#i love drawing glass with white charcoal

[yeyinde]

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.  Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar. 

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar. 

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots. 

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers. 

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out. 

(Or maybe it's just you. 

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else. 

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow. 

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole. 

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below. 

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. 

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground. 

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin. 

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light. 

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall. 

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat. 

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin. 

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle. 

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made. 

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty. 

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans. 

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights. 

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery. 

And yet—

He stands out. 

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't. 

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger. 

None of them has ever looked so disgusted. 

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean. 

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust. 

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him. 

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota. 

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes. 

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing. 

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking. 

His, you find, is genuine. 

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake. 

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd. 

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are. 

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage. 

But he catches it. 

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass. 

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves. 

A hero. A martyr. A saviour. 

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running. 

For the greater good, of course. 

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice. 

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question. 

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this. 

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power. 

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism. 

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen. 

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality. 

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of. 

They never do. 

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something. 

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here. 

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest. 

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear. 

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar��among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner. 

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer. 

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze. 

He's handsome. 

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye. 

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force. 

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians. 

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple. 

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list. 

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer. 

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open. 

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue. 

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this." 

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins. 

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams.. 

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face. 

If, of course, he even is one. 

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass. 

A hero. Maybe you were wrong. 

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness. 

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much. 

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right. 

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.) 

Still. 

Still. 

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning. 

Interesting. 

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from. 

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink. 

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl. 

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face. 

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders. 

"Then what the hell—" 

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over. 

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing. 

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You. 

Human. Wholly. 

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades. 

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain. 

More android than human. 

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't. 

"I'm not." 

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey. 

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat. 

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor. 

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable. 

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so. 

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his. 

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate. 

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all. 

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last. 

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand. 

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things. 

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same. 

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse. 

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal." 

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?" 

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?" 

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish. 

Dangerous. This man is dangerous. 

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn. 

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience. 

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray. 

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it." 

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy. 

"That so?" 

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him. 

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest. 

Trepidation, you hope. 

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more. 

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'." 

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own. 

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further. 

It doesn't matter. 

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you. 

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care. 

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot. 

It does not matter. Not anymore. 

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might. 

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words. 

"That so?" 

All you can do is nod. 

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot." 

"I'm not." 

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it. 

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you. 

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing. 

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?" 

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon. 

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens. 

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words. 

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?" 

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing." 

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you. 

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it. 

You shiver. 

"You sure about that, love?" 

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart. 

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces. 

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone." 

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs. 

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date. 

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips. 

"Watch it," he mutters. 

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica. 

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life. 

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown. 

"Who is he?" 

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days. 

Something ugly rots inside of you. 

"And you think he's been here?" 

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow. 

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye. 

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting. 

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise. 

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. 

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you. 

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope. 

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation. 

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue. 

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard. 

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out. 

"Who are you?" 

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease. 

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets. 

"Doesn't matter." 

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything." 

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything." 

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation. 

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?" 

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass." 

"Why?" 

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him." 

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?" 

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo. 

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?" 

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance. 

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket. 

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course." 

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now." 

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare. 

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally." 

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to. 

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden. 

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for. 

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you. 

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days. 

Three years. 

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless. 

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over. 

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down. 

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous. 

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive. 

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant. 

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow. 

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet. 

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier. 

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances. 

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes. 

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside. 

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism. 

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline. 

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip. 

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance. 

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund." 

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake." 

An impasse. Uncrossable. 

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will. 

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men. 

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero. 

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such. 

Stupid. How stupid. 

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better. 

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder. 

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man. 

"I won't." 

But he's raised you to be smarter. 

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation. 

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed. 

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four. 

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy. 

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain. 

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market. 

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there. 

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible. 

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still. 

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial. 

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take. 

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda. 

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced. 

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs. 

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on. 

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity. 

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place. 

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you. 

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange. 

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah. 

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt. 

If you were selfish, you would. 

No. 

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage. 

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel. 

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel. 

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so. 

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience. 

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster. 

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision. 

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way. 

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done. 

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high. 

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts. 

Why is interest so high? 

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed. 

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected. 

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge. 

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names. 

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase. 

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy. 

"You hear anything?" 

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing. 

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go. 

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really." 

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him. 

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere. 

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him." 

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same. 

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that. 

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to. 

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills. 

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid. 

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular. 

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is." 

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear. 

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication. 

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek. 

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten." 

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you. 

A debt owed to the Inner Circle. 

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov. 

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said: 

You know how this works, don't you? 

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum. 

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning. 

And you hated him for it. 

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement. 

He owned you. 

Made you whole again. 

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense. 

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die. 

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier. 

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands. 

Born in blood. 

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads. 

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest. 

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own. 

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor. 

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?" 

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all." 

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right." 

"What's wrong?" 

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet." 

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?" 

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?" 

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head. 

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. 

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. 

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head. 

[msbhagirathi]

Word Prompt "Colly wobbles" for the IPK 13th Anniversary Fiesta by @arshifiesta.

Character: Kaveri Khushi Gupta, Arnav Varun a.k.a AV

FF: A River Runs Through It

Author: meera30

Reason: Coz I am in love with this ff right now. Now stop finding reasons and read on.

Khushi didn't know how did he do it. It was freezing cold outside in Detroit and here was the man in question giving out a presentation which he had prepared ~in merely five minutes~ before the meeting had to be started urgently.

Clad in a crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms, the angry gash visible just as a slip of cut, the jacket and the waistcoat already lying on the chairback. Tie hanging a lil bit loose from its usual place. Shiny charcoal colored trousers hugged his legs like a second skin. Yet, he looked as fresh and energetic as ever.

Illegal.

How can he be so perfect?

Why did I of all people had to fall for him?

She knew that her being physically bulky had nothing to do with who she fell in love with. And yet she felt a bit wretched for having fallen for such a personification of perfection.

Sometimes, she didn't know which one was more comforting? To have been immune from his charm and just keeping to herself in college or having badly fallen for him strong enough to keep away all the strangers she had met just so she could forget that one man. And yet, the 'date other men to forget him' idea was as terrible as it sounded.

As she could go no further then two minutes of looking at them and instantly comparing them to him. She knew she was being horribly desperate. But then anyone would be if the man in question was the subject of discussion...

She started scribbling an insignia (for the umpteenth time) in her notepad which she had used earlier to jot down the good points.

"Ms. Gupta. Its good that you are at least concentrating on something but I would much rather that something to be nothing but this presentation."

Arnav Varun was looking at her with that knowing smile as if he had found a key to a mystery puzzle he was looking for. His glasses gleaming at an angle.

Embarrassed at being in the wrong side, Khushi immediately changed the page and looked up at the projector screen.

"Sorry sir."

Did he know?

Had he seen her drawing his name initials in her notepad with such an interest?

What was with that smile?

And yet now he continued with his presentation as if nothing had happened. Voice unflinching and firm. Emanating an authority. An air of importance.

Hey shivji! Why do I have to be the one target that you are never tired of playing with?

The gravel in his voice still used to send chills down her spine in a good way of course.

"Okay everyone that would be it for now. If I happen to have something else I would be calling all of you back. Please be ready for more impromptu meetings this week. If anyone has any questions please do ask or you're free to leave, thank you for your attention."

Khushi gingerly raised up from her chair praying to let her go to a certain someone sitting in the Kailash parvat with his wife who loved creating sweet troubles for her in situations like these. She quickly wanted to slip away along with the rest of the others.

But, Arnav Varun didn't let that happen. He looked up from his laptop at her.

Please don't tell me to stay back.

Please tell me the one thing I am yearning to hear from you for half a decade now.

Please let me go.

Please stop me and kiss me.

Hey shivji! She might have as well become a lunatic by now.

She was about to leave when..

"Khushi.."

She turned back only to find him sitting at his chair relaxed. All tension and seriousness gone with everyone else from the room. He sipped his glass of chilled water.

There was something in this man that made her feel at peace and nervous at the same time.

"Yes sir."

She heard the sound of her voice which shivered slightly.

Don't get the wrong idea okay? I am DEFINITELY NOT scared of you.

"No 'sir' please, just AV, when we are alone."

"Okay.. AV.'

He smiled.

"Show me your notepad once Khushi."

NO. PLEASE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

'Uhh.. I am in need of it urg-"

"Yeah yeah I know you need it I had seen you noting down points in it. But please I assure you I don't eat paper and I would return it within a few sec. Please?"

Khushi very hesitantly held it out and before he could open it to her eternal mortification and second hand embarrassment, Arjun's name came flashing out on her mobile screen.

A whole wave of relief hit her whole being as she excused herself to pick it up as an important call, leaving behind all her things in the room.

After fifteen minutes when she came back to her cabin she realized she had left all her things in the meeting room. She was about to sprint back to the room. When she spotted her things: her laptop bag, her water bottle and her notepad neatly sitting in the center of her desk.

At lunch break, she entered the cafeteria and already found the whole team along with (of course) AV himself sitting at the corner-most booth. She walked up and sat at the chair two seats away from him. She saw his phone lying on the table.

Suddenly it came alive with a notification and she saw the lock screen. A sprawly drawing. Careless strokes of blue ball point pen. Carved into the paper on a ruled page which seemed familiar.

An insignia, which she had scribbled on her notepad, out of boredom, sitting in the meeting room, a few hours ago. She couldn't believe her eyes.

Heat rushed to her ears and a slow blush crept onto her face and refused to go away. She couldn't believe the fact that Arnav Varun had taken a click of her drawing and set it as the lock screen on his phone.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him check the notification and quickly closed off the screen, checking if anyone else noticed it or not and went back to the conversation going on.

Khushi couldn't pull out the image of her insignia on his phone screen. Her mind kept replaying the image and she couldn't stop herself from blushing. Her body had gone into over-drive. Her heart was fluttering. Her hands and legs felt shaky. Her palms felt clammy. Warmth surrounding her face and neck and the rest of her body. Her stomach was in colly-wobbles.

Hey shivji, please, I must be looking like an idiot. Please help me staaaap this blushing, my cheeks are hurting now. Uff. Stupid AV. Stupid me.

[starsarefire824]

Chapt 3 of Lay Me Down Slow.

