#good anatomy does not equal good art

[axolotluv]

What's with art communities and forgetting people can just do things for fun and not be professional about it??

[nanowrimo]

5 Essential Tips for Mastering Scene Writing in Your Novel

There's many parts involved when writing a scene. Knowing how these different pieces work together may help you move forward in your novel. NaNo Participant Amy de la Force offers some tips on brushing up your scene writing knowledge. Scenes are the building blocks of a novel, the stages where characters spring to life, conflicts brew and emotions run high. Mastering the art of scene writing is crucial for any aspiring writer, especially in the lead-up to NaNoWriMo. But what is a scene, and how do you effectively craft one? 

What is a Scene? 

A scene is a short period of time — in a set place — that moves the story forward with dramatic conflict that reveals character, generally through dialogue or action. Think of writing a scene as a mini-story with a beginning, middle and end, all contributing to the narrative. 

Why Scene Writing is Your Secret Weapon in Storytelling

Well-crafted scenes enhance your story to develop characters, advance the plot, and engage readers through tension and emotion. Whether you're writing a novel, short story or even non-fiction, scenes weave the threads of your story together.

Tip #1: Scenes vs. Sequels

According to university lecturer Dwight Swain in Techniques of the Selling Writer, narrative time can be broken down into not just scenes, but sequels. 

Scene

The 3 parts of a scene are:

Goal: The protagonist or point-of-view (POV) character’s objective at the start of the scene.

Conflict: For dramatic conflict, this is an equally strong combination of the character’s ‘want + obstacle’ to their goal. 

Disaster: When the obstacle wins, it forces the character’s hand to act, ratcheting up tension. 

Sequel 

Similarly, Swain’s sequels have 3 parts:

Reaction: This is the POV character’s emotional follow-up to the previous scene’s disaster. 

Dilemma: If the dramatic conflict is strong enough, each possible next step seems worse than anything the character has faced.  

Decision: The scene’s goal may still apply, but the choice of action to meet it will be difficult. 

Tip #2: Questions to Ask Yourself Before Writing a Scene

In Story Genius, story coach and ex–literary agent Lisa Cron lists 4 questions to guide you in scene writing:

What does my POV character go into the scene believing?

Why do they believe it?

What is my character’s goal in the scene?

What does my character expect will happen in this scene?

Tip #3: Writing Opening and Closing Scenes

Now that we know more about scene structure and character considerations, it’s time to open with a bang, or more to the point, a hook. Forget warming up and write a scene in the middle of the action or a conversation. Don’t forget to set the place and time with a vivid description or a little world-building. To end the scene, go for something that resolves the current tension, or a cliffhanger to make your scene or chapter ‘unputdownable’. 

Tip #4: Mastering Tension and Pacing 

A benefit to Swain’s scenes and sequels is that introspective sequels tend to balance the pace by slowing it, building tension. This pacing variation, which you can help by alternating dialogue with action or sentence lengths, offers readers the mental quiet space to rest and digest any action-packed scenes. 

Tip #5: Scene Writing for Emotional Impact

For writing a scene, the top tips from master editor Sol Stein in Stein on Writing are:

Fiction evokes emotion, so make a list of the emotion(s) you want readers to feel in your scenes and work to that list.

For editing, cut scenes that don’t serve a purpose (ideally, several purposes), or make you feel bored. If you are, your reader is too. 

Conclusion

From understanding the anatomy of a scene to writing your own, these tips will help elevate your scenes from good to unforgettable, so you can resonate with readers.

Amy de la Force is a YA and adult speculative fiction writer, alumna of Curtis Brown Creative's selective novel-writing program and Society of Authors member. The novel she’s querying longlisted for Voyage YA’s Spring First Chapters Contest in 2021. An Aussie expat, Amy lives in London. Check her out on Twitter, Bluesky, and on her website! Her books can be found on Amazon. Photo by cottonbro studio

[mavcancees]

drawing realism is pretty funny because you start hyperanalizing your subjects' traits and find out fun details about them that you don't perceive at first (or originally thought of them differently)

anyways here a list of dnf anatomy details that i've collected through intense studying:

1. dream does not have a large jawline actually. his top one is just completely straight, and his bottom one has no side downward curve. usually human skulls will have the top jaw sit at about a 30° angle, but his is just flat. it makes his bottom jaw look a lot more out. this carries all the way up to his forehead too. his bottom jaw is also almost completely straight from the mandibular angle to the chin.

2. george has THE HIGHEST CHEEKBONES. he just has an equally wide mandibular angle (meaning, his jaw doesn't taper in as much), so it doesn't look like it until you compare his cheeks to his side brow bones

3. george also has very long lips horizontally, and a very angular chin, which gives him this constant almost pouty look, so when he smiles he just has a beautiful lip shape

4. dream has a very consistent beard. no splotchiness whatsoever.

5. he also has a mole immediately below his jawline on his right side (or the side of the ear that is not pierced)

6. one of george's eyebrows is significantly taller than the other one on the arch. the start of his eyebrows are also fairly thin and sit pretty low. (he is not escaping the eyebrow plucking/threading allegations imo, they are so incredibly clean)

7. dream's nose looks almost cartoonish from the side from how soft the curve is. from the front, the tip sits pretty low compared to his nostrils

8. george's is a little more hooked AT THE END (he does not have full hooked nose, his bridge is very inwards on the top half), and from the front the tip and nostrils sit at the same height. it makes it look kind of like a tiny wide triangle

9. they both have very long cupid's bows, george a bit more than dream (see late point 8)

10. "dream is puppy coded" and it's because his eyelids are diagonal in the same way puppies have diagonal eye curves ! he very literally has dog eyes

11. dream's middle lashes are very long, and they get darker as you go out. george's are long all around and VERY full. they both have pretty crazy bottom lashes

12. i am once again highlight george's bottom lip. what a beautiful man

13. cameras need to stop hatecriming dream's freckles. set them free. (they mostly sit directly under his eyes next to his nose. he also has some on his chin, it's very charming)

14. gnf comes from the miranda cosgrove school of fake wasians. having deepset eyes, extremely hooded eyes and consistent, very deep aegyo sal will do that to you. (i say this as an asian with much love). don't be scared to draw his eyes properly, he's not beating the wasian allegations, you're allowed to post your "concerningly asian looking" gnf fanart (whoever says this to you send them to me i will beat them up). that's just how he looks. just make sure his nose is right and you're good 👍

15. dream is a LOT larger than what you think in the horizontal axis. door width. huge forearms. his waist is just "small" (average male waist size). don't let it deceive you

that's all for now i'll reblog with more as i find them have fun arting

[meirimerens]

*breaks into ur askbox through a plaster wall* hi i am genuinely fascinated by how you do patterns/ornaments in your art. I don't have like, the slightest bit of patience to do those, but I'm still hella interested to know how ppl do them. Do you plan them out or is it 'fuck it we ball' type of process? Do you usually go into more symbolic meanings (like with the floral ornaments) or add whatever fits aesthetically? Also are there any particular artists that inspire you when drawing them?

("good luck getting to me i'm behind 7 firewalls" meme voice) good lucky getting to [my blog] i'm behind 7 [layers of bricks]

hiii ok let's get serious now

while it'd be easier to tell me about my #process on a case by case basis (so if you have an image/images in particular you'd like to know how i did the patterns of i could likely be more precise in my response) the Vast Majority of the time truly i am ballin. at most I might sketch out where i want Big Pieces, and where i'll fill out with smaller things However Comma there are motifs that keep coming back. and i'm sorry to tell you this. one of them is The Patience To Do So. in no order whatsoever:

floral motifs. i never go for something that Actively Looks Like A Real Flower on purpose: the language of flowers is very dependant of era and place, and a flower that means [x] in 1910s Russia might not mean the same in 1870s England.

vegetal motifs in general, so leaves, vagyuely ivy-looking stuff, stuff inspired by mushrooms & fungi, etc

animal motifs, typically associated with the characters i'm drawing. i might draw stylized birds, wings, horns, serpents/snakes, scales, etc.

eyes, mouths, wounds, or anything that looks kinda ()-like. it can also. look quite yonic depending on the context so. yeah you could say i draw those motifs.

anatomical motifs, inspired by scientific diagrams of the epidermis, of cells, of different organs and body parts, etc. i rely a lot on [this] (Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body) because you have a lot of engravings for every body part you could think of.

random motifs: spikes, spirals, dots, waves, curls, blobs, "ladders",...

i do equal parts symbol & vibes. as mentioned above i'll often fit in animals that i associate with the characters i have drawn, add more anatomical stuff depending on the characters,... but a lot of the "filler" squiggles are pure vibes. i use them to connect symbols together. also most of the characters i draw with these types of patterns are in equal parts anatomy of the body and anatomy of the vegetal so truly i'm tailoring it here.

as for artists i'm inspired by those are the two i always mention:

Ernst Haeckel especially his Kunstformen der Natur (<- link to the Gallica digitalization, but if you google search that you'll also see plenty of good images). He was mostly a biologist & his KdN is drawings he did within his research, a bunch and i mean a buuunnnnccchhh of very beautiful drawings of so many lifeforms on earth. i often reuse his drawings of hexacorallia in peterstakh artworks. those types of artworks if you see what i'm seeing.

i'm also incredibly inspired by Solange Knopf's artworks, and routinely joke that i keep being inspired by her art. i loooove how she does it very freeflowing, packed with so much details

again, i'd probably have more to say if you pointed to an image in particular, but for the most part this is it chrewly!

you must learn patience... you must learn to enjoy doing the squiggles... this is the only way... THANK YOU FOR QUASTION

[thatdogmagic]

The "NSFW = Easy Mode" Post

We all know this post. We all know this complaint. NSFW artists have faced it the entire time we've spent drawing.

Aside from being hugely denigrating towards a very legitimate craft, there are multiple fallacies involved in the argument.

Let's start off with the most obvious, the very real phenomena of getting visible traction on social media sites. Namely, to say that, LIKES/RTS DO NOT TRANSLATE TO FINANCIAL STABILITY. Working your ass off does. NSFW artists who make it their livelihood churn out an absurd amount of work to stay relevant, constantly have to work outside of comfort zones, and face steep competition.

Next, the argument presumes that all NSFW is created equal. It's not. For example: mlm, that is to say, men loving men, will earn you much more traction than wlw, women loving women, and mlm involving trans bodies will earn you much less traction than the cis standard. Additionally, your audience for any of those things is NEVER guaranteed.

It places porn an erotica on the same footing, which is also enormously wrongheaded. Porn has an almost singular focus on secondary sex characteristics, and will rush straight to the point at every given opportunity; erotica is holistic, and doesn't even really have to show genitalia in order to hit its mark, if it's written and framed correctly.

To be clear: both of these things take an enormous amount of skill. It is not something you just learn to do overnight. Good, illustrated porn requires an understanding of action, anatomy, perspective, and all sorts of other technical skills that are often beyond even very adept artists.

With erotica, technical prowess is less of a focus. It's more on character art, scene setting, and story (be it implied by imagery or written in). I don't need to explain the level of expertise this requires, not the least of which is being a good writer, which is fully beyond a lot of peoples' grasp. It's a whole different skill, and being good at erotica is tough for even industry professionals. Many are embarrassingly bad at it.

The other bullet points, I outlined in a Twitter rant, but here they are:

NSFW artists face logistical hurdles SFW artists don't. Namely: we don't know when the site we're posting on will ban NSFW content.

We can be randomly banned/shadowbanned from a site whose rules are not especially clear (Tumblr), and whose filters are garbage. We can also have our work deboosted and effectively removed from circulation because we didn't label a nipple appropriately (Tumblr still thinks a female-presenting nipple is 100% sexual).

We can have our funding cut at random, for seemingly arbitrary reasons.

We face a host of degrading comments and overfamiliar clients.

NSFW artists working commissions have to take on work they're not personally very interested in. This takes way more work and fortitude than anyone is willing to admit. If you're commissioned for a fetish you don't like, you still have to make it look hot for the person who commissioned you. If you don't think that takes extra effort, IDK what to tell you.

