you have his creative mind and his compassion. That’s why you paint watercolors together outside on the weekends.

CELINE: Mama?

MAMA: (Patiently) Yes, dear.

CELINE: What’s compassion?

MAMA: Caring about someone a great deal. The way he cares about you.

CELINE: (Sits up) I care about him, too! And I love the crepes he makes in the morning. It means I get to have chocolate for breakfast.

MAMA: (Smiles) I know you do. Let’s go say good morning and get you some breakfast.

 SCENE TWO

Lights turn out in the bedroom and on in the kitchen, where Celine (older now, about thirteen) steps in to find Lola setting the table slowly, in her slippers. There is a large pot on the stove, filled with champorado, or Filipino chocolate rice porridge.

 LOLA: Good morning, ang ganda ko. Did you sleep well?

CELINE: I did, but I smelled champorado and I had to get up.

LOLA: (Smiles) Your favorite.

CELINE: You remembered!

Lola begins to serve the champorado, putting a generous scoop in each bowl. Celine sits down eagerly to eat, and Lola stands while she drinks hot tea from a mug that reads “World’s Best Nurse.”

 CELINE: Is this why you put chocolate chips in when I make you oatmeal? So that it tastes like champorado?

LOLA: (Nods) Next time I will teach you how to make it this way. It’s easy. Just rice instead of oats.

CELINE: Really?

LOLA: My lola taught me when I was your age. I was like you.

CELINE: (Eyes wide again) What were you like when you were my age?

LOLA: I didn’t have as many questions.

CELINE: What are the Philippines like? Why did you leave?

LOLA: Hot. Lots of mosquitos. My family was there, but there was a better life here for me and your lolo. And for your mama, and you too. So we left.

CELINE: I remember. You were a nurse and he was a sailor?

LOLA: Yes. In the Navy. (She says Navy with a Filipino accent, so that it sounds more like ‘Naby.’ Celine takes note.)

CELINE: Lola?

LOLA: Yes, ang ganda ko.

CELINE: How come you didn’t teach my mama how to speak Tagalog? Or my uncles or my aunties?

LOLA: It helped them fit in—they were American kids who speak English without accents. It

was easier for them.

CELINE: Will you teach me some?

LOLA: You already know some.

CELINE: Do I? LOLA: (Kisses Celine on the top of her head) Ang ganda ko—my beautiful.

CELINE: (Looks up at Lola) I guess I do.

LOLA: And all the foods I cook. You know those.

CELINE: Oh, of course. Adobo, pancit, lumpia…

LOLA: That’s your kuya’s favorite.

CELINE: Is that Tagalog, too? Kuya?

LOLA: (Nods) Kuya for brother, ate for sister.

CELINE: But Lola, I want to speak to you in Tagalog.

LOLA: I can speak English just fine. You and I will communicate best that way.

CELINE: But—

LOLA: Finish your breakfast, naman.

CELINE: (Looks down) Yes, Lola.

 SCENE THREE

Lights come up briefly on the bedroom, which is now a hospital room with an IV tube. They come back down and lights in the kitchen come on—Mama and Celine (now 18)—sit in the kitchen, drinking tea. They look tired—it is late, the light in the kitchen is no longer natural light, but dim and fluorescent.

CELINE: I miss her. It’s weird.

MAMA: I know, honey. I miss her too.

She plays with her necklace, absently.

CELINE: I don’t think it’s fully sunken in yet.

MAMA: Me either. But I’m here, if you need me. If you need to talk.

CELINE: Me too, mama.

MAMA: I’m not sure I have anything to say yet.

CELINE: It’s okay.

There is a brief silence.

CELINE: Who’s going to cook at holidays now?

MAMA: We’ll figure something out.

Lights dim further in the room and Celine addresses the audience from a spotlight.

CELINE: We haven’t quite figured it out yet. The pancit tastes almost the same as it used to, but nobody can julienne the vegetables quite the way Lola did. When she was in the hospital, everyone brought Filipino food for two weeks while we slept there, waiting. It was sweet, it was meant to be sweet.

She fiddles with her necklace.

But none of the food tasted like hers, and it sent me into this spiral of fear that I hadn’t learned enough about her culture. That I didn’t know enough about who I was, that I didn’t know how to respect those who came before me and the sacrifices they made. I didn’t have the trials they did—I took the privilege of my white side when it was convenient and I was a minority when the oppressors were convicted. I’m learning that I cannot just choose to be a woman of color when I want to, but I’m also learning that my own culture narrative is eating champorado in an American kitchen. The same kitchen I ate crepes in when I was seven, and the same kitchen I cook in with my mestizo cousins every Christmas. I cannot claim to be one or the other, but I must also take responsibility for both. I carry Lola’s accent with me. When I find myself passing through barriers she couldn’t, it helps me to remember what burdens she bore for my privilege. And I think of her every time I put chocolate in my American oatmeal.