Suddenly, he looks up, eyes flashing with something intense. One side of his mouth turns up in a half smile.  “Remember when we were in the Upside Down with Lucas and Dustin and we were hiding in the grocery store after the demogorgon chased us and I patched the cuts on your face?”  “Yes,” Will replies, standing up straight, and liking the way Mike’s eyes follow him upwards. Dying a little bit in the way they are set ablaze with the memory. He isn’t sure how eyes so black can be so alive. So dark, you can barely discern pupils from iris. He knows to most, beauty lies in blue eyes that are clear like glass and green and gold eyes that arouse feelings of summer. But to Will, these eyes, his eyes , are the most beautiful he’s ever seen. Dark like a crow sitting in a winter tree after a snowstorm. In the gauzy light of this white bathroom he’s made up of milky light and the blackest shadows, like a charcoal drawing he might sketch out in one of his notebooks; something stolen away from the Elysian Fields. The closest Will might ever get to a place like that. It seems in his life, hell had been much more taken with him.  “Sometimes I think about it,” Mike continues softly, mouth turning up in a gentle smile. “What?” Will asks, setting the supplies on the counter and rubbing his palms nervously along his thighs. He glances down at Mike with confusion.  “You,” Mike states, his vowels a little rough around their edges and his face pleading with him.   It’s a simple statement. One word. But as Will stares down at his childhood best friend who he barely knows anymore, it feels as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes. It feels as if Mike has said one thousand I love yous. I’ve always loved you. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry for everything. It’s always been you. Love me. Hold me. Kiss me. So he does. 

[conjuremanj]

Traditional Road Opener with Rituals

In traditional Hoodoo life is one long road from Birth to the Grave, that's when we'll to become ancestors ourselves. The term Road Opening is not used in hoodoo back in the day it was called Blockbusting. So if you go to a spiritual shop and see a road opener and a blockage candle it's the same thing. It gets rid of blockages, and do away with the obstacles in your or your clients life.

There also is a Blockbuster (read my post in that up top)

Now in the Spanish version like Santeria they may use a herb like Abre Camino which means "opens road, where the plant may be used.

Now think of it as a road where our blessings come one way and our gifts our free will comes the other way. ☝️ Sometimes we can get side-tracked that ends up with a blockage in our way. It may be from pursuing a person we should not be pursuing or a job we should pursue or a life path. Now I'm not saying you can't have those things just that it may not be the right time for those yet there are many reasons we can get blocked.

So when we pursue those blessings that comes towards us and don't received them it's because we put blockages in front of ourselves then we ask why. Why am I not receiving my blessings. That why... Your Blocked.

So when you use a blockbuster your undoing the blockages so that the blessings can start flowing towards you again. And it's does not matter if your blocked in love or money or even employment this will help you to receive those blessings and have them flow back to you again. Now if it's yourself that is blocked see my last post there's another spell for your self to stop blockages. Do both if you feel you need to.

Candles: We know that road opening colors are green, yellow, gold some are red. But you can used a color base on the type of opening you're doing. [Example of it's money that is blocked green is a good choice if it's love use that color if it's spiritual use white] So for this spell color can help if you don't have one white is fine.

Ritual: You will need a Bay leaf. Charcoal frankincense and myrrh and Incense burner. Write on a bay leaf the things that are holding you back.

We use the bay leaf because the leaf is a carrier it invokes spirits and ancestors to walk with you to identify the problem and to help get rid of the burdens and we use the frankincense and myrrh help cleanse the road and give them that extra push to get it out of your way.

Pray the 23rd psalms and walk around with it your going to walk because these are your burdens and you must carry it. This isn't a working where you can just let it burn and walk away NO. Just continue to pray the 23 psalms while you walk around (just like if your sageing) untill the bay leaf is completely burned out. It's important.

Now once you finish your road opening take those opportunities that come up even if it's not what you really want it's a opportunity to get where you need and want to be so take those opportunities when they present themselves.

Full Spell: If needed.

Road Opener Candle Spell: First you'll make a name paper. Take 4" x 4" piece of paper and write "Open Roads" on it stacked 3 times. Turn the paper 1/4 turn clockwise and write your name across it stacked 3 times. Dab a bit of Road Opener Oil on the four corners and center of the paper and set it aside.

Get a Yellow jumbo candle glass is ok, and dab a bit of Road Opener Oil on it. Stroke the oil on the candle toward you saying "Open my roads to me unblock health, love, money and opportunities unblock this________ I have so I may receive the blessings I deserve!" Set the candle in a candle holder.

Place the name paper on a plate then sprinkle a bit of Road Opener powder on top of the name paper in the shape of a large "+" (making a little crossroad on the plate)

(if you decide to go outside draw this symbol on the ground same way. Pour a little rum or whisky on top then place the candle in the center)

Place the candle in the center of the "+" of the herbal powder on the plate. Use your rattle and bell to bring spirit and or ancestors to you for help blow your cigar on the altar.

Now pray to God in your own words for the obstacles in your life to be cleared away and release the blockages so you can move toward your goals and the blessings in your life to be open and easy.

Next writ your problems on a bay leaf and follow the prayer and ritual instructions I mentioned at the top.

After your done with the bay leaf other instructions mention at the top. Hold the candle, take a moment to think and picture all of the goals you would like to accomplish in life as if you already had them. Once you've pictured all of your goals and desires, say "Amen" Let the candle burn all the way down.

Candle Read: Once the candle is done burning you can interpret the way the wax drippings are shaped for signs as to the success of your spell. (this is a very subjective and interpretive art - please if you need help interpreting your candle contact me for free)

Finishing Up: by taking the wax remains, the paper etc, wrapped it up and leave it in the trash. You don't need to go to a crossroads if you don't want to. Throw it away with all your problems.

Let me know how this goes if you try these.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Artist!Dan (2) Masterlist

part one

Blank Canvas - rosegoldjh

Summary: Dan is an extremely talented but unrecognized tattoo artist, his body a black and white masterpiece. Phil, on the other hand, has everything against tattoos. When he’s dragged along to his sister’s addition to her collection of ink, he realizes that perhaps turning one’s body from a blank canvas into a work of art is something to find beautiful instead of repulsive.

Bliss - addictivephangirl

Summary: dan is your typical teenage artist. he draws on anything and everything thats blank. especially his arms. or the one where dan decides to draw on himself instead of cutting himself and phil is a tattoo artist to make dans drawings stay forever.

Charcoal - (ao3) starboydjh

Summary: Dan gets lost in the art store, Cute Employee With Glasses (ie Phil) comes to his rescue.

Cosmic Flowers (ao3) - cassidynoga

Summary: Dans owns a tattoo shop and moves his business into the building next to Phil's flower shop. Phil speaks flower. Louise speaks flower. Dan does not.

Excerpt: Dan felt his face get hot. “It was nice of him. I guess that’s what happens when you work next to a flower shop.” He shrugged. “And yes, he was cute, but generally my type,” he said, making air quotes around the word type, “has more tattoos and less flowers.”

Déjà Vu (ao3) - xawesometrio

Summary: Daniel Howell was born with the curse of immortality and the only way to break that curse is to meet his soulmate twice and fall in love twice. He has already met Philip once and now he must wait for the chance to find him again.

Fritillaria meleagris (ao3) - TsingaDark

Summary: Tattoo Artist Dan moves and opens up a tattoo parlour opposite Phil’s flower shop.

hearts made of coffee (ao3) - softnerds

Summary: While working in a coffee shop, Dan continues to be visited by an interesting stranger who refuses to tell Dan his real name, only pseudonyms related to his interests.

His Dan, he liked the sound of that (ao3) - pastelpunkdan

Summary: “Yes, I’ve been watching you draw pictures of us together in your notebook all semester, I am literally sitting right behind you.”

---

Or where Dan has been drawing him and Phil together, and Phil finds it cute.

i skip classes and my heart skips beats (for you) (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: phil lester is in student council, he's a straight a student and quite the overachiever. not only that but he is loved by basically everyone in the school and is attractive as all hell.

dan howell skips classes all the time and does the bare minimum to pass classes. he just draws and talks to basically no one and yet somehow, him and phil find themselves in a friendship which turns into something far bigger.

restless (ao3) - overwhelmedbysonder

Summary: Breathe. Just breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In.

It’s not that I don’t try. I see my family, my friends, visiting with their faked smiles and forced laughter, desperately trying to pretend that things are fine, that nothing’s changed. I see them and I want to reach out, I want to look at them and smile and reassure them that I’m here and I’m fine and I’m here, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Or, the one where Phil struggles with depression, PTSD and being mute, and Dan just wants to hug him.

scribbles on an ink-stained page (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: the second dan leaves, phil goes to look at the book he is constantly drawing in but never shows to anyone. the first page has dan's name on it. the second page, and the third, and the fourth and every one after that, are filled with drawings of phil.

The Art of Love (ao3) - ThatmakesmeNervous

Summary: Dan and Phil are in their beloved college days. They share not only a room and a great friendship, but also a love for the fine arts. However, when their professors assign them a project where they have to express their love for someone through their chosen major, how will they react? Will they keep their feelings for each other at bay and choose someone else for the project besides each other? Or will they finally pull their heads out of their asses and realize they are totally in love with each other so they can do their projects?

The Art Of Teaching (ao3) - pasteldanhowells

Summary: Dan used to be into art when he was in high school but stopped once he grew up but started again and now has a website where he sells his art for money. Phil is a principal at a high school, and nobody is aware that he has a husband, someone he’s been with since he was a teenager. Something happens to the art teacher so Phil offers Dan the job, and Dan takes it. Phil finally introduces Dan to the rest of the school as his husband.

You're My Inspiration (ao3) - thatsthephan

Summary: Despite hating his job, Phil Lester couldn't be happier to be working at Takk on a fateful Thursday in January, when he finds one customer that stands out from all the rest. He doesn't get inspiration from things very often, and he doesn't know if this will be any different. But he sure hopes so, for the sake of his writing. Dan Howell hates studying Law at University. He hates that all he wants to do is paint, but can't seem to find anything beautiful enough to waste his time on. He hates pretty much everything except painting, and even that isn't going the way he wants it to. That is, until he meets one person that might change his outlook on things. As crazy as that sounds.

[tamlins-stories-and-poems]

First and foremost: should Seanan read this despite the tag that is intended to warn her eyes away and end up with any ideas or find that I hit something I shouldn’t’ve despite my lack of speculation, I disavow any rights I may have had to the idea. Should she want to print out the art [link]and hang it on the wall/in a window, I will be honored. Should anyone else want to print it out and hang it on their walls/windows, I will still be honored but request some form of payment for my hard work. I put a lot into this. Most of the tutorial/coloring explanations are between the two arrows.