We are constantly subjected to arrogant shitbags saying they can just jump in and make bank, because Site Number Went Up that one time.

Bottom line is the 'I should just do furry porn I guess' joke is not a joke. It's not funny. It's just you showing your ass, and insulting your friends/colleagues, who do very hard work for very little reward.

[affinitystoryblog]

🐾 or ✏️ for the oc questions! :) either is fine I just like hearing about oc’s pets and side characters!

🐾 - Pets

so technically three of our main and/or main supporting have pets!

agitha has princess pootie, whom she's had since she was a sophomore in high school.

csilla has her cat rosemary, whom she's had since she was 11 and csilla is suuuper attached to her. thats her best buddy, her lil girl, her other half so to speak. she rly does see her cat as a soul mate

heather has her big ol dog Musa, who is still pretty young, her family adopted him her junior year. but he's a big ol teddy bear. she'll often take him out for her morning jog after breakfast. in the winter time, since heather usually rises by 5 to 6 am every day (definitely a morning person) she and musa will watch the sunrise after their run

and then the last one is a little different than just a pet for her, but urania and miko! she doesnt rly see him as a pet companion, but more of a friend. not to undermine any of the relationships my other girls have with their companions, esepcially csilla and aggie, but urania's bond with miko is one of equal ground. he is just as valuable and integral to everyone in the group as the rest of them.

✏️ - Classmates

so! i dont have a lot of classmates outside of our main cast designed or thought of too much yet, i definitely need a filler chapter after all the back to back plot stuff for 5 chapters. but i havent even finished chapter 5 yet so...(theres a lot of deep story lore stuff i have to work out before i can rly continue with the current plot because so much is gonna have to be interweaved...but im rambling)

so i do have the student council, which i have talked about before. agitha and csilla are also on the student council, but csilla is new

so in the student council, which are agitha's active friend group (excluding dimitri since he is a freshman newly recruited to the student council but he does fit his way in)

Dimitri - daren't genius little brother! he's very arrogant, but tbh he can back it up. big ego by beyonce definitely. and tbh, agitha does not help because she's also pretty arrogant but knows when to humble herself relatively well in certain situations.

Yumi - the baby of the group, she's very intelligent at the top of her class and she is a prodigy pianist. she has scholarships going for her by the mile. sweet girl, yet a little prissy. girls girl kinda vibe, she and james are constantly bickering. lowkey i kinda ship her and alex for no reason in particular...but i want them to have a sort of unspoken exclusiveness with each other...theyre not pursuing each other, but if they were to be with anyone else??? thatd be a betrayal because they are definitely Talking. ill get more into that in alex's bio

Alex - sarcastic and snarky, mouth of a sailor, yet excels in all of her classes and has a the mindset of "if i go out, just know im going out talking shit." her and james are also bickering...basically james is bickering with everyone he's kind of a bitch lol. anyway, she's also got this very "cool" vibe about her, lots of girls in the school like her.

James - he is sassy, prissy, posh, arrogant, and just generally a pain in the ass. but also he is willing to stand up for you if you can't speak for yourself, he likes to tease and gossip with his friends, he is willing to give you the shirt off his back if he sees you have nothing. he may be say a snide feisty comment about how of course you wouldnt have made it if i hadn't come along, but its all out of pride. he is a genius in his own right, good at sports, and comes from a wealthy family.

there were some other side characters i started thinking about for daren and sinie's art club, but i only ended up designing two characters before i kinda left this one by the wayside

SO SIDENOTE: rea's name is actually supposed to be Rae but im fucking illiterate.

Rae - a very good artist for her age, she has a good concept of color theory and anatomy and her concepts are so creative and unique. she is, however, very humble, sweet, and such a positive beam of sunshine. she and sinie get along very well.

Emerald - so, im ngl i dont remember what my inital idea was for her, but based on her posture she was maybe some sort of classy black girl magic kinda girl...if i were to build on this character i would say she is very girly pop, feminist, and specializes in pop art.

oc background relationship asks

[kustas]

I like monstress on a very basic level of enjoyment cuz it is very blasé specially considering Marjorie Liu works on marvel specially her time on daken dark Wolverine and black widow so I might ask what do you dislike about the art?? Just wanting to get a more in detail of the art on general not the character stuff

a few things haha

complex to the point of buisiness for no good reason: there's just so many details that serve no point. readability is important in comics, you need to prioritize what you want to show. also, it's hard to get good composition with that level of shit going on in your panel

lackluster technically. stuff like lighting and anatomy are sketchy. i talked about volumes before, that too. the lineart is messy too, with a lack of control that doesn't feel deliberate with stuff left unconnected or lines that wobble around, it looks like a penultimate pass to finished lines not final lineart

digital slop yaaay why paint when you can throw a gazillion layers of color and blending modes with an airbrush on photoshop this was no one can see your lines or your flats but it's not actually painted

can i please get a character who does not look like a model. can i get wrinkles stubble some sag perhaps

im going to be real now that you pointed out she works for Marvel it all makes sense bc most of this is prevalent in superhero US comics and I hate the art in them. i like simple stylized things and i like my worlds and characters that inhabit them to look boring. busiest comic artists I enjoy are probably Sfar, Segrelles and Toppi and their work is both technically impressive and boasting strong sense of style

sfar is the busiest here with little space to breathe but only uses flats, and while his lines and volumes are lose so is everything so it looks stylish - its both uniform and deliberate. segrelles has eye searingly corny realistic oil paints but his composition and anatomy are so polished each panel is a standalone painting. toppi has a lot of texture but equally as much if not more empty black/white flats and could sneeze on a pen and somehow convey a 3/4 and a half face in perfect counter shading with that lvl of draftsmanship

but i can bitch about the technical stuff, a lot if not most of what I don't like about it is sheer personal preferences. feels bad to run my mouth on this when I myself am a mediocre comic artist :/ she can probably draw better than I do

[mayspicer]

Cayden let's gooo have a bunch of numbers: 1, 3, 6, 7, 29, 35 And for you about Cayden: D, F, G, H

Ayyy : D

I'm gonna write the questions from memory here because mobile is clunky with copying text.

For anyone interested, basic character info:

Cayden is a character I roleplay in a Pathfinder 1e game. He's a gnome, a sorcerer of the unicorn bloodline, currently level 8. I reblog art with him here, it should be in my art or Cayden or pathfinder tags on this blog.

Questions about him:

1. How long can he stay still with nothing to do?

Probably about 5 minutes, even locked in an empty cell he'll look for ways to entertain himself. He can make himself sit still and wait for something when it's needed, but there has to be some kind of reward at the end keeping him excited (sitting through a boring lecture while infiltrating a cult, staying hidden waiting for an ambush, generally being patient when patience is needed to get something that he wants).

3. How does he put himself to sleep?

Depends if adventuring or not, because he ideally likes to put himself to sleep with someone else sharing his bed after a good time and that's probably how his evenings look whenever possible. When not possible, he falls asleep fast, sorcerers need their beauty sleep. Before falling asleep he mostly thinks about whatever topic is the most relevant at the moment, or about friends and family, stuff like that.

6. Does he see laws as flexible or immovable?

Definitely flexible. He understands why they exist and agrees they are needed, some of them at least, but treats them mostly as guidelines and believes that there shouldn't be consequences when the reason to break them is good enough.

7. Is he nostalgic? How is the nostalgia triggered? Is it a positive feeling?

He's very nostalgic (such a self insert trait lol) and gains satisfaction from feeling nostalgia. He collects experiences in a way and looks back at them emotionally as achievements in a way. Maybe nostalgia is not a good word, I use it interchangeably with "sentiment" and I probably shouldn't. Anyway true nostalgia is triggered for him by familiar food, sheep cheese for example and mountainous landscapes and air. It's comforting for him but he doesn't want to go back to the past, he lives mostly in the moment.

29. Does he live up to his standards?

Uhhh that's a hard one... But I think mostly yeah? He does what he can and he knows that.

35. How does he react to someone coming to him excited about something?

He easily gets excited and is supportive as a character but in roleplay it's been hard sometimes. On one hand he's a character that loves new things and experiences and on the other when a friend decided to spend all of his gold on magic chocolates with random effects (not always positive on top of that) as preparation for our expedition to the island near which Cayden almost died in the past... it was hard to be supportive in that case, even though stuff like this would normally be right up his alley.

Questions for me:

D: Did his physical appearance stay the same?

For the most part, yeah. His appearance got more streamlined in drawings over time, but I've always had pretty much the same picture in my mind. I adjusted some minor details at the very beginning that just didn't work well and he got much slimmer but that's mostly due to me figuring out gnome anatomy.

F: What do I feel when thinking about him?

I feel some kind of longing. I want to have what he has, be a magic guy travelling where he wants, living life to the fullest, enjoying the social aspect of it as well as various challenges. There's some (a lot of) gender envy in there also xd

G: What trait of his bother me the most?

I'm gonna approach this from two angles. As a person what would bother me in him is his tendency to get bored with people. He starts to get restless if the setting stays the same for too long. He gets attached easily, but letting go is equally easy for him. It's a big contrast to my character as I attach strongly and vaguely easily but I'm almost unable to let go of my emotional attachments to people. Even if I lost contact with them years ago, I'm regularly getting caught in a spiral of sadness even over the people who didn't treat me well. But this trait of his is not something impossible to work around. It's not like he stops liking/loving someone just because he got bored, unless there is something wrong with the other person of course. If someone is willing to follow him with his way of life, there probably is no limit for his attachment.

As for what bothers me in him as a ttrpg character that I have to roleplay. That damn charisma xD I completely lack any knowledge about how stuff like flirting is supposed to work, so I don't even know how to pretend that I know. Other social interactions also. It's really hard to roleplay a character who is supposed to be in his element in social settings, be charming, outgoing and all that stuff when I'm the least all of that kind of person possible. I often hear advice to just pretend that I am or to just say something that would be appropriate and not care about the tone, but the issue is this is all alien to me and I don't know where to even begin knowing what to pretend. I have this idea of Cayden's vibe in my mind but it's like he is my friend who I know is cool but I don't have what he has, I can't ever be spontaneous with what I say and it looks like it's a crucial skill to have.

H: What trait of his I admire?

Definitely the optimism and confidence. Also stuff I'm unable to roleplay properly, but he's supposed to improvise a lot. He's usually convinced that everything will work out in some way and it usually does. He probably could talk himself out of any trouble, but I cannot roleplay that! Aaaaa!

[lilyfailstodraw]

Fundamentals time.

Fundamentals are what applies to any image no matter what technique was used, what style, materials, medium - it does not matter. You can analyze any image through those fundamentals.

Each fundamental contains multiple skills. Each of them have infinitely large skill ceiling.

It would be stupid to not use someone's knowledge about the subject, so I'll just find some good article by experienced active artist and write my thoughts about it.

This will be good enough for start.

I guess, I'll need to break down each fundamentals in smaller details under close inspection later.

So. David Revoy has good and easy to understand article.

For now, I cannot train each of the fundamentals separately. I need to get a basic understanding of applying every one of them simultaneously and thoughtfully. Later I can concentrate on some specific things. David says so too.

I won't copy the article one-to-one but capture my thought process while reading it.

Being an artist in visual field is based on techniques of creating visual illusion. Which are based on rules of perception of human eye. Idea is to trick eyes so when they see that illusion, it feels natural and meaningful for them.

For convenience and ease of understanding i separated fundamentals into technical and expressive as they even if connected, need different approaches to learn and use.

So, fundamentals

Technical fundamentals.

These are skills that on the most part are purely technical. That don't require expression of emotions, story or anything that is traditionally associates with artistic expression.

They don't require much choice and operate by sets of very strict rules that are dictated by our perception of environment.

Geometry, Physics and Math define and describe how technical fundamentals should work. Which you need to follow if you need your art to be technically correct.

Artist's journey from technical standpoint is to understand rules of nature and figure out how to use them for their advantage.

