#That concept art had a full body and head angles done they were so close to using that i don't understand why they scrapped it

[columbojumpscare]

Got the MHW:IB artbook and made myself very mad over how good the original Safi'Jiiva concept art was. I genuinely don't know what they were thinking when they made it what it is ingame.

[bestiesenpai]

tattoo artist sukuna

I am way overdo to get my sleeve finished and I’m already itching to get a full back piece, so this is right up my alley. Gender neutral reader, and if you’d like to see the tattoo style i reference please go to @/novchild.jpg on instagram :)

It was a spur of the moment decision that led you to drive downtown with your friends at nearly midnight, drunk off each other's energy and eager to do something reckless. Speeding down the motorway, you scrolled through Instagram in search of a tattoo artist.

“Are you guys sure about this?” Your nerves had finally caught up to you as the car was parked in front of the studio you all chose. It was a typical brick and mortar building with a large skull painted on the only window to the outside world. There were a few bald men smoking cigarettes right outside the door, scrawling ink covering their exposed hands and faces.

“Yeah, c’mon!” No one waited for you, everyone climbing out of the car in excitement. Slowly, you got out of the car as well, head down as you walked past the men and into the shop.

Loud, blaring metal music met your ears, jarring you upright and tense. There wasn’t anyone you could see at the front desk, the only workers were huddled in a back corner leaning over something and laughing.

“Which one should I get?” Your attention was drawn away from the men in the corner and to the art hanging on the wall, all different flash sheets from various artists. Some were more gory, clearly drawing inspiration from horror movies while other pieces were bright and colorful, like bubblegum pop come to life.

“Hey.” A gruff voice cut through the loud music, and a man was now leaning against the front desk, spiky black hair in a ponytail with a bored look on his face and several piercings in both ears. He was clearly sizing you up, the black bar going across his nose moving as he did.

Unprepared to speak to him, you were happy when someone else stepped in and started chatting about prices. The man at the counter had on a hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, exposing one full arm and hand that was completely blacked out.

“Choso, any customers?” Another shouted, a man wide in stature with long hair. He sauntered up to the counter, tight black t-shirt showing off the traditional Japanese work covering every inch of skin.

“Getou, can’t you see?” Choso rolled his eyes and gestured to your little group.

“I can’t make conversation?” Pulling a face at Choso, Getou leaned his elbows on the counter and flashed a wide grin at all of you. “So, who’s the first to get some ink?” His narrowed eyes looked over your bare skin and you could see the wheels turning in his head.

“I am! I want that one!” One of your friends pointed at the wall, making Getou hum and nod.

“That’s Gojo’s work, he loves to draw the cute shit. I’ll call him over.” As a white haired man walked over at Geto’s call, one by one your friends made their decisions and were paired with artists.

“What did you choose, (Y/N)?” A friend asked, seeing you still stuck staring at the wall.

“I don’t know!” Throwing your head back, you were beginning to regret even tagging along. There were simply too many options and the task of picking something was daunting.

“Having a hard time choosing?” A flash of white crosses your vision and soon Gojo is leaning down into your field of vision, piercing blue eyes staring at you curiously.

“U-uh yeah.” Stumbling back from how close his face is, you realize how tall he is when he stands up straight, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Me and another guy just got done making a new flash sheet, lemme show you.” It takes him only a couple seconds to go back to his station and come back with a piece of thick paper with drawings on it.

Taking the paper, the drawings were unexpectedly cute. A lot of them looked like rough sketches or crayon drawings, simple in concept but intricate in detail.

“I’ll take this one.” Pointing at a mid-sized crayon drawing, your mouth ticked up in a smile as Gojo took the paper from you with sparkling eyes.

“That one is so cute, good choice! One sec!” Tossing the paper down, he dashes away shouting nonsensical words towards the back of the shop where they’d all been huddled up. “Sukuna! Someones here for ya!”

Rising straight up from a chair with a loud groan, a shirtless pink haired man glared sharply at Gojo. Even from a distance you can see the sharp black lines tattooed across his face and down his body, circles on each shoulder, dashed lines across his chest down his stomach and around his wrists as well.

“Geez you can really yell, you know that?” Running a hand through his hair roughly, Sukuna stands up, flexing his muscles and unknowingly giving the whole shop a show of his chiseled physique.

“There’s a client here to get a piece we made together earlier.” Shoving the paper in his face, Gojo points to the piece you selected. Sukuna mumbles a few words and sets his eyes on you, walking over with a swagger that makes you nervous.

“Alright, where do you want it?” Leaning close to you, Sukuna quirks a brow.

“I don’t know.” You sigh softly, looking down at your arms and legs. “I don’t-”

“Your arm, right here.” Grabbing onto your arm, Sukuna turns it outward to expose the flesh of your inner arm. “It would look good right here, about the size of my palm.”

“O-oh okay.” Nodding quickly, your face is burning when he lets go. His touch still lingered on your skin, the edge of his black painted fingernails digging in briefly as they squeezed you.

“I’ll be ready in ten minutes, go sign the paperwork.” Sukuna speaks with his back to you, already walking to the station he had been sleeping at and setting up. Rushing to fill in the proper papers, you wait nervously at the front of the shop for your turn.

The rest of your friends are already getting started, the whir of the tattoo machines adding to the ambience of the shop. With a wave Sukuna calls you over to his corner, still shirtless with a pair of gloves on.

“Hold out your arm.” Grabbing you once again, Sukuna angles your arm in front of a mirror by the table. Rubbing ointment on your skin, he sticks the stencil on and rubs firmly, making you squirm from the tickle of his hand getting close to your armpit.

“What do you think?” Stepping to the side, he looks at you in the mirror. “Little to the left? Right?”

“No, it’s perfect.” The longer you look at it, the longer you love it. Giving you a pat on the shoulder, Sukuna led you to the table, having you lay down and stick your arm out.

“This your first one, I can tell.” He said, adjusting your body how he seemed fit and rubbing more ointment on you.

“It’s that obvious?”

“Oh yeah, only a first timer would get something like this from me.” A cocky grin spread across his face and he gestured to the wall behind your head, covered in realistic black and white portraits. “This is normally my speciality.”

“You drew yourself?” Pointing up at one of the pictures that looked exactly like him minus the face tattoos, you chuckled.

“Nah, that’s my twin.” Your brows rose in surprise and you looked between Sukuna and the picture.

“Does he have-?” You waved over your face and body.

“He’s too scared to get a tattoo, says he’ll get ink poisoning and die.” Sukuna laughed, pouring out the various colored ink into little cups. “Won’t even let me do a tiny dot on him!”

“Safe to say you two are pretty different then.” You found yourself laughing a little as well, eased at Sukunas laid back nature.

“Mhmm, he’s busy going on the straight and narrow while I’m here ‘ruining my body’ as our grandpa likes to say.” Flashing quick air quotes, Sukuna revs up the machine and fiddles with the buttons. “Alright, you ready for this? Won’t have virgin skin anymore after this.”

“Yes!” Clenching and unclenching your fist, you pushed a deep breath through your mouth.

“If you start to cry, I won’t stop. And if you pass out, I’ll just wake you up.” That was his final warning before he leaned forward, using one large gloved hand to spread the skin of your arm taut.

The first prick of the needle against your skin made you jolt, sucking in a sharp breath and making your eyes fly open. Sukuna snorted, wiped your arm with a towel and kept going. Honing in on the marks and exposed pipes in the ceiling, you tried not to twitch from the needle anymore.

“You’re doing pretty well.” Sukuna mumbled, briefly sitting up and dipping in for more ink.

“Really?” Taking a look at the tattoo, you were surprised to see only one line had been done. It felt like at least three were placed into you.

“Yeah, don’t screw it up.” Sticking his tongue out at you, Sukuna went back to work. Transfixed on watching him, you saw the lines go into your skin, overflowing with ink and being wiped away repeatedly. You were also watching the way Sukuna’s arms flexed, the muscles in his body all on display right in front of you.

“Tell me about yourself while you stare at me.” Sukuna said, not looking up from your arm. Immediately, your head whipped away from him and a deep burn ran over your face. Sukuna laughed at your embarrassment, patting your arm with the paper towel a few times.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’re not the first one to do it.” That didn’t make it any better. Slapping a hand over your face, you let out an unintelligible noise from the back of your throat.

“Just great.”

“It’s okay to say you have a crush on me, a lot of people that come to the shop do.”

“Sukuna!” Laughing through the shame, you glanced over at him.

“Hey, it’s the truth.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well can you blame them when you’re built like that?” Feeling emboldened by the late night hour, you took a rather obvious look at Sukuna’s body. With only a pair of sweatpants on, you could see nearly all the tattoos he had.

“Aw thanks doll, I work out.” Sukuna shot a wink at you, briefly flexing both arms and making you blush again. “But enough about me, what about you? What made you come here so late at night?”

“My friends and I wanted to do something spontaneous.” Returning your gaze to the ceiling, the ache from the tattoo gun was beginning to settle into your skin. “And what better way to be spontaneous than to get a tattoo?”

“Ha, I hear that.”

“Why’d you get the ones on your face and stuff?”

“Thought they’d make me look cool, and I was right.” Giggling at his honesty, you quickly nodded in agreement.

“The ones on your face, did they hurt really bad?”

“The ones near my eyes yeah, those hurt the most. But thankfully Choso has a steady hand, so it didn’t last too long.”

Absentmindedly, you ran your fingers over your own face, drawing along the edge of your jaw and eye socket. There was no way you could get your face tattooed as heavily as Sukuna had, if at all ever. You had only just now gotten used to the pain of the needle on your arm and you were still twitching every so often.

“How’re you holding up so far?” Sukuna whispers close to your ear ten quiet minutes later. He’s completely focused on tattooing you yet his face is close enough that if you leaned up a little, you could graze his hair with your nose.

“Fine.” You whisper back, suddenly feeling awkward with the low tone of his voice.

“That’s good doll, real good.” His voice dropped even lower, overcompensating for the song ending over the stereo speakers. Trying not to stare at his serious expression, you look over at the other stations. Gojo is chatting up your friend excitedly, and there’s a number of colorful inks laid out before him. Choso and Geto are hard at work as well, with Choso pointedly not speaking, and a blonde man you’d noticed drinking a large mug of black coffee earlier with his button up sleeve rolled up to reveal two dragons on his forearms.

Just as the pain in your arm was starting to truly burn, the tattoo was over. Sukuna washed it down gently, patting your arm and humming to the song playing. Sitting up with a short grunt, he flicked his head to the mirror.

“Go ahead and take a look.”

Sliding slowly off the table, you held your arm out awkwardly and stood in front of the mirror. Your arm was slightly swollen and stinging, shoulder stiff from being in the same position for so long, but a smile spread on your cheeks.

“I love it.” It looked exactly like the picture: a crayon style drawing of a brown haired girl in a giant green frog, a big pout on her lips while the frog sat on a lily pad.

“Lemme snap a couple quick photos before I wrap you up.” Already with his phone out, Sukuna was quick at taking pictures, posing you like when he’d put the stencil on. “I’ll run down the aftercare stuff with you, also give you a card in case you forget any of it.”

You didn’t hear a thing he said about aftercare. Standing nearly chest to chest with Sukuna while he rubbed ointment on your skin and wrapped your tattoo up, the way his arms nearly wrapped around you to put the cover on, the gentle touch of his fingers pressing medical tape to your skin, even the way he was breathing softly and looking at you - it all had you distracted.

“Alright, you’re all done.” Sukuna patted your arm, breaking you from your trance.

“Thank you so much!” Looking down at your tightly bandaged arm, you could feel the intense heat radiating out of it. You quickly snapped your own picture of the bandage as Sukuna dug around in a drawer.

“And since I could tell you were zoning the fuck out just now, I wrote my number down on the aftercare sheet, so text me if you have any questions.” Holding the paper out to you, Sukuna had indeed scribbled his phone number on the paper in thick black marker.

“Can I really just text you?” Taking the paper hesitantly, you fiddled with it in your hands.

“Of course! I want your tattoo to heal well!” Sukuna nodded, throwing his arms out dramatically. Waiting for you to gather your stuff, he walked you to the front of the shop. “Text me anytime doll, I stay up late.” He whispered right before you got to the front counter, making your jaw drop and ears burn.

“(Y/N), you really got a girl in a frog?” A friend laughed, a bandage wrapped around their thigh.

“It’s cute!” You defended it, holding your arm close to your body.

“The cutest fucking one.” Sukuna added on, slapping the counter and pointing at everyone.

“Aren’t you cold without a shirt on?” Choso mumbled, typing away on his phone in the corner.

“No ‘cause I’m not anemic like you are.”

“It’s still cold outside.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s cold in here!” The two of them quickly devolved into petty squabble, giving each other light hearted shoves in the shoulder while Geto collected the money from everyone.

“Bye, thank you so much!” You all called out as you left, waving goodbye and shrugging your jackets back on.

“I’ll be waiting for that text, doll!” Sukuna shouted right as you stepped out, blowing you a kiss when you whipped your head over your shoulder in shock.

“Text? Were you flirting with him?” A slew of curious looks were thrown your way, making your shock even worse.

“N-no!” You stuttered and immediately grimaced at it, face getting warmer as you climbed into the car. “We were just talking while he tattooed me, he just wants to make sure it heals right.”

“Mhmm, whatever you say. Let’s go to the drive through now, Geto told me to eat something after getting tattooed!”

“Hey check Sukuna’s Instagram story, he already posted your tattoo (Y/N)!”

“Really?” Rushing to pull out your phone, it was indeed true. Sukuna had posted one of the pictures he took of your arm, a few silly frog gifs surrounding it, with the caption ‘painted a pretty doll with a pretty frog, hope they come back for more xx’.

“You two were definitely flirting!” Shouts resounded in the car, everyone giggling wildly at the caption. Giggling along with them, you quickly typed a message to Sukuna.

(Y/N): hey Sukuna this is (Y/N). Thanks again for the frog! And the picture you posted on your story looks really good :)

(Sukuna): no problem doll

(Sukuna): next time you want a tattoo, text me and i’ll draw up whatever you want

“Sukuna said he wanted to tattoo me again!” You announced to your friends, all of them oohing and crowding around your phone. “What should I say?”

“I’ll do it!” Someone snatched your phone before you could say anything, rapidly shooting off a message and tossing the device back to you.

(Y/N): are you free tomorrow?

“He’s not gonna-” Right as you were beginning to shake your head and type another message, he replied.

(Sukuna): for you? of course

[axther]

🗨️ CountryOfWonderland said: Hello! My name is Karen. Yes I know it's ruined by Reddit. I am mindfully straight but also ace. I am known as the mom of the group by many. Supportive, wise in giving advice, yet I can't use those words to help myself. :'). I put others before me. Very empathetic, yet I'm not very easily angered. I am currently in college for the arts. I like correct anatomy, good concepts, ideas, and people in general. Mostly for what makes each person different, what makes them work. Even the simplistic things about them are what makes them best at what they are. Wordfully creative in poetry, compliments, and even pickup lines. Give me a word, and I'll be able to use it as a theme.  

Yikes I took WAY too damn long w this one, BUT I gotta say the whole thing is long af and really kicked my ass lmao. also tw for suicide mention and uhhh death mention that isn’t suicide? And spoilers for the Overhaul Arc

#1 is…Bakugou! 

AIGHT 

So y'all met at a training camp

Let's put aside the fact that we don't even know if Bakugou would ever want to go to a training camp ever again

But this one is for elite kids. 

The one's that could already be heroes, if given the traction and discipline 

And it's orientation day!! 

So

we all know that while Bakugou's all about physical prowess, he also recognises other people's talents 

Well this time he had trouble with it 

Namely, when he came across you, with a quirk he couldn't pin down. 

He's kinda miffed, ngl 

You keep to yourself, but you're not rude. 

You talk to people that approach you, speaking softly and sometimes writing in a small notepad for a second before talking again. 

Some of the younger kids are stuck to you like glue because you're just so soft.

And Bakugou can't figure out for the life of him what you can do, what you are. 

So as the camp progresses, he keeps you in peripheral. 

He's never pitted against you, and you guys don't have many interactions. 

So all he really knows is that you've made yourself camp mom, and everyone likes you. 

Except him 

Everyone's confused as to how he's just...neutral about you. 

So slowly, but inevitably, the rest of the camp decides to get you two to be in as many situations as possible 

At first, they started out small! 

No one wanted to share the canoe with Bakugou (though it was more for their safety than the Grand Plan™), so you agreed to 

And it's peaceful until one of the more prankish campers decides to flip your canoe, and Bakugou loses his mind on the kid. 

As more of these gentle nudges take place, you and Bakugou become little more than acquaintances.  

It's not going fast enough. 

For anyone. 

So one of the younger campers takes authoritative measures 

And locks y'all in a damn closet 

Neither you nor Bakugou wants to be responsible for property damage 

So you two decide to wait it out until someone comes to get something 

(and hope it doesn't get mistaken for anything else) 

There's a deafening silence 

You and Bakugou are glued to the opposite walls, not really talking

But then he notices that you're flipping through your little notebook, almost...in way that comforting. 

He tilts his head. 

"What're you doing?" 

You jump, and no, he doesn't think it's cute, not at all. 

And you glance to the side.

"I'm using my quirk." 

Bakugou's eyes just about burst out of his skull, because he's spent the whole camp trying to figure it out. 

"What is it?" 

"Fatewriter." You hesitate for a minute, before continuing. "I can see other people's fates." 

Again, Bakugou is floored, but he just stares. 

"If I get someone's name, their real name, I can see how they'll live, how they'll die. When. Where. I've gotten most people, here, but I never got the chance to go over them." 

Bakugou watches as you go back to reading the pages, in awe, before realisation settles over him. 

"But isn't it...scary?" 

"No." You glance up. "Just sad." 

There's silence again. 

"Is there anything...different?" Bakugou didn't think 'special' would really apply in the situation, so he tiptoed around his words 

Why, he wasn't sure 

But for just a moment, it was so intimate. 

There they were 

Halfway across the room from each other. 

Not even touching 

Not even making eye contact.

And somehow, it was as though they were meant to meet their entire lives.

 You nodded, and he realised he had been staring. 

"One of the kids... he's gonna be a villain." 

"What?!" Bakugou barked, rising up. "We need to stop him!" 

"We can't." 

"What the fuck? Why not?" 

"We don't know what we'd lose." You murmur, and there's sorrow in your voice, and if it were any other person, he would've absolutely lost his mind 

But you look up, and now your eyes are filled with something beyond sorrow-something so completely unfathomable that he's struck silent. 

"I once tried to save my family. My father, namely. He was a hero, and I saw that he was going to die. The day he was going to die, I begged him not to go. I was, what? Four?"

 You gave a humourless laugh.

"So when he saw his sobbing four-year-old daughter, he didn't go. That day, there was a villain attack. Thirty-eight people died. Everyone pinned the blame on my father, and he killed himself in shame." You looked back down. 

Bakugou lost all sense of feeling in his body, and he fell to the floor. 

He was closer to you than before, but he didn't even think about it. 

It was like all of his gusto from before had leaked out of his body 

And it was just him and you 

Two people 

Two kids 

Defenceless against the wills of the universe 

Locked in a closet. 

With all the time in the world, and at the same time, none at all. 

He noticed you stopped looking through the notepad 

You were slumped over, and you just looked so defeated. 

And slowly, quietly 

He pulls you in for a hug 

You're still

He's still

And suddenly, it's as though the universe wasn't so scary after all. 

#2 is…Iida! 

You and Tenya were peas in a pod, lemme tell you 

Y'all grew up together 

Your parents were heroes, life was nice, all that good stuff

(But as explained above happens, and…) 

You family has a fall from grace 

Your mother's in hysterics, mourning 

Any other family is trying to keep it all together

And then there's you 

And you're quiet. 

There's no crying, not in public at least. 

Tenya, who was just about as old as you, at the time, notices, but his parents told him not to interfere 

He wants to be there for you, as much as a five-year-old can, but…

You just shut down completely 

Your mother ends up breaking down and is taken to a mental institute 

There's talk about you potentially being arrested for indirectly killing thirty-nine people 

Everyone can't blame your father anymore, so they blame you 

And there you are, virtually alone.

When the Iidas pull through

They know what happened

They see the family name's been sullied

But goddammit, you're a child. 

So you're taken in by the Iidas. 

It's not quite adoption, and you're not their sister 

but you stay with them, and they take care of you. 

They don't ask anything in exchange, and you become a permanent guest at their house 

And so, you full-on grow up with the Iidas. 

You're there when Tenya gets admitted into U.A. 

(and notably, you don't, and the entire family knows why, but you don’t say anything) 

You're there when he goes through USJ, talking it out with him

You're there when Tensei gets hurt 

You're there when Bakugou gets taken 

And then entire time, you've become a pillar for him 

It's almost impossible, for him to imagine a world where you aren't there 

And it's the summer after the first semester of school.

Tenya's parents decide to try and get people to...approve of you

So they send you to a summer camp 

It's for kids with promising quirks, but maybe not the best handle on them or the best background 

So you're gone 

For two weeks 

And Tenya is absolutely fine. 

The first day, he writes you a letter, because he felt it would be more personal 

By the second day, he's gotten all his summer homework done 

By the third, he's written himself a brand new training regimen 

By the fourth...yeah, you get the idea 

He's bored and lonely 

Sure Tensei and his parents are there 

But, like…

His parents are busy, and Tensei can only do so much…

So while Tenya writes you a letter a day, he's slowly beginning to meditate on his friendship with you 

He never considered you as a sister, but more as a really, really, really close friend. 

But you're closer than most friends would be 

Sure, his friend circle at U.A. was great, and he had fun 

But he didn't really realise just how much he was missing until you left 

So two days into the second week, he's laying on his bedroom floor 

He's kinda blank, staring at the ceiling and watching the fan in his room spin 

And he's thinking about you 

You're beautiful, and you smile a lot, and you're matronly, which to anyone else, would've been an insult. Still, you're genuinely like a really young mother. 

A regal, young mother. 

You've helped him more times than he could count

And you do your best to not let people get to you 

You're just about the only person that he's cried in front of, besides his family 

And he has no idea just why you've become something so...present since you've been gone

And as he's thinking about you  and why in a way he hopes isn't creepy, Tensei peeks through the door

"... What'cha doing?" 

"Thinking about Kay." 

Tensei nods, clearly amused and a bit concerned. "Is something...wrong?" 

"No." Tenya shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. "Just thinking about her." 

"Looks like someone has a crush," Tensei teases, beginning to roll away when Tenya sits up at a ninety-degree angle 

And the look on his face could only be described as pure panic and realisation

Tensei stares back with wide eyes, blinking owlishly. 

"Oh my god," Tenya mutters before they speak in unison. 

"You have a crush." 

"I have a crush." 

There's silence, before Tenya skyrockets back up and begins going through his drawers furiously, pulling out paper and a pen.

Tensei pulls the door open a bit wider and wheels in, noting the picture of Tenya and you on the ground next to where Tenya was having his one-sixteenth life crisis. 

"What're you doing?" 

"I'm going to tell her in a letter! That's the responsible thing to do!" Tenya's got everything pulled out, but then freezes. 

"I can't tell her." 

Tensei pats Tenya's back, a small smirk on his face. 

"Ahh, young love…" 

(Tenya definitely did not spend the next several days lamenting how to tell you, or even if he should tell you.) 

(And he also definitely didn't pop your back with a bear hug when he saw you, and effectively set off the human bomb named Bakugou) 

#3 is...Mirio! 

Humans are fickle, fickle creatures 

Sometimes, they want you to do something 

Other times, they want the complete opposite. 

And in this case, humans were extremely fickle 

Not that you could blame this human in particular 

It was a several weeks after Sir Nighteye's death 

Though most of society knew you as a killer, Sir Nighteye looked past that 

Since your quirks were so similar

and he recognised that you were a child trying to save her father

So he did his best to help you, albeit discreetly. 

You knew when he was going to die

And he knew when you were going to die

But you never told the other, as part of a pact to not change fixed points in the future. 

It was a strange thing, in the end. 

To some extent, you two considered each other distant siblings

So, when he died, you attended his funeral 

Admittedly, you were the quietest of the lot.

There was no sobbing from you, just regretful sorrow. 

A young, blonde man wasn't hiding his grief, choking his sobs with his hand 

You glance at him, before looking away

After the service, you're the first to leave. 

You knew Nighteye wouldn't want you to linger on him, but to be the best person you can in your grief. 

But the young man catches you on the way out 

"You... you're Kay, right?" 

You hesitate. He continues. 

"I’m...I’m Mirio Togata. I...Sir…he talked about you. A lot. And he said…" 

"He mentioned that I knew when he was going to die?" You finished for him. 

Mirio freezes, then nods. 

"Why didn't you try to stop it?" He mutters, and you can feel worry bubble in your gut. 

"You could have saved him. Why didn't you?" 

You raise an eyebrow. 

You can tell he’s trying not to get angry, but his fists are clenched and his breathing is beginning to get heavy

But you can’t even feel angry

He’s right

You could’ve

But you look down, your back to him

“Nighteye and I had a deal. We wouldn’t tell the other when we die, and deal with it when it happens. He always told me that the future shouldn’t be changed.” You look forward, eyeballing the sky. 

“If I could’ve told him, without any worry of repercussions, I would. But time is not kind to us.” 

And with that, you walked away. 

Mirio can only watch, and the grief replaces his anger. 

Midoriya and All Might come over to him a minute later, pulling his thoughts away from you. 

But later that night, he looks you up. 

He doesn’t mean to be creepy

But when he sees the face of a little girl who was on the cusp of shattering, plastered all over the internet, he can’t help but feel justified pity. 

Of course, she wouldn’t interfere a second time. 

The first was traumatising enough. 

So, he become determined to befriend you

You were close to Nighteye, and while he never said much on his actual relationship with you, Mirio knew that he held you in dear regard. 

There were often times where he would mention something about you, and then Mirio and Midoriya were stuck trying to figure out if ‘Kay’ was his daughter, or what. 

So in the coming days, he found a new purpose. 

Between taking care of Eri and visiting his friends, he began trying to visit you. 

He popped by the Iida house, and knocked on the door. 

He expected to be greeted with a maid or something, with how elaborate the mansion was

But to his surprise, you opened the door. 

Tensei Iida (holy SHIT, goes Mirio’s mind) is behind you, but before Tensei can ask who’s at the door, or Mirio can ask why your eyes are red, you slam it shut with more force than you looked capable of. 

This becomes a recurring thing 

Until one day, Mirio manages to catch the Iidas while you’re out 

They invite him in, and they exchange pleasantries, until you come in from the rain

And you make eye contact with him 

And he makes eye contact with you

And you bolt up the stairs 

He goes running after you as politely as he can, apologising to the Iidas

(and noting Tenya’s mildly disgruntled face) 

And he catches you, just before you can shut the door to your room

And while he doesn’t try to burst in, he does manage to get a question out 

“Why are you avoiding me?” 

There’s a second, and two, and he knows the family’s listening from downstairs

And the door opens

And you look so hollow. 

And for a moment, Mirio wonders just how well you’re taking Nighteye’s death, before you step aside so he can come in. 

There’s silence as he takes in your room, and then turns to you. 

You’re wrapping your arms around yourself

And you’re not looking at him

You both are stock still, but then Mirio speaks again. 

“Did I do something?” 

There’s a noise from you, something between a choking sob and a swallow, before you shake your head. 

“No. It wasn’t...you.”

“Then what was it?” Then, he quickly adds, “I can leave, if I’m making you uncomfortable.”  

“You were right,” You’re whispering, so quietly that he could barely hear it. 

“Huh?” 

“I could’ve saved him. I should’ve saved him,” When you’re talking, it actually sounds like it pains you to speak.

It’s enough that he starts reaching out, but then you start again, and it completely unravels you. 

“He was someone so dear to me...I could’ve told him, hinted it, something. I think about it so much. He could still be here today, and it’s all my fault. And you knew, you called me out on it. I couldn’t handle it. I feel…” 

And you’re sobbing, genuinely sobbing, and it’s heartbreaking, as though the little girl from so long ago had come back to haunt the living. 

“I feel like I can’t say anything. I’m drowning in something, and it’s red, and it’s angry, and it’s choking me, but I can’t say a word! I keep all my emotions bottled up, and the bottle is so, so full! What can I do, when it bursts and all the glass kills me from the inside?” 

You’ve kneeled on the carpet

And Mirio’s kneeling, too, and he’s crying

You two have barely had any conversation besides at the funeral and here

And yet he’s knows that you two are on a different frequency 

Maybe it’s the shared grief of losing someone so dear 

Maybe it’s how you held yourself, like you were scared of finally letting go of your restraint 

Or maybe it was just how you cried together, arms on each other’s shoulders, free to just let go 

Mirio isn’t sure 

But when he looks up and sees the tears hanging off your eyelashes, he makes a promise to himself 

And in a way, Sir Nighteye, too

I’ll be there for you. Always. 

[space-blue]

Portrait of an Artist in Love

9th competition win. It's a love letter to the world of Love Death + Robot's "Good Hunting" episode.

There is a motto within our guild:

'Your client is your Art.'

It dictates our rules, weaves itself into our practices, shapes our pride, and though our clients are made to understand its impact, the phrase itself is not spoken to outsiders. It is a tenet, a pillar of our teachings, an invisible chain around our wrists. A chain I wonder if inspector Merig has come to tug.

'You are a popular biomata craftsman and a respected guild member, Dr. Parahi,' he says, clearly fishing for a reaction. 'A true artist among steamwrights, I'm told.'

'Inspector, what is this visit about?'

'Just a few questions, if you please. Are you aware of the series of murders that have happened in the Kublai and Kodenshi districts?'

