#even though the real pencil effect is on point

[oriixxc]

trying new brushes

&halloween vibe

[flame-shadow]

A breakdown of my quirrel!nosk comic from last year (original post here) since I like doing breakdowns and talking about my process, and I know at least some people like reading those things. :)

First of all, a little background. I made that comic in an evening with just a pencil, a black marker, two grey markers, and a yellow-orange marker. (All markers had a thick tip and a thin tip, and all were water-based markers, so they don't blend like alcohol markers, but they can still be layered to affect the values) I had a text post from @g0at0ad saved in my drafts that said "gotta say. massive missed opportunity to not have nosk mimic quirrel to lure the knight into its lair." and finally, I had an idea for how to illustrate the reveal and felt I had a decent idea for the nosk's design.

I wanted to follow the same encounter order as the game provides, and by happy coincidence, I realized that the route from first sighting to nosk den includes the hot spring, so it made perfect sense for that location and the real Quirrel to appear in the comic.

Ghost spots a Quirrel-like figure in the darkness in the first panel, and then as the path continues and drops into the hot spring, there's (real) Quirrel, so clearly that's who Ghost saw a minute ago. Yay, friend! And since Quirrel explores around, it's not strange that Ghost would spot him again in an area not so far away, though it's odd how he got ahead of them. Perhaps a different tunnel? And it seems like Quirrel wants to lead the way to something, so Ghost follows, until- That's not Quirrel.

In addition to the potential of a reader already knowing the game's locations and recognizing the path to the nosk's den, there are other visual clues that subtly communicate that something might not be right. I made it so every panel but the hot spring one has black silhouettes encroaching on the space within.

The third panel is the mildest one being encroached upon because Ghost doesn't yet feel like something is off (still reassured from seeing Quirrel in the safe hot spring) but the trap is coming together. The existence of the spider web in the corner is a nod to the trap because it's a common visual symbol for being trapped.

Also note how both the first and third panels have some safety via straight panel edges. Contrasted with the fourth and fifth panels which have no straight edges as Ghost cannot escape and there is no safety.

Another subtle reinforcement of danger vs safety is how the use of black is very limited in the hot spring panel. It's a brighter room mechanically, yes, but it's also a Safe Room. The only black is Ghost's void parts and a thin outline around Quirrel (and also a bit of shading on his arm that I did out of habit before remembering that I wasn't going to use black to shade him here, oops!)

And, note that in the only panel with Real Quirrel, he isn't framed against a darker shape in the background.

Okay, and finally, I will share a bit about the nosk reveal panel and its design...

This pose and angle are dramatic and all, but they're The Worst for showcasing the actual design of the nosk! Just a complete mistake on my part that I did my best to roll with, since I didn't realize until too late how I'd messed myself up.

Which happens! I don't always get it right, and especially when I'm working traditionally, there's a point where I can't go back, so I just have to make do with what I gave myself. :) I don't hate what I have here, but I have been dissatisfied with it ever since I drew the lineart.

A thought I have had since then was that maybe I should've drawn it larger, to be more threatening? Maybe a different pose to show off the side-body frills? I explored a couple ideas below, but honestly, I think the whole panel would have to be reworked to get it right.

Making sure that the background frames the nosk effectively would be one of the main things I'd redo, but I'm getting tired and don't feel like drawing more, so I'll just leave it at the nosk replacement sketches.

And since I don't think I did a good job with displaying the nosk's design effectively, I quickly sketched some of the features to maybe show them off a bit better.

I like the gimmick of the nosk turning its head, so I pretty much always maintain that with my nosk designs. This one is no exception. Quirrel's head and face become the cranium and upper jaw while Monomon's mask becomes the lower jaw - the extra length causes an underbite. I've always been a fan of when people add a veil hanging from Monomon's mask while Quirrel is wearing it, so that's where the frills come from. ("Why didn't you include the veil in your Quirrel drawings, then?" I hear you ask. And honestly..... I don't know! That could've been an oversight or it could've been deliberate and I just don't remember my justification. That happens sometimes XD)

Anyway uhhh yeah! I think that's it. I like making comics. I like thinking about nosk. Tadaa~

[thornedrose44]

Lena Luthor: Random Crap Generator

Read on AO3

She liked to think it was a gift from her mother - her final wish or a blessing.

Or maybe even a bizarre recompense from a universe that believed the smallest smidge of magic made up for depriving a girl of her mother. (It was the equivalent of the sun going out and being given a match with the propensity to sputter and die or generate a light unable to cast further than three feet ahead.)

It was still magic - something tangible, individual and beyond understanding - and even in her childish heart, that was so overwhelmed with grief and loneliness, it provided a spark of giddiness and excitement. It made her feel special. 

What would it be today?

A lily so she had something to lay on her mother’s coffin.

An umbrella to shield her when she was caught in an unforecasted shower, sat on the curb by the police station waiting for the strange man in fancy clothes to pick her up and take her to her new home.

A chess piece - white knight - to replace the one that Lex had lost when they had moved the board from the living room to the garden for the day, it meant they could play and pretend to ignore the raised voices of Lionel and Lillian.

A pencil to replace the one that snapped in her first lesson on her first day at school.

It was impressive until Lena grew used to it. Learned that there were limitations. 

It was never anything substantive or of high value, it had to fit in her hand, had to be small and low value as if whatever this ability was could only pull items from a ninety-nine cent store. She got one item a day. It would be there in her hand when she woke up and then it would vanish when she fell asleep.

(She tested it out, working out what it was linked to - a time or the actual act of sleeping. She stayed up all night, holding tight to the sleep mask she’d had awoken that morning with to see when it would disappear. It remained resolute and real. It wasn’t until she fell asleep in the late morning, eye mask pulled on to block out the bright sunlight that it vanished at some point during her exhaustion-induced nap.)

It was during her teen years - particularly the angsty goth phase she leaned into - that she dubbed her power ‘The Random Crap Generator’ (unsurprisingly the name stuck).

The item didn’t tell her the future but gave some decent hints which, as Lena grew older, was more appreciated than the actual cheap item itself. 

The earplugs she woke up to in her hand on her first day at college let her know that the girl next door did not understand that the walls were thin, her moans were loud and pretending that her boyfriend was an effective lover did not actually make it so.

The roll of quarters pre-warned of the washing machine in the shared college house was broken before Jack and Sam yelled for her help in fixing it. 

(The condom was particularly embarrassing and made her acutely aware of the most likely outcome of the fancy date that Jack had planned for that evening).

The cuddly brown bear told Lena that Sam’s water would break two weeks earlier than expected.

Most of the time it was harmless or a helpful nudge.

Other times, though, it was a gut punch or an omen that left her on tenterhooks for the whole day.

Lena remembered waking to find bandages in her hand and small alcohol wipes. She’d had injuries before - fencing could get brutal and every engineer has their personal soldering story that keeps them vigilant for all future interactions. But this was different. It was different because she was set to wear a wire that day. It was different because she now knew what her brother was capable of. She couldn’t take the bandages with her, it would have undermined her role - the doting sister who could never imagine her brother causing her harm. She tucked them into her nightstand and later when she made her way home after hours at the police station - the officers already starting to sneer at her despite her crucial help - she’d come home and retrieved the morning supplied medical items and tended to the damage on her wrists from Lex’s too tight handcuffs.

Then there was the day she woke to something small and cold in her hand. She’d rolled it on her fingertips under the quilt, hoping that when she finally pulled it free and studied it that it wouldn’t be what she suspected it was. She kept the bullet with her, tucked into a hidden pocket of her suit. A single bullet without a gun doesn’t attract much attention. When she picked up the gun and found the chamber empty, she didn’t even bother to check that the bullet was the right type. She knew it would be. One shot was all she needed, and then Lex was bleeding out in front of her.

The days following that she awoke to a box of tissues and she worked away her way through them diligently - until she had no tears left to shed and her heart couldn’t break any further.

She ignored the small compact mirror that was in the palm of her hand every morning as she sought revenge and retribution. She threw it in the trash, out a window, ran over it with her car and even destroyed it with a controlled explosive. Regardless, the exact same mirror (cheesy pink casing and slightly chipped in the corner) would appear and Lena belligerently refused to study herself in it - aware of the unfamiliar darkness she would see brewing in her eyes.

(The day after she had reached out to Kara to repair their damaged relationship and return to the light, she awoke to a simple gold star sticker stuck to the palm of her hand - the exact gold star stickers her Mom had given for completing little chores and tasks. She had cried into the pillows until they were damp and her cheeks red and flushed.)

A red, blue and yellow friendship bracelet - fraying on the ends but clearly made with love and care - was clasped tight in a fist when she awoke every morning during Kara’s absence as if to serve as tether or connection until her return.

Xxx

Despite her Random Crap Generator (trademark pending), Lena had still struggled to believe in magic. 

(Mostly because if magic was real, what was the point of her entire career and scientific pursuits? If magic was real and could do so many amazing things, why did her mother walk into the sea? Why if there was so much wonder and things beyond what they could merely see, why wasn’t it enough for her mother? Why? Why? Why?)

She didn’t understand her power but she believed that there was an explanation that was simply yet to reveal itself - her main working theory was time travel. A version of herself in the future - who for some reason only had a bucket of bargain items on hand indicating a rather dramatic change in her financial circumstances - sent back ‘useful’ items for each day of her life in the hope to aid her without causing some dramatic paradox.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to need you to say that all again…” Kara requested, crease between her brows so deep it almost looked endless.

“Which part exactly?” Lena frowned as they sat down for breakfast in Kara’s apartment.

“The part where you’ve been magical since a little girl and yet belligerently refused to believe in magic? Or the part where you're only telling me this now?” Kara spluttered, resisting even starting the stack of pancakes in front of her to instead question Lena, which told her this was a ‘serious’ matter.

“I just…” Lena waved a hand and shrugged, “didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Wha- I- you- Argh!” Kara aggressively stabbed her pancakes and shoved a chunk into her mouth chewing angrily.

Lena sighed, “Look it’s not like it’s…” She hesitated wondering if they were at a stage in their renewed friendship (post-reveal, post-revenge, post-apology, post-Lex, post-sharing-your-super-secret-with-the-whole-world) to nod back to it in a gentle way. “Cool superpowers. It’s a hairband when my one snapped the day before. It’s a chocolate bar when I have low blood sugar. It’s… it’s crap.”

Kara gasped in outrage at the descriptor. “It’s not crap!”

“Kara… Come on.” Lena rolled her eyes.

“My best friend’s magical abilities are not crap.” Kara declared, chin lifted with determination, reaching out with her free hand to squeeze Lena’s forearm - hand remaining there even once the comforting touch had been provided.

(They were doing that more often, reaching out and maintaining contact. It was simple and affectionate, and from afar it would be considered merely friendly but up close? Up close you could see how Lena’s cheeks became rose-tinted, how Kara’s breath caught and how they both snuck glances at one another, their smiles small yet greedy.)

“Regardless,” Lena continued clearing her throat, and trying to ignore the swoop in her stomach, as her voice softened to something apologetic and deeply sincere. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

She hadn’t even really told Kara either, her ability outed itself. She and Kara had had their twice weekly sleepover (Lena didn’t study the ramifications of them having their own drawer and closet space at each other’s places), and upon waking to Kara’s arm slung over her waist and face pressed to her back, Lena found a full pack of pancake mix in her hand which Kara had immediately queried. 

It sort of all came tumbling out from there.

“I appreciate that.” Kara acknowledged, lips shiny with syrup as she smiled at Lena. 

“Thank you.” Lena nodded.

“But seriously how could you not believe in magic with all that going on?”

Xxx

They started sleeping over at each other’s places more and more. Kara was curious about Lena’s power and had the child-like wonder with each new day’s offering that Lena had lost over the years. Even if Lena couldn’t help but indulge in Kara’s joy, there were other benefits to incentivise her.

Kara would hold her close in bed, pulling her back against her chest, nose sneaking through the locks of her hair to trace the nape of her neck. Lena would press yesterday’s item into Kara’s hand, who always held onto it with the vain hope that if she held it just right it wouldn’t vanish, whilst Lena would keep her right hand held out across the mattress so upon waking whatever had appeared would be instantly visible.

The first morning there was a bright red box with a handle; Lena had handed it over to Kara immediately who giddily turned the handle producing the shrill childish music before popping loudly to reveal a jack-in-the-box. 