I love stained glass. I always have, and think there should be more of it around, just, in general.

So, when I found a poem I wrote a little while ago, based on how I think the fae society in the October Daye series gossip about the titular character, stained glass quickly worked its way in as the style to emulate. Originally, I was hoping to challenge myself in other ways—drawing messy rooms like the Luideag’s kitchen, practice my shading, work on actual comic panel type deals—but most of those were completely untenable in a stained glass style drawing, at least at my current level of skill. So when I settled on stained glass, the other challenges fell to the wayside.

->You can probably tell that my skill for the line work improved as I worked through these, sketching and inking 14 panels in 14 days, and getting more comfortable with this style. The coloring was done a bit more haphazardly, slapping down bucket fills when I found the right color and jumping between panels to make sure the ones I wanted to match stayed the same. I chose colors a lot more saturated than I’m used to, mostly because at 85% opacity, everything looks a little desaturated already, and the rest because stained glass is supposed to be bright and leave swaths of bright color crossing the room around it.

I needed the opacity to have the texture layered underneath (replicating the inconsistencies in real glass) at least somewhat visible, and for the texture of the brush to have uneven edges, and a somewhat inconsistent shape. I found one that worked—called charcoal, iirc—which I used to randomly place shadows at ~70% opacity beneath the other colors, and very light cyan at ~30% over top. <-

Other than a few examples listed below, the most complex coloring after that was a few gradients, mostly in the background or in hair, but a few on Toby’s coat in “Daye will save you, if she can” that I didn’t feel like trying to redo when I realized I mixed one of her hair colors in, and some painting overtop of the “glass” for Cap’n Pete’s opalescent/oil slick scales and hair

People;

Toby:

I gotta start with Tobes. I used a pale yellow for the lighter part of her hair, near her scalp as it’s been growing in more and more pale as she’s been shifted more pureblood. I know Seanan says it all changes at once, but I chose to ignore that for fun coloring. I wanted her to be the most desaturated person visible, which more affected choosing other peoples’ colors than hers, but worked out well enough.

May:

May’s hair. I had a filker (fandom-musician) friend, upon her retirement, get pink and blue feathered/chessboard hair. She was delighted by this, but decided that she keeps her hair short enough that it wasn’t worth maintaining. I patterned May’s hair based on my friend’s, but threw in colors at almost random and hoped for the best. May’s skin matches Toby. Her neon green sweater is based on something I remember reading from the books but might not actually exist, and her skirt is a patchwork of bright colors, mostly picked from her hair.

Beloved S. Torquill (as opposed to his twin the disliked S. Torquill):

White shirt for his current fresh start. Long hair for Vibes. Not much else to say about him here. Too many spoilers.

Tybalt:

Kitty man! Brown hair, originally was going to have the stripes just be the way the “glass” was set, but after drawing Pete’s hair I painted some darker brown stripes in. Red (probably silk) shirt under brown leather vest. Hair in a bun bc the Toby Discord has had odd fits of being obsessed with man-bun Tybalt. So he can have little a bun. As a treat.

Quentin:

For his hair I went with a yellow intended to be between the dandelion of his introduction and the polished bronze of his more recent appearances. Triangles as the base shape for his hair also just because vibes. Probably broke his nose at least once when he couldn’t get it set pretty and perfect in time to heal.

Raj:

There is a picture of an Abyssinian cat on the Toby wiki, and I used the main visible color for his hair (by eyeballing it, bc, again, saturation). He has dark skin to go with his south-west asian name. Samson may have been the type of jerk to culturally appropriate names, but I want to think Raj is actually a person of color. None of the descriptions I remember actually include his skin tone. In cat form I airbrushed in some details to look a little more like the cat photo.

the Luideag:

Curly black hair, sometimes held by electrical tape in pigtails, can have shark teeth at will. I like shark teeth. I had fun playing with how curls work in stained glass (let me know how you liked them!), otherwise looks like a teenaged mortal who blends in around San Fran. I used to live just over the hill, and I always picture her as looking Hispanic, like about half of my old neighbors (probable hyperbole), at least in her current guise.

Blind Michael (hand only):

Discord member helped me double check, and his skin was “striped tan and white like ash bark” I decided on green pointed nails to look like leaves. Discolored slightly when looking through the orb holding Karen’s soul.

Karen, butterfly form:

I forgot she was supposed to be a swallowtail until I was done inking. Didn’t want to attempt to erase and try again for proper stripes and wing-tails. I was just thinking “she needs eye spots bc eyes are windows to the soul, and this is her butterfly soul.” Yellow bc tiger swallowtail call-back. Trying to escape away from Blind Micheal’s hand.

acacia:

Moth lady moth lady moth lady she gets fluffy moth antennae. Skin and cloak colors taken directly from wiki description, hair gradiented in gold-ish yellow and brown to match what I could of the “writhing brown roots and golden hair” of the wiki description. I didn’t dare go check the books and get caught rereading and lose steam by distracting myself.

Pete

Cap’n Pete in pirate clothes sounded both more fun and easier to stylize than a fancy living-tides dress. Her hair is described as “oil slick” and she has “matching pale scales” here and there, but I only depicted them on her cheek. I also tried to give her ruffles/a cravat that matched her shirt. Bc why not.

[shotofstress]

My artworks

My fundraising post

Description of the images under the break

[Start of transcription- All the slides are in pastel colour green, purple, soft blue, light beige pink, the text is in dark warm brown]

1st slide: "Meet the blogger/artist with Umbra". There is a simple line draw of me in white paper and brown ink; a thin person with wavy hair long to the shoulders, round glasses, long face angular face, and I'm weaving my hand to you as a "Hi!". In the draw I'm using a big tshirt, and I'm sit on the bed, covered to the waist with a bedcover. I'm smiling but I look tired.

2nd slide: "Hi, I'm Umbra and this is my blog @shotofstress . Sometimes I make text posts and also post my own artworks (under the tag #umbra art or go to the link in the main page in the Navegation section). In there I post artworks that are for sale, so check in case you like something! if not, still really happy you see them :)

Thanks for passing by or follow! Many thanks especially to those who have donated to my campaign or shared that post and posts of my work.

Here is a bit about me:

3nd slide: About me

-27th Nov/ Adult

-Disable/ ND / Chronically ill/ Long Covid

-Cane user (bedridden at times), glasses and sunglasses user

-Summer/Spring

-I like Cats, Pigeons and Frogs

I’m the mix, but also the bastard child of Will Graham, Vanessa Ives, Simon Petrivok, John Simms, and Lisbeth Salander.

Traditional artist. Oil paint, acrylic paint (but haven’t in years), charcoal, graphite, dry pastel, colour percil. I made linography, serigraphy and ceramics years ago, don’t have the equipment now. Embrodery. Don’t have an style. Currently oil pastels.

4nd slide: Stuff I enjoy

To watch and read:

I like to watch movies and tv shows, can be live action or animation. I enjoy detective genre among others. Sometimes I watch documentaries too. I use Letterboxd as a list more than a film critic space.

I try to read a lot, I enjoy novels, but I read poetry and works such as letters and personal diaries too (eg. Van Gogh, Alejandra Pizarnik and Kafka). I enjoy comics/manga and fics too. Academic books and papers are things I also like reading. Art Books.

5th slide:

Food

-Pancakes with preserves

-Filled doughs

-Beans with noodles

-Casseroles

-Stuffed veggies

-Gummies and sweets

-Nachos and chips

-Try foods from other cultures

-I’m vegetarian, lactose intolerante and celiac

Vidogames

I play on notebook, sometimes on playstation (thanks to other people, I don't have one, in fact I don't have a tv either). My fav games so far are Assassins Creed (Ezio’s Trilogy and Black Flag), Disco Elysium, Death Stranding, Hades, Stray, and Watchdogs 2. I want to play Pentiment, Death Stranding 2, Hades 2, Chants of Sennaar, God of War series, Metal Gear series, and Bloodborne.

6th slide

Games: I enjoy tabletop games (I want to make one). I like co-games for 2 players. I enjoy cards and traditional games too, like kites and marbles.

Podcast/radio theatre: The Magnus Archives, We’re not so different, True crime medieval. Radio and radio theatre/audiobooks. I would love having a radio station and making audiobooks too.

Music: I don’t know much about music, but I enjoy it. Lots of instrumental, ambience, trip hop, OSTs, and Cinematic music. Folk music from my country and others.

7th slide: Others

-I like sunglasses and contact lens

-Pins, badges, and stickers

-Rocks and crystals

-Taking pics even when I’m not good at it

-Art and illustrations from different cultures

-Costume and cosplay

-Physical media like CDs, DVDs and Cassettes (I want a disc player for my laptop coz ot no longer is integrated)

8th slide: Inventory

-Headphones

-Mask

-Kuffiya

-Meds

-Sunglasses/glasses

-Wallet

-Hoodie

-Toilet paper

-Pillow

-Small blanket

-Cane

It’s a lot of weight so I try to keep it to the minimum or sometimes don’t carry the cane, pillow nor blanket.

9th slide: Trivia

-I like tea, mate, and boba tea

-I dream everyday

-I like vampires

-Love corn (want to try candy corn)

-I have made 1 international sale

-I go to the park (since 2024) and feed the pigeons once a month.

-People have seen me in places I was not

-I watch Jelle’s Marbel Runs

-Never had rice cakes

-I love festivities, birthdays, carnivals and celebrations, never ever been able to celebrate

-I have a pennyboard, but not the gear to learn lol

Finale slide:

Thanks for reading! See you around, and take care of yourself.

As a foot note of the post I put the links to my art (which I have to describe yet, sorry) and the link to the fundrising post to help me pay for food, meds and survive coz I live in a wall broken storage room. In the post I explain more in detail.

[End of transcription]

[mediadesignspring2023]

1.

I choose this image because this image captures the skyline of New york city. And new york is the center of arts and diversity. The place where Kusuma felt that she will conquer, she felt safe.

When Yatoi Kusuma first arrived in New York, she promised herself that she would conquer New York. Kusama's use of polka dots is significant because it represents her ongoing struggle with mental illness. The repetition and pattern of the dots reflect her obsessive-compulsive tendencies, while the bright colors evoke a sense of joy and playfulness. The title "To Conquer b Nyc" suggests that Kusama sees herself as an outsider trying to make her mark on the city. This theme is further emphasized by the installation taking up an entire room, forcing viewers to confront it head-on.