Shuffles out of kitchen in worn slippers. Lights go out.

csk

3/6/18

[lauralikesbaking]

My Marianas Trench Phantoms cake! It’s a dark chocolate Guinness cake with an Irish Whisky Cream Cheese icing, and white chocolate matte glaze. I had mentioned it to Josh during his live stream and he retweeted it on Twitter when I finished it! Someone had joked that they should try to recreate this on Rock and Roll Kitchen, Nailed It style, with me as a judge, and that would be a DREAM come true. I love both cooking and baking, and I’ve made just about every single recipe Josh has posted. It’s not likely to happen, of course, but even if they made it on the show without me, that’d would be just as amazing.

 I have a different way of cake painting than what most websites will tell you, so if anyone is interested in learning how I made this read below!

Almost a year ago I had been watching a baking show with a couple kids I was babysitting and one of the challenges the bakers had to complete was paint a design on the cake. I had no idea that cake painting was even a thing. 6 months later I got around to buying the materials and 6 months after that I finally got around to painting this! 

Most cake painting recipes I had looked at told me that you could paint on buttercream - given you had frozen it ahead of time - or fondant. I’m personally not a fan of fondant - it looks pretty but it’s not very pleasant to eat. Buttercream tastes better, but it only lasts frozen for so long before it becomes soft and then you have to stick it in the freezer again. I discovered a better surface to paint on that allows you hours of painting time and is more edible than fondant. Last summer I tried to make a white chocolate mirror glaze cake for my sister for her birthday, and unfortunately the mirror glaze went matte. But I realized it might make a great surface to paint on, and after one experimentation I found that I was right. I could paint for hours and the cake would be fine! Here is the recipe I use.

It can take up to a full day to set everything before it’s ready for me to paint. First you need to bake the cake and let it chill. Level it, and then ice with your white frosting of choice. The frosting needs to be white and it needs to be as smooth as possible on the cake, because the glaze itself is see through and will show every dip and crumb. Once you finish icing it, you need to stick it back in the fridge or freezer to let the icing set a bit so it doesn’t run off when you pour the glaze on it.

When I make the glaze, I follow the recipe, right up the to the end where I let it cool to a lower temperature. I place the cake on a wire rack tray in a pan, to let the excess glaze to drain on to. Once the glaze is evenly poured over, I let it sit out for an hour and then transfer it into the fridge for at least another couple hours. I’ve never timed this part, but once it feels firm and doesn’t leave any on your fingers or a dent in the glaze, it’s set and ready to paint!

You can buy the paint from any craft store. Or you can make it yourself with a couple drops of gel/icing food coloring and a tablespoon of vodka. The alcohol will evaporate off the cake and is tasteless, but if you still don’t want to use the vodka, lemon extract can also be used, but it may make everything taste like lemon. I’ve never used it, so I’m not positive. The paint acts like watercolor, which is a medium I’ve always struggled with. The paint also doesn’t try too quickly. After storing it in the fridge overnight with a fresh coat of paint it still hadn’t completely dried. And you will need to purchase culinary paint brushes, which you can buy at any craft store. 

[gothify1]