Lena had never loved her ability more than she did in that moment.

xxx

“Ugh…” Alex groaned, sniffling loudly as she collapsed onto the stool next to Lena. 

“Everything okay?” Lena queried, flinching away when Alex sneezed violently into the crook of her arm.

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled, voice nasally, “Esme picked up a cold from school and it's taken me and Kelly out. I’m at least somewhat mobile so I took Tower duty.”

“Sounds like this is for you, then.” Lena said, without really thinking about it, handing over the cold and flu medicine she’d been granted that morning.

“Huh?” Alex frowned, accepting the medicine, “Thanks… did you just have this on you?”

Lena hesitated for a second, “You could say that.”

Alex’s gaze narrowed, “Did Kelly message you to pick this up for me?”

“No, I just had it to hand.” 

Alex blinked, “Wait is this… like yours?”

“Mine?” Lena repeated.

“You know…” Alex held out her hand and opened and closed it repeatedly. “Creation magic.”

“Temporary Random Crap Generator.” Lena corrected and confirmed.

“So, if I take this medicine and you go to sleep, would the drug just disappear from my bloodstream?” Alex questioned.

“Not sure, I think it would if I was given a different item upon waking but if I generated the same item, I don’t think so. That’s what happens when I’m ill, I keep getting the medicine until I’m better.” Lena explained.

“Hmph…” Alex replied, eyes watery and cheeks flushed enough to stop her from interrogating further, she shrugged and took her medicine as Lena returned to her work. “Hey… what… what is this branding?”

“Hmm?”

“This look like it's from the nineties?” Alex said, looking utterly perplexed, “Is it like retro or something?”

Lena glanced at the bright colours and blocky design that marked it as older than the sleeker and simpler designs of today. “Uhh… yeah, it must be.”

She’d never really considered the design, whenever she got sick she didn’t go to the pharmacy for over the counter medication, she always awoke with the simple medication she required - anything requiring a prescription was beyond her crap generator abilities. It had never really clicked that the medicine she received was exactly the brands her mother used to stock their medicine cabinet with. 

“Hey, I’m tired and for once there is no crime…” Alex began, glancing furtively around - it was just them and Brainy at the tower since Kara was training Nia to help her take point on missions, meaning Kara could step away from the cape for longer periods as required, and J’onn was having a much earned day off.

Lena raised an eyebrow waiting for the follow-up.

“Want to design some experiments for your RCG?” Alex suggested, a sparkle appearing in her eyes - scientific curiosity that wasn’t indulged as often anymore.

“RCG?” Lena questioned as Brainy popped his head into the room, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Did someone say design an experiment?”

“For Lena’s Random Crap Generator powers - RCG.” Alex explained.

Lena rolled her eyes but she couldn’t help but smile, “Sure, why not?”

“YES!” Brainy and Alex both yelled in excitement.

Xxx

They were all from home. 

As in her mother’s home. Or more generally from her childhood.

The tissues, the medicine, the sweet treats, the gold stars, even the bullet. (Her mother had kept a gun in the back of her closet, she didn’t think Lena knew but Lena had seen her cleaning it when she couldn’t sleep one night). All of it. 

It explained the low cost nature of it all, they’d lived very simply and shopped at the local stores which were always plentiful with their random items and knick-knacks. 

They’d spent the day tracing the items, looking up each one to confirm the hypothesis. Kara had come in and stuck close to Lena’s side, hand on the small of her back throughout it all. It wasn’t until they returned home (together as always) that Lena broke. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Kara soothed, effortlessly picking her up and taking her straight to bed to lie down.

“I’m sorry, I don't know why I’m crying.” Lena sobbed, curling into Kara’s chest.

Kara kissed her forehead, “You don’t need to know why. You can just cry.”

Lena took the advice to heart and sobbed until her chest ached and her face felt puffy. She fell asleep cradled in Kara’s arms and when she awoke it was to the teddy she’d had when she was a child held close to her chest. 

“You knew I wasn’t okay before I did.” Lena breathed into the still morning air. She knew Kara was already awake - her breathing was an edge to light and her thumb was stroking back and forth on Lena’s stomach to soothe her. Lena turned around to face Kara, the teddy bear held tight in her arms as she met gentle blue eyes.

“Yes.” Kara confirmed, gaze flickering over Lena’s features.

“How?”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t miss it the next time.” Kara replied, volume low as if to create a private bubble that was just their own.

“Miss what?” Lena asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Your sadness. Your hurt.” Kara whispered, “I don’t want you to ever face those things alone again.”

Lena inhaled a shaky breath, hand shyly reaching out to cup Kara’s face, “Kara…”

Kara turned her head and pressed a kiss to the palm of Lena’s hand, her eyes slipping closed as if to fully concentrate on absorbing the contact. 

“I didn’t have anything from Krypton for so long.” Kara revealed slowly, head turning back to look at Lena who took the opportunity to trace Kara’s features tenderly with her fingertips - keeping them linked and bound. “My Mother’s necklace was pretty much all I had. Kal-El kept the fortress to himself for a long time as he wanted me to assimilate and the DEO took my pod.

“I had nothing left but memories and they were shaky, and I would weep for every detail lost over time. A rhyme my friends would sing. The ingredient quantities for my Father’s favourite treat. The exact shade of my Mother’s favourite dress. I know material objects aren’t as important as the memories but they can provide comfort. Give solidity to the events. Evidence that they really happened and don’t just live in your head but were real and tangible too.”

“How could they have taken so much from you?” Lena murmured desperately - she was referring to the DEO, to Kal, to the universe. Why did it take, take, take and leave so little in return? Especially from someone like Kara who would give and give and give without thought for herself.

“They took from you too, Lena.” Kara soothed, reaching out to run a hand over the fuzzy fur of Lena’s bear (a bear that Lillian had snatched away from her a week after arriving at the mansion). “When I found my pod in the DEO…” Kara glanced away, jaw working, “I curled up inside it and cried myself to sleep. I never told anyone.”

Lena shuffled closer, noses near touching and air shared. “I didn’t recognise them, I didn’t… make the connection.”

“It was all you knew as a kid, it was normal, it’s only as time has gone by and the items have remained the same that… you could see it.” Kara explained patiently.

“I feel like I forgot her.” Lena admitted, choking back a sob.

“You didn’t.” Kara said.

Lena sniffled, “Do you think…”

“Do I think?” Kara encouraged when Lena broke off.

“Do you think it's my magic or my mother’s?” Lena asked, wanting Kara to make her believe in the impossible once more. To believe that love was more potent than anything in the universe.

“Does it matter?” Kara replied, “Your mother gave you a safe and happy childhood with the smallest of things, and whether she cast the spell or you did… she was the one that showed you how the tiniest of items can provide the greatest of joy. She did that and you’ve carried it on.”

xxx

“Lena, are you alright?” J’onn inquired kindly, slowly approaching her worktop. 

Lena looked up, shoulders slumped and a slight shake to her hands that prevented her from assisting with the sensitive work that she had been working on with Brainy to handle their villain of the week - an alien that secreted a burning chemical preventing Kara from getting close without receiving burns that took her an entire day to heal. Lena had been relegated to a computer supporting Alex in tracking the aliens movements.

“I…” Lena began, hands frozen over the keyboard before faltering.

“You need not tell me what is bothering you, I merely wish to make you aware that I am here if you require anything.” J’onn murmured. “Nia is looking out for Kara as well.”

“Is she okay?” Lena queried panickedly, remembering how tightly Kara had hugged her that morning and how she promised everything would work out.

“Of course.” J’onn reassured, “She was noted to be more withdrawn than usual and Nia is keeping watch on her demeanour.”

“Oh… good.” Lena sighed.

J’onn waited a beat, clearly allowing Lena to decide if his presence was still wanted.

“It was a box of tissues.” Lena confessed. 

“Your gift?” J’onn checked, moving to take the seat next to Lena - correctly identifying the revelation as an invitation.

Lena nodded.

“Does it always herald something bad?” 

Lena bit her lip and nodded once more.

“I see.” J’onn hummed. 

“What if something happens to Kara?” Lena asked, feeling small and so childish for even voicing the question.

But J’onn didn’t tsk or even reject the possibility, he merely considered this for a long moment.

“Then we handle it. Together.” J’onn said. It was the simplicity and definitiveness of it that helped, Alex had tried too hard to say everything would be okay, but J’onn accepted the possible future and didn’t turn away from it.

“I feel like I’m waiting for the end of the world.”

“Would you like to hold my hand?” J’onn offered, hand moving to rest on the worktop between them. “Until Kara comes back?”

Lena swallowed thickly before reaching out and clinging tightly to J’onn’s hand.

Later, when Brainy had stabilised the neutralising agent and the alien was safely locked away, not a single scratch on Kara in the fight, Lena was nervously waiting on the balcony for her return - J’onn squeezing her hand once more before leaving her to await Kara’s return.

There was a flash - a flicker in her vision - her hair sent wildly off in every direction and loose bits of clothing (her untucked blouse) billowing in the rush of wind.

“Are you okay? Has anything happened?” Kara questioned, warm hands cradling Lena’s face, blue eyes wide and frantic. 

“I-”

“I kept safe, I promise.” Kara rushed on, “I wasn’t stupid, I wouldn’t risk- I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

“I know, Kara, I know.” Lena replied, hands reaching for Kara’s hips - needing to feel that she was really there with her own hands. 

“I won’t let anything terrible happen, okay?” Kara promised desperately.

“It’s okay, it’s okay if it does.” Lena said; Kara blinked jolting in place slightly. Lena’s hands slipped round Kara’s hips to the small of her back, pulling them closer together until there was no space between them. “Because we’ll face it together. El mayarah.”

“El mayarah.” Kara repeated, gaze dropped to Lena’s lips, studying how she said the words of her family intently. “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

Lena inhaled and then Kara’s lips were pressed to her own, warm and welcome in the cold night air. Kara’s hands moved from Lena’s face, one twisting through her hair guiding her this way and that, and the other to her waist pushing her against the nearest wall. Locking them in.

Kara kissed her with a level of confidence and certainty that revealed how deeply she’d thought about this, had choreographed it for nearly every scenario, adapting it to suit every little bit of knowledge Lena had given her about how she liked to be touched and treated. Her grip was strong but her lips gentle, and Lena couldn’t help but melt.

Every wall and emotional barrier swept away like melted ice with a single sweep of Kara’s tongue.

“Kara,” Lena choked out, needing air.

Kara pulled back immediately, her own lips red and wet, her golden curls tangled and practically debauched. “Lena.. you’re…”

Lena reached up to her cheeks and felt the tracks of the silent, jubilant tears. “Oh.”

“Happy tears?” Kara grinned.

“The happiest.” Lena beamed, arms wrapping around Kara’s neck to pull her back in.

xxx

“Darling, is everything okay?” 

“Swell!” Kara replied overly chirpy, her smile that edge too stiff to be one hundred percent true. 

“Swell?” Lena giggled, grabbing Kara’s hand on the table and squeezing comfortingly.

“I mean… Great! Good! Fantastic!” Kara corrected enthusiastically. “Does the food taste good?”

“Excellent.” Lena complimented, savouring the taste of the meal Kara had been working on and stressing over all afternoon for their one year anniversary. 

“Yeah?” Kara breathed out, the relief obvious in how her shoulders dropped a couple of inches from around her ears.

“Yes.” Lena confirmed leaning over the corner of the table to kiss her girlfriend sweetly. “Thank you so much for cooking. I love how much effort you put into this.” She paused before gathering her courage to add, “It makes me feel special.”

“You are special.” Kara affirmed immediately before sucking in a deep breath - chest expanding. “I was going to wait until dessert but I don’t think I can.”

Lena tilted her head to the side curiously, only to let out a gasp of delight as Kara slipped off her chair and kneeled next to Lena’s, holding Lena’s hand between both of her own.

“Lena,” Kara began, voice warming as she went on, “you are my best friend but you are also so much more than that. You help me to hope and believe when the days are darkest. You inspire me to never give up. You bring me laughter and happiness in thousands of ways I never thought possible for myself. You make everyday feel like a gift with endless possibilities. Best Friend and Girlfriend feel inadequate terms for how much of myself belongs to you, how much of myself wants to be yours. So, Lena Kieran Luthor, will you do me the greatest honour of my entire existence? Will you marry me?”

Lena was already nodding at the start of the speech and the second the question was asked, Lena pushed herself off her chair and into Kara’s arms.