2.

This is an old picture of Kusuma before she came to NYC. Her charcoal drawings scattered on the floor behind her. As we know she is one of the most famous artists existing till now. However, in the 1950s, her work was largely ignored by the art world. This can be attributed to several factors. Firstly, Kusama's art was ahead of its time. Her use of polka dots and bright colors was considered too radical for the conservative tastes of the 1950s. Additionally, her work often dealt with themes such as sexuality and mental illness, which were taboo subjects at the time. Secondly, Kusama was a woman in a male-dominated field. The art world in the 1950s was largely dominated by men, and women artists were often overlooked or dismissed.

3.I choose this image because it shows that Kusuma can paint anywhere and anytime. She is well known for her polka dots patterns, Some argue that it is a reflection of her mental state, while others suggest that it is a way for her to express her individuality. Kusama's fascination with polka dots began in her childhood when she experienced hallucinations of the world being covered in dots. This experience became the foundation for her artistic expression, and she began incorporating polka dots into all aspects of her work.

4.

I really like this picture because of the repetition of red and white color. How the mirror behind her just makes the room larger and open.

It has been known that Yayoi Kusuma was the first artist to create a glass room in New York. In 1965, she created a glass room in New York City, which was the first of its kind. The installation was called "Endless Love Show," and it featured a small room covered entirely in mirrors with small colored lights hanging from the ceiling.The glass room was an immersive experience that allowed visitors to see themselves reflected infinitely in the mirrors. The colored lights added to the surreal atmosphere of the installation and created an otherworldly effect. Kusama's glass room was groundbreaking because it challenged traditional notions of art and exhibition spaces. It blurs the lines between art and reality by creating a beautiful and disorienting environment.

[creativeenquiryevi]

Initial Proposal

Proposal for Creative Enquiry and Divergent Practice

4th Year BA CAP

Throughout my work, I was always drawn to the index and the mark making techniques. I find that the unpredictability of the process speaks to me and helps me find inspiration.

One of the things that helps me mentally, is travelling and contemplating the surrounding. I love Scotland’s landscape and that’s what gave me the inspiration to experiment. During the summer months, whenever I was travelling with my family, I would explore the automatic drawing. I would let the road and the landscape lead the marks. I was satisfied just by watching the surroundings and chatting with my family, without having any control on the drawing and the final outcome. Occasionally, I would find it difficult to not be able to influence the process and found myself focusing hard on that in order to prevent it. I used different materials such as pens, charcoal, coloured pencils and various surfaces, like watercolour paper, white board, tablet, calico, in order to compare them afterwards and see the differences. The results were very satisfactory. I found interesting the way the drawings resembled cartography and topography, almost like seeing the land from above. Another interesting point was that not two journeys would look alike. What mattered for me was the journey, not the final destination, but how the places connect to each other, borderless and what made my hand draw the specific marks. Every journey holds a different memory of our time in this land. There is a Greek Poet Kavafis that wrote a beautiful poem, Ithaca that comes in mind whenever I think of each journey:

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery

…

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;

                                       Evangelou E. 2022, Route to Portobello Student’s own work

While researching artists that explore cartography and topography in their work, I came across Palestinian artist Mona Hatoum. This artist has created a lot of work inspired by or using cartography and maps in various forms which I find very inspiring and relevant to my work. From works like Hot Spot (2013), Present Tense (1996) and Map (Clear) (2014) she is always exploring the conflicts of the world while connecting them with her artwork.

Hatoum M. 1996, Present Tense

In Present Tense (1996), Hatoum is emphasizing the political aspect of territorial depiction. She used 2400 square blocks of olive oil soaps with red glass beads embedded on them that symbolize the territories that were to be returned to Palestine during the 1993 agreement. (phaidon website).

  Hatoum M. 2006 Bunker

Bunker is another inspiring work where she made an installation of suspended swings with topography on them. Each of the 35 swings represent a random city map. The whole installation has an eerie feeling as there is a slight movement on the works while the audience walks around them.

  Another artwork that I looked into during my research and discussion with my lecturers, was Shibboleth by Doris Salcedo that was presented on 2007 at Tate Modern. This is a large installation that comprises of a huge crack running throughout the floor of the Turbine Hall, representing the communities of immigrants and the ‘history of racism, running parallel to the history of modernity’ and ‘the dangers at crossing borders or being rejected in the moment of crossing borders.’ [Salcedo, 2007]

The cracks, when been watched from above remind me of the cracks on the earth resulted by an earthquake.

  Salcedo, D. (2007) Shibboleth

 For Creative Enquiry and Divergent Practice projects, I plan on using the same brief of routes that are connecting with memories and the land, and differentiate on the media that I will use for each one.

For the Creative Enquiry project, I intent on experimenting further with the route drawings and find ways to translate them into 3D forms. I have already started working with plaster and exploring the various results in transferring the drawings on this material. The first examples are quite successful and remind me of the soap blocks in Hatoum’s installation. It is an interesting idea that has lots of possibilities and potential in developing into a large-scale installation for the final Show.

However, I would like to expand further the experimentations and even reach the boundaries of each medium. I would like to keep the unpredictability and as many of the characteristics of the initial drawings (such as the fluidity of the markings) as possible for the final outcome.

Evangelou E. (2022) Drawing transfer on plaster block, Student’s own work

 In contrast to the 3D form, I plan on working in 2D for the divergent Practice module. I intend on working in various techniques and scales and thus, produce several different outcomes before considering on a specific one that would work best. Having the same drawings as a starting point I plan on exploring further the way I could translate them on mono printing and screen-printing work as well as fibre art work. This would give me the opportunity to expand my knowledge on the specific techniques and the way I can further use them in my future practice.

I will continue to create drawings on routes, however, I intent on exploring the repetition and the variety of outcomes as a result of this. I will use a specific journey that my family does weekly, to create a large-scale drawing. This journey has a special meaning for me, as it connects my Greek culture with the Scottish land. It is the journey we have every Saturday to take our daughter to the Greek school that she attends. These drawings would connect not only the two places (home and school) but also the borderless land and cultures.  

Time management is of essence and my bigger concern for the Divergent Practice module, as this runs for a shorter period and simultaneously with the other, bigger projects and I have to divide my time in the studio accordingly. However, I am excited to see where this journey will lead me.  

   References/Images

 Evangelou, E. (2022), Route to Portobello

Evangelou, E. (2022), Transferring drawing on Plaster

Phaidon.com. n.d. The Art of the Map - Mona Hatoum | art | Agenda | Phaidon. [online] Available at: <https://www.phaidon.com/agenda/art/articles/2015/october/29/the-art-of-the-map-mona-hatoum/> [Accessed 27 September 2022].

Poetry Foundation. n.d. Ithaka by C. P. Cavafy | Poetry Foundation. [online] Available at: <https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51296/ithaka-56d22eef917ec> [Accessed 27 September 2022].

Tate.org.uk. n.d. 'shibboleth I', Doris Salcedo, 2007. [online] Available at: <https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/salcedo-shibboleth-i-p20334> [Accessed 27 September 2022].

Whitecube.com. n.d. White Cube - Gallery Exhibitions - Bunker. [online] Available at: <https://whitecube.com/exhibitions/exhibition/mona_hatoum_masons_yard_2011> [Accessed 27 September 2022].

[fayes-fics]

Happy Birthday, Mr Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict's wife gives him the best possible birthday gift.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, masturbation, vaginal sex, massage, pregnancy.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author's Note: A more romantic fic than my usual. The sweet, soulful artist deserves to be loved and cherished. Enjoy <3

It’s midnight, and a birthday has just begun.

You pad through the house to Benedict’s studio. He is perched on a stool, busy sketching. He often works late into the night when the muse takes him. You pause in the open doorway to watch him work. Admiring his skills as he feathers his charcoal across the page. Admiring him, the movements of his artistic hands, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his braces hanging loose around his hips.

“Happy birthday, my love,” you call softly as you close the door.

“Thank you, my lo…” his answer dies on his lips as he turns and sees you.

Speechless is a good start.

Your skin feels aglow as you bask in his attention, sauntering towards him. His eyes track your every movement. His hand is still suspended in midair, charcoal in hand.

Your gown is totally sheer, the colour of your flesh, its only adornment being tiny starbursts of silver sequins that glitter in the candlelight. You feel beautiful in it, like a walking shimmering fireworks display. With a few layers of chemises, this would be a stunning ball gown; without them, it’s a scandalous sight. Everything is visible through the translucent tulle layers. And you wear absolutely nothing underneath except a dab or two of his favourite perfume.

He still hasn’t said anything, but he is breathing slightly heavily as you draw up to him, his eyes raking up and down your body. You pluck the charcoal between his fingers and place it down on his easel.

“I am the luckiest man in the world,” he exhales quietly, finally finding his voice.

Warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile fondly at his compliment, stepping between his slightly bended knees; one of his feet looped onto the stool, the other kicked out towards the easel. You set aside a little glass vial you came in holding.

“Wh…” he begins, but you hush him with a soft finger to his lips.

“Shh, you don’t need to speak tonight, my love,” you murmur, running your hands into his hair, “just feel.”

His eyes soften and give silent acceptance, and his body relaxes a notch. Even though he finds solace in his art, he’s had a long few days; you want to soothe him and bring him peace.

His soulful blue eyes watch your expressions as your fingertips trail across his cheekbones, curling inwards to brush the back of your fingers down his jawline to his chin, mapping the structure of his face. There are libraries worth of literature extolling female beauty, but you’ve found precious few pieces that capture the truth of male beauty such as his. Your thumb traces gently over his lips, and you ghost a smile as he busses gently against your digit.

You move your hands to outline the shell of his ears, passing his earlobes between your fingers, sweeping down to cup his neck, pressingly on the tension points you feel corded there. He exhales deeply, leaning into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. Tonight it’s all about making him feel special, not just because it’s his birthday, but because he spends so much of his time catering to the needs of others, most of all yours, and he deserves to be indulged.

Splaying your fingers upwards around the back of his head, you enjoy running them into his thick hair. He hums contentedly as you massage lightly. Then his breath hitches as you scrape your nails lightly across his scalp, the skin around his open shirt collar erupting into goosebumps. Oh, the responsiveness is so enchanting.