I smile tightly. So, this is about her after all.

'I do read the papers. Even if I didn't, the guild keeps us appraised of such... events as might disturb our work.'

'When did you first become aware of the killings?'

'After the one that happened at the Proctor's party. Since that was only a district over, everyone here was made aware of the case. No one knew then that it was serial.'

'We still don't know for sure,' the inspector says, pulling photographs out of a battered folder, 'but they all have a few things in common.'

He pushes the glossy black and white photographs forward. I find myself oddly surprised. The content might be gruesome, but the police department has a talented photographer on their payroll. All the bodies are angled to showcase the gaping injuries. They lay sprawled in pools of grey, blood diluted in hydrofill, I suppose.

'They were all either augmented or full biomata. They are all missing parts. A lot of parts.'

'Oh, please. Are you suggesting a guild member is behind this? Me, even? No self respecting craftsman would destroy someone else's work like that. Particularly not in such a barbaric fashion.'

'No, rest assured,' inspector Merig says, placating, 'we've already sorted things with your guild concerning alibis. At least in your case.'

Nothing in our code states that we should not try to help the police. There is, however, no incentive for me to volunteer information, and so I stare at him in expectant silence.

'Do you ever work on automata, Dr. Parahi?'

'Never. All of my work is meant for live grafting.'

I wave a hand to encompass the atelier space all around us. The copper and ivory limbs showcased at the forefront all are to exhibit taste and designs. The hands made of tantalum, titanium and tungsten, laid out on the cabinet to our left, are where the craftsmanship is on display. It is all a front, a showroom, as it were, despite the small workbench. That one is for clients in need of repairs or simple cosmetics. There is no automata on display or in use. It would constitute false advertisement in such a curated room.

'Would one be able to craft an automata out of parts taken from such victims?'

I feel a shiver run down my spine at the question. Surely, the real one will soon follow. It takes some effort to maintain the appearance of nonchalance, to not trigger the whirring of my knee joints with an anxious shift, to ignore the weight of the stare of my ancestors, perched in their gilded frames on the wall at my back. Six generations of steamwrights silently judging the last practising scion of their house, readying his lies.

'Of course,' I say, inclining my head with a smile, a show of scholarly indulgence. 'Depending on what they wanted to build. If needed, you could smelt and reforge to fit–well, depending on the material. The only thing you cannot transfer or reuse are the tubing and the cores. The engine needs are completely different, and automata don't require hydrofill. Anyone savvy enough can do this. It is not even considered guild work.'

'What about building biomata with them?'

Here it is... And what can I say? It is another tenet of ours that you should never deny a client the components they bring you. Our work is... a communion, a shared vision. A concept I highly doubt officer Merig would ever understand or appreciate. I look at him studiously as I mull over my answer, though there is nothing of interest to look at. He is what is derogatorily referred to in the milieu as a "meatbag". There is no Art to him. Not even a glimmer of cosmetic copper-gold, ivory or amber, not a whisper of inner mechanism, no murmur of churning steam.

'Obviously it can be done,' I answer, keeping up with the affable professor persona. 'People often inherit parts from deceased relatives and have legacy work done to integrate them. This would not be very different, except the guild is usually involved in the original disassembling process.'

'Could you tell the parts were taken by force, if someone presented them to you?'

'Not necessarily,' I reply, lying through my teeth. In for a copper, in for a silver: 'There are shunts that can be activated to section off limbs cleanly. If these were used, the limb would look as neat as if I'd taken it off the donor myself.'

I tap a ringed finger at one of the photographs, one of the more gruesome ones, as one of the parts removed was the insulation polysheet around the steam core.

'Providing materials has always been a popular way to offset the cost of the operations for our clients. However some of these parts you simply can't smelt or play pretend with. Anyone within the guild would know and call the police. This looks more like trophies to me, it's so pointless otherwise.'

Inspector Merig strokes his bearded chin. Though he appears to be considering my point, his lack of surprise makes me think the idea is not new to him.

'Could someone be out there,' he asks, 'someone not from the guild, enhancing themselves, or someone else, with the parts taken from the killings?'

I smile indulgently at this.

'Inspector Merig. Surely you realise setting a steam core engine inside a living being is nothing like automata work? You need to be a talented surgeon for the client to even survive. The creation of a biomata is Art in its truest form, combining medicine, metallurgy, jewellery, design, engineering, fine tuning more precise than clockwork, and the mastery of the gods' greatest gift: steam. Most of the processes involved are guild secrets too. If someone is out there trying to fiddle with an existing biomata without the proper training...' I tap my chin, thinking, hoping to sell it. 'It's possible... At least they could try. But the guild would take it about just as well as if the imperial botanists heard someone was growing Telura on their roof garden.'

Inspector Merig snorts at the comparison.

'Still, why come to me? Surely all of this could have been explained to you at the guildhall?'

'You came highly recommended. Most popular in the district, I was told.' Merig waves his gloved hand to encompass the shop and its shining collection of limbs and skeletal constructs. 'Certainly looks like it to me.'

There is a certain quality to the man's expression. The way his jaw is set, the tension around his eyes. It is a cousin to the apprehension I see in so many faces lying down on my workbench. A sort of uncertainty. It occurs to me then that maybe Inspector Meatbag here has been given a case in which he will forever be out of his depth. Maybe it's a test, maybe it's a punishment. All it means for me is opportunity.

'Ah, you want help identifying the makers of the missing pieces?'

'Yes. I hope you might also be able to tell me if you've seen any such parts in recent months.'

'I certainly can do that,' I offer, 'but the best person to consult remains the creator of the parts themselves.'

'That might not be possible. You see, all the parts we could trace back to a steamwright led back to a certain Dr. Asiheu, who has been missing for some time.'

'Wait a second... You mean several of the victims were clients of the same steamwright?'

Inspector Merig nods gravely as he spreads more pictures of close-ups on the table and takes notes as I systematically fail to remember ever seeing anything relevant, but offer several names for him to go and consult. It is my honest opinion that the woman first killed in Kodenshi had her work done by someone from the Eastern branch. By the time the Inspector rises again, shakes my hand and heads out with promises of 'being in touch', I am mentally exhausted. I lean against the locked door and lowered blinds, catching up on breath I've never run out of. In the darkened shop I make my way back to the table. I push the lever, one my grand-father so distastefully hid in the branch of a candelabra, and watch the slab of carved stone shift to reveal the staircase to the actual workshop, the one with my tools, the operating workbench and steam reactor.

I can almost feel it at my wrists, the invisible pull Linia has on me, my greatest work of Art.

She lays sprawled on the workbench, like a sultry painter's muse. We have another saying, more informal, that states that a client is never closer to perfection than when the world starts to doubt their humanity. She unfurls herself, titanium plates slithering over carved mother-of-pearl, tantalum rib cage pressing darkly against translucent syndermis, revealing the hydropump's viscous throbbing and the soft glow of her steam core, nestled under her heart. I reach out, brushing strands of hair back from her angular face, fingers gliding over the grooves and embossments etched as verdant jungle ferns across the planes of her brass temples.

'You heard.'

'I did,’ she murmurs against my palm. ‘They’ll never find Asiheu... But it seems I now own you as much as you own me.'

'You owned me from the start,' I say, chiding, and watch her eyes crease in her characteristic smile, the very same she gave me when she first came to me, a mangled toy with very little figure left to her, and figure, in steamwright lingo, refers to meat. Hers was a jigsaw of swollen, septic flesh, patch-worked with steel junk. She had no left arm, her jaw springs were slack and rusting, her hydropump was overheating her innards... She was a mess, a mockery of the Art. A malicious garage job.

'Who did this to you?' I asked.

She'd smiled with her eyes alone–blue eyes like windows into fields of ice that never thawed–arced into cold crescents. She lifted a sack and laid it across the counter between us, the mouth of it parting to reveal the bronze glimmer of joints, rubber fingertips and polycarbon tendons. I'd sealed my fate right then, by hastily gathering up the strings of the bag and reaching to the lever that would lock the atelier's door.

'Come. We can talk once I've given you some first aid.'

I'd seen the blood on the metal-composite fingers. I knew then, and every time thereafter, but she'd offered herself to me in full–this monster, this killer–to be my creation, if only I would make her perfect with the spoils of her vendetta.

And I was ever the perfectionist...

~~ September 2020 – Theme : Steampunk

[whichstiel]

I made this art for the 2019 Dean/Cas Tropefest. (HUGE thanks to the mods, Jojo and Muse, for being amazing!) As soon as I read through the summaries, I knew I needed to try to grab the DRAGON STORY right away. I just...really love dragons, okay? This story is delightful and unexpected, with lovely world-building, rich side characters, and a beautiful romance between Dean and Cas. I really enjoyed reading it and working with zaphodsgirl! You can read Shadow & Storm by zaphodsgirl now! You’ll love it. <3

Here’s the summary:

One night, a mysterious visitor appears in young Prince Dean's bedroom, and he suddenly finds himself transported to an abandoned replica of his home in an unknown land. He learns quickly that the borders are finite, and none may leave without incurring the wrath of the guardian: a dragon the people call Storm.

Left with no choice, Dean adapts to life as the others have, tending to the animals and working the land to survive. As he grows up, the life he knew as a prince seems more and more distant, until a new person arrives that he remembers from his childhood. Shaken by this arrival, Dean’s desire to escape returns anew, and he discovers more than he wanted to know about the Shadowlands and its occupants -- especially about the mysterious guardian of the castle, Castiel.

Continue reading for some insight into the process and drafts behind the art.

Reading this story, I was struck by its lovely fairy tale vibe, which inspired me to make some kind of story-book art. I’ve always enjoyed pop-up books, so that seemed like a fun thing to try. My first step was to learn more about pop-ups. I turned to the internet for ideas, and found recommendations for: Pop-up design and paper mechanics, by Duncan Birmingham. This was a really useful book (I got it from the library - and you can too!) It gave me some basic structures and some general rules of thumb for how things fold and work when opened. I stuck with the simpler forms, given the short time period before posting.

Tools & supplies:

Cardstock paper

Watercolor paper (for the folding pages/backdrops and some stand-ups)

Watercolors, colored pencil, sharpie markers

Glue (I really like this scrapbooker’s glue pen for paperwork. Dries FAST and mostly doesn’t warp.)

Scissors, precision knife, ruler, protractor

Bone folder for pressing seams

Once I had some broad ideas of some of the rules of pop-up creation, I started to sketch out some quick ideas. I always like to start with the cover image, since that’s the main image people see when they’re browsing a story list. I did a few basic sketches on paper, but I decided the easiest way to develop these pop-up pieces would be to do what Birmingham called “paper sketching.” With paper sketching, you just...eyeball the pieces, attach it to a folded piece of paper, and cut away whatever paper you don’t want. It’s sort of like working with negative space in that way. Paper sketching was invaluable for helping me figure out things like: how tall should the mountains be? How high are the wings? What can fold together to lay flat? (Because I wanted this to be a functional book.) How long can I make that flame spout? (Not long, as it turned out.)

Here are some paper sketches I made of the cover image. A few of these were before I re-read the story and realized that the castle was built INTO the mountain. Oops. Building drafts helped me to realize that the concept was possible. Once I had some general structures under my belt, I could start to do the finer work of cutting out the final pieces. Draft work was typically done with sketchbook paper or cheap cardstock from Walgreens.

(Left: first draft; Right: Oh my god maybe this will actually work)

I wanted the cover to convey the full expanse of the lands surrounding the castle. I made my author draw me an actual map and diagram of all the agricultural lands. Thanks, zaphodsgirl! I chose black paper for the cover for REASONS you will discover when you read the story.

(Left: background watercolor progress with marker details; Right: taping in a quick test sketch to see if it will fit with the dragon and to test the angle)

Behind the scenes

For each design, I started by painting a watercolor backdrop, making note of the center where I’d need to fold the page. Watercolor paper was a pretty good choice because it’s thick and you can really crease the hell out of that middle joint - and the page stays strong. The cover is the most detailed. For the others, I went with more imprecise watercolor washes - mostly in the interest of time.

Finding a good backdrop is always a challenge when photographing art, and was a big issue for the cover since that dragon really gets lost if there’s too much in the background. I decided to go “Maria from Sound of Music” and pull down one of my curtains as a backdrop. That, plus desk lamps for light made a pretty good set.

This piece features Castiel fading into the dragon. I suffered from proportion control for this project but chose to forge on ahead, anyway. Sometimes the dragon is huge, sometimes it’s small. Oooooh well, it’s a dragon, anyway. :D The little Dean torso is intended to be a manually-opened inset, more to show his reaction than anything else. The dragon is 5 pieces - tail, head and forepaw, wings, and body. Castiel is a single piece; his fold is attached to the dragon and there’s a little paper accordion behind his head to keep him upright.

(Top left: I hate concept sketches; Top right: Cas coming together. I made him too tall! Oh well, I’m gonna roll with it)

Behind the scenes

This next piece was actually the second one I did, because it was the most complex and I wanted to get it finished so I wouldn’t fret over it. The red light is from a bicycle tail-light that I’m holding in the air with one hand while taking a photo with the other. I just really liked that little shadow claw on the ground!

This dragon was somewhat inspired by a Game of Thrones popup my author shared with me. My dragon isn’t as complex, but it still opens wide and closes flat, so I’m happy. It’s basically built as an upside down triangle, cut into a folded piece of paper. The fold is on the bottom. You can draw a line from the fold in its snout to a fold on its torso. The spines were cut out and glued on after the fact because I completely forgot to add them!!!

I was having some trouble with the wings attaching properly, so my test models had the dragon at various stages of height or angles from the ground. Too high and it would pop beyond the book pages. Too low and it might as well be sitting on the page completely. The dragon body has built-in tabs to which the wings are glued and the forest cutouts have this as well, for max strength. This is one of those cards where I went through enough drafts that I resorted to tape as a quick-hold option to figure out things like height and angle and how much dragon could fit in the folded pages. I ended up using an actual tool with (gasp) measurements to finally get the angle of the forest inserts right. Folding the test dragon into the card, I actually just sliced off the excess wing and tail that peeked out from the edges, then used that space when I was cutting out my final dragon.

For each of these, it’s best to get your pattern pieces as close as possible and then use that to cut your final pieces. The angles and length of everything needs to be fairly precise or what worked in your draft won’t fold well in the final version.

(Top left: So many draft pieces, so little time; Top right: Use math, kids!; Bottom: Dragon open and closed)

Behind the scenes

The last piece is modeled after a simple folding animal style. Its feet are glued symmetrically over the fold.

It’s essentially a folded piece of cardstock with an animal cut out of it. The head is attached separately, as are the wings and Amara. I had a star hole punch, which made it easy to add some stars to Amara’s gown as well as on the page. I’d wanted to do a big fold-out window arch here, but realized that it wouldn’t fit over the dragon or the Dean/Cas fold. Ah well. Please imagine it, instead.

(Top left: concept sketch; Top right: Paper sketching is a great reality check; Bottom: Amara astride Storm)

Behind the scenes

The final step was to turn this into some kind of book. At first, I planned to stitch the pages together. I’d never bound a book before, and I was cursing myself for putting down all those layers of pop-up inserts if I was going to have to stitch through each page. Then I looked at some pop-up books and realized that often just the edges of the pages are glued, leaving the middle to float as necessary. This was good, because it was a way easier option! (Also the dragon in the forest came out a little tight, so the float was very helpful there.)

I glued the page edges and, since they were a little curly from the watercolor and popup designs pulling at them, I weighted them with books to dry for a while.

I found an old book cover that would work (from a very outdated technology textbook). I sliced out the original pages, recovered the book with black paper, and glued in my new book pages on the front and back. It was a perfect fit!

I finished with time to spare, so I added a little watercolor and paper cut-out picture and frame to the front and back to add some flair. Please enjoy my terrible glue job. (I forgot to smooth the paper.)

I used a hair tie cut in half to hold the pages down for photographs (or display). I clipped two wedge-shaped bag clips to the underside of each tie to weigh down each side, and hold the book open at a slight angle.

This was a fun and challenging project to work on, and I’m so grateful to zaphodsgirl for all her effusive words and gifs of encouragement. You’re going to love this sweet story. Go read it now! Shadow & Storm on AO3.

(And if you feeling like tossing a comment my way, I’d love to hear from you here on Tumblr or on my art post on AO3.) 

[theashemarie]

Meet Me on the Rink | Pearlina

["I like to go fast, Marina told her last week, and Pearl sees it now. The long profile of her body as she moves the quad skates, gliding as fast as she can around all the people, in tempo with Wet Floor’s Don’t Slip. She’s built for it, all those long lines, those muscled legs, the pumping of her arms. It’s intoxicating to watch her, especially for someone like Pearl, who loves these skates and this rink like she loves her home. Someone like Marina is exactly who she needs."]

[Roller Derby AU. A belated offering for Pearlina Week!] 

[A collab between @theashemarie and @katiemonz. Concept by Ashe and Katie. Written by Ashe. Companion art piece (and punny nicknames) by Katie.] 

[Crossposted on AO3]

☆ Reblogs appreciated! ☆

↪Chapter 1: [Don’t Slip] (You are here!) ↪Chapter 2: [Pick Me Up, Jump Lightly]

------

Ch. 1: Don’t Slip

The rink is almost full, which isn’t surprising. Fresh2Death is a popular team, even if Pearl’s barely heard of the other team, so people will show up in droves regardless of the actual match. From her vantage point in the stands, she can see Marie’s head, her gray-white hair pulled back and barely visible from under her backwards cap, and she easily recognizes the relaxed angle of her shoulders. The match is going well for her team. They’re in the second period and they’re up quite a few points—and, most importantly, her jammer currently has the lead, which means that she can end the jam if their point advantage looks to be in danger.

The jam is over a minute in so Pearl imagines that it won’t last longer, but she’s still on the edge of her seat. Fresh2Death’s current jammer—Loch Mess Monster (Four to her friends)—is small and fast, just like Pearl, and she’s good at finding openings in the pack, especially when her team is setting up for whips and walls. Pearl’s raced her a few times and they’re pretty evenly matched on the open track, though Pearl is better at leaping around the curves. Still, Four is good, so when she takes a hard hit to the side and is knocked out of bounds, Pearl feels her legs twinge a little when she lands on her knees. She can hear the smack of her kneepads all the way up here.

Four gets up easily and is forced, as according to the rules, to reenter the pack behind the person who knocked her out. Just barely, Pearl sees her glance at Marie, who is shaking her head. Keep going, she’s saying. We can score more points.

Because she was the first jammer to break through the pack at the beginning of the jam, Four has control over when to end the jam before the two minute limit is reached. The safe move there would have been to just end the jam, because the knockout put her back quite a few feet. However, her teammates, the blockers, are doing a great job stopping the other jammer from passing them and scoring. Plus, Marie is known for her risky moves, even on a runaway game like this one. She’s a legend in Inkopolis’s derby scene for a reason.

Four gets back on the track and is immediately accosted by the skater who knocked her out of bounds. Luckily for Four, a vertical grate is right in front of them, scattering the pack as everyone either sails through it in squid form or attempts to swerve around it. Just beyond, there’s a patch of green ink—Four’s team’s color—and Pearl sees her eyes land on it. If she can get herself into it, she can free herself of some of the blocker pressure and get some speed.

But the other team’s blockers see it too. And Four’s blockers see them. The other jammer is somewhere in the pack, closed on by Fresh2Death’s blockers and stuck behind a wall of two skaters. The other two blockers move to play defense, attempting to keep the other team from walling Four off.

Pearl feels her leg start to bounce. Four jukes toward the left, heading toward the inside of the curve, but then swings to the right. She passes one of the other team’s blockers, gaining a point, and then is blocked off by two more. The skates are loud on the floor as they shove at her, trying to knock her out of bounds, but she lowers her center and sails right into them. They throw their arms out, blocking her pass, and she jukes again, this time using the curve of the floor to head left again. Two of her own blockers meet her and they whip her forward, right into the ink.

She slides in and disappears, nothing more than a small ripple. Two of her blockers follow, flanking on either side, and when she hops out, she’s passed all four of the other team’s blockers. Marie waves her arms and whistles, a sharp, high pitched sound that Pearl knows well, and Four jabs her hands onto her hips multiple times, signaling the end of the jam.

“A grand slam,” the girl sitting beside Pearl says. She’s one of Pearl’s teammates, a blocker that keeps Pearl safe while she’s running jammer. Their team, Creatures of the Smack Lagoon, is Fresh2Death’s rival, and both Pearl and her companion are here to scope out the competition. Three (“Kraken Skullz” during a match) is one of Pearl’s closest friends on the team, and one of the most skilled blockers Pearl’s ever had the pleasure of playing with. She trusts Three more than she trusts herself sometimes.

“All thanks to Eight.” Pearl indicates one of Fresh2Death’s blockers, a tall, dark-skinned girl with the strangest hair Pearl’s ever seen. She’s one of Fresh2Death’s strongest skaters, and she’s currently looking up into the stands, probably trying to spy Three.

Eight (“Agent 8”—a joke Pearl isn’t sure she gets but which brings Three intense glee) and Three are close. Closer than they should be, considering they’re on rival teams. But, the captains don’t know and Pearl isn’t going to tattle. No fraternization is the rule, but Three laughs in the face of most rules. Eight, who is quiet and seems to have a wicked intelligence behind those eyes, doesn’t seem to care either, but Pearl has trouble reading her sometimes. Still, they seem happy, so Pearl isn’t going to say anything.

Three waves down at her, trying to get her attention. “Yeah, I saw. That was a sick whip. She grabbed Four’s hand and threw her so fast toward that ink. It’s like she’s got super strength or something.”

Pearl grimaces, because she gets that. Eight is notorious for her whips, specifically because of that strength of hers. Sometimes, Pearl doesn’t think it should be legal, but other times she sees plays like that and she doesn’t care.

“Looks like she’s off the next jam. I’m gonna go see her,” Three says as she stands. Eight is tugging her helmet off and slapping another blocker in so Marie must feel pretty confident in their lead now.

Pearl nods and watches Three go. Her long hair sways as she bounces down the stairs and Pearl sees her lean over the railing to give Eight a hug.

Alone now, Pearl checks her phone. No new messages from Callie. The last one is seared into her memory—find the new girl. She groans and stuffs her phone back into her pocket. Easier said than done, apparently.

“This seat taken?” A new, unfamiliar voice asks, and Pearl looks up. The only thought she has is tall before her brain gives up entirely. Because she is tall, but she’s also beautiful, and smiling, and has long, strange hair just like Eight’s which is also somehow nothing like Eight’s. And yeah, she’s talking to Pearl. She’s smiling at Pearl. Pearl in her dark, desperately-needs-a-wash hoodie and her baggy eyes and her bruised knees.

“Sorry,” the woman continues, and her voice has a musical quality to it, all lilting and enchanting. Of course it does. “This place is packed, and I saw your friend leave. I hope it’s okay...”

 “Uhhh,” Pearl begins, suddenly losing control of her tongue. She shakes her head to snap herself out of it. “I mean! Yes! Fuck, yeah, it’s open. Please.”

“Oh good. Thank you.” She sits primly next to Pearl and tugs impulsively on her jacket. She’s wearing tight, ripped jeans, a bandanna around her head, and a leather jacket over a soft, green shirt. She’s also got boots that Pearl really admires.

“Marina,” she continues, holding out a hand for a shake. It’s so formal that Pearl almost has to do a doubletake.

“Pearl,” Pearl answers, limply grabbing her hand. Marina’s hand is calloused like a Turf War regular’s, but her shake is strong and Pearl forces herself to tighten her grip. Competitive to a fault, she’s not going to let anyone one-up her.

Even if she is undeniably gob smacked.

“You ever been to a roller derby before?” Pearl hears herself ask.

Marina laughs, a high chiming sound, throws her head back with it, exposing the long expanse of her neck. Pearl feels her stomach bottom out. It’s such a strange feeling; she usually isn’t this desperate or pathetic.

“A few,” Marina answers, covering her hand with her mouth to hide her smile. “You?”

“Me? Oh, a few. Yeah.” Pearl looks back to the track, wishing that they’d just get on with it so she’d have something to focus on other than how hot she feels under her hoodie. Carefully, she shrugs out of it, so she only has her tank top between her and the world.

“Excellent,” Marina says. She leans forward on her knees. “It’s always nice to sit next to someone who knows what’s going on.”

Pearl swallows and decides that she very much doesn’t know what’s going on. Not really.

+++

Roller derby has been an underground sport for a while. Adapted from human roller derby, it never really reached the same notoriety as Turf War or Tower Control or Rainmaker or Splatzones, mostly because it didn’t require much ink. The rules were left mostly unchanged from the human sport, though a few obstacles were added to make the game more interesting, both in an attempt to draw more fans and to challenge the players, who had no problem jostling and skating around in circles for two minutes.

Grates were added to break up the packs and add a little variety and forethought. It wasn’t just skating in circles anymore. Now the skaters had to look further ahead and plan their moves well in advance. Jammers could escape walls in a grated section of the track, blockers could get in front of jammers, and pivots could maneuver into a better position. The skaters could either squid through the grates, losing a little momentum, or go around, breaking up the pack. (Personally, Pearl thought anyone who went around was a chump. She preferred to flip through the grates, maintaining as much speed as she could by pushing off with her skates into a forward roll, sliding into squid form, rolling through the grate, and then landing on her feet, losing only a little of her speed in the process. It was an advanced move, patented by Pearl “The Pearlverizer” herself, but she still thought the best strategy was to just take the momentum hit if it meant remaining in the pack.)

Ink was added to increase strategy. Before each period, the captains were given a precise amount of ink to lay on the track. The amount was the same for both teams and the captains could use it both defensively and offensively, either giving their team long stretches of breathing room where they could gain speed or providing a roadblock for the other team. Jammers usually always go for their ink, because it enables them to score easy points, so enemy blockers often have to cut them off before they can get to it, often by herding them away from it. Other times, the captain may put a long line of ink on the track perpendicular to their movement, forcing the enemy team to cross paths with it. They either have to jump over it or risk losing momentum or even getting stuck.

Otherwise, the rules were the same. Each team fielded a jammer and four blockers. The jammer was supposed to lap the other team’s blockers to gain points. The first jammer to break through the pack at the beginning of each two-minute jam was named the head jammer and could then control when the jam ended (before the two-minute time period was up). The blockers attempted to both block the other team’s jammer and to assist their own jammer in scoring points. The pack was a dangerous place full of shoving.

Needless to say, Pearl loves it.

She once had dreams of making it on the Rainmaker scene, but then her teenaged rebellion kicked in and she decided she needed to do something more dangerous and unorthadox to get her father to pay attention to her. Growing up rich and largely isolated on a massive estate had done some things to her sense of the world, so when she stumbled onto roller derby, with its team play not unlike what she was used in Rainmaker (except now with physical violence!) she was smitten. She joined a small team and quickly found her place as jammer. Small and fast was the name of the game, and Pearl was one of the smallest and fastest.

Derby became her home, even as she moved from team to team. Eventually, she ended up on a team with Three. Then they ended up on Tsunami Calamari, headed by Callie and Marie. Now she’s on Creatures of the Smack Lagoon because Callie and Marie can’t get along when it comes to derby. And she still loves it. She adores it, and not for the same reasons her teenaged self did.

Things are good. She has a family. She has a passion. She has a place.

And now, apparently, she has a crush.

+++

Fresh2Death wins the match, unsurprisingly. Marie puts Eight back in after they lose a few points and Four is traded out for a few jams so she can rest, but it’s still a blowout. Three never returns to reclaim her seat, most likely because she can see Pearl’s flushed, panicked expression from her new spot near the front. She even sends Pearl a thumbs up, the cheeky little shit, and mouths something that looks like “she’s gorgeous!!!” with a huge smile. Sometimes, Pearl regrets letting her friends know just how gay she is, because then she ends up in situations like this: in public, suffering from a panic because a cute girl is talking to her with no help coming her way. Some wingman.

Most surprisingly though, Pearl manages to get herself under control after a couple jams. Marina is clearly more interested in the match than in her, if the way she’s leaned forward onto her knees with her hands over her mouth is anything to go on. Her eyes are trained on pack, especially on Four as she’s put back on the field, and she hoots and hollers with the crowd when the blockers get rough or a jammer breaks through. At one point, she even springs to her feet to yell at Four to push it, and when Four shoves her way through, gaining three more points, Marina cups her hands around her mouth and hollers so loud that Pearl feels her hearts stop, simultaneously, for a second.

Between jams they talk, mostly about the match, but sometimes about the weather. Pearl hangs on every word but tries to make herself seem aloof and calm, answers with a smoothness that she definitely isn’t feeling, and she can tell that Marina is interested in her, especially when she smiles her most wicked, killer smile—the one she reserves for moments like these, when she’s trying to impress someone with the sheer force of her suave persona. She’s realized that most people are drawn to someone who seems comfortable in their own skin, and Marina seems to be no exception.

“How long you been into derby anyway?” Pearl asks after Four calls the end to another jam. She’s been the lead jammer far too many times this period, which is making the match kinda stale, in Pearl’s opinion. She likes them best when it’s an equal fight—more interesting that way.

Marina, who had been standing and bouncing slightly as Four hopped the corners and was whipped forward by Eight again, plops down next to Pearl. Her jacket, long discarded during the heat of a jam, is pooled on her seat but she doesn’t seem to mind as she sits on it. “A little bit.” Marina’s face is flushed with excitement, tinted the same neon green as Fresh2Death’s outfits and ink, and her hair is wild, moving as if it has a mind of its own. It bounces with each head movement and even brushes into Pearl’s bare shoulder a few times, igniting a few sharp nerve endings under her skin. She has to stop herself from shivering every time.

