#i originally put more images on top of this but it just looked muddy so this is the end result

[acidrain39]

happy valentines day😻😻😻 have a fake blingee as a treat

[achaotichuman]

Recently I delved into the depths of my docs to find the first fanfiction I wrote for ACOTAR that never saw the light of day.

Obviously it's horrible writing, but I like the premise and since I am addicted to piling more projects on top of my scheldule I rewrote the first chapter and redid the plot for it.

Originally these events take place a year or two after the war with Hybern, and everything is the exact same EXCEPT for somethin Tamlin is doing.

I changed it so that this is a fic of what would have happened if Tamlin didn't give over that drop of power to bring Rhysand back.

Anyway, here's there rewritten chapter. Tell me if you guys like it!

“Be happy Feyre.”

The words nearly tumbled out of his mouth. The carefully loving words that wrapped like ivy around his throat, choking him, those last cords of love that had twisted into something else. That had made him soft for her. He had offered his heart like ripe fruit on a silver platter for her to take and now look at where he stood. 

Bloodied, gore and guts clinging to his armour like a second layer of skin, mud caked on his legs and arms. Hair a mess, dirty and disgusting. His people, his armies, whom he had gone to his knees to earn the trust of them back, after she twisted their minds, undid their memories, stared in every personal thought to create a new story for all of them. One that fit her narrative. 

The damage she had caused, the things she had taken. What she had done, what she had cost not just them but all of Pryhtian. Destroying the Courts she had saved not even a year ago. 

Now, on her knees, holding the man who had assaulted her night after night after night whilst she vomited, cried and danced and laughed, and been drugged. She screamed his name whilst she cling to his lifeless form. 

The good for nothing bastard Lord was finally dead. Tamlin should have breathed a sigh of relief. 

Instead every High Lord stood around awkwardly, as one after the other they had willingly handed over their magic despite what this man had done to them. Despite how much they all hated him. They did it for his grief-stricken mate who screamed for them to help. To bring him back the same way she had come back. 

But he was dead for what he had done. Giving over power to remake the Cauldron, the mother had taken his very soul with the magic, the price paid to put the world back together. 

Truly, who were they to defy her?

Tamlin stood up straight, when Feyre stared up at him, eyes filled with tears as she saw his stone-cold face. 

“Please,” She screamed, “Please I’ll do anything!”

Green eyes cut from her to the other Lords. None made eye-contact with him. All looking elsewhere, anywhere, the grey-red clouds above, the torn battlefield layered with bodies on decaying bodies, the rivers running red with blood. Some of them, no doubt reminded of Amarantha’s reign of terror by the bloodshed, looked to the muddy ground. 

But none dared look in his eye, all knew what she had done to him. Her reasons for doing so. They also all knew what he had done to her. 

But staring down at her now, thinking back on all of it. 

Thinking back on the slander of Court, the destruction of his people. The lying, the scheming, the pure hatred. 

Then there was one final thought that struck true. 

What would they have all done if it had been him dead on the floor and not Rhysand?

The image of his bloodied mother, his dead brothers, even as cruel as they were, flashed before his eyes. 

“No.” He said. Standing tall and true, “I will not hand over my magic.”

“You fucking monster!” A girl with gold streaked blonde hair lunged at him from out of nowhere. Morrigan. 

She didn’t get far, from where she was knees deep in the mud. A flash of gold and a short-sudden scream from her. She was pinned to the floor with golden threads. Not painful, but certainly startling, and no doubt humiliating. 

Tamlin couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Feyre stared up at him. Her wet blue eyes boring into his own with a deep-cut grief that would have broken him just a few weeks ago. 

Now. 

Now all he felt was mild pity, and a distant sadness, for the girl who had been killed under the mountain and never brought back. 

“Who's to say the real Rhysand would even return?” Tamlin said, voice mockingly kind, “When the first time we brought a human back, she was not the same at all?”

Feyre’s saddened eyes turned wrathful, her beautiful face twisting into a deadly scowl. All that hatred, focused solely on him. 

“You were what led me to my death! And now you refuse to even help him!” She screamed, the pain and grief tearing through her, along with the emptiness of where her mating bond used to be no doubt fueling her rage. 

“You led yourself to your death as did he.” Tamlin said, perfectly calm and stoic. She wouldn’t get a rise out of him. Not anymore. 

Tamlin looked to the others, “Think about all that male has done to us. Think of what his mate has brought down upon our lands. And maybe rethink tossing your magic carelessly at whatever dead corpse lays before you.”

“He is not a corpse!” Feyre shrieked. Her cries and screams becoming distant. Vague. As weariness bore heavy on him. For the mortal, the living, unfortunately exhaustion was a natural occurrence. 

Tamlin’s eyes went down to Rhysand. Least he’ll never be exhausted again. 

The thought was cruel, and maybe he was a horrible man for feeling relief. Staring into that lifeless face, knowing he was dead forever. Gone. Bound to never bring him misfortune again. 

“You are a heartless male.” A seething voice said somewhere near him. Tamlin looked towards where a limping Illyrian with blue siphons hissed, looking like he wanted to tear the High Lord to shreds but his own limitations and injuries prevented it. 

A cold, humourless smile broke out on his face. The Spring Lord looked down upon Feyre. 

“Give him your own magic.” He said, tilting his head, “Why don’t you hand over those drops of power you claim to make yourself so, so powerful?”

She was silent, as tears continued to stream down her face, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Oh right, you can’t.”

He would leave after this and never see her face again, he hoped, but he didn’t bite his tongue to prevent the final blow, “Our magic is the only thing holding you together. You claim yourself so powerful. Above the rest of us entirely. The self-proclaimed High Lady of the Night Court, equal to the most powerful in all the Earth. But you really aren’t. You need our magic to survive.”

Tamlin looked back at Rhysand, and didn’t hide the relief on his face, “You can’t bring him back without us.”

The Nightmare was gone. Now all that was left was the cleanup. 

Feyre screamed, whether it was an insult, her hatred or simply incoherent, he didn’t know. He winnowed away. Back to Spring. 

It was time for a cleanup. 

And he had plans to make things right in his Court. In Prythian in its entirety. 

***

I probably will not continue this fic since I have so much I need to write already, but I think its fun to go back and reflect on my old ideas and rewrite to compare to how my form was before and how it is now.

[subzeroparade]

(long post ahead sorryyyyyy)

Some process shots at the request of @lizteaart :)

(sorry in advance - I was not struck with any impulse for originality, so you get these two posh mfs looking dumb and pretty.) 

This is not meant to be a guide by any means, just a glimpse at how I (generally) build up paint and then colour correct. I work the same way unless I’m trying to achieve a particular style for practice or effect (like this piece, in which I strictly followed lineart and hated every second of it; or the Byrgenwerth portraits, done completely in greyscale and coloured with custom gradient maps). 

I work in Clip Studio because there’s something about the colour blending that feels extra buttery, but I used to work in Photoshop; all of this applies cross-software anyway. 

Step 1: lineart. If I’m not working stylistically for clean lineart, I leave it pretty loose. I almost always change things around while I’m colouring. I have about 3-4 rounds of progressive lineart until I’m happy (in a loose watercolour brush).

Step 2: I will have the lineart on multiply so I can work under it for a while. I sometimes (but not always) block in some rough colour underneath just for extra texture and in case I need to clip to layer later. I also put down a tentative palette (skin in this case) just so I can have a range for the colour dropper. I add and subtract from the palette while I work - but it also prevents things from getting too muddy, which can happen if you’re exclusively selecting colours from inside the work itself. 

Step 3: (sorry, the screenshot is super small here) I do a VERY rough blocking in of colour just to see if things make sense (and so I don’t have to change my mind so much later). These are clipped to the colour-block layer from the previous image to save time. Sometimes I duplicate these layers and play around in modes to increase saturation, contrast, etc. Here I left them as is cause I’m going for a colouring style that’s a little more subtle. 

Step 4 ad infinitum: refining. Here I’m starting with the skin and hair, since the focus of my work is always the character’s face. I try to work in a way that’s non-destructive: every time I establish a baseline of good build-up, I create a new layer and work on top of that. That way, if I over-render or muck something up, I can just delete that layer, and the previous state will still exist. In this work, I deleted at least one layer of rendering from both their faces, because at some point I felt like I’d over-rendered or lost some nice texture or good shape definition. But I still had whatever acceptable state saved beneath. I merge them as I go so they don’t get to be too many.

I’m trying to build a pretty smooth surface of skin here, which is a new thing for me, since I used to render with heavier, more textured brushes. Here I’m using about 3 different watercolour brushes. I work soft-hard-soft-hard: softening and blending, adding hard edges, and then going again until it looks somewhat convincing. I try to colour select as much pure colour from the palette so it doesn’t get too muddy, and I also like injecting some unexpected colour here and there, especially in shadows, like cyans, for a little more life. 

Step 5: By now, I’ve started layering above the lineart. I only do this when I feel the facial structures are solid enough that I don’t need it anymore. But the lineart layers are still there, beneath, if I ever need to go back to it as a guide. 

I also add a very low opacity gradient map at this step, for little more interesting saturation, and continue to work above it. I go back and forth between skin and hair so I don’t spend too much time on one thing, and give my brain a break to come back and notice things I would otherwise glaze over. I try not to over-render and still leave lots of evidence of painterly gesture. 

Closeup of the hair from base to almost-rendered. I add a sharpen filter to the hair often to get parts of it a little visually crispier. 

Step 6: the exact same thing but with fabric/armour/whatever. I mix my watercolour brushes with bulkier, meatier brushes for textile, since I can’t be arsed to render clothes with the same care as I do skin. These are the types I use (folks can DM/anon if they want the brush names, I have a million different sets and use maybe…ten). 

The chalice midway through render. 

At this stage I will let it sit for a while longer. Whether it’s done is debatable and usually up to personal preference - you can render till kingdom come if you want something more realistic, but you might lose some lovely, sensitive evidence of gesture or interesting accidents. I also highly encourage playing with gradient maps if that’s something of stylistic interest. A good gradient map can do a bunch of things - change the whole temperature of a piece, push back certain details and pull others forward, etc (example here - this particular gradient didn’t suit what I was looking for, but it still manages to be visually interesting). 

I usually come back and nitpick a few things before moving it into Photoshop where I’ll do colour management - another gradient map, fixing saturation/vibrancy, selective colour, etc - and anything structural that I may need liquify for. Then I’ll sharpen it one more time, slap a noise gradient on it if it feels like it needs some extra texture, and try not to hate it right after saving it LOL. 

(I'll probably come back to this a few more times before posting something that feels more "finished").

Sorry for the long post - and hope this was helpful (•‿•)

[feeling-grubby]

Homestuck Headcanons

I have decided to collect all my homestuck headcanons and also color preferences to show others in one post. I don't fully expect anyone to read it nor care for that matter. I just want to ramble and get my ideas out.

To start things off I'll start with a normal looking troll. But for now we are putting the troll in the center and will be looking at the color bubbles and color bar. The colors on the left are the canon colors in homestuck and on the right are the colors I prefer to use. If you notice, the colors I use are not the actual colors, there you go. They aren't mutants or anything, it is just a color preference due to the canon ones being dull and muddy.

Now moving our focus back to the troll, you will see that I also put the canon colors to the left and the colors I use on the right. This will be a consistent thing throughout the images so you can see the differences of my colors and homestuck/hiveswap.

You should also take note that I have grouped the darker versions of colors together, the middle tones together, and the light colors I use together to help show off my head canons more effectively.

Outside of blood color I do have other color preferences you will notice some of the more notable ones being horns, hair, skin, and eyes.

With horns I like the lighter colors I use, but also have the headcanon, as you will see later on, that trolls can have darker or lighter horns. It is like genetic variation in coloration if that makes sense. Where some trolls will have more saturated horns, while others have more pale looking horns.

As for hair, I do not like using pitch black but I still like using a black color, though I also have a headcanon of trolls having a lighter black than the one I use as well as white being another color that trolls can naturally have.

I have four colors I tend to use for skin and three types of yellows for eyes. I just like having a larger arsenal for color.

With that we come to a close about the basic troll colors that will be used amongst any trolls I will make. So, we can now direct ourselves to more specific groups of trolls without being too lost in the sauce to know what's going on.

Now moving away from the land dwellers and basic troll color palette to sea dwellers.

I think everyone at this point does not stick to the original design for fins and has split off from the canon on that front. For me personally I like to stay a little close to canon on that front and not go buck wild.

I do like to give the fins on the side of the head some color by making the membranes match whatever blood color the troll is, while keeping the ray of the fins gray to some notable degree.

Another idea I really like but haven't been able to use due to not having any sea dwellers is that the deeper a sea dweller is the paler they become (also possibly even more monstrous and giant) as for the pale-yellow eyes and white eyebrow that is more so to show the paler variants I mentioned before. If I was to make a new violet blood troll, I would most likely give them bright yellow eyes to contrast the pale skin more.

Finally, I have some headcanons exclusive to honeybloods(goldbloods.) and some headcanons in general for trolls that I just put on the gold blood base.

The general headcanon is trolls having weird insectoid ears and it isn't too much of an issue that gets a lot of fuss out of people. It is like how cobalt's have more than one pair of eyes or more pupils than normal. Because the trolls do seem to be a very insectoid race. The real issue comes when they have more lusus like ears and you're treated more like a freak.

My headcanon exclusively for gold bloods involves their psyonics. I think it would be really cool if really powerful gold bloods with excessive amounts of energy sometimes glow when they are unable to release it. Like their cheeks or freckles will glow when they have a lot of energy stored up. I think of it like how when a stove top glows red when it's hot due to having a lot of heat and when it's not red you know that there is no heat and will not harm you. So, this makes finding possible batteries easier though there are probably some tricks to hide the glowing or discretely release their psychic powers.

So now you know all about my troll headcanon's and how I have and will continue to design my characters. In addition, I will be adding the templets I made if anyone wants to re-blog this and share with me their preferences and troll headcanon's. I will be very excited if that does occur!

[madxmellon]

Well... here’s a project I’ve been procrastinating on for precisely one year. I’ll update links when I get the entire comic out :)

I’ve made some *slight* edits to pacing, and had to cut some text/dialogue from the original chapter so I could execute the flow a little bit better.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Image description beneath the cut

The first panel depicts a war camp, with tents propped up against a dark sky and light rain. There’s a soldier to the left, holding a spear, and a smoking fire to the right. At the end of a muddy path is a tent, that faintly glows from inside itself. There is a speech bubble coming from this tent reading: “And... you, messenger boy, grab your friend and get some spears. Gor, put them in front.” 

The second panel is more zoomed in, and we can see more clearly that there appear to be four figures within the tent, their silhouettes visible from outside. Another speech bubble comes from the tent, this time from the opposite side reading: “In front? You certain, Varth?”

In the third panel, we are as close as we have been yet, and the tents entrance has been opened to reveal an older Alethi man, his skin a tan brown with dark black hair. He wears a grey chest plate over a dark maroon shirt, along with a teal skirt and dark greenish brown cloak. Behind him is a lantern filled with glowing spheres. As he opens the tents entrance, he says: “You work with what you have...”

The fourth panel, in the top left of the composition features an interior view of the tent, over Varth’s shoulder. The lantern continues to glow, illuminating Kaladin, who is seating slightly behind the tent’s entrance. He wears simple leather and padded armor, with a blue undershirt. His hair reaches to about his shoulders, and is wavy and black, and covers the sas nahn glyph on his forehead. His nose is long and slightly broad, his lips full and his eyes thin as he appears to squint in thought. His skin is brown and he appears slightly confused as he stares towards the ground. Above him, extending into the fifth panel, are the same words Varth just said, italicized: “Work with what you have...”

The fifth panel, placed to the right of the fourth, zooms in on Kaladin’s face, which suddenly looks slightly surprised and forlorn, his eyebrows pinched upwards above his nose, and his eyes are widened slightly in shock. 

The sixth panel shows a younger Kaladin without his brands among a group of faceless shoulders, their bodies pressed in around him as he reaches forwards. They all wear similar armor as Kaladin, although in different shades of maroon and green. Present in the composition are the words “He knew where he was. How had he not seen it immediately?” and “Kaladin had been here. Rushing through these lines,”

The seventh panel depicts a field of enemy soldiers, wearing slightly different sets of armor over light yellow undershirts. They fight upwards on a hill, troops from Kaladin’s division facing them off from the right. In the middle is a lone figure, young with a tan skirt and a spear clutched towards his hands: Tien. The words “Searching for...” appear in the bottom left of the composition.