You lean forward and kiss his lips softly, just a brief touch. His eyes fly open, and he chases your lips as you pull away. He pleads with the most mournful expression, so you relent and press your lips to his again. His hands curl around your shoulders, their sizeable warmth at once both centring and sending you soaring. He kisses back slowly, opening his lips slightly, his tongue requesting permission to yours. Hands still in his hair, you pull closer, deepening the kiss. His arms now slide around your back to hold you close. It’s luscious and languid. Shared breaths and gentle flirtation.

You reach down and tug his shirt up. He assists your efforts, removing his arms from around you and pulling the garment up and over his head. You catalogue the sculpted plains of his arms, chest, and stomach. He is watching your face with a crooked smile; he knows all the telltale signs of your desire. Your tongue feels thick, wanting to run over every inch. For later, you tell yourself.

His brow knits in puzzlement as you circle him, coming to a halt behind him instead. You kiss the back of his neck, running your nose up into his hair, where his natural scent is most potent. On instinct, it draws you closer; your hands curl around his biceps as you press your upper body against him. The rasp of your tulle dress against his shoulder blades hitches his breath and yours, the friction causing your nipples to pebble heavily. Knowing he can feel it too—a little tease of what else will come later.

He is listening intently as you reach for the small glass vial you came in with, opening it and pouring a little oil into your palm. Usually, by now, he would be asking what you're doing, using the velvety tone that makes your body sing. Tonight he is quiet, but one look into his eyes would say everything his lips are not.

Notes of orange and bergamot swirl into the air as you massage the oil into your hands, warming it. His inhale is a sign he recognises the scent from the hours of pleasure in your bedroom. Usually, it is him massaging your body into a blissful state before slipping his fingers inside you, making you come over and over. More derailing thoughts you need to put aside.

You begin by running the flanks of your hands firmly down either side of his spine, all the way from his neck to his waist. His moan is one of relief, not desire, but your body reacts regardless; the sudden want to be filled by him is visceral. Your lips tingle to kiss him again, but you resist the urge, focussing on bringing him serenity.

Feeling the tension easing under your fingers as you work on the knots around his neck is a mutual reward. His breath is deep and even; he shifts to place both feet flat on the floor. You spend many minutes mapping the stress points in his back and kneading the flesh until it relents into a relaxed state. His hums and sighs act as the guide for your progress. You circle back to his front when it seems he is entirely free from any strain.

“Does that feel better, my love?” You know the answer, but asking gives you a moment to indulge your heart, appreciating the blissful look on his face as he nods contentedly.

He pulls you in for another kiss and gently bites your lower lip. The room grows a few degrees warmer, a sparking feeling notching up your spine, radiating out across your skin.

You run your hands heavily up his thighs, admiring the latent power you feel underneath the material, him watching your movements. Your hands reach his hips and pause, waiting for his gaze to meet yours. Then you start unbuttoning; you know he’s not wearing anything underneath today; he often doesn’t when you are home. It’s gratifying to watch his pupils dilate as you twist your mouth into a playful pout with each button relenting.

As you reach the last button, you grin broadly, grab his hand instead, and pull him bodily across the room towards the emerald green chaise. The one you have posed on countless times for him. He trails behind you with a carefree laugh, holding up his britches with his free hand.

“No need for modesty Mr Bridgerton” you tease as you pull him to a stop next to the chaise. He raises an eyebrow and lifts his hand, his britches falling to a heap on the floor. Your gaze descends to his cock, standing proud. So familiar to you now, but every time as tantalising and thrilling as the first time he showed you his body.

“Why do you ever wear clothes?” you think wistfully. Your cheeks flush as his lopsided smile tells you you have voiced your thoughts.

“If the lady wishes, I never will again in this house”, he whispers seductively. “But only if you only ever wear this dress” His fingers trace the neckline of your gown with feather-soft touches. “Or nothing at all.” His lips find the spot just below your earlobe that makes you shiver.

“This evening is supposed to be about me seducing you, birthday boy,” you admonish affectionately, pulling your neck away reluctantly, “not the other way around.”

“By all means, Mrs Bridgerton, please continue,” using that voice he knows makes your knees weak.

“Lay down,” you whisper.

He relaxes back on the chaise, one arm tucked behind his head, with an easy smile, an innate confidence in his nudity. You wish you had his skills to capture this moment on a canvas. You take your time surveying the sight before you, shameless almost in your ogling. Ladies of good breeding are not supposed to be so lascivious, but you can’t help it when it comes to your husband. He is gorgeous to you. And, based on how heads turn when he walks into a room, you are not alone in that sentiment. Not for the first time; you consider yourself very lucky he returned your feelings.

“Penny, for your thoughts, my love,” his arm reaching for you, his fingers gently circling your wrist.

“I was just thinking I am the luckiest woman in the world,” you reply truthfully, echoing his sentiment when you walked in earlier, leaning down to kiss the hand that holds your wrist.

His smile turns almost shy, and he averts his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering as a slight blush colours his cheeks. It makes your heart melt and your pussy clench simultaneously. How he can do that astounds you. You want to wrap him in the tightest, sweetest hug but also fuck him so hard your teeth rattle. What a beautiful contradiction.

“I had all these plans,” you sigh, “but I find myself impatient for you, my love.”

“Tell me about them,” he requests, looking back up at you, his lips tugging into a playful, beautiful crooked grin.

“I planned to tease you for ages, kiss every inch of your skin from your ankles to your hair,” you reply, your gaze tracking up his body again, fingers itching to trail over his contours.

“Sounds lovely,” his voice teasing.

“Mmmm, but,” you hitch up your dress and straddle him, settling your hips on his waist, your dress fanning out over him, your fingers tracing the constellation of freckles on his breastbone, “you are too tempting, Mr Bridgerton, and I find I just want you inside me.”

“That sounds even better,” he admits, his voice rough as he grabs your knee and runs a hand up your thigh under the gauzy layers. His questing fingers slide between your legs, and you moan as he expertly flexes them against you.

You grab his forearm. “No, my darling, it’s you who gets the pleasure tonight,” you counter, gently shaking your head and pulling his hand away.

“But I want to watch you. I love your face when I do this to you,” Benedict pleads, his eyes so beseeching.

“Then allow me,” you offer with a raised eyebrow.

Gathering your dress slightly, you slide your fingers between your legs, loving the wetness you find there, all for him. You moan gently, holding his gaze as your fingers move. His grip on your thigh tightens; you intuit what he is asking for and speed up your ministrations. You bite your lip and groan loudly, not daring to break eye contact. His other hand behind his head moves to grip your other thigh; his Adam's apple bobs visibly as he swallows, and his chest rises and falls more visibly.

“I need you,” his voice breathy and low, “please…”

Your fingers slip from your body and reach behind to grab him, and he groans as you give him a few gentle pumps with your hand before shuffling backwards to line him up with your body. Watching many expressions flit across his face, revelling in his breathy anticipation, you allow his tip inside. His moan is like poetry, and you sink fractionally lower, loving how it feels when he invades your body—the insistent stretch and heat. You roll your hips, eager to envelop him but also to maintain a slow tease. He looks at you pleadingly.

“What do you need, my beautiful birthday boy?” you ask softly.

“Please, my love, take all of me; I need you,” his voice sounds so needy it makes your chest flutter.

You smile as his eyes burn into yours, then sink down, gasping at the hot, plunging invasion pulling you so taunt. The lustful noise he emits makes you pulse around him, which in turn makes him call out your name, a wanton call and response that has you grabbing his hands and placing them on your breasts. The tulle of your dress scrunches against your nipple, sequins catching against your sensitive skin and between his fingers. He slips his hand inside the neckline and grabs your naked flesh as you press into his touch and start to rock gently.

Usually, you talk to each other when you make love, whispering debauched thoughts or just communicating how you feel. But tonight, you enjoy a silent, almost psychic connection, something more sensual and decadent, staring into each other's eyes, saying everything without words. Your movements are fluid but slow and deliberate, savouring the intoxicating feel of him sliding within you.

He lifts your left hand from his body and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the wedding ring you wear proudly. You mirror his actions, taking his left hand, but instead plunge his wedding ring finger into your mouth, sucking it gently, the metal of his ring knocking against your teeth as you rise and fall. Hoping to convey through your actions the depth of emotion and passion you feel for this man.

He groans and drives his hips upwards, sliding even deeper, catching against the top of your channel, your toes flexing at the pleasure that causes. You call his name, releasing his hand, your nails scratching over his abs. Something more carnal, taking you both somewhere frantic.

You surge up and down, chasing all the sensations, his hands running down your back, warm through the layers of your dress, grasping your hips and pulling your down harder into him as your fingernails drag against the ripples of his abdomen muscles. Over and over until your thighs burn, and still, you don't ever want to stop, revelling in the feeling you get every time he nudges that place inside you that makes all the exertion worth it.

You see in his eyes as he is approaching his peak, the desperation for you to join him, making you reach under your dress and touch yourself, him hissing encouragements as you do so. His voice rockets you to the edge, the sonorous rumbling through his body that sweeps you over to a place that is a kaleidoscope of bliss; breath stolen, body tensing and releasing, firing a euphoria in every fibre from your scalp to your toes. Distantly, you can hear him climaxing, his fingers a vice-like grip as his groan turns guttural, and he holds you down fiercely. All his muscles tense in rigid relief as he comes hard. He looks so beautiful in this moment, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, that you collapse onto him and kiss his jaw, even biting gently in a way that makes him more vocal and his grip stronger.

Then as the intensity of the moment passes, all is serene as you recover together, breaths evening out, hands laced together. These quiet moments after the passionate storm feel the most intimate—the languid caresses, soft kisses and whispered words.

“Thank you for the most wonderful birthday gift,” he sighs, sated, as you lay atop him, your head on his shoulder, drawing idle shapes on his pectoral muscle with the tips of your fingers.

“A massage and making love are not your gift, my love,” you refute quietly, twisting your head to look up into his inquisitive eyes. “You deserve those and so much more. No, your gift is something else entirely. There is a reason I dressed like this, to look like the nicest gift wrapping that I possibly could,” you explain and sit up, straddling him again.

“I will always think of you as the best gift in my life,” he chuckles happily.

“Not me, Benedict.” You grab his hand and place it on your dress, just below your belly button.

“There is a gift in here for you, my love. It will probably take another, hmm, seven months, but I think it will be the greatest gift you, and indeed I, could ever receive. A beautiful gift we made together.”