It's no secret Glossier is über-talented when it comes to making waves, influencing trends, and setting refreshing diversity precedents within the beauty industry. So it's not surprising that when the cult-loved brand announces a new product launch, people go bananas . Of course, some launches have gone over better than others—Glossier Play is still a controversial topic among beauty editors—and some of the brand's beloved signatures (Milky Jelly Cleanser , Balm Dotcom , Cloud Paint , Generation G ...etc.) will likely never be dethroned from their pedestal. Which brings us to today's major news—the launch of Glossier's newest product called Brow Flick ($18)—the only brow product the brand has debuted since the 2015 arrival of Boy Brow ($16). (Which, if you didn't know, is the brand's #1 selling product and one of the most iconic brow products, well, ever. ) In fact, as the brand stated in a press release, last year, a tube of Boy Brow sold every 32 seconds. To which we say damn . Alas, we digress—back to the task at hand! The exciting and surprising (unless you're a beauty editor who received the exciting news last week) arrival of Brow Flick ($18), a sleek brush-tip detailing pen that's intended to groom and touch up your arches with the perfect amount of pigment and texture. With Brow Flick, it's all about definition, not necessarily color or fluff; the product aims to give Glossier's loyal community the option to add "more brow to their brow" for a full, polished, ultra-natural-looking finish. So what makes Brow Flick ($18) different than the gel, powder, or pencil you already love? For starters, it comes in just three sheer, (surprisingly) versatile shades, Black, Brown, and Blond, which pair beautifully with their corresponding shades of Boy Brow. Second, the formula is water-resistant and creates easy, natural-looking strokes that look significantly less artificial and "drawn" than the results stencils and pencils can yield. You can use the pen anywhere you feel you want or need more definition or depth—be it the tails or arches—and thanks to the malleable, super-fine brush tip, the final aesthetic is designed to look pretty darn seamless. (Spoiler: It does!) Composition- and ingredient-wise, the formula is ophthalmologist tested, dermatologist tested, vegan, dairy-free, soy-free, gluten-free, grain-protein-free, nut-free, and hypoallergenic (woo!), and other notable features include copolymers (for enduring wear), superfine pigments (for detection-free believability), and, of course, the flow-through brush applicator tip (for fine lines, precise application, and a natural finish). For A+ application, the brand suggests starting with clean skin, which will help ensure the formula adheres how it's intended. Then, holding the pen at a downward angle, lightly etch and feather your strokes anywhere you want some improvement. Let the application dry for at least 15 seconds, and then feel free to brush and fluff your hairs up with Boy Brow to enhance your work with a little more hold and definition. Et voila! Brow Flick in a nutshell. Of course, there's the whole issue of whether or not the newest Glossier baby lives up to all the inevitable hype, so I asked a few of my fellow Who What Wear co-workers to weigh in with before-and-after photos coupled with unbiased reviews. Keep scrolling for our honest thoughts! Wearing: Brow Flick in Blond & Boy Brow in Clear. "I'm notoriously anxious when it comes to brow products. Due to how fair my skin and hair is (and how sparse-ish my brows are), it's easy for brow products to go haywire fast. So I generally stick to pencils, which yield more control and precision than goopy gels. Thus, when I heard that Glossier's latest brow launch was a pen—which sounds rather intense—I was concerned. I had scary visions of an application that looked more like a paint job than a natural-looking brow boost.  . "That said, as soon as I unpackaged Brow Flick, my stress level dropped; the brush tip is super fine and soft, and as I began stroking it through the sparse areas of my brows, I could barely detect the product—in a good way. (I literally had a Britney Spears moment; like, Is this thing on?). However, despite how subtle the application was, I did notice a slow, steady, user-friendly build in the oomph and precision of my brows. "The job was done in about 30 seconds, and the product was completely undetectable (no telltale trace of pencil left behind!). Brow Flick truly delivers on the "your brows, but better" front, which is my personal vibe when it comes to enhancing my brows. I didn't feel like I needed more pigment, so I simply brushed them into place with the clear Boy Brow formula, but honestly, I probably wouldn't even do that on a daily basis; I generally like to keep my brow M.O. as minimal as possible. "Overall, I'd give Brow Flick five stars and might actually love it just as much as I love Lash Slick, my favorite mascara. However, I do worry the effect won't be dramatic enough for those who love a brow look that packs a lot of punch (although you can always add extra definition with a second coat of Boy Brow), and am also slightly worried the pen might dry out in about two seconds flat. All in all, though, my first impression is stellar, and I'd definitely recommend it for the person who loves a natural and super-low-maintenance brow look."  The 12-hours-later update: "I applied Brow Flick at the office around 8 a.m. in the morning and then went to a 6 p.m. spin class where I literally produced buckets of sweat. After the class, my brows looked like they hadn't even been touched and were still perfectly intact! Glossier, you weren't playing when you said the formula was water-resistant!" Wearing: Brow Flick in Brown; Boy Brow in Brown. "This decade's brow trends have been kind to those with thick, straight-across caterpillars like mine (thank goddess the early 2000s are long gone!), and I've been leaning into any product that helps me achieve my Burt-and-Ernie brow aesthetic. My go-to brow products are either gels formulated with fibers and a lot of hold (like boy brow!), which allow me to achieve the full, bushy vibe I like, or super skinny-tipped pencils that let me fill in sparse bits as well as create the look of individual brow hairs. "My first impression of Glossier's (very appropriately named) Brow Flick is very positive—I love how the flexible tip and inky (though light) liquid product allows you to very precisely stroke hair-like lines into the sprout of your brows or fill in the arch/tail. Bumped up and locked in by a coat or two of boy brow, I love the full, feathered effect. My only suspicion of the product is that it deposits pigment so lightly (admittedly great for not overdoing your brows) that I'm afraid the applicator would dry out after five or so uses. Only more experimentation will tell. But for the time being, I'm digging my *brows on flick* (sorry for the pun... had to)." Wearing: Brow Flick in Black & Boy Brow in Black. "Right off the bat, I was impressed by how easy it was to apply. The brush literally flicks on a sheer stroke of color, leaving my brows looking fuller, darker, and more even. Being the novice that I am at all brow products under the sun (save for my beloved Boy Brow, naturally), I applied it all over my brows just to see how it would look. I quickly discovered that the formula doesn't easily smudge off, though, which is great if you apply it where you want, but not so great if you paint outside the lines, which I definitely did a few times. I finished with Bow Brow for a full statement brow moment I'm excited to re-create for my next event. For more of a natural everyday look, though, I'll probably limit the Brow Flick to my arches and finish with the Boy Brow in clear instead." Wearing: Brow Flick in Black & Boy Brow in Black. "Rarely do I wear makeup; most days I roll out of bed and decide to dedicate my morning routine to my curly hair. But I definitely could be down to incorporate Glossier's Brow Flick pencil in when I'm feeling extra spicy. I have to say that Brow Flick was a little lighter in effect versus the Boy Brow, which felt like the type of product you put on to have a bold brow. Overall, both products looked great, but Brow Flick gave off a more natural, non-filled in look, while Boy Brow screams brows on fleek." Wearing: Brow Flick in Brown. "I love the subtle difference the pen makes to my brows. It enhances and shapes my brows without looking like I've actually got brow product on. The pen itself has a light-as-air texture—almost like a brown watercolor." Next Up, My Eyebrows Doubled in Size After Making These 6 Sneaky Changes.