The eighth panel brings us closer to Tien, and we see he has lowered the spear slightly as his eyes appear to focus on something past our right shoulder, widening in recognition, his fear seeming to lessen slightly as the rain continues to fall around him. His face is rounder than Kaladin’s, although his eyes are similarly slanted, and his hair wavy and black although it is kept much shorter. Around his neck is a sort of yellow bandana, tied underneath his chin. The words “searching for” appear again, this time italicized to the left of Tien’s face.

The ninth and final panel depicts a stormy sky, rain coming down slightly harder than it had in previous panels, a large pyre in the distance giving off smoke that mixes with black clouds in the sky. Across the ground are shadows that appear to be fallen soldiers, and in front of us in the center of the composition, with his back turned to us, is Kaladin. We cannot tell if he is older or younger, and he kneels over a small body, the shoes are visibly the same ones Tien had been wearing two panels ago. 

[wahbegan]

The Black Phone Review

So, since there isn’t much in the way of an actual review of the movie in The Black Phone tag, primarily because it’s full of....ahem....other things, I thought I’d give writing one a spin, since I do that sometimes.

So far, i honestly have no idea if the Stephen King curse of having 95% of all adaptations of his work suck shit is hereditary or not. Joseph Hillstrom King, better known as Joe Hill (whose pen name is apparently because he doesn’t want to live in his father’s shadow, but honestly i think it’s because he doesn’t want to go by Joe King because it sounds like a fake name the fucking Joker would make up), only has four adaptations to his name, present company excluded. So far. The Locke and Key Netflix series, the NOS4A2 AMC series, and the films In the Tall Grass and Horns. And In the Tall Grass was co-written with Stephen King, so it’s more like three and a half.

Now I’ve never seen the tv shows because i haven’t read Locke and Key and because NOS4A2 is by far and away my favorite of Joe Hill’s novels, and i almost know for a fact that it would disappoint me because of the love i have for that book and the image of it built in my head. But they both got good reviews. Not STELLAR, but good.

In the Tall Grass was received about as well as any other adaptation Stephen King gets his filthy mitts on, and Horns was pretty much considered mediocre. Just...fine, i guess.

So we’re in this limbo here with Joe Hill adaptations, which is a shame, because by and large, i actually (HERESY ALERT) tend to like his work better than his father’s. None of his movie adaptations have been just hilariously fucking awful like a lot of Stephen’s, but none of them have really been fucking solid gold diamond-studded hallmarks of cinema like the select few of Stephen’s, either.

So it’s a bit odd to me that Scott Derickson picked The Black Phone to adapt. I mean Hill only has four novels to his name, the rest being comics and short stories, and someone already has the rights to The Fireman, while Heart-Shaped Box languishes in development Hell for idk 15 years, so it’s understandable he’d go for a short story.

But still, The Black Phone is a very simple story, about ten pages long, with all of the action confined to a brief kidnapping scene and one room. Certainly an ambitious thing to try to tackle, but i was worried about how much expanding on the story the movie was going to have to do.

I was then further worried by the trailers, because whoever edited them honestly needs to be taken out back and shot. Those despicable fucking trailers that just take you beat-by-beat through the movie, first of all, and also edited lines of dialogue to, inexplicably, make them sound much less natural and much more expository and heavy-handed than they actually were.

Also, you may remember Scott Derickson as the lad who did Sinister. Ohh, now it makes sense why he’d pick this movie, he fucking loves mixing true crime with dead kids jump scaring his audience. And I was worried it would be too much like Sinister, where the truly fucking harrowing part of that movie (the snuff films) ended up taking a backseat to his love of dead kids running about and over-the-top goofy looking villains.

Again, this wasn’t helped by the trailers, which put the dead kids and the killer’s mask (not present in the original story, in which he was just some fat, gross-looking guy) front and center, including a group shot of all the dead kids blocking the road that Derickson pretty much copy/pasted from Sinister.

But this is Joe Hill, i thought, and i actually have a girl to take to see it, and it’s getting good reviews, so what the hell.

So does it do it? Does The Black Phone finally make a Joe Hill adaptation that is as extremely good or extremely bad as one of his dad’s?

Well.....no. Not...really. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of movie that is so good it’s going to be culturally revered or anything.

This is all just my expectations, though. Which muddied things a lot. My advice? Just don’t watch the trailers at all, and don’t think of Sinister or the legacy of Stephen King when you watch it. And for the sweet love of merciful Christ, don’t think of what lurks in The Black Phone tag on tumblr. Take it as its own thing.

Because as its own thing, it’s a very fucking good movie. 

Everything Sinister did wrong, The Black Phone does right. The supernatural elements are actually used fairly lightly, and almost all the horror in the movie comes from how fucked up the all-too-familiar true crime situation is. A boy stops to help a seemingly clumsy, friendly doofus who took a pratfall and spilled his magician’s act all over the pavement. The next thing he knows, he’s got wasp spray in his eyes and is being bundled into a van. And this isn’t the first time. 

Those kidnappings serve the same purpose the snuff films in Sinister did, but are a lot less in-your-face and just let you simmer in the implications.

Even Ethan Hawke’s masked child-killer, The Grabber, doesn’t appear very often. It’s the tension. The mystery of what, exactly, he does to kids between kidnapping and murdering them. The horrible but very nicely restrained descriptions of some, but not all, of the atrocities committed on his victims. The heavy implication, but refusal to outright confirm that he’s a pedophile. The agonizingly long shots of his victim trying to escape his basement dungeon, knowing that he could appear at any moment.

This wouldn’t work as well if The Grabber wasn’t acted superbly, but he really is. Ethan Hawke is fucking terrifying, which is not an adjective I would have ever used for him before, but he really is. He plays The Grabber with this....softness is the wrong word, but at least a front of it. A disquieting and jarring childishness in some scenes, a clear immaturity. Whether he’s just stunted emotionally or putting on a front for his victim’s sake isn’t clear, but either way it gets under your skin.

Especially because they never tell you anything about this guy. Not even his name. There’s no backstory of abuse, no rounds with his therapist, no diary, nothing. All we have to go on is Ethan Hawke’s excellent performance and tiny scraps of implication. It makes his behavior and mood swings harder to predict in a very refreshing way. 

Like most abusers, he wasn’t angry the majority of the time. Wasn’t outwardly threatening. Even his weird Devil mask, while ostentatious, seems to be less of a fright mask and more of his own bizarre, childish way of expressing his mood and persona at the time. He swaps it out between a completely mouthless version when speaking to the protagonist just after the kidnapping, a sickening grin when he dotes on his victim and brings him food, and an exaggerated, pouty frown when he waits at the top of the stairs, shirtless, holding a belt, just waiting for him to try to escape.

I know a lot of people think that image is hot. Let me be clear, it is probably the single scariest fucking shot of the movie. I just couldn’t stop thinking of some incredibly damaged, sick motherfucker imitating what he saw as a kid. Making a vaudeville horror show out of child abuse. 

Yes, this is one of the most effective horror movie killers in recent history.

But there’s so much more to the movie than that! The protagonist and his sister are also both played fucking stunningly, both being given a LOT of VERY heavy material to work with. Abuse, bullying, the kidnapping that forms the crux of the movie, and they nail it. The sister’s hysterical screams and sobs as their father beats her while the brother watches, angry out of his mind but paralyzed with fear is....

Jesus.

This movie is very gritty, by the way. Not in an over-the-top, in-your-face way, just a...an air of detached realism. It’s set in the late ‘70s, but instead of the nostalgic sheen recent media puts over everything from that fucking era, it’s portrayed in a very naturalistic way. There’s some lovely use of 8mm film, the lighting and costuming department did a very good job capturing the look of the era, and most importantly, childhood in the ‘70s, when beating your kids was still pretty normalized, missing faces got printed on milk cartons, and stranger danger was at its peak. 

It’s not glamorized at all, is me point. 

BUT it’s also not all doom and gloom. The kids are the main stars of this movie, and they do an amazing job at not just being victim, but being survivors and rising above the bullshit they go through. The protagonist’s little sister in particular is an incredible character, given some of the best lines in the movie.

And over the titular Black Phone...the dead children are played as scary a bit. Thrice, in fact. There are three jump scares, one of which made a woman in my theater scream. But for the most part, they’re not played for horror. They’re played for a surprisingly meditative melancholy. They’re played for just fucking sadness at the young lives cut brutally short, whatever innocence they had lost.

And by the end, they’re played for a sense of camaraderie in darkness that really fucking tugs at your heartstrings. I was not expecting this movie to be as emotional as it was. 

So in the end, The Black Phone is gripping, tense as fuck, psychological, pretty fucking harrowing, depressing and cathartic all at the same time. The direction and art are quite nice, and i don’t have many problems with it.

James Ransome’s character is a little weird, sticks out just a mite, buuuutt that can be forgiven. It is also very Stephen King-y, with absolutely psychotic bullies and an abusive alcoholic father, although his abuse and alcoholism are both contextualized in a bizarrely grounded way.

Finally, yeah, just a content warning, in case you haven’t already picked it up. As I said, there are no explicit mentions of or depictions of pedophilia  but it is heavily implied. No kids are shown being murdered, but they do talk about it, and they do get the shit kicked out of them both by other kids and by their parents. I mean violence against children is the principal theme of this movie so, while it ultimately ends on a pretty uplifting note, i’d still avoid it if you’re squeamish about that sort of thing.

But will it be remembered alongside The Shining or The Shawshank Redemption? Or even the recent IT movies? Fuck no, but i would venture a guess and say it’s definitely the best Joe Hill adaptation to date

[cal-kestis]

If I Could Never Give You Peace

(Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Gif by @pedropcl​ [original gifset]

Summary: Two years after resigning from the DEA, Javi finds himself in Los Angeles, haunted by glares of gunshots and blood-stained hands. He’d succumbed to the idea that he’d never have peace — doesn’t deserve it after everything he did in Colombia. Then, she moves in next door and maybe, he thinks, things could be different. “I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.” Word Count: 4,357 A/N: A Reader-insert one-shot with a nameless female reader. No “Y/N” or "you," but the reader can be anyone. Inspired heavily by Taylor Swift’s “Peace.” How many TS references can you find? Lol. Tags: Fluff, Angst (with a happy ending), Mentions of death (but no one dies, I promise), Alcohol, Cigarettes

[Read on AO3]

The rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me... All these people think love’s for show, but I would die for you in secret... Would it be enough, if I could never give you peace? — Taylor Swift, Peace —

When Javier Peña handed in his DEA badge and gun two years ago, he knew he couldn’t stay in Texas. Not forever.

Texas held too many familiar faces, old friends calling him a hero when he felt like a villain. It held too many ties to an old version of himself he’d rather not remember… muddied images of him with a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise. No, he couldn’t stay. Not even for his father.

So, Javier Peña and the unwelcomed overcast of his nightmares found a one-bedroom apartment in sunny Los Angeles.

In time, he realized he needed the city: constant motion, endless traffic, and hoards of busy people who would never remember his face. He could blend in. He could be alone.

He could have a clean slate.

But each night, glares of gunshots flashed behind his eyelids and invisible bloodstains marred his calloused palms as if to remind him:

He could never have peace.

Then, she moved in next door.

The first time he saw her, he only caught a glimpse. She and her boyfriend, he assumed, held towering stacks of brown boxes in front of their faces — sweating as they lugged the dusty weight into the empty space.

For a moment, he considered offering some neighborly help but decided against it — When have you ever cared about being a good neighbor, Javi? — closing himself in his quiet apartment with a glass of whiskey.

The second time he saw her, she came knocking on his door the next night.

“Hi, neighbor,” she smiled brilliantly. And for a split second, he swore he felt something foreign flutter in his stomach, but dismissed it as the after-effects of spoiled dinner. “I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself.”

He could not take his eyes off her. His gaze stayed glued to a small bead of sweat trailing a slow path down from her hairline, where she’d pulled it back with a makeshift scarf-headband. The droplet slipped down her cheekbone, over a smudge of dust that had settled in from her moving boxes. It drifted down the curve of her jaw, dipping into the slope of her neck until finally hiding away below her tank top. And by some miracle, she only needed to repeat her name for him once before he came out of the trance.

“Sorry.” He gulped, removing the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Javier.”

He extended his hand and she met him halfway. Soft. So soft.

“Good to meet you, Javier.” She smiled again. Flutter. “I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, she swiftly turned on her heel to walk the few steps back to her door, bare feet strutting off, flaunting her daisy dukes, and — God help him, he’s a man and she’s beautiful — he stared.

The nail in the coffin?

When she opened her door and gave him one last smile over her shoulder, she winked.

No, he could never have peace.

—

After that, he hardly ever sees her.

Part of him feels relieved, unduly wary of the strange flutter he’d feel just thinking of her name. The other part, the traitorously curious part, dreams of catching another glimpse of her glistening skin or a quarter note of her honeyed voice. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he finds himself often wondering if her boyfriend gets to enjoy her sun rays and melodies. Lucky bastard.

He blames his roaming thoughts on the fact that it’s… been a while.

This is what you wanted, he’d remind himself when he’d wake to an empty bed — a stark contrast to his time in Colombia. This is the way things should be.

Just when he starts to believe those words, he finds her crumpled on the floor in front of her apartment — the contents of her purse strewn across the hardwood beside her, palms pressed firmly against her eyes. One tiny sniffle and a tremble of her shoulders, and he melts into a puddle beneath her muddy sneakers.

“Hey,” he whispers tentatively, voice raspy with cigarette smoke.

She jolts at the sound, immediately wiping her face with her sleeves and plastering on a saccharine smile.

“Javier,” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on the vowels. “Sorry, I was just— rough day. And to top it off, I think I left my keys inside. I tried Jerry but no luck.”

“Jerry’s a shit landlord,” he sighs, earning a nod from her. He takes out an old, faded receipt from his pocket and kneels in front of her, finding a pen amongst her spilled belongings. “Try this number. He’s usually fast. Can get you back in your apartment tonight.”

He hands her the scribbled receipt and she takes it with a real smile, albeit small. “Thank you, Javier.”

He nods, a tiny dimple forming in one tanned cheek, before getting up to unlock his apartment. The door clicks but he stands there for a moment longer, listening to her waning sniffles as she throws her things back into her bag. His eyes screw shut tightly, a silent war waging behind his forehead, his fingertips feebly trying to rub it away.

He sighs long and heavy when he realizes which part of him has won.

“Would you... like to come inside my place while you wait?” He mutters, mainly to the floorboards. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Okay.” Her smile is warm like the sun, despite the cloud of tears still glazed over her eyes. “But you don’t strike me as a cream and sugar kind of guy.”

“No,” he admits with an amused smirk. “But I’ve got some old whiskey, older milk, and a phone you can use, toll-free.”

“Thanks, Javier,” she sniffles. “Coffee sounds nice. But hold the booze and tainted milk.”

And that’s how she ends up in his apartment, sitting at his small dining table, slowly sipping from his coffee mug, using his landline to call the locksmith.

Maybe it’s the caffeine or the three (stolen) pink packets of sugar she found in her purse (“It’s not stealing. Diners offer dozens of them in cute little boxes, I mean practically gift-wrapped, and I modestly accepted three.”), but coffee gets her talking the way alcohol coaxes even the darkest secrets from iron-barred lips. She just broke up with her boyfriend. Or he broke up with her — found some younger, hotter-than-her aspiring actress in Hollywood and left her in the dust of the boxes she’d just unpacked.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “You’ve been so nice. Really, Neighbor of the Year,” she laughs, but he thinks it sounds off. He wants to hear the real thing. “And here I am, taking up your space, drinking your coffee, and dumping all my problems on the table. Tell me if I’m talking too much, Javier. I tend to—”

“Javi,” he says, furrowing his brows as if mildly stunned by the two syllables he just spoke. She looks confused. “You can... call me Javi, for short. And I don’t mind listening.”

“Javi,” she tests the name on her tongue, smiles. His stomach flutters. “A good name for a good guy.”

The argument dies on his tongue the minute he thinks it, even though she’s horribly, terribly wrong.

Sometimes you gotta do bad things to catch bad people.