“Yes, yes, yes!” 

Kara got to her feet, lifting Lena up in the process and twirling them round and round their shared home. She gently placed Lena back onto her own feet and reached into the pocket of the blazer she was wearing.

“Oh no…” Kara muttered, expression turning horror struck, “Oh Rao, no.”

“Kara? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find the ring.” Kara said, shucking off her jacket and turning it upside down as if it was merely tucked away somewhere inside it. “I was so sure it was in my pocket, it must be somewhere.” She dropped the item to the ground, head rotating left and right, x-ray vision inevitably sweeping the area in order to find it, “I’ll be right back, I-”

“Kara, it’s okay.” Lena interjected, laying a hand on her arm, keeping her (hopefully) fiancee in place with the lightest of touches.

Kara wrung her hands, looking utterly disheartened, “No, you should have a ring-”

“I do have one.” Lena replied, pulling a large mood ring off the index finger of her right hand.  “I think this is for you. It appeared this morning.”

Kara took it, brow furrowing in amazement, “You had this since this morning?”

“Mmhmm…” Lena hummed, holding out her left hand.

Kara carefully cradled her proffered hand and smoothly slipped the mood ring onto her ring finger. “Have I ever told you how useful your power is?”

Lena beamed, “Everyday.”

[betterfettered]

Bruh can I be honest and say your Yan! Leviathan kinda scares me because Levi already lives rent free in my head and I kinda don’t wanna know what would happen if he figured it out?

I’m literally not joking about leviathan straight up living inside my brain rent free, like he actively takes up a shit ton of my thoughts enough for me to get the Tetris effect when I sleep.

And idk why but something tells me that if he knew that I’m practically obsessed with him, I wouldn’t be touching grass or seeing anyone else ever again for my entire existence.

Hey anon!! I am sorry this took so long, it got really long (3k words!!) and kind of went in its own direction hahaha. I hope you like it!! It turns out that you were right, and no one will ever find you in his clutches LOLL Let me know what you think?

(AFAB!reader x AMAB!yandere)(Plus size reader💖🫡)(noncon)(stalking)(18+ readers only please, mdni)(sort of kind of an AU but not really?)[This is fetish content and rape and stalking are disgusting and inexcusable in real life.]

Your reaction was strange to Leviathan because he'd imagined it over and over again in his head no less than a thousand times but had not been able to divine what you actually reacted like. In his mind when he'd intentionally spilled his drink on himself you'd make a little surprised noise or say "oh no!" or laugh, but in reality you just frowned, your eyebrows lifting in shock.

The important part, however, you still did: you turned to your bag, rifling through it for some napkins, and offered them to him like it was nothing, like making his heart jackrabbit to the point of nearly shattering was nothing. He snatched them quickly so that you wouldn’t see how his hands shook in anticipation.

Okay, next say thank you, he said to himself and tried his hardest but was unable to pry his lips open or make eye contact with you or even breathe. When the elevator reached the floor that the both of you lived on, he sprinted from the elevator to get to his door, spilling plenty more cherry slushy on himself in the process. He could barely get his hands steady enough to get the key into his door, but the second he was inside and had slammed the door behind him he tossed his soiled jacket and the half empty slushy to the ground and hurried into his bedroom, dropping on his knees in front of his shrine of you.

Well, it wasn’t a shrine just yet. It was too small – he had only the things he could salvage from your trash, like an empty lipstick tube, a plastic fork from some takeout, a debit card statement listing all of your purchases six months ago. This was the first thing you had ever given to him, though, the first gift with your scent and blessing on it. He shut his eyes and held the napkins up to his nose, inhaling deeply and summoning the image of you to his mind.

Leviathan focused on your eyes, thinking about how your gaze meeting his meant that you were not looking at anyone else and, he imagined, not thinking about anyone else. It didn’t take long for the memory to become a fantasy: he imagined you looking at him still, but now with your bottom lip caught between your teeth out of sheer lust for him. Reaching into his nightstand for lube, he imagined your outfit, which was the standard button down and pencil skirt combination that was something of a uniform for office workers. It was unremarkable but for the way it hugged the soft protrusions of fat on your body. He liked to imagine that your larger size made you unpopular on the dating market, so he would (in his fantasies and occasionally dreams, when he was lucky) be the first to touch and squeeze and lick you – he’d be the only one that you granted such access to, because he and only he was that special to you.

He placed the stack of napkins on his bed and pushed his face down into them to free both hands to undo his belt and slather his cock with lube. Even just touching his shaft made him shiver and clench his jaw, but he didn’t start pumping just yet because his fantasy was still incomplete. First, he needed you to turn to him in his mind, walking towards him until you had sandwiched him up against the wall, every plump part of you pressing up against him like a full bodied hug. Then, when he nearly collapsed with desire both in reality and in his mind, you reached a hand down to his pants, running your hand back and forth over his cock and looking up at him and only him. Only then did he begin stroking, murmuring your name to himself and clutching his bed. It was only a minute or two before he reached his peak and came so hard into his other hand that he became incoherent, his own moans shoving your name out of his mouth to take its place.

Once he caught his breath and the immense pleasure receded, he was filled with a longing that made his eyes begin to tear, his mouth pressing together as he tried to hold himself together. He needed you. At this point, his fantasies were almost as torturous as they were alluring. Just imagining was not enough and never could be, because while he was here with you, you were off thinking about or talking to someone else. He needed the entirety of you and he needed to show you with his body just how much he worshipped you, the same way he did in his mind every night before sleeping.

His hands were slick with cum and lube, so he shut his eyes for a moment once more and rubbed two fingers into the other palm, imagining that it was your tummy covered in his cum instead, but could only tolerate the fantasy for a few seconds before climbing to his feet to go clean up both himself and the mess he’d made in the entryway. He spent the rest of the night hugging a pillow on his couch and watching the old Ruri-chan OVAs from his favorite season and trying to hold back the tears pressing against the backs of his eyes.

Leviathan did not see you again for another week – perhaps you had been working early or late. When you once again met in front of the elevator, he felt downright giddy and reflexively covered his face with the back of his hand, but the glee turned to pure shock when you turned to him and said “Oh, happy birthday, Levi!”

What he did not know was that the day before, a pair of gentlemen (one ginger, one with hair graying only at the tips) had mistakenly knocked on your door. The shorter one pointed and released a party popper right at your face, and the taller one held out a cake that had bites taken directly out of it. Surprise! They had said, and then the three of you were surprised indeed, because you were not who they were expecting and you had not been expecting anything but still could never have imagined this would happen. They asked for a Leviathan, you pointed them next door, and the one with the frosting on his face apologized around another bite he had taken right out of the cake. The other apologized, too, but distractedly, as he was preoccupied with sadness that he had wasted his only party popper on you instead of his brother.

No, Leviathan was not aware of any of that, because Beelzebub couldn’t control himself around the cake and Belphegor wanted a new party popper, so they gave up and planned to come back tomorrow, the actual day of, without saying a word to him. If Leviathan could have spoken in that moment, he would have asked you how you knew, but he could not, so instead he stared at the ground and tried to figure out how you knew. He didn’t generally think of himself as disposed to illogical thinking, so when it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, you had been just as taken with him as he was with you, he figured it was the most obvious conclusion.

He imagined that you had gone home after giving him the napkin and touched yourself, too.

Maybe you also had a shrine for him in your home, and one of the things in it told you when he was born.

“Have I said something wrong…?” you asked, eyeing his stunned expression.

It was all he could do to shake his head, because you had actually said the best possible thing that you could have. Was he dreaming?

When the elevator arrived to the right floor, he allowed you to get off first and then trailed behind you, not even noticing the antlers starting to sprout out of his head and the scales started to spread across his skin. It was as though he was mesmerized by you and couldn’t do anything but follow.

You got to your door, opened it, and then cried out when you felt his full weight against your back, pinning you to the ground. His tailed whipped out and slammed the door shut behind the two of you, and he pressed his nose into your hair, inhaling and shivering a little, feeling his common sense melting away to be replaced with only intoxicating lust.

“What are you doing?!” You demanded, your voice wavering with fear. “Get off of me right now!”

He didn’t reply, only focusing on how the way you were struggling was rubbing your ass up against his cock and making him pant. Was it really possible that you were here beneath him, all his for the rest of your lives together? Distantly he wondered why you were struggling if you were obsessed with him, but brushed it away as not important.

“Please, just get off of me and leave,” you said, your voice becoming thick with the tears starting to pour down your face.

He got to his knees, putting one hand on your shoulder and one beneath your tummy, pulling both upwards to flip you onto your back. You only resisted for a few seconds before allowing him to turn you over onto your back, your shimmering wet eyes meeting his crazed ones and drawing another sob out of you. This did not seem to stop him, as he almost immediately rested back on top of you and pressed his lips to yours, jamming his long tongue into your mouth before you had a chance to clench your jaw. You gagged a little at the length of it, long enough to reach the back of your tongue, and tried to push him off of you, which he merely ignored until you stopped.

He only pulled away and sat up when he noticed your elbow working against your side, at which point he wanted to observe what you were doing with your hand. You were holding your cell phone and trying to type something into it, but as soon as you saw him notice it you pulled it closer to your face, typing as quickly as possible. He felt his heart sink: even though you were in love with him, you were thinking of someone else while he was kissing you. Despair settled over him until it gave way to a sort of panicked jealousy: would you ever unlearn this? Could he trust you to commit to only him? You were going to be his first (and already had been his first kiss)…was he really ready for this? This would be your first fight with each other as a couple.

While he was thinking, he snatched the phone from you and crushed it in his hand, tossing the broken bits aside and pouting.

“Who were you going to call?”

“N-no one.”

“O-okay, well then! Who were you g-gonna text?!” he asked, being able to hear how pathetic he sounded himself.

Try to sound like Lucifer! He told himself, and sat up a little straighter. You can do this, you can do this.

“Th-that…was cheating,” he said, and then tried making his voice a little deeper. “Don’t think of any one else. Ever again….uh, d-do I make m-myself c-clear?”

Complete fail, uggghhhh

It took a moment for you to calm yourself enough to speak.

“Please just let me go,” you repeated around sobs. “I won’t call the police or anything. I won’t even mention it to my friends. Just…please don’t....”

He climbed to his feet at that, though he didn’t leave you even a moment to think your pleas had worked on him before he wrapped you up in his tail, lifting you off of the ground and above his head. You cried out and struggled, kicking him with your feet a few times until he held you further away, but he paid no mind and instead locked and deadbolted the door behind the two of you, then walked deeper into your apartment, checking all of the doors in his path until he found your bedroom. He wanted to pause to look around and examine every last bit of you that the room contained, but he was so hard that it was starting to hurt, so he darted over to your bed and slammed you down onto your back, unwrapping his tail so he could sit down, push your legs up and put them on either side of his waist.

Unfortunately, you still had not learned your lesson about struggling, so he clamped his tail down on your neck to hold you still, tightening it when you started to move around too much, and grabbed both of your wrists to hold them beside your head where the end of his tail could wrap around them, too.

You were talking, or maybe just crying, but he couldn’t focus on that. His attention was completely absorbed by his cock pressing into the heat of your core and your writhing body.

He reached out with shaking hands and undid the buttons of your shirt, taking a while not because he was savoring it but rather because he was trying to undo them too impatiently with his uncoordinated fingers and not being that successful to the point that he ripped the last few buttons open in his haste. His hands pressed down into your plush stomach and then, after a moment of enjoying your inviting softness, he ran them upwards until he held your tits in both hands, squeezing them in a circular motion the way he had seen in a few hentai movies and then pushing his fingers into your bra to touch your bare skin and catch your nipples between his fingers, pinching them until you gave a short whimper that made his cock twitch. He slid his hands out and yanked the bra down to reveal them, then leaned down into your chest and shoved his face right in the center of it, squishing your tits against either side of his head while his hips started to buck against yours, greedily craving the friction between you. His face felt so hot at this point, and yet was no match for the warmth of lying there against your heart.

While he’d had plans to lick and suck your tits and maybe bite them a little to see if he could get you to make noise again, he didn’t think he could wait any longer to penetrate you, he sat up and shoved your skirt upwards around your waist until he could reach your panties, then pushed your legs together in front of him with his arms so he could pull them off of you (and stash them in his pocket). He felt so relieved that he’d only worn joggers today and didn’t need to bother with a belt or a zipper, so there was only a second between your panties being removed and the head of his cock pressed right into the folds of your pussy.