His breath catches, and his mouth opens a fraction in surprise; his eyes suddenly go glassy and soft with emotion.

“Are you with child, my love?” he murmurs excitedly.

“I believe I am Mr Bridgerton. Or should I say papa?” you smile indulgently. Suddenly he is sitting up and pulling you into an embrace with his other arm, his lips finding yours.

“This is the best gift ever,” he grins, his eyes damp, his hand cradling your still-flat belly as if it is the most precious thing in the world.

“Happy birthday, Mr Bridgerton,” you beam as you place your hand over his, “from both of us.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

[mariathearcane]

🌙 In a Jam Witch Tips & Budget Witch Tips Source - https://www.instagram.com/mariathearcane/?hl=en •Using crystal chips or quartz for a crystal grid. You can alternatively make a herb/flower/plant grid. •Out of multicolor chimes, but have tea lights? White candles are multipurpose, just carve a sigil or rune that corresponds to the intention for your spell into the candle. •Keep ash from cleansing wands so you can make black salt or alternatively pop open a charcoal pill to mix in salt as well. •Put sigils or runes on your body that correspond with an intention you want to set. Alternatively, draw it on paper and keep it close to you. •Go thrifting for unique altar decorations! Most of my decor you see in my photos is thrifted. •Use pantry herbs bought at grocery stores! If a spell you are doing calls for a herb you don’t have on hand look for alternative herbs that correspond with your intention. I’ve also been known to cut up a teabag when I don’t have peppermint or chamomile on hand. •Keep food glass jars for candles, ritual bath mixtures, and spell jars. •Utilize resources like the Kindle lending library & your online library! •Combine water & salt in a bowl or glass. Use your fingers to flick it in lieu of a cleansing spray. •Have an ocean nearby? Look for shells! Shells are an amazing crystal substitute. •If you are adept at visualization & meditation, you can always create an altar you go to when in a meditative state. This is great when you are on the go or don’t have money to spend on spellwork/an altar. •There is power in simplicity lovelies✨.

[stephreynaart]

Gravity Falls - “Waiting”

Pop-Pop AU

Stan sits in a hospital waiting room, thinking about his life and the people he loves.

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This is kinda old, but I realized I never posted it on tumblr. Hope ya like it!

Lots of fluff, the only ships are Soos and Melody.

AO3 LINK

- - - -

It had a square aspect ratio. Ink pen and watercolor on white heat pressed cotton paper in a bland white frame. One single blue flower in a red vase with what looks like a yellowish shadow. One shadow going left, the other going right. The lack of confidence and inexperience was obvious, the lines were unfocused and jagged, the color plainly filled the shapes and gave no other visual interest to the image.

Below the frame was a small white card that read “Painting donated by Jessica Blaise from Gravity Falls Elementary School”

Stan scanned the painting at least 20 times while sitting in that chair. The too rough and too soft at the same time chair that had similar copies populating the almost white room he sat in. The wallpaper bouncing off light pinks and blues with tiny ducklings as a makeshift wainscoting was starting to irritate the old man. It was too bright, and the consistent buzz of the fluorescent lights seemed so loud. Stan adjusted himself in his chair, switching his crossed legs to a wider spread and leaned his head against the wall.

The only other stimulus in the room were a few posters promoting proper hand washing techniques, the play area with a small table and chairs with large blocks, crayons and that weird “game” with the metal wiring and wooden beads that’s in every waiting room Stan’s ever sat in. He played with the toys to give himself something to do after he read all the magazines. The novelty wore off fast.

The television mounted on the wall was airing some cooking channel with no sound and no subtitles. Looking at food when you haven’t eaten in a few hours was practically torture, so Stan had been averting his eyes.

There were other paintings on the wall, one was less of a painting, but instead a print of a painting. He doubted that the artist got any compensation from it, if they were still alive. The other was a charcoal drawing done by a student from the community college a town away. Another square, but the entire image was black, the brightest thing on the page was an intruding infant hand coming from the left with the arm fading into the dark background. The fingers seemingly mid-twitch and grabbing at something. The lighting was dynamic and interesting. Stan swore it was a drawing of a penis the first time he glanced at it, which resulted in his brother’s laughter. Stanley smiled at the memory, it was only a few hours ago, but he relishes any time he can make Stanford laugh.

Stan’s eyes darted at the door in the far corner when it opened suddenly. He eased back into his chair when the nurse crossed the room to talk with the receptionist. He couldn’t hear the conversation very well, but could tell they were just gossiping and making jokes. Nothing that was of his interest. So he looked back to the elementary school child’s painting and analyzed it again. His eyes were dry and he was tired. He wished he could sleep, the chair wasn’t comfortable enough and when he did managed to sleep, his neck was sore when he woke up. He was only lucky Ford let him use his shoulder as a pillow for a while. He looked to his left and noted the book his brother placed in the seat. It seemed thick and in what looked like Hebrew. Stan wasn’t very surprised Ford was fluent in the language they were acquainted with as children. Their grandparents on their father’s side were the last to be fully fluent in Hebrew. It was like his brother to be curious of their heritage, but Stan only remembered a few phrases and words he learned from holidays and special event when he had to recite anything in Temple.

Stan crossed his arms and glanced at the clock on the wall and let out an exasperated sigh. It had only been 10 minutes since he last checked the time. He wanted to be at home, be in his soft warm bed and getting ready to eat pancakes at this time in the morning.

He and Ford were on the porch of The Mystery Shack when Soos rushed them off to the hospital the yesterday afternoon. What he originally thought would be a couple of hours of waiting turned into almost twelve. Apparently labour can last a long time.

Stan wished he could be a witness for Soos and Melody like he was when Dipper and Mabel were born, but Melody wanted her privacy, which Stan could respect, but Soos wanted him there…..so he and Ford waited in this bright, annoyingly pastel waiting room, twiddling his thumbs awaiting the arrival of the new member of the mystery family. He was glad he was in at least comfortable clothes, some gray sweatpants and a sweater Mabel knitted for him that read “godfather”.

He was never clear on what the title entailed, but it was mentioned a few times by Soos’ grandmother and the kids insisted that Soos was intending to ask him. He hadn’t, but he didn’t protest Stan wearing the sweater. Whatever job godfathers had, he was willing to play the part if Soos were to ask him.

Stan looked at the double doors a few feet away that lead out of the waiting room and into the halls. His brother left to find something for them to eat, but was taking his sweet time. The turkey being basted on the television was no help in aiding his growling stomach.

He distracted himself by returning his thoughts to Soos and Melody. Just down the hall they were experiencing the strange and beautiful phenomenon that was witnessing the arrival of a brand new person. Stan remembered the feeling so clearly. His entire life he’s felt the presence of human beings. It’s inherent in most people to feel when someone is in the room with you, the other soul sharing the same space as you. Imagine being in a room with a set amount of people and someone else comes in, but imagine they came in without using a doorway. Just appearing seemingly out of thin air. Suddenly another person is with you, and they’re brand new to the world, a life full of potential and power. Yes, today is indeed a happy day, but no amount of positive thinking would ease Stan’s nerves. His foot began to bounce and his hands unconsciously began to fiddle with each other. He didn’t want to think anything would go wrong with Soos’ baby, but anything can happen and life is so fragile, especially at the start of it.

He recalled his nephew’s nervousness the day Dipper and Mabel were born. His hands were shaking and he was constantly checking on his wife and asking the doctors loads of questions. He didn’t fully understand the twins’ father’s behavior until the end of that day.

Mabel’s birth was swift and easy. Her mother only needed to push one and a half times before she was here. It was as if she was eager to meet everyone waiting for her. She cried like most babies do, but Stan could’ve sworn they were tears of joy. While Mabel was greeted with, “hello, beautiful”, “hi, sweetie” and “she’s perfect”, Her brother’s introduction to world started with, “what’s wrong?”, “wait, let me hold him”, and “he’s not moving”. Dipper was rushed out of the room before his mother got a chance to look at him. Stan managed to catch a glimpse of the horrifyingly blue tint on his great nephew’s tiny face. The memory still gave him chills. He remembered how much he wanted to hold Mabel, who began to fuss and cry, obviously missing her brother. He was terrified at the prospect of another incomplete set of twins in their family. After the longest 30 minute of his life, Stan’s great-nephew returned with a bright pink face, wailing with all the power his little lungs could produce. Once the twins were reunited in their mother’s arms, they settled down almost instantly. The doctors told their parents Dipper was significantly lighter in weight than his sister, but both were very strong and healthy. Every so often Stan thinks about Dipper and how much he has impacted his life. His thoughts lead to darker places and he questions if Ford would be here if Dipper wasn’t there to find the third journal. He shook his head as a cold shiver went up his spine.

Stan did his best to distract himself from revisiting the scare that Dipper caused him 16 years ago.

16 years…..17 in August

Stan blinked. The squishy, bright faces that stayed with him that first summer had changed significantly. They stayed in contact all year round and visited every summer since they were 12. But every in-person meeting was always a shock. Dipper was developing the square jaw Stan, both his brothers and nephew shared. He started to regularly wear glasses their second summer with the Stans. Poor kid will grow up looking like Filbrick like the rest of the Pines men. He reminded Stan of Ford at that age.

And Mabel…..

Stan will never get over how much she looks like his mother. It didn’t strike him until Soos and Melody’s wedding and she put her hair in a bun. She’s calmed her hyperactivity down a bit, but not by a lot, she still brightens his day with her wit and creativity. They’ve both matured physically, but not much has changed personality wise and they still acted like big children when they’re around each other. Stan loved them very much, and wished he could see them more often. He wondered what the future held for all of them. Would they still visit town after going to college? Would they move here? Or somewhere else?

He’s had several conversations with them to see how they’re managing the prospect of separating. They’re much better at communicating than he and Ford were and they seem actually excited to have some independence. It made Stan nervous, but he was sure their close relationship wouldn’t suffer.

Wendy chose to be elsewhere for the next few years. She and her friends booked a plane ticket and plan to backpack and hitchhike around Europe and the UK. Stan hopes they stay safe and watch out for each other. Lotta weirdos in Amsterdam. She was set to leave in the coming days, Wendy wanted to wait until today arrived so she could meet Soos and Melody’s kid before going away for who knows how long.

A tap on the shoulder woke Stan from his deep thoughts. His brother arrived with some warm sub sandwiches and coffee.

“Any word yet?, he asked Stan

“Nothin’ yet”, Stan felt helpless not having any clue how Soos and Melody were doing.