“You really like Fresh2Death, huh?” Pearl indicates Marina’s hair, its color, and her shirt.

Marina shrugs and looks down at her hands, suddenly pensive. “I’m new in town and they’re the first team I stumbled on. Plus, they’re one of the best.”

Pearl can’t argue with that. Both Fresh2Death and her own team are top ranked, always winning their matches, but she’s also a little biased. “What about Creatures of the Smack Lagoon?” She tries to sound nonchalant and not like Marina’s answer has the possibility to destroy part of her. After all, her team is her family, but, for some reason, Pearl finds herself very invested in Marina’s opinions.

“They’re good,” Marina answers, causing Pearl to relax a little. “They play a little dirty, but I admire that. Their main jammer is a sick skater. She’s so fast.”

Pearl looks up at her then, suddenly terrified that Marina is playing with her. She has to know, right? This can’t be a coincidence...

But Marina’s face is so earnest, without a hint of deceit, and Pearl has no choice but to believe that she really just doesn’t know what Smack Lagoon’s main jammer looks like. It’s possible, considering the helmets and the face paint and the speed.

(And the fact that Pearl tries very hard to keep people from figuring out who she really is. She’s not the rebellious teenager anymore and she understands what kind of press Hime Houzuki: Roller Derby Princess would get. She has a deal with her father that she keep a low profile—as low a profile as she can manage while playing on one of the top teams—and in return he lets her do what she wants without comment. He even helps fund the league, albeit under a false name. Really, it’s amazing what a difference a change of hair and clothing will do to keep you hidden. When she’s doing things on behalf of her father, she’s all soft edges, soft expressions, longer hair, and poofy dresses. But in the derby scene she’s all teeth, sharp edges, ripped fishnets, studded bracelets, short, bobbed hair, and snarls. No one ever recognizes the soft, humanitarian princess from the news.)

“Yeah,” Pearl answers, trying not to sound too proud. “She’s fuckin’ stellar. She’s one of my favorites.”

Marina smiles then and nods. “I’ve only been to one of their matches, but I plan on going to more. Would you like to join me?”

Pearl has a flash of panic, because she can’t very well agree to that. But she so desperately wants to say yes. But she can’t. Oh fuck, what will she say?

“Oh wait...” Marina cuts in, as if reading Pearl’s mind. Is her facial expression that obvious? “Creatures of the Smack Lagoon doesn’t have a match for two weeks.” Pearl breathes out softly, because she forgot about that. Callie is out of town and they can’t very well have a match without her.

“The Fishnets are up against Fresh2Death next weekend,” Marina continues. “Wanna meet up then? It’s nice to have a friend who’s into these things.”

Pearl doesn’t want to sound too eager, but she also is so eager, so she says “Yes!” way too quickly. It makes Marina laugh and she smiles again, a warm thing that makes Pearl ache inside.

+++

A few days later, Pearl and Three are skating around The Lagoon, the skating rink nearest Inkopolis Square. (There are at least three in downtown.) There are two rinks in this building, one banked and one flat, and Pearl and Three have made a tradition of a weekly Wednesday meetup, where they race each other around the banked track and then take to the flat one, Wet Floor blasting over the speakers, lights flashing in disco patterns. They skate together, talking and practicing jumps, spray ink on the rink and see how much speed they can gain in the smallest splotch possible. It’s an excuse to goof off and let off steam, Pearl from her double life and Three from whatever it is she does during the week. Pearl really has no idea what she gets up to and knows better than to ask at this point.

The truth is that this rink belongs to Pearl. Her father built it as a birthday present a few years ago and it’s what Creatures of the Smack Lagoon calls home. It’s also what Pearl calls home, especially on the weekends, when she’s free of any sort of responsibility. If she could, she would spend all of her time in here, skating in circles, screaming her lungs out along to every song that she knows. She feels her freest when she’s on skates or when she’s singing, so when she’s doing both she’s pretty sure she could fly.

“So,” Three says as she and Pearl skate together on the flat rink. Their rhythm matches the song and their feet move in synchronized movement, only falling out of sync when they come to a corner and Three has to lengthen her stride to get around at the same speed. “Did you see Fresh2Death’s new blocker? I never found her.”

Pearl sighs, because she forgot all about the whole point of being at the match. Rumor had it that Fresh2Death had a new blocker, one who was supposed to change up the whole team dynamic, and Three and Pearl were supposed to get a look at her, see how she played. Callie was adamant that they find out about her before the annual Fresh2Death/Creatures of the Smack Lagoon rematch next month, so they could adequately prepare. But it seemed like Marie was hiding her away for now.

Callie and Marie were cousins, everyone knew that, and they got along most of the time. But, when it came to derby, they couldn’t stand each other. Too many different opinions on how a jam should be played, how a team should be organized, how strategies should work. Most of the time, they were best friends, hanging out together during the week without problem, but when the weekend came and matches took over their lives, they were like acid toward each other. It was incredible to see, truthfully, but Pearl understood it. She led a double life too, albeit a completely different kind of double life, but she understood how it worked.

“Why don’t you ask Eight?” Pearl says eventually as they round another corner. The rink is empty, as it always is on Wednesdays, so she feels pretty safe talking about Three’s compromising relationship.

Three shakes her head and flips so that she’s skating backwards. Her expression is serious. “She would never tell me. You know how it is. When it comes to derby, we’re enemies.”

That’s true and Pearl knows that it hurts Three a little. She loves Eight with her whole being and it’s hard for her to turn it off when they’re facing off on the track. Eight, meanwhile, is way better at compartmentalizing her life, though Pearl has noticed that she tends to lighten up on her blocks when it comes to Three. She never really shoves Three too hard.

“Well, I guess Marie’s hiding her away until the big match. Guess we’ll just have to think on our feet.”

Three nods and flips back around so she can match Pearl’s stride again. It’s pretty uncommon for them to just skate in circles like this, all told. Usually, they skate erratically around the rink, dancing to the music, flipping from one foot to the other, jumping, skating on one foot, just generally showing off to each other. But, today, something is different. Pearl begins to feel a little antsy as they complete their third circuit.

“So,” Three begins again. “Who was that at the match anyway? She seemed into you.”

There it is. Pearl bites her lip and focuses on her feet for a second. She’s not sure how much she wants to say. She trusts Three like a sister but this whole thing with Marina feels precious in its newness. Does she want to tarnish that with idle chatter?

Oh, who is she kidding. Of course, she wants to talk about it. “She’s just a girl,” she says, trying to sound nonchalant and not like she was completely blown away. “She’s new to Inkopolis and she’s really into Fresh2Death.”

Three winces and cuts across Pearl’s path so she can skate in the middle of the rink while Pearl continues her circuits. The playlist Pearl loaded up is almost over, only a few quiet songs left, so they can easily hear each other from across the rink. “Ouch man. That’s rough. Too bad she’s not into Smack Lagoon. Then you’d actually have a chance.”

Pearl can’t help but laugh at the gentle teasing. “Hey!” she calls, indignant, and she cuts her loop short so she can speed toward the middle, where Three is rolling around on one foot, clearly taunting her. “You bet your ass I have a chance! She asked to meet up next weekend!”

Three puts her foot down and pushes off toward Pearl. They circle each other, in a sort of familiar stare off. “Wow, I’m impressed. When I saw her sit down next to you, I was sure you were gonna piss yourself. Congrats on holding it together.”

Pearl takes a light swing at her head but Three easily dodges by bending over backwards. “You’re the fuckin’ worst. Why do I hang out with you?”

Three grins a toothy grin and heads toward one of the entrances to the rink. Easily, she hops up onto the carpeted half-wall. “Because I keep your ass safe on the track!” she calls, and she begins to unlace her skates.

She has a point, but that doesn’t mean Pearl has to say so. She skates up to her and allows herself to slam into the wall with a loud bang, like a child skating for the first time. Three drops a skate to the ground and tugs at the laces on the other.

“You gonna go?” she asks. “Because I think you should. Fishnets versus Fresh2Death right?”

Pearl leans back on the wall, stretching her back and getting some of the pressure off her aching knees. Skating is fun, but it puts a lot of stress on her legs. “Yeah, and of fucking course I’m going. You think I’m gonna pass this up?”

Three shrugs and the other skate lands next to its twin. Three hops down and stretches down, a cooldown exercise to help the muscles in her legs. Her socked feet slide a little on the slick rink floor. “It’s hard to tell with you. Sometimes you flip and run away. Sometimes, good girl Hime gets in Pearl’s way.”

“I do not—”

Three grabs up her skates in one hand and waves over her shoulder. “Whatever you say. Just don’t screw this one up. She likes you. I can tell.”

Pearl watches as she slides into her clogs and leaves. Then, she looks down at her own skates, pink and scuffed, the same pair she’s had for years. With a sigh, she hops onto the wall and picks at the laces. When she lands back on solid ground, everything feels too heavy and slow.

Desperately, she wishes she could live on those skates.

+++

That Saturday, Pearl finds herself a seat in around the same spot as last week, and she waits. The Fishnets are a better team than last week, but word on the street is that Four was injured in practice the day before. Usually, that kind of thing would barely phase her, as a quick ink bath would heal her right up, but a pulled muscle is another matter. Those sometimes don’t heal right away.

Still, Pearl spies Four’s familiar helmet as the team skates in. She has the star, so she’s still going to be the jammer, at least here at the beginning, which makes Pearl worry a bit. She doesn’t want Marie to push Four too hard before the big match. She wants a fair fight.

Fresh2Death and Smack Lagoon don’t face each other often, just once a year, in a giant celebration of the sport and to ring in the summer. It’s usually a packed house and all proceeds go to charity, but it’s always a tight, heated match. The past two years have seen two giant upsets, wherein Three was almost splatted against a grate the first year and taken out of the match (Smack Lagoon lost that year) and where, the next year, Pearl managed her first grate flip, kept her momentum, and managed to grand slam (pass all four enemy blockers and score all four points) in the last jam, which gave them the win last year. This year though, it’s anyone’s game, and it all comes down to that mystery blocker that Marie’s hiding.

Pearl watches all of Fresh2Death skate in and doesn’t see the blocker. She didn’t think she would, to be honest. If Marie is keeping her hidden, then she’s not going to put her in in small potatoes match like this one. Besides, she probably knows Pearl is here.

Pearl sits back and waits. She’s dressed in nicer clothes today, because she likes to believe this is at least a little like a date—dark-washed jeans that fit like a second skin and a flowy, pink crop top. A gray leather jacket is tied around her waist and she’s wearing her favorite pair of boots. They’re heavy like skates and make her a few inches taller, and she sincerely believes that they bring her luck.

Fishnets has a solid lineup, so they hold out pretty well in the first period. (It also helps that Four is a little shaky and has to be traded out after every jam she plays.) Fresh2Death is only ahead by a few points, which keeps Pearl on her toes. Still, between every jam, she glances around, trying to spot Marina, but she’s nowhere to be found. It’s pretty disheartening, and when the first thirty-minute period is over, and they send in a Squee-G to clean up the ink so that the captains can change the layout if they so wish, she can feel her stomach tying itself in knots. (The Squee-G is a new addition and there’s rumor that they stole the plans from the Octarians. Pearl isn’t sure if she believes that though.)

When the second period begins, Pearl decides that she’s had enough waiting. If she’s going to be stood up, she’s not going to just sit here and take it. She could be at home right now, stuffing her face with ice cream, or at The Lagoon skating in circles with screamo music pounding against her head.

She stands to leave and makes it halfway down the stairs when she hears a voice calling after her. She doesn’t want to believe it, but when she turns she sees Marina, standing where she was just sitting. Marina waves her over, her long arm easily identifiable over the crowd and Pearl tries to keep herself from smiling too big. She takes the steps back up slowly, not as the pouncing, two-at-a-time pace that her body desperately wants.

“Sorry I’m late,” Marina says, playing with the end of one of her tentacles. She’s dressed similarly to last time, with those jeans and the green shirt, except this time she has a forest green flannel tied around her waist. “I was a little nervous...” She chuckles unsteadily and Pearl is shocked at her honesty.

Carefully, Pearl puts herself back in her seat, right next to Marina, and decides that she might as well tell the truth too. “It’s okay. Glad I’m not the only one.”

Marina smiles then, at ease. “So, what’d I miss?”

Pearl launches right into a quick play-by-play, watching Marina’s face as she intently listens.

+++

After the match, Pearl walks Marina through the parking lot. There aren’t that many cars because almost everyone takes public transportation so it’s pretty deserted. Still, Pearl will feel better if she sees Marina off, especially because she can see her own car with its familiar driver idling nearby. She’s not sure if she’s ready to explain that to Marina quite yet.

Marina walks right up to a motorcycle, parked illegally on the sidewalk. “I was in a hurry,” she says sheepishly as she pats the seat. “I was scared you’d be gone by the time I got here. And I was almost right!”

Pearl almost feels bad for that, but what else was she gonna do? She’s been stood up one too many times.

“Well, I’m glad I stuck around as long as I did,” Pearl says instead of all that. “Didn’t know you had a bike.”

Marina tugs the helmet on and flips the visor up so Pearl can still see her eyes. “Yeah, I like to go fast.”

Pearl can relate to that big time. “Yeah? So do I.”

“You want in?” Marina opens up the storage compartment and produces another helmet, this one almost exactly like the ones that the skaters wear on the track. “I promise to drive carefully.”

Pearl glances toward her car, at her driver who’s watching her with the low lights on. She so wants to hop on that bike, but she’s not sure where the night will take her, or where she’ll end up. And she has a brunch tomorrow with some of her dad’s associates’ kids. Hime getting in the way. Just like Three predicted.

She sighs and pushes the helmet away. “Nope, sorry. I have to be responsible tomorrow. You know how it is. Besides,” she grins then, trying to be coy, “we just met.”

Marina doesn’t seem that hurt by her refusal, which is a good sign. She drops the helmet back into its spot and closes the storage. “That’s cool. Same time next week?”

Pearl nods. “Of course. Don’t be late!”

Marina laughs and swings her leg over the bike. She turns it on and speaks a little louder to be heard over the engine. “I won’t! See you next week, Pearl!”

She speeds off, hopping the curb and swinging out into traffic with barely a turn signal. Pearl, feeling windswept and a little warm, watches her for a few seconds before trotting to her car. When she gets into the back, she slumps into the seat and doesn’t say a word to the driver.

+++

Next Saturday finds Marina waiting in the parking lot for Pearl. Unlucky, but not the end of the world, Pearl thinks as she thanks her driver and gets out. Marina’s in overalls today, a light denim with a green tub top underneath and her leather jacket around her waist. Boots again. Pearl threw on her shortest jean shorts and her biggest, pinkest t-shirt, tied in the back to give it a little shape. Boots again. They both love boots.

“Nice ride,” Marina says as Pearl jogs up. Her eyes don’t leave the car, where the driver has expensive sunglasses over his eyes.

“It’s my dad’s.” It’s not a lie. Pearl gently touches her hand. “It’s nothing.”

Marina looks down at the touch and smiles a small smile. “Right. Just unexpected. Let’s go in.” She reaches down and squeezes Pearl’s hand between her fingers briefly, sending a sharp spike of warmth through Pearl’s whole body.

The match today is boring, in Pearl’s opinion. There’s too much of a skill mismatch so Fresh2Death has the whole thing cinched in the first period. But all is not lost because Marina leans over after the first period is called and mutters, “let’s get out of here,” right next to Pearl’s ear. Pearl shoots to her feet and leads the way.

Pearl’s car is long gone so their only option is the bike, which Pearl hoists herself onto with only a little hesitation. Marina’s second helmet is a little too big on her, and she has to keep pushing it up when it slides over her eyes.

“Where to?” Marina calls over the rev of the engine.

Carefully, Pearl wraps her arms around Marina’s middle. She can just feel one of her hearts against her arm. “You like to skate?” Pearl asks, on a whim.

“A little, yeah!” Marina laughs.

“You know where The Lagoon is?”

“Of course!” Marina kicks the kickstand back and pushes off. Pearl leans into her back, only a little terrified. “Hold on tight! I’ll have us there in no time!”

+++

Because it’s Saturday, The Lagoon is packed. Marina parks a decent distance away and they walk in side-by-side, hands barely brushing. There are teens hanging out around the entrance and they all recognize Pearl. She gives them a hard look and, somehow, they read what she means: don’t say anything. One even opens the glass door for them.

Inside the music is pumping. Pearl isn’t sure who’s DJing tonight, but they’re using one of her playlists so at least they have good taste. She offers to pay and sends Marina off to find a table after getting her shoe size. In reality she just walks up to the counter and the skate attendant hands her two pairs without a word. Then, she goes by concessions and orders some soda, just in case.

Marina has her boots kicked off by the time Pearl finds her and she accepts the skates without a word. They’re in pretty good shape because Pearl has standards, even for her rental skates, and Marina pulls them on easily. She begins lacing without a single moment’s hesitation and that’s exactly when Pearl begins to realize that Marina might be better at this than she thought.

Pearl scrambles to pull her skates on as Marina quickly laces up the second one and stands. She easily glides toward Pearl and turns in a short circle right in front of her.

“When you said a little...” Pearl begins as she comes to her feet. These skates aren’t the ones she’s used to, so she slides a little before she gets a feel for them.

“I was being facetious,” Marina admits with a smile. “I love to skate!”

She reaches a hand out, palm up, a clear invitation, and Pearl easily accepts it. Marina tugs, skating forward on the hard floor. Easily, they crest onto the wooden floor of the rink and watch as the crowd of people circles around the rink. The lights paint their bodies with splotches of green, purple, yellow, red, blue, and Pearl gets lost in it for a second.

“I hope you can keep up,” Marina teases.

“You kidding?” Pearl scoffs. “I was born in skates.”

“Hm, we’ll see.” Marina looks down at Pearl with a gentle twinkle of mirth behind her eyes. “Short stuff.”

Pearl puffs up like an angry bird. “Hey, if we were all tall mountains like you, then no one would be!”

Marina chuckles. “I guess you’re right. Shall we?”

There’s a lull in the flow of people coming up, where a couple kids just left for pizza. Pearl easily pushes off and sails right into the gap. “Keep up with me!” she calls, and is rewarded with Marina’s frowning glare, eyebrows pulled tight as she follows quickly. She overtakes Pearly quickly and gets a little too close, bumping right into her. But, Marina’s instincts are fast and she grabs Pearl before she can fall, towing her close to her side.

Pearl feels herself flush and she quickly tries to recover. Easily, she gets her feet back under her and pulls away, but Marina refuses to let go of her hand.

They skate side-by-side like that, hands clasped, for a few rounds. Marina’s stride is longer than Pearl’s but Pearl keeps herself angled toward the center so that when they take the curves she can keep up. On the straightaways, Marina tugs her, going a bit faster, so that Pearl has to speed up or risk getting left behind. It’s not so bad though—Pearl is used to going much faster than this, with nine other people pushing and shoving her, so this is a delightful change of pace.

After the fourth or so circuit of this, Pearl feels a little braver. She lets go of Marina’s hand—which causes Marina to make a sound of discontent—and easily angles herself behind her so that she can grab onto her hips. A conga line of two, Marina picks up on what she’s doing quickly and puts on hand on top of Pearl’s for a second, just to make sure that she’s holding on. Then, she speeds up.

Pearl pushes too, sliding her feet in short busts to get as much speed as she can, but she can feel herself dragging a little, especially as Marina takes the curve wide to avoid all of the people skating on the inside. Really, they’re not supposed to be going this fast, but Pearl is the owner so no one will say anything to her. She feels her hands tighten on Marina’s sides, fingers digging into the fabric of her overalls, and, eventually, she gives up trying to skate with her. Instead, she squares her stance and allows herself to be dragged. On the corners, they drift like a drag racer, Pearl sliding wide to overcompensate for the speed, and she whoops as Marina pushes even harder.

I like to go fast, Marina told her last week, and Pearl sees it now. The long profile of her body as she moves the quad skates, gliding as fast as she can around all the people, in tempo with Wet Floor’s Don’t Slip, she’s built for it, all those long lines, those muscled legs, the pumping of her arms. It’s intoxicating to watch her, especially for someone like Pearl, who loves these skates and this rink like she loves her home. Someone like Marina is exactly who she needs.

Marina throws her hands up, lets out a loud yell, and coasts through the next straightaway, giving up the speed for a small moment of relief. Pearl lets out a yell of her own and the people around them echo it, everyone joining in a moment of celebration. The DJ turns the music up a little and the crowd speeds up in return. Slower people filter to the edges while everyone else begins to move their feet a little faster.

Marina takes them to the wall, where she slams into it. Pearl easily detaches herself so she doesn’t crash into Marina, and stops next to her. Together, they lean against the wall, the carpet biting into their palms, breathing heavily, and Marina begins to laugh.

It’s a free sound, one that Pearl hasn’t heard in a long time, and Pearl watches as it takes over Marina’s whole body. She shakes with it, breathless, and falls over so that she’s leaning against Pearl. Her head lands in the crook between Pearl’s neck and shoulder and she can feel Marina’s breath against her skin.

“Thank you,” Marina mutters once the laughing has passed. “I needed that.”

Pearl, her body alive with the sheer sensory overload of everything that just happened plus Marina, merely leans her head so that it’s resting on top of Marina’s. “So did I.”

+++

That Wednesday, Three and Pearl don’t talk, just skate wild circles around each other in an attempt to push themselves to go faster. There’re small patches of pink ink scattered around the banked track, which they hop in and out of to gain even more speed. Pearl pushes herself hard, but then thinks briefly about Marina and nearly takes a tumble at a speed that would have definitely left her a little splat of ink on the track. That’s when she decides she’s had enough.

She skates to the wall and grabs her water bottle, which she squirts into the mouth and down her throat. When she puts it down, Three is there, sitting on the wall and kicking her heavy skate-clad feet against it.

“So, your mystery girl.”

Pearl can’t help the giant grin that crosses her face.

“Oh, you sly squid.”

+++

After that, Pearl has to set her sights on the big Fresh2Death/Creatures of the Smack Lagoon match. It’s only two weeks away, and Callie has them scheduled for matches or practice both weekends. As a result, Pearl is prepared to make some hefty excuses if Marina asks to see her. But, to her surprise, the requests never come. When Pearl texts her asking if she wants to hang out, just in case, Marina tells her that she’s busy for the next couple weeks but that she misses her.

It’s a surprise, since she never mentioned anything. But then, they’ve been on like one date. Maybe two if you count the first time they purposefully met at the match. Maybe three if you count the time before that. Pearl isn’t exactly in a position to be asking questions.

Still, she’s a little disheartened. During the week, she stays home and doesn’t talk to anyone (except on Wednesday) and on the weekends she finds her way to The Lagoon, where her team easily wins their matches. Pearl “The Pearlverizer” falls back into the jammer groove quickly, and Three “Kraken Skullz” does a great job on blocker, like always. The matches are easy as pie.

One evening during the week, when she’s sick of her own shit (she spent the day playing video games and sunning herself out by the pool, all the while moping because of how lonely she was), she texts Marina asking for coffee. Marina answers quickly. I can’t today! But how about this time next week?

That’s after the big match, which means that Pearl will be free as a jellyfish. ok! u coming to the big match at the lagoon this weekend???

Marina’s reply is fast and curt. I’ll be there. ;)

+++

The day of the match, Pearl opens the rink early so she can make sure everything’s ready. The staff have been briefed and she’s paying them massive overtime because today’s going to be hectic. The banked track is on the second floor and only one set of elevators is working, which means that they’ll probably have quite a few impatient people hanging around the lobby. Also, the lower, flat rink is closed, which is another thorn because it’s Saturday—their busiest day—but Pearl can’t spare the staff to run it.

Everything goes smoothly for the most part. Tickets are bought and collected, concessions goes smoothly, the stands fill steadily. No one forgets their skates. Callie paces back and forth, her long hair swinging wildly against the back of her legs. The grates are in their places. The Squee-G, on loan from another rink because Pearl hasn’t gotten around to ordering one, works perfectly. Judd appears with two splattershots and two ink tanks, already adjusted to the two colors, which Callie inspects to insure they’re equal. He sweeps away to let Marie do the same. Three’s helmet is missing but they find it in a locker.

Pearl stretches before putting on her skates. Her fishnet tights are ripped from last match, but she hasn’t bothered to buy new ones yet. Her white, cropped tank top and black athletic shorts are the same ones she’s been wearing all year and they’ve seen quite a few tumbles, but they’ve held up. Her skates too, white and pink, recently cleaned of scuffs, are familiar, the pair that she’s been using for two years, frequently repaired and cleaned.

Everything goes a bit too smoothly. It makes her suspicious. Before the match, Callie calls everyone together and gives a speech, but Pearl hears none of it. She’s too busy scanning the bit of the crowd she can see, trying to find Marina. Once Callie’s done, they all put their hands in the middle of the huddle and chant their old chant, Smack! Smack! Smack! Lagoon! before throwing them up and breaking. Three pulls Pearl away, fidgeting, looking nervous, and Pearl braces because this is it. There has to be something wrong. There always is.

“I need to tell you something,” she says, but is interrupted by the announcer, booming out “It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Welcome Fresh2Death to the rink!”

The crowd roars and Pearl watches as the team skates out, followed closely by Marie. Marie and Callie lock eyes from across the rink and Pearl can practically feel the lightning that sparks between them.

But then, her attention is dragged away because a very familiar sight appears right behind Marie. Tall, with her wiggling hair—so much like Eight’s yet nothing like Eight’s—pulled into a high ponytail, and dressed in a green and black checkerboard skirt and black crop top. It’s—

“Holy shit,” Pearl hisses. “It’s Marina! Marina is their new blocker?” She rounds on Three and sees her face, not surprised like she expected, and something inside her shifts uncomfortably.

“That’s her name? It’s nice,” Three says.

“You knew,” Pearl accuses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Three holds her hands up, a gesture that proclaims innocence. “Eight told me like ten minutes ago! I didn’t know!”

“How did Eight know?”

“I guess Marina talked to her! Look!” Three points across the rink, where Eight is clearly caught up in the same argument with Marina, if their body language is anything to go on. Marina turns to look at them and her hands rise to cover her mouth. It almost looks like there’s tears in her eyes. “Looks like Marina didn’t know either. Small world.”

Pearl stares across at Marina and sees her shake her head. Her hands come down and she mouths something slowly, hand stretching out toward Pearl. Didn’t know. Pearl deciphers. Talk later?

Pearl breathes out slowly, tries to calm herself. She nods once, right in Marina’s direction and it seems to calm Marina down immediately.

So, it’s just like Three and Eight then. During derby, they have to pretend not to know each other. Fine. Pearl can do that.

(At least, she thinks she can.)

[dailytechnologynews]

The Coming Age of Imaginative Machines: If you aren't following the rise of synthetic media, the 2020s will hit you like a digital blitzkrieg

The faces on the left were created by a GAN in 2014; on the right are ones made in 2018.

Ian Goodfellow and his colleagues gave the world generative adversarial networks (GANs) five years ago, way back in 2014. They did so with fuzzy and ethereal black & white images of human faces, all generated by computers. This wasn't the start of synthetic media by far, but it did supercharge the field. Ever since, the realm of neural network-powered AI creativity has repeatedly kissed mainstream attention. Yet synthetic media is still largely unknown. Certain memetic-boosted applications such as deepfakes and This Person Does Not Exist notwithstanding, it's safe to assume the average person is unaware that contemporary artificial intelligence is capable of some fleeting level of "imagination."

Media synthesis is an inevitable development in our progress towards artificial general intelligence, the first and truest sign of symbolic understanding in machines (though by far not the thing itself--- rather the organization of proteins and sugars to create the rudimentary structure of what will someday become the cells of AGI). This is due to the rise of artificial neural networks (ANNs). Popular misconceptions presume synthetic media present no new developments we've not had since the 1990s, yet what separates media synthesis from mere manipulation, retouching, and scripts is the modicum of intelligence required to accomplish these tasks. The difference between Photoshop and neural network-based deepfakes is the equivalent to the difference between building a house with power tools and employing a utility robot to use those power tools to build the house for you.

Succinctly, media synthesis is the first tangible sign of automation that most people will experience.

Public perception of synthetic media shall steadily grow and likely degenerate into a nadir of acceptance as more people become aware of the power of these artificial neural networks without being offered realistic debate or solutions as to how to deal with them. They've simply come too quickly for us to prepare for, hence the seemingly hasty reaction of certain groups like OpenAI in regards to releasing new AI models.

Already, we see frightened reactions to the likes of DeepNudes, an app which was made solely to strip women in images down to their bare bodies without their consent. The potential for abuse (especially for pedophilic purposes) is self-evident. We are plunging headlong into a new era so quickly that we are unaware of just what we are getting ourselves into. But just what are we getting into?

Well, I have some thoughts.

I want to start with the field most people are at least somewhat aware of: deepfakes. We all have an idea of what deepfakes can do: the "purest" definition is taking one's face replacing it with another, presumably in a video. The less exact definition is to take some aspect of a person in a video and edit it to be different. There's even deepfakes for audio, such as changing one's voice or putting words in their mouth. Most famously, this was done to Joe Rogan.

I, like most others, first discovered deepfakes in late 2017 around the time I had an "epiphany" on media synthesis as a whole. Just in those two years, the entire field has seen extraordinary progress. I realized then that we were on the cusp of an extreme flourishing of art, except that art would be largely-to-almost entirely machine generated. But along with it would come a flourishing of distrust, fake news, fake reality bubbles, and "ultracultural memes". Ever since, I've felt the need to evangelize media synthesis, whether to tell others of a coming renaissance or to warn them to be wary of what they see.