“Don’t! I’m begging, please don’t!” you wailed.

“But y-you’re wet,” he observed, rubbing his cock up and down your slit to spread your juices.

You didn’t reply fast enough; he lost patience and shoved into you with a desperate whine. It felt even better than he had imagined day after day all of this time, so he didn’t move at first to try and avoid cumming immediately. Instead, he reached for your hands, freeing them from his tail so he could weave his fingers into yours and press them into your sheets on either side of your head.

“L-look at me,” he panted, tightening his tail around your neck when you didn’t obey. “I s-said to look at me.”

It took a few seconds for you to run out of air and begin struggling to breathe, but you did eventually look at him, instantly making his heart pound. Suddenly, he felt unbearably shy, so he buried his face in your neck as he started to fuck you, slowly but insistently, his pelvis grinding up against yours like he couldn’t get deep enough inside of you, his moans muffled beside your face. Feeling your breasts jolt against him with each thrust he couldn’t help but start to fuck you a little harder, too, just to feel them bouncing beneath him.

He didn’t think to tell you when he was about to cum, since his mind was completely whiting out from the pleasure and his moans sounded frantic and irregular because he couldn’t quite control the sounds he was making, so you only knew that he was filling you when he stopped suddenly, releasing your hands to grab your hips hard enough to hurt and pull you as close into him as possible. His entire body shook against yours for a while. Once he relaxed, still panting but not digging his fingers into your flesh as hard any more, his entire frame draped over yours with exhaustion.

Ten minutes later, he finally sat up to address you, lovingly stroking your hair and cheek.

"That was so much better than in my head. I don't think I've ever been this happy in my life.

“Um, I don’t think you finished, right? S-sorry, I’m…anyway, I’ll read a little more about how to satisfy you on reddit! Then I’ll show you what I learned. We have a lot of time for me to practice until I get it right. I'll definitely make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

“Just let me go,” you murmured, out of tears.

“I never will,” he answered, his voice so resolute that it grew steady even if for only a moment as he promised that. “I’m in l-love with you, a-and you’re going to love me. And only me, no one else. If you think of anyone else, I’ll…I’ll hurt them. And you, too.”

Perhaps you weren’t out of tears after all, as the words made you start to cry again.

This time, he pulled you upwards and wrapped you in his arms while still inside you, grateful for the opportunity to feel as though he was taking care of you. His mind was already starting to wander to plans of where you both would live, how he could punish you to make sure you never spoke to any one else again, and what he would tell his brothers and closest gaming buddies about the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Dreams really did come true. The two of you only had happily ever after in store for you.

[oatmealzz]

Link Click & AX

Was not able to go to AX but found this from someone who did on reddit.

This is one anecdote from the director regarding the show.

"...regarding the choice/dynamic of having 2 male MCs: having observed many other media, Haoling decided that splitting 1 protagonist into 2 characters would make for better storytelling. by giving the characters only half of what they need, their abilities are more grounded, they are forced to cooperate socially, it gives the audience more entertaining and dynamic banter, and they must build trust in order to effectively accomplish tasks."

Love this statement. When I would explain to my friends why people should watch LC, I would say its a time travel show with an unique premise. There are two main leads. Imagine both are trying to ace a midterm (you can pair up with a buddy lol). One person has the paper & pencil and the other has the answer key. They can't ace the midterm alone without the help of each other's resources - so they must to work together to ace the test because they can only do it once. What seems like a simple example gets applied to solving puzzles/mysteries and finding data.

The interesting part is that the main leads have very different approaches to accomplishing the tasks that they are given. Even though they were friends for a long time, when serious things happen like working a job together, they struggle with their different mindsets and it causes a lot of strife between them. Side note, don’t want to take sides here but I wouldn’t argue with the guy who has the literal answer key you know?

Anyway- Slowly, there became a lack of trust between the leads as both of them start to withhold info from the other. That makes it worse and it hits a boiling point.

Something so simple that happens all the time in real life yet is often never depicted in such a real sense, particularly in an animation format. I like the style of anime but I want my stories to be grounded. I want to see my struggles on the screen.

It's also kinda validating to see a friendship fall apart once you decide to become co workers with one another and realize that just because you two both like basketball, doesnt mean maybe you should run a high-stress somewhat illegal business together right after uni to pay off debt :/

[mdhwrites]

Why Can I Say So Much About The Owl House?

I effectively got asked this on Twitter and A: If not for all of yours asks, I probably would not even half of the blogs I do about TOH, if not closer to a tenth. B: I’m an analytical person, like talking about things like this and writing is my passion. Above all else is C though. The writers of TOH obviously know what a good story looks like... But they don’t know WHY it looks that way. They understand that character arcs are good so the more character arcs, the better. They understand that rivals to lovers is a great archtype ripe with storytelling possibilities but also that people complain about couples only getting together at the end. It understands that fantasy tropes are mocked so it’s good to mock them or lampshade our own use of them instead of asking if that mocking is in good faith. This one especially rings true for this concept to me because of how many times the show will try to claim they’re not using a fantasy trope before going “OH! We actually NEED to use the trope to make our story function, almost like the thing we’re mocking is actually just a part of fantasy storytelling as much as it’s a trope.” It’s very much so a “What do idiots on Twitter complain about” method of learning writing. You learn it by what people criticize as much as you learn by what is praised. The Cinema Sins approach effectively where there’s no nuance. The point is to attack every ‘problem’ you can claim in a product mixed with the question of “What do people praise the most about Avatar?” And for a simple story... That can work. It’s part of why S1 works. In general, S1′s storytelling is very much so nothing special but it’s done with charm and confidence. The only problem is that the show is setting itself up for larger topics, themes, concepts, etc. that it also isn’t prepared to tackle at the same time because there’s not enough thought put into each element so that they don’t contradict each other. Or, for that matter, function as a whole instead of disparate parts. From a narrative standpoint, this is a NIGHTMARE. You’re in effectively a narrative uncanny valley where all the elements for a good story are there but the skill of the writers, their priorities, etc. like that are NOT equipped to cash the checks their pencils are writing. It’s effectively a mindset that will ALWAYS have a crash happen narratively where things just fall apart and you’re going to divide audience the second that happens depending on where they land on the twin sides of the Uncanny Valley. And while ruinous for a story... It’s amazing from the standpoint of a teaching perspective. Most bad works after all have a core rot to them. Their main character is bad, the concept from go is flawed, the writing is just atrocious, etc. like that. Most have works one or two glaring flaws that tank the rest of the work, or that rot is purely in the form of lack of effort and it’s just boring with little to even care enough about to analyze. TOH IS different in that way. There is obviously a lot of love put into it. A lot of passion and a lot of confidence. It understands ALL of the tropes that work well for the type of story it’s trying to tell. On paper, TOH actually has a really good story and the different elements have a lot of potential for different ways for that story to go. But you need to know WHY those elements are useful for the story being told. If you don’t... You’re making a stew without the meat. There is no core flavor because you’ve shoved everything into it regardless of if it clashes, if it needs to be prepared in a certain way to work, if it needs to be cooked in an entirely different way before being added, etc. like that. It can’t even really have any real inventiveness to it like using bread as a scoop because it’s checking boxes. It’s saying “X is liked so we do X.” You need to know the why before you can give a unique answer to the problem that X solves or the like. This is probably why things most praised about TOH are titles. Swap Luz for a guy and how much changes, especially since Luz is bi? But because Luz is female, she’s heralded as part of a new wave of female protagonists that she is nowhere near the start of. Amity could have been an asshole dude and not much changes with her either but making her female as well gets you titled as the first openly gay, Disney TV cartoon (which god if that’s not a lot of caveats). It’s stuff that is frankly more easily answered in a panel than ever on screen because they’re elements that don’t matter to the show, as much I appreciate it for inclusive. It’s not an LGBTQIA+ story though. It only happens to have those characters. It’s not a story about race and ethnicity and being an outcast, Luz just happens to be Afro-Latina and no one rejects her simply for who she is. It’s not a story about gender because the show steadfastly refused to say racism and bigotry exist outside of just being a part of how we know the bad guys are bad people. It wants to be praised for these elements, it wants to appear smart about and unique for having them... But it’s a basic fantasy story at the end of the day. It’s none of these other things and it hardly wants to be any of them, even as it also won’t commit to just being another fantasy story. And... I guess that is kind of the personal motivation behind this. I LIKE basic fantasy stories. I LOVE fantasy as a genre in general. I think it gets WAY too much shit and that people try way too hard to claim to not be like other fantasy stories, either with gratuitous sex and nudity (Hi Game of Thrones) or constant subversion like The Owl House. TOH giving a middle finger to its genre though, while also not being willing to actually commit the proper care and attention to be something more complex is INFURIATING to me as a writer. I mean... I’m still angry just from a conceptual standpoint that Reaching Out has this setup:

Character A is normally brash and impulsive and energetic. Due to issues with their father, they are acting more reserved, scared and cautious, specifically because he DIED. Character B is normally more reserved, cautious and thinks things through. Due to issues with their father, they are acting more brash, impulsive and putting themselves in danger to prove themselves. And they’re dating. And Reaching Out does NOTHING with what is narrative GOLD. What is usually so hard to setup in a story because you want to show these sorts of contrasts, you want these sorts of changes of pace, you want this sort of reasonable, unreasonable conflict sources because they are such perfect ways to show how characters interact with their own problems, with others, what other sides of them can look like, etc. like that, LET ALONE WHEN THE TWO ARE IN A COMMITTED RELATIONSHIP! And the whole episode the two aren’t actually different from their normal behaviors, including Luz lying since that’s not new behavior for her, outside of Luz showing that despite death and loss being on her mind, she doesn’t give a fuck about that Amity is actively putting her life potentially at risk in this tournament. She literally gets BORED watching Amity fight and so joins herself for the sake of a distraction. Which... Different blog. I’ve made my point on how misguided these writers are but GOD there’s so many reasons why Reaching Out is one of the worst episodes of the series in my opinion. But that is also an example of what I’m talking about. They are trying a LOT. And failing a LOT. And instead of being really basic failures, figuring out what went wrong is an interesting puzzle and it’s understandable why some may not see the flaws, unlike with a more blatantly bad work like The Room or Teen Titans Go. Talking about either of those would be boring and almost pointless because... Look at them. Their flaws are so obvious and blunt and simple that you could teach with them but it’s not exciting and you’re going to run dry pretty quickly because neither ambitious enough not to be making the same mistakes over and over and over again. And for someone who’s brain NEVER turns off... I find ambition that obliterates itself far more compelling than something that is just straightforwardly bad. So I want to talk about it. Talk about the whys that the writers didn’t get. ======== I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead, If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

And finally a Twitter you can follow too!

[gamesception]

Sception Reads Cass Cain #41

Batgirl (2000) #20 - November 2001 writer: Chuck Dixon...............pencils: Damion Scott inks: Robert Campanella......colors: Jason Wright

That month long hiatus turned into two months & change. Whoops. And I'm not really back on a regular schedule yet either, am super busy with real life stuff through the end of June at least, so this project won't be back onto a reliable weekly schedule till then at the earliest. But it's been too long since I posted one of these. so here we go.

We've got a pretty interesting issue from a couple angles here, in that it's sort of an echo of Cass's early appearances with Tim, where Cass first appeared together with him in his book, an appearances that imo didn't work very well or build an interesting dynamic or present Cass in a good light, but then Tim appears in Cass's book and is handled much better than she was in his, and they do take the time to start building a dynamic while acknowledging that the previous teamups were more strained than they needed to be.

Well we sort of have that again here, where Cass's first interaction with Steph over in Robin 88 was brief and gruff and had Cass acting kind of uncharacteristically rude and dismissive, but then Steph appears here in Cass's book and the interaction is a bit more substantial, with more of an effective dynamic built up, and with Steph handled imo better here than Cass was there. One ~could~ start to frame a pattern of Cass's creative team treating guests from other gotham books better than those teams treat Cass, an impression I admit to having back in the day.

However, that framing isn't (and wasn't) well founded, especially in this case. Mostly because, while this is Cass's book, Chuck Dixon, Robin's usual writer, is guest writing this issue. There's also far less of a disconnect between the depiction of Cass and her interactions with Stephanie going from Robin 88 to Batgirl 20 than there was for Cass and Tim going from Robin 73 to Batgirl 18. Which I suppose isn't too surprising given that Dixon wrote both Robin 88 and Batgirl 20, but it's also worth pointing out that there was far less time separating those issues than the other two. Cass was still brand new when Robin 73 released, and those writers not directly responsible for inventing her can maybe be forgiven for not quite understanding her back then.