It's important to know that strict set of rules equals easy predictablity of outcomes. Which means that there are a lot of grids, rulers and another guides that you can simply follow and it will look right.

Structural fundamentals.

These are sets of rules for creating objects in scene. And to make them look right from constructive point of view.

For them, in theory, you can use any material or tools to train or show them, as these are purely structural and don't need more than simple lines to work.

Idea of structural fundamentals is that they are purely a structural carcass of an art piece. These are the main culprits of tricking the eyes and brain into thinking that they see something three-dimensional and with volume even without shading and color.

1. Perspective

Eyes have certain rules of perceiving depth. To simulate that depth perception on two-dimensonal plane, you need to use rules of perspective.

There are a ton of guides, grids and other helpful tools for perspective that artists invented. While learning, start from most basic concepts like grids, how to use them, and how basic shapes act in perspective.

2. Proportions

Proportions are a weird one. I think David made them into separate fundamental skill as many artists orient themselves by proportions in the process of drawing.

Right now I think about proportions more like of combination of fundamentals like: visual library, composition, anatomy and communication. Just because proportions are never the same and can mean too many things at once. And proportions of all things are the most manipulated thing in art. Yeah, there are golden ratios and ideal proportions in anatomy that you better know. But it's more of visual library thing in my head than anything.

But, I'm not professional artist or expert so.

Proportions are relations in size between anything. Between different parts of the body. Between negative and positive space on canvas. Between objects in the scene.

There are numerous things that are easily recognizable for their proportions. Aaand I lost myself trying again to separate proportions from visual library. Proportions are like sub-class of visual library that includes stereotypical sizes and relations that you just remember. Anatomy includes learning proportions too. I dunno why it is separate.

Okay... If we separate remembering of proportions from methods of using them... that will kinda work as separate fundamental skillset. Does not matter how many proportions you remembered. It matters how you can apply them into your work.

3. Anatomy

Structures are complex objects that consist of other simpler objects.

Anatomy is a study of how those structures function. If you understand how object works and what parts it consists of, you can create more believable image of this object.

Anatomy includes basically everything mechanical about any structure (humans, animals, mechanisms, plants, etc) and how parts of these structures connect, look, what shapes are they, how they work together and etc. (Bones, joints, muscles, shapes, how they change)

Readability fundamentals

These are for effective delivery of specifically visual information. Structural are more about geometric/wireframe side of things and expressives are for delivering the idea. Readability fundamentals are there so your image is easier and more intuitive to read.

4. Composition

Composition is basically how you place your elements on canvas. These elements can be grouped not just by objects but by color, level of depth, distance and really any other way.

By separating and grouping elements, your piece is easier to read and it generally gives more expression. If you can say what happens in the picture by little thumbnail - that's composition that works.

Learning composition is more or less visual library thing plus ease of reading on par with meaning.

5. Lighting/Shading

Shading is a term I like better.

Shading is a skill that communicates lighting though different values/shades of color. Proper illusion of light is the goal here.

This skill is vast in theory. You need to learn how light works, how it changes with intensity, multiple light sources interaction, how to cast shadows properly, light bounces, how different materials interact with light and most importantly, how to deliver all that through different values of same or different colors.

6. Edges

After infinitely large skillset to not so vast in size.

Edges are how you split shapes and silhouettes from each other. That's it.

You know, when two same colored objects overlap from your point of view, it's kinda hard to know when one ends and second starts sometimes. Just because they lack a specific edge and blend into each other. Yeah, you can separate them with composition, but sometimes it kinda ruins everything so you need to solve this problem with edges.

Overlapping is fundamental rule of perspective, so by splitting objects with hard edges you not only make things more easy for eyes but make closest object pop. Or you blend them with soft edges, it's your choice.

So, for paintings these are edges(hard, soft, lost) and for line art are line styles(weight, speed, ghost)

Expressive fundamentals

Thing is, with enough understanding, any fundamental skill can be used in expressive way by changing or even breaking the rules in meaningful ways to express your idea more clear.

Expressive fundamentals are for delivering idea or emotion to the viewer. Mood, message, flow, energy, symbolism, taste, invention, associations - all these are expressions of artists' mind in the first place.

7. Colors

Why is it in expressives, not communicatives?

In short, you use colors as emotional information transmitter or as an aesthetic choice. Lighting will make basically any color work, so choice of color from technical and readability point of view is insignificant.

People associate different colors with different things and emotions. Just by placing couple of colors near each other will tell some people a clear message or association.

So, learning colors is basically learning different color systems, how they look together, subcontious meanings of them.

How colors change in different lighting is more of shading thing.

8. Gesture

Gesture is a weird one when you hear about it.

Gesture as an exercise is quick rapid sketching with no little to no restraints with next in mind:

Gesture as a skill is about transmitting dynamics(movement, tension, flow, expressions, actions) and capturing "life" in static image.

9. Style

Style is a series of aesthetic and technical choices to "sell" particular artwork to specific audience in appealing way.

It covers all aspects of life. From clothing to way you move. Traditional, symbolic, expressive... Anything can be merged into style. Also anything can inspire it, from movies to music to everyday life.

Fashion is a good synonym for style.

10. Concept

Development of an abstract design in visual form.

Basically, taking any kind of idea and developing its visual. Making something new.

More you know about ideas, their realization in real life and how things work the better.

Anyway, it's purely creative process and it's implied you'll have some happy accidents. If you have some idea - draw it. If it's not really what you wanted to draw - you now have something that captures that idea(even if poorly) and now you know what you need to learn to make a better idea or capture it better. Win-win.

11. Communication

Storytelling through image.

Sometimes it's much easier to show than tell.

You can encode a message or story into image. You just need to learn the nonverbal language.

Effectivity fundamentals

Okay, these have nothing to do with David's article but in my head these are still essential skillsets that every artist uses.

There are million ways to draw and paint. So there is always easier or faster way to do anything.

These skillsets will make you more reliable, faster and overall make your life as artist easier over time.

12. Visual library

It does not really matter how vivid your imagination, if you have aphantasia and cannot visualize things or really bad at remembering things. You still can develop a visual library.

Visual library is a collection of objects, styles, compositions, proportions or anything visual that you remember in small details and can recreate at will. Things from this library are drawn Intuitively and waste no brainpower to do so.

To add an item to visual library you need to learn everything you can about it for some time. Then draw it from every angle possible. Once you don't even think about how to draw this thing - it's safe to say you're finished with it. More knowledge about this item like its purpose, how to use it, what materials and whatever you can imagine - the better.

13. Simplification

Making things simple have many purposes. Simpler things are easier and faster to produce. Also it's harder to lose track of things if they are simplified. It's easier to communicate with simpler things. And you always can make simple thing more complex. Thing is, it's harder to make something complex and working from the ground up than from something simpler.

All this relates to your process, thinking and everything you make on canvas equally.

From two equally skilled artists, best one is who thinks in simpler terms. One who's process is so simple to him, so easy to navigate, he can replicate any thing he's done before. One who can explain his process so it's easy for his listeners to do it themselves.

14. Stealing

Well, analysis is a better term. But stealing is more motivating way of thinking about it.

Best way to understand how to steal properly is by learning how to use references. And what people generally mean when they say it.

When you look at reference, analyze it. What do you see and what can be the idea behind it? Why is it that way? The way it looks. The way it's constructed that way. You will have some suggestions, no matter what you look at. Only problem is putting it into words. From answers to these questions you will have some idea.

Some idea you can freely steal. And realize it on paper or whatever.

It works not only for new concepts but as learning tool too. Its easier to learn general idea of any thing before learning/practicing it's exact realization.

And yeah, it's kinda wrong to steal realizations rather than ideas. And counterproductive in the long run from the perspective of being able to learn/express yourself

Fundamentals rely and interact with each other. If you break one thing, you probably break many of them. Same with success - if everything is good about one fundamental in the piece, others are easier to work with.

Also, it's important to point out that your whole drawing process can be founded by one fundamental in particular. And it can be any one of them. If you prefer to use construction grids to build your image from ground up and have no understanding about any other fundamental - you still can make a masterpiece if you master your process.

Some workflows may just have no need of some fundamentals whatsoever.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

diana. DIANA. DUDE. WHAT THE FUCK. YOU CAN'T JUST DO THIS TO ME. THIS IS HAUNTING. THIS IS GOLD. THIS IS ART.

i am LEGITIMATELY going to be so so so hard pressed not to cap the entire fic to scream my brains out, bc this is spun GOLD. it is so finely worded and expertly crafted. this is an example of words broken over knee to suit your purposes. this is BEAUTY. and ART. i don't usually say craftsmanship when describing writing, bc generally the people who do self-describe that way can be sort of pase, but this is HIGH QUALITY CRAFTSMANSHIP.

"the throat is a double-edged sword. it makes life possible...but so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein...the right angle, the right depth." holy SHIT. this reads like anatomy. this reads like poetry. it's just close enough to the show to be called kin, WHILE STANDING ON ITS OWN TWO FEET. and holy fucking hell your kruegannibal voice is STUNNING.

the artistry of this grisly gift is as terrifying as it is MESMERIZING. HOLY SHIT. and it being a physical representation, harvested and manipulated into a showpiece by his own hands, a GIFT--utterly gut wrenching in a way that feels like the slide of flesh down the throat. this taps on something primal, something incensed with need and desire and apology. total protraction and supplication, while still an unimaginably stark example of everything krueger can do.

i know i've screamed at you extensively about this passage and the next ones in particular in the server, but holy FUCK, diana. the juxtaposition of pedestrian humanity on the palette as nothing more than standard fare, unworthy of applause because it's only meant to be filling, not an experience, pushed up against the utter diefication and divinity of consuming the flesh of a loved one--thereby making himself a tomb, a reliquary, a holy site. how the HELL does your brain come up with such intense beauty, can i make a blood sacrifice in your honor to get a fraction of this skill??????

kjfldksjflkdjdsflKFDKJLDSKJDF GIGGLING. KICKING MY FEET. TWIRLING MY HAIR. STILL BLUSHING IRL. MAKES MY HEART FLUTTER AND MY HANDS NERVOUS. THIS IS SO SO GOOD. HOLY SHIT THE FULFILLMENT OF BEING A THING SO LOVED THAT YOU FILL THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.

"YOUR LIVES WERE JUST PREPARATION FOR THE INEVITABLE RETURN TO THAT SHADOWY LIMBO FROM WHICH YOU'D ALL BEEN BIRTHED" KJSLKJFDLKFJLSKDJDFS BARK BARK BARK BARK. THE TRANSITORY FLEETING NATURE OF LIFE, THE BOOKENDED BLACKNESS ON EITHER SIDE, THE EPHEMERAL BUT CORPOREAL NATURE OF IT. FLESH AND SPIRIT AND PHILOSOPHY.

and KJDLK AHHHHHHHH. GOD. SOME ASSHOLE AT A BAR PUSHING HIS LUCK, DR. KRUGER INTERVENING, A THING HE WOULD NOT DO UNLESS HE FOUND THE ACT AT HAND PARTICULARLY DISTASTEFUL AND GAUCHE, GETTING SOMETHING LOVELY RUINED, AND METING OUT AN EQUALLY GAUCHE FATE. AND AGAIN WITH THE FISHER OF MEN IMAGERY, FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. FISHER AND QUARRY CAUGHT, PREPARED FOR GUTTING FROM KNAVE TO CHAPS.

when i tell you i GASPED at this. mixed with the preceding and successive passages, i was so fucking floored that i had to sit and stare into space for a while.

the glass-smooth transition from an abattoir-esque autopsy of dismantling, so scientific and clinical and precise, to an almost cerebral take on the fact that kreuger does not yell and had done enough of it in his military life, and thinks it almost grotesque and weak or pathetic, knowing that if you have to abuse attention to command it, then you aren't worth a shit anyway. onto this primal crawling through literal blood and guts at his singular command, this animalistic desire. like i'm shaking?!?! what the fuck, what the FUCK?!?!

i have NO WORDS!!!!! I AM OUT OF WORDS, AND I AM INSANE!!!!!!!1 I SLK;LD;FKDLSFFDDS CAN'T FUNCTION IN SOCIETY ANYMORE. AND YOU WERE NOT FOOLISH ENOUGH TO THINK YOU COULD EVER BE THE BUTCHER IN THIS SCENARIO.