This is because, over the past two years, I realized that many people's idea of what media synthesis is really stops at deepfakes, or they only view new development through the lens of deepfakes. The reason why I came up with "media" synthesis is because I genuinely couldn't pin down any one creative/data-based field AI wasn't going to affect. It wasn't just faces. It wasn't just bodies. It wasn't just voice. It wasn't just pictures of ethereal swirling dogs. It wasn't just transferring day to night. It wasn't just turning a piano into a harpsichord. It wasn't just generating short stories and fake news. It wasn't just procedurally generated gameplay. It was all of the above and much more. And it's coming so fast that I fear we aren't prepared, both for the tech and the consequences.

Indeed, in many discussions I've seen (and engaged in) since then, there's always several people who have a virulent reaction against the prospect neural networks can do any of this at all, or at least that it'll get better enough to the point it will affect artists, creators, and laborers. Even though we're already seeing the effects in the modeling industry alone.

Look at this gif. Looks like a bunch of models bleeding into and out of each other, right? Actually, no one here is real. They're all neural network-generated people.

Neural networks can generate full human figures, and altering their appearance and clothing is a matter of changing a few parameters or feeding an image into the data set. Changing the clothes of someone in a picture is as easy as clicking on the piece you wish you change and swapping it with any of your choice (or result in the personal wearing no clothes at all). A similar scenario applies for make-up. This is not like an old online dress-up flash game where the models must be meticulously crafted by an art designer or programmer— simply give the ANN something to work with, and it will figure out all the rest. You needn't even show it every angle or every lighting condition, for it will use commonsense to figure these out as well. Such has been possible since at least 2017, though only with recent GPU advancements has it become possible for someone to run such programs in real time.

The unfortunate side effect is that the amateur modeling industry will be vaporized. Extremely little will be left, and the few who do remain are promoted entirely because they are fleshy & real human beings. Professional models will survive for longer, but there will be little new blood joining their ranks. As such, it remains to be seen whether news and blogs speak loudly of the sudden, unexpected automation of what was once seen as a safe and human-centric industry or if this goes ignored and under-reported— after all, the news used to speak of automation in terms of physical, humanoid robots taking the jobs of factory workers, fast-food burger flippers, and truck drivers, occupations that are still in existence en masse due to slower-than-expected roll outs of robotics and a continued lack of general AI.

We needn't have general AI to replace those jobs that can be replicated by disembodied digital agents. And the sudden decline & disappearance of models will be the first widespread sign of this.

Actually, I have an hypothesis for this: media synthesis is one of the first signs that we're making progress towards artificial general intelligence.

Now don't misunderstand me. No neural network that can generate media is AGI or anything close. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that what we can see as being media synthesis is evidence that we've put ourselves on the right track. We never should've thought that we could get to AGI without also developing synthetic media technology.

What do you know about imagination?

As recently as five years ago, the concept of "creative machines" was cast off as impossible— or at the very least, improbable for decades. Indeed, the phrase remains an oxymoron in the minds of most. Perhaps they are right. Creativity implies agency and desire to create. All machines today lack their own agency. Yet we bear witness to the rise of computer programs that imagine and "dream" in ways not dissimilar to humankind.

Though lacking agency, this still meets the definition of imagination.

To reduce it to its most fundamental ingredients: Imagination = experience + abstraction + prediction. To get creativity, you need only add "drive". Presuming that we fail to create artificial general intelligence in the next ten years (an easy thing to assume because it's unlikely we will achieve fully generalized AI even in the next thirty), we still possess computers capable of the former three ingredients.

Someone who lives on a flat island and who has never seen a mountain before can learn to picture what one might be by using what they know of rocks and cumulonimbus clouds, making an abstract guess to cross the two, and then predicting what such a "rock cloud" might look like. This is the root of imagination.

As Descartes noted, even the strongest of imagined sensations is duller than the dullest physical one, so this image in the person's head is only clear to them in a fleeting way. Nevertheless, it's still there. Through great artistic skills, the person can learn to express this mental image through artistic means. In all but the most skilled, it will not be a pure 1-to-1 realization due to the fuzziness of our minds, but in the case of expressive art, it doesn't need to be.

Computers lack this fleeting ethereality of imagination completely. Once one creates something, it can give you the uncorrupted output.

Right now, this makes for wonderful tools and apps that many play around with online and on our phones.

But extrapolating this to the near future results in us coming face to face many heavy questions, and not just of the "can't trust what you see variety."

Because think about it.

If I'm a musical artist and I release an album, what if I accidentally recorded a song that's too close to an AI-generated track (all because AI generated literally every combination of notes?) Or, conversely, what if I have to watch as people take my music and alter it? I may feel strongly about it, but yet the music has its notes changed, its lyrics changed, my own voice changed, until it might as well be an entirely different artist making that music. Many won't mind, but many will.

I trust my mother's voice, as many do. So imagine a phisher managing to steal her voice, running it through a speech synthesis network, and then calling me asking me for my social security number. Or maybe I work at a big corporation, and while we're secure, we still recognize each other's voice, only to learn that someone stole millions of dollars from us because they stole the CEO's voice and used to to wire cash to a pirate's account.

Imagine going online and at least 70% of the "people" you encounter are bots. They're extremely coherent, and they have profile images of what looks to be real people. And who knows, you may even forge an e-friendship with some of them because they seem to share your interests. Then it turns out they're just bundles of code.

Oh, and those bot-people are also infesting social media and forums in the millions, creating and destroying trends and memes without much human input. Even if the mainstream news sites don't latch on at first, bot-created and bot-run news sites will happily kick it off for them. The news is supposed to report on major events, global and local. Even if the news is honest and telling the truth, how can they truly verify something like this, especially when it seems to be gaining so much traction and humans inevitably do get involved? Remember "Bowsette" from last year? Imagine if that was actually pushed entirely by bots until humans saw what looked like a happenin' kind of meme and joined in? That could be every year or perhaps even every month in the 2020s onwards.

Likewise, imagine you're listening to a pop song in one country, but then you go to another country and it's the exact same song but most of the lyrics have changed to be more suitable for their culture. That sort of cultural spread could stop... or it could be supercharged if audiences don't take to it and pirate songs/change them and share them at their own leisure.

Or maybe it's a good time to mention how commissioned artists are screwed? Commission work boards are already a race to the bottom— if a job says it pays three cents per word to write an article, you'd better list your going rate as 2 cents per word, and then inevitably the asking rate in general becomes 2 cents per word, and so on and so forth. That whole business might be over within five to ten years if you aren't already extremely established. Because if machines can mimic any art style or writing style (and then exaggerate & alter it to find some better version people like more), you'd have to really be tech-illiterate or very pro-human to want non-machine commissions.

And to go back to deepfakes and deep nudes, imagine the paratypical creep who takes children and puts them into sexual situations, any sexual situation they desire thanks to AI-generated images and video. It doesn't matter who, and it doesn't have to be real children either. It could even be themselves as a child if they still have the reference or use a de-aging algorithm on their face. It's squicky and disgusting to think about, but it's also inevitable and probably has already happened.

And my god, it just keeps going on and on. I can't do this justice, even with 40,000 characters to work with. The future we're about to enter is so wild, so extreme that I almost feel scared for humanity. It's not some far off date in the 22nd century. It's literally going to start happening within the next five years. We're going to see it emerge before our very eyes on this and other subreddits.

I'll end this post with some more examples.

Nvidia's new AI can turn any primitive sketch into a photorealistic masterpiece. You can even play with this yourself here.

Waifu Synthesis- real time generative anime, because obviously.

Few-Shot Adversarial Learning of Realistic Neural Talking Head Models | This GAN can animate any face GIF, supercharging deepfakes & media synthesis

Talk to Transformer | Feed a prompt into GPT-2 and receive some text. As of 9/29/2019, this uses the 774M parameter version of GPT-2, which is still weaker than the 1.5B parameter "full" version."

Text samples generated by Nvidia's Megatron-LM (GPT-2-8.3b). Vastly superior to what you see in Talk to Transformer, even if it had the "full" model.

Facebook's AI can convert one singer's voice into another | The team claims that their model was able to learn to convert between singers from just 5-30 minutes of their singing voices, thanks in part to an innovative training scheme and data augmentation technique. as a prototype for shifting vocalists or vocalist genders or anything of that sort.

TimbreTron for changing instrumentation in music. Here, you can see a neural network shift entire instruments and pitches of those new instruments. It might only be a couple more years until you could run The Beatles' "Here Comes The Sun" through, say, Slayer and get an actual song out of it.

AI generated album covers for when you want to give the result of that change its own album.

Neural Color Transfer Between Images [From 2017], showing how we might alter photographs to create entirely different moods and textures.

Scammer Successfully Deepfaked CEO's Voice To Fool Underling Into Transferring $243,000

"Experts: Spy used AI-generated face to connect with targets" [GAN faces for fake LinkedIn profiles]

This Marketing Blog Does Not Exist | This blog written entirely by AI is fully in the uncanny valley.

Chinese Gaming Giant NetEase Leverages AI to Create 3D Game Characters from Selfies | This method has already been used over one million times by Chinese gamers.

"Deep learning based super resolution, without using a GAN" [perceptual loss-based upscaling with transfer learning & progressive scaling], or in other words, "ENHANCE!"

Expert: AI-generated music is a "total legal clusterf*ck" | I've thought about this. Future music generation means that all IPs are open, any new music can be created from any old band no matter what those estates may want, and AI-generated music exists in a legal tesseract of answerless questions

And there's just a ridiculous amount more.

My subreddit, /r/MediaSynthesis, is filled with these sorts of stories going back to January of 2018. I've definitely heard of people come away in shock, dazed and confused, after reading through it. And no wonder.

[mysticsparklewings]

Bug Girl

My WIP Wednesday! piece is all finished!   (Warning: LOOOOOOONG description about the art process ahead!  ) I don't think it's terribly obvious for a number of reasons (at least not at first), but this piece is actually a bit of fan art/inspired by How to make Friends with the Dark by Kathleen Glasgow, which I finished reading Monday night--Though I actually started this piece a couple of days before   There's a concept that gets brought up a few different times in the book of the main character Tiger imagining a "bug-girl" in a jar, usually to help visualize her emotions to us, the audience. This concept really resonates and stuck with me even before I finished the book, and thus I was compelled to draw it. Technically the way I see that concept in my head looks different from what I've done here, so sometime in the future I may take another stab at it, but for this time I wanted to strengthen the connection between the bug-girl concept and the book, so visually I modeled the overall aesthetic largely off of the book's cover; white lines and white dots on a dark blue background that has a slight gradient at the bottom. The gradient on the cover is more subtle and is more on the lines than the background itself, but I took artistic liberty on that to make my life a little easier. My original plan was to do the background with watercolor, do the lines digitally and print them out (since I had some kinks in the sketch I wanted to experiment with digitally instead of doing a lot of additional drawing and erasing) and then use my lightbox and a white gel pen to trace directly on top of the watercolor, then splatter away with some white ink. But of course, things can never be that simple. The way I see it in my head, the bug-girl has, well, bug eyes, but for this piece, I didn't want to lean too heavily into the "creepy" factor, given it doesn't really fit with the content of the book (which is a great read if you like realistically heavy YA novels, by the way) so I angled her head down and her hair covering her face to keep from having to make the decision on whether or not I wanted to go with that look. And additionally to do proper bug eyes (at least the kind I was imagining) would've involved a lot of tiny circle/cell shapes, and I imagine that would've made things feel too crowded or would have blended into the splatters/background in an uncomfortable way. Additionally, I was going to have her wings raised behind her, but after playing around with a few different references and positions in Photoshop (knowing full well I was not happy with the original wings from the sketch that I completely free-handed), I felt like this more asymmetrical, lowered position and dragonfly-type structure just looked better and fits better with some of the movements of the wings described in the book (using them to cover her eyes, etc.) which in most cases aren't technically plausible with normal bug wings. My first real problem was with the jar. Realistically, it needed to be tall enough for the girl to stand at full height at least. And in theory, probably a little bit higher so it would be more comfortable overall and so that in theory she wouldn't just stand up and be able to push the lid off. But I was having issues with the sizing because the jar could only be so big so that A. it would fit comfortably on my paper and B. if it was too tall, the empty space between the top of the jar and the girl would noticeably awkward. So I fiddled with that for way too long and ultimately, it's probably too short, but the size balanced is more comfortable to the eyes, I think. (I also added the cross-hatching to the lid to make it more obvious there was a lid since originally it just kind of looked like the jar had a very wide lip.) I also gave her a set of antennae, and after trying the concept of segmenting her whole body to be more bug-like (which was way too many lines everywhere) I decided to add some plates on the front of her forearms and calves. It's not much at all, but I didn't want to stick solely to traditionally "fairy" imagery since she's a bug-girl, not a fairy, but in this lines-only format, there was only so much I could do and still get the proper impact I was looking for. Speaking of which... I did a lot of swatching and testing of my various watercolors that I have on hand to A. get the colors I wanted right, B. practice my blending of two colors with more paint than water since I wanted very dark, opaque colors, and C. test if my lightbox would even work under the thick watercolor paper and the actual watercolor. However, I made two errors in judgment during the testing: 1. The areas I swatched to test were considerably smaller than the actual size of the area I wanted to cover and even with my biggest brush when I went to do a practice go I very quickly realized that was going to take an absurd amount of paint, time, effort, and I was very likely to run into some blending problems with the gradient. (So, in summary, half-pan-sized watercolors and mostly small brushes are not great for very large areas) 2. Once I realized the above, (and I had already done two very quick tests with alcohol markers and that idea almost immediately went out the window for the same issue) I had to switch course and ended up using some water-soluble pencils (one Arteza Woodless Watercolor Pencil for the dark blue and one Derwent Inktense pencil for the dark teal at the bottom) to lay down the color for the background and then wet them down to smooth out the color. Which turned out pretty nicely, especially once they dried. (I was a little worried at first since while still wet it was looking kind of patchy and weird ) The problem with number 2 is that after it had fully dried (aside from the paper curling pretty badly since it was in a sketchbook and I didn't think to tape the edges of the page down before taking water to it, which was mostly fixed pretty easily by wetting down the back of the page and sitting a very heavy box on it while it dried overnight) when I went to use the lightbox, the pigment from the water-soluble pencils was noticeably more opaque than the straight watercolor tests/swatched I had looked at previously. It wasn't so opaque that I couldn't see my lines underneath at all but it was opaque enough that a lot of the smaller details wear really hard to see. And thus I had a pretty big problem on my hands. What I should have done was trace the lines in black on the blank paper first so they would be more likely to show through the pigment in the first place and there's a good chance that would've fixed the problem, even if I still needed the lightbox to see those lines perfectly. But hindsight is always 20/20 so that knowledge didn't really fix the matter at hand. I knew pretty instantly that I didn't want to try tracing the lines onto another piece of watercolor paper and trying to color matter since I seem to always have majorly noticeable issues with that, especially when there's a gradient involved, and also because I knew when I scanned it in it would be fairly obviously there were two layers of paper instead of one because of how thick watercolor paper is. I also knew alcohol markers were out because, again, color matching issues with the selection available to me, and also from some of my much earlier testing with trying to get the specific gradient that I wanted. That left me with colored pencils. And thus I went through the five different sets I use enough to keep where I can easily access them (I have others I don't like as much that would've just been a waste of time) and started swatching colors on a piece of the same paper I had the lines on and then held them up to the background to color match as closely as possible. I ended up picking one dark blue and one dark teal each from both my Prismacolor and Polychromos sets since the blue from the Prismacolor was closer but the teal from the Polychromos was closer but they were both slightly off, so to keep the texture consistent I mixed both together for both colors. This ended up being a very good idea in hindsight because I finished off with a final layer of the Polychromos and that kept my white gel pen from having the problems it would normally have over straight-Prismacolor pigment. (Since Prismacolors are wax-based the wax usually clogs the pen tip very easily; the Polychromos are oil-based, so the oil created a slicker layer between the wax and the pen). And all I did was use my lightbox to see the black printed lines through the colored pencil as easily as possible and went back over them with my white Sakura Gelly Roll, then I went back and outlined the jar and the lid specifically with my white Uni-Ball Signo, since the ink is slightly brighter and the nib is larger. Once that was all done to my satisfaction, I cut out the girl in her jar and placed it on the watercolor background with some double-sided tape I picked up the day before from DollarTree, clipping a few edges so they'd be as flush with the edges of the paper as possible. And I figured that would be a better idea than glue because the glue had a very good potential of being very messy and leaving notable marks. The tape was just a safer bet. And fortunately, the paper laid pretty flat, save for a couple of spots I either missed because I applied the tape by lifting up the edges so I wouldn't totally lose my placement or up by some of the nooks and crannies that make up the ridges at the top of the jar that were just too small to do individually. And there is one spot where that tape wrinkled on me, but it's fortunately not terribly noticeable in the final product. Then I made a paper mask for the girl inside the jar and got to move on to the slightly more fun part; I dipped a paintbrush in some white ink (white ink as opposed to white watercolor because I was concerned the water part might cause some reaction to the existing watercolor background that I didn't want and I was a little concerned it would make the non-watercolor paper that the girl and the jar were drawn on warp) and started tapped it against another paint brush to get splatters everywhere. I masked the girl since I was pretty sure she'd blend in too much if she got splattered too. After the ink was dry, I removed the mask and went in with the white Gelly Roll again to make some stars here and there; mostly just because I wanted to since the original book cover only has dots. I left it at that for the night since it was almost 3 and I was tired, but I came back to it the next day and racked my brain for a bit since it felt like it was missing something. I ultimately ended up putting the mask back on the girl and used my pastel blue PanPastel to create a glow effect around her. After that, I scanned it and did make some minor adjustments in Photoshop (mostly color correction, but there were a couple of black lines of shadow around the edge of the jar since it was still a separate piece of paper on top of the other one at the end of the day. And here we are. It's still not perfection, but I am ultimately happy with it since I think I got the look I was after in the end. Plus, I think I capture the spirit of the original book cover's style pretty well ____ Artwork (c) me, MysticSparkleWings I do not own How to make Friends with the Dark or the cover art ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[copyrightedsnakes]

The Firebird

Title: The Firebird

Length: 11.8k

Summary: Dan has finally qualified for the advanced class at his ballet academy, something he's been working towards for years. He's working as hard as he can, trying his best to keep up with the difficult curriculum, trying to prove to himself that he belongs there. That's hard enough, but it becomes near impossible when the class's best student, Phil Lester, catches his eye.

Warnings: possible incorrect ballet terms/descriptions of moves (I haven't taken ballet since 3rd grade so we'll see how well my research holds up)

A/N: It’s been way too long since I’ve posted a phanfic, so here!! I've seen a few fics with dan or phil as ballet dancers, but not both of them, so here's this! it's my first stab at writing from dan's point of view, but I'm pretty happy with this fic, so I hope I managed it! also on ao3 here!

Control.

Dan was afraid even to breathe, holding his arms up, his legs straight, and his chin high in determination to keep his balance. He fought against the ache in his muscles, a single, cooling bead of sweat trailing down his neck to the base of his throat. Then slowly, slowly, he lowered himself from the balls of his feet, letting his heels touch the hardwood floor.

He let his whole body slump forwards in a sigh, his arms dangling uselessly, his fingertips brushing the floor. Sweat was sticking his bangs to his forehead but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, pulling his earbuds from his ears--the classical music from them had long-since stopped--a small, accomplished smile growing on his face. He had done it. He’d been practicing that step sequence for weeks over the summer, working on every second down to the last division of the beat. He had managed it satisfactorily a few times, sure, but consistency was what he needed.

Cracking his stiff toes against the wooden floor, curling each foot in turn, he bent to check the time on his phone, and a curse fell from his lips. It was late, later in the evening than he’d wanted to spend in the small, abandoned practice room he'd begun to call his own, instantly starting on his cooldown. He'd known though, going into the practice session, that he was highly likely to work until he was satisfied, so while the time wasn't ideal, it wasn't too surprising. Still, he wanted to get a full night’s sleep tonight; he needed to be fully prepared for tomorrow.

Tomorrow was the start of a new summer at the London Dance Academy, Dan having settled himself into his bedroom at the camp only a couple of days ago. It was labeled as a summer camp, but in reality it was an elite and expensive program, hours spent in top tier ballet classes with the most rigorous instructors. Every student had to re audition every year, and every year for the past four years Dan had earned himself a spot, working his way up in skill level, trying to secure himself a place in the most difficult class with the most difficult instructor. He had auditioned this summer with the elite class in mind, and the year was finally here.

Dan showered as quickly as he could, changing into the loose cotton shirt he liked to sleep in, pulling on a clean pair of underwear. He took time with the final part of his nightly routine, sitting down on the rug in his bedroom. He found it relaxed him, a small moment before he slept where it wasn’t drilled into him to keep his head high or his back straight. He reveled in slouching as he leaned against his dresser, sighing about his aching muscles. But he couldn’t let himself rest on the floor too long, knowing he was in real danger of actually falling asleep like this, getting to work on moisturizing his hands and feet, clipping his toenails, popping some joints, and stretching out his legs one last time. The rugs on the floors of these old rooms had heard many of his complaints over the years, but now, despite all of the inconveniences he was experiencing physically, he was too nervous and excited to find himself bothered. He set out the clothes he needed for the next day and got into bed, all of that anxiety still in his chest as he drifted off.

“This is the hardest class in this academy.” The instructor was a man Dan had only seen walking around the school, but never up close, and despite his small frame, his poise and commanding tone was intimidating. “It is regarded by many to even qualify as professional level. Each of you are here because you were considered able to handle it.” His hair was long, black, and tied back, out of his face and tight to his head. He wore the standard black leggings and a loose-fitting t-shirt, like all of his pupils, but instead of white his shirt was red. “And, as we have placed you, we will not hesitate to remove you either. Understood?”

He looked around at them all, Dan following his eyes. There were seven students, including himself, and when the man’s eyes landed finally on him he swallowed, nodding.

“Good.” He clapped his hands, the sound loud, reverberating in the open room, with its glass walls and wooden floors. “Time to warm up. To the bar.”

The warm up was grueling, but Dan didn’t let it show on his face. He was the youngest in the room, perhaps one of the few still in their teens, but he was grateful when he noticed that despite his age, he wasn’t holding up the worst; everyone seemed to be struggling slightly with it all. However, he wasn’t holding up the best, either, and at that he bit the inside of his cheek. He’d known it would be like this, but knowing and feeling were two different things. He had been the best in every class he’d been placed in for years, the one the instructors called on to help others with jetés and fouettés. But here, he wasn’t the best. He probably didn’t even make the top three. Again though, he told himself; that was to be expected.

They were each made to hold a first arabesque, the instructor walking down the line and making corrections. Dan watched him as he went, forcing a steeper angle in legs, extending arms higher. He moved Dan’s chin upwards slightly, adjusting his foot position before continuing on. He got down to the end of the line, where a black haired boy was, his limbs long and extended. The instructor looked over him for a few moments, his scrutinization more lengthy than it had been for anyone else. But he didn’t move to give any corrections, finally turning away.

“Good, Philip. Everyone relax.”

Dan bit the inside of his cheek again at the lack of criticism. Ballet was an art, and as he’d been told over the years, there was no such thing as perfection in the arts. There was always room to push, always room for improvement. It was belittling, exhausting, and a truth Dan had always found terrifying, but it was a weirdly inspiring concept all the same. He couldn't be perfect, but he could to pursue the feeling.

This Philip, however, was perfect at arabesques, apparently. At least, in the eyes of the man that mattered.

Despite the chill in the room, it only took a couple of hours for sweat to stick Dan's shirt to his back. The call to begin cool down was a relief, and some of the students that knew their instructor and his limits from previous years began talking quietly amongst each other. Dan stretched carefully, knowing already that he was going to be sore. He needed to do more strength training and cardio, the idea having him suppressing a sigh. He needed to be stronger.

Philip was talking to the student next to him, a boy from Dan's class last year and the only other kid in the room he knew more than by name. Dan watched for a little while, and the conversation seemed pleasant, with smiles on both sides. Philip must have seen him looking, because when class was declared over he approached, an easy, friendly expression on his face.

“Hi.” He said. “What's your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Phil Lester.” Phil gave a him deep bow, and in spite of himself Dan felt his lips quirk upwards slightly. It was nothing, though, to the grin on Phil's face when he straightened back up. “You're the other new kid in class, right? I heard there were two.”

Dan nodded a bit. Phil was rather striking to look at, with dark hair, bright eyes, and lean, strong limbs. Having to consciously remind himself not to stare was embarrassing. He felt as though he should recognize Phil; he was bound to have seen him at the academy at some point, and Dan knew he wouldn't forget a face like this.

“Are you new as well?”

“Sort of.” Phil looked surprised by the question. “I moved to the area last year, and I was placed in a lower class--two levels below this one, I think?--but I was moved up to this class after a couple of weeks.”

“You were moved up to this class?” Dan tried to contain his shock, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. Nobody moved classes after auditions were done, and nobody skipped levels; Dan had often found himself stuck in lessons that felt numbingly easy. But Phil had done both.

Phil shrugged. “Apparently my audition didn't 'convey my full potential’, or whatever. But I was nervous! So this is my second year in this class, I guess. I know this is the 'elite’ one, and stuff, but… I'm really not spectacular, or anything.”

Dan would have found the humble tone annoying, but somehow on Phil, it wasn't. That realization, however, had him annoyed anyway.

“You did well today, Dan.”

The words weren't meant to be condescending, so Dan tried his hardest not to take them that way. They were dismissive though, a way to end the conversation, Phil giving him another smile and making his way towards the door.

“Daniel.” Dan corrected unnecessarily. Nobody called him Daniel, really. It made him a bit uncomfortable, actually, if someone did, due to how uncommon it was and how often it was simply reserved for teachers. But Dan had just wanted to say something, anything, not wanting the conversation to end. He didn’t want Phil to leave. It didn’t quite do the trick, but Phil gave him a happy glance back, smiling yet again at him and waving as he left the room.

The next day found Phil next to him on the bar during warmup. He greeted Dan cheerfully enough--he looked tired, but he was smiling--and Dan tried to return the gesture, but it was hard. Every one of his muscles was in pain. He had felt the soreness coming on as soon as the class from yesterday had ended, but spent some time at the end of the day working on his legs anyway. He couldn't tell yet if he regretted it or not, but he was worried about how he would hold up in class today, judging by how difficult it had been to get out of bed that morning.

Again, he wasn't the worst and he wasn't the best. Everyone in the class was hurting, and there was an audible sigh of relief when cool down was announced. Their instructor's lips twitched, almost as though he was about to smile.

“Get stronger!” He reprimanded loudly, the first to leave the room when class was finished, everyone else groaning on the floor.

“Today was hard…” Phil said with a sigh, stretching out to lie on his back. His arms reached up over his head, the ribs and lean muscle of his chest outlined by his thin shirt. Dan watched him. “Do your legs hurt too?”

Dan simply nodded. Being next to Phil throughout the class had been more of a distraction than anything else. Phil was undoubtedly the best in the class, and Dan was constantly torn between trying not to stare at him, and trying not to feel too bitterly about how much better than him Phil was at everything. Despite his complaints of soreness, Phil didn’t look nearly as uneven or shaky as Dan felt he himself was, and Dan rolled onto his back with a sigh.

Phil began another round of cool down stretches, all long limbs, Dan watching him out of the corner of his eye, feeling a bit annoyed and a bit mesmerized by how he moved. His feelings towards Phil were a strange kind of reverence that he hadn't truly felt before. He wasn't used to being so both overshadowed and impressed by someone that was supposed to be on his own skill level. He idolized other dancers, of course, but they were ballerinas that were already performing in big shows, professionals with training beyond his years. People he was supposed to look up to.

When he was very young, his parents had taken him to see the ballet 'The Firebird’ in the theater. They'd undoubtedly expected him to fall asleep, or at least be bored with the whole thing, but the contrary happened. Dan felt himself entranced by Prince Ivan, the way he was able to romance royalty and fight evil with music and the beauty of his movements. He was just so beautiful, and Dan wanted to be that beautiful too. So that night, on their journey home he declared to his mother that he wanted to be a ballerina, a ballerina that just like Prince Ivan was, just as talented as Prince Ivan was. And he hadn't let up on it since.

Gradually, Dan began enjoying waking up early. Well, not quite. He couldn’t contain his grumblings as he dragged himself out of bed and down to the classroom, but as soon as Phil met his eyes and smiled, all of the negativity began to ebb away. Despite his competitive streak and the flipping sensation in his stomach and everything else, he liked having Phil next to him in lessons. They would briefly talk in murmurs if the instructor's temperament allowed, keeping it to a minimum to avoid being called out. A lot of the time, instead of saying much, Phil would make faces at him.

Like at this moment, Phil was glancing quickly at him and poking himself in the cheek. He’d been doing so for the past minute and Dan had given up on trying to solve his charade, just raising his eyebrows, hopelessly confused and slightly amused. Phil poked again, widening his eyes. Dan settled into a comfortable fifth position, unable not to laugh at Phil's miming, air coming quickly from his nose in an attempt to stifle the sound. Phil beamed, nodding, pointing at him this time, and Dan touched his own cheek, realizing what Phil was gesturing to. His dimples.

Phil bent down, leaning closer under the guise of straightening the ends of his leggings to whisper to him, his voice soft.

"They're cute."

Dan blushed up to his ears and turned away, not realizing until it was too late that their studio room was walled with nothing but mirrors and Phil could definitely still see him. Phil was grinning, and Dan leaned over to elbow him.

"Shut up."

"Really!" Phil insisted in a hushed voice.

​"My face is deformed." Dan deadpanned. Phil gave him an amused look.

"Well, I like it." He said, and Dan flushed again.