I do think Dixon does a much better job with Cass here than he has when writing her previously, and while Scott's art certainly factors into it, it's not just that. Like, seriously, I've complained about Dixon in the past, but this is a good fun book worth reading if you haven't yet before I go spoiling it. It's also a proper Cass story - 'street level' story with no super powers or costumed villains, somewhat downbeat tone - despite Steph livening things up a good bit. Emotional/interpersonal focus, with themes of family connection, obligation, and strife - which keeps Cass's core motivations and relationships in mind even though they aren't brought up explicitly in this issue.

Honestly, I remember liking this one even way back when it first came out, and at the time I hadn't even noticed that there was a guest writer at all - though looking back there are a few tell tale signs.

Cass's attitude towards Steph still feels kind of uncharacteristically rude & aggressive, very much in line with her portrayal in Robin 88. While you can kind of feel them building a bit of a rapport over the course of the issue, you don't get the feeling of a fundamental shift the way we did with Tim's comments towards the end of Batgirl 18.

Then again, Tim is a self reflective and verbally expressive character, and Cass isn't, so a similar "I realize I've treated you unfairly in the past and I'll try to be better in the future" would have been even more out of character for Cass. Especially at this point in Cass's development where she's still more or less at a low point - living on her own, not really having any life or connections outside of Batgirl, 100% believing that Shiva's going to kill her in a few months. Which I guess is a fair enough in-character explanation for her attitude towards Stephanie, so there we go

That's a lot of rambling without even getting into the actual issue? I kind of don't feel up to the whole panel by panel playback, but it is a solid issue and worth going back to look at for fans of Cass and Steph - particularly as a pair - through the years. This isn't their first meeting, but it is their first adventure together, their first real interaction, and the start of an interpersonal connection that would come to be particularly important for both characters, a connection for Cass outside of her foundational dynamics with Bruce, Babs, and her father. Something they tried to do with Conner though it didn't quite take.

The set up plays naturally. Cass accidentally interrupts a money exchange situation for a kidnapping, ends up with a ransom note and a bunch of goons too dead and/or unconscious to interrogate over the kidnappee's location. Cass can't read the note, and she doesn't want to ask Bruce because she doesn't want to disappoint him by not being able to take care of the situation on her own, and she doesn't want to ask Babs because she doesn't want to disappoint her by demonstrating how little progress she's made on learning her letters. So she turns to Steph, someone she isn't worried about disappointing because, to put it bluntly, she doesn't respect Stephanie and so doesn't care about her opinion.

so a few things to point out from these panels alone - once again we see the most immediately identifiable difference between Puckett writing Cass and anybody else writing her - that reliance on narration blocks to convey Cass's interior thought process instead of letting the art do that work. Not that narration blocks are inherently bad, or used poorly here. They're kept short and sparing, they authentically feel like Cass's voice, and they don't clutter the panel art. As we've discussed several times, working with another artist they might even be necessary, especially with Cass's full face mask. Though with how Scott draws Cass I think they could have been pared back even further.

Speaking of Scott's art, I love these panels. The close up panels on isolated bits of text conveying how meaningless and arbitrary the markings feel to Cass. Her 'ugh' facial expression as she realizes all she's got to go on is this written note that she can't read, meaning she's going to have to ask for help. That panel with Cass and Steph sitting on the bed, lit by the window behind them is also amazing. I'm sure a lot of the credit there goes to Campanella's inks and Wrights colors as well, so yeah, once again the whole team for Cass's initial run really was great.

It's not just Cass, either. Stephanie's expressions are also fantastic here - in the bits where her face is visible. In costume, Scott doesn't do the drawn-through / shrinkwrapped face thing like with Cass, you can't see steph's expressions in the costume as that would mess with the look of her mask & hood, though I think Scott could maybe have pushed the expressiveness of her costumes eye shapes a bit more, spiderman style.

Some other just random bits I like in this issue:

Take out the speech bubbles and the target retinue and I'd love to have a poster of this panel of these two just sitting on a street light.

Though I'm not sure what the point of the target is here? I don't think anybody has a gun pulled on them?

Fighting as a team. Real dynamic duo stuff.

Oh, yeah, turns out the kidnapping was faked, with one guy pretending to kidnap himself to get money his brother had refused to just give him for his latest scheme. A fun little twist.

And we end on this nice bit which potentially sets up more of an ongoing relationship between Cassandra and Stephanie. And she does appear again periodically, more so than Conner did, including in the very next issue.

Adly, though, she didn't really become a regular supporting Character on par with Bruce or even Barbara. Which is too bad. As I said with Conner, the addition of a voice in Cassandra's life outside of Bruce & Babs, more of an emotional peer rather than mentor/parent/older sibling type, someone who could provide a more effective counterpoint to Bruce's emotional influence, would have done Cass good as a character, and might also have provided some appreciated levity to Cass's book, which, yeah, the sombre tone is intentional, but sometimes it can be a bit excessively downbeat.

And while Conner could have done that, Stephanie is a much more natural choice for it - fitting into Cass's street-level focus, plus all the natural character parallels with them both having villainous fathers - an obvious connection that somehow doesn't come up here.

Then again, the regular presence of someone as chatty as Conner or Steph might have been overbearing - overshadowing the less verbal Cass in her own book and working against that foundational principle of letting the art carry more of the burden of conveying the narrative and characterization. So maybe its better that Steph was used as sparingly as she was.

Still, there's a reason why a duo book pairing Cass and Steph was #1 on my comic book wish list for the longest time - pretty much right up until the new 52 reboot that removed the version of those characters that I was invested with from continuity. And the strength of the pairing can already be seen here in their first real outing.

[mybeingthere]

Marcia Hafif (1929 – 2018) was an American painter born in Pomona, California.

Exhibiting for more than eight years with Sonnabend Gallery in Soho and Paris, she developed series of paintings that would become the basis of what came to be called The Inventory: 1974, Mass Tone Paintings; 1975, Wall Paintings; 1976, Pencil Drawings; 1978, Neutral Mix Paintings; 1979, Broken Color Paintings at The Clocktower with Alanna Heiss; 1981, Black Paintings. During this time she also published articles on painting in Artforum: “Beginning Again” in 1978, and in Art in America: “Getting on With Painting,” 1981, and “True Colors,” in 1989.

"The ongoing question with monochromatic painting has to do with the contemplation of a deliberately circumscribed object, whose resonance depends as much if not more on the context of available light and space. It is not so much a matter of dismantling color, even though the single unity of hue lends itself to what might be experienced as a constricted expression. That, however, doesn’t hold true for those who experience these accomplished paintings as real efforts to preserve color from the point of view of a purist expression. By historically linking her work to the past, Hafif shows her audience just how effectively contemporary art can connect with aspects of historical painting production. 

This connection not only concerns the technical media the artist so clearly explains, it also brings back to past to the present, which strikes the audience as a brave thing to do given the ubiquity of art that is neither well made nor interested in art’s history. In some cases, darker-hued paintings are put together, while in others lighter colors are joined. With daylight filling the room from the gallery’s street window, one has the chance to view the works in both natural and artificial light, which represent two very different experiences. Hafif, who is in her mid-80s and who is currently working on her archives, deserves attention for this elegant, accomplished exhibition."

https://artcritical.com/2012/07/03/marcia-hafif/

[kessielrg]

[Zelda] Please, Protect the Arts: Part 1

Notes: I have an outline for this story, but I don’t know how I’ll pace out when I write the chapters proper. I won’t be uploading this to AO3 until it’s finished either way (I think), so please enjoy it now. There is not a particular version of Link and Zelda in mind, I just want to play with the characters a bit. Link is partially mute.

Rating: K

Word Count: 1,593 words

Next | AO3

- - -

There were two things that Zelda disliked: people who used their strength to hurt others, and when her father listened to lobbyists with money instead of the people any new law actually effected. That being said, Zelda kept a close eye on the politics her father was involved with. He would sometimes joke that she was the only campaign manager he’d ever listen to. 

And, like most politicians, he was lying. 

Zelda’s father only listened when she was truly annoyed by a certain law, and he only truly followed her advice when he got enough citizen approval to follow through. By then it was too late to change the other politician’s minds as well, leaving the bill to usually go in favor of the wrong party. It was frustrating. It made Zelda wish she never went into politics herself.

She would though.

She was too furious with the world not to.

The notes from the last state-wide conference sat on her father’s office desk. Zelda hadn’t meant to spy on them. She had actually come into his office to get a spare pencil. Her father kept a lot of spare pencils in his desk drawer- enough so that it was the only thing allowed in that particular drawer. The Manila folder with the conference notes didn’t seem important at first, and Zelda had almost dismissed it. It wasn’t until her eyes caught the word ‘education’ that Zelda took a double take.

Curiosity soon became her enemy.

“You can’t let this arts grant -or lack thereof- go through!” Zelda demanded as she stormed to her father.

The poor old man, who sometimes wished he had his daughter earlier to better keep up with her energy, turned his gaze away from the chessboard to Zelda instead. He gave her a tired smile to counter her unbridled anger.

“I’m afraid that decision is not entirely my own,” he reminded her. “If anything, it’s out of my hands. That decision mostly rests with the board of ed.”

Zelda slammed her hand down on the chessboard as she looked her father dead in the eye. “You know that’s a lie.” she seethed. “Especially when you know as well as I do that the wording points toward one particular school.”

Her father gave a heavy sigh, and left that at his only answer. Zelda followed his gaze to where she had accidentally knocked over a knight. Peering over it was the queen, just two moves away from creating a checkmate.

. . .

When Zelda was mad, she went to the library. It had been a way her mother taught her to manage her anger. A place where silence had to be maintained. A place where you could transfer that anger to a protagonist that kept making terrible decisions in the first act of a fantasy trilogy. A place where things could be alright in the end, as long as you had the patience to see it through.

If only real life could work like that.

Zelda and her father had come to an ultimatum; if she was able to convince the board of education that the art program should resume its regular funding (or receive more), then he promised he’d make sure the budget cut wouldn’t go through. Zelda had accepted the challenge without thought. It wasn’t until she got to the library that she realized she had essentially signed the budget cut bill herself. The young woman let out a whining sigh to herself as she thumbed the spines of the books she passed. She didn’t know how important the arts were to properly support them. She herself had only taken music lessons for the school credit and not from genuine interest. Even then, she had no idea on how it applied to her life after- other than a feeling of fleeting satisfaction as her fingers fluttered over a well cared for harp.

Thinking of music and budget doom almost made her tune out the sounds of a wind instrument being played. When it did register, it took Zelda a few moments more to realize she wasn’t simply thinking the tune. No, no, no. Someone was actually playing music in the library. Partially furious at the breech of silence she had been told was mandatory, Zelda went after the sound.

Her search brought her to the very back of the library. Residing there were study rooms. Sitting in one of them was a boy not much older than she was, and he was gently playing a tune on a small, handmade, wooden ocarina as he looked over the thin book he was reading. The sight immediately made Zelda recoil. How on earth did he sneak a music instrument in, however small it was, and how had no one told him to stop yet?

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he?” a voice asked from behind her, making Zelda jump. Her fingers accidentally knocked against the study room door as she whipped her whole body around. It was just a librarian. Zelda offered up a rather guilty smile in return.

“It’s a bit disheartening to see him practice here.” she admitted. “Is there no room for him at the music center?”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” the librarian mused, “But he’s welcome here regardless.”

Zelda nodded in understanding. But something egged at the back of her mind. She realized what it was soon enough.

“You don’t know his name?”

For this, the librarian gave a rather sheepish shake of their head.

“It’s never come up.” they admitted.

“Never?”

“Never.”

Zelda now gave the librarian a funny look. How was it possible to never know a patron’s name? At the very least it would have been on the library card…

The librarian caught on to her expression pretty quickly.

“He doesn’t talk.” the librarian went on to amend. “At least,  not very often. He just comes in every Friday, sits right there in that room (it’s got better sound protection from what I’ve heard- gets booked for meetings often because of it), and just plays away from whatever sheet music he’s brought in.”

“Really?” Zelda questioned. She turned to look back at the boy- her blood ran cold in seeing that he was staring right back at her. Apparently, the sound proofing wasn’t that good either way.

