#Sketch Artist II: Hands that See

[bijoumikhawal]

Planning a Mallory Grace cosplay: The Ironwood Tree Dress, but more medivaler

This came about for two reasons: one, recently I've been making fabric flower corsages, mostly to wear on my head, and two, I was reminded of the imagery of green clad young women from medieval times.

If you know Mallory, you probably know this image. We have a few more useful images as well, but we won't be sticking to them; they'll just be inspiration.

From there four images we get the details that

the dress is mostly white with deep green accents

it has the princess cuffs over the back of the hands on the under sleeves

the over sleeves are angel sleeves

Mallory's hair is in a little ribbon cage with two silver flower pins

there may be a subtle flower brocade on the skirt

The skirt has two tiers of bottom ruffles and a border above them with three stripes

There appears to be a white underdress peaking out of the sleeves and skirt

I loved this dress design as a kid, but I think the bodice is actually rather unflattering. It reminds me of some armor breast plates, which is cool, but doing what's basically a paned sleeve as a bodice... makes me think of a pumpkin. This artistic difference led to me sketching a new design

This design is a houppelande underneath a boat necked cotehardie/kirtle with a shortened hem. I did another pass on the cotehardie design (see the left). I'm going to do the embroidery with silver clon cord and beetlewings I already have from another project. The neck is going to be cut even lower, and I'll make a lattice pattern out of ribbons or fabric strips over a sheer fabric to stabilize it. The embroidery isn't period, but it covering the bodice is inspired by some miniatures depicting that composition.

I also needed to scrap the ruffle on the houppelande- the fabric I wanted to use is an old dark green Ralph Lauren flat sheet with a rose jacquard pattern, and I don't have enough of it for a houppelande already. My solution to this is that I'll be color blocking the houppelande, and making up the difference with a complementary green fabric. The houppelande will be working with the circle theory.

I planned to use silver curtains I already had for the overdress, but it has this evil rubber backing fused on so it won't behave for this. I'll be in the hunt for an appropriate silvery fabric.

The original dress has no clear and specific historical source imo, other than it does resemble a boat necked cotehardie a bit. The hair, however, is clearly a coazzone. The most well known depictions of this are from 1490s Italy. However, in Spain it was worn at least between the 1360s and the 1530s. There are multiple theories about what exactly these were, including a veil that's been wrapped around a braid or ponytail with ribbons. I'd probably make a "fixed" version, so I wouldn't have to re-wrap the ribbons every time.

However, the cotehardies and houppelandes i was looking at were moreso mid to late 1300s. While the coazzone does fit that time in Spain, it has a late "feel". So I kind of want to make a bycocket in addition to a coazzone and flower corsages, to give me options for headgear. The bycocket is also called the "Robin Hood" hat, and it was worn by people hunting, traveling, hawking, etc. It seems to me like it functioned to protect the eyes and direct rain away from the face. I think it fits because the dwarves had a sword in with Mallory, which to me indicates some respect for her running about as a fencer. Additionally, one analysis of women depicted as wearing this hat by R. L. Pisetzky (Storia del Costume in Italia, vol. II, 1964-69) referred to it as a "rude oddity", "masculine/ambiguous", and that women wearing it had a "diabolic essence". The place I found it said this was too harsh, but I find it funny and it reminds me of the reaction the Pooka had to Mallory.

I may make a foam sword for photos/if I ever wear this to a con, but it's not pressing to me right now (this project will probably take awhile). I do want to make this as wearable as possible so various elements can be worn on their own or in combination with other things, which is why I didn't plan to make a single dress that just looks like two layered on top of each other, and why the over dress with be silver and not white (also I hate sewing white fabrics).

[starfall-spirit]

But For You, I Was Made

Read on Ao3 // Fic Masterlist

Fic Summary: A curse. Divine punishment. Rhys didn’t know what it was that kept the cycle in motion. All he knew was that he was going to break if he had to hold his mate on her deathbed again.

OR;

The Feysand Reincarnation AU

AN: This is the second chapter of my gift fic for @sajirah for the acotar gift exchange. Fun Fact: This chapter was inspired by your art.

Chapter II CW: Smut, Slight praise kink, light angst (I cried writing it, but I'm a literal baby)

Chapter Summary: Decades after the war’s end, Rhys is slowly recovering from losing his mate, mother, and sister, only to find himself face to face with his love once again. He never believed in the concept of rebirth until he saw her standing among the artists of his home city with no recollection of the fragile love they’d built in a world of pain.

Chapter II: Tell Me I'm Someone You Can't Replace

Feyre

It was just a week from Winter Solstice when the first snow dusted the rooftops of Velaris, faerie lights painting the art district in sheets of glistening white. Bundled from head to toe, artists and customers bustled through the Rainbow, darting in and out of shops while the last handful of potential buyers perused the vendor carts and studios that lined the square in the half hour before most of the shops officially closed.

Feyre hadn’t had the means to acquire a stand to set out her own paintings, though she couldn’t truthfully claim she’d made much of an attempt. It had been less than six months since she’d crossed the borders of Velaris with the other handful of half-breeds trying to find sanctuary, and voicing an interest in training her craft had been nerve-racking enough. To sell it… she couldn’t quite muster the courage. Her art was her happy place, and in her twenty short years she’d faced enough scrutiny without exposing that part of herself. She wasn’t sure she could handle criticism from the first people to show her kindness.

So she watched the others in the mornings while running between the odd jobs keeping her afloat. Marked their techniques and in the dark hours when the stars came to life, quietly worked to sketch her imaginings and blend her paints just so before accepting a canvas from her mentor’s stock.

“Stop that worrying. We can afford a few errors now and then,” the woman assured her time and time again, “So long as you tell me you won’t give into the doubt you’ll face along the way.”

She tried to keep those words in mind, but it wasn’t always easy, quieting the niggling voice that had begun making comparisons between her work and those mounted proudly on stands behind the shop windows. They just seemed—

“Exquisite.”

Feyre jerked, her pallet falling from her hand and making a mess of her carefully blended paints. She really hoped it wouldn’t stain the wood grain before she could clean it. Huffing softly, she crouched to clean the worst of the mess. “Sir, the shop has closed for the evening and the owner has gone home. If you wish to view something—”

Standing to face the late arrival, she froze, a bit unbelieving of the situation she’d landed herself in and certainly feeling like a fool.

“High Lord. My apologies.” She bowed her head awkwardly, growing even more nervous when the male failed to respond. 

“You don’t—” He coughed lightly. “Enough of that, please. It isn’t necessary here.”

There was a strange tension in his voice as he seemed to take her in a second time. “The window was lit. It was my mistake to assume you were still open. I can come back at a suitable hour tomorrow.” He swallowed. “You’re the owner’s apprentice, I assume. You’ll be here in the morning?”

Feyre blushed at the assumption. “No, High Lord. She just allows me to practice in the evenings.”

“I see,” he said, seeming almost shy as he tried to word his next question. “And is there a time in the morning or evening I might see you again?”

She blinked. It almost sounded like he was… It was a laughable thought, that a High Lord would consider courting a half-human girl. Why hadn’t he left the moment she said they were closed?

“High Lord—”

“Please, Feyre. I’m just Rhys when it comes to the people of Velaris.”

“Rhys, then. I don’t imagine you have the time or desire to see me again. It doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

“No!” She retreated a step, startled. “I’m sorry,” he said, giving an awkward laugh and reaching to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m lacking my usual charm this evening. I would like to see you again. A walk down the Sidra, or a meal, if you’d prefer. I just… I’d like to see you again.”

“Well. I suppose.” Feyre offered an hour she wasn’t working, agreeing to meet him outside the shop at noon. 

“Perfect. Goodnight, Feyre.” She didn’t realize she’d never told him her name until he’d slipped into the night air. 

~~~~~

Rhysand

“Rhys…”

“It was her, Mor. I’d recognize my mate anywhere.” He turned to look back over the balcony and out to the twinkling city beyond, sickened by the look on her face. Like he was someone to pity, relapsing in the furthest depths of his grief for a female she’d never even met. Mor stood from the table, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Mor, I’m not losing my mind. She was there, I swear it.”

“Okay. Gods know what miracles we could be granted in this crazy world.” A pause, then, “Where are you taking her? To the theater? Oh, the weather’s finally turning to start skating.”

He shook his head slightly, glad to see his cousin slip into her usual attitude. “We’ve just had the first snow, Mor. No one’s skating yet. I was thinking lunch, a walk through the city if I can manage to keep her from running off. From what I gathered her schedule isn’t exactly stable.”

He only realized his was frowning when Mor laughed. “You can’t fix everyone’s problems, dear cousin.”

“I should be able to care for my mate,” he snapped back, unable to suppress the slight growl behind the words.

Mor rolled her eyes. “You’re such a male. The girl’s just met you and probably doesn’t remember anything about the war if she’s truly been, what, reincarnated?” She shook her head. “You can’t just step in and make everything better if she hasn’t even sensed the bond, Rhys.”

For the first time since losing Feyre, Rhys finally found himself offering a true smile. “Just watch me.”

~~~~~

Feyre

“You look lovely.” 

Feyre looked up from the spot she’d been staring down at, nervous about the situation as a whole. Perhaps he’d seemed courteous and welcoming, but he was still the High Lord. And she was… “It’s just a sweater.” 

One that had cost her far more than she hoped it would. But anything else she owned was threadbare or paint stained. Both, for that matter. And for the first time in her life she was going out with someone. Just for lunch, of course. She had no illusions about this going anywhere bigger, but it still felt nice to look nice for once. She twisted her sleeve, awkward under his piercing stare.

“Darling, you have nothing to worry about. Just relax.” He smirked, standing so he faced her fully. “Here, we’ll start again.” Leaning down, Rhys raised her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. “You look lovely today, Feyre darling.”

Something snapped, sharp and hot before mellowing to a soft glowing thread. An endless river of joy and light and all things good. And the next time he met her eyes, she saw it for what it was. The High Lord of the Night Court was her mate.

Rhys smirked again. “There you are.”

Unable to think of anything to say, sensible or otherwise, Feyre just stared back at him. That is until her filter gave away entirely. “Y-you knew. You knew?!”

“Feyre—”

His face instantly fell, amusement replaced with something like panic. “Was it before last night? Is that how you already knew my name?”

He cleared his throat, obviously floundering as her growing tirade drew the eyes of one customer after the next. By the gods, she was yelling at the High Lord. No one else had any knowledge of this newfound connection. “I really need you to stop referring to me as that,” he grumbled.

“Get out of my head!”

Rhys blew out a sharp breath. “I apologize in advance, but this has become a necessity.”

One arm banded around her waist and he winnowed them to what appeared to be a small cabin. She scowled, jerking free of his hold even as it clashed against some newfound instinct. The one that wanted her to stake a a claim on him like some animal.

“Did you know before last night?”

“No. Yes? It’s…” He sighed, pacing. “I’m not entirely sure there’s a way to make this believable, but just promise you’ll listen before throwing me out on my ass.”

No platitudes or excuses yet. He claimed he’d give her what space she needed to process whatever he had to say. She could hear him out. Feyre crossed her arms. “Go on then.”

Seeming at a loss to whether it was okay to approach her at this point, he finally opted to take a seat at the small table off of the kitchen space. “I only knew you were in Velaris last night, but I discovered our mating bond nearly seventy years ago.” She raised a brow. “I know, you’re much younger than that now. Still, we met during the war. You were a seraphim commander in Prince Drakon’s forces. We never had the time to truly accept the bond, but when I was captured my power was neutralized, with it… You sensed the bond go quiet. Somehow tracked where my unit was being held.” 

His voiced was strained the next time he spoke, silver lining his eyes. Either her mate was a marvelous actor, or he truly believed this insanity to be true. “They tortured and killed the men in my unit one by one. Fae or human, it didn’t matter. When I didn’t break… when they discovered you’d tracked us there… They sensed the bond. They knew, Feyre, that was one of the few chinks in my armor. All it would take to break me was your pain. Your strength kept me from giving them the intel they were after. 

“But in the end they killed you too. I finally broke free, but they…” He shook his head. “By the time I came back around the few of us alive had been brought back to the closest compound. I was left with my shame and grief.”

“And last night?” Feyre found herself asking. She hadn’t realized she’d joined him at the table until he took her hand in his.

Smiling softly, a final confession fell from his tear-soaked lips. “Last night, Feyre, the Mother granted me a miracle.”

There was a tentative tug on the bond. A spark of fragile hope. A shot in the dark.

For some reason, buying into this insanity, Feyre found herself tugging back.

~~~~~

Rhys’ Inner Circle was welcoming, of course, but she saw the moment of hesitation. When he had returned to Velaris after the war he’d gone quiet in his grief, both of the lost bond and his lost brothers. The bond was known only to his family and after just seeing him start to heal, Rhys had brought her into their home making an impossible claim.

Her own lack of knowledge from this supposed past life did little to alleviate their doubts. “Rhys has shown and told me enough I believe it,” she’d told them. And she’d left it at that. Their faith in his claim wasn’t her business.

The dinner and conversation to follow it had been slightly overwhelming, she had to confess. Even considering the wine consumption during and after dinner, they were a casual bunch, speaking freely and throwing jibes. A family, just as Rhys had promised. And she had been welcomed to become a part of it.

That’s not to say there weren’t a few awkward moments while each of them had been open and honest about their pasts and how they came to be so close to one another, when Feyre’s turn came to share her own journey she’d found herself tongue-tied. “Most of it’s self-explanatory, I think. A half-human in this world. I’m just lucky to have made it here.”

There had been a moment of silence. Not necessarily pity or disappointment. She honestly didn’t know what to call it. Cassian had finally been the one to break it. “Lucky for us,” he offered, throwing her a grin over the lip of his glass. A hint of levity. “And especially lucky for Rhysie.”

Was it luck, she wondered in that next moment of silence, for Rhys to be mated to a female with a mortal lifespan? A half-breed to be sneered at when she was appointed as Lady of Night.

Rhys squeezed her hand under the table. “We’ll figure it out, Feyre. Together.”

“Promise?”

Without a beat of hesitation, he replied, “I promise.”

~~~~~

“I know it isn’t much.” Rhys gave her a little half smile from his place at the table. Chin propped on his first two fingers, he seemed thoroughly amused by her justified attempt at modesty.

One day in the presence of his family, bringing her into the fold. And Mor had promptly thrown them out of the House of Wind. "I don’t want to see you for a week. Two, actually.”

“I can’t disappear for two weeks, Mor.”

“We’ll take care of business, cousin. Go take care of your mate. Have fun.”

So there they were, eyes locked, Feyre sliding a plate of cold cuts and cheese across the table while Rhys let his sole focus lay in observing her,  eyes softing more and more with each moment. “C’mere,” he murmured, pushing his chair back and motioning for her to sit in his lap.

“There’s some part of me,” she started, watching him take the first bite of her pitiful offering, “that’s waiting to wake up. To say that this frankly insane story—” Rhys chuckled, swallowing the bite of ham. “—is a silly dream. A figment of my imagination.” Biting her lip, Feyre pressed a single kiss to his neck before meeting his eyes once again. “I am very glad I haven’t woken up yet.” Grinning, he reached down to pinch her side. “Hey!”

“Believe you’re awake now?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Eat. Mate.”

Still grinning back at her, Rhys instead raised a slice of cheese to her lips. “You’re the one who’s skin and bones, here.”

“I’m fine.”