Stanford took his seat next to Stanley and they both silently enjoyed their late breakfast. Since arriving they’ve witnessed families reuniting and going past the door in the far corner to meet their children, grandchildren or siblings. Stan looked at the clock again. How has it only been another 5 minutes? He sighed, leaned back and finished the rest of his sub. One hand holding the sandwich, the other went back to gripping the arm rest, then a six fingered hand went down to rest on top of it. Stan let go of the armrest and tangled his fingers between Ford’s and held onto it with a, hopefully not too tight, grip. It was like an anchor to reality, much better at easing his anxieties than any words could. Over the past 4 years, Stan and Ford’s bond grew stronger. Stan still feared one day he would wake up and find himself still in that basement surrounded by broken machinery and languages he didn’t understand. He hasn’t yet, and was enjoying the time he had left with his twin. Stan took a moment to look at his brother again, Ford made eye contact and smiled then continued to read his book. Hands still intertwined

Stans thoughts went back to Soos…

It amazed Stan how much he had grown and it still baffled him that Soos idolized him as much as he does. Before Soos, Stan had no one. His brother was….gone, the rest of the family didn’t talk to him much outside of the holidays and special occasion. There hadn’t been any sense of consistency in Stan’s life for years, decades even, until he hired the chubby little kid he barely glanced at one random Saturday. Soos always arrived to work early, sometimes with breakfast for both of them. Stan didn’t know how much he needed a reliable companion until he had it and he enjoyed the 10 years he had with that kid… or man he should say. Here he was…a few rooms away, becoming a father.

Stan used to daydream a lot about the prospect of having kids when he was younger. He’s was always good with them when he had the chance to babysit his nephew, then later Dipper and Mabel when they were toddlers. He loved having kids in his house that first summer. He loved the energy and the sense of adventure the twins brought. They gave him a sense of purpose and belonging he hadn’t felt in years. He wished he was brave enough to have his own children. Not that he was ever with anyone long enough to want to have kids with him. He supposed it was for the best that he didn’t subject a child to homelessness or an unhappy marriage. He was also terrified at the idea. His dad used to say having kids ruined his life. He wondered who his father was before his older brother was born. Did they really ruin his life? Stan often wondered if he would be like his own dad if he has children of his own. Would he change and become that annoyed parent that resenting his children?

He thought about Soos again

That was probably the closest to parenthood he ever experienced. The first time he felt like one was when Soos asked him for homework help after closing. He initially told Soos no, he wasn’t exactly smart and didn’t think he would be any help. It apparently upset the kid, so Stan sighed and gave it a try. It was fairly simple middle school math, he didn’t remember everything, but helped Soos do more than half of it. Soos thanked him and went home happy. Stan felt weirdly proud, he was glad he made a small difference and managed to teach Soos something he didn’t even know he knew.

The second time was when Soos was a teenager. His grandmother wasn’t able to teach Soos to drive, since she had forgotten how and her late husband used to do the driving, she mostly walked everywhere. Soos offered to work for free so Stan could teach him. Stan loved driving and found teaching Soos cathartic. He was a fast and eager learner, he only bumped Stan’s car once while trying to figure out parallel parking. Little did Soos know that he was getting paid for his normal work hours. Stan just put it away long enough to help buy the kid some old used truck in the junkyard for getting his license. They fixed the truck up and in only a few weeks it was ready to be on the road. Soos has taken good care of it and it’s still his ride to this day

Stan was very proud of Soos. He taught the kid some basic self defense and managed to be a decent influence in his life. Soos at least has his priorities straight.

Stan was even glad to see that Soos was willing to question him. When the portal was reaching the final countdown, he didn’t hesitate to protect the kids from him when he thought Stan was dangerous. He didn’t know, none of them did, so he didn’t blame Soos for distrusting him. He hoped he never had to betray him again. They both had crappy dads, and Stan knew how Soos saw him. Stan was never really sure if he reciprocated those feelings. It felt natural to act the part, but to put a label as important as “dad” on Stan was daunting. Soos definitely deserves better than what he was given, Stan wasn’t sure if he was it.

Stan looked up at the familiar voices running towards him from the double doors.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!” Mabel waved to them

The two teenagers and Wendy walked in holding a balloon and various toys. They took some seats across from the Stans and asked how everyone was doing and if the baby arrived yet.

“Not yet, hopefully soon” Ford answered

Stan relaxed and silently enjoyed his family’s company. He laid his head back and leaned slightly on Ford to rest for a minute. His eyes shut as he listened to the kids joke around and talk amongst themselves. He squeezed Ford’s hand one more time before drifting off.

He knew he should’ve tried sleeping earlier, he wasn’t out for more than 15 minutes when Soos came into the waiting room. Stan’s eyes shot open and he was on his feet faster than he did when he was being chased by angry costumers as a door to door salesman. Soos’ red eyes sagged and he seemed exhausted, but carried a proud, wide smile across his face. He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

“It’s a boy”, he squeaked, “mom and baby are okay”

Dipper and Mabel were first to start the hugs, and the room filled with cheers of congratulations and love. Stan felt light as a feather giving Soos a hug and joking about child labor.

“Can we see him?”, Mabel bounced with anticipation

“Yeah, dudes!”, Soos gestured everyone past the corner door and into the suite. “But only for a little while, Melody has to sleep”

The room was small, dimly lit and warm. The Pines crew collectively lowered their voices as Melody came into view on the bedding holding a bundle of blankets decorated with small yellow ducklings. She was leaned back on a large pillow, covered in blankets and toted a soft smile on her face. Soos stroked her hair and picked up his little son to show to the Pines’. The younger twins got a look at him first,

Mabel squealed and cooed at the tiny infant. Then Wendy, who said hi to the baby and told Soos she’d make sure to send him gifts while she was away

“What’s his name?”, Mabel asked Melody

“I named him after my dad”, Melody replied, “Jacob”. She smiled sadly at the memory of the father she lost the year before.

Soos approached the Stans, Ford smiled and complimented the couple on a having such beautiful little boy, but shot Soos a look, who silently replied with another one. Something was up.

Finally Stan got a look at baby Jacob. “Wow” Stan smiled, patting Soos’ arm. “He looks exactly like you”

Soos laughed, “really? I think he looks like Melody”, there was a short silence before Soos spoke up again.

“Do you want to hold him, Mr Pines?”

Stan looked at Soos and smiled, “heh, sure”. He held his arms out. Soos lowered his arms to pass the baby to Stan, who scrunched his face up and started to fuss. Stan took the infant and managed to hold him with one arm. He bounced and shushed little Jacob until he calmed down. “Heya kid”, He’s held babies dozens of times, but something felt different about this one. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Stan felt an almost magnetic pull towards him. Jacob settled comfortably against Stan and continued his rest. Stan softly beamed at the tiny person in his arms.

“Hey, Stan?”

Stan lifted an eyebrow and looked at Soos, who was fidgeting with his hands and nervously smiling.

“Uh..”, he paused, taking in the sight of Stan holding his child. “You know about my dad”, Soos looked at Ford again, who shrugged and nodded. Stan studied Ford’s face, who’s eyes strayed away as he hid a small smile. Soos got his attention again.

“You uh…he wasn’t…”, Soos choked up, his voice strained a bit, “I met you when I was probably the loneliest I ever was in my entire life”. Stan pictured the little boy he hired on the spot, he didn’t remember him until Soos showed up at his door step the next day ready to work. He didn’t know how much that quick, thoughtless decision would change his life.

Soos perked up and walked across the room to a table and picked up the piece of paper sitting on it. Soos glanced at it, then at Stan and smiled, gaining some emotional strength it seemed.

“You mean a lot me”, Soos, “you were there when I really needed it, you gave me a job, taught me just about everything I know. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that”

Stan got a bit nervous, Was this him asking to be the godfather?Everyone was silent and curiously watching. Soos held his hand out and handed the paper to Stan. He adjusted his arm to properly hold Jacob in his arm and took it. Stan flipped the page and noticed it was the baby’s birth certificate. Stan eyes bounced off the page and read the various information: birthdate, weight, parents, but he froze when he read the full name. Stan’s wide eyes questioningly studied Soos’ face.

“Are you…”, Stan felt his own throat tightening, crap. Come on, not in front of everyone “really?”, he asked. Soos gave a genuine nod and sniffed.

“I uh” Soos cleared his throat, “I was wondering, since Jacob doesn’t have one…if you wanted to be…. his grandpa?

There it was

Stan felt dizzy and took a small step back before remembering who was in his hands and regained his balance. Ford came to his side and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Stan decide not to look at his brother and chose to stare forward, then his eyes went back to Soos, who look deflated. Oh man. Stan was terrified, he didn’t want to say no and hurt Soos, but if he said yes….he wasn’t sure what made him so nervous. The entire concept sounded so alien to him, like he didn’t deserve the title. He always considered Soos, Melody and their son a part of his family. But to bare a title like “grandpa”, had to mean he had children that that children. That he was already a parent without his knowledge. It all felt so natural to want to lean into this and become part of this family like Soos wanted.

He heard something make a noise from beneath himself. Stan looked down at little Jacob, who was mid yawn. The baby’s mouth grew wide opens and inhaled, scrunching up his face and suddenly shut. Suddenly two tiny eyes opened for just a few seconds, enough time for Stan to make eye contact before Jacob shut them and got comfortable again

Everything was different now.

Stan didn’t notice how quiet the room had gotten nor the tears forming in his eyes. Stunned by beauty and overcome with pride and a sense of purpose. The pride he felt teaching Soos math, how to drive and attending his graduation all combined just looking at the perfect being in his arms. If he said yes, he would want everything that came with it. Stan lifted the birth certificate up to read the name again.

Jacob Stanley Ramirez

“Y-Yes”, he heard a shaken voice say, almost not realizing it was his own “of course”. He looked at Soos, tears in his eyes and a bright smile on his face. He still wasn’t sure if he deserved this, but Stan wanted it. He wanted it all. Why not indulge just this once? He gave the certificate to Ford and used his now free hand to pull Soos into a hug. Gently sandwiching his…..grandson in between him……and his son.