I FOR REAL jerked my body so hard the first time i read this that i slammed my knee into my metal bedframe (don't ask, i sit and lie gayly in every environment possible dskljds) and had a bruise for like a WEEK. DO IT THEN. SWEAR TO ME. HALL OF FAME LINE, I ASPIRE TO YOUR LEVEL ONE DAY DI <3 <3 <3 JDLKFJDLKDS EVEN REREADING I HAVE CHILLS.

altered my brain chemistry on a fucking FERAL level. i have this particular nibbin saved in my personal discord in a inspo channel. i would print this out and keep it in a frame on my bedside table. i actually fuckin MIGHT. MIGHT GET IT TATTOOED. I NEVER WANT TO BE FAR FROM THIS. HRHRHGKDHJLKDJFLKDJSLF!??!!??!?!?!?!

okay so first of all, that was SO INCREDIBLY, DELIRIOUSLY, WONDERFULLY STEAMY. THAT WAS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. i'm going to come back to this over and over and over, i just fucking know it. and it's so amazing, jesus god, i get so lucky that i have the friends i have, bc i am inspired by their writing, but this piece, diana, i just feel super charged.

your skill is so vast and breathtaking, something as simple and gruesome as cannibalism transcended so far far far up into art, in a way i have so painfully rarely fucking seen in traditionally published books, no matter the level of acclaim some of them have that they don't deserve. when i tell you this was moving, i'm not fucking around. this is haunting, and gorgeous, and it's making so many emotions swim through my chest. i don't have the words to encompass what an utter goddamned delight this was, nor do i have the words to tell you how hard this has hit me.

i'm so looking forward to whatever you write for this au, if you choose to revisit it, and all things that you write!!!! Thank you so so so SO MUCH for sharing your work with us babe, it’s a pleasure to read, and an even bigger pleasure to think about in the night hours when I can’t sleep 😭😭😭💖💖💖

wrath of the lamb

pairing: sebastian krueger x f!reader word count: 6.9k synopsis: your first time hunting with dr. krueger tags: hannibal au, haunted hoedown, dark, serial killers, a couple that kills together stays together, enemies and lovers, unreliable narrator, unholy mentions of god, religious imagery, no y/n warnings: violence/death, blood/gore, mutilation, body horror, cannibalism, voyeurism (except the voyeur is dead), killing as foreplay, smut (blood + murder kink, hair-pulling, biting) ao3: read here  ← prev

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

— Sophocles

Bait; that had been your role. The lure, the dangling bit of appetizer to ensnare prey on behalf of another. This particular catch of the day had believed you to be the fish to his fisherman, but you nonetheless had been bait, he the fish, and Dr. Krueger—

The fisherman.

Soon, you would be a fisherman yourself, capable of priming, reeling in, and fatally securing a wide array of aquatic life all on your own. Before that, however, there was much to learn about the sport and the art of choosing one’s hunting spot, of casting one’s net. Naturally, Dr. Krueger had been ever so enthusiastic to help bridge the gaps in your knowledge.  

Currently, the fish was tied up in the foyer, bound by his wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, the same in which you’d sat years ago as Dr. Krueger’s temporary patient. At the insistence of Agent Blaustein and your undiagnosed encephalitis, you had given therapy a shot. These visits had eventually increased in frequency, more so for the psychiatrist’s company than his pseudo sessions. 

Some attributed the progression of your relations with Dr. Krueger to be a product of fate and circumstance, but you knew better than that. Over the past several months, a deliberate and intentional hand had guided you to this very moment, everything meticulously planned and orchestrated by someone with a vested interest in your ascent. 

In your. . . becoming. 

What started as a chance meeting snowballed into a partnership between professionals, identifying and apprehending serial killers across the state together. Thereafter, a friendship did blossom, though this too evolved since your pure empathy made you highly susceptible to internalizing others; him. The line that separated your psyche from his thus gradually became muddied and blurred as you vacated your mind and beckoned in this monster among men. 

You would be hard-pressed to forget just how fervently he had appraised the order and disorder of your headspace. How worshipingly he had looked upon the ever-encroaching darkness that you kept shamefully hidden within the crevices of your bones, stowed away for fear of the day your worser nature might rise to the surface. How eagerly he had called forth that wickedness, that sin, happy to watch you partake and take. 

How easily he had metamorphosed you into the person you’d unwittingly been pursuing throughout all your years of existence. 

“The throat is a double-edged sword. It makes life possible, housing the airways, overseeing the safe passage of air into the lungs. But so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein, exacting a swift end if cut at just the right angle, the right depth,” an accented voice sounded from behind. 

Hopelessly obedient to the pull that locked your soul and his in perpetual orbit of one another, you cast a glance over your shoulder then looked down at the knife in his hand. It was an ordinary carving knife, blade sharpened and thrumming with excitement at the prospective union of steel and meat. More importantly, it was an offering. 

A gift.

Dr. Krueger quite enjoyed showering you with lavish presents, and he preferred the intimacy of being the craftsman in addition to the sender. To court you, he’d sawed off the tongue of the reporter who’d mocked your condition in her crude tabloids, coated the severed organ in poison, and shoved it down her throat until she choked on its toxicity. To express the extent of his devotion, he'd torn out the vocal cords of a suitor who’d made lewd comments about you at the opera house, fashioned them into a noose, and left him dangling from the ceiling to be discovered in the morning by a screeching primadonna. 

And to apologize for spilling your blood on his kitchen floor, he’d Frankensteined together a beating heart, openly baring his affections despite the penetrative gaze of all who sought to imprison the Cut-throat Killer. The sculpture, composed of a decapitated corpse’s inverted musculature instead of typical granite stone, had told a tale of repentance and of yearning.

My heart is yours. Broken and maimed though it might be, you have managed to assuage its ache and mend its pieces. This foreign object no longer fits properly in the cavity of my being, so do what you will with it. Even if you decide to break it once again, the resulting shards are still all for you only, just as it was. 

The twisted love letter had resulted from months of deceptive intentions, divided loyalties, and belated sacrifices. Your inevitable betrayal had struck dead the fantasy of a shared future. In his mourning, Dr. Krueger had gutted you to bestow a matching wound, yours a physical representation of his own intangible pain. However, contrary to previous prey, watching your face lose its vibrancy and a red puddle form around your twitching body had inspired not satisfaction, but fear. 

A certain desperation had seized him then. Losing you, a kindred spirit who had known and seen him, would have damned the man to a lifetime of loneliness. For someone incapable of thriving in total solitude, that was a terrifying notion.

So though the urge to slit your throat and cook you into a feast might occasionally possess him, though he might periodically contemplate cracking your skull open to reveal the beautiful brain that tormented him day and night, such calls-to-action would go unanswered. 

During periods of separation, he could easily convince himself that his feelings for you were an unnecessary suffering. A fruitless agony; a beacon of masochism. Ready to put an end to this mounting misery, a murderous plot would begin to take shape until your mere return resolutely derailed any plans of excising you from his destiny. 

Cyclical, the way he grew hungry in your absence, champing at the bit, gnawing on bone, only to find his stomach brimming with contentment upon spending a single moment in your presence. 

The rude were nothing more than livestock to a refined man like Dr. Sebastian Krueger. Just as the average non-vegetarian viewed chickens, cows, and pigs as rightful staples of their omnivorous diet, he believed disrespectful folk were no different to poultry, cattle, or swine. At least in death, these subhumans could transcend their lowly stations and reach new heights of beauty and value as his culinary masterpieces, as elaborate displays of mutilated art. 

Like God, he played judge, jury, and executioner, wielding the power to decide the earthly ends and undead beginnings of those he deemed lesser.

Between equals, however, consumption was to him the pinnacle of humanity’s capacity for love. Diligently preparing a delicacy of the vessel that housed a loved one, transforming their anatomy into a gourmet meal, was the supreme method of honoring them. Further still, intaking a pound of their flesh meant immortalizing a beloved by becoming the very urn in which the remnants of their existence could always be found. Whether they should depart by nature or by circumstance, a piece of them would forever stay inside this biological graveyard. 

The mixing of bloods, two pulses beating in synchrony, a dialogue between gullets. An irreversible breach of one’s external layer of protection that said, you are mine, and I am yours; the proof resides in the pits of our stomachs.

By his logic, if he were to eat you and satisfy his craving for fusion, then perhaps whatever hold you had over him would denature, eliminating the threat that this love posed to his livelihood. In actuality, a glimpse of you was plenty enough to sate his normally-raging appetite. 

To daily feel a stab of hunger and then obtain nourishment at the slightest bit of eye contact. . . that was how viscerally he loved you. 

Of course, Dr. Krueger hadn’t overtly verbalized these sentiments, but you nonetheless recognized and understood the unspoken truth. After all, pure empathy did not just expose you to the onslaught of his expert manipulation—it also unveiled his best-kept secrets.

“When hunting, one must always consider efficiency. Time is of the essence, as they say. It’s better spent on the artwork itself than on gathering your materials, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Your eyes jerked up to meet his appraising stare. Not the type to waste air on rhetorical questions, he raised a single scarred brow, and it only lowered once your fingertips answered by brushing the palm of his hand. As you plucked the knife from his grasp, its heavy weight took you aback. The hefty task of reaping an unclaimed soul added at least a few extra pounds to the blade, but you adjusted your grip until wielding it became effortless.  

At its core, killing was a fairly quick and simple endeavor. Humans often exited the world as fast as they had originally entered it, and, in a manner of speaking, your lives were just preparation for the inevitable return to that shadowy limbo from which you’d all been birthed. 

The fish had yet to regain consciousness, and you were determined to ensure that his eyes would never again open to anything but a dark abyss. 

You weren’t apologetic in the slightest for what was about to come. This bound asshat had been selected because he’d had trouble understanding the word no at a pub and spilled wine on an intervening Dr. Krueger’s prized coat. Such unprincipled behavior warranted an equally-indecent fate. 

Out like a light, his head was tilted back to rest on the back of the chair, displaying a ripe throat, fresh for the taking. And take you did, aligning your blade at the corner of his jaw and dragging it across the jugular, slitting his trachea, causing it to collapse unto itself. Liquid beads of crimson bubbled to the surface along the laceration, and the macabre necklace enraptured you. 

Your psychiatrist-turned-mentor had earned the moniker of Cut-throat Killer due to his apparent fixation on the neck and its surrounding regions. His kills were linked by this common denominator, whether a body was headless, or had a ripped-apart larynx, or had died by asphyxiation. Sometimes, Dr. Krueger liked to experiment with different finishing blows to keep the FBI on their toes, but his modus operandi never failed to involve the throat. 

It made sense, then, why you too had developed a similar appreciation. 

“Well done,” praised the doctor, now beside you, and the words set alight your bloodstream. His tone held no surprise; your profession had revealed your natural aptitude for the hunt and erased any reservations he might’ve had. From the very first day your paths crossed, he’d recognized what you were, what you could become. “Now, where do you wish to go from here?” 

A loaded question, one that dictated how the rest of the night would unfold. If you stayed in the foyer, cleaning up the grime and gore out from between each plank of wood would be an absolutely dreadful ordeal. If you went to the main room, splatters and stains on his Persian rug and fine fabric drapes would undoubtedly irk the man, and you quite preferred staying on his good side for the time being.

That left his extravagant kitchen. It was the ideal location—the freezer was conveniently placed, and the tools for harvesting meat were at your disposal. Also, in the not-unlikely event of blood running off the table’s edge, you could simply scrub the tiles spotless.