“How long have you been giving people that line? Putting yourself last?” She didn’t argue further, letting him alternate accepting food and feeding her. “Full?” he asked when the plate was clean.

Even if she wasn't, the tension between them was a slow burning flame, building bit by bit asnd making food the furthest thing from her mind. Leaning back down, Feyre whispered, “Take me to bed, Rhys.”

~~~~~

“Please, tell me you aren’t going to be weird about this.”

Feyre wished she could say there wasn’t any sort of change after her mating ceremony and bond acceptance were behind her, but the shift was there—and not exactly subtle either. She hadn’t been anyone special in the time she’d spent in Velaris since crossing the border.

But she’d still been present. With so few half-breeds crossing, she stuck out. Was memorable as she picked up those odd jobs, sometimes returning to a home, shop, or business often enough the owners knew her by name. 

Now she was their High Lord’s mate, shooting from the bottom social rung to the top with a matter of one proclamation and a romantic getaway. While Rhys had managed to get the vast majority of the city to greet him more casually than a monarch typically preferred, it was clear no one quite knew what sort of person a title might turn her into.

She just hoped this phase of awkwardness would fade as quickly as it appeared.

“You’re a female interested in training in her craft. Why would I treat you strangely?”

Feyre sighed, approaching the canvas she’d finished her base coat on before leaving the city almost two weeks ago. “Thank you. I don’t think I say it enough, but I appreciate there’s so much you’re willing to ignore.”

Feyre was a stranger born behind foreign borders, all but an intruder to the hidden paradise and its residents. There in that little shop, that hard line drawn was erased. A haven until she found her footing, made acquaintances and friends. Feyre couldn’t be more grateful for her mentor.

The female just smiled. “Have a good night, dear.”

That was where her mate found her hours later, his hands slowly sliding into place to massage the muscles in her aching back. She’d hardly moved an inch since resetting her palette to start her design.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” she muttered, tilting her head back. “I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” he told her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Enough is changing in your life, you deserve something familiar. Relaxing. Do you want to stay a while longer?”

Feyre shook her head, standing from her stool. “Let me put this in the back. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

“Take your time, darling. I’ll be at the door.” 

She was grateful he didn’t try to offer his help. That he could recognize she wasn’t ready to share her creations yet. So few people respected that need for privacy, and that intuition was just another thing to prove how attuned to one another they’d become. A perfect pair, as everyone hoped to find with their mate.

A few minutes later she had her station cleaned and joined Rhys at the door, hiding a smile when he helped her into her coat and wound her wool scarf around her neck. “The wind has become brutal in the past few hours.” 

With the bulk of him behind her, she was spared from the chill long enough to lock up the shop for the night, but by the time they made it halfway down the street she was pressed tight to his side in an attempt to leech any warmth she could. In the end, he winnowed them to the townhouse, carrying her into the house with a rumbling laugh. 

“When it gets a little warmer I’ll start taking you down the Sidra in the evenings. There’s nothing quite like The Rainbow on a summer night.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she grumbled, watching him run a bath in the massive tub, only shutting off the tap when the heat of it began to steam the mirrors. Then he was unbuttoning his shirt, stripping out of the rest of his clothes in a hurry before crossing the tile to reach for her. 

“Rhys…”

“It's hardly the first time we’ve bathed together, darling. Unless you're bothered by it. I can always—”

“No.” He smirked, undressing her at a far more leisurely pace and carrying her into the massive sunken tub. “Don’t look so pleased,” she huffed, letting him hold her weight as the cold and tension slowly melted away.

“Why not? I’m here in the most lovely city on earth, holding the most beautiful female to grace it. I don’t think there’s ever been a male more lucky.”

She scoffed. “You are the absolute worst flirt, Rhysand—”

“Let’s not pull out the full name, darling.” 

She huffed into his neck before following the motion of his hands on her hips and turning so her back was flush to his chest. Rivulets of water trailed down their skin with each motion of his hands, first working soap and conditioner into hair before moving down to map every dip and curve of her body. Just a few weeks time had already helped her start to fill out. Her bones were less prominent, at least.

She’d worried at first, what he’d think of her physically. Not just because she hadn’t maintained a healthy weight, but because her body was the most glaringly human part of her. Pointed ears, she might have, but the almost too-perfect form faeries were known for hadn’t been passed down to her.

But Rhys hadn’t cared one bit. Had been more than happy to worship every inch of her day after day, night after night. She was almost afraid to get used to it.

“You shouldn’t be,” he murmured, thumb rolling across her nipple. “My love is unconditional. There’s nothing about you I see as flawed, human or fae. Your heritage, your body, your mind—there is nothing about you that would push me away, my love.”

Feyre turned in his arms so they were eye to eye once again. “Even when I’m old and gray and crippled beyond reason.” 

She watched something break in him then. There was a possibility they would find no solution to the toll of mortality. That the relentless march of time would grant her decades when he had centuries. That they could not be guaranteed another lifetime together.

“Even then, Feyre. Even then.” 

She took a shaky breath, nuzzling into his neck again. “That isn’t a problem for right now,” she whispered. “Let’s just…”

He tugged her a little closer, her thighs parting fully to lock around his hips. “What do you need tonight, sweet girl?”

She let his voice wash over her, drug her teeth across his collarbone until he groaned beneath her. “I need you, Rhys. Always you.”

A low, pleased growl met her ears. Then his fingers were playing between her legs, parting her folds to expose her clit. She jolted, water lapping dangerously close to the lip of the tub. Rhys chuckled. “Come here, little mate.” Feyre let him guide her down onto his length, trembling the whole way. There had been no shortage of sex since their bond acceptance, but Feyre wasn’t sure she’d ever grow used to that first stretch, especially when he made her sink down like that. “Just like that. So good for me, Feyre.”

Her hands closed around the porcelain on either side of her, fingers curling and uncurling as she tried to leash the dizzying pleasure that had already started to flood through her. She didn’t care what her reaction did to his ego, she just needed him to move. 

She managed to force her eyes open, blink up at him in request. ”Can’t—” 

He clicked his tongue, hand tightening on her hips. “Oh, my little mate knows exactly what she wants. Just needs a little help.” He lifted her slightly, setting an easy pace. Up, down, up down. “No more thinking about what’s ahead. Just staying right here with me. Taking your pleasure. That’s it,” he praised when she kept her momentum without him, shifting her shaking hands to his shoulders one at a time. 

She was gripping him tight enough her nails broke skin, but he just grinned back at her hips starting to lift to meet hers as his thumb moved back to her clit. “Rhys,” she said, slightly panicked when her climb to release came so sharply. 

“Let go, Feyre. Want you to come for me, just like this.” It rattled through her, a wave of ecstasy that had her bowing in his arms. Rhys cursed as she clenched down, biting into her shoulder as he spilled inside her. It would leave a mark her body would be much slower to heal than his, but she hardly minded that. She liked the reminder she was really his.

“Fuck, Feyre.” She shivered in his arm, only realizing the water had chilled when her mind and body fully righted themselves. “Let’s get you dried off and tucked in, darling.”

She whimpered when he eased her off his cock and cleaned her with warm water before stepping out onto the bathmat. Bundling them both in soft towels he started to dry the ends of her hair. “So sweet,” he whispered when her nose found its home in the crook of his neck once again. She was starting to find it was her favorite place to be—tucked in where his scent was strongest.

“We’ll find a way, won’t we Rhys?” she asked after he’d slipped a nightgown over her head.

He was silent for a moment, letting the question sit between them as he brushed her hair in measured strokes. “We’ll try, Feyre. I won’t stop looking until we’ve found a way. I promise.”

~~~~~

Rhysand

In the end, their efforts were fruitless. No spell or healing magic could still the hands of time. Year after year, Rhys watched his mate change with the seasons. Her painting was the first thing she grieved, her hands stiff and pained with age. Arthritis, Madja called it. The tonics only helped for a time. Then it was her memories. Not of him, but the precious moments they’d shared in those sixty years. The rest of their family, a forgotten story, even as each of them spoke and tended to her each day.

In the last few days her deepest worries were finally voiced.

“I should have done more. Even if I am scorned in the Hewn City, I am your mate. Their Lady.”

“You did more than any of them deserve.”

~

“What have I done for this city beyond the little things? How do they really see me?”

“The little things mean the most, my love.”

~

Her last regret nearly broke him. 

“I never gave you a child.”

“Feyre—”

“It was my duty, was it not? Now I am dying. You are a High Lord without an heir.”

“It’s not your fault we could not conceive, Feyre. I have lived a more rewarding life than I imagined, and I haven’t grieved a moment. Nor should you.”

That was the night her heart gave out. The next morning she was buried beside his sister. And beneath the spring wisteria, Rhys felt the last little light in his chest wink out.

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @sajirah // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

[anangelwhodidntfall]

Picasso II: Dad!JakeSully

Avatar Masterlist

word count: 1.4k

Request: Part Two of Picasso Part I, about how after they leave and arrive at the reefs. Like how would they react when they see Y/n's style and dyed hair? How they start living, adapting, and how both chiefs are with them and stuff. Just everything, let your imagination run wild!

A/N: This was supposed to be Ao'nung x reader, but I could help but think about what if Daughter reader fell in love with an original character from the Metkayina clan who loved her for how different she was.

OC: Äeka Te Veha Toi'itan

After nearly weeks of traveling on their ikrans, y/n's family had finally arrived in Awa'atlu, desperately seeking Uturu to get away from war. With an inaudible sigh, she shuffled closer to her twin, his heavy arm immediately coming to wrap around her tense shoulders, effectively grounding her as she wondered what was going to happen here. As she listened to her parents trying to plead for their sanctuary when her eyes landed on a boy about her age staring at you and your family. Y/n had to admit he was very pretty, he offered her a small smile as she smile back at him before turning back towards her family, hoping she would get to see more of him soon.

"These children aren't even true Na'vi." The Tsahìk said harshly as she held one of Lo'ak's hands in the air making y/n and Neteyam glare at her.

The following weeks had been a struggle for the whole family, but especially you and your siblings as some of the clan kids liked giving you guys a hard time for being different from them but not Tsierya she had become your best friend and the beautiful boy that y/n saw during their arrival was named Äeka he was a warrior in training like Neyetmam and he was so kind to them especially her. He would often seek her out during chores, or after training loving to sit and talk with her while she painted or drew, he has a lot of her artwork.

Speaking of her artistic abilities, y/n more often than not was in the artist's tent working on her drawings or learning about their styles and how they do the tattoos that they have. One day y/n had been in there after her chores roughly sketching a tattoo when Ronal saw it.

"That is very good my child, would you have any interest in learning how to do the tattoos on the skin?" She asked the young girl.

"I would love to actually." Y/n said as Ronal motioned for her to follow her over to her station where she already had a client.

A few days later Äeka had been searching all over for y/n, the young warrior had grown quite fond of the girl since her and her family arrived and not to mention how pretty she was and how different she was from the other Na'vi. He finally found her playing on the beach with her younger sister Tuk, who was building a sandcastle with a bucket of shells sitting by you two and as he got closer to you guys, he noticed that the pink was missing from your hair which made him frown.

"Hi y/n, hi Tuk. What are you girls up to this evening?" He asked as you looked up at him with a smile.

"Hi Äeka, we're just working on building a sandcastle and we're gonna decorate with these shells. Would you like to join us?" You asked him as he nodded his head taking a seat next to you.

"No pink today?" He asked you as you guys worked on the sandcastle.

"Uh no, I took it out. Not many people here are fond of it, as they like to remind me." You said quietly as Äeka frowned wondering who dared to say anything to you about your hair because he loved it.

"That's a shame, I always thought it made you the prettiest girl here." He said as y/n felt her cheeks warm at his word making her lower her head.

"Really?" Y/n asked him.

"Really, don't listen to what others say. They fear what they don't understand." He said brushing some of her hair out her face.

"You know my dad said the same thing to me." Y/n said.

"Well, he's right, so please consider putting the color back in your hair." He said as y/n nodded her head.

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Tuk and talking with each other until the eclipse started to happen and the two girls had to head home much to their dismays but Äeka offered to walk them home just to squeeze in a few more minutes with y/n.

Meanwhile, Jake had been outside the Mauri waiting for his kids to return when he saw y/n and Äeka laughing and talking while they walked home with Tuk a few steps in front of them, while it made him happy to see his baby girl smiling...it also stressed him a bit to think about her dating already.

"So you and Äeka?" Jake asked y/n not so subtly making Neytiri shake her head at him.

"Relax Dad, we're just friends nothing more. So please calm down." Y/n said making her mom laugh as she entered the Mauri.

"Hey, Mom?" Y/n asked her mother as they cleaned up from dinner while her dad was out of the home.

"Yes, sweetheart?" She asked.

"I was wondering if maybe tonight or tomorrow you could help me put the pink back in my hair? If you don't mind." She asked.

"Of course dear, we can work on it tonight while your dad is asleep, so it just stays between us and we don't have to hear how right he is." Your mom said making you laugh.

That night after her dad went to sleep, her mom helped her put the pink back in her hair promising not to out to let her dad know that he was right and that  Äeka may or may not have played a hand in it as well. Y/n woke up that morning and ate her breakfast feeling her father’s eyes on her as she ate. 

“Babygirl, I’m glad to see you put the pink back in your hair.” He said. 

“Thanks dad. I just missed having it there and plus it’s kinda annoying how many times people have thought I was Nete.” She said as she finished up.

“So this had nothing to do with what I said?” He asked her as her and her siblings shared a look. 

“Umm not really no! Look at the time, I got chores to do! Bye mom, bye dad!” She said running out laughing as Jake shook his head in disblief. 

“Nice try! You know I was right about your hair!” He yelled after her making her laugh.

"Y/n." Tonowari said causing the young girl to turn and look at Chief and bow her head at him.

"Tonowari, how may I help you?" She asked wondering what the chief wanted from her.

"Your father and  Äeka  have both come and told me about your artistic skills and I was coming over here to see if you would have any interest in becoming one of the clan's artists?" He asked shocking y/n.

"You want me to do the tattoos and everything?" She asked making sure she was understanding him right.

"Yes in addition to your father and Akea, my wife has always told me about how you have been studying the art of our clans and learning how to tattoo. I think you would excel in this area if you wish." He said.

"I would love to. Thank you so much for this opportunity!" Y/n said shaking his hand.

"Of course. Tomorrow morning just head to the artist's tent and they will get you all set up." He said before leaving.

Äeka had been finishing up his daily chores when he heard footsteps approaching making him look up and see y/n approaching him making him smile as he greeted her.

"You put the pink back in your hair." He said with a smile.

"Yeah I did...turns out you and my dad were right..but don't tell him I said that." She said making him laugh as he agreed.

"So Tonowari offered me a job today." She said making him listen with interest as he had been speaking highly of her art skills to the Olo'eyktan.

"He did? What kind of job did he offer you?" He asked her softly holding her hand.

"He offered me a job as an artist for the clan, thanks to recommendations from you, Ronal, and my dad about my art." She said with that smile that he swore he never get tired of seeing on her face.

"That's amazing sweetheart! Congratulations, I know that you are going to do so well." He said hugging her.

[aventurineswife]

College AU part II

Ok but what if reader comes home one evening (alhaitham is away for a while) and finds kaveh on his maybe 4th glass of wine so they know he is stressed...again. And while they try coax him to get some rest, kaveh in his half drunk state blurts out he likes reader.