[sammyloomis]

random hobbies i think the ud kids have

hannah - she buys and repaints those weird dolls with the articulated joints. beth has 100% been scared shitless after turning a corner and walking into hannah wearing giant fkn magnifying glasses carrying a half painted doll head, and it’d explain why the washingtons have a doll house in the basement thats full of what looks like high end designer dolls fghjk

beth - bug taxidermy. i used to have this hc for hannah but i think it fits beth more tbh, i just feel like all the washington sibs have vaguly unnerving hobbies bein horror kids n all :’]. she made a butterfly display for hannah one birthday and its one of hannahs fave things in the world. on a related note, she’s the go-to sibling for getting spiders out of rooms

josh - goes to thrift stores and buys unmarked vhs tapes and just spends hours upon hours watching them in the hopes of finding some Weird Bullshit... tho its mostly old soap operas and ads from the 90s. the weirdest thing he’s found so far is what looks like a home made porno that halfway thru gets taped over with an episode of star trek. he was very disappointed. its what a good 60% of his shelves are made up of amidst the collectors edition blu rays

sam - sammy..... ohhh sammy sammy sammy what to do with you. sams the kind of person who, as well as being the mom friend, makes exercising her whole personality and i Love that for her so so much. as a fandom i think we’ve kinda agreed sam rock climbs recreationally, but i think we can extend that to Most physical activity. shes never Not moving or on a hike or doing yoga or at the gym and when she Isn’t doing those things shes either asleep, studying, working, or at a party following everyone around with water bottles.

ashley - once i read a fic where they mentioned ashley drawing with charcoal and its truly never left my mind since. she has them all over her room, taped to her door, over at friends houses where shes just started sketching and Left it there. for someone who hates horror and scary things, they’re always Super Fucking Creepy cause she bases them off her nightmares n anxieties. her hands always have black soot all over them and her rings leave little white spots when she takes them off

chris - paints and collects figures, everything from warhammer to gundams to ships in bottles, if its to scale hes gonna want it. its kinda hard for him cause hes got those big sausage fingers but he manages. has whole shelves full of the things and paints dnd figures if u ask him nicely. also owns a pair of those magnifying glasses that hannah has for her dolls and he looks like the epitome of nerdism when his mum comes in with snacks for him and he looks up from painting a fkn orc in his barely lit bedroom with those things on

jessica - collects bottle caps, she just has a whole drawer full of the things. shes been doing it since she was a kid and wants to find Some way to display them one day but not any time soon, has a surprising amount of variety considering she almost exclusively drinks diet coke. she also steals everyone elses before they throw them out and it’s not just everyones habit to hand jess their bottle caps when they open a drink, and she just makes grabby hands at them until they do

emily - emily has bigggg collage energy. but like, rly artistic and fancy shit?? like she goes to thrift stores to find stacks of old magazines and newspapers and art books and fashion catalogues and has whole scrapbooks full of her creative ideas. semi related, but i think shes Big into designing her own clothes and uses said collages as a way to kinda blurt her ideas onto paper in a more fun way. NOBODY but jess has seen these btw, they are Very Secret and Embarrassing

matt - BAKING!! matt loves baking so much i swear to GOD this boy knows how to make a killer tray of brownies. whatever his family dont eat he ends up taking to whatever party and/or gathering everyone else is at because he just makes so much stuff it’ll go to waster otherwise (and having a friend group where half of them are stoners defo helps)

mike - hes always struck me as a mechanic kinda guy?? like he used to hang out in the garage when he was a kid and watch his dad fix the family car and hand him the tools. it translated into him always wanting to tinker with something, tho he usually breaks it. had those “build ur own lamp” kits as a kid

[k00265221]

Radius Project - My Work

For this project we chose St John's Cathedral and the area that surrounds it within a walking distance radius.

First of all I walked around the cathedral and got a feel of the place. The place was so serene, colourful and bright with beautiful stone work, sculptures, stained glass and romanesque/gothic style architectural features. I took 50+ photos as I gathered my primary sources as I walked inside around the cathedral and on the streets just outside it.

I began with drawing aspects of the interior of the Cathedral that I felt captured the welcoming atmosphere. I did a life drawing of the statue of Mary. Her gesture and the soft finishing of the marble stone resonated with me and made me feel welcome in the church.

I then looked at the exterior of the church as I walked out. I focused on the cathedrals entrance as this is what ultimately welcomes the public and tourists in. The highly decorated exterior has captivating capitals, beautiful windows and doors and carefully arranged stone work that grabs the tourists attention.

For my next drawing I wanted to change my focus from the shadows to the highlights so that I could captivate the spiritual light that radiates throughout the church. To do this I used white pencil on A3 black paper to achieve the juxtaposition I wanted

After I studied the cathedral I wanted to move on to other buildings within a close radius that were equally as welcoming to the public as the church. I chose St. John's hospital as it too was run by the church that served the public.

After doing a small watercolor painting study i wanted to increase my scale. For this drawing I wanted to go BIGGER THAN EVER BEFORE. This was the largest drawing I ever did and it was the first time that I did a drawing away from a normal desk. I hung it up on the wall and began to draw using charcoal sticks and I later added a touch of colour with chalk pastels. The scale of the drawing ment that I couldn't make it as detailed as my other drawings. This made me anxious. I was so used to only doing detailed drawing. Whilst this still has many details, in my opinion it is more rough than my usual pieces. I was used a restricted palette - blue, green, brown and white for highlights. I chose "earth colours" as I wanted to emphasis the universality of the church and hospital - it welcomes in everyone from all over the world.

Whist doing that drawing I was approached by a lecturer who encouraged me to make my project "jump out of the page". So I began a 3D piece.

This was my first cardboard 3D piece, in fact it was the first time I ever used cardboard as a media. I learned how to properly cut and bend single wall (double face) cardboard. I also learned how to cut the cardboard in a more effective and environmentally friendly way by reducing my waste. I recycled my scrapes and used them as reinforcement at the back of the piece so it is free standing. The Columb is clearly rectangular but I also began a slight curve at the top to indicate the direction of the arch.

This project taught me so much about the New Road area. However ,most importantly I grew as an artist for these reasons

It encouraged to scale up my drawings beyond the A1 size

It forced me (in a positive way) to not focus on doing just detailed drawings like I was taught to do in secondary school during the Leaving Cert.

It was the first time that I did an art project with a group - I saw new styles, and got an immeasurable amount of inspiration

I used new media's and have a newly found love for making art out of things that I would have considered as "not art supplies" (cardboard piece)

It made me go out of my comfort zone

[k00285549]

Task 2: Animation processes

Our next task for this week is to research three different approaches to creating animation. I will refer to my favorite animation ,and then three more I researched and found interesting as part of this task.

Favorite :Cartoon Saloon's Wolfwalkers(2020) 2D

Cartoon saloons works are by far to me some of the best 2D animated works i have seen for awhile, from their colorful hand drawn/painted background to the integration of Irish design and folklore into the actual processes. Their style is unique and is commonly referenced to the style found in Irish manuscripts (big eyes connected to the nose and brow+ triscles +spirals +Celtic jewelry +much more references).Their style is animated with such a flow that it pulled me in when i first watched Book Of Kells 2009 and has since heightened in quality

----------

I have also found other styles of animation I found to be intriguing:

1.PAINT OF GLASS ANIMATION:

The pain of glass techniques where the artist modifies the wet medium being pain either oil or gouache on a smoothed surface taking a photograph with each modification made while pushing the medium. Although very time consuming(and time I do not have )I feel this animation type being both the electives together for me. Combining design and fine art into something I think I would love to work on if I had the time ->'The Old Man And The Sea' Directory and Animator :Aleksandr Petrov 1999

2.ERASORE ANIMATION

This style of animation uses white paper, a pencil or charcoal and an eraser.2D based images are manipulated over time by drawing erasing and drawing the next frame similar to stop motion. I feel like this animation type would be hard to concentrate with as there is only black and white also considering there is only one layer to work on it would be hard for me to concentrate on the next frame->'Mine' by William Kentridge 1991

Finally...

3.ROTOSOPE ANIMATION

This style of animation is when a video is used from real actors or fils which will be transformed into animation by drawing each frame of movement from the video. This created a realistic uncanny affect and allows the animator to make scenes easier like crowds whilst also adding their own interpretation onto the rotoscope. I feel this style of animation would help me make the bustling ghost crowd in my animation concept for this elective BUT I would struggle actually getting video footage of that many people.->'Loving Vincent'2017

[bookwyrminspiration]

free space for you to talk about literally anything you want! rant about something?? write out a thought that you haven’t had the time to translate into words?? post the song lyrics or poetry you scribbled on the back of a paper?? idk just whatever you want. you’re cool :)

Oh oh this is perfect!! Also thank you, being cool is such a lovely descriptor!! Anyway, all the searching through my camera roll for pet photos recently has taken me back very far

Far enough that I ended up seeing some of my old photos of art from an intro level art class I took back in spring 2021, and looking at it I went…this is kinda good! But the only person whose ever seen it is that professor, so I’ve been considering sharing some!! And now you’ve given me the perfect opportunity!!!

i haven't included any of the reference photos I used for the art, but if you'd want to see them I can share them as well. Moving forward, I’ll put everything under a cut to save space :)

(all IDs are in alt text)

Okay so this one's a negative space drawing of some plants! Fun fact the one on the far left is an onion that had sprouted because we hadn't eaten in in time, because at the time I didn't have a third houseplant I could use for the reference and I needed 3

This one is a line weight drawing of a glass jar filled with water, a wyvern figurine, and an ornament! The ornament shows up a lot because it was required

This was just some notebooks, cloth, an ornament, a jar, and a piece of folded paper. A random arrangement drawn in charcoal but I think it looks nice. the cloth in the back is actually a pillowcase because that's what I had on hand:

And then this is another random arrangement of things, but this time drawing with white on black paper instead of the other way around! And it's got a twilight book in it so :) very me

then this one was done on a scratchboard! essentially I used an exacto knife to scratch away the black and reveal the white to draw this owl:

this isn't everything I drew in that class, as some of it is mundane line exercises and such, and some of it just didn't turn out in a way I'm proud of.

like my final. ugh. the requirements for that one fucked me over because she wanted us to have a certain number of things in the piece, but in doing so I was just cramming things into the composition. The sketch was cool! But the inking...not so much. I might still have the sketch if you're interested

but yeah!! these are some of my realism art pieces/studies from that one art class I took to fill a credit over a year ago. that class actually turned out to be my most difficult and stressful one that semester due to executive dysfunction, but I learned a few helpful tricks :)

thank you for the opportunity to share them, Nonsie! I miss doing art more often, so I can't wait to explore it again when the wings au is finished

hope you enjoyed! i will now be taking compliments about how cool and awesome and talented I am (that's a joke you don't need to do that)