"Whatever." He grumbled, but he could feel himself grinning, Phil pointing to his cheeks again. Dan wanted to repay the compliment, trying to think of something to say, but by the end of class he hadn't been able to come up with anything that wouldn’t embarrass him on a mortifying level. He quite liked Phil's nose, but couldn't find a way of phrasing that didn't sound creepy. He could compliment Phil's eyes; Dan was sure they must have already been complimented in every way possible, but they were doubtlessly deserving, so beautiful, and blue, and... And looking back at him. Dan realized he'd been staring.

"Hey." Phil said, grinning. "Earth to Dan." He gave a little wave. Dan waved back, sighing a little, willing his embarrassment not to show on his face.

"Sorry, I'm just tired." He lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. He was tired. Phil nodded, looking sympathetic.

"Join the club."

"I created the club." Dan insisted, stretching his arms over his head to lay on his back on the floor. “I was tired before you were born.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.” Phil told him, laying down next to him. The wooden floor wasn’t comfortable, but Dan found he didn’t mind. He admired Phil’s side profile until it was gone with the turn of Phil’s head, and Phil was looking at him again.

“What is it, Dan? Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Dan frowned, Phil rolling so he was laying on his side, facing him.

“You keep looking at me. Did you want to tell me something?”

“Oh.” Phil noticed. Dan cursed himself for a few moments, trying to come up with something to say. “No, it’s just… All of your arabesque poses are really nice. I was thinking about how I need to work on my own.”

“I could help you, if you’d like. Lots of the classrooms empty out by five; we could grab one.”

“I…” Dan didn’t want that. Phil had him feeling inadequate enough during class times; Dan wasn’t eager to turn that into an extracurricular activity as well. “No, can’t. I’ve got weight training. I’m trying to be able to bench press my dresser by the end of the year.”

Phil stared at him, Dan watching his face as he realized that the declination was wrapped in a joke. Then he burst out laughing, rolling onto his back again, Dan grinning a little as he watched him. Phil’s mirth was bright and really quite wonderful, and Dan found himself replaying the moment as he fell asleep that night.

“You can’t argue that the Romeo and Juliet ballet is more difficult on a technical level than The Nutcracker. You just can’t.”

“I can.” Phil's insistence had Dan raising his eyebrows, stretching his legs out into middle splits.

“You shouldn’t.”

Phil gave him an amused look, but Dan didn’t see anything funny. Class was over, everyone talking as they loosened out their muscles, and Phil was trying to debate technique difficulty with him. Dan loved Romeo and Juliet, he did, but he felt that the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy should be enough to prove his point. Phil shook his head.

“There are too many different versions of Romeo and Juliet to be able to say that.” He argued. “Besides, did you see the performance of it that traveled through the country last year?”

Dan thought back for a moment, then nodded. He’d begged his mother, though he hadn’t really needed to; she’d bought him a ticket to see it as soon as she’d heard it was coming through. He loved watching ballets almost more than dancing them; watching the primas and principals up on stage was always reinvigorating. It reminded him what it was he was working towards.

“You remember that troupe then? Do you remember how cute the dancer that played Mercutio was?”

Dan nearly choked on his tongue. Oh. Phil thought Mercutio was cute. Phil thought boys were cute. Oh.

“I… I’m not sure that’s the strongest argument.” He said lamely, his mind reeling with this new discovery, and Phil laughed a little.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He looked over Dan, raising an eyebrow. “You can get your center stretch wider than that. And you can bend over farther than that! I’ve seen you.”

“But…” Dan gave up on keeping his back straight, collapsing forward. The dull pain in his hamstrings shot up his legs, and he groaned. “I’m lazy.”

Phil laughed, getting to his feet. “Are you slacking off, Howell?”

“...maybe.”

“Come on, straighten your back.”

After a good amount of grumbling, Dan did. Then Phil but all but laid on him, forcing his stretch deeper. Dan’s hip popped loudly, the release of tension having him sighing in spite of himself. Phil laughed, close and breathy in his ear.

“Better?”

Dan suddenly couldn’t breathe, his tongue much too big for his mouth, and gave only a nod. Phil hummed in satisfaction, going back to his own stretches.

A week later, two weeks into the farthest Dan had ever been on the road to a professional ballet career, found him lying face down on the rug on his bedroom floor. Finally, after working so hard for so long, he had succumbed to his exhaustion, rolling onto his back and letting out a loud groan. He needed to go and take a shower, but he didn't want to move.

He was tired. So tired. He knew he was doing fine, accomplishing movements and sequences at the rate expected of his skill level, but 'fine’ wasn’t good enough. Easing up was looking more and more appealing, making it that much harder to push himself.

It was Phil's fault, Dan decided, training his eyes up on his ceiling fan. Both in and out of class, Phil had become a large distraction, mostly because Dan couldn't stop thinking about him. Regardless if he was changing poses, stretching, or simply looking at the instructor with attentiveness on his face, he was a sight to behold. And even more frustratingly, Phil would catch him staring, and seemed completely oblivious to how beautiful he was. Instead, he would always try to offer Dan help.

“Hey,” Phil said quietly, when once again he glanced over to see Dan watching him, “are you sure you don't want me to help you with these ballonnés? The offer is still on the table from yesterday.”

Dan let out a fast breath through his nose. He didn't need help with ballonnés. Phil’s blue eyes had met his own and his balance had wavered for the smallest of a second. Under normal, usual, non-stomach-fluttering circumstances, he could balance on one foot just fine.

“I'd rather practice with a herd of flamingos.” Dan responded, angling his chin slightly higher. He always declined Phil’s invitations to practice together--the offers, while kind in nature, always struck Dan with that Phil-branded feeling of inadequacy--and Phil always laughed.

“You should. They could really teach you a proper ballonné. And you could work on that attitude devant of yours, while you're at it; they seem better at balancing on one leg than you.”

Dan felt his cheeks heat up. “Shut up,” He grumbled, about to tell Phil off for being cheeky when the instructor did it for him. They'd been talking too loudly. Phil's expression mellowed as they apologized, but when he glanced back at Dan he was grinning.

Their instructor stayed behind once cool down had been completed, standing at the front with his hands on his hips. His presence alone was enough for them all to fall silent and give their attention, without him having to say anything; he was always the first to leave while everyone else chatted with each other or got in some extra stretching time. This was new and unexpected. After a few expectant moments, the man cleared his throat.

“Alright everyone. This year, for the annual program, the school has decided to put on a rendition of The Firebird.”

Excitement carried throughout the room in hushed voices, everyone recognizing the name of the popular play. Dan's heart began hammering in his chest. He could barely believe it.

“I am expecting each and every one of you to audition for the role of Prince Ivan. The audition material should have been sent to you…” He glanced up at the analog clock on the wall. “...two minutes ago. The audition is at the end of the month; I will give exact dates and times as the day grows closer. Class will continue as normal. Dismissed!”

Then he left the room. Dan simply sat there, watching the hole in space where he had been. Phil nudged him, the contact surprising.

“Hey, The Firebird. That's a cool one.”

“It's… It's my favorite ballet.” Dan said after a moment. Phil smiled, getting to his feet.

“Good for you!” He said, extending a hand to help Dan up. Dan took it. “That's exciting!”

Dan wasn't really paying attention to him though, for perhaps the first time. The exhaustion had left his limbs, buzzing instead with excited energy. This was his chance. He was going to be Prince Ivan. He had to be. And he only had two weeks to prepare.

His fatigue dissipated. Instead he increased his efforts, his favorite practice room becoming an evening refuge for a couple of hours every night to work over the audition choreography. He was sore, he was tired, but he was determined. He had to know this material inside out.

Four days into his studies, he arrived in the practice room to see Phil there, already beginning stretches, Summer Waltz by Søren Bebe playing softly through the speakers attached to his phone. Phil simply glanced up at him, not saying a word and Dan, not willing to be driven from the room he considered his--and feeling it would be awkward to go, after he'd been spotted stepping in--set up his things on the other side of the room just as wordlessly and put his earbuds in his ears. They practiced separately, in silence.

The next day, Phil was there again. Dan resolutely stayed quiet, refusing to be distracted. He had to be focused; watching Phil was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Phil didn’t attempt to interrupt him, and for that Dan was grateful.

Phil often ended his practice before Dan did, but on the weekend before their last week of rehearsal time Dan was stretching out at the end of his session and Phil was still there, simply looking at himself in the mirror. Finally, he spoke.

“Could you watch me?”

“...what?” Dan asked, taking out one earbud. He hadn’t expected Phil to talk to him.

“Could you watch me? I want to go through the routine once more. Could you critique it?”

“Oh.” Dan removed his earbuds entirely, moving back to sit against the wall and crossing his legs. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

Phil nodded slightly, picking up his phone to restart the music the routine was set to. He positioned himself into a croisé devant, his left arm up, every finger poised delicately. Phil smiled down at him, Dan felt his heart nearly stop, and then the music began.

The way Phil danced was breathtaking. He was graceful the way rushing water was graceful, powerful and unstoppable, yet light all the same. The longer he performed, the more his movements became, larger and grander and stronger. He looked the way Dan wanted to look when he danced: like beauty in motion. Dan was completely entranced.

However, the more Dan watched him, the more he noticed something, something he wouldn’t have seen as unusual unless he’d known the routine as forwards and backwards as he did. Phil was doing it wrong.

Phil was putting in unnecessary piqué turns, giving his pirouettes too many spins, stepping too quickly with his chassés. It was beautiful, undoubtedly, almost too natural to be noticed, and though it looked so perfect it took Dan’s breath away, at the same time, it wasn't the material they had been given. Almost, but not quite. Phil landed his final tour en l’air unwaveringly, his chest heaving, looking at Dan for the criticism he had asked for.

“Well?” He finally prompted. Dan faltered for a moment. He couldn’t put his wonderment into words.

“It was wrong.” He finally said. Phil’s arms fell to his sides.

“Wrong?” He asked back. He didn’t seem crestfallen, more curious as to what Dan meant.

“The choreography. It was wrong.”

“Oh.” Phil was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Don’t…” Dan wasn’t sure what to say; Phil's simple acknowledgement left him feeling confused. “Didn’t you know that you weren’t doing it correctly?” Phil hadn’t reacted to any of the mistakes, but Dan simply figured that Phil was more professional than he was about messing up.

“I mean, I guess so.” Phil shrugged, a small, slightly lopsided grin on his face now. “But when I dance… I guess I don’t find the specifics too important. I do what feels right with the music. It usually winds up a little different each time, if I'm being honest.”

Dan resisted the urge to gape at him. Phil was defying the choreography on purpose, changing it as he moved, as though he knew what fit the music better than Michel Fokine. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You won’t win the part like that, you know.” Dan told him, getting to his feet and gathering his things as Phil began to stretch out. Phil just smiled at him again.

“Sure, but that doesn't matter as much. I do this because I like it. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He extended a leg out in front of him, stretched out to hold his foot, and looked up at Dan as he leaned forward over it. “Isn’t that why you’re here too?”

Dan stood for a moment before turning on his heel, refusing to admit that he didn’t have an answer.

They began helping each other during the final week of practice. Despite his goofiness during class times, Phil was surprisingly serious during their practice sessions, his criticism of Dan’s movements always pointed and specific. He had a very sharp eye for the smallest of details, walking over to straighten Dan’s arms a little more, running his hands down Dan’s back to relax his shoulders, or stepping behind him to take a hold of Dan’s hips and turn them to just the right angle. That particular correction had Dan biting down hard on his tongue, able to feel the press of Phil’s fingertips against his skin long after he’d moved away. But he didn’t let himself meet Phil’s eyes, keeping at a distance. He wanted the role of Prince Ivan, telling himself that he wanted it more than anything. He was not going to get distracted.

Then the evening before auditions came, and Dan felt so tightly wound that he was about to snap. He had easily danced this choreography a hundred times but now, this night of all nights, he couldn't get the emboîté combination right. A lump of frustration welled in his throat.

“You can do this.” Phil said quietly, breaking through Dan's angry silence. “You're just stressed. I've seen you do it tons of times.”

“I know I can do it.” Dan snapped back, balancing himself on the ball of his right foot. He faltered again, before he could even change feet, and suppressed vexed growl. “I know I can.”

“Then take it slowly, and focus.” Phil said. Dan felt so patronized that when he looked up, he expected a condescending expression on Phil's face. But there was nothing of the sort, Phil looking back at him for a moment before beginning to clap his hands, counting Dan off, his beat half as fast as the original piece. Grudgingly, Dan pulled himself into position.

The moves went smoothly, Phil beaming at him.

“There you go!” He said happily. “Let's take it a little faster now.”

And they did, drilling the sequence of steps until Dan was back to full speed. Dan didn't want to thank Phil, but he knew that was irrationally stubborn behavior, so he did so anyway. Phil however, brushed the gratitude off.

“I knew you could do it.” He said again. “You just need to calm down. What do you do to relax?”

“Relax?” Dan echoed, unable to believe that Phil was talking about relaxing less than twelve hours before auditions were to start. He tried to think of what he did in his spare time, something that was few and far between at the summer camp. “I… I dance.”

“Oh?” Phil seemed surprised. “What do you dance to?”

“What we're learning in class.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “That's not relaxing Dan, that's practicing. Don't you have any hobbies? You know, knitting or something?”

“Do I look like someone who can knit?” Dan deadpanned, and Phil began laughing. He went to his phone and began scrolling through his music library.

“Dancing…” He seemed to be musing aloud. “Here.”

He selected a new piece, the instantly recognizable vibrancy of Beethoven’s sixth symphony playing through his speakers. Then he held out his hand.

“Dance with me, Dan.”

Dan hesitated. “I've never learned a routine to this song.” He finally said. He couldn’t dance to something without knowing the steps. He felt embarrassed just by the suggestion; the last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself.

“Neither have I.” Phil reached out, entwining their fingers. “I'm not taking no for an answer.”

Dan was instantly slow and flustered, trying to think of steps he already knew that he could string together in his head, but he couldn’t do it fast enough. He was behind Phil's feet and the beat of the music.

“C'mon Dan.” Phil leaned him back into a startling dip, then brought him up for a twirl. “Relax.”

Dan closed his eyes, sighed out a breath, deciding to follow Phil’s lead. He tightened his grip on Phil’s hand, looked into his eyes… And they were dancing. They moved and they spun, pushed and pulled, fell away and drew back, Phil's hand in his, a smile on his face. The music was light and happy, and in return Dan began to feel some of his stress dropping off his shoulders and sinking through the floorboards beneath their feet. He didn't think about precision, didn’t obsess over posture, didn't worry about what was coming next. It wasn't easy to just let go and allow the music take him, Phil obviously much more experienced with that, but it was dancing, and it was fun, and Phil held onto him, helping him move with the melody.

They were breathing heavy when the movement ended, stock still but chests heaving, a mere few inches apart. Phil looked over his face and Dan's smile faded, suddenly nervous at being this close. Phil reached up with his free hand, sweeping Dan's bangs from his eyes. The touch felt electric.

“You're pretty.” He murmured. “You're always pretty, but especially up close.”

Dan's heart hammered, Phil's gaze tracing an outline of his lips. When Phil's eyes returned to his own, Dan kissed him.

He kissed Phil with all the exhilaration he felt, coming forward in a rush of admiration and affection. When Phil kissed him back there was a smile against his lips, pulling him closer, giving a squeeze to their entwined hands. Then he pulled back with a sigh, resting his forehead against Dan's.

“So?” He asked. “Are you more relaxed now?”

Dan kept his eyes closed, wanting to remain in the moment for as long as possible. He couldn’t see Phil’s face, but could hear the smile in his voice.

“I… Yes.” He finally answered. If Phil’s hands weren’t tethering him to the practice room floor, he felt as though he could float up through the ceiling and away.

Dan spent more time in the practice room than he meant to. Then, even more of his supposed sleeping time was used instead to press his face into his pillow in an effort to suppress the silly smile that he couldn’t keep off his face. He couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop giggling to himself in the dark, replaying the kiss--and the other kisses that had followed--in his head. He wasn’t tired, or worried at all; he was happy.

As a result though, on the morning of the auditions, he woke up late. He jolted out of bed in a panic, dressing haphazardly and rushing from the room. He didn't get even half the time he would have liked to warm up and stretch out, and didn't have a chance to run the routine at all before he had to walk in, his mantra of control sounding painfully unconvincing in his head. It wasn't his worst performance, he knew that. He tried to tell himself he that he could have done worse, that everyone could have done worse than him, but he knew it was foolish to think that way. He kept turning the routine over in his head, catching on every tiny mistake he’d made. His stomach wouldn’t stop churning.

After the final dancer had auditioned, Dan began obsessively checking the outside of their instructor's door every hour on the hour for the list of part assignments. He was so full of anxious energy that he couldn’t do anything in between but pace the length of the rug in his room. He felt jittery all over, too nervous to speak to anyone but too wound up to sit still. Finally, after six trips back and forth, the list was there. Dan ran the rest of the way up the hall, stopping breathlessly in front of the sheet of paper, swallowing hard. His eyes flew to the top of the list.

Prince Ivan Tsarevich -- Philip Lester Koschei (the Immortal) -- Daniel Howell

Dan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. His eyes ran over the remaining names in the list, but he wasn't actually reading them. He felt sick. He felt numb, looking at the top of the list again, between his name and Phil's. Philip Lester. It was a brass-knuckled punch, and Dan could feel the welt from it growing large and painful in his throat. It wasn't fair.

He'd never wanted something as badly as this. He wanted the role more than Phil, he knew. Based on what he had seen in their practice sessions together, he could dance the program more accurately than Phil. Phil might have more experience, but Dan knew he could work harder. That seemed to mean nothing.

He’d needed to prove to himself that despite being young, he and his passion could make him a principal dancer. That he belonged in the elite class, that he could do it, despite his persistently inadequate feelings from not being the best. Achieving the chance to perform as Prince Ivan the year he became a professional level ballet dancer seemed so fitting, but apparently he still wasn't good enough. And maybe he wasn't. But he could dance the program better than Phil, and that's what made this so unfair. He refused to get sad, refused, this time, to let himself feel defeated. Instead, he was angry.

His hands balled into fists, tears pricking his eyes, Dan marched up to Phil's bedroom. He flung the door open without introduction, his chest heaving as he tried not to cry. Phil was lying on his bed, glancing up from his phone in surprise.

“Dan!” There was a smile on Phil's face upon seeing him, for just a moment, before he registered his expression. “What's wrong?”

“Congratulations.” Dan responded savagely, swallowing hard. He would not cry.

“What?” Phil asked. Phil didn't know he'd been given the role; he hadn't been obsessively checking like Dan had. That realization made Dan even more furious.

“Prince Ivan.” Dan told him. “You got it.”

“Oh!” Again, another flash of emotion across his face, this time of happy surprise. Then he realized why Dan was there. “Oh, Dan--”

“Did you dance the program?” The question spilled out of him loudly, painfully. “Correctly? Exactly the way it was given to us?”

“I… I don't know.” Phil finally admitted. “I just got into the music and tried my best, I don't remember exactly what I did.”

“So no, is what you're saying. You didn't follow the choreography.”

Phil simply gave him a hopeless look.

“Then why didn't they give it to me? I didn't stretch out all the way, so jumps weren’t as big as normal and stuff but I didn't...” Dan felt his voice crack, and despite his determination tears spilled over his lower eyelashes and onto his face. He quickly angled his gaze down at his feet. “I didn't mess things up on purpose, like you did.”

“I'm sorry Dan, I don't know.” In the silence Phil got to his feet, stepping over a few books and magazines on his floor, so they were now only a foot apart. He began to rub Dan's upper arms with his hands, as though the rude words didn't bother him. Dan knew he meant to be comforting, but his fingers were cold.

“It's not fair.” He sounded like a child, he knew, but he was too upset to care. “I worked harder. I practiced more. I…” He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to lift his head. “...I wanted this more than you.”

“Dan, don't worry about it. This doesn't mean you didn't deserve it too. You're not a bad dancer. What part did you get?”

“Koschei.”

“He's the main antagonist!” Phil was trying to spin the situation, but Dan felt the enthusiasm bounce off of him uselessly, annoyingly. “He's a big role too.”

“Then take him!” Dan exclaimed, lurching away. He didn't want Phil's pity; he didn't want Phil trying to make him feel better. “Take him! I don't want him!”

“Dan--”

“What? It's not like it matters what role you get, since you're not going to follow the choreography anyway. Because you're too good for it, right?”

“That's not--” Phil cut himself off, again stepping closer, reaching out in an attempt to take one of his hands. In the silence Dan realized that he was still crying, and he struggled in a breath. “Dan, you're incredible, okay? Auditions are stupid. Don't let this bring you down.”

The oversimplification of his feelings had Dan choking on his next words. It was all so easy for Phil to say. This was Phil's fault. Dan should have left the practice room when he'd planned, and gone to sleep when he’d planned. Phil never should have offered to dance with him. Dan should have said no.

“Don't touch me.”

“Dan?”

“I said don't touch me!” Dan pushed Phil's chest, hard. Phil was still trying to comfort him, still trying to hold on, their legs tangling as they stumbled off balance. Phil lost his footing on something behind him and they fell together, hitting the ground in a tumble, and under him Dan heard Phil let out a shout of pain. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he could but Phil didn't follow suit, curled in on himself, his body still and his breathing harsh. Phil's ankle was twisted, lying on the floor at an unnatural angle.

Mark, one of the senior members of their class and Phil's alternate, took over the Prince Ivan role. Phil had been rushed to the emergency clinic that night, and hadn't reappeared. Dan went to class the following Monday, but the room seemed empty and lifeless, the space next to him on the bar a constant reminder of what he had done. Between the incredibly loud absence of Phil and the murmured wondering from his classmates about what had happened, Dan knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach making it to class again the next morning.

So he didn’t go. He didn’t go to class the next day, or the day after that. Or the week after that. Dan's role was also taken by his alternate, his instructor deeming him unfit, as he seemed unwilling to put in the work.

Dan didn't care. He kept himself in his room, always trying to keep his mind off of Phil and always failing, feeling sick to his stomach whenever the moment replayed itself in his head. He felt so, so guilty, wondering just how badly he’d hurt Phil, wondering if Phil would ever be able to dance again. He didn’t want to think of that. He didn't think he could withstand it, being the cause of Phil losing his grace, despite how much he felt deserved it.

After roughly three weeks, Dan was given the choreography for his new role in The Firebird. He was the leader of the woodland people now, which was more or less a glorified babysitter, his job less to dance and more to make sure the younger kids stayed focused when they were up on stage. The choreography was painfully easy, but it had been drilled into Dan for too many years to learn whatever it was he had been given, so he began again to make evening trips to his practice room. After not dancing for so long he found himself disgustingly stiff and strangely unsure on his feet, but he was grateful for something to work on.

A few days later, a rumor began circulating that Phil had come back. Dan turned every corner tentatively, terrified of running into him, searching through the school for any other room to practice in than the old one they’d shared. But every room was full with Firebird rehearsals, all his caution wasted when he opened the door to their practice room and Phil was there, sitting and stretching on the floor. They met eyes in the mirror, Dan freezing in the doorway, his breath stopping in his lungs. He couldn't read Phil's face.

“Hey.” Phil finally said, breaking the eye contact and angling his gaze back downwards to the floor. His right ankle was wrapped tightly in a roller bandage, Claude Debussy’s “Arabesque” playing quietly from the speakers on the floor next to him. Dan still couldn't move.

“The doctors said it was bound to happen.” Phil continued, breaking the second lengthy silence. “Apparently, I already had a stress fracture there. If it hadn't happened when it did, it would have happened later. During Firebird rehearsals, most likely. It's probably better this way.”

“Can… Can you still dance?” Dan asked, his voice choked and breathless.  Did I ruin you? Phil looked back up at him, and to Dan's surprise, there was a bit of a smile on his face.

“I tried to waltz with my crutches a week or so ago, but it wasn't pretty. They're a much worse dance partner than you. I haven't really tried since.”

He held out a hand, a request for help to his feet, and Dan hastened to grant it, finally moving from his place in the doorway. Phil's hand was warm as he gripped Dan's own, and as he struggled to get up, tears came to Dan's eyes. Phil was standing, but he was unsure and unsteady on his feet, so unlike the graceful dancer he had been before. And Dan was the one that had done this to him. Phil held onto him and they started swaying to the gentle piano music, Phil limping along on his bandaged foot.

“I'm sorry.” Dan said, words and tears all spilling out of him in a rush. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so--”

“Dan, it's okay--”

“It's all my fault. I'm horrible, I should have never, I'm so sorry…” He was blubbering, incoherent, heaving in a breath until he was crying too hard to speak. They'd stopped moving, Phil scooting closer and Dan taking him into his arms. Phil cupped Dan's face in his hands, wiping tears from his cheeks with his thumbs.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

Dan couldn't do anything more than shake his head but Phil just held him, pressing a single, light kiss into his hair. Dan knew that it shouldn't be him being comforted, that Phil should be angry, yelling at him or hurting him back and honestly, part of Dan wanted that to happen, wanted the punishment he deserved for what he had done. Another part of him though, wanted to hold on to Phil's reassurances tightly until he could make himself believe them.

Phil's ankle was healed enough for him to start using it again, though only a little. He had a firmly structured physical therapy schedule that would lead him to making a full recovery, and every night instead of working on dancing, Dan would meet Phil in the practice room and help him work through the exercises.

He tried his best to stay quiet and helpful, speaking only when spoken to, giving small and reassuring smiles. He could tell Phil hated his newfound lack of mobility, despite how much he tried to hide it, and whenever that resentment showed on his face that horrible sinking feeling brought itself into Dan's stomach again and he redoubled his efforts. He always walked Phil back to his room, carrying his things for him, and after a few days of this Phil stopped him outside his closed bedroom door, taking his equipment from Dan's arms instead of letting him drop it down on his bed as usual. Dan gave him a questioning look.

“Is something wrong?” He asked hesitantly.

“I just have something I want to say.” Phil was gripping the foam roll he had tightly, twisting it a little in his hands. “I like you. I like you a lot, and I still do. I realized while I was bedridden that I hadn't properly told you yet.”

Dan could do nothing more than stare at him, unable to come up with a proper response before Phil started talking again.

“I really like your company, I always have--that's why I've always annoyed you so much--but now something's different about you, Dan. It's been… Weird, between us. So if you're only helping me out with this stuff because you feel guilty, I'd rather you just let me do it on my own.”

Before Dan could say another word, Phil turned to the door behind him and disappeared into his room. Slowly, Dan made his way back to his own bed.

Phil liked him, even after what happened. Despite of what he had done, Phil didn’t hate him. But he didn’t want Dan’s help with his physical therapy, either. So the next day, Dan didn’t go.

He went to class instead. Everyone was practicing on a routine he didn’t know, working on technique in petit allegro, Mark volunteering to take him aside and teach it to him instead of getting his own work in. Dan felt bad about inconveniencing him, and could barely stand the surprised stares he was getting from everyone else--though after missing class for weeks, he didn’t know why he would have expected different--but Mark asked him to come back, claiming everyone had missed him. He spoke awkwardly, and Dan felt awkward too, not knowing him very well at all, but the sentiment was appreciated, and after using up so much of his time, Dan felt he couldn’t do anything but promise to return. The prospect made him anxious that night, exhausted but unable to sleep. He hadn’t seen Phil at all that day, and it he didn’t like it.

It was only fifteen minutes from midnight when he gave up on going to bed at all and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the protesting soreness of his muscles. He would just knock on Phil’s door. If Phil had fallen asleep by now, then he would go back to his room. If not, Dan wanted to talk to him.

Surprisingly, the door opened when Dan knocked. Phil was dressed for bed like he was but also didn’t look tired, large, black-rimmed glasses on his face. The glasses brought even more attention to his eyes, Dan realizing for the first time that they weren’t just vividly blue, but bright shades of blue, green, and yellow all at once.

“...Dan? What are you doing here?”

He’d been staring. Phil hopped back to let him inside, and Dan stepped in tentatively.

“I… I was just wondering… How’s your ankle?”

“About the same as it was yesterday. Hopefully a little bit better.” Phil eyed him for a moment. “You knocked on my door at near midnight for some small talk? Really?”

“...yes?” Dan didn’t know what to say, wishing now that he’d planned something, anything, to talk about. “I wanted to see you, I guess.”

The statement was embarrassing, and he could feel that embarrassment as heat on his face. But Phil smiled at him, so Dan considered the words worth it.

“You can’t go… What has it been now, one day? You can’t go twenty-four hours without seeing me? How did you survive when I was gone?” Phil was teasing, crossing the floor to his bed and sitting down. He patted the space next to him, offering Dan to sit too, and after an awkward moment of consideration, Dan did.

“I went to class today.” He said. “I haven’t been in a while.”

“You haven’t been going to class?” Phil raised his eyebrows. “What? Why? Did they pull you out of it for recital practice or something?”

Dan realized that Phil didn’t know that his role, too, had been taken by his alternate.

“Oh, I’m not in the ballet anymore. I mean, I guess I am, but it’s something stupid. I think they actually made the role up for me to have something to do. I have a short solo, and they taught me the choreography once, but I’m sure they’ve forgotten what it was by now.”

“Weren’t you Koschei? What happened?”

Dan swallowed, shrugging. “They gave it to Sean. It’s not a big deal; I don’t really care anymore.”

Phil’s expression was sadness and sympathy, and Dan sighed. Everything was so screwed up now.

“I’m the ‘leader of the forest creatures’, they called it. I keep the little kids in check, basically. I could do the choreography in my sleep. But I’m so out of practice--I was really embarrassing in class today.”

“I’m sure you were better than I would have been.”

Dan bit his lip as the joke passed between them, suddenly struck with an idea.