Reader is of course stunned, but thinks they can figure it out in the morning when kaveh is better and if he remembers saying it. Just after reader tucks kaveh in, he grabs them and pulls them down next to him and cuddles them, falling asleep right then and there. Unfortunately, reader has no way out of his iron grip and falls asleep there.

Kaveh might have a mini heart attack in the morning XD just two silly idiots who are pining for each other so hard, its too comical (yes, you can end it with a more proper fleshed out confession blurted out by both at the same time, we love silly idiots in love)

“The best thing to hold onto in life is each other” | Part 2

Summary: You come home one evening to find Kaveh on his fourth glass of wine, clearly stressed from his work. As you try to coax him to get some rest, he unexpectedly blurts out that he likes you. Stunned but uncertain, you decide to wait until morning to see if he remembers. After tucking Kaveh in, he unexpectedly pulls you down beside him, cuddling you tightly as he drifts off to sleep. Trapped in his embrace, you eventually fall asleep too.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader, Modern AU, College AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lighthearted Romance, Confessions from both sides.

Warnings: Alcohol Consumption, Potential minor implications of intoxication.

A/N: AHAHA I KNEW IT YOU WERE GONNA COMMENT SOMETHING LIKE THIS ANON!! 🤭

Part 1

You stepped into the apartment, the familiar scent of Kaveh’s notes and scattered architectural plans filling the air. You called out a casual greeting, but the only response was the soft clink of glass against wood. Frowning, you moved toward the dining room and found Kaveh slouched at the table, a half-empty bottle of wine by his side, the remnants of his fourth glass pooling at the bottom.

“Kaveh?” you ventured cautiously, noting the slight flush to his cheeks. “Are you okay?”

He looked up, his sharp red eyes slightly glazed over. A lopsided smile spread across his face, the kind that hinted at a lighthearted spirit struggling against the weight of his stress. “I’m... splendid!” he declared, raising the glass like a trophy. “A true artist needs his inspiration, after all!”

You stepped closer, assessing the chaotic spread of sketches and blueprints littering the table. “It looks like you’ve been at this for hours. You need to get some rest.”

Kaveh waved his hand dismissively, though it was less of a confident gesture and more a sign of his unsteady state. “Rest is for the weak! I can’t stop now; I have to finish this project for the exhibition next week! It’s... it’s my masterpiece!” He emphasized this last word with a theatrical flourish that made you chuckle despite the concern gnawing at your heart.

“Your masterpiece can wait until tomorrow,” you insisted gently, moving to pull the bottle away from him. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up.”

He pouted, a mix of frustration and exhaustion in his eyes. “But you don’t understand! Everything I do has to be perfect! I can’t let anyone down!” His voice wavered, revealing a hint of the pressure that had been weighing on him. You sat beside him, feeling a swell of sympathy.

“You’re not letting anyone down by taking care of yourself,” you said softly, placing a hand on his back. “You’re more than your work, Kaveh.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider this, his expression softening. “I know, but—” He paused, taking another sip of wine. “But you’re the only one who sees that, you know?”

You felt your heart flutter. “I’m just trying to help you, that’s all.”

He leaned back in his chair, suddenly serious, the laughter fading from his eyes. “You really care, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” You could feel your face heating up as you met his gaze, but then he startled you with his next words.

“I like you,” he blurted, words tumbling out in a rush. “Like, a lot. You make me feel... happy, and I—”

The weight of the moment struck you like lightning, leaving you utterly speechless. Your mind raced as you processed his confession. “Wait, you like me?”

“Yes, I—”

But before he could continue, you shook your head slightly, wanting to ground the conversation. “Kaveh, you’ve had a bit too much to drink right now. Maybe we should talk about this in the morning?”

He blinked at you, confusion swirling in his red eyes. “But I mean it,” he insisted, slightly slurring his words now. “I really do like you... a lot.”

Trying to keep a straight face amid the internal chaos, you nodded slowly. “Okay, let’s get you to bed, and we can figure it out when you’re sober.”

With some effort, you helped him to his feet, guiding him toward his room. He stumbled slightly, and you laughed softly, feeling a mixture of affection and exasperation. Once in his room, you helped him settle onto his bed, pulling the covers over him gently. “Get some sleep, Kaveh.”

He turned onto his side, looking up at you with a sleepy smile. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

You hesitated, glancing back at the door. “I��”

Before you could finish, Kaveh reached out and grabbed your wrist, tugging you down beside him with surprising strength. You landed beside him, flustered and caught off guard. “Kaveh, what—”

“Stay,” he murmured, already drifting off. “I like you... so much...”

And with that, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close against his side, his warmth enveloping you like a soft blanket. You felt your heart race, trapped in his iron grip, unable to escape. You’d never expected this turn of events, yet you couldn’t deny the comfort of being beside him.

With a resigned sigh, you nestled into his side, feeling your eyelids grow heavy as you tried to process everything that had just happened.

The sun filtered through the curtains the next morning, the warmth of daylight creeping into Kaveh’s room. You stirred awake, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings and feeling the weight of Kaveh’s arm draped possessively over you.

Panic shot through you as you remembered the night before. You carefully extricated yourself from his grip, only to find his eyes fluttering open, blinking against the light.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. Then his expression shifted from drowsy to horrified as realization washed over him. “Oh, no... Did I...?”

“Uh, yeah,” you admitted, trying to suppress a smile. “You might have confessed your feelings while drunk.”

Kaveh shot up, wide-eyed, his hair a wild mess. “I what?!”

You chuckled, leaning back on your hands. “You definitely did, Kaveh. But it’s okay. We can talk about it if you want.”

He put his head in his hands, mortified. “I can’t believe I did that! This is so embarrassing!”

“Relax,” you said, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You weren’t wrong in what you said.”

Kaveh looked up at you, confusion etched on his features. “What do you mean?”

Taking a deep breath, you smiled softly at him. “I like you too, Kaveh. A lot. But maybe we should both be sober when we talk about it more seriously.”

His eyes lit up, and he sat straighter, a spark of hope igniting in them. “Really? You—”

Before he could finish, you both blurted out at the same time, “I like you!”

You stared at each other, a mix of surprise and joy on your faces. Laughter erupted from both of you, the tension breaking like a wave.

“Okay, so we both like each other,” you said, feeling your heart race at the realization. “Now what?”

Kaveh grinned, the nervousness replaced by his usual exuberance. “I think we should start with a proper date. I’ll even design a place that’s beautiful enough to impress you!”

You laughed again, shaking your head at the endearing absurdity of it all. “I’m looking forward to it, Kaveh. Just try not to spill your feelings after too much wine next time.”

He smirked, leaning closer. “No promises!”

And with that, two silly idiots finally embraced their feelings, their hearts in sync as they began to carve out a new chapter together, full of beauty, laughter, and love.

[vodika-vibes]

(You know who this is)

May I have Sev x female IT Ambrosia and Corriander a nsfw/steamy scenario for Sev's reaction and thoughts to what he sees and what he reads in the filthy sketchbook/journal please? 🥺🥺🥺🙏

(Lol, I keep picturing him just holed up somewhere for three days, reading, sketching and getting off and it makes me giggle x3)

Thank you either way hun.💛

You are an amazing writer and I hope to be as good as you someday! 🌻

The Journal pt II

Summary: Sev's thoughts when he has the journal, and then his first time with you.

Pairing: Clone Commando Sev x F!Reader

Word Count: 953

Warnings: Smut

Prompts: Ambrosia - love is reciprocated, Coriander - lust

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Sorry that this took so long...and that it's so short. Sev didn't want to agree with me here.

Sev absently runs his fingers over the fine leather cover of the borrowed notebook, the images etched on the paper flashing through his memory as he settles back in his bed and opens the book to the first page. 

The first couple of pages are rough sketches.

Rough sketches of her, his pretty little artist. Some of the sketches are more detailed than others, others are much more rough, just outlines, but even so, Sev can’t look away.

How someone so talented is living her life as an IT specialist for the GAR is beyond him. 

He flips past the sketches, pausing every now and then to admire some of the sketches of his brothers, or plants or buildings, before he gets to the first image of him.

Well. The first image of them together.

It is a very good drawing, very detailed, though he knows that she would have had to use her imagination on some parts. Even so, the image on the page could have come from his own imagination…or his own fantasies.

He skims the words written on the opposite page, but Sev quickly finds himself unable to focus on the written words in favor of the images on the pages. 

And here he thought that his crush was wholly one-sided.

He’ll have to do something about that. Later.

Sev flips through the notebook quickly, glancing at the pictures and skimming the half story that she’s written, a small smirk crossing his face as he looks at the pictures.

His cute little cyar’ika is kinkier than he thought, at least, she is if these pictures are accurate depictions of her fantasies. 

He wants to fulfill all of them.

Sev shifts, uncomfortable with how tight his blacks have gotten due to his arousal. That’s something else that he’ll handle at some other point in time. Later tonight, maybe, when he’s in the shower.

It’s the only place he gets any damned privacy after all.

He scans one of the images one more time, and then reaches for a sheet of paper and a pencil. If his cute little cyare is going to fill an entire notebook with her fantasies, the least he can do is share one of his own.

It’s only fair after all.

Sev is crowding into your space, his arm is folded over your head, and his free hand is resting gently on your hip. You know that your face is flushed, with embarrassment, yes, but also arousal. 

He leans in and catches your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. And you eagerly lean into the kiss, into him. 

Roughly he nips your lower lip, and then pulls away, but only far enough that he’s able to speak. “Where’s your room, cyar’ika?” He all but growls against your lips, and you really shouldn’t find that so attractive, but you really, really do.

Wordlessly, you take his hand and tug him further into your home, until you’re standing in the door to your bedroom. 

And that’s when Sev takes over again. 

He crashes his lips against yours again, and walks you backwards until you topple on the bed, landing with a startled squeak. A squeak that’s swallowed by him, as he follows you down to the bed.

Everything about Sev is intense.

You know this. You’ve known this. It’s part of the reason that you were so attracted to him from the start.

But now that he’s here, pressed against you, his hands sliding under your shirt to remove the material from your body, you’re finding yourself a little overwhelmed.

Sev pulls away and peppers kisses across your face, and then he pulls away a little more to strip your shirt off, and he tosses it to the side. And then he stops for a moment, and he lightly presses his hand against your cheek.

Something soft and adoring crosses his face, “Beautiful,” He murmurs, “I’m going to make you feel amazing,” Sev promises, “I bet you’ll be gorgeous when you fall apart around my cock, angel.”

Your face heats, and you turn your head to press your face against his forearm.

“Aww…my sweet girl is feeling shy?” He presses a kiss to your neck, down to your collar, and then kisses down between your breast and lets his lips linger on your stomach.

Your gaze meets his, and you smile softly as you reach out to thread your fingers through his hair. 

Sev hooks his fingers around the waist of your pants, and slowly tugs them down, “I need you to know, cyare.” He murmurs as he presses light kisses to the newly exposed skin, “I must have gotten myself off to those images five or six times.”

You giggle softly and then gasp when he nips your hip.

“Kept imagining you with me in the shower.” He murmurs, his gaze remains locked with yours as he slides down your body, “Your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, looking up at me with your pretty eyes.” Sev groans at the memory, “Soaking wet…and not just because of the water.”

His name slips from your lips in a breathy moan, and he chuckles, “Kept imagining you getting off on getting me off. Getting yourself all worked up because of me and my cock-”

“Sev, stop teasing-” You whine.

He laughs, “I haven’t even started teasing you yet, cyare.” Sev slides up your body, and kisses you, slowly and deeply. “I’m going to make you feel amazing.”

“Please.” You whisper to him.

“Well,” Sev kisses you one more time, “How can I deny you when you ask so nicely.” And then he pulls back and strips his shirt off, tossing it to the side. “I’m going to ruin you, cyar’ika.”

[helsgcddess]

— VEILED SPARKS; ii

READ ON AO3 || PINTEREST BOARD (in the works)

summary: "You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria." In which an artist with a knack for seeing things she shouldn't meets a suspiciously perfect stranger with glowing blue eyes and a possessive yellow Camaro. Set during ROTF.

pairing: bumblebee/original character

word count: 2.6k

a/n— so i may or may not be obsessed with writing these two?? like i literally can't stop and honestly? you're all gonna have to deal with it bc i love them too much. this is gonna be my only active fic rn (or until my brain goes "NEW IDEA TIME" at 3am lmao) anyway! chapter 2 picks up right after our girl's weird car ride with brooks, featuring: toria trying (and failing) to have One Normal Shift at the café, an overprotective italian mom, and a certain yellow camaro being The Least Subtle Ever (chapter 3 is already in the works but shhh don't tell anyone)

warnings — anxiety/mental health stuff, vague mission city references

Mom was nearly frantic when I ran into the back door of the café. She was pacing, muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Italian—never a good sign. She nearly dropped her espresso—like that would make her stress levels better—when she saw me.

"Vittoria Marie, where the hell have you been?" She gripped my shoulders with force, her dark eyes scanning my face like she was checking for injuries. I suddenly understood why she was so scared. After Mission City, after Dad, any unexplained absence sent her into overdrive. "You're nearly three hours late! No calls, no texts! Do you even want to—" She grabbed her espresso like an addict would a cigarette, hands trembling.

I took the dainty cup from her shaking hands and downed the rest of the drink in one gulp. Mom did not need anymore caffeine at 7:45 pm.

I, however, had the closing shift. I needed the caffeine. "Dad's car shit out on me. On the side of the road." I explained as I tied up my hair, trying to ignore how the familiar scents of coffee and fresh-baked cannoli made my stomach growl. "Uh, I got a ride back to the pier, walked home and came straight here. Car's still on the side of the bend." I made sure not to make eye contact as I told her, because explaining the whole 'mysterious guy in a yellow Camaro' thing would definitely not help her anxiety levels.

"The Chevelle?" Mom's hands fluttered anxiously to her throat, where Dad's wedding ring hung on a delicate chain. "Marco's Chevelle? Vittoria, that car is—"

"—all we have left of him?" I finished, maybe a bit sharper than necessary as I grabbed my apron from its hook. "Yeah, Mom, I know. Trust me, I know."

Her face did that thing it always did when I mentioned Dad—like she was trying to hold back tears and a lecture at the same time. "We should have sold it," she muttered, switching to Italian like she always did when she was upset. "That car, it was involved in everything at that base. All those classified projects he was working on before—"

"Mom." I cut her off, tying my apron with more force than necessary. "It's just the alternator. I'll get it fixed."

"With what money?" She threw her hands up. "The café barely covers the bills, and you're still paying off that art school debt, and—"

"I said I'll handle it." I grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, needing something to do with my hands before I started sketching anxiety spirals in my notebook again. "Besides, you know what Dad always said about that car."

"Cars have souls," we said in unison—her voice tired, mine almost defensive.

Mom's shoulders slumped. "Just like your father," she sighed, but there was a fondness under the exasperation. "Always seeing magic in machines." She paused, her expression shifting to something more serious. "But Toria, after everything that happened in Mission City... maybe some machines should stay mysterious."

I thought about Brooks and his too-perfect movements, about the way his Camaro had hummed like it was alive. "Yeah," I said, turning toward the front of the café. "Maybe they should."

Mom glanced back at me like she was going to ask what I meant, but shook her head instead, disappearing onto the floor.