If she knew...

“I should be out of your hair in 20 minutes anyway,” she says, breaking him out of his dark reverie. “Locksmith’s on his way.”

When she finally gets back into her own apartment, Javi jostles her doorknob, double-checks the lock, and knocks on wood for good measure.

“Find your keys?”

“Got ‘em!” She chirps, jingling her lost keys. “I’m gonna have to memorize that number.”

“I’m next door, too, if you ever need anything.”

“Me too. I can lend you some sugar for your sad-man, bitter coffee,” she jokes. “Thanks again, Javi.”

He sends her a tight-lipped smile and a short nod, a familiar weight settling in his chest as he turns back to his lonely apartment.

“Would you like to come in for dinner?” She asks, quiet and suddenly timid. “I’m no chef, but I’ve never made a spaghetti I couldn’t tolerate.”

He opens his mouth to refuse but she beats him to the punch. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me out. Please?”

And it’s the way she asks that gets him. The way “please” seems to fall from her lips like an unanswered prayer. He wonders, maybe she’s just as lonely as him.

So, he walks into her apartment, she smiles, and his stomach flips.

—

Months pass by with this new routine. He joins her for dinner at least once a week, if their schedules allow. If not at the local diner where she infamously loots sugar, it’s usually at her place. For one thing, although it’s usually pasta, she tends to have more appetizing (read: edible) groceries stocked up than him. But if he’s being honest, something about her apartment just feels more like… a home.

Framed smiles of her and her loved ones line the walls. With each visit, he finds himself studying a new one, imagining the story behind each snapshot. (He noticed after their first dinner, she’d thrown out the photos of her ex, replacing them with Polaroids of the city.) Piles of pillows stack up neatly on her couch, vibrant hues and patterns decorating the space. He adores the soft waves of music always floating around her space. She plays a different record each time, but somehow, each one compliments the sweet tones of her voice perfectly.

Her place feels brighter than his too, and he’s not sure if it’s the east-facing windows or if it’s just her.

Soon, he doesn’t need to decode the photos on the walls anymore. She tells him more than she’s told anyone before — about her hometown, her family, what she studied in college, her travels, her favorite books, her irrational fears, her dreams.

He tells her considerably less, especially when it comes to his time in Colombia.

For now, she doesn’t mind. She likes the way he watches her when she talks — brown eyes soft and warm, brows pinched together as he takes in each word, the ghost of a grin tugging at one corner of his lips when she gestures dramatically.

He realizes, one night after dinner, he comes home smiling now. And he thinks the nightmares have started dwindling, ever since that first dinner.

Maybe, he lets himself imagine. Things could be different.

—

He calls for you over and over, shouting until his throat burns and the echo of his frantic voice pounds in his ears.  

“Where are you?” He screams.  

The narrow hallway is dark, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He crushes his body into the hard wall, arms sliding roughly against cold brick as he tries to keep himself concealed. The gun in his hand feels icy and impossibly heavy, and his arms tremble as they lift the weapon higher, rounding the corner.

“Llegas tarde, Peña,” a deep, gravelly voice sneers. “You’re too late.”

“Tómame!” Javier yells. “Tómame en su lugar.”

“You would die for her?” The voice chuckles. “Llegas tarde.”

The voice’s shadow moves, revealing a smaller shadow crumpled on the floor — lifeless.

“Javier! Javier!” A distant voice chants, accusing him. Boom! Blaming him. Boom!

“Javier!” Boom!

The pounding sound wakes him up with a jolt, and his sweat-slicked chest rapidly rises and falls as he reaches for the gun inside his bedside table.

Slowly, Javier creeps to the front door where the loud pounding started. But when he peers into the peephole, he only finds her — looking as tired and distressed as he feels. A wave of relief floods through his overheated body.

She’s wrapped up in a blanket, a worried look wrinkling her forehead.

He puts his gun down in a drawer and lets her in.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Almost 4 in the morning.”

“What’s wrong?” He demands, suddenly worried about why she’d be waking him this early.

“You tell me,” she says, frown lines still etched by her eyes — mirroring his own tired marks. “I heard you yelling. I was worried, Javi.”

“It was...” he starts, squinting as the images flash in his mind again. “Just a dream.”

It only takes one glance into his eyes for her to reach out to him, pulling him in by his neck until he nuzzles into hers.

He breathes her in, holds her like he’s not sure she’s real, like she might be gone tomorrow. “It was just a dream,” he echoes, but he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

“It was just a dream,” she repeats after him.

She pulls him by his hand toward his couch, sitting down before patting the space beside her. And just this once, he allows himself to let his head rest in her lap, lets her drape her fuzzy blanket over him, lets her soft fingers draw slow circles in his hair, lets her lull him to sleep with mumbled whispers he can’t quite make out, and lets her ward off the lurking darkness like a nightlight.

He’s asleep before he can hear the quiet secret that spills from her lips.

“I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.”

She comes over to his apartment more frequently after that. Whether to bring him dinner or just sit on his couch in comfortable silence, she doesn’t like to leave him alone.

And maybe, she’d rather not be alone either.

—

He doesn’t remember how she convinced him, but here he is... sitting at a crowded bar drinking water, watching his tipsy neighbor bouncing alone on the small dance floor.

Every so often, some cocky drunk comes up to put his hands on her waist and tries to dance with her, but she plasters on a faux smile and shakes her head at them, muttering something while nodding in Javier’s direction. Each time, they sulk away and he chuckles.

Finally, she bounces over to him, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Dance with me, Javi. Please,” she draws out the word, an octave higher than normal.

And despite himself, he follows her voice like a sailor enthralled by a siren’s song.

She puts her arms around his neck, swaying her body against his. And then she shouts over the music, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

And the heart on his sleeve falls straight to the floor, clanging loudly in his ears like metal.

‘Friends’ is more than you deserve, he reminds himself.

But then she continues, resting her head against his chest, her index finger coming up to tap a tantalizingly slow beat over his collarbone. “Good friends,” she sighs, lifting her gaze until her chin digs into his heart, her lips just inches from his. “Really… good… friends.”

She’s kissing him before he can even process the feeling. And despite his better judgment, he lets her. She’s everything warm and soft and good, with just a hint of alcohol — and he’s what you get when you turn those words upside down, jumble the letters, and crumple the paper into a jagged ball. But he craves the way her curves somehow fit perfectly against his cold, shattered edges. And he knows he shouldn’t.

So, when he feels her tongue trace along the seam of his mouth, he gently pulls away, hands rubbing soothing circles on her shoulders.

“You’ve had too much to drink, cariño,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” she whispers, smiling with half-lidded eyes, drawing her finger across his mustache then below his ever-pouting lip.

She’s passed out in his car by the time they’re back home. When he unlocks her apartment door for her, she stays latched onto his arm as he turns to leave.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“I—”

“Please?” She asks, in that way he knows he can’t fight. “I don’t want to be alone.”

And just like that, the door closes behind him and he stays.

He finds her an oversized shirt to change into, helps her wipe the smudged mascara off her face, and holds her until the sun rises.

When she wakes, the space beside her is empty but warm and indented, the shape of his body lingering in the sheets. A full glass of water, ibuprofen, and the phantom taste of Javi’s lips are the only other traces of her really… good... friend.

—

He’s not avoiding her… per se. But it’s a long, lonely week later when he sees her again, on an uncharacteristically rainy Sunday outside their apartment building.

“I just got home,” she blurts after standing there dumbfounded for a good minute. She nods to the soaked brown paper bags in her arms. “Groceries. Uh, obviously. Were you...?”

“Forgot my umbrella,” he answers.

“Same,” she chuckles awkwardly, droplets hanging on her lashes and the ends of her hair, only partially covered by her hood. “Obviously.”

“Here, let me help you.” He takes the bags from her, keeping the door open with his foot as he waits for her to head inside.

“Thanks, Javi-er.”

He follows her upstairs silently, his wet, squeaking shoes punctuating each slow and heavy step.

“I can—”

“Let me just—”

They fumble and dance around each other in her doorway as he sets her bags in her apartment. And, as if to torture herself, she decides to stand under her door frame when he leaves to grab his umbrella, waiting the longest minute of her life for him with a forced smile.

He waves his umbrella at her after locking his door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.”

He nods and walks back down the stairs.

“Javier, wait.”

He pauses, his back still facing her, drenched shoes balanced on two different steps.

“Can we talk?” She hates the way her voice sounds when she asks, tinny and trembling. Clearing her throat, she clarifies, “About what happened... at the bar?”

He sighs, screwing his eyes shut tight and rubbing his forehead.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, low and barely audible as the rain starts picking up outside. And he walks away.

She’s stunned still, watching as his figure shrinks with each step he takes away from her. He’s already out of the building by the time frustration fuels her feet to follow him into the rain.

“Like hell there’s nothing to talk about,” she yells over the downpour, hair quickly sticking flat to her face. “Javi, we kissed!”

“You were drunk,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear, still walking.

“I wasn’t drunk,” she argues to his back, remembering with perfect clarity exactly how his lips felt on hers. “Just a bit braver. Javi, stop! Look at me. Please.”

And like clockwork, he turns slowly but doesn’t move any closer.

So, she closes the distance to stand beside him under his umbrella, taking in his features without the obscurity of rain.

“What are you running from?” She wonders, reaching for his fidgeting hand. “I would never hurt you. I—”

The line between his brows looks deeper than usual, as if they’d been stuck in that pinched position for weeks. Shadows lay in rings beneath his eyes, accompanied by smaller lines that carry untold stories she hopes he’ll entrust her with someday. His mouth is parted just slightly, as if to say something he knows could change everything.

And it does.

“I have to go.”

Her hands are empty and wet when he leaves. And the rain buries his parting words into the pavement.

I don’t want to hurt you.

—

She doesn’t hear from him for two weeks. Doesn’t even catch a glimpse of him.

The rain sticks around longer than usual for Los Angeles, making her apartment feel cold and gloomy. But maybe, it’s just missing him as much as she is.

Then, while she’s folding her laundry one night, she hears his door rattle and practically bolts to her own. He’s there. Keys in hand, rolling luggage in the other, hair tousled like he’s been pulling at it with his fingers. He looks at her when she opens her door, just for a beat too long, before hiding away in his apartment.

She sighs, closing her door in defeat.

But just as she starts getting ready for bed, she hears two knocks at her door, heart beating rapidly as she slowly makes her way to open it.

“Hi, neighbor,” he greets her softly, and the sound of his voice after so long without it nearly brings her to tears.

“Where did you go?” She asks. But she really means, Why did you leave?

“Texas,” he says. “I... needed to see my dad.” But he really means, I was scared.

“Oh.”

“Can I...” he mutters. “Can I come in please?”

She hesitates for only a second before stepping aside and he looks around like he hasn’t seen the inside of her apartment hundreds of times already.

He stops near her bedroom, where a new picture hangs proudly: a goofy, blurry photo of him stashing three pink packets of sugar in his shirt pocket.

“It’s the only photo you’ve let me take of you,” she says quietly, standing next to him with a wistful smile on her face. “I miss our diner dates.” But she really means, I miss you.

He doesn’t respond, just silently walks to her couch and sits, fingers rubbing circles into his forehead.

Minutes roll by slowly as she watches him from the other side of the room, battling with some invisible hand covering his mouth, holding on until the end to keep the words locked up.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispers, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of... back in Colombia. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell you. I think a part of me is still there, fighting some unwinnable war. Hell, even before Colombia, I—”

Muddied images of a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise flash in his mind.

“Fuck. I can’t shake it,” he says, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes, waving the invisible iron shackles on his wrists to show her. “Any of it. The nightmares...” He recalls her shadowy body and a dark, menacing voice. “They’ve followed me for years. I—” he looks at her, eyes darting across her face. “I could never give you peace.”

His head hangs low and a wayward curl brushes against his forehead. Despite how much space he takes up on her couch, he looks so small, defeated —  the weight of his past crushing him into this tiny, torn, crumpled-up piece of paper covered in red-inked, scratched-out sentences.

“Javi,” she whispers, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. So, she crosses the room and kneels in front of him, her palms reaching for his cheeks and lifting his gaze to hers. “Javi, who said anything about peace?”

The wrinkles deepen between his brows as he studies her, tries to understand what she means in the cloudy orbs of her eyes.

“The past is the past. We’ve all done things we can’t speak of. And sometimes at night, we live it all again. God knows I’m far from perfect. But I know you’re a good man, Javi. I see you,” she tells him, stroking the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs.

“I’m not—”

“Do you trust me?” She interrupts his argument. He stares at her, blinks, before nodding once.

“Then trust what I’m saying. You’re not perfect. But you’re good.”

His eyes close as soon as she sees water beginning to pool behind his lashes.

“I’m not asking for peace. As long as I get to be with you, it would be enough.”

And then his lips are crashing into hers, pulling her into his lap until he’s covered in her. The sound he makes when they touch is devastatingly beautiful, like she’s a balm soothing his freshest wounds and healing his oldest scars. It feels like his entire body has exhaled — lungs deflated, bones liquified, mind released from a decades-old straitjacket. If not for gravity, he could float from the way his stomach is fluttering. His shoulders lower and he sighs as if he’d been holding his breath for his entire life until this moment.

He’s drowning in her, submerged to the top of his head. But he can finally breathe.

“I’m sorry I ran,” he whispers into her skin. “I’m sorry I left, cariño,” he kisses just below her ear. “My dad said I was the biggest asshole on the planet for leaving. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry,” he licks the seam of her lips.

“Mi alma, you have no idea,” he sighs when she parts her lips for him. “How much I love you.”

And she captures the words on her tongue, kissing him with a ferocity that says, Yes, I do.

“Want to know a secret?” She gasps when his lips trail down her neck. Her voice is barely a whisper, as feather-light as her fingertip skating across his shoulder.

He hums, a soft, lazy smile stretching his lips wide, so wide.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” she says, staring into his deep brown eyes. “That I’ll ever love anyone more than I love you, Javi.”

Her finger stops, retracted to shield herself after such a heavy confession. His eyes blink slowly, head lifting off the couch cushion.

He doesn’t say a word. He only stares at her, the softest smile on his face — his edges blurring into gentle curves in front of her very eyes.

“You’re it for me,” she finalizes.

And then they’re crashing into each other again and again and again.

End Notes: Look, it’s been almost 10 years since I sat in a Spanish class and watching Narcos only restored 3% of my limited vocabulary. Here’s what I got from Google Translate: “Llegas tarde.” = You’re too late. “Tómame!/ Tómame en su lugar.” = Take me!/ Take me instead. “Cariño” = Darling, honey “Mi alma” = My soul P.S. Please let me know if I missed any tags/triggers!

[minmocat]

POST MORTEM: the one with the parfait

this is something ive never done before so bear with me LOL

after i finish a drawing that i put a lot of time/energy into, i like to get into the habit of taking a step back and dissecting it. it’s good to think about what you just did and how you can do better next time. figured it might be interesting to write out some of my thoughts and send em out because i need to be KNOWN (and also it’s cool to have documentation)

let’s roll

so this started out as a pencil sketch of a parfait i did a couple weeks back. i rediscovered it on my bedroom floor yesterday night and went to work. part of the reason why i wanted to go with it is because i fuckin suck at drawing food. one thing that ive tried a few times and have always failed miserably at is the little swirls you get with whipped cream and icing. These little freaks. i dont know why but i cant wrap my head around the structure of it

overall i think i did fine - better than i have in the past - but its not as good as i wish it was, so i’ll have to try again in the future. i think part of it is the separation of light/shadow - it looks muddy because everything’s blended together too much, and you lose some of the definition in the ridges of the cream

ok let’s backtrack. here’s the sketch

originally there was only one glaceon. the probelm here is that the bottom half of the picture is too empty! this was also originally gonna be a melon parfait until i realized i would have to draw all of those melon slices up at the top

lineart’s boring let’s skip that. i added a second glaceon during this step though. worth noting that while i was drawing it in, i was going to make it face the other way. i decided not to do this. That was a mistake!!!

after doing the flats i realized that the bottom left was stupid empty. idk how to explain but having everything off to one side like this is almost anxiety inducing. looks like it’s going to tip over at any second. so back to the drawing board i went. imo the 3rd one didnt solve the problem completely, but it at least patched it up a bit

my last thought here is that i tried something new here: dithering in photoshop! it’s a large canvas, so it’s not super visible when the image gets shrunk down for the web. but at full size, it’s definitely noticeable

it wasn’t necessary, but i just love the look of dithering. ive seen other artists use it and it’s sooo cool looking to me. i’ll definitely be sure to play with it some more!

overall im pretty happy with this piece (as you can tell by me writing about it rofl). it took me 2 days in total, which is fucking insane for me (usually i try to get a piece down in a couple hours). my biggest regret is blending out the shadows so much, but i can just do better next time

anyways thats it. idk if this was interesting to anyone else but it’s out here now. thank u for reading mwah mwah

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Koopa Clown Car

Debut: Super Mario World

In today’s edition of “things from the Mario series that no one really questions because they’re used to it but are really quite weird when you think about it”... it’s the Clown Car! 