“The kitchen.” You diverted your focus from the dead man to the one who had mastered death itself. Although you were unsurprised to discover Dr. Krueger’s deep brown eyes already intent upon you, a chill cascaded down your spine nevertheless. He’d sooner gouge out the organs that granted him sight than stop his lingering stares, you knew. “Removing the skin from a fish this slimy is messy business. I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice hardwood floors. Black walnut?” 

His wide smile told a tale of predation tempered with adoration. “Wenge.”

You softly shook your head in fond exasperation. Of course he who settled for nothing but the best would choose one of the most rare and expensive species of hardwood in the world. 

The doctor held your gaze as he removed his outer layer, not wanting to sully a tailored, dry clean-only suit jacket. Once it was safely out of range, he cut loose the body from its restraints and dragged it to the kitchen with you trailing behind him. 

After hauling the corpse onto the center of the marble island, Dr. Krueger rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and slipped on surgical gloves from his vest’s pocket, handing you a pair as well. He used scissors to reveal the man’s flesh beneath his clothes, took the murder weapon from your fingers, and made an incision that started at the collarbone and ended at the navel. Wrenching open the ribcage, snapping any resistant osseous matter, the doctor efficiently primed the carcass for harvesting before it could stiffen in rigor mortis. 

His work done, he unsheathed a sizable butcher knife, handed it to you, then stepped out of reach, content to watch you pick up from where he’d left off. You imitated his previous motions, careful not to sink the blade too far in lest you ruptured any organs. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally ruin the meat. 

Meat. 

You’d discovered a couple of months ago that the delicious protein scrambles shared with you by the kind Austrian man had actually contained bits of strangers. Initially, the revelation had repulsed and angered you in its violation of your right to informed consent. But now, while you didn’t see the appeal of human cuisine, you could admit there was something uniquely intimate about a shared hunt, about the subsequent communion, the breaking of bread and bone. 

It was with this logic in mind that you proceeded to dissect the body according to the anatomical direction given by the doctor. First, you extracted the lungs, then the spleen and liver, next the stomach and gallbladder, the intestines and kidneys, and, lastly, the heart. 

The turn of the hour quickly came and went. You moved to push back some hair that had fallen out of place, wishing you had worn a hairnet, when you caught a glimpse of your lover’s current state. He stood to the side of the counter a few feet away, hunger plain on his face, erection evident through the fabric of his slacks. 

As ravenous for your fill of him as he was for a taste of you, you set the knife on the cutting board and started to walk over to—

“No.” 

The lone, measured syllable echoed throughout the large kitchen, ringing in your ears, and you instantly halted mid-step. A trait that separated the doctor from so many other men of his stature was his refusal to resort to yelling. He’d done a lifetime’s worth of it in the Austrian Armed Forces, had been his explanation, and it was beneath him. It signaled that one lacked omnipotence and control, that they didn’t have an effortless dominance with respect to the masses over which they resided. 

Dr. Krueger, however, had no shortage of charisma and no trouble garnering an obedient audience. The personification of sin beckoned you forward. “Crawl to me.”

Without hesitation, you slowly descended to the floor, gaze steady and stuck on his looming figure. Your clothed knees met tile first, then your palms followed suit as you navigated your way towards him through a pool of blood and innards. Something unnamed coiled tight in your stomach the nearer you drew to him who looked down at you, stoic and unfazed. From here, a passerby might think you a worshiper bowed in supplication to her god.  

For what purpose did you plead? 

If I should die, let it not be his blade that strikes the finishing blow. 

To what end did you pray? 

If he should rot in a cell, let it not be my testimony that sends him away.  

When your fingers brushed against his shoes, imprinting red on the fancy leather, the doctor leaned forward to snake a hand around to the nape of your neck, lightly massaging your scalp. The soothing pressure made your eyes roll back, but the false sense of security it had given you evaporated at the following sharp tug on the roots of your hair.

His grip firm, Dr. Krueger pulled you up until you were on your feet once again. Before you could properly calibrate to the change in orientation, he spun you to face the kitchen island then sandwiched you in between his pelvis and the counter. Squirming against him, your instincts commanded you to escape, but you remained steadfastly in place. Trapped.

Ensnared.

Skillful hands made quick work of your attire, throwing your belt to the ground, shoving your jeans and panties to bunch at your ankles, unbuttoning the flannel he’d called hideous yet endearing, snapping free your cheap bra. Satisfied with your current state of undress, Dr. Krueger used his teeth to tear off his gloves so that he could begin exploring the treasures he had uncovered.  

You never let him touch you with gloves. The sensation of latex on skin was too reminiscent of a butcher prepping slaughtered livestock to be further chopped up into refined cuts of meat. And you were not foolish enough to think you could ever be the butcher in this scenario. 

His hands journeyed up your front to your neck, rubbing at the splatter of blood there that had yet to be cleaned. Adamant on dirtying you further, he smeared it downward as he cupped the heft of your breasts and rolled your nipples between his fingers. You must’ve looked like a sacrificial offering to some deity, back bowed, though the only who would partake in the enjoyment of your flesh was him.

Once you were sufficiently marked, the man wiped any excess blood off his right hand and onto your stomach then continued his descent to the epicenter of your heat. When he finally reached your mound and dipped an explanatory finger inside, he found you wet and wanting. 

“Filthy thing,” Dr. Krueger admonished with a click of his tongue. “I’ve barely touched you, and yet here you are, already dripping onto the floor. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Since you—” The rest of that sentence died in your throat, cut short by the featherlight brush of his thumb against where you wanted him most. A sudden jolt traveled through your body, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sensical series of words. “Since you rolled up those stupid fucking sleeves, you bastard.” 

His answering smirk could be heard in the gravel of his voice, smug and self-assured. “I didn’t know my forearms had such an effect on you.”

Said forearms came into view as he encased you, both of his hands relocating to either side of yours, flat on the countertop. A knee replaced where his hand had been between your legs, and he ground it upward, pulling back whenever you tried to reciprocate, relief just out of reach. 

“Like hell you didn’t,” you snapped, your frustration getting the better of you. “Don’t play dumb, Doctor. It’s not a good look.” 

All traces of his humor evaporated at the snark. Announcing no warning, your lover sank two fingers into your weeping core, curling them to stimulate the spot within that never failed to make you see stars. He scissored you open and gathered enough slick to begin working in a third finger, intent on making you plead for forgiveness. Absolution. 

Most nights, Dr. Krueger prided himself in his patience, in his ability to draw out one, two, three orgasms from you before his cock got anywhere near your cunt. But tonight, you knew, would be different. It would be hard and fast. 

Carnal. 

Upon deeming you ready to take him, you heard the unclasping of a belt buckle followed by the zipper of his pants coming undone. A soft caress along the notches of your spine, and then he aligned himself with your entrance and immediately surged to erase the distance between your bodies, filling you to the hilt. 

The force of it caused you to double over, and your elbows buckled at the sudden shift in weight. With the side of your face now pressed against the counter’s cold surface, you couldn’t help the way your ass slightly elevated and protruded. This position felt explicit, dirty, and you gleaned from his sharp inhale that you looked as much from his perspective. Rather than allowing you to rise, Dr. Krueger dug a hand into your hair and pushed you further into the granite. 

“Have I neglected you, mein Schatz?” Each thrust was punctuated by a tug on your hair, a scrape against the surface, the repeated motion jostling you forward, while you fucked back into him. “Have I left you wanting? Is that why you’re so needy tonight? So rude?” 

When you didn’t answer, he retracted his hips until the tip was all that remained nestled in your warmth, leaving you empty and unfulfilled. Then, as though sensing you were on the verge of complaining, the doctor slammed home, yanking from you a pitiful mewl of agonized desire. 

“Please.”

This particular word was a shapeshifter; it adopted a different meaning based on ite context. Here, it served as a Hail Mary, as a cry for mercy, but you weren’t sure whether you were imploring his punishing rhythm to abate or for him to give you more. Regardless of your intention, Dr. Krueger intensified his torturous movements, a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips. 

Damn sadist. 

“Begging will get you nowhere. Not tonight.” At your despairing whine, he laughed again. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get your wish. Eventually.”

So attuned to the ins and outs of your body, was this man, so intimately aware of where to press, where to pinch to elicit sweet melodies and moans. And yet, he toyed with you, glossing over these erotic zones, waiting for you to confess something before he might grant you penance, a token for your suffering. The thread of your sanity was wearing thin. 

“Stop teasing, or I swear to God.” 

You’d expected him to ignore your pleas as he had done before, but instead, you felt him thicken inside you. “Do it, then. Swear to me.”

His ego almost earned him an eyeroll, but you couldn’t help giving into his demands. The relentless pace he’d set was very persuasive, and you were only human.   

“Sebastian—”

It had the desired outcome. Hardly ever did you call him by his name, so if you did, that meant something. Due to said infrequency, using his name had a kind of Pavlovian effect on the man.

“Scheiße,” he groaned out the curse, hips stuttering forward and reaching a newfound depth that made you both gasp. “Yes, my heart, that’s right. You’ve made me your god, and I’ve made you. . .” 

. . . mine. 

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Dr. Krueger had plucked a rib from the cavity of his chest, sharpened it into a blade, and carved you into his vision of perfection. In turn, you had turned him into a conduit for your enlightenment, for your becoming. He was your tangible nirvana, and you were his sole gateway to heaven. 

The two of you had found religion in each other, and there was little else more dangerous than that. 

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so impatient for?” At your jerky nod, he seized your slackened jaw and tilted your chin up to direct your attention towards the kitchen island where the corpse still laid. “My, we haven’t even cleared the table yet. Can’t let the meat sit out, or else it’ll go sour.”

When your brain finally caught up to what—or to whom— he was referring, an epiphany struck you with startling clarity: 

This dead man was evidence of what had transpired here tonight. Better yet, he was the first witness to this taboo consummation. Perhaps it was stupid to believe that gave your relationship any real legitimacy in the world’s eyes, beyond the perimeters of this manor. Nonetheless, the thought caused you to involuntarily tighten, and you prayed the correlation would go unnoticed.

Dr. Krueger froze, because of fucking course nothing ever got past him. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like that we have a guest for dinner, that another finally sees the truth of what we are. Hunters. Lovers.” 

Oftentimes, being known was a riveting experience that bridged the gaping chasm of solitude. But there came moments when you wished to conceal the ugliness. You lowered your head, mortified that he might at last realize you were unworthy of his affection, his touch. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you’re here. This home is yours, Liebling,” he murmured, reverent as he resumed his torturous ministrations, regaining momentum. “I can think of no more beautiful a sight than you happy and honest in it. Never hide from me.”

A horrific prospect, baring one’s heart to someone so well equipped to tear it to shreds, but your walls were already beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, he dismantled you, intending to undo a lifetime of repression then reconstruct you in his image. 

Sex with Dr. Krueger wasn’t just a physical release. It was near ritualistic in its conjoining of two souls. It was a collision between two supernovas, a calamity in progress. 

It was an inevitability.  

What a pair you made—serpent and Eve. Ravisher and ravished, entangled in a web of debauchery and death. 

In spite of everything, you didn’t believe that he made you worse. He made you real. 

Time after time, warnings that this should never happen again would echo throughout your mind, but time after time, you found yourself in this same position, wrapped up in him. Coaxed by his sweet nothings and consumed with the way he alone understood what you still refused to speak aloud, it was through this union of flesh and bone that you elevated each other to art. 

And hell, if he made you worse, then you accepted that to be worse was to be honest. In this realm, you were closer to God than to the Devil. 

And was it not so that every devout follower hoped to be in league with their god, to be rewarded for their unshaken faith? What better way to actualize that hope than to devour?

A well-angled thrust brought you back to the present. Man or monster, God or Devil, neither distinction mattered as he pummeled into you, a fusion of the ultimate caliber. In this room, he was not your enemy, just the equal who helped you ascend to great heights, who guided you until your eventual arrival to the precipice. 

Lucifer before the fall. 