"Toria! Table seven needs their check!" Rosa, our head waitress, called out as I emerged from the kitchen. She took one look at my face and raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something like that," I muttered, grabbing my order pad. The Friday night crowd was in full swing, the café filled with the usual mix of locals and tourists. Every table was occupied, the air thick with the scent of garlic, espresso, and fresh bread.

I moved through my section on autopilot, refilling cups and taking orders while my mind kept drifting back to impossible blue eyes and engines that purred like they were talking. My sketchbook burned a hole in my apron pocket, full of drawings I couldn't explain.

"Honey, you okay?" Mrs. Castellano, one of our regulars, caught my arm as I passed. "You're a million miles away tonight."

"I'm fine," I said, automatically. "Just car trouble." Which wasn't technically a lie.

"Oh no, not Marco's car?" She clicked her tongue sympathetically. "That beautiful Chevelle? You know, my Anthony might be able to take a look at it. He's always saying how they don't make them like that anymore..."

I nodded along, only half-listening as she detailed her son's mechanical expertise. My eyes kept drifting to the window, scanning for a flash of yellow among the passing cars. Which was ridiculous. It's not like he was going to just show up at the café, order a cappuccino, and casually explain why he moved like a special effect come to life.

"Toria!" Rosa's voice snapped me back to reality. "Order up for table twelve!"

Right. Work. Normal, human work in our normal, human café where nothing weird ever happened except my mom's experimental fusion desserts.

I balanced two plates of fettuccine and made my way across the café, nearly dropping them when I caught a flash of yellow through the front window. But it was just a taxi, because obviously it was just a taxi. Get it together, Toria.

"You sure you're okay, tesoro?" Mom asked as I passed the register. "You look... jumpy."

"I'm fine," I said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Just worried about the car." And the impossibly perfect stranger who might know something about Dad's classified work. And the way his car had felt alive. And—

The bell above the door chimed, and I nearly got whiplash turning to look. Just Mr. Romano coming in for his usual evening cannoli. Definitely not a suspiciously attractive blonde with government secrets and weird eyes.

"That's it," Rosa declared, appearing at my elbow with her scary-accurate timing. "Go take your break. You're making me nervous just watching you."

I started to protest, but Mom joined in. "Yes, yes, take fifteen minutes. Get some air." She pressed a fresh espresso into my hands. "But stay where I can see you!"

I rolled my eyes but took the coffee and headed for our little outdoor seating area. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the salt-tang of the bay mixed with the endless parade of tourist food trucks along the pier.

Settling into one of our wrought iron chairs, I pulled out my sketchbook. The margins were filled with him—the sharp line of his jaw, the too-perfect sweep of his hair, the mechanical precision of his movements. But something was off about the drawings, like my pencil was trying to capture a form that kept shifting. None of the doodles were finished—the pages were the same thing—one page full of his jaw, another of his hair, and his eyes wherever I could fit them.

The café's patio lights cast warm pools of gold across my sketchbook, turning my rough sketches of Brooks into something almost ethereal. I was trying to get his eyes right—they never looked quite human enough on paper—when a flash of yellow caught my attention.

My head snapped up so fast I almost spilled my espresso. A beat-up yellow Volkswagen puttered past the café, its engine coughing in a way that would've made Dad wince. I slumped back in my chair, torn between relief and... something else. Disappointment? That was definitely something to unpack later.

"Real smooth, Toria," I muttered to myself, adding more shadow to Brooks' impossibly perfect jawline. "Nothing says 'totally fine' like jumping every time you see a yellow car."

A group of tourists walked past, debating loudly about which pier had the best sourdough. The fog was rolling in from the bay, thick enough to blur the streetlights into hazy halos. Perfect mood lighting for sketching mysterious maybe-government-agents and their suspicious cars.

I glanced at my phone. Still no service, which meant I couldn't even Google "weird military guys with glowing eyes" or "what to do when your dead dad's car attracts government attention." Not that I was planning to. Much.

"Five minutes!" Mom called from the doorway, because apparently I still needed a timeline on my breaks at twenty years old.

I took one last sip of espresso, trying to focus on normal things. Like how I was going to afford that alternator. Or why my sketches of Brooks looked more like technical diagrams than portraits. Or why every passing engine sound made me think of—

"No," I told my sketchbook firmly. "We're not doing this. We're going to go back inside, serve pasta to tourists, and not think about weird guys in yellow Camaros."

I shoved my sketchbook back in my apron pocket and headed inside, nearly colliding with Rosa as she balanced a tray of tiramisu.

"There you are!" She steadied the desserts with practiced ease. "Your regulars are here—the college kids at table nine. They're asking for you specifically."

Sure enough, the corner table was occupied by the usual Friday night study group: three exhausted-looking art students who'd discovered our café's student discount and unlimited coffee refills last semester. I grabbed the coffee pot and made my way over.

"Let me guess," I said, taking in their scattered textbooks and desperate expressions. "Finals week?"

"Worse," Mia groaned, holding out her empty cup. "Portfolio reviews. Save us with your caffeine and carbs."

I started refilling cups, trying to focus on their familiar chatter about professors and projects. Normal college stuff. The kind of stuff I should be dealing with if I hadn't dropped out after... everything.

"Hey, what happened to your car?" Jake asked, dunking a biscotti in his fresh coffee. "Noticed it wasn't in your usual spot when we walked past."

"Alternator issues," I said, which sounded better than 'possibly attracting government attention according to a suspiciously perfect stranger.' "It's, uh, getting fixed."

"My cousin's a mechanic," he offered. "I could give you his number—"

The café's lights flickered, just for a second. Outside, an engine rumbled, deeper than normal, almost—

I wasn’t finishing that thought.

"I should check on my other tables," I said quickly, already backing away. "You guys good here?"

I didn't wait for an answer, diving back into the dinner rush with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. The next two hours were a blur of pasta orders, coffee refills, and definitely not looking out the window every time I heard an engine.

The last customers finally cleared out around eleven, the bell chiming weakly as the tipsy tourists stumbled into the fog. I flipped the sign to 'CLOSED' with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm.

"Don't forget to—" Mom started.

"Double-check the back door's locked, run the last load of dishes, and count the register," I finished, already grabbing the cleaning spray. "I know, Mom. Same as every night."

She hesitated by the door, her hand going to Dad's ring again. "I can stay and help."

"Mom." I gave her my best attempt at a reassuring smile. "Go home. Take a bath. Stop stress-baking cannoli at midnight. I've got this."

After another five minutes of motherly hovering and three more reminders to text her when I was done, she finally left. The café felt different after hours—quieter, but not in a bad way. Just me, the hum of the refrigerators, and the lingering scent of garlic and coffee.

I went through the closing checklist on autopilot: wiping tables, sweeping floors, counting the register while trying not to think about alternator costs. The dishes clanked in the industrial washer as I checked the coffee machines were off and the ovens were empty of Mom's stress-baking experiments.

The fog pressed against the windows, turning the streetlights into blurry halos. Perfect atmospheric lighting for sketching mysterious strangers, if I wasn't elbow-deep in sanitizer solution.

"Just one more sweep," I muttered to myself, dropping the last clean dish into the rack with a clank. "One more sweep and then you can go home and have an existential crisis about glowing eyes and impossibly alive cars in the comfort of your own room."

I grabbed the broom, humming off-key to the classic rock playlist Dad had made for closing duties. The same one that used to play in the garage while he worked on the Chevelle. The same Chevelle that was currently sitting abandoned on a dark road, probably attracting all kinds of attention I really didn't want to think about.

The front windows rattled slightly—just the fog rolling in from the bay, definitely not an engine idling somewhere nearby. I definitely didn't look up expecting to see yellow paint gleaming under the streetlights.

I finished the floors, counted the register one last time (old habits die hard when your mom texts to remind you), and grabbed my bag. The back door locked with its usual stubborn jangle of keys.

As I rounded the corner of the building, a flash of movement caught my eye. Something yellow disappeared into the fog at the end of the street, too quick to be sure. But the lingering rumble of an engine—not quite normal, not quite mechanical—echoed off the old brick buildings.

"Nope," I announced to the empty street, clutching my keys like they'd protect me from government secrets and strange men in muscle cars. "Not dealing with this right now."

But I still found myself sketching engine sounds on my walk home, trying to capture that impossible purr in graphite.

The fog had turned the familiar streets of North Beach into something out of a noir film—all hazy lamplight and shadowy corners. Good thing I had my scuffed Converse and anxiety-induced speed walking to protect me.

Every few steps, I could have sworn I heard an engine—that engine—rumbling just out of sight. But every time I turned to look, there was just more fog and the distant sound of tourists by the pier.

"This is what happens when you spend too much time talking to cars," I muttered, fishing my sketchbook out as I walked. Even in the dim light, Brooks' impossibly perfect features stared up from the page. I'd drawn him too many times for someone I'd just met, but something about him begged to be captured. Like if I could just get the lines right, I'd understand what he was.

A yellow glint caught in my peripheral vision, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. The sound of an engine purred through the fog, somehow managing to sound protective.

"Okay, that's it." I stopped under a streetlight, addressing the seemingly empty street. "If you're following me, that's super creepy. If I'm imagining you following me, that's probably a sign I need more therapy. Either way, not cool."

The fog swallowed my words, but for a moment—just a moment—I could have sworn I heard what sounded like an amused rev of an engine.

"Great," I sighed, picking up my pace again. "Now I'm having conversations with invisible cars. Mom's totally going to love this new development."

The rest of the walk passed in a blur of fog and maybe-imagined engine sounds. By the time I reached my apartment, I'd filled three new pages with sketches—mostly of impossibly blue eyes and the way light seemed to bend wrong around Brooks' edges.

I kicked off my shoes, dumped my bag, and collapsed onto my bed, surrounded by the organized chaos of half-finished paintings and sketches of Dad's car. The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, casting weird shadows that absolutely did not remind me of yellow Camaros disappearing into fog.

My phone buzzed. Probably Mom's nightly "are you alive" check-in.

But the number was unknown, and the message made my heart skip:

Unknown: Your car's been moved somewhere safe. Alternator's fixed.

Unknown: You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria.

I stared at my sketchbook, still open to detailed drawings of a man who moved like machinery and eyes that glowed like something from Mission City.

"Well," I said to my empty room, "shit."

[thepastisalreadywritten]

What does Paddington have to do with the Queen?

It can all be traced back to 1986, when Michael Bond wrote Paddington At The Palace.

In the story, Paddington Bear goes to Buckingham Palace, waves a Union Jack flag, gets to see the Queen’s Guard, and even supposedly spots Queen Elizabeth II herself through a window.

Paddington would visit the palace again in 2006, this time for a pantomime called The Queen’s Handbag, which took place as part of the children’s party at the palace as part of the Queen’s 80th birthday celebrations.

The most recent collaboration came this year as part of a tribute for the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee (2022). 

In a comedy sketch to launch her televised Jubilee concert, Paddington and Queen Elizabeth II sit down in Buckingham Palace together, sharing afternoon tea, some bear-induced clumsy chaos, and naturally, marmalade sandwiches.

Now considered one of the most memorable parts of the Jubilee celebrations, the video has just over 10.2 million views on YouTube.

“It used to be said that millions of people had dreams in which they had tea with the Queen,” remarked Frank Cottrell-Boyce, the writer of the sketch, after the Queen’s passing.

“Even our dream life is going to have to change. Watching her have tea with Paddington will have to do instead.”

This wasn’t Paddington’s only appearance during the Platinum celebrations.

Artist Eleanor Tomlinson created an image of the Queen holding hands with Paddington, alongside one of the Queen’s corgis, as they walk through what looks like the aftermath of a Jubilee street party.

This image has now become synonymous with the Queen’s passing, with the picture circulating widely with various heartfelt captions and even being turned into commemorative tattoos. 

https://www.stylist.co.uk/entertainment/queen-elizabeth-ii-paddington-bear-connection/707799

🤍💜🤍

[gerlionrise]

The Artist and His Muse

Pairing: Mehmed ii x reader Note: this is just a series of different stories about You and Sultan Mehmed 2. No plot, nothing too serious. We are just having fun here. Pictures are uses as hints. Enjoy! This is part 2. Previous part is here

The stars outside Mehmed’s chamber burned brightly against the velvet of the night sky, their brilliance casting a soft glow through the tall, arched windows. He sat at his desk, surrounded by the maps and treaties that were a constant reminder of his responsibilities, yet his thoughts were far from politics or war. His mind wandered instead to you—the fire in your eyes, the defiance in your voice, the way you carried yourself with a pride and strength that both intrigued and challenged him.

Since your last encounter, Mehmed had been consumed by thoughts of you. The memory of your soaked dress clinging to your figure, your sharp tongue daring to challenge him, haunted his dreams and lingered in his waking moments. You were unlike anyone he had ever known, and the more he thought of you, the more he wanted to see you again. To feel the heat of your presence, to hear your biting words and see the blush they brought to your cheeks.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a servant and gave the order: you were to be brought to him immediately. 

---

You stood before the grand doors to Mehmed’s chambers, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed your dress. You had hoped to avoid him after your last encounter, not wanting to feed into his games or your own confusing feelings. Yet here you were, summoned once more, your heart pounding in your chest as the doors swung open to reveal him.

Mehmed stood by the windows, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over his sharp features. He turned when he heard you enter, his lips curling into a smile that was both warm and mischievous. “You came,” he said, his voice low and rich.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, your tone as defiant as ever. 

He chuckled, stepping closer, his dark eyes locked on yours. “Do you ever do anything without resistance?” 

“Only when it’s worth my time,” you shot back. 

His laughter filled the room, warm and genuine. “Then I must strive to be worthy of your time,” he said, his gaze softening as it lingered on you.

You lifted your head, trying to maintain your composure under his intense scrutiny. “What do you want, Sultan?”

“I have a request,” he said, his voice serious now. “I want you to be my muse.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Your muse?”

He nodded, gesturing to an easel and a collection of charcoal and parchment set up near the window. “I’ve been inspired by you—your strength, your beauty, your fire. I wish to capture it.”

You hesitated, your heart racing. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? Pose naked?”

His lips twitched with amusement, but he shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. You’re perfect as you are.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you pushed it aside, nodding stiffly. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

---

The hours passed in a haze of tension and quiet intimacy. You sat on his bed, your posture straight and your gaze fixed on a point in the distance, determined not to meet his eyes. Mehmed worked with a focused intensity, his hands moving deftly as he sketched your form. Every so often, he would glance up, his dark eyes studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“You’re very still,” he remarked after a while, his voice soft. “It’s unlike you.”

“Perhaps I’m trying not to give you another reason to mock me,” you replied, your tone dry.

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “I would never mock you. Tease, perhaps, but never mock.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. As the night wore on, the initial tension between you began to ease, replaced by a strange, fragile connection. He asked you questions about your homeland, your family, your dreams, and for the first time, you found yourself answering honestly. His curiosity was genuine, his attention unwavering, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through you under his gaze.

---

It was nearly dawn when exhaustion finally caught up with you. Despite your best efforts, your eyelids grew heavy, and before you knew it, you had lay down on the pillows and had drifted off to sleep.

Mehmed set down his charcoal, his eyes softening as he watched you. You looked so peaceful, your features relaxed, your lips slightly parted. For a moment, he simply sat there, taking in the sight of you, his heart aching with an unfamiliar longing.