If I asked you what our frightening demon king Bowser here would use as a method of transportation, would you answer “a flying propeller capsule with a clown’s face on it”? Probably yes, because it’s so iconic! But why! What is it, even?

It’s called a car, but I think we can confidently say that's not the case (especially when Bowser has an ACTUAL car!) The wiki says it resembles a helicopter, and I suppose that is the closest thing there is, but that’s nothing like any helicopter I know! The propeller should be at the top, for one! 

And the clown face! Oh, the clown face! Without a clown’s icon red nose, mind you! Not just the one face, but a variety of expressions, with blinking eyes and all! Is this thing sentient, or rather, should I be concerned about that, when nearly all objects in the Mario world have faces? I dunno!

Do I sound outraged at all this? I’m really not! I actually quite like the Koopa Clown Car... it’s cute and silly! But Bowser sure looks awfully goofy sitting in there, all snug. Why, the only other thing that would be goofier, would be a hyper-realistic, muddy-textured Bowser in a Clown Car!

Yup, thanks Brawl. Remember when this was in The Subspace Emissary? That was weird!

But if Bowser looks silly using it, then surely it should go to someone else? A character, perhaps, who would fit the aesthetic of a funny flying machine that looks like a toy? Someone quite close to Bowser, even!

Ta-da! Enter the Junior Clown Car, Bowser Jr.’s new personal vehicle as of New Super Mario Bros. Wii! You can tell it’s different since the eyes are smaller, and it’s got more of a smirk than a grin. Besides it being completely adorable that he matches his dad, this little gadget quickly became a staple of Bowser Jr.’s character, appearing alongside him in nearly every game since!

Heck, this thing was so iconic, it even got him into Smash! I’ve seen people who violently dislike this, claiming that it's not “really Bowser Jr.”, or that he should use the paintbrush instead... And to that I say: phooey! They go together like bread and butter! It’s a lot more interesting for this spoiled little kid to pilot a childish mech equipped with all sorts of wacky gadgets! Not everything has to be a reference- sometimes things are just fun! 

The fact is, Bowser Jr. had something of an identity crisis after Sunshine, where they weren’t quite sure what to do with him. And the Koopa Clown Car was fairly underutilized, too... But they came together, and something beautiful blossomed! Shouldn’t we celebrate that? 

Look, it can even play tennis! With boxing gloves! How could you hate this? Do you hate fun? Do you hate folly? Do you hate joy and wonder, hm?

Of course, if you’re an avid Maker of Marios like myself, you likely associate the regular and Junior Clown Cars with Super Mario Maker, where they’re a brand spanking new object unlike anything else! They’re bouncy, you can put anything in there, and you can even ride them yourself! I don’t know why they did this! But it’s pretty great! Look at how HD this render is!

So was the Senior Clown Car (name pending) mostly retired after this? Quite the opposite, my inquisitive reader! It shows up in the very same game that introduced the JCC (acronym pending), in Bowser Jr.’s final boss fight! And here it is in New Super Mario Bros. 2, with all of the Koopalings trying to squeeze in there. How silly! Lemmy doesn't even get a seat!

So alls well that ends well, huh! This bizarre little orb of clownliness made its way into a series staple, and our lives are all better for it! Thank goodness clowns are unanimously loved by all, with no negative connotations in popular culture whatsoever! And thank goodness we’re still not done, because there’s MORE clown cars to talk about under the cut! This post is gonna kill me!

In a certain update for the aforementioned Mario Maker, the Clown Car gets a snazzy new paint job in the form of the Fire Koopa Clown Car (or the Fire Junior Clown Car, in this case)! It can spit out fireballs from its suspiciously puckered lips, letting you basically make shoot-em-up levels! Hot!

Speaking of Mario Maker, you can make the Clown Car do this face by playing as Link, and dropping a bomb while riding it. Uh... Great! Try it on your friends.

RemoCon Geta! Er... Clown. RemoCon Clown. In NSMBWii, Bowser Jr.’s second boss fight involves grabbing a Clown Car of your very own and duking it out in an electric arena! I LOVED this gimmick as a kid, and I’d replay the stage over and over just for this fight! So I guess Mario Maker kind of granted my wish, huh? On a different note, it’s very cute how “RemoCon” is a Japanese abbreviation for “Remote Controlled”. I think it’s more charming than just RC.

In Mario Kart DS, Bowser’s Hurricane kart has a Clown Car motif, but like, as an actual vehicle! Sorry it’s so low-poly. Mario Kart DS is just like that. 

Prefer the more klassic kind of klown? The Koopa Clown from Mario Kart 7 onwards has you covered! Yeah, it’s called that, despite arguably being MORE of a car than the original! That’s actually the Clown Car’s original Japanese name!

Say, that’s an awful lot of Koopalings. Don’t they get their own cars too?

Indeedaroo! Since all the Koopalings exist as alternate costumes for Bowser Jr. in Smash, they all get their very own Clown Cars! But they look a little off, with those cold dead eyes... according to the game’s Palutena’s Guidance, these are a mass-produced kind of Junior Clown Car, which I just love! Bowser Jr. gets preferential treatment for being Bowser’s son, while the Koopalings were... disowned, I guess. Isn’t it fun when Smash makes up new lore like that?

I don’t want to post all those images individually, so enjoy that screenshot of all of them from the wiki. It’s a lot nicer. You can look it up if you REALLY want to! 

And last but not least, it’s an actual clown car! Hey, at least it’s a real car this time!

Dang, that’s crazy. How do they all fit in there? Clowns are wild, man. 

[carewyncromwell]

Next Cinderella AU part ahoy!

Conical hats were actually considered very fashionable during the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. What’s fascinating, however, is how they evolved into two very distinct and oddly opposing styles of hat: the stereotypical “Pilgrim” hat and the pointed hat that witches are generally depicted wearing! Around the turn of the 17th century, the most stylish variation of black conical hat was called the capotain, which is a cone, but with a rounded top -- the hat McGonagall wears in that top sketch is one of these types of hats (her dress is based on this design, which also features a shorter version of the capotain). The hats were originally fashionable among both men and women, but over time, one group of women that was most associated with wearing them were Quakers, a branch of Christianity that broke away from the Church of England and advocated quite liberated views for the era, such as the abolition of slavery, women’s rights, and a refusal to involve themselves in war. They also passionately believed that one didn’t have to attend church in order to be close to God and that one could practice one’s faith out in the world by living and dressing modestly and being active in charity work. (To learn more about the history of how the conical hat evolved into our modern image of “the witch hat,” check out this awesome fashion history video on the subject.) As one can expect, Quakers and Quaker women in particular were not well-taken-to by a lot of European society, especially by the religious movement on the opposite site of the political scale in Britain, the uber-conservative, Bible-purist Puritans. Many of these same Puritan-types got very involved in hunting witches both in Europe and in the Americas (the Salem Witch Trials are a perfect example). But yes...if one looks up pictures of historical clothing for Puritan men and/or “the Pilgrims” (A.K.A. the group of Americans that colonized Plymouth, who were Puritans), they very often wore a variation of the capotain! Although it’s been theorized by historians that the capotains worn by Quaker women ended up being associated with sin and therefore witchcraft, similar hats were also worn by the men who persecuted them. The hats were worn by both sides -- victim and accuser -- and yet most of us today look at the capotain and immediately think “witch” exclusively. Talk about irony.

Greensleeves is often ascribed as being commissioned by King Henry VIII for his second wife, Anne Boleyn (even Six the Musical references this)...but it actually was written in the later half of the 16th century, when Anne’s daughter Elizabeth I was Queen. So yeah, that’s sadly just an old wives tale. But it is a lovely song! The melody for Greensleeves has been remarkably long-lasting, even being rewritten as multiple Christmas songs over the centuries, including the still popular What Child is This?, which was written in 1865.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn very quickly threw on her mother’s green-sleeved yellow dress and as many warm wool petticoats as she could before fetching her white horse from the palace stable. She rode up through the gate in exactly twenty-five minutes, to find Orion on his black mare waiting for her. Carewyn was ready to ask Orion if everything was all right, but almost as soon as they’d left the perimeter of the gate, Orion urged his horse into a fast gallop.

“Come, my lady,” he cried over his shoulder, “let us chase that horizon!”

Carewyn had to send her horse charging forward in its own gallop to catch up with him. They rode right through the market and then out of the capitol altogether -- they avoided the road that led toward the Cromwell estate, dashing eastward. They weaved in and out of the rolling snow-capped hills, riding beside and around each other. The freedom of riding alone was enough to bring some life back into Orion’s cheeks, and Carewyn despite herself soon found herself smiling.

When they came to a stop at the top of a hill close to the northern border, Orion looked out over the edge with a handsome, endless gleam in his eye, like that of a sailor looking out to sea. Carewyn once again prepared to ask Orion if he was all right...but once again, Orion dodged the question.

“Do you see that eagle, overhead?” asked Orion.

Carewyn looked up. She did -- it was a truly handsome golden eagle, gliding in a circle through the air over their heads.

“I’ve seen eagles just like that nearly every day, up and down the border,” said Orion. “Shall we see if we can ride fast enough to overtake it in flight? Could we take flight as birds do, without ever spreading wings?”

“Orion...”

Carewyn brought a hand gently down on his arm.

“I know there’s something wrong,” she whispered.

Orion looked at her, his expression losing most of its levity and becoming much blanker and more inscrutable again.

“I understand if you can’t tell me,” she insisted softly. Her blue eyes rested on her own hand on his arm rather than his face -- with the intense concern she felt, she didn’t dare expose them further by looking straight into his eyes. “And I truly don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Your secrets are your own, and I know you have a reason for them.”

Just as I have mine.

“I only...I can tell you’re running from something...maybe even the thing you’ve being running from, every time you’ve come to see me, all these weeks...and I don’t know what to do, to protect you from what you’re so afraid of. Please...tell me what I can do.”

Orion’s black eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face, rippling with many tiny flickers of emotion that were hard to properly identify -- pain? Affection? Anxiety? Evasiveness? Shame? Longing? Who knew?

At last the Prince of Florence brought a hand out to gingerly rest on top of Carewyn’s on his arm.

“Chase that eagle with me,” he said softly.

Carewyn looked up at Orion and then at the eagle overhead as it soared off toward the nearby woods. Then she gave him a small, sad smile and nodded.

“...All right.”

Dislodging herself from Orion, Carewyn steadied her grip on her horse’s reins and flicked them to make it gallop toward the woods.

“Well, come on, then!” she called over her shoulder with the strongest smile she could. “T’would be a shame if I out-rode you in a challenge you set yourself!”

Orion’s face broke out into a brighter, fond smile and he pursued her.

The two rode their horses down the hill and into the trees. Racing side by side, overtaking each other in their strides and then catching up again -- all while Orion smiled so fully and handsomely, and looked at her with such blazing midnight-black eyes -- was a joy that Carewyn had trouble putting into proper words. His expression was full of such silent, and yet unbridled joy -- free, in every sense of the word.

“You should be allowed to feel like that more often,” Orion’s words returned to her. “Free.”

You should be allowed to feel like that too, Orion, thought Carewyn. You deserve to feel this free all the time.

The two rode with speed until they’d finally lost sight of the beautiful golden eagle. Slowing their horses into a calmer trot, they then journeyed through the trees, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the chirping birds and the pools of sunlight scattered across the muddy, snow-dusted ground.

“I’ve never been out this far before,” Carewyn confessed, her almond-shaped blue eyes trailing over the interlaced branches overhead.

Orion looked at her out the side of his eye. “...This close to the border, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Carewyn caught a strange scent in the distance -- something vaguely like the fires she’d tend to back at the castle and the Cromwell estate.

“...Something’s burning...”

Orion nodded solemnly. “Bonfires. The Royaumanian and Florentine camps aren’t far from here.”

Carewyn looked at Orion, slightly startled. His gaze had wandered northward, but it was clear his mind was far from the trees his eyes were idly resting on.

“We’re near the war front?” asked Carewyn softly.

“Yes...” Orion glanced her out the side of his eye. “...Are you frightened?”

“No,” said Carewyn.

She looked through the trees in the direction Orion had been facing.

Jacob could be over there right now, she thought to herself. The idea of seeing her brother for the first time in nine years -- of hugging him again and seeing his relieved smile -- it made her feel like her heart was being squeezed.

Orion’s black eyes scanned her longing, but fearless face, before shifting back in the direction of the trees that obscured the path toward the war front.

“The scales are going to shift again, soon,” he whispered. He could feel Carewyn’s eyes on him again. “The two sides have constantly fought for dominance...lashing out ruthlessly and then retaliating, back and forth, until they’re forced to come to a stalemate, just to catch their breath. Then one lashes out again, and the precarious balance is thrown to the winds once more...”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with concern. “Orion...is something bad about to happen, out there?”

Orion closed his eyes. His father claimed he needed him, in order to lead the Florentine army in the two-pronged attack on Royaume...but it wasn’t unlikely that the King might make do and find someone else to fill that role...

“Hopefully not,” he said softly.

Carewyn reached out a hand and took hold of Orion’s wrist. Orion looked down at her hand and then up at her face -- she had trouble looking at him, but he could tell her eyes were rippling with concern. His heart felt like it was suddenly being harshly compressed, just to fit inside of his chest.

You wish to protect me from what I fear...but what I fear, I should wish to protect you from.

The King’s words returned to his mind.

“When you make mistakes, the people you cherish, that you want most desperately to protect, pay the price!”

But how could he hope to protect Carewyn from the War and the cost it would demand? How could he hope to stop it, when his own father unknowingly would be sabotaging his efforts for peace? How could he live with himself, if he had to chain himself to the War the way the King had -- to fight against the Royaumanians he’d met and broken bread with as equals?

Orion took several deep breaths before speaking again.

“...My father wishes me to join him, at the front,” he admitted lowly.

Carewyn looked up, startled. “...Your father’s in the army?”

“Yes,” said Orion. “He’s...a high-ranking officer. He expects that I will follow his example and lead our ranks into battle.”

Carewyn considered Orion for a moment. “...You don’t want to.”

Orion’s eyes darkened significantly. “...I don’t want to.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, he pressed on.

“My father believes that the War can only be ended through force -- that justice can be only brought about by utterly destroying our enemy. But...I cannot believe that. I grew up on the border between Florence and Royaume. The town I’m from is so close that one could hop easily from one to the other. It caused some tensions, yes...but it also made it so that at first meeting, or even third or fourth, you never knew what side of the divide a person was on. And so I found myself constantly thinking...what is it that truly separates us? Is it morality? Is it values? Humanity? And yet I don’t think either side can boast having any of those things exclusively. It instead all comes back to a mistake made fifty years ago -- a land dispute that ended more violently than it should have. So many people have died, all because of that...and because neither King has decided to be the better man and choose forgiveness over vengeance.”

Orion bowed his head, his eyes closing solemnly.

“...My father asked me to help him lead the army, in an upcoming attack on the enemy forces -- one that he believes could end the War once and for all. But...”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“...I couldn’t accept that burden...so I left.”

Carewyn didn’t respond. Orion scanned her face, trying to read her reaction, but it was proving difficult when she wouldn’t look at him.

Does she...disapprove? he couldn’t help but think. She did think he was Royaumanian -- she didn’t understand that he wanted to protect her brother, not prevent him from returning home...but how could he explain that to her, without...?