“Hey, Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“I… Well, I know you don’t want me to help you with the physical therapy stuff and I get that, but… But since you’re a prima ballerina and all…” Phil chuckled at the title, and with a surge of confidence, Dan kept going. “Do you think you could help me practice my technique? Get me back up to speed, and stuff?”

Phil considered the offer silently. For the most part, it was an excuse for them to spend time together and he knew Phil could see that--Dan was perfectly capable of practicing on his own--but it would be helpful. It would be something to do, something that didn’t focus on Phil’s injury. Finally, Phil smiled.

“You said no one cares about your choreography, right? It wouldn’t matter what you danced during the performance?”

“I mean, yeah. I could probably get up there with some gross tap number and the instructors wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“Good.” Phil’s smile widened, a small glint now in his eye. “I’ll write you something for your technique, and I’ll help you practice it. But you have to perform it during the show. Deal?”

Phil held out his hand. Dan looked at the funny formality for a moment before accepting, and they shook on it.

“Deal.”

Class that day was difficult, even more so than it had been the day before now that he was aching all over. But his classmates did seem genuinely happy to have him there and that was nice at least. Phil was waiting for him in their practice room, laying on the floor on his stomach, scribbling something on a piece of paper he had in front of him.

“I have a routine for you.” He said once he noticed Dan was there, beaming. “I've been working on it all day.”

“Oh?” Phil's excitement alone had Dan convinced that this was probably the best idea he'd ever had. “What is it?”

“Well, Daniel,” Phil said with a smile, rolling onto his back and looking up at him, “are you familiar with the chicken dance?”

Dan couldn’t do much more than stare, unable to even think of something to say, when Phil burst into laughter, his eyes squeezing shut as he smiled, resting his hands on his stomach.

“I’m joking!” He exclaimed, extending his piece of paper in Dan’s direction. “I have a proper routine. I can’t exactly dance it for you, so I wrote it down.”

Dan took the paper, reading through the moves, only halfway down the page when he shook his head.

“I can’t do this.”

“Really? You don’t think so?” Phil frowned up at him. “I think you can.”

The vote of confidence was nice and all, but Dan was pretty sure that the first center combination alone would kill him.

“It's too hard.”

“Come on, it's not very long.” Phil wheedled. “Just give it a shot, at least. We have a deal.”

Dan looked over the note again, Phil moving into a sitting position.

“My old instructor wrote that for me.” He said. “It was my audition, to qualify me for this program. I really, really messed it up because of how nervous I was. But it's really beautiful; I think you could do it justice.”

Dan was silent for a moment, then took a seat next to Phil on the floor, pointing his toes, spreading his legs out until he felt a stretch in his hamstrings. Phil gave him a quizzical look.

“Well, let's get started.” Dan told him. “I have a difficult program to learn, don't I?”

Phil beamed.

It was hard to get back into the swing of things, hard to get used to so much physical exercise and all the early mornings. Not having Phil in class made the entire time drag, but it was much easier to focus, and he always had evenings to look forward to. Phil's routine was killing him just like he'd thought it would, but he wasn't giving up. If Phil had been able to dance this routine, he wanted to make sure he could too.

Some days were harder than others, and this day was full of nothing but left feet. Dan was in the middle of a series of cabrioles when he landed off balance, stumbled over his legs, and nearly smacked his head against the mirrored wall, having to slap his hands against it to brace and steady himself. The sound was loud and surprising, Phil watching him, open-mouthed.

“...nice job.” He finally said with a smile, Dan righting himself back on his feet. “That was amazing.”

“Oh, shut up.” Dan responded with a laugh, rather stunned at the spectacular failure he'd just put on display. “I'd like to see you do better, you cripple.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he froze. He hadn't meant to say them--he’d barely even thought them, and they were obviously a joke, his tone enough to portray that much. But he hadn't made any jokes about Phil, or teased him at all, since he'd come back. He'd done so before, but now he was walking on eggshells, terrified that Phil would hate him. He was strongly considering simply running from the room and never coming back when from behind him, Phil began to laugh.

“There you are.” Phil said. He was all smiles, all amusement, and Dan breathed a sigh of relief. “I've missed this side of you.”

“What? You've missed me making fun of you?”  

“Of course! You're all 'Serious Daniel’ now. It hurt my feelings; I thought you didn't like me anymore.”

“You're weird.” Dan told him, but if anything Phil smiled wider. “Don't worry. I still like you.”

It didn't really feel like a confession when he said it. It was simply a statement, something the both of them had known all along.

“Good.” Phil said, before clapping his hands together. “Come on; let's see if I can get you to actually fall on your face before the end of the day.”

Dan rolled his eyes, laughing, and they got back to work.

“Again. You're so close; you can do it.”

“No Phil, I can't.” Dan sighed, wiping sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt. It soaked through, wetting his fingers underneath. They were two weeks away from the big show, and Dan had all the movements learned, now working on cleaning them up. “It's too fast.”

“But you've almost worked it up to tempo! Just a few more clicks and you'll have it perfect.”

Dan frowned loudly, hoping that maybe if he repeated himself more clearly, Phil would understand.

“Listen.” He said, putting his hands together and speaking slowly. “I. Cannot. Do. Pirouettes. That. Fast.”

“Well.” Phil raised his eyebrows, glancing casually away. “I could.”

Dan let out a fast breath through his nose.

“Dan, this was my favorite part!” Phil was back, with enthusiasm. “It's like flying!”

“Phil, you can't even walk faster than me.”

“Hey. No ankle jokes, not now; right now you need some motivation.”

“What, are you going to offer me candy again?” Dan had gotten a few pieces of chocolate candy for a particularly nice chain of piqué turns a few days ago. Phil ignored him, still thinking. Then his face lit up.

“If you do the pirouettes up to tempo, I'll kiss you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Phil's grin turned slightly mischievous, Dan hoping desperately he wasn't blushing as badly as he felt he was. They hadn't talked about anything since they'd kissed the first time, despite the casual closeness they had been falling back into.

“Okay?” Phil asked. It took Dan a moment to find his tongue.

“O-okay.”

Phil smiled at his stutter, Dan resisting the urge to tell him to shut up. Phil restarted the music.

“Get ready.”

Dan got in position, listening, trying to get the tempo of the music into his limbs. He executed the leadup to the turns, balancing on the ball of one foot, and began to spin. And this time, like all the other times, he was late. Behind the beat by a little too much, sighing and letting himself back down on his heels once the pirouettes had finished. He glanced up at Phil.

“Do you want to try it again?” Phil asked. Dan nodded, and he rewound the music. Then he tried again. And again. But it wasn't turning into a matter of skill anymore; they'd been going at this one section for a long time now, and more than anything Dan was tired. It simply wasn't happening. Phil hit stop, walking over to him.

“We'll try again tomorrow, alright? You'll get it.” He said, taking Dan's hands in his and swaying them slightly. Dan made a noncommittal noise.

“Believe in yourself!” Phil insisted with a little bit of a smile, squeezing his fingers and leaning in, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

“Wait…” Dan said, once he was able to recollect his thoughts, a warm, happy feeling growing in his chest as Phil smiled at him. “But I couldn't do it. This wasn't the deal.”

“I guess, for this deal,” Phil released Dan's hands in favor of sliding his arms around his waist. “It's the thought that counts.”

He stepped in close, gently nudging Dan's nose with his own; a silent question of permission. Dan, heart pounding and singing all at once, closed the gap between them.

Dan loved kissing Phil. Phil kissed the way he danced, strong and lithe and perfect, holding him like he was the most important thing in the world, so convincingly that for a tiny moment, Dan let himself believe him.

Phil, to his happy surprise, seemed to like kissing him too. As they got closer and closer to the day of the ballet performance, Dan became grateful to his past self for how hard he'd been driven to work, because now, more often than not, their practice sessions were quickly derailed. He always made sure, at least, that Phil got his physical therapy done.

“Dan, I'm bored.” Phil complained. He was at the bar, doing slow tendus in plié that truly looked painfully dull. “Are you working on anything? We should go do something else.”

“But you need to finish that. Besides, the show is four days away, and my routine isn't stage ready yet.”

“You weren't working on it just now.” Phil pointed out accusingly. He was right; Dan had been doing coupes-jetés en tournant around the room for the past ten minutes, just for fun. “And the routine is good, you're doing it fine.”

“Fine and good are not the same thing.” Dan insisted. Phil sighed, straightening up.

“Well, I'm going to go finish this up in my room. So that's where I'll be.” He said, gathering his things and leaving. Amused, Dan watched him go, but told himself that he really had work he needed to do, and he needed to get it done in this practice room. So he managed about two run-throughs of the routine before giving up, too distracted, making his way to Phil's room.

Phil actually was finishing up his therapy, sitting on the carpet, Chopin's Spring Waltz playing softly as Dan entered. Dan sat down next to him to help with the final stretches, Phil giving him an amused look.

“Done for the day? I'm sure you got a lot of things worked on in those fifteen minutes since the last time I saw you.”

“Oh shut it, you said I was doing fine.” Dan grumbled, and Phil laughed. “I wanted to make sure you got all of this done.”

“Well, thanks to you, now I have.” Phil raised his arms up over his head as he folded his legs into a sitting position, sighing a little when his left shoulder popped. “How could I have done all of that plantar flexion and dorsiflexion without you?”

Dan hit him lightly on the shoulder in protest of all the teasing, Phil taking the opportunity to pull him close and kiss him. The kiss was more ardent than he was expecting, a kiss he didn't know he wanted until Phil pulled back and Dan leaned to him, chasing after his lips. Phil hummed happily, getting up and sitting on his bed, beckoning Dan to follow him. Dan couldn't do so fast enough, and as soon as he was sitting Phil all but climbed into his lap, pushing him down onto his sheets.

“Philip Lester,” Dan asked, accusation in his voice, “was all of this just to get me in your bed?”

“Only if it's working.” Phil answered, laughing against his lips as Dan leaned towards him again. And they stayed that way for a while, kissing lazily and enjoying the closeness. Phil’s breath on his neck made Dan squirm and Phil laughed, the amusement turning into an undignified squeak when Dan tickled him in retaliation. Phil sat back on his thighs, his hands on Dan's chest, looking down at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his lips red and wet and happy, his eyes bright.

“You're really beautiful, you know that, right?” Phil said. His heart swelling, Dan sat up, wrapping his arms around Phil and pulling him in so they were both lying down, wanting to hug every inch of Phil he could reach.

“I was about to tell you that.” He said, his voice slightly muffled against the left side of Phil's chest. He could hear Phil’s heartbeat and Phil chuckled a little, pressing a kiss to the top of Dan's head.

“I'm sorry about fracturing your ankle. I really am.” Dan told him quietly. There was a silence after his words, fear settling into Dan's chest, and he lifted his head to see Phil's face. He was frowning.

“You really need to stop giving yourself so much credit.” Phil said, raising his eyebrows. He put on a very self-important tone. “My ankle was already fractured before you pushed me. Nobody fractures my ankles but me.”

“And you sound way too proud of it.” Dan said, giggling, rolling so they were lying side by side.

“I'm sorry you couldn't be Koschei.” Phil said, finding one of Dan's hands and playing with his fingers a little. “Or Prince Ivan.”

Dan shrugged. “It's okay. Mark and Sean don't have as much chemistry as we would have, but they'll do a fine job.”

Phil grinned at him. “You think we have chemistry?”

“What else would you call this?”

“I don't know. I think I just really like you.”

Dan bit his lip in a wasted attempt not to smile, realizing all at once that he was here, in Phil's room, in Phil's bed, the boy from dance class that he had so idolized at the beginning of the year.

“I really like you too.”

Control.

Slowly, holding in his heaving breath, Dan lowered one foot to the floor. Then he came down from releve on his other side, leaning back so he faced the ceiling, extending an arm out behind him. He held the pose for a number of seconds, explosive applause coming from across the room.

“That was beautiful!” Phil exclaimed, rushing forward. Dan tried to fend him off, exclaiming that he was sweaty, but Phil couldn't be dissuaded, picking him up and spinning him around.

“It's opening night.” He said, once he'd kissed Dan and set him back on his feet. “How do you feel?”

“I'm alright.” He responded truthfully. He was a little nervous, of course, but he'd been in other productions before in much bigger roles, so the pressure didn't feel too heavy. All he'd really wanted was to learn Phil's routine to his satisfaction, and by the reaction he'd just gotten, that had already been achieved.

“You're going to do great.” Phil said. “I'll cheer for you. And I'll be the loudest one there, so you'll know it's me.”

“You're not supposed to cheer in a ballet.” Dan told him. “You're supposed to clap. Politely.”

“But you are supposed to cheer for you boyfriend.” Phil said, rather matter-of-factly, and Dan did his best not to look like he was choking on his own tongue. Boyfriend. They hadn't used any labels, not yet, the word placing a warm excitement in his chest.

“Okay, I need to go.” Phil was saying. “And so do you! I need to look for my mom in the audience; I don't remember where she said it was our seats are. And I already promised I would tell her which one was you, so make sure you do your best out there.”

“What?” Dan finally managed, but Phil was too excited to stop or explain.

“Good luck!” He exclaimed, before kissing Dan on the cheek and rushing off. Dan touched the place Phil had kissed him and shook his head, laughing a little as he made his way to the backstage area where the rest of the dancers were already waiting in position. His instructor frowned upon seeing him, grumbling something about punctuality, but Dan couldn't find it in himself to care too much, getting into place himself.

“Welcome family, friends, and fans of the ballet!” The principal of the Academy said in a grandiose voice. She was on the other side of the curtain, introducing the show. “We are delighted to have all of you here tonight. This year, we are proud to present Igor Stravinsky's 1910 Italian classic, The Firebird. Enjoy the show!”

Then the curtain rose, and the music began.

[ishtarphotography]

White Shirt | Research

FASHION PHOTOGRAPHY 

Nowadays we take it for granted that fashion photography is an art form as creative and varied as any other, but it wasn't always this way. Over the past 100 years the medium has worked hard to establish itself as a valid and legitimate form of expression, so read on for a thorough history lesson in the movements that defined a genre.

As with all great advertising, some of the most recognizable fashion campaigns in history have become every bit as iconic as the brands they were first designed to sell. Somehow, these great examples manage to capture the spirit, voice and aesthetic of a designer so perfectly that they add a whole new level of context to their brand. Whether it’s the model chosen, the styling of their outfit, the set design of the shoot or the photographer themselves, great campaigns transcend the actual clothing and help tell a story all of their own.

1910 – 1934: Edward Steichen and the Condé Nast years

To many, Edward Steichen is the founding father of modern fashion photography. After a supposed dare by a close friend, Steichen undertook the task of promoting fashion as fine art via the medium of photography. To do this, he took a series of photographs of the gowns created by renowned French fashion designer Paul Poiret, which were subsequently published in the April 1911 issue of Art et Décoration magazine.

Widely considered the very first modern fashion photographs, they conveyed the aesthetics, movement and details of the clothes as central to their approach. His style centred heavily on the model, in typical portraiture style, but used lighting and carefully planned studio setups to focus on the clothes and give them a lavish and elegant look that was indicative of the time.

Another crucial factor in widening the appeal of modern fashion photography came in 1909, when the successful publisher Condé Nast purchased American lifestyle magazine Vogue. In doing so, he created the world’s premier fashion publication — one that gave photographers such as Steichen, Cecil Beaton and Horst P. Horst a platform to showcase their work to a huge new audience. In 1913 he followed that up with the launch of Vanity Fair, and together the two titles spent decades fighting Harper’s Bazaar to become the top fashion magazine in America.

What Steichen and Vogue gave to modern photography were the blueprints for almost all fashion advertising that was to come in the years after. Steichen formed his own unique visual vocabulary throughout the ’20s and ’30s, distilling classic renaissance imagery with cubism and futurism to create something that was fresh and exciting. His use of models, lighting and experimental studio techniques were completely revolutionary and, for many years, his contemporaries had no other choice but to follow his path. His importance cannot be exaggerated; Steichen changed the face of fashion photography, and his innovations are still being used to this day.

1934 – 1944: The revival of Harper’s Bazaar and The Design Laboratory

For many years, Harper’s Bazaar lacked the edge it needed to compete with the Condé Nast publications. The magazine’s fortunes changed in 1934, however, with the appointment of Russian photographer Alexey Brodovitch to the role of artistic director. With him in place, Harper’s Bazaar started down a new path that would change the landscape of fashion photography forever. He implemented radical layout concepts, used typography in bold new ways and had a vivid approach to imagery. It was his mix of elegance and innovation that transformed the fortunes of Harper’s Bazaar, securing its long-term future.

However, Brodovitch’s influence was more resonant than simply the pages of the magazine. In 1933 he started a course at the Pennsylvania Museum School of Industrial Art called the “Design Laboratory,” where he taught the full spectrum of modern graphic design principles. In attendance were young photographers such as Irving Penn, Eve Arnold and Richard Avedon. It would be these students that would go on to shape fashion photography on an almost continual basis for decades to come, all helping extend Brodovitch’s legacy long into the future.

1944 – 1960: Avedon and The Great Outdoors

One of Brodovitch’s early students at the Design Laboratory was Richard Avedon, who started his career in 1944 as an advertising photographer. Avedon quickly found a fan in Brodovitch, who spotted his talent and sent him to Paris in 1946 to cover the latest collections from the premier fashion houses. Young and full of energy, the images Avedon captured for Harper’s Bazaar represented a new direction for fashion photography.

Avedon’s style was all about one thing: movement. He replaced the static, lifeless poses of the Steichen era with photographs full of verve and vitality. He shunned the studio, preferring to work outdoors or on location. Capturing lively street scenes and bustling parties, his models were photographed in the moment, showcasing their natural femininity; the flowing clothes seemed somehow to be an elegant extension of their own bodies.

1960 – 1970: The divide

Avedon’s move to shoot his models in the moment was a real turning point for fashion photography. Those such as David Bailey used this style extensively to capture the new and exciting times of swinging London in the ’60s. Bailey’s photography for British Vogue built on Avedon’s ideas, but gave them an even more youthful feel, while his carefree approach linked model, setting and lifestyle like never before. Prolific photographers of the present day, like Mario Testino, owe a lot to work like this.

But there were some, such as fellow Brodovitch student Irving Penn, who continued to stick to the traditions of the studio. His famous cover for the April 1950 edition of Vogue featured model Jean Patchett in contrasting black and white. With tone and angle set in opposition, the result is dramatic, yet tranquil and this image in particular sums up his approach to fashion photography. Although his style was starting to fall out of favour during the ’60s, Penn changed the face of fashion photography in subtle but far-reaching ways for many years to come.

1970 – 1980: Return to the studio and the rise of sexual controversy

Capturing movement outside the confines of the studio had been the modus operandi of many photographers throughout the ’50s and ’60s. But, by the start of the 70s, a resurgence in studio work was well underway. Taking cues from photographers such as Steichen, Beaton and Penn, this new movement was defined by its use of female nudity, overt sexuality and surrealism.

Once again, Richard Avedon was riding the crest of this new wave. Having signed a deal to move from Harper’s Bazaar to Vogue in 1966, he decided to return to the studio for much of his fashion photography work. Referencing the glamour and freedom of the previous two decades, his shoots for Versace throughout the ’70s and ’80s were inventive and exciting. His trademark use of movement was still present, as was his celebration of vitality and confident female sexuality.

Somewhat contrasting Avedon there was Guy Bourdin, a Parisian who relied on sexual imagery to tell a different story. While his critics say that Bourdin reduced the female body to its most erotic parts, often promoting violent and misogynistic views, his supporters argue that he created his own unique brand of surreal mysticism. His advertising work in the late ’70s (including shoots for luxury footwear brands Charles Jourdan and Roland Pierre) often portrayed woman as weak and controlled — a strict counterpoint to works by contemporaries like Helmut Newton and Avedon. However his imagery is undeniably captivating, and the use of bright colour, staged surrealism and sex has influenced the work of modern fashion photographers like Terry Richardson.

1980 – 2000: The age of rampant commercialism

The ’80s were the start of a brave new frontier for fashion photography. Commercialism, a force that had laid somewhat dormant for much of the previous 60 years, suddenly reared its head. Fashion was starting to have a broader appeal as Europe and America’s burgeoning middle class took more of an interest in what they wore. They had more money to spend, and savvy fashion labels like Calvin Klein, Levi’s and Ralph Lauren were only too happy to take it.

A standout campaign from 1981 featuring a 15-year-old Brooke Shields personified this perfectly. Shot by the omnipresent Richard Avedon, the ad for Calvin Klein jeans saw Shields proudly declare that nothing came between her and her Calvins. It was a line that came straight out of an ad man’s notepad, but it caught the public’s attention. Almost overnight it made Calvin Klein jeans a highly desired product.

One man completely at home in the studio, and finding a new demand for his work, was Irving Penn. Throughout the late ’80s he teamed up with Japanese designer Issey Miyake for a compelling and ground-breaking set of adverting campaigns. Taking influence from Steichen’s simplistic approach and blending in his own subtle surreal tones, Penn took Miyake’s futuristic designs and exaggerated them with large, embellished silhouettes, using the pattern of the fabric and the contortion of the human body to showcase Miyake’s creations in a whole new light.

Penn was extrapolating Steichen’s blueprints, pushing the relationship between product, model and photographer further than anyone had done before. He had stayed true to the studio, even when his peers were shunning it. He had used this time wisely and was advanced in his use of lighting and considerate in the sparseness of his shots. This approach has since inspired a whole new generation of fashion photographers to look beyond the normal and push the boundaries of what can be achieved, conceptually, in the studio.

The ’90s produced a slew of classic ads. From the strong female role models portrayed by Donna Karen, to the American dream represented by Ralph Lauren, the ’90s were seen by many as the golden age of the ad campaign. Alongside sex, labels used supermodels to focus their campaigns around, finding an obvious link between their natural beauty and aspirational products.

Once again, Calvin Klein was at the forefront of this new movement, and turned up the heat in a particularly famous campaign from 1992. Featuring Mark Wahlberg paired with a fresh-faced Kate Moss, the unassuming black-and-white shoot by Bruce Weber captured the essence of this new direction. The simple image of them both, topless, sporting clearly branded underwear was all that was needed to get the message across. And it worked. Calvin Klein saw a huge uplift in sales, turning them into a globally recognised brand.

2000s: Hypersexuality

As mankind has thoroughly established over the decades, sex sells. But, while people like Helmut Newton and Guy Bourdin had used imagery for its sex appeal extensively in the ’70s, the 2000s ushered in a new age of hyper sexuality that was designed as much to shock as it was to sell clothes.

One man not afraid of using flesh to push his products was Tom Ford. The iconic campaign for his first fragrance, For Men, was shot by Terry Richardson in 2007 and blended Ford’s penchant of sexual imagery with Richardson’s stark and instantly identifiable flashbulb aesthetic. Bourdin was clearly a huge influence on this work; the highly manipulated studio shots, use of colour and slightly sinister portrayal of female sexuality are all present. Strategic placement of the perfume bottle leaves little to the imagination, and the campaign caused a lot of controversy, as well as a lot of exposure, for Ford.

Another campaign from the Tom Ford stable was released in 2003 whilst the designer was working for Gucci. Stylised and simplistic, this ad, shot by Mario Testino, garnered a lot of attention as it featured a female model with the Gucci “G” shaved into her pubic hair. Less about the clothing and more about the preening, it was a bold move for Ford, but one that once again proved the old adage that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

Although not averse to using sexual imagery in his advertising, Marc Jacobs strode a different path in the 2000s alongside longtime collaborator Juergen Teller. Teller’s distinctive photography style played a huge part in Jacobs’ promotional campaigns and differed hugely from the glamorous, highly stylised shoots of his contemporaries.

One standout example from 2003 featured Hollywood actress Winona Ryder. Having recently been arrested for shoplifting from the Saks department store in Beverly Hills, Ryder arrived in court wearing a Marc Jacobs dress. Spotting an opportunity, Jacobs hired her, and the now infamous ensuing photoshoot encapsulates his irreverent take on design with a devil may care attitude.

Celebrity endorsements and the celebration of wealth

Since Mark Wahlberg first posed for Calvin Klein back in 1992, big brands have been acutely aware of the attention a celebrity can bring to their campaigns. Strong females are a particular favourite, with fashion houses holding their rebellious and provocative spirit in high regard. Miley Cyrus for Marc Jacobs (much to the disapproval of Juergen Teller, who allegedly refused to work with the star), Lady Gaga for Versace and Lindsay Lohan for Miu Miu have all followed in the footsteps of Winona Ryder.

Current campaigns have also an increasing return to the nostalgia-tinged glamour of choreographed black-and-white shots. Hedi Slimane has repeatedly channelled ’70s era Helmut Newton for a large number of his campaigns for Saint Laurent, while Julia Roberts for Givenchy, Madonna for Versace and Mila Kunis for Miss Dior have all featured a similar monotone theme.

Perhaps the most dramatic shift in modern fashion photography, however, is the way in which campaigns are now being consumed. Between 2006 and 2013, the amount of pages dedicated per year to advertising in Vogue fell by 16%. In an age of Instagram and blogs, it’s clear fashion marketers have adopted a new strategy — one that includes a tacit acceptance that images may not ever make it anywhere near a glossy A4 magazine page, and may only ever be consumed on a scrolling social media feed. Content today is created in order to be shared, liked and retweeted. For many brands, lookbooks are the new ad campaigns — cheaper to produce, easier to consume and better suited for distribution across digital mediums.

Once the gatekeepers of the industry, today fashion magazines have been usurped by the internet. For some, this move is democratising, removing the elitism that the fashion industry old guard have long been accused of fostering. But, to many, it is the gentle dumbing down of a once proud art form that, thanks to the work of people like Steichen, Avedon, Newton and Penn, has long held great cultural and historical significance.

TYPES OF FASHION PHOTOGRAPHY 

1. Catalog Photography

Catalog photography is perhaps the simplest of the 4 fashion photography styles. Its purpose is to sell clothing, and the focus is on the outfit. It is often a good place to start in the field of fashion photography before progressing to some of the other styles.

Catalog photography really is a type of product photography. The only real difference between catalog photography and product photography is the presence of the model. Even so, the focus remains on the clothes.

The background of the photos are usually plain–white and grey colors are the most common. There are minimal accessories and few props. The models typically stand up straight to show the outfit, although they may strike different poses to show off features of the outfit like pockets.

Usually, the biggest problem the photographer faces with this style of fashion photography is the lighting. You want to use lighting that captures the details of the clothing without washing out the colors. To do this, it’s best to avoid using indoor lights or shooting at night.

2.High Fashion Photography

High fashion is something people see frequently on the cover of their favorite magazines. But, from the photographer’s perspective, high fashion means well-known supermodels in often exaggerated poses, a sometimes unrealistic wardrobe, and all elements including hairstyles and location blended to create a flawless image.

But, getting that flawless image is quite the challenge. You’re constantly confronted with difficult decisions regarding location, lighting, models, wardrobe, hair, and much more. Even if much of that is decided for you, you still have to put it together so that it looks glamorous and appealing.

One of the first things you should do is carefully consider the mood you want to create with the shoot. You don’t have to be too specific and you don’t have to stick with it if inspiration leads you elsewhere, but it’s a good place to start.

You also need the right model for your shoot. You want someone experienced, but also someone who will collaborate with you to create that mood you want. As well as the model, you’ll want a good team.

You’ll want people who are responsible as well as talented. You’ll want professionals in makeup, wardrobe, and hair styling. It also helps if they share your vision for the shoot and the art of photography in general.

If you have a choice of location, you’ll want to again consider the mood you’re trying to create. There are also practical considerations, such as whether you need a permit for your location, and if it’s indoors, you might need permission.

And, then there’s the equipment. You’re going to need lighting equipment as well as a good camera. You’ll want a small weight camera with a good battery life and features that help with low light conditions. You will also want a selection of lenses for varied types of images.

3.Street Fashion Photography

Street fashion, also known as urban fashion, is often thought of as the opposite of high fashion. An offshoot of street fashion is alternative fashion–grunge and hip-hop are examples that later became mainstream street fashion styles.

Street fashion looks are more rugged than high fashion. It consists of the kinds of things people wear everyday like jeans, shirts, and hoodies. It also includes dresses that look elegant, but don’t sacrifice comfort.

Photographers who specialize in this style are often shooting regular people on the street rather than models. But, you’ve got to be careful about getting permission to photograph people on the street. The rules aren’t always clear, as several street fashion photographers can tell you.

Most of the time with street fashion, it isn’t just about what the person is wearing; it’s also about their expression, how confident they look, the light, and how what they’re wearing accents their attitude.

To capture street fashion shots, most photographers use a longer lens. That way, they can get photos from a distance without making people feel self-conscious about the shoot.

4  Editorial Fashion Photography

This is fashion photography that tells a story. You’ll find editorial fashion photography in publications like magazines and newspapers. The images usually accompany text, which can be about a wide variety of subjects.

Editorial fashion photographs can also tell the story themselves or they may suggest an intriguing backstory. Often you’ll find editorial fashion images that are part of a theme or concept, or they may relate to a particular designer or model.

The goal here is to create a specific mood that tells the story. These images might involve one brand or several brands and various styles of photographs, from closeups to long distance shots.

That means there are likely to be various types of shots requiring different equipment as well as different makeup, wardrobe, and hairstyles on your models. There are also likely to be a number of different props.

Despite the challenges, editorial photography can be one of the more rewarding fashion photography styles because of the creativity it allows.

If you’re considering fashion photography as a genre, these 4 styles can give you an idea of the different possibilities in the field. Of course, you’ll need to get the proper equipment as you would with any genre, but once you have that, there are a number of styles from which you can choose. Really, it’s about deciding which style fits your particular needs and desires.

[theonetheycallbatman]

His Flower

Taehyung photographer au! 