Carefully, he moved to the bed, sliding in beside you without waking you. He lay there for a long time, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the softness of your lips, the way your hair spilled across the pillows. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and whispered words in Arabic —words of adoration and promises he wasn’t ready to voice aloud.

---

When you woke, the first thing you noticed was the warmth beside you. Your eyes snapped open, and you froze, realizing that Mehmed was lying next to you, his arm draped casually over your waist as he slept. Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment as you sat up, your movements sharp enough to wake him.

He blinked up at you, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Good morning.”

You glared at him, your hands clenched into fists. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it’s my bed,” he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. “But I suppose we could share.”

You slapped his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “You’re impossible!”

He laughed, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

You scoffed, pushing yourself off the bed. “This is the last time you’ll see me, Sultan. I refuse to play your games.”

His smile faltered slightly, but he quickly masked it with his usual confidence. “You say that, but I don’t believe you.”

You turned to leave, your heart pounding in your chest. Yet as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the memory of his warmth beside you, the softness in his eyes, and the undeniable pull that seemed to draw you back to him no matter how hard you tried to resist.

[trenchgardens-ooc-ooc-ooc-ooc]

Heres some of my oldest art on my phone and the bug who used to eat it ehe.

2019, these top ones are from my birthday, even. god. quarter of my life ago. feels like it should be longer, i remember it like it happened fifteen years ago, and only after looking at pictures. system things i guess. sighs. little goober used to blend in with my floral shirts back when i was in That phase. eheh. when we thought we were a gay man. her name was Sandy, named after my grandma. funnily i ended up taking that name too for my middle when i got the law to change my name.

I like to believe ive improved quite a lot. my boldness has certainly increased. That ones a drawing of an old protector and eventual host named Ray. We were dating an artist who really knew their shit at the time and it made us want to improve a lot. Its from August, 8th specifically. she was so happy to see me back from that trip. we went to Massachusetts. some business thing my dad had to do for continuing education or w/e. he brought us with. i went on the U.S.S. constitution! i integrated into the local pigeon population, learned the gossip.

Ike might recognize this squimbly little fuck, its Leu! from my campaign! i could write a book about him. really itd only take... eh. like. a bit of retooling of the story. not even much. might actually be easier. He's from my personal setting Oreune.

We had a friend back then named Box. back then when i was first writing the foundations of Oreune. Skeleton, really. I hope he's doing ok. I dont remember how we left off... that was... man. .. a lot of hosts ago... god. doggyhouse, pebbles, sunny, host, ray, charlie II, charlotte, charlie I. ... i might be missing some, even. its easy to lose track. yeah like seven hosts ago. more maybe if you count some host rotations more recently or doggyhouse's subdivisions, or even just how we molt through eachother... man. forever ago. I have some art from that friend. They were iconoclastic, burnt their old sketchbooks semiregularly. i think... he went by the name Eden... Box was their username... I think anyway. i hope theyre okay if theyre still around... The art was a birthday present, it was actually of Leu too.

gonna talk about some mortality stuff under the cut, fair warning. About the little lady Sandy herself. its melencholy at most, more sweet i think. it gets a little more sad after the "-".

Sandybird wasnt with us long at all, but i like to believe her life made up for its length in quality at least a little. I hand fed her from when her feathers had just started unpinning. cuddly little lady. She liked scritches, trying to climb bodily into my mouth any time i yawned, and rolling down pillows like her body was a sled and my couch cushion nest a hilly snowladen expanse. Oh and being held like a taco or a paper airplane dont forget that. Oh and climbing around in the oversized pj shirts i was wearing. and falling asleep leaning against my face. hiding in my hair too. And trying to replace my eyes behind my glasses with her head. maybe she just liked the feeling of glass on one side of her face and eyelid on the other. lil wierdo, gehehe.

-

she had really bad balance and always walked really goofily. her reflexes and all were not the best, had some motor issues i think. she was inbred, most likely. i didnt know what conure breeders really *meant* and there was some sketch stuff about what that guy said i didnt process till years later. most parrots in the USA are inbred, though, cause of the laws on importing being. Pretty Strict. like. 100% strict. whatever, i guess. she was a sweety darling. her life was short but she seemed really happy with me. I hope thats true. her immune system was the weakest of our birds, you know how they are, hiding n stuff. good for not being singled out by predators. bad for not being singled out by owners or veterinarians. back when i met her at the breeders she would always rush in to break up fights between her siblings. i cried after we took her home, thinking about how i seperated them. Thats always the worst part, i think, about buying baby animals. or animals in general. i just dont... feel important enough to have broken up that familial unit... even if it was ultimately good. i dont... know what her life would have been like if she hadnt sold. i wonder if her brothers did...

[p3achii-was-h3r3]

Re-introducing myself! Howdy hey, my name is (or atleast, I go by) Peachii! I'm just a person on the internet doing things! Use this post as an FAQ about me :]]

Cue the questions!!!1!1!!

(under the cut!!!)

“What are your pronouns?”

» She/They! Though, you could probably see that on the description of my blog.

“What are your interests/hobbies?”

» I mainly post about drawing (both traditional and digital, I also mainly do sketches and doodles), so expect a lot of art from me! I also write, so maybe some of that too. Aside from writing and drawing though, I also sing! Except I'm pretty self conscious about my voice, so I think I'll be sticking to drawing and writing. For now, atleast. I also play the piano, but it's been a while since I've laid my hands on one so I'm a bit rusty. And, as you can tell, I'm also a professional yapper (/hj)

“Why the name?”

» ...I'm gonna be so fr, I have no idea. And, no, I'm not named after Princess Peach from Mario Bros. Surprisingly enough. Most people I meet on the internet think that's the case but, no. I have no clue how I came up with the name.

“What are you currently hyperfixated on?”

» You can find out by takin a quick look at my blog's description! It might change a lot, it depends though.

“What are your Interact & Do Not Interact criteria?”

» I don't have anything specific, just the standard. If you'd want me to specify, I will:

» Do Not Interact; basic dni stuff (discrimination of any kind, pr0sh1ppers, etc.), people who can't respect opinions (I mean, srsly, if you come here just to diss people's opinions, what are you even doing ???), etc.

» Interact; fellow artists, generally anyone who shares the same interests as me, etc.

“What music do you listen to?”

» I don't really have a specific genre, however, I can list certain bands/artists I like! (For the most part tho, I listen to a whole bunch of songs from different artists. Like, I'd know one song from an artist and nothing else. Forgive me if I do, I just hyperfixated on a certain band too much... And also a certain musical...) (Cough cough, The Crane Wives...) (Cough cough, EPIC: The Musical...)

» The Crane Wives (PERSONAL FAV, LOVE THEM SM !1!1!1!1!! <333), EPIC: The Musical (this mf musical has a chokehold on me), Penelope Scott, Ricky Montgomery, Lady Gaga, Arctic Monkeys, Måneskin, Ado, Mother Mother, Bo Burnham, Tally Hall, Will Wood, Cavetown, Kesha, Beach Bunny, Lemon Demon, Jack Stauber, Lincoln, Poor Man's Poison, Melanie Martinez, Billie Eilish, Vocaloid, Laufey, Olivia Rodrigo, Ghost and Pals, Miracle Musical, Mitski, Oderari, 6arelyhuman, Britney Spears, Rio Romeo, Toby Fox, Paramore, Phoebe Bridgers, Hozier, Chappell Roan, Yaelokre, Fish in a Birdcage, Isabel LaRosa, Bruno Mars, etc.

» okay that was a lot but like,,, I just like music alr ????? 😭

“Do you have any tags specific to your blog? If so, what are they and what do they mean?”

» good question!!! I'm still working on them, but, here are ones I've come up with so far;

» #speach-ii = yappenings, like I said, professional yapper /hj

» #the baker-ii = (aka the bakery) where I cook (where I draw/more srs art)

» #baker-ii but sill-ii = (aka bakery but silly) where snacks are made (doodles)

» #the fruit basket. = my (fruity) (and cool asf) mutuals !!!

» #peachii approved = reblogs

More things about me !!!

» I'll sometimes post about my OCs!

» I love flowers. And flower meanings. My favorite flower is the Red Spider Lily! Might change in the future, though. It's my favorite flower based on looks alone. As for flower meaning, I haven't found one yet :]

» I like making paper stars !

That's all, for now !!! Now, go and frolic in the orchard !!!

[Note: might update this as time goes on]

[gothdaddyissues]

The Devil Came To A Small Town

Chapter Five available on Ao3

or under the cut (~7000 words)

PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES - October 1st has arrived and the pumpkin spice latte has returned. A trip to the coffee shop ruins Izzy's day, while Terzo and an over-caffeinated Ghoul cause trouble for Copia.

TW: Public freakout/bullying/discrimination (with some payback)

Tags: OC female, Cardinal Copia, Papa III/Terzo, Dewdrop Ghoul, a little bit of Cirrus Ghoulette, a smidgen of Papa II/Secondo (he angy), OC male, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Ministry Hijinks, Idiots in Love, Karens in the wild, swears and cursings, No Beta (we die like Terzo), Google Translate Italiano

Catch up here: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

⛧⛧⛧⛧

October 1

Izzy yawned into the back of her hand. She was still exhausted. She had tossed and turned after waking up from that dream, unable to fully drift off again. She couldn’t get the images - and the feelings, and the fucking questions - out of her mind.

It’s nothing. Not a big deal. It’s just your brain being stupid. It’s because you saw him yesterday, and you were at the Abbey reminiscing about the old days, you were listening to that music on your walk, you haven’t gotten laid in years… Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him . It was just a dream… a dream in which you were getting absolutely railed. Dommed. By Copia. Copia , of all people. Awkward, shy Copia. With his face painted like a skull and calling himself Papa for some reason. Like a Daddy thing? Fuck, he was so Daddy, so sexy… hung like a… STOP IT. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not real, he’s not really like that. Is he? What if…? Shit. Why am I dreaming about him? It has to mean something…

Round and round and round in her head until her alarm went off. And while she was in the shower. And even now, sitting at her kitchen table finishing her breakfast and drinking her tea. She had her iPad out, open on a drawing app, and she was lightly sketching the painted skull face from her dreams. 

While she didn’t consider herself an artist by any means, her skills were adequate thanks to Ari’s teaching in the past. The features of the face were passable and she had the paint pattern in the right spots. She even took the time to make one eye green and one eye white. She stared at it for a while, adjusting things here and there until she sighed and gave up. At the top of the drawing, she wrote “PAPA?” in big letters.

No more time for obsessing, she had to get her day started. Izzy snapped the cover on her tablet closed and paced across the apartment, shoving the iPad in her messenger bag hanging by the front door. She was full of anxious energy. It was another beautiful autumn morning, perfect for a walk, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t wander off to the Abbey again since she was so irrationally drawn to this man. The fates were practically throwing the two of them together. And that was the absolute last thing she wanted to deal with today. She prayed she wouldn’t see him today at all - she couldn’t handle it.

She walked back to her bedroom to grab her phone, stopping at the altar in her living room, remembering the spell she had cast the other night. Copia’s business card was still there under the rose quartz crystal. She pulled it out and held it between her fingers, feeling the energy dancing around her. It was like the electricity she felt when she was in his presence. Those intoxicating sensations from her dream were twisting in her brain and her belly as if she were under his thrall…

Snapping out of it, she waved the card grumpily in front of the large statue of Lillith keeping watch over her sacred space. “Girl, please help me out here,” Izzy said to it, “Help me figure out what the fuck is going on with this man. I’m open to receive your guidance.” She tilted back the base of the statue and slid Copia’s card underneath it. “And please give me strength to get through this day.” 

It was just past 9:30. She needed Ari to come into the store early today, but had waited until a little later in the morning to call him so she wouldn’t wake him up. He answered it on the second ring.

“Hey hey, good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“You’re awfully cheerful this early,” she remarked, suspicious. “What’s up?”

“Whaddya mean ‘What’s up?’ It’s October 1st! That’s what’s up.”

Izzy had been so preoccupied this morning she’d completely forgotten. “Oh yeah… Happy First Day of Halloween then!”

Ari laughed. “The most wonderful time of the year! And, you know what else that means?”

“Ummm…. No?”

“Pumpkin Spice Lattes are back, baby!” He sounded jubilant.

Izzy groaned. “Ugggh, god, really? You’re really that excited about cinnamon and nutmeg in your coffee?”

“No no no, it’s so much more than that, Izz,” he explained. “It is the essence of Fall in a cup full of steaming hot deliciousness. It’s like mainlining Jack o’Lanterns right into your soul. Like bonfires, and haybales, and crispy leaves under your feet…”

She was laughing now. “Jesus, Ari, it’s coffee . Relax,” she teased.

“Hey, let me enjoy my Christian Girl Autumn, okay?”

“Okay, fine, fine,” she giggled. “But first, could you maybe come into the store a bit early today and open up for me? I have to go to the bank to do a deposit and get some change for the register. I want to get it done first thing.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem!” 

“Cool, thank you.”

“Since you’ll be at the bank, which is right next door to the coffee shop… maybe you could pick up a PSL for me on your way back? You know, just to thank me for coming in early?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” she sighed. “You’re so basic… but I love you anyways.”

“I love you too,” he said. “See you soon.”

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

The coffee shop was busy - apparently, Ari wasn’t the only one excited about the return of the Pumpkin Spice Latte. Isabelle took a spot in the line and pulled her phone out of her pocket, figuring she’d scroll through her socials to kill time. 

One of the features of living in this small town was she knew most of the people there, or at least who they were. Taylor, Nick, and Kayla behind the counter. Jim the insurance agent in line behind her. A couple of her regular customers. Penny from the grocery store. Affluent realtor Diane Francis and her pseudo-socialite friend Giselle in line in front of her.

But with that knowledge came the ordeal of being known. Instead of burying her nose in her phone in peace, she had to exchange ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ and polite small talk with those she was friendly with while trying to ignore those she wasn’t. She turned her attention back to her phone screen to avoid the disdainful glances from the two women ahead of her. Because, despite the fact she was a successful business owner and benevolent member of the community, Izzy was still considered persona non grata with the town’s wealthy elite. Her beliefs were too ‘unconventional’ and her past too ‘immoral’ to be worthy of their approval. She avoided them whenever she could; unfortunately not possible today.

The women turned away and resumed their gossip. “So, they’ve taken over the whole Abbey property,” Diane told her friend, “Can you believe it? They fooled us all! They claim to be a Church when there is nothing pious about them. They’re worshiping…” she lowered her voice only slightly, her eyes shifting back to Izzy for a moment, “... the Devil !”

Giselle gave a nervous laugh as if it were a joke. “No! You can’t be serious?”

“Dead serious. They’re called the Church of Emeritus… look them up! It’s right there on the website. They talk about ‘the Dark One.’ Rituals. Upside-down crosses. Satanists. In our town! It’s disgusting,” Diane complained.

“What can we do?” Giselle seemed panicked. “This is unacceptable! That sort of thing isn’t welcome here.”

The two of them continued nattering and Izzy tried to tune them out. But she was wary. These women and their well-connected friends could easily cause trouble for the Church and its members if they wanted - especially Diane and her real estate developer husband Andrew. Between them, they owned the most property in town and used their money and influence to control so much of what happened here. Crossing them was dangerous, especially when they had the mayor and police department in their pockets. 