“I know that the War could end, if my father’s strategy succeeds,” Orion explained, trying to keep his voice level despite the anxiety he felt, “but this is only one strategy of hundreds, all of which have failed. And even if our side was victorious...however many lives I could potentially save by fighting, I would be snuffing out far more. I realize that this is my responsibility alone, and sometimes one must be willing to do what others will not, to reach their goal...but flowers bloom under sunlight and water, not blood. If we could avoid burning a forest to the ground, wouldn’t it then be easier to bring it back to life?”

“Yes...but if someone wants to set a forest ablaze, you have to act if you want to stop them.”

Carewyn’s response was very soft and solemn, but there was no anger or disapproval -- instead, to Orion’s immense relief, it sounded almost encouraging.

“If you believe that Royaume could make peace with Florence, then you need to speak out for it,” she said firmly. “If you see it and believe in it, that’s great...but you need to make others see and believe in it too, if it’s going to really come about. Talk to your father, make him see things as you do -- and if he isn’t able to, then...well, I’ll talk to Andre, and you and he can discuss it together.”

Her lips spread into a gentle smile and she gave his wrist a light squeeze.

“My own family may have profited because of the War, but the people of Royaume, the common man, would celebrate, if peace could come about without further loss. If Florence would also, then that’s a step in the right direction. There’s more than one way to fight for something...all it requires is enough courage to place one’s goal over whatever risks stand in their way.”

Orion stared at Carewyn for a long moment. As he did, the black of his eyes seemed to melt, gaining a warmer, softer light that resembled candlelight rippling in endless, dark water.

“...Carewyn...”

Before he could say anything more, however, there was a loud explosion in the distance. Carewyn’s horse reared back in terror, which in turn spooked Orion’s, and both Carewyn and Orion had to quickly calm their steeds.

“Whoa, whoa,” Carewyn whispered in her horse’s ear, “easy, boy...it’s all right...”

Orion stroked his horse’s mane with a slightly trembling hand, breathing in and out as he tried to steady his heart rate. He then looked at Carewyn with a more serious eye.

“...Perhaps we should make our way back to the valley. It’s not safe here.”

Carewyn looked northward through the trees again. “Do you think your father’s started the attack?”

“No. Coordinated attacks require both strategy and assignments, as well as the element of surprise. I’d say this is a skirmish between younger, less experienced soldiers -- and if so, it’s likely to run farther afield and cause damage outside the designated battlefield.”

Orion could see Carewyn still hesitating. Although there was no fear in her face, she seemed reluctant to leave -- likely thinking of her brother, more than the risk to her own safety...

After a brief flicker of uncertainty, Orion reached out a hand and took hold of Carewyn’s arm not unlike how she’d taken his earlier.

“From everything I’ve heard from you about your brother, I truly cannot see him not doing everything he possibly can, to look out for your well-being...including looking after himself.”

A second smaller explosion in the distance made Orion stiffen slightly, his fingers tightening that bit around Carewyn’s arm.

“...We should move out of harm’s way,” he said as levelly as he could.

Seeing the paleness of Orion’s face, Carewyn relented at once.

“Yes.”

Bringing a hand up onto Orion’s horse’s reins, she directed both of them around so they could start riding back out the way they came.

As they came around a cluster of trees, however, their attention was caught by the sound of the cry of an eagle and many snapping branches. Carewyn’s horse reared back again, just barely dodging a large clump of golden-brown feathers that collided sharply with the ground.

Carewyn once again rushed to soothe her horse. Orion quickly climbed off his horse and bent down to get a better look at what had fallen.

It was a golden eagle, just as brilliant as the one they’d chased into the wood -- perhaps even the same one. It was conscious, but clearly in pain when it tried to return to the air -- its left wing crumpled up against its side and covered in blood and what looked like grayish ash.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed.

“Gunpowder,” he said. “The poor creature’s wing must have been struck by a stray bullet.”

Once she’d successfully soothed her white horse, Carewyn likewise jumped off its back. She dashed over to Orion, hitching up the skirt of her mother’s gown as she went.

“Can you hold him?” she asked.

The eagle gave an angry-sounding cry, baring its sharp talons at both of them, and it tried to hobble away back into the air with its one good wing.

“I don’t think he wants our help,” said Orion.

Undaunted, Carewyn ripped off some fabric from her outer-most petticoat. “Well, he needs it, whether he wants it or not. Can you hold him, please?”

Orion looked at the eagle. Rather than try to grab it, he met the eagle’s eyes and tried not to blink. The eagle looked back at him with a piercing gaze. When Orion extended a hand, the eagle lashed out its talons again -- Orion withdrew, but didn’t flinch.

“Steady,” he said gently.

He waited a moment, keeping eye contact with the bird, and then tried again. This time he was able to move close enough to touch before the eagle lashed out with its claws again.

“Peace,” said Orion patiently. “We mean you no harm, feathered friend.”

Another loud explosion in the distance made both the eagle and Orion flinch.

“That one sounded closer,” said Carewyn, her voice faintly tense but as gentle as she could. “We need to be quick.”

The flames of his childhood home were returning to Orion’s mind despite his best efforts, and he shut them out as best he could, closing his eyes and breathing in and out several times. Once he’d reestablished his focus, Orion opened his eyes again.

The eagle looked from Orion to Carewyn almost critically. Finally, after Orion reached in for a third time, it let the Prince run a gentle hand over its back. Once the bird was calm, Orion then carefully extended its wing so that Carewyn could reach it.

“This will likely hurt him a little,” Carewyn told Orion. “Please hold him still, so he won’t fly away.”

Orion brought a hand around the eagle, which fidgeted and cried out indignantly, but did not claw or snap at them. With Orion holding out its wing, Carewyn was able to reach into its blood-soaked feathers and dislodge the bullet. The eagle gave an angry, pained cry, and Carewyn very quickly set about wrapping up the wound with the white fabric she’d ripped out of her petticoat.

“There,” breathed Carewyn, her red lips spreading into a smile. “That should help...”

The bird looked down at its wing, gingerly folding up against its side as it surveyed her with a very beady eye. With a soft click of her tongue against her teeth, she slowly extended an arm out, holding it very still like a branch.

“Climb on,” she cooed. “That’s it...”

The eagle peered Carewyn over, but after a long moment, it gradually scooted over and leapt up onto her arm. Its talons dug into the sleeve of her dress with strength, and it was heavier than Carewyn expected, but she with some difficulty just barely managed to hoist it up.

“Your talent with animals shines through again,” said Orion with a wry smile, clasping his hands lightly in front of him.

“You weren’t half bad yourself,” Carewyn said amusedly. She brought a hand gently along the eagle’s comb. “You’re a very handsome bird, aren’t you? You poor thing...”

“You there!”

Both Orion and Carewyn looked up in great surprise.

Striding through the woods toward them was a very tall middle-aged woman. She wore a black capotain hat and an old-fashioned black dress with a white ruff around the collar, and her graying brown hair was tied up in an austere looking bun under her hat. Despite her apparent age, her step was strong and her posture as straight as a general’s. 

“What are you doing here?” said the woman very sternly.

Carewyn stood a bit uneasily, thanks to the weight of the eagle on her arm, but she nonetheless straightened up, resting a hand on the eagle’s back almost protectively.

“We’re merely out riding, madam,” she said, not impolitely, but still confidently.

The woman peered down at both Orion and Carewyn with an eye almost as critical as the eagle’s had been as she crossed her arms. Her height made it so she towered over both of them with relative ease.

“Well, through your riding, you have trespassed on my land,” she said stiffly. “And it seems you’ve claimed something of mine.”

Her eyes flickered over to the eagle on Carewyn’s arm, taking in the makeshift bandage on its wing. The golden eagle gave a loud shriek -- the woman extended her arm, and it leapt the distance, landing on her arm instead. The older woman did not struggle to hold it up the way Carewyn had.

Carewyn blinked in surprise. “Then...he’s yours?”

“Do you have others, like him?” Orion asked curiously.

The woman peered down at the bird on her arm with a look that was rather like a scolding, but still affectionate mother’s. “No -- he’s one of a kind. All the more reason why I’m pleased to see him safe, after coming so close to the enemy camp.”

The eagle bowed its head, its gaze flickering back over toward Carewyn and Orion. When another cluster of explosions rang out through the air, however, both the bird and Orion straightened up abruptly.

The woman looked northward, and then beckoned Carewyn and Orion after her with her hand.

“Come with me -- with the armies positioned just north of us and a band of Florentine bandits just south, the safest place at present to wait out this skirmish is my home.”

The woman introduced herself as the Baroness Minerva McGonagall. Carewyn felt like the surname was familiar somehow, but she couldn’t quite place it in her memory. Regardless, McGonagall led Carewyn and Orion out through the trees. Only once they crossed the perimeter of the trees and McGonagall gestured toward the valley below did Carewyn and Orion see her country estate. It was odd that they didn’t spot it sooner, for although the valley seemed to cradle the small chateau, it was a rather beautiful and open estate framed by a wrought iron gate. The property itself was made of aged brick and stone with stained glass windows and overgrown with ice-trimmed ivy.

After holding out her arm so that the eagle perched there could jump down on the railing beside the stone stairs that led up to the front door, the Baroness invited Orion and Carewyn inside. As stern as she’d first appeared, she actually was a very kind host -- after Orion and Carewyn’s horses were settled in her stable, she escorted the two into the dining hall, where she served them some rose water and ginger biscuits. Once inside the house, none of them could hear the explosions from the battlefield -- it was as though the walls cancelled out all sounds from outside even though they must’ve been so close.

Seeing that the Baroness had no servants to help her, Carewyn insisted on taking the dishes to the kitchen and washing them, so as to thank the older woman for her hospitality. Despite being reluctant to accept the help at first, McGonagall eventually accepted it, her lips upturned in a rather dewy smile as Carewyn left the dining hall.

“Your riding companion has a very kind heart, Your Highness,” she said, once Carewyn was out of earshot.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly.

“...You know me.”

"Naturally,” said McGonagall. “You do very much resemble your grandfather -- and your father as well, I expect.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“We met once, a very long time ago,” said McGonagall rather curtly. “Your name would also be Cosimo, correct?”

“I am called Orion,” said the Prince, his level voice dusted with the slightest edge. “By both my lady, and otherwise.”

McGonagall’s eyes grew a little smaller. “She comes from the Cromwell family, doesn’t she?”

Orion’s eyes narrowed that little bit more, but he did not reply.

“I suspected it due to her eyes,” said McGonagall, “but with how gentle they were, I wasn’t sure.”

Her eyebrows rose over her narrowed eyes as she leaned forward slightly and rested her elbows on the table.

“You have quite a predicament before you, Orion,” she said dryly, interlacing her fingers beside her chin.

Orion clasped his hands on the table in front of him, considering the Baroness carefully.

“Yet you decided not to approach me about it until Carewyn left the room,” he said levelly. “Is it because you suspected I knew your true identity, and why your house has been so miraculously shielded from the War raging on your doorstep?”

McGonagall peered at Orion over her hands with something like wry amusement. “Florentines are generally more favorable toward magic than Royaumanians. And considering your grandfather shielded my family after my mother accidentally killed the King and we fled across the border...well, it would be in-character for you, especially.”

“And yet you returned to the land that the King of Royaume had died trying to claim?” asked Orion. “Why?”

McGonagall gave a dismissive shrug. “It was our home. Even if we had to cast and recast illusions every day to prevent anyone else from finding it again, that was a cost we were willing to pay. And one I’m still willing to pay today, to protect those who live here.”

McGonagall’s eyes were drawn to the hallway -- a young man with tanned skin and a sharp nose had just paused in the door frame of the dining hall. His arm was in a makeshift sling and wrapped with what looked like bandages made out of petticoat fabric. When Orion turned around, the young man stared him down with just as beady of a look as the golden eagle from before had.

“The skirmish has ended, Baroness,” the man said brusquely.

“I hope you haven’t determined that by casting any more transfiguration spells, my young apprentice,” said McGonagall with a slightly reproachful look.

The apprentice’s nose wrinkled sourly. “No. The explosions have just stopped -- they probably decided it wasn’t worth trying to fire their cannons blindly in the dark.”

“Very well,” said McGonagall. “Orion, you and Carewyn may leave when you wish. Though I would recommend you steer clear of the border. The bandits in these woods are Florentines, so I doubt they will harm you...but I cannot be sure how they would respond to a Royaumanian, especially one related to one of their wealthiest noblemen.”

Orion nodded. “I understand.”

“Make sure you bring her back to the palace safely,” said the apprentice, his eagle-like eyes still rather critical upon Orion. “It’s the least you can do, considering she doesn’t know the extent of the risk she’s taking, interacting with you.”

He swept down the hallway and out of sight, still holding his arm. Orion was a bit surprised that the Baroness’s apprentice knew where Carewyn worked -- but then, he recalled, he’d seen an eagle flying over his and Carewyn’s heads once, while they were walking through the market together, hadn’t he? Might it have been this man then, as well -- as it likely had, every time he’d seen an eagle while crossing the border?

McGonagall looked back at Orion, her expression a bit more solemn. “I understand your rationale behind not telling her of your identity, Orion...but remember -- deception is just like any magical spell. Even the most powerful ones in the world don’t last long.”

Orion bowed his head. “...I know.”

He knew none of this could last. He knew that once Carewyn knew who he was, everything between them would change, whether he wanted it to or not. He did think that Carewyn would understand -- he desperately hoped so -- but even so, it was sad to him, knowing that his happy times with Carewyn were doomed to be so fleeting...

“I just...want to enjoy my time with her as long as I can,” said Orion softly. “However fleeting it might be...even when it is over...at least then I can cherish the memory of those moments forever.”

McGonagall’s face grew a bit gentler, almost sympathetic. "I see...”

Carewyn returned at that moment, wiping her bangs out of her eyes with her arm.

“Orion,” she said, “it looks like the stars have come out.”

Orion looked out the window. The sky was dark with night and shining with stars.

“So they have,” he said with a soft smile. He turned to McGonagall. “Forgive me, Baroness...but might we sit in the valley outside your home for a short while, before we leave?”

McGonagall smiled. “Of course.”

Orion and Carewyn found a grassy spot in the crest of the valley where they could sit and look up at the stars. Upon learning that Carewyn hadn’t ever gone stargazing before, Orion lay back against the grass and pointed out each constellation above them to Carewyn in turn -- the hero Perseus, his enemy the Cetus, and his future wife Andromeda -- -- the divine twins, Castor and Pollux, otherwise known as a pair as Gemini -- and the queen Cassiopeia, which made Carewyn laugh, thinking of her friend, KC. Carewyn loved listening to Orion’s stories: the way he would vividly embellish every detail and go off on philosophical tangents in the middle was oddly endearing. After he told his first tale about Perseus, Carewyn was reminded of the Song of Roland, an epic about a similarly grand hero, and soon Orion would ask her to sing something in response to every story he told, however weak the connection was. When they reached Cassiopeia’s tale, Carewyn sang one of her favorite songs, Greensleeves.

“I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever thou would’st crave; I have waged both life and land, Your love and goodwill for to have.

Greensleeves was all my joy; Greensleeves was my delight; Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my lady Greensleeves...”

As before, Orion found himself closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of Carewyn’s voice washing over him. At the end of this song in particular, however, when he opened his eyes, he found himself chuckling softly.

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Orion’s black eyes were sparkling like two miniature night skies as they ran over Carewyn sitting just below him. “It’s a lovely song, as always...but I have not ever seen my ‘star twin,’ so to speak, wearing green -- only ever black and blue. You, however...”

He took her hand so that he could extend her arm out like they were dancing, showing off the olive green sleeves of her dress.

“So it seems you are ‘my lady Greensleeves,’” said Orion with a wry smile.

“Oh, stop it,” Carewyn huffed, her cheeks burning as she withdrew her hand.

Orion laughed fully. It was the first time Carewyn had ever heard him laugh so openly before -- it was a soft sound in the back of his throat, like a chuckle, and yet so much brighter and warmer. Despite herself, Carewyn couldn’t fight back a full smile of her own. Her shoulder brushed up against Orion’s as she reclined back onto the grass, her body tilting slightly toward him as she looked up at the sky.

“...There’s a constellation called Orion, isn’t there?”

Orion smiled and traced the stars of the constellation with his finger. “Just there. Do you see his chest? And there’s his bow.”

“I see it!” said Carewyn excitedly. “His arm is arched back, right?”