[thepowerofyourotherhand]

Creative Healing for a Fractured Collarbone: Weaving Together Non-Dominant Hand Scribbling and Writing

In early February, I fell and fractured my right collarbone. I’d been working in my studio hanging small drawings and watercolors to the wall with push pins. Descending from a small 2 stepladder, I misjudged the bottom step and extended my right leg too far. With my left foot still up on the top step of the ladder, my right foot was unable to land steadily on the floor. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor on my right side, still holding onto the ladder, which came down with me. Long story short, the result was a fractured right collage bone (clavicle) and badly bruised right should, arm and elbow. The irony of all this was not lost on me, my friends, students and the physician in ER when I told him I’d written a book called, The Power of Your Other Hand. Upon showing me the X-ray results, he informed me that I’d have to keep my right arm in a sling for a while and limit use of my right arm and hand while my collar bone magically knitted itself back together over the next 4 – 6 weeks. No surgery required, just self-care, rest, and patience while Mother Nature glued the bone back together. I am naturally right handed, so guess what? For a month I had to practice what I preach and teach and use my non-dominant (left) hand for almost everything: including writing, drawing, painting, typing, using a mouse, brushing my hair, shaking hands, etc. The corona virus was just hitting California, so “social distancing” was IN and shaking hands with people was OUT for health reasons. No driving, of course, and none of my regular leg and upper body exercising for strength at the gym. I’d get physical therapy later. It could have been worse, I observed. If I hadn’t already had hip replacements on both sides, I might have broken a hip. No chance. These hips are made of unbreakable ceramic and titanium. So, grateful to be walking, I launched into my own healing program. My physician was out of town, so I made an appointment to see him upon his return. We had a phone conversation. An expert in vitamins with his own line of supplements, I got some supplements designed to help with bone growth and mending. And then I started Creative Journaling. I drew the outline of my body (front and back) and let each body part tell me how it felt in a word or two or three. There were lots of places that were hurting and they had plenty to say.

What I learned after in depth dialogues (using my non-dominant hand to speak for the body parts) was that I needed to “rest, be quiet, not work, slow down…let the parts (of my personality) that go out in the world and are always in charge have a rest. Last year was all about that. This year is about being at home, care-giving us & out home….” We’d just renovated the kitchen. The emphasis was on “a place to nurture self and be nurtured.” My fractured shoulder told me, “Your business right now is to take care of me.” About 3 weeks after the injury, my arm still in a sling, I was able to do some bilateral (2-handed drawing) to music in my journal. I call this “Dancing on Paper” and always find it very relaxing in the face of daily news about COVID-19 and how rapidly the virus was spreading. Anxiety was in the air, as the corona virus became a worldwide pandemic, with entire cities and countries in lock down in an effort to contain it. I hadn’t realized how much tension was stored in my body from the injury and from the news until I left it on the page through scribbling and then writing to the rhythms of Keith Jarrett jazz piano solos.

The message, again, was that I needed to “baby myself like an infant” in order to heal my collarbone. It was written with my non-dominant hand using two pens of different colors.

As the words formed with my left hand, I thought, “Yes, it always comes back to inner child healing.” I realized that my right hand, which is the side of the body that does so much giving and reaching out and being in charge in the world, was forced to rest on my own stomach, due to being in a sling. The energy that I'd been putting out for many months, leading workshops, doing book signings, etc., was now being turned inward for my own healing. I continued scribbling my pain and stress out, this time with both hands.

Weaving insights from my Creative Journaling and the emotional release they provided into my daily program of rest and self-care has moved my recovery along quite beautifully. As of this writing, I have an appointment to start physical therapy, and will continue with the journaling and more artwork as my arm permits. One important observation that I want to share is this: My experience over the years is that each and every body part or physical symptom has its own unique, situational and time-bound message. That is why I do not have much confidence in books that claim to tell you what your symptom, disease, body parts or pains “mean.” My clients, my students and my professional associates have all had the same experiences I have had. Each time we converse with our bodies we get different answers. The words from the body differ dramatically depending on the circumstances of our lives, the nature of the particular pain, the specific location, and the guidance the body gives on how to heal it. There is no easy formula for this. No quick answer from outside, from an “expert” or author who claims to know what’s going on in YOUR body and in YOUR life on this particular day. The lessons the body has to teach us are individual, very particular and personal to us at any given time. Drawing and writing with the non-dominant hand can unlock the gifts that illness, injury or pain have to give us. Note: Journal prompts for bilateral drawing and body parts dialogues are in Chapters 3 and 6 of The Power of Your Other Hand (Conari, 2019). There are also many journal prompts for self-healing in Drawing Your Stress Away and Hello, This is Your Body Talking (Ohio U/Swallow Press, 2017). Be well, Lucia Let us know what you think of this post in the comments below. Follow us and be updated by email when new blog posts are published.   www.luciac.com www.visioningcoach.org Order The Power of Your Other Hand (Conari Press 2019) at Amazon.com via Blogger https://ift.tt/2Z3sWgC

[topicprinter]