Anxious and angry thoughts were swirling in Izzy’s head. Who the fuck do they think they are? Why do they get to decide who’s worthy of being here or not? These assholes might organize protests, or harass them, or encourage vandalism, or wage some hate campaign… I have to warn Sister Imperator. And Copia… Oh fuck, Copia. Don’t think about him. Not now…

The sound of her name snapped her back to reality. Taylor, the barista, was calling out to her: “Izzy? You ready to order?” The busybodies in line ahead had already ordered and stepped off to the side. Izzy was too preoccupied to notice.

“Oh, hey Tay. Yeah, ummm… two Venti Pumpkin Spice Lattes, please,” Izzy said sheepishly. “Sorry, I spaced out there for a second.”

“No worries, I know it’s crazy in here today,” Taylor said, giving Izzy the total. As she was paying, Taylor leaned in close to her. “Is what they’re saying about Windermere Abbey true? Did a Satanic church really move in?”

“Yep, it’s true,” Izzy replied, keeping her voice low, “I’ve had a couple of them in my store already.”

“Really? Are they cool? Have you gone to one of their… services?”

“Yeah, they seem like cool people. But I haven’t been to a service yet. I’m sure I will sometime, though.”

Taylor was wide-eyed with excitement. She was a gorgeous young woman, with vibrant red hair, glamorous makeup, and elaborate tattoos. She was a regular at Izzy’s shop and a devotee of the occult. Izzy wasn’t the least bit surprised she’d be interested in what the Church of Emeritus had to offer. “I’m gonna check them out!” 

“You definitely should!” Izzy encouraged. “Let me know if you do.” She moved aside to join the group of people at the pick-up counter, perching on the window ledge to wait until they called her name.

Diane and Gisele sat nearby, their conversation about the Abbey still going. The customers waiting alongside them were an uncomfortable captive audience. 

“We could have bought that property, you know,” Diane said, flipping the ends of her blonde hair behind her shoulders. “We seriously considered it. But it would have cost four times the asking price to fix it up. I don’t understand why it wasn’t just torn down. It’s a rat-infested dump! Appropriate for the people who bought it, I suppose.”

Izzy knew she should stay silent. Bite her tongue, get her coffee, and leave. But the urge to defend her new friends was too strong. “It’s not a dump,” she said, as calmly as she could, “They’ve fixed it all up and it looks beautiful. Completely renovated inside and out.” 

A few people perked up when they heard Izzy’s voice, turning their heads to see how Diane was going to respond to this. She stared down her nose: “Of course you would defend them,” she scoffed, her voice dripping with contempt.

“I’m not defending anyone,” Izzy shot back. “Just stating a fact.”

“Are we talking to you?” Giselle snapped. “Mind your own business.” 

“It’s everyone’s business. We should be grateful someone went through all the trouble and expense of saving a piece of our town’s history.” Izzy was regretting this, knowing it would not end well, but it was too late now. “Better than putting an ugly condo building or a strip mall shopping plaza there in its place.” 

She saw the look of shock on Diane’s face. But the woman composed herself quickly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Izzy “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you insinuating something?”

“I know people on the Heritage Committee,” Izzy said, “They saw the proposal you submitted when the property went up for sale. You and your husband wanted the Abbey demolished so you could build there.”

“And what’s wrong with that? More amenities and conveniences mean more people stay and spend their money in town, rather than running off to the city. Modernizing is a good thing. It’s called progress, honey ,” she replied, smug and patronizing.

“It couldn’t have been that good of a thing if your offer was rejected,” Izzy countered.

“Well, that was a mistake on their part. The entire property has been a den of filth and depravity since the convent left. Burn it down and salt the earth.”

“What a horrible thing to say.” Izzy was fuming. “It’s a beautiful historic property that was worth saving. You’re just bitter because you didn’t get what you wanted.”

That did it. She could see the anger in Diane’s eyes as she stepped closer, pointing her bejeweled finger in Izzy’s face. “You wanna know what I’m bitter about? Weirdos and freaks like them - and like you - coming into my town and spreading your sick, godless beliefs. Since you’re so friendly with the Satan worshippers, why don’t you take all your spellbooks, and your crystal balls, and your jars full of bat wings and newt eyes, and move your profane little store down to the Abbey and off our main street? I’m sure they’re already your best customers,” she spat, “ We don’t want you here .”

Izzy flinched and lowered her gaze to the floor, humiliated into silence by this awful woman’s bullying. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself from lashing out with angry words. She wanted to give this woman a piece of her mind, but it was pointless. She shouldn’t have gotten herself involved in the first place. She saw Diane move away out of the corner of her eye, quite satisfied with herself.

“Izzy! Two PSLs for Izzy!” Nick the barista called out.

“What? Hey, no no no,” Diane stomped over to the pick-up counter. “Those are ours. We ordered before her!”

“She gets hers first because she’s nicer than you,” Nick snapped, motioning to Izzy to come up and claim the order.

“Excuse me?!” Diane was livid . “Don’t you know who I am?”

Nick rolled his eyes, not about to put up with this woman’s bullshit. “Yes Karen , I know who you are. You’ll get your coffee in a minute. We’re very busy today, as you can see.”

“My name is not Karen. And I want to speak to your manager. Now .”

“The manager isn’t available at the moment, unfortunately.” Nick was so very smooth and calm. “Also, the manager is my mother, AND she’s a regular at Izzy’s store. When I tell her what you said, you’ll be lucky if she doesn’t ban you for harassing our customers.”

“Harassing?! Me? But… but… She started it!” Diane sputtered.

Izzy took the opportunity to grab the two coffees from the counter and slink away while the argument continued and before Diane could yank them out of her hands. She glanced back to Taylor at the cash register, giving her a nod of thanks. Taylor shooed her away, mouthing “Go, go!” 

She made a beeline to the exit, past the long line of people waiting to place their orders, her eyes on the ground. All she wanted was to escape with a smidgen of dignity left. She got to the door when someone stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop and look up.

It was a silver-masked man from the Church of Emeritus. Izzy studied him for a moment before realizing it was not the same one who had been at the shop with Cardinal Copia. This one was shorter and leaner. She felt a gentle hand on her arm - not his, but someone beside her, also in a silver mask, only this one carved with female features. She looked at Izzy with worried eyes, tilting her head in concern.

“I’m okay,” Izzy whispered to her, understanding what she was trying to communicate. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded, turning to her companion and giving him a quick nod as well. He opened the door for Izzy like a gentleman.

“Thanks,” she said to him. “But watch out for her,” she motioned to Diane, still there waiting for her coffee, “She’s a nasty one.”

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

Izzy hurried down the sidewalk with one coffee in each hand, her pace as quick as she could manage without spilling hot liquid all over herself. She took deep breaths as she walked, trying to soothe the anxiety tumbling around inside her head. It was only a short trip back to the store, but at this point, it felt like miles. Embarrassed, shamed, singled out - she just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

There were footfalls behind her, speeding up to match her pace. She panicked. Oh shit, it’s her, isn’t it? She’s gonna yell at me in the street, she’s gonna throw hot coffee in my face…

“Izzy?” a male voice called out to her. “Izzy, wait up!” It was Jim, the insurance agent. He had been in line behind her and obviously saw the whole incident.

“Oh, Jim! It’s you,” she sighed, relieved. “I was worried it was Diane Francis chasing me down.”

He laughed. “Nah, she wouldn’t dare. Nick and Taylor were still giving her shit when I left, and the crowd was turning on her.”

“Damn, I’m sorry I missed that.” Izzy couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at the thought.

“You don’t mind me walking with you, do you?” he asked. 

His office was just a block past her shop so she could hardly refuse. “No! No, of course not,” she said, “I don’t mind at all.”

Their pace slowed to something more comfortable, and Jim took a small sip of his coffee as they walked. “You alright?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. I should have just shut my mouth and ignored them, huh? I made an ass of myself.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jim said, “It’s about time someone stood up to them and their sanctimonious Boomer crap. They can’t keep getting away with treating people like garbage.”

“Well, as long as they have all the money, and the land, and the mayor wrapped around their finger, they will,” Izzy lamented.

They came to the intersection of Main and Richmond Streets. Izzy’s shop was on the corner across the road. “Thanks for walking with me, Jim. Good to see you,” she said.

“You too, Izzy. I hope you know that most people don’t agree with her. About anything. But especially about you. I don’t know anyone here who doesn’t think you’re an awesome person. Don’t let what she said get to you.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “And don’t let it ruin your day, okay?”

“Thank you, I’ll try. See ya,” she called as she crossed the road. Jim gave her a little wave and went on his way.

The front door swung open as she approached. Ari had been waiting for her to return with his treat, and he was smiling ear to ear as she entered the shop, almost yanking the cup out of her hand.

“Coffee coffee coffee coffee…” he purred, before taking his first sip and sighing blissfully. “Ahhhh, yaassss. I’ve been waiting almost a whole year for this!”

“Good morning to you too,” she muttered. She left her coffee cup and messenger bag on the cash counter and continued into the back room of the shop, shrugging off her jacket as she went.

“Hmph, someone’s in a foul mood,” Ari observed, leaning on the office doorframe, “You should try some pumpkin spice. That will cheer you up.”

“No thanks. You can have them both. I don’t have the stomach for it right now.”

“Why not?” He followed behind as she came back to the counter to empty rolls of change out of her bag. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

She couldn’t hide it - Ari knew her too well. “I got harassed by Diane Francis and her minion Gisele while I was at the coffee shop,” she admitted with a sigh.

“WHAT?” Ari gasped, almost choking on his drink, “Why!?”

“Because they were talking shit about the Church of Emeritus: ‘Oh no, devil worshippers in our town! Whatever shall we do?’ And I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so we got into it. She gave me the usual godless heathen spiel, she called us all freaks and weirdos, and told me that I wasn’t ‘wanted here.’ Wouldn’t’ve bothered me so much if it wasn’t in front of a shop full of people.” Izzy shook her head. “Embarrassing as hell.”

“Fuck those crusty old bitches,” he growled. “Dammit, Izz… It’s my fault, I’m sorry. I’m the one that made you go there.” He pulled her into a hug and squeezed her tight.

“Hey, no, it’s not your fault. I should’ve known better than to engage with them. It’s not like they’ve never talked shit to me before.” 

He held her for several long moments before perking up. “Hey! We should hex them!” he suggested. “They deserve it.”

Izzy couldn’t help but laugh. Ari’s comforting presence and sense of humor always made things better. She leaned into his embrace and felt the tension in her body melt away. “Yes, they do. But I don’t want to give them another thought. Let karma have its way with them.”

He pulled away from her a bit to look into her eyes. “Aww… no hexing?” he asked, disappointed.

“No. No hexing.”

“But can I still drink both coffees?” 

“Yes,” she said, untangling from his embrace and giving him a playful nudge, “You’ll enjoy it more than I will.” Izzy turned back to the cash register to finish refilling the cash drawer. “You’re gonna be buzzing from all that caffeine though.”

Ari took another long sip of his coffee and smiled, giving her a mischievous wink. “I’m okay with that.”

“I should probably give the Church the heads up about Diane Francis and all her friends. They could make things pretty miserable for them.”

“Yeah, good idea,” he agreed. “Gives you an excuse to talk to your sexy Cardinal friend, right?”

And just like that, Copia was at the forefront of her brain again.

Oh fuck…

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

“I have never been treated so poorly in my life!” the angry blonde woman yelled. “My lawyer will hear about this.”

“You’re gonna call your lawyer ? About coffee ?” the male barista replied, stunned by the stupidity of her statement.

Cirrus and Dewdrop gave each other the side-eye, annoyed but not surprised by an entitled human’s behavior. It definitely wasn’t the first time they had encountered such a thing, but for once it was not directed at them.

“Yes! This is discrimination!” she continued, eliciting scoffs and exasperated groans from some of the other customers in the shop.

“Aww… poor rich white lady, such a victim,” Dew muttered under his breath.

Cirrus gave him a light swat on the shoulder. “Shhh,” she whispered, “Someone will hear you.”

One of the female baristas placed two cups on the pick-up counter and said: “Diane! Two PSLs for Diane!”

“Finally!” Diane huffed, rudely grabbing the cups and handing one to her companion. “Terrible service. I’m never coming back here again!”

The male barista dismissed her: “Yeah, you’ve said that before. See you tomorrow - have the day you deserve, ma’am!”

Dewdrop found the entire incident endlessly amusing. Nothing like a good public freakout. He knew he should mind his business and let her leave, but his disdain for unpleasant humans like her was too strong to pass up fucking with her. Just a little bit.

As she stomped, head down, towards the exit, Dew took a sideways step out of the queue to block her path. She stumbled into him, almost spilling her drink.

“Watch what you’re doing, you…” It was only then that she looked up and saw who she had run into. She squeaked in shock, her friend behind her letting out a frightened gasp. She was wide-eyed, staring into his mask in terror.

Dew just tilted his head slightly and looked her dead in the eye. Unmoving.

“M..mm… move,” Diane stammered.

Dew remained motionless.

“You… you heard me. Get out of my way!” 

He could smell the panic rolling off of her. He liked it. Again, he did not move and continued to stare her down.

She withered under his gaze. “Um… excuse me.” Still nothing. “Please?” she finally said, through gritted teeth.

Once the magic word was said, Dew stepped out of her way with a deep bow, sweeping his arms toward the door in a dramatic gesture. The women scooched past him as quickly as they could, keeping a wide berth. 

“Fucking freaks,” Diane grumbled as she walked out the door.

Dew couldn’t help himself. He placed his hands in the shape of a heart, then blew exaggerated kisses at her through the window as the two women darted away. He took his spot next to Cirrus again, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. 

The two Ghouls patiently waited their turn to order, with hardly anyone else in the shop paying them much attention. A few gave them a double take - understandable - and they even got a couple of pleasant nods from people on their way out, likely a way of saying ‘thanks’ for putting that awful woman in her place. But otherwise, nobody said a word to them, good or bad. 

When they arrived at the register, the barista gave them a warm welcome: “Hi, hello! What can I get for you today?”

Cirrus had her phone out, open on the notes app, and she had already typed their order onto the screen. She held it up for the barista to read.

“Two Grande Pumpkin Spice Lattes for ‘Cirrus’? Excellent… Anything else?” she asked with a smile.

Cirrus shook her head and pulled out a silver credit card to make the payment.

“Are you guys from that new Church in town?” the barista asked. “I mean, I figured you were, but…”

Cirrus nodded enthusiastically.

“Cool, cool, Izzy told me about you! So uh, can anyone just show up there? Like, do you have open services, or…?”

Cirrus nodded again and held up her index finger in a ‘just a moment’ gesture. Her fingers flew over her phone screen as she typed, and then she held it up again.

“‘Sundays at 7:00. Windermere Abbey. All are welcome,’” the barista read. “Awesome! I’d love to come. I’ll be there this week. Do you have a website I can check out?”

Dewdrop reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card with all the relevant contact information on it and gave it to her, while Cirrus clapped her hands in excitement. 

“Thank you! I’ll see you on Sunday.”

The two Ghouls gave each other a little fist bump while they waited for their coffees. When they finally left the shop with steaming hot drinks in their hands, Cirrus pulled close to Dew and whispered: “Drink up, L’il Dewdrop… We gotta finish these before we get back. Sister Imperator will lose her shit if she finds out you’ve had caffeine again.”

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

“The Magical Will is in its essence twofold, for it presupposes a beginning and an end; to will to be a thing is to admit that you are not that thing.”

Copia yawned. This was the third time he had read this sentence. It may as well have been in Greek for all the sense it made in his brain. At this rate, it would take him forever to get through this book.