“Yes -- he’s holding a club in his other hand. He was a great hunter, you see -- the greatest hunter, they say, aside from Artemis, Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt. Some say that he hunted alongside her. Others say she was his one and only love...and that she, likewise, never loved any other man, in all her days.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, Orion looked down at her. She was considering the constellation very carefully, looking oddly deep in thought.

Orion tilted his head to look better at her face. “Your eyes resemble a dark pool.”

Carewyn looked up, startled.

“They’re so deep and mysterious, I hardly know what is within them,” said Orion. “Yet I would dearly like to know, if you were willing to share their contents.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted back up to the sky uncomfortably.

“It’s just...I’m realizing that I don’t even know if Orion is your real name,” she murmured. “You said I could call you it...you did not say it was your name.”

Orion’s face became grimmer. His hands clasped over his chest and he too looked back up at the sky.

“...It’s not the name I was born with,” he admitted. “I chose the name myself, when I was young.”

The memory of the older boys at the workhouse shoving him, piling extra work on him, and mockingly bowing whenever he walked by rippled over his mind.

“Clear the floor for the Prince!”

“Why thank you, Prince Cosimo -- you’re too kind!”

“Does the mud add flavor, your Royal Highness?”

“When I was at the workhouse, my name...antagonized the other boys. So, to try to preempt the reactions, I started avoiding telling anyone my name. I would dread anyone ever asking.”

“Like when I asked you?” whispered Carewyn. Even though her eyes were averted, she was clearly very ashamed and upset.

Orion leaned against her slightly, offering her a gentle, reassuring expression. “No, Carewyn. I dreaded it when I had no answer I could give at all. It made me anxious...made me feel like I didn’t know who I was supposed to be...made it difficult for me to interact with much of anyone at all.”

He closed his eyes.

“But...after hearing the tale of the great hunter whose skill put him on the same level as a goddess...I decided that was who I’d be. I’d chase my dreams with just as much single-minded focus -- be just as free and strong of a man, by fighting the monster inside of myself.”

Carewyn looked up at Orion, her eyes rippling with sadness. “The monster inside of yourself?”

“Mm,” said Orion. “Mine is a frenetic beast. It makes it hard for me to think, act, or even breathe, when it’s particularly intense. It makes me question absolutely everything, including myself. It shouts so many things in my ears so loudly that I can’t move or react properly, and I have to break away from everything and everyone, just to silence it. Sometimes it even brings back bad memories that make the experience even worse.”

Carewyn was once again avoiding his eye, but it was largely because she was having trouble keeping her face stoic.

“...It’s terrible, when you feel like you can’t do anything,” she said lowly.

Orion didn’t speak. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough to continue -- after a silence, she finally pressed on.

“When Jacob first went off to War...I felt so helpless. So...alone. And worse...I felt like that’s how I should be. Like I should be alone, and empty, and cold, and in pain, when Jacob was off at War suffering, while I’m stuck here.”

Her eyes darkened.

“There are times when...I think I still should be. Sometimes...well, it’s all the time.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled heavily through her nose, and then looked up at Orion with a firmer expression.

“...But I know I can’t afford to sit around and feel sorry for myself -- not when I need to be strong, for Jacob’s sake. So I don’t.”

Orion’s black eyes softened visibly, rippling with empathy. “No...you certainly don’t.”

He paused. His eyes ran over Carewyn’s face, trailing through her hair hesitantly.

“Carewyn...” he said at last, very softly, “may I...?”

He swallowed.

“...May I rest my head, on top of yours?”

Carewyn’s face broke into a very sweet, tender smile.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Orion shifted over and, very tentatively, leaned back against the grass so that Carewyn’s head rested in the crook of his neck and his cheek rested against the top of her head. He closed his eyes -- she felt so warm...

“I...realize that the beasts inside of us are ours alone to face,” said Orion softly, “but...should you need a hunter to help you beat yours back...I will be here.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with emotion as she stared up at Orion’s face. Her red lips slowly turned up in a smile that was full of pain, and yet also fuller still of love.

“And I will always help you fight yours,” she whispered. “If you need me...I will fight for you.”

Orion’s expression cleared, losing all tension as a smile pricked at the corners of his lips. He breathed deeply, his heart slowing to a wonderful peaceful beat as he took in the smell of her hair. Carewyn watched his serene, handsome face, and she found herself moving into him that bit more, just to get a better view. For that moment, it felt like the whole world outside wasn’t there -- that the War and the palace and the Cromwell clan and everything she was and wasn’t didn’t even exist...and in that moment, Carewyn realized...

If she was ever truly free, she would want to love the man called Orion with all of her heart.

[springday-aus]

SVT’s Wonwoo: Daytime Scares

—

Fic Written by: Admin Grandma of @springday-aus​

Moodboard Link: created by Admin Grandpa

Main Characters: Y/N [fem. reader] and Seventeen’s Jeon Wonwoo

Other Characters: OCs [Ae Jae, Mi Jeong, Yoojin, and Minjae], Chaeyoung (BlackPink), Yongsun (Mamamoo), Seventeen [Seungkwan and Mingyu] 

Genre: fluff, romance, comedy, college!Wonwoo

Type: one-shot writing piece

Word Count: approx. 11.6k

Plot Summary: Wonwoo is nothing more than an attractive stranger in your ethics class. You have no relation with him whatsoever, but that changes when you suddenly have a nightmare that he tries to kill you. That’s a whole level of psychoanalyzing you would rather not dive into. But now things get weirder when he��s starting to talk to you. 

→ Based on the AU prompt: “I had a dream that you tried to kill me and now I’m scared of you” 

Sleepovers typically mean movies, gossip, and face masks. It’s a fun time to be with your friends and it’s good for lowering stress after midterms. The only level of stress here is would be finding a movie to watch—which probably should have been selected beforehand. But, in your defense, it was hard enough to schedule this hang-out; who has the time to actually schedule the activities? 

So, right now, you lay comfortably on the carpeted floor of Ae Jae’s studio apartment with Mi Jeong. You two are on your phones, trying to find a movie to watch. Meanwhile, Yoojin scrolls through her laptop—connected to the projector—browsing through her Netflix account. 

“What about Hustlers?” Minjae asks. 

“I could really use some J.Lo right now,” you say with wiggling eyebrows. 

“Ugh, we can all use a little more J.Lo,” Mi Jeong says. 

“That movie is too recent,” Yoojin says. “We can’t find that on a streaming site.” 

“Hello?” Ae Jae says. “Have you heard of Dailymotion?” 

“Do you want me to just pull up one of those illegal websites?” Minjae asks. 

Yoojin turns around to face her. “Ma’am, that’s called pirating.” 

“Exactly.” 

Mi Jeong laughs at them. Yoojin gives her a pointed look, but you all know it’s no bad intentions. 

You set your phone down and sit up from your previous position. “Might as well. We can probably browse through the other movies and figure out some other options to choose from.” 

“What I’m hearing is,” Ae Jae says, “is that we don’t have to pay to watch these new movies.” 

Yoojin rolls her eyes and moves out of the way of her laptop. “I guess we have nothing to lose.” 

“No fear of the viruses?” you ask. 

“Potato, potato,” Minjae says. 

Yoojin shrugs. “Fire away, Minjae.” 

You watch her practically jump over from her previous spot to the TV to type in one of her illegal sites, which you may or may not have frequently used—thanks to her. You can only laugh at her antics. 

It’s nice to be with your friends again. It’s been a while since you had properly sent time with them. With the assignments and overlapping work schedules, you’ve all kind of distanced yourselves from one another and, with midterms coming up, things were just piling higher. After midterms week finished, when things calmed down, you and your friends aligned your schedules to catch up with one another. 

But who knew it would take nearly two hours to figure out what to watch? Granted, one of the flaws within your friend group is the fact that most of your friends (you included) are incredibly indecisive. 

As Minjae moves from one page to the next, everyone else silently scans the movies presented in front of them. 

“The live-action Lion King is out,” Mi Jeong says. “That could be an option.” 

“Hm,” you say. “I’m pretty sure it’s just the same as the original one.” 

“It is,” Minjae says. “But we can just put it on a list of things we could watch. We can still look.” 

“Let’s just do that,” Yoojin says. 

About ten movie pages (and a list of six possible movies to watch) in, Minjae gets into the horror movie section. You tense up from the movie covers—each one making your stomach twist in apprehension. The one thing each one of your friends know is that you get easily scared, which means you dodge horror movies like the plague. 

“Oh, what about It: Chapter 2?” Ae Jae asks. 

You start to whine, realizing where this is going. “Nooo.” 

You’re ignored. 

“I still haven’t watched the first one,” Minjae says.

“What?” “That was literally everywhere.” “How did you manage to miss one of the biggest horror movies?” 

Minjae shrugs off the questions. “I just never got to it.” 

“It’s a good movie,” Mi Jeong says. “Right, (Y/N)?” 

You scowl at her. “No, it’s not.” 

Yoojin snorts. “You probably didn’t even watch it.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Since (Y/N) and I haven’t watched it,” Minjae says. “Should we just watch it?” 

“NOOO—” 

Everyone ignores you. 

“Since it’s kind of old,” Ae Jae says. “They’ll probably have it in higher quality.” 

“NOOOO—” 

“You’re probably right,” Yoojin says. “Oh, 1080hd. That’s fancy.” 

“GUYS. IS ANYONE GOING TO LISTEN TO ME?” 

“I found it!”  

You let out a long sigh, kissing a month’s worth of sleep away. You mumble under your breath. “Guess no one cares about my well being and health.” 

You move yourself to properly lay between Mi Jeong and Minjae, throwing another pillow down. All three of you are on the carpeted floor with too many pillows to count. Ae Jae moved herself and now, she lies on her bed with Yoojin. A blanket is placed on your head and shoulders, ready for cover whenever Pennywise’s face appears on the screen. 

You’ve never wished for poorer eyesight until now. You will never understand the trolls that found this clown attractive. A shudder runs down your spine, seeing his face flash in the lightning from the sewer. You quickly pull the blanket over your head to erase the image. 

You feel a couple of tugs. 

Mi Jeong’s pulling on it. “Jesus Christ, it’s just a clown!” 

“John Wayne Gacy was just a clown too and he turned out as a murderer. This one just happens to be supernatural!” 

Minjae starts to tug down the blanket as well. “Be apart of the friend group!” 

“NO!” 

A pillow is flung towards you, in courtesy of Yoojin, who yells down at all of you. “Be quiet!” 

“I want new friends.” 

It’s 3am—you’ve all moved on from It and onto some generic cartoon movie. You were the main advocate for another movie, in an attempt to rid yourself of the horrific images Pennywise provided. Mi Jeong and Minjae are both asleep on each side of you—both with pore strips still attached on their noses. Yoojin snores lightly from Ae Jae’s bed, whereas Ae Jae is up with her elbow propping up her head. 

“Hey,” she says. 

“What?” 

“You up?” She gives you a teasing smile. 

You roll your eyes at her. “This is your fault. Of course, I’m up.” 

“What? You really can’t sleep because of the movie?” 

You stare at her, but refuse to actually move. “Believe it or not, terrifying images of a killer clown that’s telling me I’ll float isn’t a good sleeping mechanism.” 

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again, once the words come to her. “They help Mi Jeong sleep.” 

“She’s got a different way of thinking.” 

“Hmm, you’re right,” Ae Jae says. “Do you just want a melatonin instead?” 

You’ve got nothing to lose. “Sure.” 

She manages to get up, without waking up Yoojin, and walks over to the bathroom. She opens the cabinet, looks through it, and pulls out her melatonin gummies. She pops the lid open, walks towards you, and hands it over. “Take two and you should be asleep in thirty minutes.” 

“Thanks.” You take a couple, as she advises, and hand the jar back to her. You slowly chew on them, keeping your eyes on the screen in front of you. The images start to pass like a blur and you can’t retain what you’ve just watched. 

About twenty minutes later, your eyelids start to droop, feeling the melatonin kick in. You begin to feel a bit tired, so you fully close your eyes and drift off to sleep. 

You find yourself in a sewer, blindly moving through a lightless tunnel—with no clue as to how you ended up there. It’s dark, you note to yourself, and it smells foul. The muddy water splashes with each step and it rises as you go through, practically filling your boots. There’s a mist as well, blocking nearly half of your sight of the tunnel. You try to squint through the fog, trying to make out what’s ahead. 

You’re able to see a small light at the end. As if you had no control over your body, you run towards it—but it never gets any bigger. You can feel your heartbeat pounding against your chest as your legs keep you running. 

But then you slip. 

You swear you had felt a pull on your leg, but you couldn’t tell due to the murkiness of the water. You end up on your hands, your lower half is soaked, still in the water—you can’t even make out your reflection. You look closer at it, trying to see what could be underneath it. Suddenly, a hand pushes your head down. 

The dirty water fills up your nose and you struggle to escape from this person’s hold on you. As you’re submerged, you hear it. The familiar voice, but you can’t pinpoint where you’ve heard it. 

“Can you float?” 

You freeze, hearing those words. 

The hand lets go and you resurface, taking in a deep breath of much needed air. You look up at your tormentor, who looks down at you with a smirk. His teeth are sharpened, shining with the little light of the tunnel. His eyes are dark and long eyelashes curl on top of his eyelids. Raven-black bangs stick to his forehead—from sweat or water—you couldn’t tell. You look up a bit further, spotting the deviled horns on his head. 

You put it together. 

It’s Wonwoo. But, what’s he doing here? 

He tilts his head at you, pitying you as if you were a lost kitten. His lips fully curl from a smirk to a sinister smile. He lowers his head closer to you. 

“Can you float?” he asks. 

You don’t have the words to answer him; you don’t think you can find any. 

He asks again. “Can you float?” 

Before you say anything, he shoves your head underneath once more. 

It’s been two weeks since the sleepover (and the last time you had proper sleep). Classes have started up again, but you’re already tired. It isn’t even from the goddamned workload (which you are definitely not doing). Since the sleepover, you’ve had the same recurring nightmare over and over. Same place, same face. 

Right now, you sit at a table in the dining hall with a single coffee mug that’s already empty. You wait for your friends to arrive at the table, tapping away at your phone, trying to make yourself busy. 

“What’s up,” Chaeyoung says. She takes the seat in front of you and sets her plate on the table. She spots the sad coffee mug and looks between it and you, before asking. “Is that all you’re getting?” 

You set your phone down. “No, I also had a bowl of ice cream earlier.” 

“(Y/N), it’s noon.” 

“Sugar means energy.” 

She lets out a sigh—not surprised, just disappointed. You would think after knowing you for so long, she would get used to your horrible eating habits. She is your meal buddy after all. She takes a stab at her food. “So how was your mid-semester break?” 

“I think we both know that break is a joke.” 

“Still.” 

“Well, I got to meet up with some of my old friends, spent some time with family—you know, all the good stuff.” You lean on the table with an elbow propped up and a hand underneath your chin. “How was yours?” 

“Eh, I did the same thing. It was nice to chill for a bit, but then I remembered how many readings I have to do.” 

You force a smile at her. “I haven’t done any of mine.” 

She throws her head back with a laugh. You start laughing too, at yourself and at her. 

Yongsun comes around to the table. She sets down another cup of coffee for you, which you previously asked for, and her own plate as she sits herself next to you. She looks between you and Chaeyoung. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing really,” you say. “Just talking about how oh-so productive we’ve been since break.” 

She gives you a bitter look with regret evident on her face “That break is a joke. I got nothing done either.” 

“Glad to know everyone is on the same track.” You take a sip of your coffee. 

“No offense,” Chaeyoung says. “But you look really tired. Are you okay?” 

Yongsun laughs, nearly choking on her food. “It’s the exams creeping up, that’s why her eye bags are a darker shade.” 

Your eyebrows slightly rise. “Not wrong, but doesn’t mean I don’t feel attacked.” 

“Are you having trouble sleeping again?” Chaeyoung asks. 

Yongsun takes a closer look at you. “You know, now that she’s said something. She’s not wrong. Are you okay?” 

You sigh and take another big sip of the coffee. “My friends made me watch It.” 

“That’s all?” Chaeyoung asks. 

“Kind of.” You set the coffee down and lay your head on the table. “I’ve just been having the same nightmares for a while now and I can’t sleep.” 

“What do you see?” Yongsun asks. 

“Why? Are you going to psycho-analyze them like you do with the others?” Chaeyoung asks. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Oh my god.”