Hey - Pat from Starter Story here with another interview.Today's interview is with Cameron Olthuis, the founder of Sawyer, a brand that makes clothing for kids.Some stats:Revenue/mo: $12,000Started: August 2017Location: Park City, UtahFounders: 2Employees: 2Hello! Who are you and what are you working on?Hi there, I’m Cameron Olthuis, owner and operator of Sawyer. Sawyer is a high-quality kids clothing brand that makes soft, durable products with timeless designs that inspire them to get outside and explore the natural world.We discovered a striking statistic:Kids today spend less time outside than maximum security prisoners.The average child spends 8-10 hours a day in front of a screen and less than one hour per day outside. Spending time outside is important for kids as it’s a healthy way to develop, learn, and grow through experience. We are a mission driven brand encouraging a balance of technology and nature in kids lives. Go outside and play!We operate a direct-to-consumer business model that’s completely bootstrapped and our fulfillment is done entirely in house. This allows our brand to be in control of all customer touch points, something we feel is extremely important when building a brand.Our products to date have largely consisted of graphic tees, hats & beanies, and hoodies. We’re now moving into custom cut & sew apparel products. Our long-term vision includes technical outerwear and other functional outdoor products exclusively for kids.What's your backstory and how did you come up with the idea?My online entrepreneurial journey started when I was 21 and my then girlfriend was pregnant with our first child. That was almost 17 years ago. I was working a minimum wage customer service job, had no post high school education, and knew that I needed to make big changes in order to provide a better life for my family. It’s been a long journey that’s seen its share of ups & downs, with times where I literally wasn’t sure how I would be able to feed my family the next day. Somehow, it worked out, and I always knew the sacrifices would pay off if I stuck with it.Most recently, my role was VP, Audience Development at CBS Interactive. During my 6 1/2 years at CBS, we grew from the #13 Comscore property to #6. That’s an elite group: Google, Facebook, Yahoo, Amazon, Microsoft and then CBSi. Prior to my role at CBSi, I ran audience growth at a startup called Clicker, which was acquired by CBS for a nine-figure sum. That was quite a learning experience.The entrepreneurial spirit in me was calling the entire time I was at CBS Interactive. I never expected to be there for as long as I was, but incentives in the form of stock options that hadn’t vested and a big paycheck helped keep me around. That and I also enjoyed the learning experience, challenges of working on the biggest internet properties, and working for the CEO, who’s been a great mentor to me. But, my time had come. CBSi was running like a well-oiled machine and the excitement was no longer there for me. I needed to work on something that was meaningful to me again. I was also a partner in a content arbitrage business at that time with yearly revenues of around $7.5 million at its peak. That helped make the decision to leave easier. This was, of course, non-conflicting to my work at CBS.The idea for Sawyer roots back to when my kids were much younger. My wife and I had a hard time finding quality made products for our own kids that would stand up to the rugged outdoor lifestyle we were so fond of. Our favorite brands had a very limited kids’ selection and most everything else was poor quality with over-the-top designs. We’d always talked about doing something in this space but never acted on it until recently. I had started staffing up an office anticipating my departure from CBS and wanted to run that as a sort of skunkworks type lab. Together with my team and the idea from many years ago, Sawyer was born.Describe the process of designing, prototyping, and manufacturing the product.We go through a tedious process of testing fabric materials and cuts for quality, softness, fit, and durability before finally settling on products we’re comfortable putting our name on. As consumers, we believe in buying well, which to us means spending more on quality products that will last a really long time. Buying poor-quality products usually ends up costing the consumer more in the long run. Every product we sell needs to live up to this standard. This takes more time and additional costs, but we’re able to charge a premium because of it. Additionally, we can be proud of everything we make.Our customer feedback tells us we’re doing a pretty good job. We get a lot of reviews that praise the quality and softness of our products. Kids appreciate it as well. We’ve been told many times that our stuff is a kids favorite and they want to wear it everyday, or even sleep in it. We’ve also had many repeat purchases, some customers have now ordered 7-8 times from us in less than a year.The other test all of our products must pass is; would we wear it ourselves? This again goes back to the over-the-top designs that plague the kids’ apparel industry and our mission to create timeless designs. We’ve worked with local artists to transfer their watercolor paintings to clothing, hired graphic designers from freelance sites, and created designs in-house, even though none of us had any previous background in design.We have several boxes of manufactured products in our office that we refuse to sell. Maybe that’s because of a blemish in the design or a mis-labeled tag. Whatever the reasons, we believe that absorbing that cost now is better than losing a customer or tarnishing our brand name. We’ve donated some of those products to various causes like the recent Houston floods or Sub-for-Santa, and we’ll continue doing more of that in the future.Describe the process of launching the online store/business.Building out the actual store was pretty simple for me, thanks to Shopify which makes that part really easy.From there we had prototype products made and we hosted a BBQ in the mountains where we invited all our friends to bring their kids to do a photoshoot. This gave us a bunch of high-quality photos that we could use on the website and in our advertising at launch.We didn’t want to launch to crickets, so we started building our social accounts a few months prior to launch. We used Facebook Ads at launch as well, so right from the start we were selling some product.Sawyer is self-funded, which is challenging at times. Because we do our own fulfillment, we have to always be stocked with inventory. So every time we sell a t-shirt, we have to turn around and buy another one for inventory. This makes cash flow management difficult. Don’t underestimate this aspect if you plan to carry your own inventory.Since launch, what has worked to attract and retain customers?A lot of tactics and strategies from the "playbook" I’ve developed over the years haven’t worked out as well as I’d planned.While we’ve had some success with Facebook & Instagram Ads, I haven’t been able to achieve the massive scale that we did in our arbitrage business. Maybe that’s because of my refusal to become a discount brand. However, I will say it’s hard to always properly attribute what channels are driving the results. I’ve heard that a customer has to see your brand at least seven times before buying and I think this runs true for us. For us, we try to be visible across all platforms that our customers use.The area on Instagram that we’ve had success with is working with influencers. We’ve been able to attract some popular ambassadors by providing them with free product for their kids. Again, it really helps that we make a quality product and they truly love our brand ethos. Not only has this been an effective way to get our name out there, but we’ve got so many great photos that we can turn around and use for our own marketing & advertising.The biggest surprise to me has been how well email marketing has worked. Email wasn’t one of my strong suits, but I’ve been schooled over the last year and now I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of it. Our revenue per email far exceeds any other traffic channel up to this point, so now we’re doubling and tripling down on it. Viral email giveaways have been a successful way for us to acquire emails. We also focus a lot on email segments and flows and we put a lot of time into our newsletters and other promotional emails. I recently heard a quote that says, "People don’t hate getting emails, they hate getting bad emails." I always think about the value we’re providing prior to any emails or communications we send out.How is everything going nowadays, and what are your plans for the future?I’m proud of the loyal customer base and raving fans we’ve developed a relationship with in the short 10-months we’ve been in business. Our sales numbers aren’t as high as I had projected when starting out, but we have a healthy growth trajectory that we continue to build on. I’ve been focusing on making the right decisions for the long-term instead of short-term sales numbers. I’m looking at this business in terms of decades, not years, as I feel like I may have found my calling in life.We’ve recently scaled back our number of full-time employees, but this in no way reflects the state of the business. I made mistakes early on in hiring for growth instead of hiring because we really needed the help. I also made the decision to shutter some of our other projects so that we can focus on this business.In terms of what’s in the near future for Sawyer, we’re close to releasing a line of basics, starting with blank tees made in the USA from 100% organic cotton. We may try and offer that as a subscription service as well. We’ve also started working on producing a functional sweatshirt and sweatpant set. Aside from that we’re finalizing our fall line of new designs, hats & beanies, and sweatshirts so we’re ready to roll that out in time for back-to-school.Through starting the business, have you learned anything particularly helpful or advantageous?In hindsight, I probably wouldn’t have started a kids’ clothing business to be honest. But there’s a saying that sometimes it’s better knowing what you don’t know. The kid’s apparel industry is brutally competitive and consumers today are trained to wait for promotions to buy. That makes being a premium brand hard. Convincing a mom to part with her family’s hard earned money for a $25 t-shirt isn’t easy, especially when she can shop at Target or Walmart for $5 t-shirts. Again, this goes back to selling a quality product and having a brand that stands for something meaningful. The products we make are ethically produced from premium materials and magnitudes better than what you’ll find at a discount department store, but convincing people who can’t see or touch that product first takes work.I’m learning a lot about product development as it relates to apparel. It’s exciting and gratifying to work on a physical product you can touch and feel, which is so different from my previous experience working exclusively with digital properties and products.Something that’s helpful for those starting out or trying to optimize their e-commerce business, is making sure you spend enough time and effort on conversion rates. You can dramatically increase revenue without increasing traffic. We spend a couple hours every week going over our copy, website, and checkout process to continually make improvements in this area. We’ve been able to double our conversion rates since starting.What platform/tools do you use for your business?We use Klaviyo for email and we love it. It has great reporting and segmenting, and it’s easy to create different email flows.A few other apps and tools we use:Yotpo for customer reviews, which are super important for a new product and/or brandShipstation for shipping & printing labelsKickoff Labs for hosting viral email giveawaysBack-in-stock for customers to be notified when sold out products are availableWhat have been the most influential books, podcasts, or other resources?Let My People Go Surfing: Written by Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia.I’ve recommended this book to a lot of people. It’s the story of how the brand Patagonia was started and the journey of the business over the last 50 years from the founder’s perspective. Patagonia is a brand I respect, both for the quality of products they make and their dedication to social responsibility. This book covers everything from running a meaningful business, to product development, to creating a company culture that inspires people to love coming to work.The Adventures of Tom Sawyer: Written by Mark Twain.This classic American novel may sound a bit silly to include here, but the name of our brand, Sawyer, came from Tom Sawyer, whom we all know as the quintessential youth explorer. I hadn’t read this book since my own youth, but doing so recently has really inspired and helped shape the direction of our company. It’s an entertaining book as well, with all his antics and clever mischief and whatnot.Advice for other entrepreneurs who want to get started or are just starting out?Whether that’s fear, laziness, or whatever reason that’s holding them back, it’s the only way to move forward. Once you start you can see what works and what doesn’t and you can always improve from there. Whether you’re successful in your ventures or you fail, and believe me, I’ve failed a lot, you always learn something and feel better for trying.Hanging out in relevant online forums or Facebook groups is a great way to learn. There’s usually a general wealth of knowledge already in there with so much to learn. And it makes asking questions and getting help really easy when you get stuck or need advice. And then there’s Google, we literally have all the information in the history of mankind at our fingertips, so there’s no excuse. Aside from that, listen to podcasts and read books, but again, you will learn more from doing than you will listening to other people’s stories.