He blamed it on another night of fitful sleep. The surprise visit from Isabella the previous morning had left him giddy. Her dark beauty, her smile, her laugh, her joy at seeing the Abbey returned to its former glory, her promise to return… all of it roused euphoric feelings in him that lingered as he went about his day. 

And oh, did it linger into the night. He awoke at some point past the witching hour with his hand down his pants, cock in fist and body tingling in release. Quite the mess to clean up too. He had been dreaming about her, but the details disappeared the moment he opened his eyes. After that, he never drifted back off fully, tossing and turning and burning with thoughts of her until the sun rose over the horizon.

And now he was struggling to keep his eyes open, blinking rapidly to keep the sentences on the book page from dissolving into a blurry jumble of letters. He fidgeted with his bookmark - Isabella’s business card - rotating it absentmindedly between the fingers of one hand while propping up his head in the other. This is not how he wanted to be spending his day.

There were three sharp knocks on his office door, and it opened without waiting for his invitation to enter. It jolted him out of his stupor, and he looked up from his book with a scowl, already annoyed with whoever thought they could just waltz right in…

“ Buongiorno Cardinale! ” Terzo greeted with a flourish.

“Ah, good morning Papa,” Copia deadpanned, “Thank you for knocking first.”

Terzo ignored Copia’s dispassionate response and sauntered right up to the desk, plopping himself down on the corner of it and making himself quite at home. “How are you fratellino ? I feel as though I have not seen you for days! Why have you been locking yourself away, hmm?”

“I’ve been busy,” Copia replied.

“Busy? This is busy? Reading?” He picked up the open book on the Cardinal’s desk, flipping to the cover to read the title. He made a face. “Crowley? Feh! Why are you reading this drivel?”

Copia pulled the book out of Terzo’s hands and laid it back on his desk. “It’s research , Papa. For the History of the Occult lecture Secondo and I will be giving in a few weeks.”

“Oooh, yes yes,” Terzo nodded, “I do recall that, now that you mention it.” He gave Copia a smirk. “So that’s what’s keeping you busy? And not…” He quickly yanked the business card from the Cardinal’s other hand, “... this?”

“Give that back, Terzo!”

Terzo hopped up off the desk and stepped out of Copia’s reach, holding the card delicately in his fingers to read it aloud. “Miss Isabella Bennett, Shadow & Light Metaphysical Boutique. This is the woman that Sister Imperator has been blathering on about for the last week or so, isn’t it?” He gave the Cardinal a lecherous look. “I hear she is very pretty. Dark of hair and fair of skin, with eyes so deep and warm you could get lost in them for days… She also enjoys exploring old, abandoned cemeteries, and chatting with shy, Satanic clergymen, so I’m told.”

Copia averted his eyes, feeling heat flush his cheeks. “And who told you this?” he asked quietly.

“Well, the Ghouls do like their gossip. Alpha was there in the greenhouse with you and Primo yesterday. And you know how close he and Omega are. Word travels fast.” He handed the card back to Copia with a wink. “No need to be embarrassed about it, fratellino . I think it’s sweet.”

Copia took the card and placed it in the book to mark his place. “And this is why you are here today? To give me your blessing?”

“Actually, no,” Terzo said, his demeanor becoming a bit more serious. He sat in the chair across from Copia’s desk. “I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Oh?” Copia raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Help with what exactly?”

“Well, Imperator has been on my ass about the monthly expense reports for September,” he revealed, “It seems there’s a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I.. I didn’t do them,” Terzo admitted hesitantly.

Copia rolled his eyes, “For fuck’s sake, Terzo,” he muttered.

“And so,” Terzo continued, tenting his fingers in front of him, tapping them together nervously, “I was hoping that maybe you… could do them for me?” 

“Ummm… no,” Copia replied flatly.

“No?!” Terzo was indignant. “What do you mean ‘no?’ I am your Papa. You are my Cardinale . You are here to support and assist me!”

“When you were Secondo’s Cardinale , did you do his monthly expense reports for him?” Copia asked.

“Of course not!”

Copia shrugged. “Okay, so… that proves my point, si ?”

“That was different,” Terzo insisted. “Secondo was - is - a control freak. Very bad at delegating. Plus we were nowhere near as busy then. Our congregation has tripled in size since then. I am just pulled in so many directions,” he waved his hands back and forth, “as you surely know.”

“Then perhaps you should hire an assistant?” Copia suggested.

Terzo scowled like a sullen teenager. “Imperator won’t let me have one. She says I can’t be trusted not to keep my hands off them.”

“She’s not wrong,” Copia said with a pointed look.

“Copia, please. I am not too proud to beg. Please! I will make it worth your while.”

Copia leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will you, now? What are you offering in return?” It was obvious to him that Terzo had just expected him to say yes to his request. He didn’t want to give in, but was willing to see what he might get out of this if he did.

“I’ll… ummm,” Terzo stalled. “Oh! I can help you with your bella signora strega ! I will help you woo her, win her. She will be on her knees for you in no time.”

An image flitted into Copia’s mind, fleeting, ethereal. Isabella, on her knees before him, pleasuring him. Sinful and submissive. It was the dream he’d had…  But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. 

He cleared his throat, composed himself. “What makes you think I can’t handle that myself?” Copia scoffed, quite offended. “That’s your best offer? Insulting me?”

“No! No no no no, I do not mean to offend, Cardinale ! Truly. Of course you can win this lady, of course! I just meant that… well…” Terzo sighed deeply, his dignity gone. “Shit. Alright, look. You are smarter than me. Better than I am at administrative things. I freely admit this. I rely on you so much - we all do. You are indispensable here. And Imperator - she scares the fuck out of me. Do you know about these visions she has? I don’t want her on my bad side. She will curse me, I know it. Please, Cardinale, il mio fratellino . Help me.”

Copia actually felt a pang of guilt refusing him. He sat silent, regarding him for a moment. “All right,” he said, “I will help you. That does not mean I will do it for you. We will do it together. And I’ll help you set up a system so this doesn’t happen again. Capisci ?”

Terzo furrowed his brow, groaning: “Uggggh…”

“That’s the deal,” Copia said, “Take it or leave it.”

“ Inferno del cazzo . Fine,” Terzo grumbled.

“Good,” Copia nodded, “We’d best get started.”

They were about to stand when there was an urgent knock on the office door.

“Yes?” Copia called out. “What now?”

The door opened and Aether entered. “Hey boss… oh! Hello, Papa,” he greeted. “Umm, Cardinal, something happened in town today that I think you’ll wanna know about. Cirrus and Dew were at the coffee shop, and…”

“What?!” There was panic in Terzo’s voice.

“Why was he at the coffee shop?” Copia asked. “He knows he’s not supposed to have caffeine. Don’t tell me he…”

The sharp sound of glass shattering echoed through the long corridor. Terzo and Copia both flew to their feet, Aether rushing back out into the hallway. A Ghoul zipped full-speed past Copia’s door in the opposite direction of the commotion, with Secondo’s voice booming after him: “DEWDROP GHOUL! What did you do? Get the FUCK back here!”

“Dewdrop! No… oh no!” Sister Imperator was distraught. “The stained glass!!” 

“Oh shit…” Aether muttered, hurrying off down the hall after Dew.

Terzo and Copia made their way to the end of the hallway, where a crowd of concerned Siblings gathered around Sister Imperator, inspecting the damage to the window and the shards of brightly colored glass strewn across the floor. Siblings were whispering amongst themselves: “How did he get up there?” “He was literally climbing the walls!” “It was crazy…” 

Secondo leaned against the doorframe to his office, his arms crossed over his chest, glowering at Imperator. “‘Summon more Ghouls’, she said,” he sneered under his breath, “‘They’ll be so helpful,’ she said.”

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

“Food’s here!” Ari announced as he entered the shop. He carried a large paper bag in one hand containing take-out from their favorite Italian restaurant in town, Brigantino’s - a late afternoon meal of fresh minestrone soup, salad, and just-out-of-the-oven bread. He brought the food into the back office where Izzy had already cleared off a section of the desk so they could eat, and began unpacking the neat take-out containers.

“Oooh, yum!” Izzy was excited to dig in. She was starving. “Thank you so much, Ari. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know, but I feel bad about what happened to you this morning, and I wanted to make it up to you. Plus, we’re officially in soup season now.”

“I’ll take soup over pumpkin spice any day,” she giggled.

Ari took out his phone and propped it against a stack of books on Izzy’s desk. “Wanna watch something while we eat?”

“Sure! But hang on… I’ve got my iPad in my bag. That’ll be better.” She got up and went to the nearby coat hook where her satchel was hanging, pulling out the tablet and handing it to Ari to set up.

He flipped open the tablet’s cover and the screen automatically lit up. It was still open on the drawing program Izzy had been using that morning, on the sketch of her skull-faced dream man.

Ari’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh-ho, what’s this? Who is Papa?” he asked.

The day had been such a messy blur of activity that it took her a moment to register what he was asking. “Huh?” He turned the screen around to show her and she gasped loudly, the heated flush of embarrassment burning across her cheeks. “Oh! Uh… nothing. It’s nothing… nobody, I mean…” She tried to grab the tablet out of Ari’s hands but he pulled it away and out of her reach.

“Nobody, hmm?” He gave her a skeptical, sideways glance before turning his attention back to the sketch, looking at it with an expert’s eye. “You haven’t drawn anything for a long time. I didn’t know you were getting back into that. Don’t be embarrassed - it’s good!” 

She realized he had no idea that it wasn’t the quality of the drawing upsetting her. Using that to her advantage, she played it off: “Yeah, I’m out of practice. It’s just a doodle, a face I saw in my dream last night. I felt like sketching it this morning.” She managed to tug the iPad out of his hand while he was still examining it. 

“Any reason why his eyes look like Copia’s?” he asked cheekily before slurping up a spoonful of soup.

Shit… do I tell him?

The jingle of the front door bell intervened before she could stammer out a response. A young man dressed all in black had entered the shop carrying a large box in his arms. Izzy took the opportunity to escape from Ari’s question, getting up from her desk and hurrying out to the shop floor to greet him.

“Hello! Welcome, how can I help you?” she asked.

“Uh, hi,” he said shyly, “I have something here for Isabelle?”

“That’s me!”

“Oh okay cool, here you go!” He handed the box over to her and left as quickly as he came.

She placed the box down on the counter, suspicious. A nondescript person delivering an awkwardly shaped box to her shop the same day she had publicly gotten into it with one of the town’s most well known - and vindictive and petty - residents. The anxiety-controlled part of her brain was terrified to open it. 

Ari appeared in the doorway, munching on a piece of bread. “What is it?” he asked.

Izzy shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Are you going to open it?”

She shook her head. “I’m scared. What if it’s from Diane Francis? What if she sent me a dead animal or something?”

“Only one way to find out,” Ari said, approaching the box and slowly lifting the top off of it. He peered inside, his features tense for a moment before relief washed over his face and he smiled. “Definitely not a dead animal,” he assured her, motioning for her to come look.

Izzy peeked inside and gasped. In the box was a bouquet of flowers. Beautiful flowers, not at all your typical grocery store arrangement. Delicate pink carnations, black dahlias, and crimson amaranthus surrounded by emerald green foliage. There was a small envelope tucked in between the stems. 

“Who’s it from? Who’s it from?” Ari asked excitedly.

She opened the envelope and within found a small card that simply read: ‘Hope this brightens your day!’ No name or signature. Behind it was a $50 gift card for the coffee shop. She handed both over to him. “It doesn’t say.”

“Obviously somebody who knows what happened today, though,” he observed, “Coffee shop employee? Maybe the owner? Or just someone who was there and felt sorry for you…” He turned the cards over and inspected the envelope, just to make sure they weren’t missing something.

“There were dozens of people there this morning. Could have been any of them… but why wouldn’t they sign it?” 

“They don’t want you to know, I guess. A secret admirer?” Ari wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe Jim the insurance guy? I saw you walking back with him.”

“I highly doubt he would do this,” Izzy mumbled.

“Why? Didn’t you guys used to date?”

“Yeah, for about three months back in high school. Does that even count as ‘dating?’”

Ari laughed as he walked back into the office. “If it does, then by that criteria you dated half of the boys in school.”

“And that would mean you dated the other half,” she shot back, grinning. She stood there for a moment, admiring the gorgeous flowers, savoring their rich, heady fragrance. She brushed her fingers along the petals of one of the carnations. There was a familiar energy there that made her tingle in all the right ways. At that moment, she knew exactly who sent these. The silver-masked couple must have gone back to the Abbey and told them what happened. 

The flowers were from Copia.

(bonus moodboard for this chapter)

[panzsan]

Evening Flight

My final film for my Animation II class. A lot of things inspired this, so I'm glad Tumblr lets me write really long blogs (b^_^)b

The Style

The spark of this whole idea was Royal Space Force, a 1987 film by Gainax. I've seen some gifs of it, and finally watched it during the semester. I was blown away by the animation and world-building. I haven't seen anything really like it before, and it reinforced my love for traditional 2-D animation.

I used the movie to guide the style I wanted: Grounded, realistic movements, painted backgrounds, a focus on detail, etc. It was a massive challenge, since I haven't done things like landscape paintings before, but it taught me a lot and I think I'm a better artist now because of it. It also really made me appreciate the work of past artists a lot more. Painting backgrounds and drawing cels was already hard enough digitally, I can't imagine it doing it by hand!

My first idea was to do a dogfight sequence. Thankfully I realized that would be way out of my ability so instead I took inspiration from this flying sequence in the movie. It would let me focus on painting backgrounds and limit the amount of detailed animation I had to do, which turned out to be invaluable once the deadline started approaching. It would also let me take inspiration from those edits people do of fighter jets flying to synthwave (like this one)

The Plane

Since this whole thing was about a plane flying around, the design of the place took precedence. I based my idea off the planes from Royal Space Force as I really liked the idea of their unorthodox design showing that they come from a world different from ours.

I went through a couple of designs. I kept the rear-placed wings but wasn't really sure exactly what type of plane it should be. I considered a push propeller design but couldn't get a look that was satisfying. It did, however, lead me to finding some interesting designs from WW2

Eventually I decided on roughly an early-Cold War interceptor. The F-86 played a big role since it was an example of an early jet. I used the A-4 for reference when designing the engine and intake layout. Although its not designed to be a fighter, it did have the short and compact look I wanted. The X-29 also showed me how foward-swept wings could be set up.

Eventually I came up with this, a single-seat, single-engine interceptor with two small cannons in the nose and two larger ones in pods on the wings.

The Pilot

I knew from the get-go that I wanted my pilot to have a tomboyish look. This is because I watched Gunsmith Cats and thought Rally was really cute.

Early sketch:

First Design:

The design of the helmet was tricky. I wanted something that also felt unorthodox, so I looked at some interesting designs I found on twitter

I also took some inspiration from Patlabor, another classic anime series I watched. I liked the look of the "headband" the mech pilots had on their helmets, and decided to include them on my design

The design of the flight suit was largely based off this artwork by @Zen_jirakun on Twitter. I loved the look of the large jacket combined with the sleek undersuit. I tried to give it my own spin by using the aesthetics of fighter pilot gear.