“Now,” Yongsun says. She fully turns to you, pointing at you with her spoon. “What happens in your nightmares?” 

You hesitate. “The nightmare overall…. it makes sense but there’s a piece that I can’t figure out.” 

“What?” Chaeyoung asks. “You know what, just explain the entire dream and we’ll figure it out.” 

You scratch the back of your ear, feeling a bit sheepish of the whole thing. “Do you guys know Jeon Wonwoo?” 

There’s a silence, but you can practically see them racking their memory for him. You look between them, seeing if either one of them would know him. It’s ideal that they don’t, but if they do, they could probably picture it better. 

“Jeon Wonwoo,” Yongsun mutters under her breath. She speaks louder the second time. “That name is so familiar but I can’t pinpoint where.” 

Chaeyoung looks confused as well. “I get that. I feel like I know him too.” 

“What does this have to do with anything?” 

You let out a long sigh. “Because my nightmares are essentially him just trying to kill me.” You don’t take notice of Yongsun’s frantic typing on her phone. “I don’t understand why it’s him specifically.” 

Chaeyoung hums, nodding along to what you’re saying. “Maybe it’s just a random face from memory—you could have just seen his face and now it’s stuck. Is he ugly or something?” 

“He’s in my ethics class,” you say. “And he’s definitely not ugly.” 

“So he’s attractive and trying to murder you?” 

“Mmhm, basically.” 

“Is there a kink you aren’t sharing with us?” 

“No, who wants to be murdered?” 

“There’s lots of college kids who want to be murdered, (Y/N),” Yongsun says. 

“Okay, fair point.” 

“In other news though.” Yongsun pauses and sets her phone down for all three of you to see. “I found him and I can confirm that he is hot.” 

You take a peek at the Facebook profile—the familiar face is in the little profile image and you shudder out of habit. You move away from the phone, feeling uncomfortable from his face. “Yup, that’s him.” 

“Jesus,” Chaeyoung says. She grabs the phone and zooms in on the image. “This is the face you’re seeing? How can someone look like that?” 

You grimace. “I can’t.” 

“What do you mean?” Yongsun asks. 

“I sit in the front, far away from him, so I don’t have to look at him anymore.” 

“What do you think this means?” Chaeyoung asks. 

“From my perspective,” Yongsun says. “Maybe you’re scared of how attractive he is.” 

You and Chaeyoung squint at her, both not understanding. She continues. “This can mean a lot of things. I need the context.” 

You try to recollect your dream memories. It isn’t hard, considering the fact that you’ve had the same nightmare for a couple of weeks. Although, there have been odd additions every once in a while. Just last night, you were on an empty road rather than a sewer. Sometimes there was the pile of children there and would start floating in front of you. Wonwoo stood in front of it, just staring at it, before turning his head to you to start shoving you into the water. 

You shrink in your seat. You feel like throwing up. 

“Well?” Yongsun asks. “Any details?” 

You grimace again. “I would rather not share while we’re eating.” 

Chaeyoung looks at you with a bit of worry in her eyes. “Do you think you’ll be okay?” 

“Yeah.” You drown the rest of your now-cold coffee down. “It’ll be fine. It’s not like Wonwoo’s a friend. How hard could it be to avoid him?”

Another restless week passes and you’re convinced your sleeping schedule will never bounce back. You rub your eyes, trying to wake yourself up somehow—it’s your third cup of coffee of the day and it’s done nothing for you. 

It’s 11:20am and class is supposed to start in ten minutes. The class is already half full of students. Everyone else fiddles with their phones, or talks to others about weekend plans. You sit in your seat with a laptop out, fully blanking out, but attempting to stay awake. Granted, you can just ditch, but attendance counts and if your GPA is below 3.0, you can kiss that scholarship goodbye. 

You groan from the thought of being in this class for an hour. You lay your head on the table, feeling the cold table pressed on your cheek, and closing your eyes for just a moment. 

Suddenly, a chill comes over you and you feel more awake than ever. You open your eyes, only to see Wonwoo walk in. His backpack is slung over one shoulder; he wears a soft, black cardigan that’s tugged on his hands to form sweater paws. He has his hair down, tousling through his bangs with his long fingers. He looks like such a soft boy. 

Despite his boyish looks, you felt your body physically react. Chills run up your spine and you felt the hairs on your arms raise. You feel more alert than you’ve been in weeks. You quickly sit up and straighten out your back at his presence. That’s right: you’re in ethics. You always forgot, until you came to class, see him and the nightmares become daytime horrors. 

You let out a sigh. Somehow, you feel more exhausted than before, despite feeling more awake in Wonwoo’s presence. Once the professor arrives, she immediately starts her lecture. Frankly, you can’t even remember what she’s talking about. It all goes in one ear and out the other. You simply type away, your note page expanding as each minute passes. 

An hour eventually passes and you let out a breath of relief. 

“Alright class,” she says. “Remember for the next class, we will be working on our papers, so bring those laptops fully charged and be prepared for discussion.” 

Everyone, including yourself, groans. 

“We need to start preparing for the final and, from my previous feedback, I hear this is really helpful. So, prepare yourselves.” Your professor shuts off the monitor and starts to shut her books. “Now, get out.” 

No one had to be told twice; everyone practically floods out of the room, ready to take a nap or eat, or whatever else college kids do. With the combination of your previous exhaustion and the lecture, you were moving slower than usual, not wanting to tire yourself out further. You could feel your body nearly shutting down again. You close your eyes once more as you rotate your neck around. Once again, you feel the chills creep up your back.

You follow your instincts and open your eyes, spotting Wonwoo from the corner of your eye. Unknowingly, you flinch, immediately looking away from him. He tries to smile in your direction on his way out, but you move your body away from him, trying to look preoccupied as you shove your books into your bag. 

Once he leaves, you let out a long sigh you didn’t realize you held in. Resting your head on the table, you close your eyes—only to see the images of Wonwoo from your nightmares with devil horns. You sit back up, rubbing your eyes and trying to shake the sight of him out of your mind. 

This is going to be harder than you thought. 

“Paging Sleeping Beauty, are you awake?” 

You slowly sit up from the library table, trying to keep your eyes awake as you lean on your hand. “Yes, sir. I am physically present.” 

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“When am I ever okay?” 

“Fair.” He sets down his books in front of you and takes a seat. “How much did you get done?” 

“I just finished the draft and took a lil nap.” 

“In a public space?” 

“I didn’t get robbed. I’m fine.” 

He blinks at you, shakes his head and tries to move on from the odd comment. “Anyways,” he says, pulling out his laptop. “I finished my essay earlier during class, so.” 

“So it might be garbage?” 

“Hell no.” He opens the laptop, mindlessly moving the mouse around. “I’m just saying, consider the conditions when you read this. I was in a highly stressed environment.” 

Seungkwan and you have the same professor for ethics (just at different times), so it only made sense to work together for this paper. You two knew each other from a previous class and bonded over a mutual friend of yours, Soonyoung. Obviously, suffering is the only way to bond with other college students, hence your blossomed friendship with Seungkwan. 

You rub your eyes, trying to keep yourself awake in front of his laptop. But, it doesn’t help and the words start to blur together. After the third sentence, you lean back and close your eyes in an attempt to regain your focus. 

“Hey.” You feel his hand on your shoulder. “(Y/N), are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” You reopen your eyes, to see concern in Seungkwan’s eyes. He doesn’t even have to ask for you to answer. “I just haven’t been getting much sleep lately and there’s only so many sleeping pills a person can take.” 

“Is it stress?” 

“Not… not exactly.” 

He raises an eyebrow, leaning his chin on his hand. “Do tell, (Y/N). If not stress, is it a lover?” 

You give him an unamused look at his teasing. “Ha ha. No.” You shift in your seat. “I’ve been having nightmares about this guy in my class.” 

“Ooooh?” 

“Stop it.” 

He pouts. “Can you at least tell me who? I might know who it is.”

You rub the back of your neck, feeling a bit apprehensive. The problem is that he does know everyone. Apparently, everyone else seems to know Wonwoo, one way or another. He does have that reputation of looking like a moody emo bad boy. The fact that he’s good looking means he gets away with being creepy. But then again, he is polite to everyone—a very well mannered boy. You sigh, feeling the exhaustion hit all at once.

“I have a suspicion that you know who it is,” you say. You let out another sigh. “It’s Wonwoo.” 

His eyes sparkle with interest. “Jeon? Jeon Wonwoo??” 

You let out another sigh and place your head in your arms, muffling the groans you make. “Jesus, of course you know him.” 

He makes a face. “Why?” Before you can answer him, he leans closer to you. “What’d he do?” 

You can feel yourself inwardly cringing before the words even come out. You feel embarrassed about making a big deal about this small thing. “He’s done nothing to me. He’s just scary.” 

“Wonwoo is one of the least scary people I know.” He moves away, looking off into the distance as if to collect his thoughts. “Minghao… He’s on that list, but Wonwoo? He’s like a scared cat…” At this point, he’s just mumbling to himself. 

You look up, resting your head on your folded arms. “Earth to Seungkwan?” 

“Right, back to you.” He pauses. “So these nightmares, are they that bad that you’re losing this much sleep?” 

You nod. 

“Wow, is he that scary to you?” 

“Well, considering in the dream that he’s trying to murder me… I would say he’s pretty scary.” 

“Okay, but what’d you think about him before?” 

“Before what?” 

“Like, before you started dreaming about his face and death.” 

You blink, staring at him for a bit, lost in thought. You haven’t really thought about Wonwoo without the devil horns, but then again, you don’t really talk to him. It’s a required class, so there’s a lot of people in this lecture hall. Also, it’s a lecture hall, it’s not like people have a chance to interact with one another. The only reason why you’ve heard of him is because of your mutual friends. You admit though, he is attractive. 

But you couldn’t let Seungkwan know that. He would never let it go and he’s friends with Wonwoo. Who knows what he’d do with this information. 

“I was neutral about him,” you say. “Since I don’t really know much about him.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even find him attractive?” 

You grumble as you begin to sit up. “Can we not talk about this and go back to suffering?” 

“Ugh.” He throws his head back in a dramatic fashion. “I wanted the tea though.” 

“This ain’t a tea shop honey, so I’m not giving you any.” You put your attention back to his laptop. “Let me just go over this draft and you can trash mine.” 

You push your laptop towards him with the draft of your paper open. 

He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Fine, but I want details later.” 

“Boba break?” 

“Boba break.” 

Your professor sets down her books on the podium. “Alright class, please pull out your drafts. Your classroom partners are already assigned on the classroom page. If you can’t find it, it’s also on the projector.” 

Your eyes don’t move away from your computer screen. The list of peer review partners has been pulled up and you scroll through it to find yours. You can only stare once you spot it. 

(Y/N) and Wonwoo

This can’t be right. 

You look from your screen to the projector. Your names are clear on the screen. 

(Y/N) and Wonwoo

Someone clears their throat, snapping you out of your inner panic. “You’re (Y/N), right?” 

To your right, Wonwoo stands with his messenger bag, a couple of textbooks in his hands, and a polite smile on his face. You can only nod, feeling the chills run up your back. He takes the empty spot next to you and sets down his things. Having him sit so close to you… it’s even scarier than you even imagined. 

He glances at you with a small smile. Ugh, he is handsome. You’ll give him that.

As he turns his head, you get a closer look at his profile. In an instant, you see the devil-horned image of him flash. You shudder, turning away and wordlessly setting your laptop closer to him. 

You manage to speak up, but it gets quieter as you talk. “Here’s my draft. You should be able to make comments… suggestions or something…” 

He gives another smile (although you don’t see it) and hands you his laptop. “I have my draft on here too. I’m sorry, but it’s still a bit messy.”

His voice is so soft, despite his cold features. You take another glance at him to take his laptop. Your hands brush against his and you try to ignore the goosebumps that raise on your arms—whether it’s from fear, you can’t tell. 

For a while, it’s quiet. Everyone is working on peer-editing their partner’s drafts, including you and Wonwoo. You both read through one another’s drafts. Ugh, he’s such a good writer. This was supposed to be a rough draft, but he makes it look like the final draft. This thesis makes sense; the support from the text is present; the counter-argument is made and redirected back to the thesis. Meanwhile, your draft probably looks even more half-assed than you originally intended for it to be. 

You go through the document again to try to give some feedback on his draft, despite how hard it is to make something up. By the end, you only manage to give him three comments. Turns out, you had finished earlier than you’d thought. You look around, seeing everyone still working and interacting with their partners, before looking over at him.

He stares intensely at your screen, still scrolling through the hot mess you call a rough draft. Every couple of seconds, he types a comment and you feel yourself flinch at how hard he presses on the keyboard. You knew it wasn’t the best, but there’s no way for it to be the most awful thing you’ve written. You hadn’t even realized you’ve been staring until he turns his body towards you. 

You lightly flinch at the sudden eye contact and, unconsciously, inch away from him. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he sets your laptop next to you. 

“I wrote a couple of recommendations as to how you could expand on your argument further. I think you have a solid thesis and the evidence you provide from the texts are very strong. I didn’t know what else I could add, so I did the best I could to add some comments to help. You don’t have to use them, but they were just some ideas I thought you could use.” 

He gives you another smile and you couldn’t help to feel a bit touched. Typically, people half ass these types of assignments. To see that he actually put effort into it and even added in ideas you can use... 

You push his laptop further away from you and he immediately scrolls through it, before you can get a word in. That’s probably why the word vomit began and you haphazardly try to explain things, without even looking at him in the eye. 

“I couldn’t really add in as much as you did. I thought it was really well thought out and made some really good points. I just made a couple of comments on word choice, grammar, and how it all connects. You’re a really good writer so you don’t have to really pay attention to these things. They really don’t make a big difference or anything. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you anything particularly helpful…” 

You trail off from your nervous rambling, glancing up at him to take in his reaction. He looks rather sheepish; his hand rubs the back of his neck and light blush dusts his cheeks. 

“It’s really nothing… I’m not that good…” 

This vision of Wonwoo is definitely a 180 from your nightmares. The stoic and heartless image of Wonwoo with devil horns flashes once again. But then, you take another look at him. All you see a shy boy, flushed from a couple of compliments from a classmate he doesn’t even talk to—well, at least, until now. 

You both sit there for a bit in silence, fiddling with your laptops in an attempt to work on your drafted papers. From what you can read, he put a lot of thought into his recommendations. After about five minutes, as the conversation around you begins to stir up again, he turns his body to you. 

“Are the comments okay?” He pauses. “Were they able to help you?” 

You hum and give a small nod. “I think with your suggestions this paper will be a bit easier to write.. I’m sorry for not being able to help you much with yours.” 

He speaks in a small voice that you almost don’t hear. “You did help though…” 

You give him a sheepish smile. “Not really. I gained more from this than you were able to… it’s unfair, sorry...”

“You shouldn’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, you tried your best.” 

You let out a light laugh. “Did I though? I’m sure you’ve gotten more helpful feedback from other people.” 

“Well, most people here don’t really care about this since this doesn’t ‘count for points.’” 

“You’ve got a point.” 

“Alright,” your professor says. “Considering how much you’re all talking, I’m assuming you’re done exchanging your drafts. If you’re done, you can leave. Consider it a reward for finishing early.” 

You start to pack your things, as does Wonwoo. The both of you remain silent for a while, but, as you get up to leave, he speaks up with a soft voice. 

“Did you want to work together on this paper later sometime?” 

Before you can answer, he continues. “I just meant, like… I know you and Seungkwan work together and I was wondering if I could join you two or something. You don’t have to! I was just curious since Seungkwan and I work on it together too and I just thought it would be good if we all meet up.. together or something…” 

“Oh…” Frankly, you didn’t even know they were working on the essay together too. No wonder Seungkwan’s draft was so good—that son of a bitch. On one hand, you already know Seungkwan is most likely to agree. On the other hand, you are still unsure you’re mentally prepared to willingly spend more time with him. 

He’s nice, but you’re apprehensive as to how your brain is going to interrupt this. Who knows what your unconscious can unload? What if he transforms into a demon in your next dream? What if he turns into one of those gross monster-sized spiders and eats you whole? 

Another chill runs down your spine, but you fake an unbothered smile. “I’ll talk to Seungkwan.” 

He smiles back; it’s small, but genuine. 