[ganzeer]

10 THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM MAKING ART

1) Great craftsmanship does not make you a great artist. It is not uncommon now to find large scale works by internationally renowned artists in museums that are entirely produced by other people. Ai Weiwei’s room full of hand-painted ceramic sunflower seeds or any one of Jeff Koons’ well-fabricated sculptures are prime examples. I’m not here to criticize or encourage this approach to art-making, but what I’d just like to point out that this is an important clue to what it ultimately takes to make a great work of art: the idea. Idea is key to becoming a great artist. Otherwise, the best you can ever hope to become is a fantastic craftsman (or draftsman). This is not a bad thing if it is what you really want to do. But know that that means that you will spend your life being hired to make work for other artists, or build tables for furniture designers, or make clothes for fashion designers, or render buildings for architects, or draw comics and storyboards for companies. Again, this is not a bad thing. Not at all! But it does not make you an artist. What it does make you is a fantastic craftsman. If that is what you want to be, then do not let me or anyone else talk you out of it. If, however, you’d like to become an artist, then you’re gonna have to work on your ideas. Ideally, the best kind of artist is he/she who is a master of great craft and of great ideas. 2) A great idea can never be great without purpose. Purpose is what really makes any great idea great. Without purpose, chances are… your idea probably won’t really be that great. Alan Moore’s WATCHMEN is more than a “superhero comic,” not just because it takes us deep into the "real lives" of superheroes as they inevitably fall from grace, but because –and perhaps more importantly– it offers a critique of power and capitalism. THE GRAVEYARD BOOK by Neil Gaiman is ultimately about growing up. Herman Melville’s MOBY-DICK; OR, THE WHALE offers a study on obsession. While the best works of art are usually layered with meaning, the very best have a core purpose around which everything revolves. What separates, say, Banksy from most other street-artists out there is the purpose behind his work, more so than style or whatever else. Even great abstract works such as Mondrian's COMPOSITION II had purpose: balance. This same purpose would be evident in some Bauhaus works such as the sculptures of László Moholy-Nagy. When embarking on the journey of making a work of art, think not of style, technique, or any cool tricks and gimmicks you’re eager to employ before dreaming up its purpose. Because purpose will dictate everything else. 3) Avoid making things for the money. I, of course, have made many things for the money over the years. And I almost regret them all. Mainly because I realize that it took away from time I could’ve put into projects not for the money. This is not to say that one shouldn’t make money from his/her work. On the contrary, the more money the merrier, but that shouldn’t be the motive for one’s engagement in a project. The motive should be something else: a burning nagging desire. The money, however –if it were to exist– should be no more than a pleasant byproduct. Because no matter how much money you make, or how much recognition you think you may get by simple association with the project at hand, if it isn’t something you really want to do, chances are you will end up being incredibly unsatisfied. Even if early on in your “career” you are tempted to do something for the money only temporarily until you have enough to do your own thing? Don’t. If you’re doing it solely for the money, don’t do it, because it is very likely that you will find yourself caught up in a cycle that depends on the regular flow of money generated by that sort of project with little chance or opportunity to do anything else. At least for a very long time, probably much longer than you will ever anticipate. And when all that time is gone doing things you –deep down inside– really didn’t care for, you will very much regret it. Because here’s the thing: Our most valuable resource is time. It isn’t energy or money or material. It is time, because time is fast fleeting whether any of us like it or not. Let’s make it a point to do with it what we really want to do, whatever that may be. 4) Think not, and speak not, in terms of career. Careers are for bankers. We are artists. And as artists, the only work-related thinking that should be occupying our brains at any given time should revolve solely around the project(s) we are working on. Anything else will serve to be a distraction from said project. A distraction from said project will likely make the project suffer. Apply that to all the projects you work on, and guess what? You will end up with a career comprised of mediocre projects. Leaving career-thinking to the bankers and putting all your thought into the project at hand means that your chances of ending up with a career of awesome projects will be far more likely. 5) Good artists copy. Great artists steal. Picasso said that. I’ve met many artists over the years who would often use the second half of Picasso’s quote as an excuse for doing poor copies of other people’s art. It really is a great quote, but I don’t think enough artists read into it enough. You see, stealing something entails taking something and making it your own. It isn’t borrowing, it is stealing. And stealing well means making what you stole unrecognizable from the source. Copying, on the other hand, means that the original can still very much be seen in the copy, and thus can be identified as a mere copy. Stealing is extremely important for artists to do. Picasso stole from African masks. He didn’t copy African masks. That would only result in a number of paintings of African masks. What he did do was steal from African masks. The result was paintings not of African masks, but rather of Picasso’s surroundings, while employing aesthetics drawn from African masks. You can see it clearly in comics too. Make no mistake, there would be no Frank Miller without Neal Adams. Heck, there wouldn’t even be a Sienkiewicz   without Neal Adams. There really wouldn’t be a Mignola without Miller, and there wouldn’t be an Oeming without Mignola. And there really wouldn’t be any of those skillful bastards without Kirby. One thing you might