“I—” The word broke off in an airy gasp. Second attempt. “Sebastian, I’m—”

That too went interrupted, for it was then that your lover decided to circle your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. Dazed and nonverbal, you felt him wrap your hair around his fist and use it as leverage to assist in his corruption of you, tugging your head to his chest, baring your throat, arching your back. 

“I know, it’s alright,” he lovingly hushed your cries, lips nibbling on the rim of your ear. The wet roughness of his tongue licked away the tears that had begun to flow freely from your eyes, glossy and unfocused. “You can let go now. I’ll be here t catch you, yes? I’ll always catch you.” 

It shouldn’t have been a comforting sentiment. This was a man who killed people for being rude, who had seriously told you it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals. And yet, hearing that he would be there to envelop you in his arms if and when you plunged into the deep end was what at last sent you over the edge.  

Before him, no partner had successfully brought you to an orgasm. He loved to lull you into a state of la petite mort, compensating for his inability to actually kill you by inducing several little deaths whenever you laid together. But he had your brain short-circuiting as you came apart, your thighs trembling and jaw unhinged, your nails notched into the muscles that rippled across the expanse of his back, a bright light behind halfway-closed lids.

Thick fingers crawled across your left cheek to enter the black hole of your wet mouth, and you instinctively closed your lips around the intruding appendages. As you sucked and lathered them with spit, you pushed your ass further back into his pelvis, wordlessly encouraging him to use you to chase his own release. Several strokes later, his pace grew desperate, erratic, and he removed his fingers to cup your face, angled it just right, then bit down on the side of your neck, drawing blood. The brief flare of pain made your walls flutter and take his cock even deeper, your bodies reluctant to separate. 

Harvest me, and don’t waste a single drop. 

The moment of stillness that ensued when he at last emptied his seed in you was something holy, you decided. Ropes of cum seemingly endless, the pulsing of his member combined with his low groans brought you unparalleled bliss. While he descended from his lustful high, he lapped up the metallic trail along your throat, and the pressure of his tongue soothed the wound’s mild ache. Dr. Krueger, the man who had no qualms about eating within his species, was content to stop his consumption of you here, at a bite and a drop of ichor. 

Is my taste as divine as you imagined?

His hips continued to jerk and lurch in the aftershocks, and the noise of skin ricocheting off skin was more audible now that your senses were starting to return. Some might consider it to be an obscene sound, blatant and crude, but its obviousness appealed to you. Anyone who heard these echoes of anatomical convergence would have no misgivings regarding the recreational activities in which you and the doctor participated. 

I fear I would give you the most tender parts of myself, if only you were to ask. 

One hand caressed the top of your head, smoothing back your sweat-slickened hair. The other used his pristine white shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow, the gore from your body. Its fabric was rough against your overstimulated skin, but his movements were gentle. 

So please—

The doctor finished remedying the mess he had made of you and tossed the clothing aside, murmuring something about how he would have to explain to the lady at the dry cleaner’s that he’d spilled red wine again. Wrapping both arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to his chest, he then pressed a soft kiss to your nape. 

Your eyes fell shut. 

—do not ask. 

The manor was silent save for heavy breathing, yours and his. A sudden foul stench of rot and decay reminded you of the gruesome company on the kitchen island across the counter. You forced yourself to meet the vacant stare of the fish whose death had started this spontaneous coupling session, passion fueled by elevated adrenaline and a godlike rush of power.  

“I thought you didn’t get off to killing,” you murmured, energy half spent. 

An affirming hum vibrated through your bones, and you felt him rub his forehead against your back, up then down, nodding. “You thought correctly. I do not.”

A snort escaped from your throat since very recent evidence pointed to the contrary. Still inside you, his cock twitched at the sound. 

Perhaps he found the noise undignified and the response rude. The man had probably killed people for far pettier reasons; nonetheless, you continued to push the envelope because he continued to let you. 

This risky game would someday reach its limit. Someday, you might cross a non-negotiable line, and then you’d be dead before you knew what hit you.  

But today was not that day. 

“There is no sexual gratification in my hunts,” he further clarified. “Such perversion indicates one who is subjugated to the whims of his more primitive nature, one who is being controlled rather than doing the controlling. 

“Arousal at its most basic implies common ground. It drives us to seek a favorable mate with whom we can sire offspring to carry on our legacies. Should the hunter find this kind of pleasure in the hunted, it would mean a debasement of the self. Dethroned from the top of the food chain, he would forever live among his lessers. Since my prey are not and never will be my equal, killing is a strictly nonsensuous act.”

You are my equal, my mate, were the words you heard him omit. 

“But I keep discovering how much you defy my logic. I did not expect to be so. . . moved by that insatiable look in your eyes, by your presence in my kitchen, holding my knife.” The sigh he exhaled contained genuine frustration, not at you, but at himself. At his lack of self-control, at his underestimation of your ability to undo him. 

His right hand strayed from your midsection to ghost over the swell of your ass, vexation having seemingly passed. “And what a lovely painting you made of yourself. The only improvement is for you to coat your bodily canvas with my blood instead of that unworthy pig’s.”

Your brows furrowed at the thought of him gravely injured, stained red, and you grabbed his wrist, gave it what you hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sebastian.”

The rare occurrence of you using his first name outside of sex had him nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck and lightly nipping at the soft skin there. Although his teeth were eager to pierce flesh, his canines maintained a respectable distance. In the afterglow, he was always so, so careful not to cause undue damage. You were at your most vulnerable, and he was at his most untamed; a dangerous combination, like fire and gasoline.

Who was the struck match that would sacrifice wholeness to ignite the other, and who was the ignited that would disappear without a trace post-explosion?

Did it even matter?

“Very pretty lies, Liebling, though not quite as beautiful as you.” 

Despite his sardonic delivery, the fondness with which he uttered the term of endearment betrayed his affections. Complicated relationship with the Cut-throat Killer aside, none could deny that there was genuine love between the two of you. 

An unconventional, tempestuous love, true, but love nevertheless. It made the dichotomy between your loyalties all the more messy. 

Because yes, you appreciated his craftsmanship and were awed by the artistry behind his kills. Yes, you had moments ago indulged in your first hunt alongside him and had enjoyed it.  

Yes, you would probably do so again in the future.  

Yet somehow, the FBI profiler in you still felt obligated to confront the man, to put an end to his reign of terror. Why your lover would forever be visited by the need to eat and savor every inch of you, why you couldn’t ever entirely relax in the breadth of his embrace. . . it all tied back to this:

You couldn’t reconcile your ethical code with your want for him. The enormity of your desire approached suffocatingly-absurd levels, and the extent to which you ached for and craved this man was sickening.

No matter your personal feelings, the bitter reality of the situation remained unchanged. Before you could irreversibly walk the path of either love or duty, you needed to perceive your brain as something other than deformed, to conceive that the unnatural was a natural product of the universe in its own right. You needed to believe that the person who returned your stare in the mirror was not a disfigurement of humanity, nor a bastardization of goodness. 

But what constituted good, and what qualified as evil, anyway? Who had the right to decide which was which? Was it Agent Blaustein, who had pushed you to the point of breaking, who saw your mind only as a tool, caring not if he damaged you beyond repair in the field? 

Or was it Dr. Krueger, who had made you question your sanity, who wished for you to access and become indivisible from the rawest pieces of your marrow, even if it damned him in the process?

One thing was for certain: until you unabashedly accepted the darker elements of yourself—the same facets that he reflected back at you—this game of cat and mouse was cursed to resume and repeat, over and over. The roles seemed to reverse each time; you had first been the mouse to his cat, then you’d briefly turned the tables as the cat to his mouse. 

Recently, neither of you could puzzle out who was who. 

And the scariest part about all this was that you had never known yourself as well as you knew yourself when you were with him, a fucking serial killer. How frightening, that your ability to acknowledge and make sense of your own existence might hinge on whether or not he was in your life. 

Even a fool could see how you had changed under the gravity of his influence. In the beginning, you’d shunned the ugly bits, the chunks of you that proved too abhorrent to swallow. Now, you were learning how to indulge, how to see the beauty in the so-called horror. During the day, outsiders reminded you of your malignancies, of the shame that accompanied the sin of authenticity. However, at night, with him, you at last shed these social shackles and basked in fantasies of what could be, for the mere weight of his stare had the power to propel you toward self-actualization. 

Obviously, Dr. Krueger was well aware of this war between your moral duties and your innermost shadows. You expected as much, considering he had almost killed you for it. 

In your quest to unmask the Cut-throat Killer and confirm your suspicions, you’d nurtured a budding friendship with the doctor. You had wormed your way into his good graces by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, nevermind that it had been you at your most honest. When the scheme eventually fell apart, murdering you had surprisingly not been his immediate reaction. Instead, he had offered you the chance to come clean so as to leave all the secrecy in the past and move forward anew. 

Together. 

It made perfect sense for Dr. Krueger to try holding onto his one true companion in life after getting a taste of reprieve from loneliness. Except, oblivious of your blown cover, you had doubled down, giving him no choice but to clutch you to his chest and carve his heartbreak into your gut. As you drifted toward Death’s door, as regret and fear willed him to frantically press onto your wound, the man had realized just how much you’d changed him, too.

Although you were indeed the harbinger of his ruination, he’d concluded that imprisonment paled in comparison to the grief of losing you. He loathed to imagine spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, but he could not commit to killing you, his greatest weakness and threat. You sought to cleanse this town of him, but you too could not pull the trigger on this evildoer. 

Two halves of a whole, locked in a stalemate. 

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. A grotesque and ghastly piece of work, this man you called lover. And yet, you wouldn't dream of leaving his side. 

Because Sebastian Krueger was never going to get better without you. And you were never going to become better without him. 

“Apologies, but I insist we skip our entrée tonight.” 

That caught your attention—an absurd statement from someone who would probably make the time to properly dine even if the FBI was actively storming the gates of his manor. You twisted your spine to at last come face to face with him, and awaiting your curiosity was his hungry brown eyes, his dark blond hair freed from its gelled confines. 

“I know you worked hard to provide us this meal, and the meat will not go to waste,” the doctor assured, expression neutral, the perfect picture of calm if not for the way his fingers dug further into the meat of your hips. “The problem is me. I simply cannot curb my craving for dessert anymore.” 

You nearly scoffed. “Was this not dessert?” 

“No, mein Schatz,” he chuckled, as if you had just told a funny joke. The low timbre of his laugh caused a wave of desire to pool in between your legs, and you pressed your thighs together to trap the renewed heat.  

Ever intuitive, Dr. Krueger moved one arm away from your body to rest flat and steady on the countertop then dragged the other down to pinch your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. 

“That was only the appetizer.” 

fin.

[maxellminidisc]

Araki and I share drawing big tiddy and big ass men on a near constant basis and I hate that that has set me up for Jojo fan art success widjskejjejsjsj

[thesouthernpansy]

scents and sensibilities (8/8)

(on ao3)

Anton and Viago stand shoulder to shoulder like guilty schoolboys, Viago grinning guilelessly and Anton obviously aiming for casual as he adjusts the collar of a stiff-looking new button-up. One of Viago’s hands is tucked into the crook of Anton’s elbow, the other gesturing excitedly as he explains that the elaborate silver brooch currently pinned to Anton’s windbreaker is something of a family heirloom—it’s at least old enough by now to justify the designation, at any rate.

“Yeah, so, it was part of a matching set, originally,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leans in. “My father gave one to my mother and this one to me. I think he expected that I would give it to the girl I married, one day.”

Anton fusses at the brooch a little, tilting the face of it upwards. “And you—you’re sure it’s alright to give it to me, then?”

Viago perches his chin on Anton’s shoulder, eyes bright in the yellowy dim of the streetlights. He grins. “My father has been dead for hundreds of years, he is hardly going to complain.”

A fond smile tugs its way across Anton’s face. “Can’t argue with that, then, can I.”

Viago turns back to the cameras, fangs still giddily on display. 