Word count: 1057

Waking up in a bit of a daze looking out the window, to see the snow falling outside. Alerting you that it finally is winter you turn to the side groaning, closing your eyes as you pull the cover over your head. You feel the bed dip bring the down just enough for your eyes to peak at the figure. You see your beautiful boyfriend of two years looking down at you with his shaggy hair and bright smile. 

“Good morning” 

“Hello” You say to each other voices barely over a whisper, he leans down to kiss your forehead. Smirking at how you still freeze up as if he doesn’t do this every morning. You pull the down a little more kissing his cheek before bring it back up, ended the morning ritual you to have made. 

“When did you wake up?” you asking reaching for your phone on the night stand next to the bed. 

“Before sunrise, I wanted to take pictures but to surprise it was snowing.” 

You nod finally sitting up, reaching for his hoodie. He smiles taking it off handing it to you. You put it on pulling the hood up tying the strings, stretching as you get out of bed going toward the bathroom to brush your teeth. 

“Tae can you play some music please?” 

“Of course love.” He says before moving to the picking up your phone and clicking the playlist titled ‘cozy mornings’ which was basically just indie and acoustic covers of songs. He soon went to the bathroom to see you sitting on the counter brushing your teeth. Smiling at how small you looked in his hoodie, taking his phone out of his pocket taking pictures of you. 

“Stop creeper, before I break your phone.”  

“But you look so cute and small, please babe just one more.” he said as he continued to take pictures of you. Shaking your head you spit out the toothpaste, moving to rinse with water. Looking at him through the mirror as you dry your face. Seeing him laugh at the photos he took of you, totally engrossed in them you leave the bathroom. 

“Taehyung stop looking at them, it’s making me feel weird.” you say walking to the kitchen as the music softly playing throughout as you start the keurig. 

“Y/n I have the perfect concept for a photoshoot.” 

“Really, what is it?”  You ask picking up the cup of coffee sliding it over to Taehyung. Listening to him talk in circles about how he just wants just to take photos of you in the house. 

“Okay I guess but after I finish this okay. “ 

“Or I get my camera and we can start now. That way we’ll be done and can just chill the rest of the day.” He proposes leaning forward waiting for your response. You nod taking a sip of coffee, hearing him shuffle over to you kissing your cheek before running to get his camera. 

You hear the music change to as he reenters the room. “Are you ready to make some art.” He says bring the camera up snapping the first photo. As you roll your eyes at how corny your boyfriend can be. Looking back down at the cup of coffee you think to yourself how maybe this was a bad idea. Normally the people he photographed were absolutely gorgeous like him. The fact that he was with you was still a mystery itself, you were so average like every other flower. But to him you were unique and eccentric, you had your own flare and color that he loved. 

“Look at me love” he said his voice deep and powerful, full of concentration. He had taken control of you. As you look at him you heard him whisper “beautiful”. He brought the camera down examining the photo, before coming around the counter grabbing your hand walking you over to the window. He places his hands on you hips pushing you against the window. Running his hands up your body grabbing your arms bringing them above your head holding them there. He brings his hands down using one of them to tilt your head to up. He stares at you before leaning down capturing your lips in a slow yet hungry kiss. Taehyung pulls back laying his forehead against yours with his eyes still close. 

“Do you normally kiss your models?” you say jokingly to release some on the tension. Hearing him chuckle shaking his head before saying no and moving back to take another photo. He looks at it shaking his head, clearly not satisfied by it. Coming back to you he pulls the hoodie off leaving you in a halter top and your panties. You bring your hands down wrapping them around your waist looking at him. 

“Look out the window please” He says kneeling to get the desired angle, you hear him take the photo then run out yelling out don’t move in the process. You standing there watching as the snow fell waiting for Taehyung to come back from doing whatever. 

“It’s beautiful” you said barely above a whisper. 

“But you are more beautiful.” You turn around to see Taehyung kneel like before but instead of a camera he has a little box in his hold. “I have photographed a lot of people, but none of them compare to how I feel just looking at you. And I want to stay in that forever, so will you marry me please?” He says looking up at you, and all you can do is nod. Lost for words as he stands up placing to ring on your finger, you grab his face bringing it yours kissing him softly. Smiling as you look at the ring against his face. 

“Was this all planned out or ......” 

“I was gonna do it tomorrow at the dinner, but now just seemed better.” 

“It’s more us this way don’t you think.” You say wrapping your arms around his neck smiling at him. He nods bending down a little to pick you up, wrapping your legs around his waist he pecks your lips again. 

“How about we finish your photoshoot in the bedroom?” you just nod kissing him again, as he walks to the room with you in his arms. 

[jade-brooks-photography]

Studio Workshop

29th November // Week One

What was this workshop?

This workshop was to increase our knowledge on setting up and using the equipment in the studio independently. This was a workshop for only the photographers, we began with using a new camera, the Mamiya RB67 medium format Film camera which only takes 10 shots / images. We were first shown how to take the camera apart and the different parts of the camera. In total this camera is in 4 separate parts; the lens, the box, the back where the film goes in and the divider between the box and the film which cuts out the light making it light proof. Unlike a modern camera, the shutter to the Mamiya does not go off automatically, after taking a photo you close the shutter with a switch, followed by another switch to wind the film to the next shot, a complicated although quick to learn process.

Medium Format Contact Sheet;

We developed the film roles with our fingers crossed as the fill we used was 18 years old. Ive read up before that out of date film can give off really different effects to the images, this gave me a chance to test this theory. As a group of 4, we only had 5 shots each to take as we only had two reals of film for this specific camera, which only had ten shots each. These in the contact sheet below were my outcomes from the film. Im really happy with how they turned out, concidering the film was expired, but some of the other girls in my groups didn't turn out too lucky, as some of the film way damaged, and the prints came out with a light ring around them, which actually gave the image a really unique look to it. 

What ive found from these shots in the studio came out quite similar to Damon Bakers black and white studio shot, they came out looking quite flat, a low contrast between the blacks and whites as there was more grey in most of them and had a sort of grainy look to them. Personally im really impressed in how these images came out, you can clearly see the shadows and highlights which helps the image stand out alittle more. This image once scanned in actually came out blue, im not sure why, but as is fades to the sides it goes to grey, I think this gave the image a strange but effective look, as its only but where the model is, giving it a cyanotype look with the blue.

This image has the same effect as the last with the blue cyanotype look to it, but I got her to pull a different face, and look straight at me, this really shew the shadows and highlights made by the flash and soft box. I really like how her hat also casts a shadow on her head the opposite side to the shadows on her face, this always makes me look at the image more to try and figure it out. You can also see white marks on this photo more than the other which I think gives the image. This image also shows lots of tones but light on texture.

Conclusion:

Overall, I think this experimentation with the expired film was successful. This is because in the workshop itself, it definitely improved my knowledge on using film cameras, but also teaching me new skills in using and older camera model, and using a dim camera in the studio which I've never done before. Also, with the outcomes of these images, they came out clearer than I thought they would, showing more tones, shadows and highlights than I thought would happen. Not only that, but the way the textures of the images come out and the weak contrast is a really good link to Damon Bakers work successfully.  

Digital Contact Sheet;

We then changed up the studio to a white background using hard lighting with a tungsten spot light and a ring light. We wanted to experiment with colour gel filters. This was another technique we hadn't yet used or learnt properly in the studio. This experiment was to respond to the brief in a sense that we were switching from shooting in black and white, to colour and what is a better way to do that than bringing extra colour into the shoots than using sheets of coloured plastic over the lights. We decided to use a white background as it made the colour more vibrant in the background.

This is the coloured contact sheet, we decided to shoot these on a digital camera as we wanted the images to come out much sharper and have brighter colours. One a digital camera its much easier to see where you’re going wrong, for example; if the light reading was wrong on the light meter, or I wanted the colours darker. In this shoot I took the chance to experiment with my camera angles, most of them we quite low angles but keeping level with the model, not only that but I attempted long/full body shots as if for a fashion shoot, but also trying mid shots to attempt to capture the meeting of the coloured light.

Edits;

This photo was one of my favourites, this is because I shot it as a close up so she fills the whole image, and slightly coming out the image too and more to the left side. This gives me a feeling as if shes going to fall back, this is because of the placement of her hand almost touching the floor and her actually looking down at it too. I also feel like this image reminds me of a sport/active wear shoot with the hat covering her face and having a clear view of her shoes. This image is the edit of the original. What I did to this photo was use Adobe Lightroom to change the colour of the lights, instead of keeping the dullish colours in the prints, I decided to raise the contrast of the image which made the black on her clothes and the colours more deeper, I then raised the brightness setting to make the highlights stand out against the blacks. To change the shades of the colours I raised the vibrant setting to make the colours pop.

Experimentation;

I wanted to experiment with this image, so when editing I decided to change the hue settings on the photo, this made the colours actually change making the visual concept of the image changed. Colour in images is usually used to represent a specific mood, For example; Red = anger or Lust, Blue = Sadness, Green = Envy, Purple = Pride, Yellow = Happiness. Changing the colours of the image gave different moods to each shot which I enjoyed working with. Another thing I thought about when laying these images out, was that it reminded me of the Pop Art Movement by Andy Warhol. Making colours pop and stand out in for separate images and turning it into one.

Long Shot;

This is another edited shot off the contact sheet, I really liked editing the reds and blues to be pinks and purples, Whats different about this shot compared to the other is that this is a long/full body shot of the model. This type of shot with the crouching pose really makes the shadows pop out on the floor. I also love hoe the strengthened light on her face makes it look like her skin is half blue and half pink, this makes the image look unusual and different to other shots and very manipulated.

Conclusion; 

Overall, I think this experimental colour shoot was again very successful. There are still lots of room for improvements, to use different colour filters and different combination of colours. Id also like to use lighter clothes - this is because in this shoot I just had black clothes and the colours didn't really show up, so im thinking of developing this shoot by doing another with brighter clothes to see how it works and turns out.

[eurekakinginc]

"The Coming Age of Imaginative Machines: If you aren't following the rise of synthetic media, the 2020s will hit you like a digital blitzkrieg"- Detail: The faces on the left were created by a GAN in 2014; on the right are ones made in 2018.Ian Goodfellow and his colleagues gave the world generative adversarial networks (GANs) five years ago, way back in 2014. They did so with fuzzy and ethereal black & white images of human faces, all generated by computers. This wasn't the start of synthetic media by far, but it did supercharge the field. Ever since, the realm of neural network-powered AI creativity has repeatedly kissed mainstream attention. Yet synthetic media is still largely unknown. Certain memetic-boosted applications such as deepfakes and This Person Does Not Exist notwithstanding, it's safe to assume the average person is unaware that contemporary artificial intelligence is capable of some fleeting level of "imagination."Media synthesis is an inevitable development in our progress towards artificial general intelligence, the first and truest sign of symbolic understanding in machines (though by far not the thing itself--- rather the organization of proteins and sugars to create the rudimentary structure of what will someday become the cells of AGI). This is due to the rise of artificial neural networks (ANNs). Popular misconceptions presume synthetic media present no new developments we've not had since the 1990s, yet what separates media synthesis from mere manipulation, retouching, and scripts is the modicum of intelligence required to accomplish these tasks. The difference between Photoshop and neural network-based deepfakes is the equivalent to the difference between building a house with power tools and employing a utility robot to use those power tools to build the house for you.Succinctly, media synthesis is the first tangible sign of automation that most people will experience.Public perception of synthetic media shall steadily grow and likely degenerate into a nadir of acceptance as more people become aware of the power of these artificial neural networks without being offered realistic debate or solutions as to how to deal with them. They've simply come too quickly for us to prepare for, hence the seemingly hasty reaction of certain groups like OpenAI in regards to releasing new AI models.Already, we see frightened reactions to the likes of DeepNudes, an app which was made solely to strip women in images down to their bare bodies without their consent. The potential for abuse (especially for pedophilic purposes) is self-evident. We are plunging headlong into a new era so quickly that we are unaware of just what we are getting ourselves into. But just what are we getting into?Well, I have some thoughts.I want to start with the field most people are at least somewhat aware of: deepfakes. We all have an idea of what deepfakes can do: the "purest" definition is taking one's face replacing it with another, presumably in a video. The less exact definition is to take some aspect of a person in a video and edit it to be different. There's even deepfakes for audio, such as changing one's voice or putting words in their mouth. Most famously, this was done to Joe Rogan.I, like most others, first discovered deepfakes in late 2017 around the time I had an "epiphany" on media synthesis as a whole. Just in those two years, the entire field has seen extraordinary progress. I realized then that we were on the cusp of an extreme flourishing of art, except that art would be largely-to-almost entirely machine generated. But along with it would come a flourishing of distrust, fake news, fake reality bubbles, and "ultracultural memes". Ever since, I've felt the need to evangelize media synthesis, whether to tell others of a coming renaissance or to warn them to be wary of what they see.This is because, over the past two years, I realized that many people's idea of what media synthesis is really stops at deepfakes, or they only view new development through the lens of deepfakes. The reason why I came up with "media" synthesis is because I genuinely couldn't pin down any one creative/data-based field AI wasn't going to affect. It wasn't just faces. It wasn't just bodies. It wasn't just voice. It wasn't just pictures of ethereal swirling dogs. It wasn't just transferring day to night. It wasn't just turning a piano into a harpsichord. It wasn't just generating short stories and fake news. It wasn't just procedurally generated gameplay. It was all of the above and much more. And it's coming so fast that I fear we aren't prepared, both for the tech and the consequences.Indeed, in many discussions I've seen (and engaged in) since then, there's always several people who have a virulent reaction against the prospect neural networks can do any of this at all, or at least that it'll get better enough to the point it will affect artists, creators, and laborers. Even though we're already seeing the effects in the modeling industry alone.Look at this gif. Looks like a bunch of models bleeding into and out of each other, right? Actually, no one here is real. They're all neural network-generated people.Neural networks can generate full human figures, and altering their appearance and clothing is a matter of changing a few parameters or feeding an image into the data set. Changing the clothes of someone in a picture is as easy as clicking on the piece you wish you change and swapping it with any of your choice (or result in the personal wearing no clothes at all). A similar scenario applies for make-up. This is not like an old online dress-up flash game where the models must be meticulously crafted by an art designer or programmer— simply give the ANN something to work with, and it will figure out all the rest. You needn't even show it every angle or every lighting condition, for it will use commonsense to figure these out as well. Such has been possible since at least 2017, though only with recent GPU advancements has it become possible for someone to run such programs in real time.The unfortunate side effect is that the amateur modeling industry will be vaporized. Extremely little will be left, and the few who do remain are promoted entirely because they are fleshy & real human beings. Professional models will survive for longer, but there will be little new blood joining their ranks. As such, it remains to be seen whether news and blogs speak loudly of the sudden, unexpected automation of what was once seen as a safe and human-centric industry or if this goes ignored and under-reported— after all, the news used to speak of automation in terms of physical, humanoid robots taking the jobs of factory workers, fast-food burger flippers, and truck drivers, occupations that are still in existence en masse due to slower-than-expected roll outs of robotics and a continued lack of general AI.We needn't have general AI to replace those jobs that can be replicated by disembodied digital agents. And the sudden decline & disappearance of models will be the first widespread sign of this.Actually, I have an hypothesis for this: media synthesis is one of the first signs that we're making progress towards artificial general intelligence.Now don't misunderstand me. No neural network that can generate media is AGI or anything close. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that what we can see as being media synthesis is evidence that we've put ourselves on the right track. We never should've thought that we could get to AGI without also developing synthetic media technology.What do you know about imagination?As recently as five years ago, the concept of "creative machines" was cast off as impossible— or at the very least, improbable for decades. Indeed, the phrase remains an oxymoron in the minds of most. Perhaps they are right. Creativity implies agency and desire to create. All machines today lack their own agency. Yet we bear witness to the rise of computer programs that imagine and "dream" in ways not dissimilar to humankind.Though lacking agency, this still meets the definition of imagination.To reduce it to its most fundamental ingredients: Imagination = experience + abstraction + prediction. To get creativity, you need only add "drive". Presuming that we fail to create artificial general intelligence in the next ten years (an easy thing to assume because it's unlikely we will achieve fully generalized AI even in the next thirty), we still possess computers capable of the former three ingredients.Someone who lives on a flat island and who has never seen a mountain before can learn to picture what one might be by using what they know of rocks and cumulonimbus clouds, making an abstract guess to cross the two, and then predicting what such a "rock cloud" might look like. This is the root of imagination.As Descartes noted, even the strongest of imagined sensations is duller than the dullest physical one, so this image in the person's head is only clear to them in a fleeting way. Nevertheless, it's still there. Through great artistic skills, the person can learn to express this mental image through artistic means. In all but the most skilled, it will not be a pure 1-to-1 realization due to the fuzziness of our minds, but in the case of expressive art, it doesn't need to be.Computers lack this fleeting ethereality of imagination completely. Once one creates something, it can give you the uncorrupted output.Right now, this makes for wonderful tools and apps that many play around with online and on our phones.But extrapolating this to the near future results in us coming face to face many heavy questions, and not just of the "can't trust what you see variety."Because think about it.If I'm a musical artist and I release an album, what if I accidentally recorded a song that's too close to an AI-generated track (all because AI generated literally every combination of notes?) Or, conversely, what if I have to watch as people take my music and alter it? I may feel strongly about it, but yet the music has its notes changed, its lyrics changed, my own voice changed, until it might as well be an entirely different artist making that music. Many won't mind, but many will.I trust my mother's voice, as many do. So imagine a phisher managing to steal her voice, running it through a speech synthesis network, and then calling me asking me for my social security number. Or maybe I work at a big corporation, and while we're secure, we still recognize each other's voice, only to learn that someone stole millions of dollars from us because they stole the CEO's voice and used to to wire cash to a pirate's account.Imagine going online and at least 70% of the "people" you encounter are bots. They're extremely coherent, and they have profile images of what looks to be real people. And who knows, you may even forge an e-friendship with some of them because they seem to share your interests. Then it turns out they're just bundles of code.Oh, and those bot-people are also infesting social media and forums in the millions, creating and destroying trends and memes without much human input. Even if the mainstream news sites don't latch on at first, bot-created and bot-run news sites will happily kick it off for them. The news is supposed to report on major events, global and local. Even if the news is honest and telling the truth, how can they truly verify something like this, especially when it seems to be gaining so much traction and humans inevitably do get involved? Remember "Bowsette" from last year? Imagine if that was actually pushed entirely by bots until humans saw what looked like a happenin' kind of meme and joined in? That could be every year or perhaps even every month in the 2020s onwards.Likewise, imagine you're listening to a pop song in one country, but then you go to another country and it's the exact same song but most of the lyrics have changed to be more suitable for their culture. That sort of cultural spread could stop... or it could be supercharged if audiences don't take to it and pirate songs/change them and share them at their own leisure.Or maybe it's a good time to mention how commissioned artists are screwed? Commission work boards are already a race to the bottom— if a job says it pays three cents per word to write an article, you'd better list your going rate as 2 cents per word, and then inevitably the asking rate in general becomes 2 cents per word, and so on and so forth. That whole business might be over within five to ten years if you aren't already extremely established. Because if machines can mimic any art style or writing style (and then exaggerate & alter it to find some better version people like more), you'd have to really be tech-illiterate or very pro-human to want non-machine commissions.And to go back to deepfakes and deep nudes, imagine the paratypical creep who takes children and puts them into sexual situations, any sexual situation they desire thanks to AI-generated images and video. It doesn't matter who, and it doesn't have to be real children either. It could even be themselves as a child if they still have the reference or use a de-aging algorithm on their face. It's squicky and disgusting to think about, but it's also inevitable and probably has already happened.And my god, it just keeps going on and on. I can't do this justice, even with 40,000 characters to work with. The future we're about to enter is so wild, so extreme that I almost feel scared for humanity. It's not some far off date in the 22nd century. It's literally going to start happening within the next five years. We're going to see it emerge before our very eyes on this and other subreddits.I'll end this post with some more examples.Nvidia's new AI can turn any primitive sketch into a photorealistic masterpiece. You can even play with this yourself here.Waifu Synthesis- real time generative anime, because obviously.Few-Shot Adversarial Learning of Realistic Neural Talking Head Models | This GAN can animate any face GIF, supercharging deepfakes & media synthesisTalk to Transformer | Feed a prompt into GPT-2 and receive some text. As of 9/29/2019, this uses the 774M parameter version of GPT-2, which is still weaker than the 1.5B parameter "full" version."Text samples generated by Nvidia's Megatron-LM (GPT-2-8.3b). Vastly superior to what you see in Talk to Transformer, even if it had the "full" model.Facebook's AI can convert one singer's voice into another | The team claims that their model was able to learn to convert between singers from just 5-30 minutes of their singing voices, thanks in part to an innovative training scheme and data augmentation technique. as a prototype for shifting vocalists or vocalist genders or anything of that sort.TimbreTron for changing instrumentation in music. Here, you can see a neural network shift entire instruments and pitches of those new instruments. It might only be a couple more years until you could run The Beatles' "Here Comes The Sun" through, say, Slayer and get an actual song out of it.AI generated album covers for when you want to give the result of that change its own album.Neural Color Transfer Between Images [From 2017], showing how we might alter photographs to create entirely different moods and textures.Scammer Successfully Deepfaked CEO's Voice To Fool Underling Into Transferring $243,000"Experts: Spy used AI-generated face to connect with targets" [GAN faces for fake LinkedIn profiles]This Marketing Blog Does Not Exist | This blog written entirely by AI is fully in the uncanny valley.Chinese Gaming Giant NetEase Leverages AI to Create 3D Game Characters from Selfies | This method has already been used over one million times by Chinese gamers."Deep learning based super resolution, without using a GAN" [perceptual loss-based upscaling with transfer learning & progressive scaling], or in other words, "ENHANCE!"Expert: AI-generated music is a "total legal clusterf*ck" | I've thought about this. Future music generation means that all IPs are open, any new music can be created from any old band no matter what those estates may want, and AI-generated music exists in a legal tesseract of answerless questionsAnd there's just a ridiculous amount more.My subreddit, /r/MediaSynthesis, is filled with these sorts of stories going back to January of 2018. I've definitely heard of people come away in shock, dazed and confused, after reading through it. And no wonder.. Title by: Yuli-Ban Posted By: www.eurekaking.com

[marauders-groupie]

love you with all the grace of a tumble down the stairs

They do the love thing all wrong but it's no wonder because she's a shooting star on a reverse proportional trajectory, and he is a self-made hero the skies love to hate.

Or:

How a threat to kick his ass makes Bellamy fall in love with Raven Reyes. How they screw it all up. And fix it again.

Also on AO3

The bomber jacket hung off her too thin frame and Bellamy was in love. She was all fire and rage, of course, and it made him want to laugh. How predictable, having eyes in a room full of people only for the girl who threatened to kick his ass. "That's Raven," Clarke explained, sliding her fingers down the beer bottle. "Finn's ex." It made something in him choke and he nearly spat out the beer he was muddling in his mouth.  Raven - and even her name was fitting as he watched her grin ferally at Jasper after winning a round of darts - looked like someone too full of life to be only partially loved. "I know, I couldn't believe it either. She's -" Clarke grasped for words and Bellamy laughed when Raven whooped, ordering another round. "A star. She looks like a star." And it wasn't that she was Hollywood beautiful or had an aura of mystery about her. It was just how she made the dim bar seem a little brighter, like there was a glow she couldn't stop from escaping. Clarke nodded, smiling. "That's about right, yeah." A moment passed and then she was on her feet. "Want me to introduce you?" "We-" Bellamy didn't get to finish, to say that they've already met, because Clarke started waving and calling for Raven, all animated and chipper. There was a second in which he, as she strode over, lights reflecting metallic off her leg brace, thought about running away. But she was grinning at Clarke, an arm already flying towards her shoulders and Bellamy was intrigued. Last time she pulled a switchblade on him but now she was a hug person. "Raven, this is my -" She cocked her head at him with something feline in her expression, something sharp and drawn back. "We've met, yeah. Bellamy Blake. Nice to see you've still got teeth." The way she said wasn't threatening, just a joke he could laugh at, something he could cut his fingers on. Clarke choked on thin air but managed to press out, "You know each other?" "You could say that." He was grinning, too. "Raven said she'd kick my ass, bash my teeth in and then cut off my -" "Bygones." She waved a hand at him and then stuck it out. "I'm horrible when I lose. Raven Reyes." "Bellamy Blake." "I really am glad about your teeth, though. It would be such a shame to see them gone from that pretty face."

Bellamy knew a challenge when he saw one so he just raised an eyebrow and Raven, for her part, smirked like she know it was already a done deal. * When he kissed her in the parking lot, her breath tasting like beer she wrapped her lips around and that one cigarette they shared, Raven moaned into his mouth. And when she pulled him on top of her in her dark bedroom and flipped them over, no regard for the brace or the creaky mattress, Bellamy laughed. In the morning, it was his shirt that hung off the frame of her body, just one dark shoulder peeking out. He planted a kiss on her warm skin and she made him coffee. Of course it wouldn’t last. * He wasn't completely surprised that she never called back. There was something about that night and the following morning - an edge you could feel in the air. The intensity of it wasn't of the slow and savoring kind, it was the kind last chances and last moments had. Taking all you could get before you had to leave. That didn't mean that he was happy about it and so he found himself thinking about Raven more often than not. Buying cereal in the corner shop, thinking about whether she'd prefer Cheerios over Count Chocula, whether she liked sun or rain best, coming up with a hundred little things and mythologizing her in a way you could only mythologize someone you never got the chance to actually know. Her bomber jacket haunted his dreams and that bravado of hers - spitting blood and teeth and daring the universe to hit her harder. So he found a little of himself in her, so what?  It was not a crime, and yet he felt like he had been caught with his fingers in the metaphorical pie. "Honestly, you should just call her," Clarke said, shrugging over another beer. This was what they did - they moonlighted as the frequent patrons of their local bar whenever they weren't busy trying to finish art school in Clarke's case, and grad school in Bellamy's. "No harm in trying, right?" "She'd just tell me to fuck off." "True. Or she'd fuck you again." He toyed with the leather bracelet Octavia gave him as he said, "I don't give a shit about that." It was as if he'd said that he had suddenly developed wings and a strong urge to fly.  "Are you, Bellamy Blake, in love?" He rolled his eyes. "Definitely not." "But you could be?" "That's a shitty question, Clarke. I don't even know her." He knew she tasted a little like gasoline, a little like danger. Cherry pie, sour at first and sweet later. But he didn't want to mope, or hope. The stars on his wrist, peeking from under his bracelet, teased him anyway. * He saw her again in the bar he was working in during the weekends. For a second, she looked like she was going run away as far as her legs took her, eyes widening as she noticed him. And then she stayed, relief Bellamy didn't even know he could feel embedding itself into his bones, a light, fluttery thing. "Rum and coke," she said and tapped her knuckles at the counter.  There was something about her that seemed to dare him to ask but he was just glad to see her. This myth she'd become in her absence didn't even come close to the real girl. So he gave her the rum and coke and waited, wiping the counter like it's suddenly developed mud stains in the lull of the afternoon. "So," she started, eyes fixed to the side of his head like she'd burn through it. "About that night - " "What about it?" "It was a good night." Bellamy smirked. "Just good?" And to that, she grinned, that bit of feral sneaking in where dare stood. "Okay, it was really good."  For a moment, she toyed with her glass, the remnants of rum coke sloshing around and teetering too close to the edge when she angled it towards him. "I'd like to do that again sometime." Bellamy smiled despite himself. "Sure, we can arrange that." So he took her home after his shift, offering a hand to help her down from her chair and earning a glare.  It was different, this time around.  His keys jangled as he locked the door behind them and Raven stood in the doorway to his kitchen, hands shoved into her jacket pockets. She hadn't kissed him on the ride over. They hadn't even talked. All they did was stare at the road in front of them, like neither could work up the bravery. Sex was easy. Sex was just skin and heat and some laughter, too, like when he'd knocked his head against the wall and she bared the column of her neck to ridicule him. They could both do that. For Bellamy, it was just patching up holes that still made his bones ache. But this?  This, he thought, neither of them had experience with. "Nice place," she said at last. The neon lights filtering through the window cast a red glow on her features, making her seem sharper. He didn't mind one bit. "Thanks. It's been mine since - - well, shit," he breathed out, running a hand through his hair and remembering, "ever since I'd been a kid." Too much information. Talking to Raven Reyes was dancing on the edge and it sent a thrill through his bones, knowing that just one wrong word would get her on the other side of the door. Had all the people he had loved felt the same way about him? But she only nodded. "Cool. Any embarrassing baby pics?" "Just the ones with my nose stuck in a book, really." Raven snorted. "Of course. Clarke did tell me you were a nerd." "Is that a problem?" "Not at all." And this time, there was something in her voice. Lower, huskier.  It only took her three strides and then her hands were on his neck, his flying to her hips like muscle memory. How easy it was to forget all that he had wanted to ask. How easy to forget that he didn't just want her skin. Too easy. And when he splayed her on his bed, taking his time mapping every inch of her body, Raven pulled on his hair, asked, "What's gotten you so slow?" "Are we in a rush?" A smile. "No." "Then let me do my thing." She laughed again, that roar of hers, and then she gasped. Tasted something like Pacific salt water and musk.  He kissed her again and again and kissed his way between her breasts, down her ribs, stumbled across the raven pendant she always wore, forgot that he should care about it, and kissed her for as long as he could until they were both tired and she, with sweat trickling down her temple, said that she'd forgotten how good it was with him.  She sang praises of him with fingers digging into his back and Bellamy smiled into her shoulder, licked away the salt, smiled everywhere but into her face. At 3am, she climbed onto the fire escape and pulled him out, too. He'd have gone to sleep if it weren't for how lazy suddenly her movements became, how dopey and sated instead of jerky, instead of a match striking fire. "I love this," she said and looked to the city. Neon lights replaced stars and Bellamy found that he didn't care at all. "It's different this late at night. More human." They popped open a Coke and she told him about meeting Clarke with her legs on the fence, spraying condensation everywhere. And Bellamy had seen the embers on her calf before - of course he had. 