The two kept eye contact for what seemed like forever. The boy’s dark blue eyes held a sort of hidden wisdom; as if he saw a lot of things but were never part of them. Zelda wondered what stories he could tell. She wondered what kind of gossip he knew.

“It looks like he’s taking a break now.” the librarian then noted from over Zelda’s shoulder. “You might be able to go in and talk to him if you want.”

“I think I might.” Zelda nodded, not once turning her gaze away from the boy.

Her body moved on its own. One moment Zelda was aware that she was outside the study, and the next she was sitting down opposite of the boy. In his hands was the ocarina still. And surely enough in between them on the table was sheet music. In trying to figure out which piece it was, Zelda noticed a familiar logo. It was the same as the school that the budget cut bill would affect. A part of Zelda’s chest tightened.

“You go to the Hylian School of Arts?”

The boy looked at her, blinked, then casually looked down at his sheet music. He looked back up at her again with a nod.

“You must come from a pretty affluent household.” Zelda mused. She was prodding, she knew it, but she had to see what this boy knew. “HSOA is very thorough with its application process.”

To her surprise, the boy shook his head.

“A scholarship then?”

For this, he nodded, and part of Zelda already understood why.

“If you don’t mind,” Zelda went on, “Can I have your name? There is a rather broad budget cut planned for your school, and I promised my father (a local representative of the state) that I would create an argument against the board of education to keep that funding. If I knew your name, we could work together to build a case. What do you think?”

The boy thought about it longer than Zelda was anticipating. Eventually, she started to ruffle through this sheet music for a blank page. Unceremoniously ripping off a generous piece from the corner, the boy withdrew a pencil that had been inside a backpack hidden under the table and wrote something down. Zelda wasn’t able to see it until he handed it to her.

‘Wednesday, 1:00pm. Room 115.’

“This isn’t your name.” came Zelda’s first, very confused, remark.

The boy smiled at it- it carried notes of mischievousness and a special kind of cockiness. He got up from his spot, gently placing the ocarina down in doing so, and gestured for Zelda to follow him. Zelda raised an eyebrow, but did so anyway. Together he led them out of the study room and back through the library. The boy’s path seemed certain as they reached the kids’ section, but faltered as he searched the rows for something in particular.

A small noise resembling an ‘ah-ha!’ escaped his lips before he pulled a book out. He gave it to Zelda with a careful look of contemplation. He studied her reaction as she looked over the title: Rumpelstiltskin.

“Oh, so you think you’re funny, do you?” Zelda soon snarked at him. 

His only response was a wide, boyish grin.

[teachablemomentsblog]

Heart Map: My Sunfire Circle (Part One)

"I had no idea how to change a flat tire"

Midway through our personal narrative unit, even though they showed spurts of ambition upon hearing my exploits with Alexa, my student’s motivation began to severely diminish with their narratives. Students always found themselves “thinking” or, in other words, spacing out until I walked up to them. They then refocused their efforts to feigning concentration, usually by placing their pencil to their mouth or chin and staring at some distant inspiration they couldn’t quite make out. Once I walked away, they relaxed and continued staring into the void. Or maybe they were truly struggling. I had to be careful I didn’t always assume their confusion was bullcrap...since that’s what I did in high school. 

Unfortunately, bullcrap or not, most students couldn’t think of a story. And if they did, it barely registered as a personal narrative with real meaning and purpose. Even if they thought of a story with meaning, they never had enough support to showcase it. For example, a conversation I had with Juan, one of my reluctant students.

“Mister...the only thing I can think of is that I mow grass on the weekends.”

“Okay, awesome! So, do you do that stuff with your dad or…?”

“No.”

“Okay, so is that your job then, or you do it at your house or…?”

“No.”

“Okay, then...I’m not really sure what other options there are?”

“I don’t know. I just like to mow on the weekends.”

“Okay. Well...sounds like it’s going to be a great story!”

Unfortunately, by the time my students started to truly grasp and develop their stories, we had already closed in on our first week of revisions. So, when they should have been fixing their drafts, they were actually starting them. Like always, I held back and gave them writing days, but breaking down the lessons for each student and their own pace and speed turned into one of the most daunting processes. And at some point, we did have to forge ahead. Adhering to a flexible deadline felt like the best way to allow a little freedom to work through the critical thinking process while still motivating them to keep moving forward with their narrative. 

However, this year, I had a revelation. Maybe it shouldn’t have been all that revelatory and more common sense, but I realized the revising concepts were just too abstract for my poor students to grasp. They didn’t understand whenever I explained to add specific details for these certain effects, just like I did in the THREE DIFFERENT EXAMPLES I HAD EVERYONE HIGHLIGHT, UNDERLINE, AND LABEL. Everything geared towards creating juicier, higher interest paragraphs, stronger opening or body paragraphs within their narrative. But the independent, critical thinking overwhelmed them. They had been so conditioned to be told what to write and in what specific way, they didn’t know how to self-reflect and ask themselves, “Does this sound good? Make sense? Is this even English?” Hell, I even told them to follow the structure (Mister, what’s a structure?) or to copy (God help me if I used the word emulate) the style used by the author. A sea of confused looks immediately followed. 

I averaged about two-to-three kids in each class who enjoyed writing and could follow more than a half a step at a time when working. This felt like the primary focus for my job. To grow my herded students to think for themselves. They needed something more concrete. They needed something they could look at and decipher (Haha! Learning!) what moves the person used to make it effective writing. My students didn’t need a story from a textbook written by some dated author they didn’t know. They needed to see the entire essay written out for them. By me. My model essay wasn’t difficult, especially after I had displayed my arsenal of anecdotes to detail whatever I wanted to write. I didn’t want to give them my entire story, which would result in a stack of eerily similar personal narratives. But, if I let them see the effect on a story when it followed all these “abstract” concepts, it would hopefully push them to “make their story good” or, at least, “legible”. So, with that in mind, I brought back out my Heart Map!

Like I explained from my IHOP story, I intended for my Heart Map to overwhelm, at least a little. Over the four years of Heart Map tweaking and revising, I’d had plenty of time to decide what stories to add, keep, and take out. Some stories I didn’t need my students asking about. Even though, “Leaving a girl stranded at IHOP” might have tread the line of appropriate, it at least energized and engaged them right from the start.

However, with my current revelation, next I needed to decide which story would have the most impact. And then push them to ask the same question about their own lives. What is the heart of this experience? What makes it meaningful? At this point, they had heard my IHOP story, and enjoyed a good laugh. They felt sympathy about crazy high school Alexa, but it hadn’t packed the emotional gut punch I needed. I had to use something that had the ability to change from a one-dimensional Mr. Rust Story, to something more meaningful. My eyes fell on my Pontiac Sunfire breaking down. A story that, at face value, seemed just about some car problems, but really, turned into so much more. A full circle story. My emotional gut punch. Painful and powerful. Perfect.

…

Even though this story is titled “My Sunfire Circle”, it really begins with an interview. One of my first ones. At that point, life had quickly spiraled out of control. In May of 2013, my girlfriend, Christian (now my wife, woot!) and I found out about her pregnancy. While dating, I had always figured she was THE ONE anyways, but this news still shocked both of us. (Note: I also would like to mention here that I’m still extremely proud of my reaction when she told me. We were at my old college apartment in Huntsville, Texas when she slowly came out of the bathroom with her PLUS SIGN. I jumped up and hugged and hugged and kissed and hugged and kissed. I finished with a “Baby, I love you! I could freak out later, alone.) However, this news did change everything. After the unforgettable experience, no matter how much I try, of telling her parents and attempting to line everything up for our extremely unexpected life as a family, the next step involved me finding a job. No, not my sit back and relax job at the YMCA, where I currently worked. A real job. Something with a thing called Benefits (?!) and Life Insurance Policies (?!?!) and options for retirement (Retirement? Uh, I’m 24?). I had neglected finding a real teaching job for as long as I could, since I never understood the rush in finding one. But now, I had officially found my rush.

I started by applying for teaching positions at nearby schools in the area so we wouldn’t have to move too far away. However, without Christian working and our first baby on the way, we needed a teaching job that would prove sustainable for our little family. Which nixed a lot of open positions in surrounding areas. For example, when I looked at teaching positions in Huntsville ISD, I believe they listed the starting pay at roughly $30,000. $30,000?! I might as well sit on my butt at the Y! Factoring in job availability after my first round of inquiries easily showed I needed to make a strong push for a job with Conroe ISD, and, on a less aggressive scale, Montgomery and Willis ISD. None of these worked out, except for (what felt like) a pity interview with Conroe High School. But, hey! I still tried it! After my first wave of home run swings leading to strike outs, I realized I had to broaden my search. This pushed me further towards Houston, into Aldine ISD. While growing up in Montgomery, Aldine had quite the undesirable reputation, which made me hesitant to apply. (Based on my teaching experience with Aldine, (spoiler!) I did not find (most of) the rumors to be true.) But I didn’t have very many other options. And I didn’t have the time to be choosy.

I researched the district and narrowed my schools to Nimitz High School, Carver High School, and MacArthur Ninth Grade Campus. Right away, a red flag popped up. After I pressed SEND on my applications, BOOM, I quickly received three adamant, almost desperate responses. Okay, so maybe they weren’t RIGHT away, but still...30 minutes? 45 minutes? Still feels like a BOOM-worthy turnaround from applying!

“When can you come in? Tomorrow? Yeah, let’s get you in tomorrow! Two o’clock work? Three? Four? Whenever! Come in! Interview!”

Within a day of applying, I’d heard back from each school. I was quickly leaving my comfort zone. I had only really known the YMCA for the past six years, which had been my safety net occupation since my freshman year of college, so three professional interviews felt like completely foreign territory to me. The night before my interview, I stayed at Christian’s parent’s house, who lived in Porter, closer to Houston. I brought my three rarely-used button-downs I owned with my one pair of nice pants so I could rotate through the shirts and see which looked the most professional. No matter which shirt I wore, I felt like a fraud. Christian’s dad also helped teach me how to tie a Windsor knot, to even further compound my deer-in-the-headlights feeling. At least I didn’t settle for a clip-on though, right?

In my haste during my three different phone calls with the Aldine schools, I found myself with three interviews, ALL ON THE SAME DAY. I had Nimitz at noon, Carver at 2PM, and MacArthur 9th at 4PM, giving myself two-hour intervals to interview and drive from school to school. But I did enjoy feeling so adult, especially since I needed this professional teaching job to provide for my soon-to-be wife and unborn child. I had never adulted quite like this before. Exhausting, but exhilarating.

Nimitz quickly scared me away. As the assistant principal walked me into the front office for our interview, a group of large students glared at me from across the vinyl tile entryway. I vaguely remember the assistant principal’s gross understatement, “These kids can sometimes be a handful.” Later on, that same year, a report came out of a student throwing a substitute teacher across a desk because she had confiscated his cell phone. Yes, OVER HIS CELL PHONE. I dodged a dangerous, angsty teenage bullet there.

I then made my way to Carver, which seemed like a very nice school. The principal interviewed me by herself and carried herself very professionally. Carver seemed like a nice starting spot for my teaching career. I secretly put them in my MAYBE pile and made my way to MacArthur 9th.

When I first walked into the school, the whoosh of the air conditioning blasted me across the face. What a relief after the drive over in my Sunfire which, recently, had been prone to overheating, in Texas’s smoldering summers. I had driven all around North Houston at the peak of the heat. The air conditioning quickly became a necessity if my button-down shirt had any chance of making it through the day, even with the assistance of an undershirt. I hesitantly walked to the receptionist to check in, but, before I had made it halfway, Ms. Ivory in all her overblown glory barged through the office door.

Now, Ivory has many endearing qualities, but she definitely has her own unique style of doing things.

“Rust? Are you Rust?”

“Um...yes ma’am, I am.”

“We talked on the phone. Come on, we’re ready for you. Well, actually, hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Poof! She disappeared. It all happened so fast I wasn’t sure if it had happened at all. I looked to the receptionist, who had already reimmersed herself in her work, and sat back down. Just as I started making myself comfortable, she burst through the door again.

“Okay, Rust, we’re ready.”

She led me through the reception area, down a long hallway, to a large conference room. She opened the door for me, where I came face-to-face with the entire ninth grade team. Now, at the time this terrified me. I had never known an interview as anything more than a one-on-one conversation, so gathering my thoughts to try and sound professional in front of five other professional educators, let me say my button-down didn’t quite make it.