“It is a courting tradition where I’m from, this giving of gifts. I very much wanted to do it the right way, I have never had the opportunity to properly court someone,” he admits almost shyly, “much rather someone I already—ah, well, it has been quite lovely, really getting to know one another even better, you know? Taking things slowly. Not sexually, of course,” he adds cheerfully, and Anton flushes red from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“We are very compatible in that area,” Viago continues, “It is tradition to wait, of course, but just between us it was already a bit too late for that, and anyway it’s like, what are we, Christians?” He makes a dismissive sound, a little pah of disdain. “Vampires are often considered paragons in the pleasurable arts, but I have learned a lot lately about werewolf endurance that I have found very impressive, and also a lot about myself that I—what was that part of the anatomy called again, Anton? You know the one I mean, yes?”

Anton has his face hidden fully in one hand and an equal chance of being either laughing or sobbing. When he turns his face back towards the camera, laughter wins out, though he does swipe a quick sleeve across his eyes.

“I do,” he confirms, shoulders still shaking. He doesn’t seem entirely unhappy to have his prowess discussed on-camera, though he does maintain enough decorum to add, “But they don’t want to hear about that, eh, guys?”

“There is no need to be prudish,” Viago assures Anton. “Vladislav and Deacon talk to the cameras about their sexual activies all the time. They are very interested in this sort of thing.”

Anton looks immediately at the producer, who makes a so-so motion with his hand. 

“We can, uh, come back to this topic later, if you’re more comfortable with that,” he says diplomatically. “Maybe, Viago, you could tell us a little more about the brooch?”

“If you would like,” allows Viago. It seems a much less interesting thing to talk about, in his opinion, but he’s not the expert in what makes a good documentary, after all.

“Let’s see—I said it was from my father, yes? He claimed the pair were unique in all the world, gifted to him by a powerful Baron in recognition of my father’s great wealth and influence in the area. But then—” he spreads his hands, “—he also said they were pure silver, so.”

Staring straight down the camera, Viago puts his palm over the full face of the brooch, flat against Anton’s chest. Those assembled wait for the telltale smoke, the accompanying hiss of pain. A moment passes in silent, uneventful anticipation, and then another. Viago shrugs a shoulder.

“Now that I think of it, my father was known for being a bit of a liar.”

Anton lets out a bark of surprised laughter; he takes Viago’s hand in his own, dips his head just enough to press a quick, chaste kiss to his knuckles. A wave of longing surges over Viago, another in what feels these days like an endless ocean of them, ebbing only long enough to catch him by surprise when it returns again with force to snatch his legs from underneath him. He wants very badly to reel Anton in and kiss him senseless, and he can’t see much reason not to. So he does.

Halfway across town, Katherine shakes her head in response to a question, runs her finger along the scalloped edge of the doily she’s mending.

“No, I don’t regret any of it. I’ve been having such a lovely go of things since becoming a vampire, after all, haven’t I? Mind you, it hasn’t been what I expected, but that’ll be life for you.”

“You’re satisfied with how things with Viago turned out?”

Katherine eyes the camera, a sort of come on, now expression, brows raised. “Of course I am, they couldn’t have gone better. You lot haven’t been harassing him about me, have you? I won’t have you trying to make drama for your film at his expense.”

“That’s not what we’re here to do, I promise.”

“See that it stays that way, young man.” She reaches for her teacup, takes a thoughtful sip. “I was married for more than sixty years, you know. Now, I won’t say that makes me any sort of an expert in any relationships but my own, but you don’t always have to be an expert, do you? Sometimes you just have to know enough to see the way two people are looking at each other.”

“Things are going well between them, then?”

Katherine smiles, almost shrewd. “You’d be better off asking Viago that, I think. Or Ruth, if it’s gossip you’re after.” She pauses, gentling. “They are sweet together, though. That Anton is very dear to him. And—he’s happy, it isn’t difficult to see that, though goodness knows it was difficult enough for him to get to it. I don’t have to tell you.”

From downstairs comes the sound of the front door, followed by the excited clamor of several raised voices.

“Ah, that’ll be the pack,” notes Katherine. “Viago and Anton were bringing them by after their class was over—we’ll be up the ceilings in handmade pottery in a fortnight at this rate.” She sounds pleased. “If that was all your questions—?”

She rises, cup in hand, and bustles out to join the rapidly livening household.

“Yeah, it’s, like, the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, probably.” Stu gestures towards where Anton kneels between a sulky Declan and Nathan whose attempts to set up the Playstation have quickly devolved into bickering. He raises a hand as they clamor to talk over each other, says something the microphones don’t quite pick up. The camera pans back over to Stu, whose expression has settled into a sort of fond neutrality. “I don’t think he’s realized we all know? They haven’t exactly been, like, quiet, though. Some of the guys are still coming round, but it’s all good. They’ll go with whatever Anton says in the end, I reckon.”

A cheer from across the room as the Playstation flickers to life, and Anton rises and dusts off his knees amidst a flurry of enthusiastic back pats. He crosses back to the couch, where Viago is engaged in a heated discussion with Ruth, rolling his eyes as she snatches a book out of his hands.

“It’s not meant to be accurate,” Ruth tells him like she’s explaining something very simple to a very small child. “It’s meant to be romantic.”

Viago shakes his head, jabbing a finger emphatically in her direction. “She’s blushing, vampires do not blush, that doesn’t even make any sense!”

“It’s metaphorical visual language,” hisses Ruth, slamming a hand over the cover. “You have no imagination!”

She takes the book and stomps over to where Edith and Katherine are sitting by the window, dropping into a chair with a huff. Edith pats her comfortingly on the arm, then turns back to her knitting. Next to her, Katherine tuts and reaches to inspect where Nathan has gotten caught up in his own yarn.

“Well there’s the problem,” she says gently, coaxing his fingers out of a crocheted knot. “That’s far too small a hook for the yarn you’ve got.” She rummages through a basket on the table that’s overflowing with knobby balls of yarn of varying color, spare knitting needles and crochet hooks. 

As she searches, a needle clatters loose and skids across the tabletop, coming to rest against a wobbly conical vase packed tightly with cabbagy pink flowers. Deacon retrieves the needle, stabs it carelessly into a ball of yarn. Reaches across and takes a moment to straighten the vase.

“You dropped a stitch,” he says, returning his attention to Dion, who groans. 

The werewolf looks exceedingly lost, holding his knitting needles like someone using chopsticks for the first time. He sighs heavily, looking down at his thwarted net of knits and purls, then longingly over his shoulder, where Vladislav is showing Nathan the embarrassingly appealing collection of recently-procured dog toys the vampires had proudly presented to the pack on their arrival tonight. Vladislav demonstrates that the crinkly caterpillar has three separate squeakers in it, and Dion feels a stab of despair.

Without warning, a tennis ball goes soaring across the room, hits the door with a hollow thwock just as Clifton re-enters with several bags of take-out. Nick snags the ball out of the air and tosses it to where Stu is seated on the couch. Then he throws himself down after it, long legs levered out across his friend’s lap. Declan passes over a controller, and Nick nods towards the television.

“Finally got it working, eh?”

“Anton did,” Declan admits, shrugging. “I—where’d he get off to, anyway?”

The camera pans to the doorway, zooms and refocuses. Across the hall, a door swings almost shut, and beyond it just a flash of movement, a lacy white sleeve and two hands, reaching.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

Robot Jon! ☺️

(ok, I've been off tumblr for a few days, but I went on early this morning and had an ask with a bunch of prompts because I said I'd be taking a break from my Bachelor fic - which is true, if not for another 3 chapters yet. I haven't answered that ask because I'll lose it and therefore the prompts, but it reminded me that I still had two prompts left from when I asked for them back in... December? I'm the worst. Anyway, I re-looked at those prompts, saw this one, and then couldn't stop thinking about it. So I'm coming out of my vague tumblr hiatus to write this.)

Thank you, as always, for the prompt!

.

Sansa has never liked amusement parks.

The sun that always burned her, no matter how diligent mom was about reapplying sunscreen; the fried food that always made her sick; the crowds and the noise and having to walk everywhere. But the worst part was the rides – oh, she didn't mind some of them, like the Ferris wheel or the teacups; she could even handle the swing ride. The problem was that the rest of her family wanted to go on the horrible rides – roller coasters, haunted houses, swinging ships; the ones that go fast and drop you from a million feet in the air. And since it was hard enough wrangling the amount of children in their group to begin with, it was impossiblefor one adult to split off with Sansa, who alone wanted to ride the gentler ones.

And so, it's sort of ironic that she works at an amusement park now.

She may not have a taste for most of the rides in the park, but she is good at designing them – not the actual rides, but the aesthetics of them. It's her (and her team's) job to come in after the engineers and the builders and take a bare-bones ride and turn it into an experience. She loves her job – she loves watching children exit one of her rides with glowing faces and excitement in their eyes.

Today, she also gets to do one of her favorite aspects of the job, which is costume design. The animatronic models have already been installed, and when she enters the new Dance of Dragons ride, she can already see the scene taking shape in her mind. The concept art has already been drawn up, it's already being advertised – a medieval world that everyone knows is meant to capitalize on the stunning success of the Aemon the Dragonknight series (which her employer does not own the rights to, much to their dismay). But concept art is one thing – reality is another, and it's not until the ride is complete that she can start to truly see it come together in her mind.

“Oh good, you're here,” Margaery Tyrell sighs dramatically as she comes to meet Sansa's team. Margaery is in charge of Marketing and PR for this ride and Sansa knows it's a big responsibility, so she's been even more high maintenance than usual. Margaery walks her through the ride that Sansa has seen so many times in drawings.

“This is our Aemon,” Margaery slaps a hand against the shoulder of one of the animatronic models. “Although we can't call him Aemon. Copyright and all that.”

Sansa looks at the robot and she's struck for a moment how lifelike he is. A lot of the animatronics aren't this detailed, though she guesses this one is because of how close to the ride it is.

“He's handsome, right?” Margaery flashes her a grin and there's something in her eyes that Sansa can't quite place. (Well, she can, it's mischief, Sansa just can't tell why it's there.)

“I guess, in the way that cartoons can be handsome,” Sansa laughs and takes another look at the model – the somber grey eyes, dark curly hair, and an equally dark beard. “You even gave him abs,” she points down at the robot's chest which does, indeed, have a very detailed set of abs. “Am I supposed to leave him shirtless?”

“Oh, no, obviously we want realism, like we talked about,” Margaery waves her hand dismissively. “We just couldn't help ourselves when we put in the order.” Sansa shoots her a confused look, which only gets a delighted laugh out of Margaery. “I'm guessing you don't recognize him?”

“Recognize who?”

Margaery gestures at the animatronic. “Jon!” At Sansa's blank stare, Margaery rolls her eyes. “Jon Snow?”

The name sounds familiar and it takes her a second to place it. “The engineer?”

“Duh! Seven hells, don't tell me you've never actually seen him?”

Sansa shakes her head – she usually comes in well after the engineers have done their part.

“Mormont let him take the lead on this project and he's so... ugh,” Margaery makes a noise that's half frustration, half delight. “So serious all the time. But somehow likable? It's infuriating, really. And no one should be that attractive for a nerd.”

“So... does he know you made him into a robot?”

“He does not,” Margaery grins. “We're all just dying for him to come in for an inspection and see it. In fact,” she pulls out her phone and checks the time, “if you wait around for a bit, you'll get to see it happen.”

Sansa shakes her head and they continue on through the set, Sansa writing down notes in her trusty notebook that she always carries with her. Lists of costumes, set pieces. She'll need to bring in Asha later to discuss the lighting options (right now the dark ride is lit with spotlights, giving the whole place a surreal atmosphere).

Margaery eventually leaves her to it and Sansa loses herself in going over the set inch by inch with Gilly and Mya following along with her. She's so lost in thought that Mya has to shake her arm to bring her back to reality, and they turn to see a group of what has to be engineers standing in the main Great Hall set.

“Oh come on, Jon,” Margaery is giggling as a man who must be Jon stands, staring at the animatronic. He's scowling at it, hands tight around the pile of binders in his arms that are... well, ok, Sansa can understand now why Margaery made the robot so well muscled.