want to consider doing is, if you like someone’s work, look at the source material that inspired him/her. So, if you like Neil Gaiman, it may be a good idea to look at ancient mythology and old folklore. If you like Quentin Tarantino, read some Elmore Leonard and complement that with the films of Sergio Leone. Obsessed with Warren Ellis? Then Christ, I dunno, check out Umberto Eco, Bruce Sterling and William Gibson. Crazy about Ancient Greece? Look at Ancient Egypt. And so on. 6) Build it and they will come. El Seed did an amazing mural project in one of the most impoverished and discriminated neighborhoods in Cairo which involved painting on 50 different buildings. In so doing, he avoided all the usual excuses one might come up with that would keep him from doing the project. Things like the hassle of getting permits or how to fund it. Instead, he flew to Cairo, went to the neighborhood, and proposed his idea to all the residents in all 50 buildings. With their approval came the volunteers necessary for execution. With the approval and volunteers, he was able to get funding. I think that if El Seed had taken the usual route, i.e. attempting to propose his idea to arts organizations, or attempting to approach the city municipality, chances are the project would not have become the reality that it is today. Build it and they will come. 7) Never use computers to fake the effects of analogue tools. It’s becoming more prevalent than ever to see artists using computers to fake the effects of analogue tools. Thing is though, computers are horrible at being paint-brushes or watercolors. What’s really good at being a paint-brush is an actual paint-brush. What’s really good at being watercolors? Actual watercolors. That is not to say that computers shouldn’t be used in making art. Computers are fantastic precision tools. No other tool can be more precise than a computer, and that is probably the one advantage they have over any other tool. Probably the advantage that should be put to use if ever a computer was to be used. But don’t use a computer where it has a disadvantage, and the greatest disadvantage a computer has is in its attempts to emulate the effects of pencil, ink, and paint on actual non-virtual surfaces. 8) If it leaves a mark, it works. I remember at a young age reading HOW TO DRAW COMICS THE MARVEL WAY, and being introduced to a number of tools on one of the first few pages. Tools that I hadn’t ever seen before. Namely India ink and inking brushes. I would later see those same tools mentioned in more writings on comics from such greats as Will Eisner and Dave Sim. While I’ve learned that mastering the use of brushes and nibs is important, I’ve also learned that they aren't absolutely necessary to creating great comix. David Mazuchelli employed –to great effect– what he referred to as a “dumb line” for BATMAN: YEAR ONE (where all the lines are essentially the same thickness). Bryan Lee O’Malley inked and lettered LOST AT SEA with a Sharpie, which helped make it feel like one of the most intimate books I’ve ever read. Brecht Evans didn’t use ink at all in THE WRONG PLACE, and the book is entirely illustrated in watercolored shapes. One of the most striking and hyper-realistic works of art I’ve seen is a massive floor to ceiling drawing by Juan Francisco Casas made entirely with a blue ballpoint pen. Remember that there’s no one way or one set of tools to do anything at all. If it leaves a mark, it works. More important to consider is what kind of mark is needed for that particular work to have the look and feel it needs. The above, of course, pertains to physical marks. The other and possibly more important type of mark to think about is the psychological mark. If your work of art leaves a psychological mark on the viewer, then it works. It could be a positive mark or a negative mark. It could make them feel happy or sad or confused or angry or inspired. It could make them feel anything but it has to make them feel something. If your work makes the viewer feel nothing whatsoever, then I’m afraid you’re in trouble. 9) Comix, I’ve come to discover, are less a synergy of prose and illustration and more a combination of poetry and graphic design. By thinking of comix as prose and illustration, the best you’ll ever end up with is a kind of storyboard. Thinking of comix as poetry and graphic design on the other hand, will allow you to take true advantage of the medium’s potential. You will think of your pages in terms of rhythm and balance and metaphor and end up with something far more remarkable than a storyboard. On a related note: the page is the unit, not the panel. I see a lot of comix that are difficult to look at because the artist put so much detail in each and every panel, making the page look like a collection of stills from an animated movie rather than a comicbook. Our panels are not meant to look like animation stills because –simply put– we do not look at one single panel at a time. We see the entire page, and as such, the entire page should have a comfortable balance and harmony to it. To do this, it is important to understand the principles of graphic design and apply it to the page. It is the design that should dictate the illustration, and not the other way around. 10) Obscurity does not translate to failure. When Alan Moore and David Lloyd were making V FOR VENDETTA, they were doing it through a short-lived obscure UK-based magazine called WARRIOR. A far cry from the global cultural landmark it became 20 years later. Before MEMENTO, Christopher Nolan made a movie called FOLLOWING that very few people had heard of. And before that he embarked on filming a feature he never completed, before doing a few shorts that never got any attention at all. Nietzsche’s work only became known in the years following his death. Herman Melville died in utter obscurity, but now it is difficult to walk into a bookshop without coming across a copy of MOBY-DICK. Most artists in any field are obscure for the vast majority of their lives, if not for the entirety of their lives. If what you’re making now remains completely obscure for some time, rest assured that that is normal. Take solace in the possibility that the obscurity of your work today may possibly mean that your work is well ahead of its time, which is something many of us can only ever dream of.

Good luck and godspeed,

Ganzeer Los Angeles, CA April 23, 2016