The saving grace of this intimidating process was that my interview happened to fall on casual Friday, so, even though my Mac 9 interview consisted of questions from five other adults, the formal meeting didn’t pack as much of a punch since my interrogators questioned me while wearing basketball shorts, baseball caps, and flip flops. I specifically remember Lawshe’s Houston Cougars hat and shirt along with the distinct possibility that she wore Cougars shorts as well. (So, Ms. Lawshe, where’d you go to college, again?)

The department chair also caught my attention. His shaggy hair and thick-rimmed glasses sat atop an overweight frame. While everyone else tilted their clipboards towards their midsection, his lay flat on the table, showcasing his worn Pulp Fiction shirt. Oddly enough, it comforted me to stare down Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta pointing their .45 and 9mm at me while I answered interview questions. I instantly liked the department chair. His name was Charles.

The questions themselves breezed by and they started to show me around the school. (Note: If you are interviewing and they start showing you around...that is DEFINITELY A GOOD SIGN!) And, of course, because she just couldn’t help herself, Ms. Ivory introduced me to the principal, in typical Ivory fashion.

“Dr. Minchew, this is Gannon Rust. He’s going to be our new English teacher this year. Right, Rust?”

“Uh, ye-yes! Sure!”

Even though I'm positive I would have picked MacArthur Ninth over Nimitz and Carver, this wonderful, on-the-spot introduction sealed my fate. I would work at Mac 9 for my first year of real teaching!

They instantly threw me into the jaws of first-year teaching. The school year mercilessly moved forward like molasses. As a first year, we are told to just survive. If we make it to May, we can make any other year! The lack of tools and veteran instincts turns every day into a thousand small fires to douse with a water supply. And yet, I survived, but barely. (Believe me, once the bell rang at 2:35 for student dismissal, if I didn’t have a reason to stay, I bolted out of the building faster than anybody. In fact, most days I beat the buses, leaving to rush home to my pregnant wife. And, after early December, my wife and newborn baby. (Woot!) 

I’m bypassing a year of successes and failures during my first year of teaching, but they don’t serve much of a purpose to my Sunfire breaking down. I swear the rest has relevance to the initial onset of this story. That’s enough exposition.

The week before our final week of school, I needed to stay at the school to finalize grades. By 4:30, the school and parking lot were empty, minus my Sunfire and one other car. It belonged to Charles. As I fumbled with my keys, I looked down at my car and its giant flat tire. Of course. And I’ve already stayed late. That’s what I got for being proactive. And to make matters worse, at the ripe age of 24, I had no idea how to change a flat tire.

(Note: Upon hearing this, my students destroyed me, Edmund found it particularly hilarious. 

“Oh my god, mister, are you serious? I learned how to do that when I was in like 2nd grade!” 

When this happened, I had two ways I could handle it. I could have taken the high road and moved on, which sounded like a perfectly viable option. But, since Edmund had his particularly obnoxious temperament on full display, I went in a different, more immature and manipulative direction. “Well, my parents divorced when I was really young so I never had a dad growing up to show me how to do those things.” Annnnnd Edmund had nothing left to say. Classy move.)

My mom had always paid for me to have coverage on her AAA account, which I don’t like telling my students, since then, to them, I’m an overprivileged, unrelatable adult. This was not the impression I wanted to leave. As I thumbed through my stack of superfluous cards in my wallet, desperately searching for the number to call, who else but Charles sauntered out the heavy back doors of Mac 9 to his vehicle, glinting in the afternoon sun, complete with its four inflated tires. He noticed me helplessly digging in my wallet, and since he knew my tendency to drag race with the buses out of the parking lot, this surely was an odd sight. 

“Hey, man. What are you doing here? Everything okay?”

Thankfully, the rapport Charles and I had created throughout the school year helped me to not blow off his concern with an “Oh, I’m fine! Thanks!” or “You know how it is! Just hanging in the parking lot!” or “I just don’t feel like I’ve been at school long enough yet, so, here I am!” He had always attempted to help me as a floundering new teacher, so I didn’t feel the crippling shot at my pride to reveal I had no idea how to change a flat tire. (Although, don’t get me wrong. I still had to swallow the large lump in my throat to tell him this. Even now, reciting this story over and over again, I still have to move past my shame that comes with the memory of potentially waiting an hour for roadside assistance to change a tire for me.

“Eh, not really, man. I’ve got a flat tire and, well, I’ve never changed one before.”

I waited for the smirk, waited for the mocking comment about not knowing an essential piece of adulting. But, rather than saying anything derogatory, Charles set his messenger bag on his trunk and walked over to my Sunfire.

“Man, I remember being 18 years old and getting a flat tire on the side of the road. A cop came up behind me and, instead of changing it for me, he stood there and walked me through every step to change my tire. It took forever, but I learned. I guess I should do the same thing and maybe you can pass it onto someone else whenever they need it.”

And maintaining the master patience that characterizes an amazing and effective teacher, Charles walked me through all the steps to change my tire, including little tips and tricks to make it easier each time I had to do it. Since this incident, I have changed my tire approximately five times and, everytime I do, I think back to this moment and what Charles instructed me to do. If only what I teach my kids in my English class stuck this much. In all his calm and collected glory, Charles rummaged through the avalanche of garbage in my trunk to find my donut, laid on the concrete with me, scuffing his white button-down and sweating through the rest of his clothes in the process. And in the heat of 4PM, we mercifully tightened the last lug nut on the donut and threw the flat tire in the backseat. With my wife and newborn daughter waiting for me at home, and probably a beer or two, I couldn’t express my gratitude enough.

“Man, how can I ever make this up to you? Thank you so much.”

Charles wiped his hands on his decimated work pants and put the rudimentary jack back beneath the floorboard of my trunk.

“Well,” he said, now smirking at me. “How about this? So, you know how every Friday me and a handful of people from the school go to Carlo’s Mexican Restaurant for Happy Hour drinks and every Friday we invite you and every Friday you say you can’t go for whatever reason you have that week?”

“...yes…”

“Well, we have two Fridays left in the school year. And you have never gone. So, to pay me back, I want you to come out next Friday for Happy Hour.”

That sounds silly, right? Isn’t it sad that THAT’S how he wants me to pay him back? By hanging out with my coworkers? My first year of teaching and living with my pregnant fiance, and then my fiance and newborn baby in a foreign part of North Houston in a tiny apartment off a busy street roughly compared to a flaming can of garbage. And yet, for some reason, I always struggled to do anything social. I originally blamed it on the nightmarish traffic on Fm1960 if I came home too late. It added another hour to my commute. Yuck. So, my social interactions with coworkers definitely left much to be desired. Not to mention the different social environment that comes with seeing these people outside of work when we don’t have the safety net of the work day to fill in the gaps in our conversations. Even though the traffic didn’t help, my introverted tendencies secretly spurred on my reluctance. I didn’t know what I could possibly have in common with these people OUTSIDE of school. But I wanted to show my gratitude so, reluctantly, I agreed.

Part Two Coming Soon!

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

❓

Two truth and one lie meme || ACCEPTING

" You sly dog, I see where you're going,"

" I'll play game, now, leeeet's see, you want something juicy, eh? Nothing like blah politics and little tidbits? No, no, I know your type, slugger. Let's get a bit wild,"

" You a gambling man? Eh, no, matter. Two truths, one lie, if you can see through the mask," Rubedo raised a pointed finger to tap at the ceramic of his grinning visage, which responded in turn with a dull clink, like champagne glasses over a toast, or perhaps the click of a guillotine's blade sliding into place,

" Drinks are on me! You have my word of a night in paradise without any of the, eh, side effects! " Rubedo couldn't bite back a slight sound of amusement as he spoke, as if the idea of side effects to his paradise were comical, " What was it been that the foundation calls it? Inconvenient mind melting? Getting lost in the sauce? God, take it from me, those pencil pushers have too big an imagination"

" If you guess wrong, though, ehhh, we can figure that out later. Call it a blank cheque, an open favour, nothing between pals, really! You ready? "

" I may have had a slight role to play in the formation of the 'Aristocrats,' heh, less said about them the better, but take my word, they are well worth the price to watch, better than any half-time show, just make sure you're outside of an arms reach, heheh."

" Unfortunately for the other lords, the Rubedo family line won't end with me; I've got many little scions running around in many different realities, raising hell, making their papa proud, heh. "

" Ah, and the anomalies, can't go without them. Now, Dyo is, well, they've had their talents, an eye for art and whatever. Still, they're given far too much credit in spreading our kingdom's delights around like some disease amongst his lovers," Rubedo's expression flickered to that of anguish for a moment, the disgust palpable through each word dripping from the open mouth. Before returning to a slight grin in a little over a moment, its intensity far less than his usual manic air,

" Between you and me. The REAL mind behind the operation, the vision, and the effort it's laid with me. Dyo may have their music and art, but I have an industry. Foundation doesn't even have a fraction of the goods I've peddled out to the uncultured masses, and I have no plans to stop anytime soon.

[animation-practice-aru]

WEEKS FOUR, FIVE AND SIX

CREATING THE NOVEL

I started off my novel by sketching, I always found it easier to figure out my ideas traditionally rather than digitally. I figured out my panels pretty quickly. I had done a 20 page long comic for my final major project in foundation year so I already had some experience in making graphic novels and similar. I also read a lot of manga. One element I incorporated into most panels was the characters or objects breaking out of the panels, especially when the characters were in motion, such as running, as I felt it made them stand out more. I was initially concerned that the character jumped out of the panels too often and that it would be overwhelming for the viewer so one of the pages didn't have this. Though this disrupted the flow I had established with the characters jumping out of frame on every page but one. Because of this I decided to keep my characters out of frame for every page.

Sketching the initial pages has been my favourite part of the process, it made me debate doing my entire novel traditionally. I stick pretty heavily to digital art, its the medium I've used predominately for upwards of 5 years and so I'm really comfortable with it. Had this project been longer, I likely would have done it traditionally however for the time we had I decided digital was the most time effective method as I could edit my pieces easier. If I messed up traditionally I likely wouldn't have the time to re-do it. I did do my medium tests on paper though. I tried coloured pencil, chalk pastels and gouache. I made the backgrounds dark, even still it felt like my characters clashed with the background.

During a lecture, it was pointed out how sometimes the background is painted while the characters are done in simple block colours. I wanted to do that, I had the backgrounds be fully rendered in detail whereas the characters were in flat colours with little shading.

I drew directly over my sketches to create the line art. I made the line art red and slightly opaque to make the characters seem softer. This gave the effect of my characters being big blocks of solid colour helping them stand out.

In the end i opted for no dialogue. One, because the other character isn't human and therefore couldn't respond and two because of my time period. In my time period, stone age, humans didn't communicate with words and a spoken language didn't seem to fit at all.

I was really happy with how the initial sketches came out and I liked the way my digital renditions developed them. I wasn’t really good at backgrounds, so it was a challenge to have fully rendered backgrounds when I wasn’t used to drawing them. However I’m actually pretty proud of how the backgrounds came out. I based the cat on my own, I had a lot of references I could use for the cat because of this. I incorporated my cat also because in the beginning, I really struggled to come up with a story. I was advised to focus on something happening in my real life to draw (pun intended) inspiration from. At that time, I missed my cat a lot. This is what gave me the idea to focus on a cat in my novel. I based the cats behaviours on my own cats behaviour. I think drawing with her in mind put more love into my novel.

[beeseo-portfolio]

This was my first board of my Level 3 NCEA Painting portfolio where I explored the creative process. My biggest artist models for my works were: Justin Bower, Elena Calavera and Meredith Marsone. My other inspirations, aside from artist models, were Blue Period (a show exploring the pain of art) and Physical 100 (a Korean game show gathering the strongest 100 athletes in Korea). Blue Period explores art as it follows characters who are all in their final year of high school working towards getting into art school, but having to embrace impostor syndrome, perfectionism, and the pain of the creative process. Physical 100's main highlight for me was when the eliminated competitors destroyed a clay replica of their busts with a hammer, basically destroying years of their hard work of polishing their body to their best caliber.

The first board was all about setting down the foundation and beginning to gather ideas to explore the creative process, as seen with the bottom series with me focusing in on my hands using different media.