But it wasn't until she wrinkled her nose laughing to something he said that it struck him so deeply. It wasn't a matter of belonging - his stars, her embers. It was an outdated concept, soulmates. No guarantee of actually being good for each other. But the pendant was still swaying between the slopes of her breasts and if not embers, then the raven would have been a sign that this was what he couldn't have. Bellamy pulled her in for a kiss again and they didn't talk. This understanding was beyond words. * Raven was not his soulmate, Finn was hers, but they still wanted to try again - Bellamy wanted to try again.  He fell in love non-linear, in moments and tastes. Because she and he had twin hungers and it was so easy to slip into it - being with Raven felt like second skin. Like, look at this guilt, look how I rose above it. And I might be choking on salt water but I'm still singing. God, I'm still singing. There was resilience in it, too, pure spite like blade between her teeth. When she laughed with abandon it never came easy and Bellamy got that, he felt that. It carried more weight than the mountains he thought he was bearing. But Raven laughed anyway - the invincible girl she was. He fell in love in his room, Raven wrapped in a duvet with all that messy hair and sparkling eyes peeking through the fluffy mass. "Whatcha doin'?" Of course she made him laugh, of course she made him drop his work and kiss her again. Mornings with her slipped to softness so easily. He fell in love on a sweltering summer day, Raven licking her lips, stained with cherry soda, as she sat across from him in the diner.  He told her a joke no one had ever laughed at and she snorted into her drink. She was a shooting star on a reverse proportional trajectory; starting from the rock bottom and rising up. And he could see that it took a toll on her, every bit she shared. "I wanted to be an astronaut," she told him once, after another round, their backs sticking to the sheets during a heat wave that rendered the city sluggish and them irrational. Bellamy was staring at the ceiling and so was she. The glow in the dark stars he stuck to it when he was eight still hadn't fallen off entirely. He looked at her and she didn't meet his eye. "My mom used to tell me that no one from our neighborhood made it to space and I guess she was right in the end." Her fingers found her leg just like his lips had found the scar in her back a little earlier. "I just wish I'd seen the stars up close, that's all." "I know." She was back to her brazen the next morning, laughing when Clarke saw them with Raven's hand tucked into his back pocket. Everything was alright and everything was set on fire each minute he spent with her but he still choked on something inside him, his instinct to run just as strong as hers. This was why he could never stand someone in his bed when morning light came: No one understood so it was better to not even try. Echo had frowned at him when he asked whether she'd cry at his funeral. No one could see the blood on his hands that had always been there, the one he could never wash off. Octavia falling into the wrong hands in foster care, his fault his fault - - His fault completely. So who could ever learn to care and not tiptoe around all of that which made Bellamy who he was? It wasn't tragedy, it was a fact of life. And Raven - for all of the walls she put up - was the only one who did not say "I am sorry" when he told her. * There were sunny days, of course. She stole his glasses and left selfies in his phone to remember her by, and Bellamy brought flowers to her garage once -- threw them in the trash and brought her beer next time. They sunbathed in her backyard, amidst the scraps of engines and a few discarded exhaust pipes. He helped, along with Clarke and Jasper, when she finally decided to empty out the house of her mother's belongings. Nothing looked good as blue paint across her cheek and a smile that could light up the whole neighborhood. "I could sell the house for at least 500k, fucking hipsters." She said that the market was in their favor, Bellamy said that the stars were not. And at the end of the day, they'd lay on the living room floor devoid of a couch or a coffee table, and talk. With time, they didn't even need bodies as a buffer. "Want to meet Octavia?" "Sure." It was good, it was good, but she looked at the inked stars beneath his bracelet sometimes and he looked at the pendant and all there was was a ticking time bomb right in the middle of the living room. * The first was the fight.  Raven slammed the door and hissed for him to get the fuck out. It was six months since they'd met and it was cold enough to warrant a jacket when he got out of her house. "So it's my fault, right?" "Hell yeah it is, you had no right -" "It's just a pendant, Raven, all I did was move it out of the way!" "Do I go around rearranging shit in your apartment?" "You could." "Well, I don't!" "It's always him with you, and that pendant -" "It's never him with me, you damn coward! All you want to do is fix me or some shit!" "When did I -" "It's how you look at me, Bellamy! I am not a thing to be fixed. And I don't even know what the fuck you want from me! I'm fucking trying!" "Well, try harder! Because this is a joke - you don't even give a shit. Is this a holiday for you? Since we're not soulmates -" "There you go again with soulmates! Like I care, like I fucking care!" "But you do! And if this isn't going to work, if you need me to leave, just tell me. I'll go. But don't do this, don't string me along. And I'm not trying to fix you, Raven. I'm trying to know you because we've been together for five months and I don't even know your middle name. Don't try and tell me that you're in it. Don't." "I'm tired of this. You're like a fucking puppy. Just get out, Bellamy. Leave." "Raven -"  "Get. the. fuck. out!" He was tired, too. * Raven didn't call and neither did he. For a while, it was like a fog had lifted. He finished his thesis, took up running, hiked with Octavia and drank with Miller and Murphy. She was only in his life in the small parts - the toothbrush he'd thrown out a week after, the jar of vaseline she used for when her hands got too calloused after a day in the garage. Bellamy used to rub it in for her. But she was right and he got that with time, too late to back out now.  His pride was a furious thing, a devastating thing.  It wouldn't let him say he was sorry.

* So he did the next best thing. He unwound the tale of her and the tale of himself, too.  Raven was not a shooting star or a supernova, and he was not a metaphor for a self-made hero the skies loved to hate. Instead, he was just a grad student with shitty past and she was an engineer in the making who could eat her weight in pasta and make terrible jokes. And the marks of soulmates they have loved and lost didn't mean a thing. All they signified was how capable of loving they were – horrible lives and all.  The flood water came and it wasn't a clear river - it was waddling through ten inches of thick mud and in his case - pouring rain as he knocked on her door. Raven opened it in her pajamas, the look on her face showing that she was ready to tell him to fuck off. He didn't let her, interjecting instead, "I come with gifts." "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," she shot back and Bellamy chuckled. "Thank God I'm not Greek then." A smile played on her mouth as she opened the door and let him in. The house was different now, looked more lived-in, books stacked everywhere but on the shelves and mugs assembled on the fireplace in lieu of potpourri and family photos. Bellamy left the beer on the kitchen counter and Raven waited. "I'm sorry," he started, both hands in his pockets and cheeks flushing under her stare. "You were right. I was -- I was trying to force you to be something you were not and I am so, so sorry about that." She had also changed her hair - there were more braids in it now, making her look wilder, happier. It didn't surprise him when she rolled her eyes. "I don't want your apology." A beat, and then - "But I could use your beer." He followed her into the living room and they talked. Talked, really talked, with the copy of Iliad on the couch between them. It was full of dog ears and Bellamy couldn't stop himself from being surprised. "What? You went on and on about it, I thought I'd see what the fuss was about." And the night was a barbed wire kind of night but neither of them tiptoed around each other. Because, for all he'd once thought, he never asked about her mother or her injury unless she spoke first, and she never showed interest in his past unless he thought to mention it. That night was different, in how she led him around and joked deprecatingly about all the shit that took place around the house. "She'd just flip her shit out of the blue," Raven said about her mother, and Bellamy nodded. "Mine, too. It could have been anything, a homework, a pair of shoes." "And I used to have this guinea pig, right, so when he messed up his shit, she'd yell at me until I cleaned it." "Mine told me that I couldn't get a dog and should take more care of my sister since she was my responsibility." "Always the responsibility. Our moms were fucking shitpuddles." "Damn right. But we turned out okay in spite of them." "We did, didn't we?" * She didn't give him a tour of her bedroom until the fourth time he came around, this time bringing Thai food and collapsing into her lap as soon as he came in. Raven laughed, her fingers tracing imaginary lines on his scalp. "Are the kids being tiny assholes again?" His voice was muffled by her thigh when he replied, "When aren't they? Honestly, I don't think I'm moving ever again. The world can go fuck itself." "Fine by me. We'll be a weird symbiotic organism. Dude, name for a band!" She let him sleep over, leading him upstairs with his hand in hers, tripping over the stairs and stumbling into bannisters. Raven's room smelled like car oil and her skin, mostly. Clothes hung from the door, from the window, and above her bed - a mattress, just a mattress now - hung a tapestry of exploding colors. It burned in red and blue and yellow, a collision of impossible magnitude. "Clarke made that for you?" She hummed and sat down, took off her brace.  Bellamy lingered in the doorway - too private to just walk into. It was exactly like the Raven he should have seen all along - Spartan grit, bare knuckled fight, and something beautiful no one would ever expect lurking inside. He'd been looking for the essence of her in all the wrong places and here it was now - car oil and a mess and a bare mattress for bed. Discarded brace, like shedding her skin and saying she would always be more. A daring look as she took off her top and put on a MIT shirt she slept in. And the tapestry. Vulgar in its bareness, beautiful in how it could strike a man dead. "Come on, I won't bite." That night they were both too tired for anything more than laying down and whispering. Bellamy took the left side, she took the right, and moonlight streamed in through the white window, paint chipping off of it.  "I missed you," he said finally, her fingers tangling in his hair, her legs around his waist. Her breath was warm on his neck and around them, the winter was slowly shifting into what would be a very warm spring. This was enough, Raven next to him, and some truth, finally. Some resolution. It wouldn't be all good, but it wasn't bad at all. And Raven kissed the back of his neck, just one feather light kiss as she snuggled closer. Years later, he'd try to replace what she said then with words that came after, words like "I love you" and "I do" and "I got the position at NASA" but he wouldn't be able to. Some things were meant to sear themselves onto the very fabric of your soul. And this was one of them, in the dark room, no one but the two of them and the moon as Raven said, "Of course you did. I am awesome."

[thatsthe-gospeltruth-blog]

Aliquid Venturus Est *|* [The Philosopher and the Poet]

In which Calliope confronts Urania about her past...

@calliope-hesiod

Want to catch up? Read in this order: Journey to Hell Saga w Helle Mother Blue, a Seph and Hades one shot in the underworld. Callie’s Nightmare Previous Callie/Hades threads, Ad Congregandum, ft. Callie, Howl, and Hades. Blue Lullaby, a Hades one shot ft. Cassandra. You Will Go, You will Return, Belle ft. Persephone.

[tw for talk of murder/death]

CALLIE: Callie had spent the past few days thinking about Urania. More specifically, she had been thinking about the dream she had had of Urania all those months ago and about how she had not known it was Urania at the time. Usually when Callie dreamed, she had such full and utter control of her dreams. She could turn her head this way and that, walk in one direction instead of the other, watch from afar, watch from up close--her own dreams, and the ones where she dreamed of either people.

The nightmare she had had in October was different.

She wasn’t behind the camera then, not changing the shots, not altering the script, not working the camera angles. She was in it. She couldn’t change it.

She hadn’t been able to turn her head when she first dreamed it.

But now--

Now as she replayed it in her head, now, ever since Cassandra had appeared in the fire and ever since Cassandra had uttered Urania’s name, Callie could turn her head as she replayed that dream and she saw.

She saw Urania standing tall, silver knife in her hand, dripping with Cassie’s (sweet Cassie, dear Cassie, her Cassie) blood. When she lunged towards Urania in the dream, reaching for the knife, she saw every movement on Urania’s face--there was not much. Urania kept her face still, expressionless.

And when Calliope (the previous Calliope, not Callie, not Callie Angela Harper) plunged the knife into her chest, she held Urania’s dark, steady gaze the whole time.

There had to be another explanation.

Cassandra was--Cassandra was unstable, that was clear. Callie couldn’t see much of her story, but she had seen how Cassandra acted when she was summoned, how her voice trembled, the look in her (Seph’s) eyes.

But then, she knew when she looked at Cassandra, when she looked at Hades, she felt a pang in her chest that she had never known before.

Callie decided to ask Urania about it.

Callie did not get scared easily, but as she walked towards Urania’s study, in the other wing of their house. It was evening and the hallway to Urania’s study did not have any windows and was decorated by old, imposing works of art--depictions of Classical scenes, mostly, battles for glory, armored men with bloody weapons.

She swallowed and then held her head up high, walking towards the door at the end of the hallway, her footsteps not making any noise against the soft red carpet.

When she reached the mahogany doors, Callie knocked once.

“Urania,” she said, pressing her face closer to the door. “Are you busy? I need to ask you something.” She took a deep breath. “It’s about the old Calliope.”

URANIA: Grading was the bane of Urania’s existence these days. The students didn’t understand the concept that she was trying to get across to them. Half just bullshitted their answers, which were easily seen through and the other half didn’t even do the assignment to begin with. This was a summer course. How could the students be so ridiculously unmotivated? They’d chosen these classes to take. And if the answer was because they had signed up for Astronomy because it was easy, well, then, they deserved the F’s that they were sure to receive.

All the bullshit was giving Urania a headache. She had her shoes off, one of her legs tucked under her--intermittently rubbing at her temple or the arch of her foot, depending on where the pain migrated at any given moment.

So lost in her thoughts was she that she did not notice Calliope creeping upon her door until the knock sounded. Urania’s head snapped up, head tilting at the door as she brushed some of her hair back from her face.

When Calliope’s musical voice floated through the door, she smiled a little.

“Yes, darling, come in.”

The thought of speaking of the old Calliope was not daunting to her at all. Calliope prior had been a dear friend of hers, someone who she missed as much as Urania could kill anyone. What a waste her death was. At least it had brought her this Calliope, whose face appeared around the door, her lips drawn down in a frown.

“Please, have a seat.” Urania pulled her other leg up into the chair so that it was bent at the knee, her skirt falling around her thighs. “What is it, sweetheart? What would you like to know? I am an open book, you know this.” She smiled sweetly at Calliope.

CALLIE She thought to herself again, Cassandra must have been wrong. Cassandra had stolen Persephone’s body. Cassandra had broken a dozen and a half rules. Cassandra had led an innocent girl to her death and had not let the body return to the earth, she had stolen it and walked around in it and tainted it.

Urania had never done anything like that. Urania could be cold at times, yes, and she valued order above all but she was logical, she was direct, she acted for the good of the Order, for the good of the people they were inspiring.

“I had a dream about her,” said Callie, taking a seat on an ottoman. She curled her legs beneath her and linked her fingers together, resting her hands on her lap. “It was this dark forest. There were...dead bodies everywhere.” She swallowed, looking at the patterns on the carpet in Urania’s office. “She was running…”

She wondered how much she should let Urania know and bit down on her lip, before flicking her eyes back up to Urania

“There was another person there. Her name was Cassandra. She was tall and she had pale skin and pale hair and...she was dead. Calliope ran to her and she was dead,” said Callie, swallowing.

You killed her, she wanted to add, but something told her not to--it felt like when she was trying to guide a story, a little feeling that curled up in the back of her head and told her to keep that part quiet.

“And then in the dream I--I mean, Calliope--killed herself afterwards,” she said, taking a deep breath. She had relieved that moment over and over again, since October when she first had the dream. She knew how the hilt of the dagger felt, how the tip of it cut into her skin, how it felt to die.

“Why did she do that?” Callie asked. “Who was Cassandra?”

She knew the answers to these questions already, really. Calliope had loved Cassandra. Cassandra was the Ambassador. But she wanted to hear it from Urania.

URANIA: This was not what Urania had been expecting, but it was not altogether unexpected.

Many of the muses had dreamlike visions. Urania had them herself. She had dreamed of that same forest, with bodies everywhere--dark and morbid. She had dreamed of it and the two lovers inside who had thought they could hide from her there. Her powers had granted her the privilege of seeing to what needed to be done, her powers knew that it was for the greater good, for the Order.

She kept her face carefully blank, only painting on it the expressions she wished to: a slight pucker of her brow, the smallest downturn of her lips. A face of mild concern, empathy at someone having such a horrible dream

When Calliope had finished, Urania dropped her legs to the ground and glided around her desk, so that she was perched on the chair next to Calliope. She reached her magic out towards her, slow and subtle, prowling toward the girl, waiting for it’s moment to pounce, when Calliope was on the verge of a decision--a decision about Urania, one that she would knock to the ground and replace with a sense of surety.

“I have not told you much about the demise of Calliope prior because it pains me to do so…” Pause for emphasis. “I was there when she took her own life.” Urania nodded solemnly.

“The woman, Cassandra--” and here, Urania’s face twisted a little. Oh, did she hate that vile woman. “She was an Ambassador, a charge of Calliope’s, as one usually is. And, well, they fell in love. They ran away together because the Order did not approve of such a union. In fact, it broke several rules, as I’m sure you know.” She let her lips twitch in a bit of a smile.

“Calliope was my friend, so, I found her in that terrible, terrible wood. The Suicide Forest, in Japan. I followed her there, but--I was too late.” Urania sat back and frowned, turning her head to look out her office window, which had the forest unfurling beyond it. She really was frowning--but it was not sadness, more like--annoyance.

“I do not know what happened to Cassandra, only that those woods were dark and evil and filled with many terrible things. Before I could react--convince Calliope to come home with me, she killed herself with my dagger.”

Urania let out a heavy sigh and turned back towards Calliope. “I blame myself for their deaths. If I--had just been a little earlier, maybe I could have spared them both such horrible ends.”

CALLIE There were two factors at play here: Urania’s magic, prodding towards Calliope, urging her to make a decision, to have an epiphany, and Callie’s own magic, whispering to her the story--the real story, the one she had heard from Cassandra, the one she had seen, where Urania was standing over Cassandra’s body and the knife--the knife had blood on it already.

There was something that was going to happen soon.

That was a vague statement. Callie recognized that. But it whispered in the back of her mind, curled tight around her neck.

Something is going to happen, something is going to happen…

And this was one of those things--one of the things she had learned about in her lessons, pouring over the notes and journals of the old Calliope’s before--one of those things that was fixed. That she could not change, could not stop from happening. It was going to happen. She did not know what it was, but she felt it deep in her bones, a rumble, felt like she was standing at the edge of a bridge, eyes closed, hanging off, that one little misstep and everything would happen all at once.

Something was going to happen. Callie knew this. Something was going to happen that she could not stop--but a lot of things were going to happen because of that One Thing and well, she could fix those, she could…

Callie’s magic held off Urania’s for now, swirling around Callie. Callie, now, did not realize this, instead, she bit her lip and looked up at Urania.

“I talked to her,” said Callie, finally finding the words. “Because I was helping someone and we--I saw it in a vision. I had to help him find her. I didn’t know what she was, only that she...she stole his sister’s body.” She swallowed and said nothing else.

URANIA: Urania could feel Calliope’s magic pushing back against her own. It was annoying, but she simply let it hover for the moment, the two energies drifting in the air together. This magic knew each other—they could work in perfect tandem, sometimes, like they were meant to. Calliope with visions of heroes, Urania with the skills to guide them together.

This Urania and Calliope had not had time to do that yet. She had only done it a few times with Calliope prior. But, one day, one day soon, Urania hoped, they would be unstoppable in their collection of heroes. Calliope would be invaluable to her in this new world. Hopefully once she saw how people worshipped them, she would learn to come around. And Urania could be a benevolent ruler, really, she could—if everyone followed her law.

She tried not to focus on her own flights of fantasy, (though, they were not flights of fantasy; soon they would be very real goals for her to fulfill), and instead, attempted to focus on Calliope’s words. Her eyebrows drew down, confusion plain on her face, feeling her heart clench in her chest. If Cassandra had spoken to Calliope, well, that wouldn’t bode well for Urania at all.

Her powers pressed harder against Calliope’s as she drew back slightly, smoothing her face out again, though there was still the slightest pucker to her brow.

“Who were you helping, Calliope?” she asked, her voice no longer warm, though she tried to keep it from being harsh and demanding.

CALLIE Her magic spread around her like a shield, basically encasing her in it.

Don’t let her influence the story, something whispered. This is your story, your story, take it back, take it back.

“A boy with pale hair and pale skin and blue eyes, with blue fire,” she said, holding her head up high, looking Urania straight in the eye. “He was my first dream. My first hero--I found him here. It’s Fate. I had to be there by the river and he was there, just like I knew he would be.”

Something is going to happen, something is going to happen…

She said it confidently, even though her heart was hammering in her chest, even though she knew that there were rules and that Urania did not look happy at all. But this was something she had to do--it was her destiny, her mission.

URANIA: Now, now she was annoyed. Calliope’s magic pushed back at her and it pissed Urania off. Usually, Urania had a brilliant amount of control over her powers. Urania prior had marveled and complimented her, giving her the praise that Urania had never received in her life from anyone. Even when Urania had eventually killed her, Urania prior had died whispering sentimental praise, “you could’ve been so much more.”

Well, Urania was going to be so much more. Soon.

It was so close she could taste it, the key to opening the Underworld. It sat right in front of her, in the form of a name. Calliope knew who the Ambassador was.

Urania’s magic turned sharp as a knife, trying to slice through Calliope’s natural defenses.

“What is his name?” she asked, her voice harsh.

She leaned forwards again and let her nostrils flare a little. “You didn’t tell him what we are, did you? You know that is against the rules.”

CALLIE: “I told him I was a helper,” she said, lying through her teeth. Callie didn’t like to lie; she hated it. But she knew she had to. Because if Urania got mad at her, if Urania punished her for breaking the rules and made her wear one of the chained necklaces that limited her powers, well, she couldn’t help with anything. And there was something big around the bend.

“Someone else guessed it; I didn’t say anything,” she said, drawing her shoulders up. That someone else was Howl, who had known almost right away.

Her magic protected her enough from that; she did not have to tell Urania that she had told Hades what she was. But something else stirred in her.

She had to tell Urania his name. It was a mix of Urania’s magic and her own telling her--Something is going to happen, this needs to happen, this needs to happen.

“Hades,” she said. “Like the god of the Underworld.”

URANIA: Urania knew that Calliope was lying. She’d known the girl for years and years and especially through her most formative ones. She knew what Calliope looked like when she lied. Her eyes got so sad, because she was such a soft thing. This always worked in Urania’s favour. She liked it about the girl. It made her so easy to manipulate, when it came right down to it. And yes, usually she would press, usually she would be furious.

But, right now, like always, that soft heart was working in her favour.

While her heart thrummed excitedly, she softened her features outwardly, reaching out to squeeze both of Calliope’s hands in hers, wiping her magic away as if it had never been there in the first place. She’d gotten the information that she’d needed.

She smiled gently and squeezed at Calliope’s hands. Dear, sweet Calliope.

“That is rather fitting, isn’t it? I simply wanted to know because a Magick like an Ambassador is important in our line of work. We’re always sent to guide them. That may be what drew us here in fact.” It was certainly what drew Urania. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart, don’t worry. I think you’re doing a good thing, helping him.”

[nathanielbrennan-blog]

Research Report

BA (Hons) Photographic Arts

Major Project 1

Research Report

Name:  Nathaniel Brennan

Major Project Title:  Who’s that?

Research Methods

I don’t know if I've used a specific method for my research, I’ve just found/come across other pieces of work that I feel correlate with my project. Whether that's through the concept/foundations or the imagery. I’ve found myself buying a lot of books lately, a lot of photo books from various different artists and photographers with various different concepts. Not always relating to mine. However, there's always been something I could take from the works, even if it was just the composition of images or layout within the book. Gathering a personal library of books has probably been the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Having convenient references around me really spurred me on to produce more work towards my project idea and the language combined with different concept and context has really helped me make more sense of my own project and explaining it in my proposal.

Pilot Project

Through doing my Pilot Project the first thing I realised is that my second idea is far more interesting and exciting to me than my first idea. I recognised that its actually going to be possible to produce the idea I want to convey effectively. The Pilot project has taught me about the different formats I can present my work in, and where I can take it. I've learnt that I really need to take my time with my project and produce the best quality film images I can because when exhibiting in prints and in books they need to be perfect to have the best effect on the paper its printed on. For my Pilot, I used aspects of my main idea just tweaked differently for the subjects and work I had. After completing my Pilot a lot of things to do with layout and structure became more clearer to me and showed me the best formats and layouts to use in my final piece.

Audience and Context

This is very interesting. I would say for my project it's extremely important to be aware of the public expectation, that’s what I want to work with. For my project, the more relatable it is for the viewer the better. The history surrounding stereotypes is something I’m trying to showcase in the work I produce. I mean, it kind of already helps that my subjects play into the typical stereotypes but I feel the work that comes after will juxtapose this. To be honest, I don’t think I would change an idea of mine to suit a context people would more generally understand, I have my idea, I produce it, the people can have their own opinion/point of view. Stereotypes are pretty general in everyday life and I’m sure people will understand the terms I use in company with the images

Production and Presentation

There have been multiple different formats I’ve wanted to present my work with this term, more than I have in my previous projects. Throughout my pilot I’ve been working with physical digital prints, a format I don’t usually use in my work because I mainly use film.  How I present my work factors massively into my project I’ve come to realise. If I’m looking to create an immersive atmosphere I want it to be as relatable and as grasping as possible but at the same time easy to understand.  For my Pilot I decided to create zines, putting personal info and a Q&A section for both subjects. To show comparison and similarities. However, the idea of audio with conversations speaks to me more. Allowing the viewer to actually hear the individual I feel would create more of a picture for the viewer in their head.  

The presentation is big, especially in regards to image choice and layout throughout my work. A lot of editing decisions had to be made in regards to image choice. I needed coherence, and powerful atmospheres to come through my images, as well as my text. What questions to ask and where to put the text was a stressful process for me. I'm so precise with my work so every detail has to be to best it could be or the most effective it could be. I was determined to show a coherent flow in my images and easy exploration of text and structure throughout. Something I feel I accomplished well in my Pilot. So overall a lot of critical decisions were made during the making process of my work. A lot of decisions that could really make or break my project. I feel I handled it well and I feel the work will be something easy for the viewer to grasp. I had to make sure they had the best possible chance at giving an insight into my subjects and concept. had to be made during the process of my zines to make sure they had the best effect possible so the viewer has the be the best insight possible. This aspect is critical for my concept and I feel I did it justice. Obviously room for improvement though.

Visual References / Bibliography

Throughout this module visual references have been at all time high for me. I usually find myself getting books out of the uni library but this time I’ve been very fortunate with the bookstores that have been loyal to me. Each day I’ve been going in and finding a new book nearly every time. Not necessarily in coherence with my concept but defiantly for structure, composition and image layout/presentation

- Albert Watson Mad Dog Schirmer/Mosel

This is a book acquired from my local bookstore. One of my favourite books I’ve recently bought. Like my other books, the majority, if not all the images in black and white. However what stands out to me the most the composition of photos, contrasts and the layout of the photos. I'm a huge fan of deep tones throughout black and white which is another aspect I want to try and display in my work. I love the juxtaposition of images next to one another. No matter how different it may look from the one next to it, there's something strange linking the two together. Maybe something I might incorporate in my day in the life zines. Finally, the small crops/images In the middle or top corners is another layout style I really like. Minimalist work appeals to me just as much and big collage pieces.

- Brick Magazine Inspiration

Brick Magazine is a fairly new published magazine giving insight into the latest musical artist, producers and youth culture. This issue, in particular, is one of my favourites with my some of my favourite artist and some of the nicest/most interesting photographs and composition. Throughout the magazine, there is constant conversations and stories about said individuals. The text layout on top of the fully bled imaged is something I want to try and bring to my zines I make for the project, as well as the hard-hitting close-up portraits.

Spike Lee Book Inspiration

‘The Films of Spike Lee Five for Five. A behind the scenes photo documentary of five Spike Lee films, documented by his brother David Lee. What stood out to me the most was the composition, layout of the images and their content throughout the book. Very old school feel and traditional layout, atmospheric images. Each image made me feel so familiar with the subjects and the characters they play In the films. The powerful angles, a mixture of soft and deep black and white tones. The composition and rawness of the images spoke volumes to me. The documentary style is something I want to implement in certain areas of my project, mainly in relation to my second idea.

Dana Lixenburg - Her project Imperial Courts 1

The relationship she has built purely through photography and revisiting over a certain period of years with these strangers in LA is something I find so inspiring. Having individuals become familiar enough with you to allow them to take their photo while not even knowing you is a huge achievement in its self but the portraits that come of it are even more remarkable. The full body to 3/4 body portraits of these less fortunate individuals speaks volumes to the viewer. The crisp detail and emotion captured leaves the viewer's empathy throbbing. Something I'm hoping to accomplish with my projects, just in slightly different ways. I've found in my own work, the more comfortable I get with new friends and old the more they will show of themselves In a photograph. I'm not talking about literally showing more of their body but more into how they are feeling In a certain moment, a true representation of a particular aspect an individual has. Whether that's a happy or aggressive side. Something I feel can be taken away from the images in this body of work.

Larry Clark

My second place of inspiration comes from Larry Clark and his body of he produced titled Tulsa. Not so much in the content of images but the foundations behind his work. Larry Clark happened to know some very different individuals, people he would be around every day. Absolutely fascinated by his friends be decided to document them in the book Tulsa. I feel very privileged to know the individuals I know (how Larry Clark might have felt) and I want the world or others to know of these individuals. I want to show the talent I’m surrounded by and how influential they can be. The candid photos which also make up this body of work is an aspect I’m looking to implicate with my project ideas as well. Creating more of a picture to the type of atmospheres generated by these individuals. A possible insight, just how Clark has accomplished with these images.