Sansa edges closer to the scene, and she can see that his fellow engineers are laughing – one of them is red-faced from trying to hold it in while another is actively wiping tears from his eyes.

“It's already made,” Margaery says in response to whatever Jon had grumbled to her. “Replacing it would be an irresponsible waste of funds. Oh! And here's the team that will be styling you... I mean, styling not-Aemon because that's copyright infringement.”

Jon looks up and the scowl drops from his face.

“This is Sansa, Mya and Gilly are over there.”

“Hi,” Sansa greets and Jon shifts his binders into one arm and then holds out his hand for her to shake (she can feel her face heating up and she hopes the dark hides it). “I promise to try and do you justice.” She regrets her words immediately, especially when she sees a slow grin spread over Margaery's face. “Though it doesn't totally look like you,” she continues on to try and backtrack. “It... doesn't have glasses?”

She wants to sink into the floor in embarrassment, but the gods are not that kind. At least she doesn't spout out how much she likes his glasses. Maybe Margaery is right – no one who clearly cares so little about their appearance should be this attractive. His beard needs a trim, his outfit is painfully unstylish, his hair is pulled back into a bun. All of it should add up to something she hates, but she just... doesn't.

(And honestly, Margaery's description of nerd isn't so far off the mark, but Sansa finds this isn't a detriment – in fact, she might be more attracted to him because of the glasses and the multitude of thick binders organized with labels and tabs that he's got tucked under his arm.)

“I'd also hope real Jon isn't built like a Ken doll,” one of the other engineers barks out a laugh and points at the animatronic, which, yes, does not have any reproductive anatomy.

“Gods,” she hears Jon whisper, and the hand that he had used to shake hers comes up and covers his eyes. “This is a nightmare.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Margaery sighs and pats him on the shoulder. “Now, why don't you take Sansa around and make sure she's really taken care of, hmm?” At the words, Sansa feels her face heat even further and Jon drops his hand from his eyes and glares at Margaery. “I just mean,” Margaery grins, not even trying to pretend the innuendo wasn't on purpose, “it might help the design if she has a good understanding of the mechanics. I know there's some new things on this ride we haven't had before, you could show her.”

Jon opens his mouth, but doesn't get a chance to speak, because Margaery barrels on. “Sam, Grenn, you can chat with Gilly and Mya while that's happening. And I... well, I'll just be over here, minding my own business.”

With that, Margaery walks away and the other two engineers – Sam and Grenn, she guesses – head over to where the rest of her team stands, watching from afar.

“You don't have to,” Sansa starts, but Jon quickly turns from glaring at Margaery's back to her and his face settles into something less... scowly.

“I don't mind,” he says quickly and maybe it's the low lighting in here, but she thinks the tips of his ears are red.

“Perfect,” she gives him her best smile, which seems to throw him even more off balance and... and she thinks she could get used to throwing Jon Snow off balance.

[cyberdragoninfinity]

ALSO this extraordinarily rude person sent me a FOLLOW UP ASK today, which i will not be publishing, but here’s some notes of my own in response, if you happen to be reading, anon! (even though you’re now blocked--now you dont have to look at my art ever again if you dont want to!! ^__^)

“instead of receiving criticism” - my friend. it seems you might be the one who doesn’t understand the etiquette here. Criticism is asked for. Criticism is not showing up in an artist’s inbox (ANONYMOUSLY, BTW! i would love to see you say this off anon to someone!! or in person, to their face!) and jeering and being INSANELY rude to them. Calling someone’s art “cringey” and “freakish” isn’t criticism. You are not approaching me with genuine and earnest kind intent to help an artist approve. You are an asshole.

my followers are not “attacking you.” again, you’re anonymous! you know what they’re doing? Calling you out for being RUDE. BECAUSE YOU WERE BEING RUDE. YOU ACTIONS HAD SOME CONSEQUENCES IN THE FORM OF PEOPLE RIGHTFULLY SAYING WHAT YOU DID WAS UNKIND. YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE

if you don’t like my art or my style THAT’S FUCKING FINE. NOBODY IS PUTTING A GUN TO YOUR HEAD MAKING YOU LIKE IT LMFAO!!! again you could have just blocked me! then you wouldn’t have to see it on your dash again!

“don’t you want to improve or is this seriously your peak?” lol. like. what would you do if i said yes? “nah, i’m good.” what if i said “well im having fun making what i draw, so it doesn’t really matter what your opinion is about it”? would you cry about it? write me another nasty message? what does one (1) artist’s style that is perhaps not picture perfect realism with picture perfect human anatomy have ANYTHING to do with you? what does any artist’s skill level have a damn thing to do with you? Yeah man my anatomy isn’t fucking perfect but you know there’s other parts to art than that, right? Color, composition, lighting, value, etc., are all equally important, and I am very happy with what I do with those. And when an artist experiments constantly with every moving part in a piece, they improve even if it’s not a matter you, the apparent Appointed King of Demanding Artists Fix Their Style to Your Exact Specifications, approve of.

The fact you apparently hate my art style SO MUCH that the only way you can deal with it is to send me anonymous hatemail under the guise “criticism” so i can... I guess alter my entire art style to be something you would rather look at? You, a singular human on this great big earth? Man, that says way more about you than it does about me. And again, forgive me for suspecting you aren’t doing this out of good intentions, because you’ve revealed yourself to be an incredibly unpleasant person within two (2) messages, and I sure hope you haven’t been acting like this at any other artists on this website! Or at anyone, in real life! Ever!

Anyway. I love the art I create, and if you don’t, well. That’s not my issue! :^) Cope and seethe, as they say. Cope and seethe.

Are you sure you went to art school? I can't look at you're humans directly without cringing to hell and back. They look like caricatures... you're anatomy is freakish. You have cool effects on you're art how did drawing humans fly over your head like that?

oh what a treat! what a delight! what a blessing it is, my love, to learn that my art is the first time youve ever seen an art style that wasnt airbrushed semirealistic anime women! truly a high honor thank you!💘💓💙💚💛🧡💝💞💟💕🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

[sugar-petals]

So Caro how do you like "butter"?? 😳🤔

i’ll be cranking out my media major, let's review butter stylistically. ✍️ in four aspects — sonically, visually, lyrically, and concept-wise.

sonically: 9/10. here’s an interesting comparison i found, this can be calculated by looking at the stats of a musical piece. if you want to do harmonic mixing with another bts song, seesaw (!) is the most similar to it. with the exception that it’s written in f minor but other than that, the bpm/energy/danceability is uncanny. mindboggling. in other words, two bts songs can have the same anatomy and be entirely different worlds. that’s seriously hard to pull off. talking genre, recalling that namjoon said it's a "super retro disco pop new age acoustic ballad", that description is right on 😂it gets very daft punk after 1:38, groovy, the production is quite proper. especially in the second half, it’s a firework and all transitions VERY well. what i liked less, the voices are quite meddled with and as last time, the pitch gets higher and higher so the baritones need more pressure on the voice to be heard (i salute taehyung, my mezzo would be breaking apart). it’s a miracle that rapline can handle these songs. they put a heavier bassline under yoongi’s and rm’s bars, and separated hoseok toward the end since his tone is higher so, i hear you, someone knows what they’re doing. as for the tenors, looking forward to the live rendition of the mixed register bits and the vocal runs. bts are stable like that and jk’s timbre carries the song effortlessly (as is everyone’s great english pronunciation, these guys work so hard) so they wouldn't need autotune, figure it's been added for artistic effect, the retro vibes. a bonus on the other hand, jin getting his lines, hell yes, the spotlight for him. and the arrangement of their parts in general is quite ingeniously done, that looks like the workings of namjoon’s giant brain.

visually: 9/10. the dancebreak being the highlight — this is the sexiest thing i've ever seen — we get to see some really fancy moves from everybody and the hairstyles are quite a feast. jimin and jk have been much-talked-about so i'll emphasize the extravagance of hobi's 2013 MAMA g-dragonesque neon yellow here. he’s the smooth like butter guy they’re talking about indeed, butter hair, butter attitude, butter on his plat! 😂it’s seriously good thinking to have one member embody the concept with a color so, pretty clever. making him stand out as the ending fairy and then blending in the butter logo is equally smart. they wanted to catch our eye, they achieved it. the couture: yep, fashion youtube will have a good time going through all the outfits. from tae's chanel earrings, jin’s skirt, to white suits to jackets over the shoulder. very stylish. someone put a lot of thought into it, and i'm a sucker for some gnc undertones so very cool stuff. the only (very trivial) minus i noticed, a lot of the tailoring does not exactl fit the boys’ bodies to a t, see jungkook’s or jin’s sleeves, though you can’t expect bts to have a tailor come in and fix so many outfits with so many comebacks at once. the dance, it's a compilation of many classic bts moves. i feel like it could be tiny bit more distinguished with a whopping new complex signature formation that bts is famous for in creating, then again the full dance practice isn't out and the head nodding part is quite a visual anchor. also: i noticed they put yoongi in front row a lot. someone’s shoulder is finally better again, we can prepare for some good stuff.

lyrically: 4/10. the song fulfills its function, it creates the mood, but i’m hard to please in that regard as mentioned before. why: time and again i realize that yoongi, rm, and pdogg spoil us with comforting or on-fire lyrics that hit home and are on brand. same idea as in dynamite here, we're hit with a lotta english catchphrases that we usually wouldn't hear from bangtan. it's party mode, it's the summer hit kinda writing, so yeah it does what it’s supposed to do anyway and anybody can sing along. it’s catchy and solid for sure. the 'smooth criminal/superstar/heartbreaker' idea is carried through as a red string so thematically, it's coherent at least. a lot of lines are downright hilarious with random analogies and i don't know if the writers are serious or not. they could go all the way to make it clearer that humor and braggadocio is the concept here, exaggerate it even more. you can’t always tell if it’s a parody of a ‘yeah i’m the man you all fall for me’ sentiment or if it’s 100% business. in some parts of the song it works, in others it makes less sense. where i’ve seen bts execute this well with their own writing is converse high, that’s the bar. it’s also a personal lesson for me since i write crack often, butter tells you where to put the punchlines and where to keep it neutral. a lot of it is all over the place. on the other hand, it fits right on the beat. and perfectly executed pop so i'm a bit torn. i like the ‘got that heat’ part they gave jimin. 'side step right left to my beat' is a good chorus entry as well. making light of it, every lyric works as a witty gif or tweet tagline and we'll be circulating these phrases to eternity. every line works as a good comeback in any situation of life. yoongi's verse legit made me giggle. TLDR: the lyrics are partially confusing but they blend with the music well. 

conceptually: 8/10. hit the bell for that black and white intro, that was a good idea, same with the latest teaser. and: range, darling. only in a bts video could a cotton candy jimin go from a mugshot to being the president to a basket ball court hero to going full saturday night fever to flexing his legs in less than three minutes. jokes aside: it all fits in the universe of boy with luv and dynamite so points for consistency. bts's directors have outlined a new style for sure. the worldbuilding could go even deeper, but lumpens did a good job giving us many different eye candy serves and an innovative theme that hasn’t been tackled before, k-pop and pancakes why not! there are less actual film sets (and the difference shows, e.g. in Fire or Daechwita it really gave it some oomph), but it's not really needed. butter has no requirement for an agust d-ish plotline with historical buildings and the members' looks are in the center of attention. then again, i like those details of hoseok sitting in a retro apartment at the end — cozy, i love — with a radio. once again, they could exaggerate the vintage even more, it wouldn’t take away from the idea and visuals. i wish they would’ve expanded even more on the melting butter aesthetic shots as well, although it’s neatly tied into the song so it makes sense. the lyrics really have been blended with the choreograpy theme (the side step as a central move) so i’m thinking the art direction and choreographer had quite an in-depth discussion how to create a bigger picture. as for my weakness: cuteness melts me like butter, extra points for jungkook and yoongi being adorable in their seats.