This was my second board where I made more explorations with composition and texture. In this piece and this board, I explore how the artist, laying down and defeated by the art, is one with their artwork. I intentionally left the piece in an "unfinished" state to show the process rather than the outcome. As artists, it is tempting to be a perfectionist and keep adding more and more into the artwork. But there is a point where we have to step away and call it "finished" to break the cycle. The process of creation is pain and the pain of creation causes a spiral. People oftentimes see the finished product and often forget that there is an entire process of hours and hours of work put meticulously into a piece. The amount of scrapped chicken scratched thumbnails, the number of sketches thrown into the bin, the number of hours spent painting the meticulous details that nobody will notice, the feeling of inadequacy of our skills not being good enough but not being able to tear away from the process... each step is part of the creative process and the final outcome will reflect the process, no matter how arduous the journey was. The artist themselves are the artwork with the top half being the artist and the bottom half being an art gallery scene with installation pieces. I used impasto on the paintbrush, pencil and eraser to stop the art from being just 2D and actually come out into the real world, further merging the line between artwork and artist.

This was my final board of my Level 3 NCEA Painting portfolio. I ended my board with an art gallery scene to close off the boards and as a way for me to step away from the creative process and call this done, though there is more to explore as I, as a person, develop and grow more which impacts how I approach my creative process.

Overall, the creative process is never truly complete even if the artist does call it finished. There are always things that the artist can look back on in the future and see how an idea could have been pushed further, or how the technique could have been different, or how the artist might have approached it. Circles as a motif show the cycle of the process of creation as it is never ending, and it is up to the artist to decide when to step away, whether it'd be giving up right after the sketch or stepping away after being a perfectionist about the small after effects. The artist and the art are one and the same, and trying to separate them is a futile effort. The artist pours themselves into an artwork even if they do not realize it: their thinking process, their emotions, their worldview, their personality, all of themselves into art. As the artist creates, the artist becomes their art.

The last time I had really worked with traditional art, especially acrylic painting, was the Magnolia painting done earlier in the year. While painting Magnolia I was feeling lost about how I should even go about my life, compared to my Level 3 NCEA Painting portfolio where I had more agency over my life and felt less lost about myself. This is even more so when comparing my Level 1 NCEA Visual Art portfolio to my Level 3 NCEA Painting portfolio-- the agency I had over my life then was abysmal in comparison to my final year of high school.

My compositions, in comparison to my Level 1 NCEA Visual Art board, are less crowded and allow for more negative space to be present within the pieces. This shows my growth as I begin to feel less cramped in my environment and as I get to gain more agency over my life.

The paint I used was all acrylic and the digital pieces were done using Procreate.

Further explanation of my Level 3 Painting portfolio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1LPknkO48RHGQvd7bh4nMZshIRVuZyt8a/view?usp=sharing

[reflingthefox]

I wanna share my story about Krita pencilbrushes.

To clarify: in default setup Krita, among the brushes, there are three pencil-like brushes next to each other. Those ones.

It's a mixed thing in art posts I usually see: part of them say that brushes don't matter, that what does is technique/practice; part of them are ecstatic about trying new ones. My take's on the side of brush positivity here, and maybe it also helps someone.

A short disclaimer: I am not a trained artist. I didn't have any sort of art classes if you exclude primary school, and didn't have a lot of mixed medium training. I, however, took a biology course where you were supposed to depict a lot of samples and schemes, and you had to adhere to illustration rules. This lands me into being much more confident with pencils and liner pens than anything else.

Digital drawings were a big hurdle for me for a while, because while there are so many pens and effects, I often found myself struggling with them. Mostly - because digital doesn't Feel like traditional. Lineart was a big issue for a long time, but it was circumvented with lining in trad, scanning, setting the scan layer to Multiply and coloring like that. (Bonus papery texture for your art, too!)

But coloring was something that I'd want to do in digital (mostly for hues and editing) and kept struggling with. The cool effects I hoped for fell flat.

At some point I was trying different brushes and stumbled upon the pencil ones. I used them before couple times, for "fuzzy" lines, but this time I was just on short schedule and afraid to color. The lineart was scanned, of course, and I thought "maybe pencilbrush could look good with trad?"

First, it was, and it fit well.

Second, even though pencilbrush wasn't real pencil, I could achieve very similar feel with lower pen pressure. And it really boosted my confidence. At this point, I was brave enough to try and shade it without layer properties, just using different colors like in trad, and it suddenly soothed a lot of nerves.

Third, which I discovered a bit later, was that I could edit the trad lineart with those. The erased part gets patched with texture from another part of the sheet, the exact shade gets color picked from lineart, the texture of digital line is close enough. I'm pretty sure no one else is looking close enough to spot where I did it, and it fixes the biggest drawback of trad lineart.

Turns out, the biggest issue was accurately translating my existing experience, and finding That One Brush helped. I don't use it exclusively right now, but a lot of other brushes got designated to specific jobs of sparkling up the pencilbrush job.

I'm not saying that this specific one is the best one, go-to for everyone. But the idea of finding something the most familiar/giving out the most familiar feel is important for art drive, I think, and if you're a pencil artist like me, it could be something to try out.

[rachelordwayart]

Flipping through an old sketchbook and these actually made me laugh out loud

I can't handle this

IDs for the above images under the cut cus I posted em before Alt Text was enabled

[Image IDs: 2 sketch dumps of several loose cartoony pencil drawings of the cast of Ranma 1/2, mostly the ninja Sasuke Sarugakure. IDs for both sketch dumps will be combined below, just separating the individual doodles/comics.

1: Sasuke stands with a confident grin, chuckling "Hyeh hyeh hyeh" with his hands behind his back. He cries triumphantly "Behold—your DOOM!" as he shows what he's hiding with a "DUN DUN!" sound effect—but his hands are empty. He stares at his empty hands in wide-eyed disbelief and says "Oh geez, I must've dropped it." Offscreen dialogue reads "Did you hear something, Akane?" "Huh?"

2: Sasuke gives an extremely enthusiastic thumbs-up next to the captions "Remember, always do your best!" "Then cry yourself to sleep when it's still not good enough!"

3: Sasuke hugs Tatewaki and Kodachi Kuno around the neck. Both look disgusted and annoyed, but Sasuke looks blissfully affectionate as he says "I love you two as if you were the children you'll never permit me to have."

4: Sasuke has his hands clapped to his cheeks, flustered and sweating and blushing with a goofy grin, saying "I've been SMILED at! I'm in LOVE!" Next he's shown with his hands clasped in prayer, blushing with a serene smile and tears running down his face, thinking "I've been smiled at TWICE...I could die with no regrets."

5: Sasuke throws his arms in the air triumphantly, proclaiming "Aw yeah! Sasuke's EATIN' DINNER tonight!" A caption reads "That's what YOU think."

6: An extreme closeup of Akane punching Kuno with an uppercut, screaming "Get lost, CREEP!" In the next panel, Kuno is on the floor and Sasuke is standing there with a rope, looking confused as Akane cheerfully says to him "YOU'RE still coming over for dinner though, right?"

7: Sasuke and Gosunkugi are kneeling side by side on the ground, holding up identical cameras. Sasuke cheerily says "Twinsies!" while Gosunkugi, barely suppressing rage, mutters in small text "I'll kill you." Sasuke, flustered, says "Uh, I didn't quite catch that," to which Gosunkugi mutters even more furiously "Dark Lord Sauron, grant me strength..."

8: A cropped image of Sasuke's head looking furious, but in a cute way with pouty puffed-out cheeks. Caption reads "I am not 'CUTE.' I am a DEADLY WEAPON."

9: Sasuke has his face in his hands, blushing, eyes closed in a private reverie, interrupted by an unseen character. "Where (eheh) 'adult fantasies' are concerned," ("Uh, Sasuke") "I'd have to say my 'kink' is 'being loved and respected.'" ("Sasuke—") "Like many kinks, it's rather unfeasible in real life and can only be achieved through fantasy." ("SASUKE NO")

10: Sasuke sits on the ground in the rain, a wide-eyed long-suffering expression on his face, hugging his knees to his chest. Caption reads "Waiting to see if things will improve."

11: Sasuke beams cheerfully with his hands on his hips and sparkles emanating from his face. He proclaims "Today was a really great day! I tripped over a rock, and when my face slammed into the ground, I found a penny!" Next, he's holding the same pose but is shaking, trying to smile but clearly trying to hold back tears, choking out "WONDERFUL."

12: Ryoga, tears in his eyes, points aggressively at masculine-form Ranma shouting "Look out, Ranma! I've learned how to weaponize my clinical depression!" Ranma just smiles disbelievingly, "LOL whut?" Sasuke watches from inside a bush. Next, closeup on Sasuke, thinking "Huh...I wonder if I could do that..." as offscreen Ryoga shouts "SHI SHI HOKO DAN!" Next, smash cut to a TV news reporter saying "Authorities are still unable to explain the mysterious blast of chi that DESTROYED JAPAN earlier today..."

Okay but hear me out:

He’s fun to draw

He lives a miserable stressful life with crippling depression but still puts a good face on it and keeps trying (even though that’s mostly denial and Stockholm Syndrome)?? hashtag Role Model

A Ninja But Clumsy And Loud = objectively funny

[tonispencerart]

When Art Goes 'Wrong' - part one

I'm sure we've all done it at some point. We get tempted, especially in the age of social media and constant sharing of content, of only talking about and sharing the 'good' stuff or the art we're proud of. It's not 'cool' or whatever to show off the mess and the mistakes... But, with reference to one of my previous posts (the four portraits on wooden slices), it took a LOT to get there. It was definitely a very steep learning curve! Before I settled on the idea of Theatre - and the overall concept of Human Life as Theatre - I was caught between the Burlesque idea and Shakespeare, in part (OK, a lot, but for the 'wrong' reasons) the series 'Will'. If you're actually curious, it is on Amazon Prime (for a price, I should warn you...) but I would strongly recommend approaching with caution. Be prepared to swear a lot. I know it wasn't intended to be accurate but they didn't even try... Anyway... That very thing actually gave me an idea I could sort of run with. It struck me that the creative decisions made were as interesting as they were irritating. Human Life is as much a theatre performance as, well, a theatre performance. The series tells a story of Theatre from the viewpoint of theatre - and not just from a performance perspective, but behind the scenes and the people involved directly and indirectly. I kind of get what they were trying to do, but it just didn't hit the right spots for me. But, I got there in a really weird way. Towards the end of the previous year, the first part of Stranger Things season 4 came out. I was actually in an online meeting that day and I was willing the tutor to stop talking! I watched the whole thing in one sitting and literally didn't move from the sofa the entire time! But it also sparked an idea that I was reminded of months later. I made some notes about the character of Henry Creel/Vecna, specifically, but the idea applied to a few characters, really. The idea was originally about Masks, Pretence, and Trickery. And really, if you think about it, theatre is based on a similar concept. Theatre isn't supposed to be real, though, in my opinion, it should be realistic. But it's a space for storytelling and playing roles. The idea was to paint 'Henry Creel' on one side and the other side was supposed to have a tiny portrait of Vecna (or rather, the point where Henry would begin to lose any remaining humanity). And, in Shakespeare's day, the theatre was a space where you could question and criticise those in power and get away with it! I'll explain more about the Why next time. It is my hope to use it as a way to explain some of my processes when I'm working with ideas and concepts. But, before I got there, I was playing with something else. And it went so very wrong... It was a mess and I was mad as heck at it. The photos below are only part of the process...

The first attempt was using liquid acrylic. In all honesty, I should have guessed before I started, but I didn't. And it went wrong within seconds of starting. The paint sank into the wood instantly. Huge error on my part! So then I tried 'regular' acrylic paint and I made even more mess when I tried to blend it. I said many many bad words! I didn't document the first try with acrylic paint because I was furious with it.

So then when I got home, I studied all of the things on YouTube trying to work out where I went wrong. Turns out, I needed PVA glue and Gesso and Sandpaper. Let me tell you - it blew my mind and changed my life! Cue several days of prepping wooden slices! It took a while to get it how I wanted but it was so worth it. The next hurdle was image transfer. I initially wanted my background to be black so I tried several ways of putting an image onto a black surface. The pencil was an instant fail. The chalk transfer also failed but I quite liked the effect, even though it was utterly useless. I then spent a small fortune on proper transfer sheets. The yellow was the most successful. I quite liked this, too. And I thought I'd cracked it. But when I tried it on the wooden slices (minus the black paint because I changed my mind about how to paint it) it didn't take on the wood. Cue even more sweary words!