As I started working however, I quickly noticed that the helmet was way too over-designed. Noticeably, the cheekpads were a weird shape that would be hard to keep track of during movement. I had to scrap that design and come up with one that would be easier to animate. Luckily I stumbled upon the Russian GSh-6, a high-altitude helmet worn by Mig-25 pilots. Not only did it have the unorthodox look I wanted, but it was also a lot easier to draw, and thus became the basis of the revised design.

Some Background Paintings

To close out this post, I'll share some BG stills, cause I worked hard on them and want to make sure people can see them d(ﾟｰﾟ@)

[jonfarreporter]

The Bay Area Figurative Art Movement is Not Dead!

When most people think about art and the movements that shaped it in our society, they usually think of places like Paris or New York. Yet few know that one of the most significant art movements was centered right here in the San Francisco Bay Area. It's called, "The Bay Area Figurative Movement".

On January 5, Sausalito Center for The Arts (SCA) installed one of largest and most comprehensive Figurative Art exhibits of its kind with over 18 artists displaying up to five pieces each. “Sausalito Center for The Arts has the space for it and we are so pleased and honored to provide it,” said SCA Executive Director Shiva Pakdel. 

The exhibit entitled ‘Third Generation: The Bay Area Figurative Movement Today,’ is curated by established artists Susan K. Kirshenbaum and Catherine Merrill, (seen in photos above). They are also participants in the exhibit. Their individual careers in art span the period from what is regarded as ‘the First Generation’ ‘the Bridge Generation,’ and ‘the Second Generation.

Both curators spoke about how much the exhibit means to them and the other participating artists. As they explained and as websites like The Art Story. The Bay Area Figurative Movement (also known as the Bay Area Figurative School; or Bay Area Figurative Art, Bay Area Figuration, and similar variations) was a mid-20th Century art movement founded after World War II in the 1940s. It was made up of a group of artists in the San Francisco Bay Area who abandoned working in the prevailing style of Abstract Expressionism in favor of a return to figuration in painting. 

“The art history textbooks say the movement ended,” said Kirshenbaum. “It didn’t end, it’s still going on!” She exclaimed. “We describe ourselves as ‘The Third Generation’ of the movement because we are the group of Figurative artists that are post-1970 and beyond,” said Kirshenbaum. “We may not be included in the textbooks yet,” she added.

(Seen in this photo is participating artist Charles Stinson).

The use of live models is important to this type of artwork,” said Merrill as her work is primarily sculpture and the human form. “People (especially Americans) often get upset over the depiction of the human body in art. I don’t get upset,” said Merrill, I celebrate it.” 

Figurative art is basically any art (be it painted, sculpted or sketched) that illustrates real life forms and imagery. A model can be a person or anything that is from actual real life that the artist uses as inspiration to draw, paint or sculpt. 

(Seen here in photo is artist, Mary Graham)

Figurative art has been going on for centuries,” said Merrill, from the ancients to the Renaissance period and beyond.” Both Merrill and Kirshenbaum chimed almost in unison “It has always been with us!”

Merrill wanted to clarify that the reason the exhibit at SCA is so significant is because as she said. “We as a culture are in the midst of the technological revolution,” she said. “But Figurative art is about working with one’s hands, rolling up one’s sleeves and connecting to the work, it’s not on a screen, added Merrill, it’s live.” 

“I’m not interested in the abstract concept art that doesn’t express humanity,” said Merrill. Kirshenbaum agreed, saying “the live interaction between artist and model/scenery builds a story from it.”

This is not to say that artists like Kirshenbaum, Merrill and others shun technology. It’s just that they can see where important skills are being lost or under-utilized. “I use digital technology to help in my art,” said Kirshenbaum. “But I can see were that the basic foundations of art making is are not being taught as much in art schools.” “I consider technology a tool, said Kirshenbaum, but an artist must have learn the basic skills; sketching-drawing, painting, sculpting and so forth.”

In putting together the exhibit, Pakdel, Kirshenbaum and Merrill wanted the works featured to be extensive, diverse and inclusive of as many of the top Bay Area figurative artists as possible, providing each artist with a mini-show within the show. “This type of art takes work, said Merrill, while the hands and the brain are integrated, there’s an intrinsic connection that goes beyond thoughts in the head.” “The human body, said Merrill, and the entire physical world is so alive it thinks on its own apart from what we think and get stuck on just in our heads.”

COVID-19 made a considerable impact as Merrill noted. “The pandemic isolated us from one another and distanced us from the galleries.” “Yet ironically the isolation of the pandemic pushed some artists to do some of their best work.” 

The exhibit hopes to express not only the talent of the participants but also the joy at being able to gather and experience art together as a community. The participating artists are: Joseph Abbati  ~  Douglas Andelin  ~  Madelyn Covey  ~  Jane Fisher  ~  Mary Graham  ~  Isidoro  ~  Susan R. Kirshenbaum   ~  Catherine Merrill   ~  Stephen Namara  ~  Diane Olivier  ~  Sharon Paster  ~  Fernando Reyes  ~  Alex Rosmarin  ~  Randall Sexton (deceased)  ~  May Shei  ~  Sandra Speidel  ~    Peter Steinhart  ~  Charles H. Stinson

‘Third Generation: The Bay Area Figurative Movement Today’ exhibit will be on view at SCA from Jan 5 until 28th, 2024. A Reception will be held on Saturday, Jan 20th, at 2 PM until 5 PM. Refreshments will be served and there will be live music.

A Closing Party will take place on Sunday, Jan 28 from 3-6 PM, including a Book Talk, a Roving Art Model, and Artist Talks. For more information visit the Sausalito Center for The Arts website.

[jcmarchi]

Weaving memory into textiles

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Weaving memory into textiles

In 2021, a curator at the Smithsonian Institution contacted Chloé Bensahel, currently the MIT 2023-24 Ida Ely Rubin Artist in Residence, and told her about some objects that had been made for space missions. “They were weavings of conductive yarn with magnetic pieces in them,” Bensahel says. “After World War II, you had these really powerful computers but no way to store data, so scientists at MIT and Harvard came up with this magnetic core memory. It was the last moment, I think, in computing history when information was visible: You can actually see the code because of the little magnets that were turned on or turned off.”

What really captured the attention of Bensahel, who works with textiles, is that those items had been woven by hand at MIT. “They’re the result of two histories in New England that are coinciding: the declining textile industry and the increasing space research,” she says. “Legend has it that the women who were getting laid off from the textile industries got hired by MIT to make these objects. They were weaving here on campus.”

Play video

Activating Textiles: Weaving the Future with the Past

Reinventing codes

Eventually, Bensahel connected with Zach Lieberman, an adjunct associate professor who runs the Future Sketches group at the MIT Media Lab, who applied for a MIT Center for Art Science and Technology (CAST) grant to bring her to campus as a visiting artist. The pair share an interest in various forms of code and communication — Bensahel, for example, sees textiles as carrying information, not just in what they visually display, like, say, a slogan on a T-shirt, but in the very way they are made. Now, they are working together at MIT, which has been unfurling in connection with Bensahel’s residency at Villa Albertine, an arts institution launched in 2021 by the French Embassy in the United States that supports cultural exchange between the United States, France and beyond, including offering more than 50 residencies each year for artists, thinkers, and creators across all disciplines.

Bensahel is building on MIT’s groundbreaking legacy in the weaving of memory technology, which complements the research conducted by her MIT collaborators, whether they are faculty members or research assistants. “We’re primarily software-oriented here,” Lieberman says, referring to his group. “We are working in the realm of bits and with language. Chloe’s work is also really intimately concerned with language, but she’s coming at it from a perspective of materials and trying to figure out how to weave them in different ways, and connect with electronics and sensing.”

Theory and craftsmanship

Born in France, Bensahel moved to the United States when she was 7. She attended Parsons School of Design, in New York City. She specialized in integrated design with a focus on textiles, and graduated in 2013. The coursework was essentially theoretical and philosophical, though, and afterward Bensahel moved to France to hone her craftsmanship. “I wanted to learn with my hands, not just my mind,” she says — no doubt making her a perfect fit for MIT, whose motto, “mens et manus,” translates as “mind and hand.”

This interest in the interaction of the physical with the ineffable continues to guide her art, which essentially renders communication tactile. “Chloe’s work is so much about listening to materials and finding ways to hear how they talk, hear the sounds that they make,” Lieberman says. This approach is in evidence at a forthcoming exhibition “Tisser L’Hybride: Chloe Bensahel” at the Palais de Tokyo in Paris, which features three interactive tapestries. According to Bensahel, the artwork in the exhibit and what she is doing at MIT are “not going to be directly connected,” but she also points out that “they benefit from one another, for sure.”

Indeed, keeping an open mind to different fields and different ways of thinking has been enriching Bensahel’s time on campus. In addition to such public-facing activities as a presentation and demonstration at the MIT Museum’s After Dark series, in March, she has been actively collaborating with various entities, faculty, and students. For instance, she has been leveraging prototyping equipment and exploring potential industrial applications of her work with the public-private partnership Advanced Functional Fabrics of America, of which MIT is a member. “I love that something that could  be in a museum could also be in a hospital,” Bensahel says. AFFOA staff members Jesse Jur, director of technical program development, and Frannie Logan, textile technologist, have been providing technical support as well.

Thriving on collaboration

Interlocutors on campus include Azra Akšamija, the director of the MIT Future Heritage Lab, and Vera van de Seyp, a research assistant in the Future Sketches group, whose interests and experiences complement Bensahel’s. “A lot of my work is text-based and I’m not a typography or graphic designer at all, so it’s really nice to work with Vera, because what we’re essentially doing is thinking about form and function at the same time,” Bensahel says. “I’m working on how I can make a textile that can be magnetized, in the way that magnetic core memory was magnetic. I would like for it to tense up or move in different ways, so that essentially you have a textile that can assemble in different ways.”

Most of all, perhaps, it’s the constant intellectual activity at MIT that has spurred and inspired Bensahel, who relishes the opportunity to integrate perspectives that are new to her. “I’ve had a lot of really eye-opening conversations on what magnetism means,” she says. “I just had lunch with a researcher and she was like, ‘Bacteria sometimes have magnetic fields to know how to grow.’ This place, it’s really about the people,” Bensahel continues. “It’s a very dense group of brilliant people so no matter who you’re running into, they’re going to have this very powerful depth of knowledge in one specific field. Being here also shifted my perspective: I didn’t really consider myself a researcher, or a scientist for that matter, and I feel more comfortable in that space now. Every day, I find new applications or new directions.”

[cmccormickarts346]

(ARTS266) 50 Words & 100 Drawings

During the last three weeks of the Illustration II course, I was given the task of coming up with 50 words and creating 100 drawings. These drawings would then be used to generate ideas or themes for the first project, the Merch Campaign Project. I am required to use the 100 drawings to create a merch line that reflects my personal design and art style. The illustrations have to be hand-drawn, either on paper or digitally, and have to be a personal reflection of my individuality as an artist and creative. Initially, I found this assignment to be challenging, as 100 drawings seemed like a daunting task. However, the assignment helped me break away from the mindset of striving for perfection and embracing the unpredictability and looseness of the pen.

I developed a schedule to start my project, where I aimed to create eight sketches or drawings per day, each one timed for five minutes. My primary goal was to put my ideas onto paper and later return to them to add more details or go over the pencil sketch with a pen. I followed this process for three weeks, seven days a week, and I am delighted to say that I managed to achieve my goal. Upon reviewing all of my drawings, I observed that they fell into five distinct themes, which included flowers, animals, patterns, made-up characters, and geometric line art and backgrounds. Among all the things I created, my favorites were the animal studies against the geometric background, the black and white geometric patterns, and my original character series. Drawing animals was a lot of fun, and during the critique, my professor suggested that these could make an excellent design for a zoo's branding. This made me really excited because I love going to zoos, and studying animals and wildlife, and designing for those places would be a dream come true! My professor also advised me to move away from the boldness of black and white and incorporate color only into my animal geometric drawings. This would be a fun way to experiment with color theory and a nod back to the work I did in my Color and Composition course during my sophomore year at UofSC!

I created a series of geometric patterns that were well-received. They were by far the easiest drawings I came up with for this assignment. I draw inspiration from the legendary Disney artist, Mary Blair, for much of my geometric work. Experimenting with geometric patterns has become a beloved way for me to express myself as an artist. All of the designs were original, and I didn't use any references. I allowed my creative juices to flow and I loved the end result. The professor encouraged me to play around with these designs using textile materials, such as rugs. It would be so much fun to create these patterns on rugs, and it's definitely a project idea I want to tackle in the future!

The third group is called the "little buddies" series, in which I drew expressive, confused little characters who float around. My professor suggested that these characters have the potential to be really funny, graffiti-like, and cartoonish, which are all elements I love. While I'm not sure if I want to go in this direction for my project, I plan to experiment further with these three designs to see which ones I like the most.

[arifreko]

Understanding the role of AI technology in reviving painting: Inspirational Story Denny Ja

Introduction In this increasingly advanced digital era, artificial intelligence technology (AI) has brought major changes in various aspects of human life. One aspect that is also positive for the development of AI technology is the world of painting. Painting, as a form of visual art expression, has become a subject of exploration for many talented artists. In this article, we will explore the role of AI technology in reviving painting, using the inspirational story of Denny JA as an example. I. Introduction to Denny JA Denny JA is a famous painting artist in Indonesia who has carved his name in the world of art. He is known for his unique and innovative work, and his love for the use of technology in art. In the course of his career, Denny JA has used AI technology to create amazing works of art. II. The role of AI technology in painting Artificial intelligence technology has made a major contribution in reviving painting. AI allows artists to create works of art that are more realistic, innovative, and stunning. With the help of AI technology, artists can produce works of art that were previously difficult or even impossible to achieve in the traditional way. a. Increase precision and realism In ancient times, artists must paint with free hands, with the risk of making mistakes that are difficult to fix. However, with AI technology, artists can use software that can analyze and replicate hand movements with higher precision. This allows artists to create more realistic and detailed images. b. Exploration of new creativity In painting, creativity is the key to creating unique and original work. AI technology can provide extraordinary support for artists in exploring new ideas by providing inspiration, suggestions, and visual references. With the help of AI technology, artists can exceed their creativity limits and create more innovative works. c. Speed up the work process In the world of painting, the work process often takes quite a long time. However, with the help of AI technology, artists can speed up the process of their work. AI technology can be used to create initial sketches, choose the appropriate color palette, and even apply visual effects quickly and efficiently. This allows artists to achieve the final results more quickly and effectively. III. Inspirational Story Denny Ja Denny Ja is a real example of an artist who utilizes AI technology in his painting. In the course of his career, Denny Ja has created artwork that combines traditional techniques with AI technology. He used a computer program to create an early sketch and design a complicated motif. After that, Denny Ja painted manually using his skills and applying the final touch using AI technology. With this approach, Denny Ja has succeeded in creating extraordinary works of art. His work shows the beauty and uniqueness of the paintings produced through human collaboration and AI technology. The inspirational story of Denny Ja is proof that AI technology can be a strong tool for artists to revive painting. Conclusion Artificial intelligence technology has brought big changes in the world of painting. The role of AI technology in turning on painting includes increased precision and realism, exploration of new creativity, and the acceleration of the work process. The inspirational story of Denny Ja illustrates how AI technology can be used as a strong tool for artists to create unique and innovative works of art. By continuing to explore the potential of AI technology, we can see more amazing developments in the world of painting in the future.

Check more: Understanding the role of AI technology in reviving painting: Inspirational Story Denny JA