You sit at the library, tapping your fingers on the table as you wait anxiously for the boys’ arrival. You flip your phone over again, to check the time and any new text notifications from Seungkwan. You were starting to regret all your life’s decisions. Okay, maybe that’s too dramatic—even for you. But, you are regretting your decision of joining Seungkwan and Wonwoo’s study session. 

To be honest, when you said you would talk to Seungkwan, that was 100% a lie. So, when you get a text from Seungkwan… you are more than shocked to find that he has oh-so graciously arranged the study session for you. That also meant getting a couple of pokes from him. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. As if he knew someone was talking shit, he enters the library and easily spots you in your usual corner. He drops his backpack onto the table and sits himself across from you, pulling out his laptop and textbooks. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I had a couple of questions for my professor and…. I forgot how much that man likes to talk.” 

“Hm, sounds like someone I know.” 

“Ha ha, very funny (Y/N).” He opens his laptop and starts to skim through his books, but, eventually, he gets bored and looks back at you.

You feel his eyes on you and look up from your own laptop. “What?” 

“From our last conversation, you said you were scared of Wonwoo.” Save it for Seungkwan to be blunt rather than beating around the bush. 

“I didn’t say that—” 

“It was implied.” 

Your lips purse, finding yourself at a loss of words. “What about it?” you mumble, shrinking into your seat. 

“Soooo,” Seungkwan says. “Why did you agree to the study group?” 

You frown, squinting at him. “I’m sorry, but who decided to put us all into a group chat???” Your frown becomes a pout. “You can’t just put me in a group chat, ask about a meeting time, and think I’m going to be the asshole who says ‘oh no, I can’t make it.’ Then have you point out that I’m not doing anything.” 

He shines a bright smile at you, ignoring your negative tone. “You wouldn’t have joined so otherwise.” 

“Ha! So it was a ruse!” 

“Of course it was.” He leans back to his seat. “You were so scared of him—look at you now, you’re making plans with him.” 

“You made the plans.” 

He waves a finger at you, “Semantics.” 

You can only roll your eyes at him and type away, trying to sort out and prioritize on your latest assignments. “Why do you care so much about what I think about him?” 

He blinks and you swear, for a second, he seems to have run out of words. You raise an eyebrow at his silence. 

“Well... “ He stammers. “I—I just... just want all of my friends… to—to get along and be… friends.” 

Your eyebrows furrow and you hum along, but you don’t believe a single thing he says. “It’s all the subconscious. I never had a problem with him in the first place.” 

“Problem with who?” 

You both turn around to see Wonwoo and another boy standing next to you two. From the unfamiliar voice, you can assume it was said by Mingyu—the other participating victim in the groupchat Seungkwan made. 

“No one,” Seungkwan says. “Problem with no one—right, (Y/N)?” 

You can only stare wide-eyed as you glance between them. “Yes, what he said.” 

Mingyu laughs. “Uhm, okay.” 

They both seat themselves at the table with you and Seungkwan—Wonwoo on one side and Mingyu on the other. They both give you a friendly smile and start to pull out their materials. You can only smile back awkwardly, typing away at your laptop. 

“No offense,” Mingyu says. “I’m glad to be here, but I’m confused why I’m here.” 

“It’s a study group and you’re our friend,” Seungkwan says. 

“We’re not in the same class.” 

“Moral support.” 

“For what?” 

He glances at you, which makes you narrow your eyes at him. He turns his attention back to Mingyu. “For things.” 

Mingyu raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“So,” Wonwoo says. “Shall we get started?” 

“What should we start on?” you ask. 

“I was thinking maybe the essay since that’s due the soonest,” Seungkwan says. 

You all nod along, even Mingyu. 

“So, I’m not involved either way,” Mingyu says. “This is fine, I totally don’t feel left out.” 

Seungkwan shrugs. “You can do other assignments too.” 

Mingyu pouts and his silent sulking is ignored. 

You and Wonwoo chuckle at their antics. “Sorry buddy,” he says. “This plan wasn’t scheduled well.” 

“Hey!” 

Wonwoo ignores Seungkwan and turns to you. “Were you able to work on the essay?” 

You shift in your seat, feeling awkward from suddenly being in his direct line of vision. “Yeah, I did—it’s coming along. Thanks again, by the way.” 

“It’s not a problem. I’m glad I could help,” he says. “Did you want me to look at it?” 

Your eyes widen, meeting Seungkwan’s, who makes a face. To be honest, you haven’t worked on it since you opened it during class and you’re too embarrassed to say you’ve been procrastinating. It’s due in two days and who says you can’t write an essay in one night (who isn’t a professor). 

“Are you having trouble concentrating again?” Seungkwan asks. Before you can answer, he interjects himself. “Is this because you’re still having sleeping problems? Dude, just keep popping those pills.” 

The other two’s attention have been turned to you. You inwardly groan from the eyes and try to focus on Seungkwan—but your body responds for you with a grimace. “Can you not say it like that? It’s melatonin and they’re technically vitamins.” 

“Hmmm, sure.” 

“You have sleeping problems?” Mingyu asks. 

You sheepishly rub the back of your neck. “Yeah, it’s not that big of a deal though.” 

Seungkwan snorts. “Sure it isn’t. It’s not like you were nearly falling asleep when editing my essay just a couple of days ago.” 

You smile. “I bought you boba though.” 

“But can I really be bribed?” 

“Of course not,” you say. “Because no one can afford your high maintenance.” 

Seungkwan’s jaw drops from your bluntness, but there’s a small smile in it. Mingyu doubles over in laughter and Wonwoo tries to hold his in—the smile on his face gives it away, causing you to laugh as well. 

Seungkwan quickly straightens up in defense. “This is what I get for trying to be nice.” 

You give him another teasing smile. 

“Okay, okay,” Mingyu says. “How bad is this sleeping problem?” 

“It’s..” You click your tongue, recalling as to how bad your sleep schedule has been since these nightmares began. “It’s really bad, dude.” 

“You know,” he says, turning his body towards you. “There are foods good for sleep.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, one time I made this banana almond parfait.” 

“Oooh, sounds fancy—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Seungkwan says. “But I doubt that’s going to help (Y/N)’s situation.” 

“Why not?” Wonwoo asks. 

You’d almost forgotten he was there for a second. 

“It’s a subconscious thing.” 

Wait a second. 

“So it’s psychological problems?” Mingyu asks. He props his chin into his hands. “Do tell.” 

You stifle a laugh. 

Wonwoo is the one who speaks for you. “Mingyu, you just met her and you already want to open up her psyche?” 

“What’s a better way to get to know someone?” 

“Anything else, bro.” 

Mingyu’s lips purse, then form into a pout. “Booooooooo.” 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s just move on. We actually have to work on this essay.” 

“Boooooo!” 

“Shut up, Seungkwan.” 

“I don’t care what anyone else says,” Chaeyoung says. “Lizard people are real.”

Yongsun nods along, digging her spoon further into her ice cream. “I’d buy into it. Matthew McConaughey has a lizard smile.” 

You can only sigh in disappointment and put your head in your hands. “Why am I friends with you people?” 

Your comment is ignored and Chaeyoung continues to talk. “Controversial statement: Shawn Mendez? Lizard person.” 

“Oh my God, he kind of does.” Yongsun shows her screen to the both of you. “He has the same lizard smile as Matthew.” 

As the two continue to converse other celebrities with lizard qualities, you sit at the other side of the booth, playing with your food. Dining hall food isn’t great, but it is free. What’s the point of these dinners, if you’re just going to want to throw it back up from these types of conversations? 

A couple of weeks ago, y’all had a whole conversation as to how Ted Bundy got away from his crimes for such a long time (to be honest, he wasn’t even really attractive so….). Then, last week, y’all talked about white boy names—the looks you got from people with those names were absolutely hilarious. Side note: you don’t give a solid shit to anyone named Todd (what Todd have you met that WASN’T an asshole?). 

By now, you’ve just learned to sit back and let these topics just… happen. At some point, these conversations are going to bite you in the ass. 

“(Y/N)?” 

You look up from your plate. 

“I thought that was you,” Mingyu says with a smile. 

You return it with one of yours. “Hey, Mingyu, right?” 

“Yeah! I’m Seungkwan’s friend—although, I’m more known for being Wonwoo’s.” He pauses, before mumbling to himself. “And Jungkook’s…” 

“Wonwoo?” Chaeyoung asks. 

“Jeon Wonwoo?” Yongsun adds. 

“Yeah,” Mingyu says. “You know him?” 

“We’ve heard of him,” Yongsun says, nudging your rib. You smack her elbow away. 

Chaeyoung scoots herself over. “If you want, you can sit with us.” 

“Sure,” he says. “I have class in an hour, so I have time.” He sits himself next to her and looks between you and the other girls. “So, what are we talking about?” 

Yongsun swallows her ice cream, pointing her spoon at him. “Lizard people.” 

You push her spoon out of the way. “Can we please move away from this subject?” 

“They! Are! Here!” Chaeyoung bangs her fists on the table, along each syllable. 

You put your head back into your hands. “Oh my God. You need to stay off the internet.” 

“Lizard people…” Mingyu says slowly. “What is this exactly?” 

You look up, eyes wide and warning. “You do not want to ask her that.” 

“So, there are theories that some people roam around Earth—” 

“And, so it begins.” 

Chaeyoung ignores you. “—as lizards. They are living amongst us and planning to overthrow the human race.” 

“We’ve possibly identified a couple of them,” Yongsun says. “Hear us out. Matthew McConaughey and Shawn Mendez. Thoughts?” 

“You do not have to answer them, by the way,” you say to him. 

As if Mingyu was possessed by someone else, he nods along as he listens. “I could definitely see that. They have weird face structures.” 

Your jaw drops from his participation in your weird dinner discussions. Your respect for him as a person has dropped. “Dude, don’t encourage them!” 

Chaeyoung points at him, as if he isn’t present. “I like him better than that Wonwoo guy.” 

“Ditto,” Yongsun says. 

“I thought you guys didn’t know him?” Mingyu asks. His head tilts to the side—for a second, he looks like a puppy. 

“We don’t,” Yongsun says. She slurps up the remaining ice cream melting from her bowl. “(Y/N) mentioned him and we looked him up—he’s just as hot as (Y/N) said.” 

Your cheeks flush and you flick some of your water in her direction. “That’s not what I said!” 

Her lips purse in response and she continues to slurp from her bowl. Meanwhile, Chaeyoung gives you a look, which you refuse to acknowledge. 

On the other hand, Mingyu’s attention has been turned to you in interest. His eyebrow raises and you start to squirm. 

“So,” he says with a twirl of his fork. “What have you said about Wonwoo?” 

You’d honestly thought this conversation was behind you, especially since you had dodged away from the topic during your study group a couple of days ago. The difference between Seungkwan and these two is that these two have very little regard for your opinion. While they are your friends, they are also very invasive and you are very sure that they will ignore your protests. It’s almost as if they had heard your thoughts—they answer the question for you. 

“She said he’s attractive,” Chaeyoung says. 

“Technically,” Yongsun says. “She said he wasn’t ugly and I think she also said he murders her.” 

Mingyu turns to you with surprise. 

Just when you thought you had died before, you were sure that you have died now and were stuck in your customized purgatory hell. 

“That,” you say into your hands. “Was not what I said.” 

Yongsun squints at you. “Are you sure? Because I distinctly remember you defining your death kink with those weird dreams.” 

You stare at her for a while before deciding on what to say. “Are you on crack? I was sure that your crackhead energy was drained last week during your history exam.” 

“How dare you? I am completely sober.” 

“Debatable.” 

You both turn back to the other two at the table, where Chaeyoung continues to eat and Mingyu stares off with confusion evident in his features. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But what’s the piece I’m missing?” 

“I’ll give you a short version,” Chaeyoung says. “You see, (Y/N) has been dreaming about Wonwoo murdering her and we think it’s a loo—hey!” She grabs a napkin to wipe her, now, wet hair. 

You give her a bright, fake smile as she playfully glares at you and the glass of water you’ve flicked on her. Yongsun chuckles at your antics and turns to Mingyu. “Either way, it’s 100% repression.” 

“Repression of what exactly?” you ask. 

“Attraction,” Yongsun points out. 

You flick some more water at her, ignoring her yelps. You turn your attention to Mingyu. “Ignore them and everything they’ve said because it isn’t true.” 

“Lies!” Chaeyoung says. “Yongsun’s right. It’s probably repression because Wonwoo is definitely hot—stop throwing water at me!” 

You ignore her once again, flicking more water from your glass. “I did not say he was hot. I just admitted that he wasn’t ugly!” 

As you continue to attack your friends with your water, Mingyu stays silent, but makes note from the conversation. Oh, how things will become more interesting….

You continue to type on your laptop, wrapping the conclusion paragraph with one last sentence. You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” you mutter under your breath. This god forbidden essay is done and you can easily turn it in. You look up from your screen, where Wonwoo continues to type on his. 

His glasses sit on the edge of his nose and his eyes are narrowed, as if to physically focus on the words. You have to admit: the glasses suit him and his oversized sweater. While he has worn them every once in a while, this is one of the rare times you’ve seen him this close up. He looks like a soft boy molded from a John Green book. 

You look a glance around and, seeing how he’s gathered the attention of a few people, you can tell you aren’t the only one who’s noticed. To be fair, if it wasn’t for your nightmares, you would be a lot more attracted to him. 

Admittedly, it has been nice to spend this time with him—you managed to reduce some of those nightmares and get a bit more sleep. You might even admit that he’s a friend more than just a classmate now. 

Speaking of friends, Seungkwan and Mingyu are pretty late. It’s been 20 minutes of just you and Wonwoo. You don’t mind, but you all made a plan to meet here (since the essay is due tonight). 

“Are you done with your essay already?” 

Wonwoo’s voice snaps you out of your inner ramblings. You look towards his direction, freezing from the sudden eye contact. “Huh?” 

He clears his throat. “Are you... done? With the essay?” 

“Ah, kind of. It’s probably bad, but it’s done.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine. Let me see.” He gestures to your laptop. 

“Compared to your English major ass?” You pull the laptop closer to you. “No.” 

“(Y/N),” he says with a sigh. “I’m sure it’s not even bad.” He gets ahold of the top of your laptop, lightly tugging it away from your grasp. You can only pout as the device is taken away from your hold and he begins to read. You place your chin into your hands, watching Wonwoo’s eyes dance from sentence to sentence. 

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until he makes eye contact with you and sets your laptop back near you. If he noticed, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, pushing them closer to the bridge of his nose. When his face comes to view, there’s a small smile. “I told you your essay was fine. In fact, you could probably turn it in right now.” 

Your lips purse, considering the idea, even though you were already planning to. Originally, you wanted Seungkwan to check it too—especially since he saw the real rough draft of it, which was a blank document. 

“I kind of wanted to wait for Seungkwan,” you say. “Since we all agreed to do it together.” 

He nods along with your words. “It makes sense.” He looks at you with a head tilt, thinking aloud. “Where is Seungkwan?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you say with a small laugh. “Is Mingyu coming?” 

He checks his phone, wrinkling his nose as he squints at the screen and scrolls through his messages. “Honestly, I have no idea—last time I checked, he was supposed to.” 

“Yeah, I ran into him yesterday and I assumed he was coming too.” 

“Oh yeah,” Wonwoo says. “How was the lunch?” 

“It was actually pretty funny beca—” You stop. You didn’t mention anything about lunch… so, how did he know about that? Your eyes narrow at him. “Did Mingyu tell you already?” 

“Uh.” Wonwoo’s eyes shift. “Kind of?” He hunches a bit more over his own laptop, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Mingyu basically tells me everything.” 

Mingyu basically tells me everything. 

Oh, no. 

You try to recall exactly as to the different topics during that one hour lunch with him. He was almost late to his class, since he was in a heavy debate with Yongsun and Chaeyoung as to whether or not Perry the Platypus cosplayers are considered furries… 

It was a conversation that you had to be there for, in order for the context to be understood. 

There was also the topic of whether Twilight should be watched for ironic purposes and/or the cinematic value of it. There was also discussion about what was the weakest element—which Yongsun was debating on the side of water. 

You were getting off track; curse your friends for having such bizarre conversations. That line shouldn’t have triggered you, but for some reason, it feels off—as if there was something you were forgetting. You look at Wonwoo, who’s sitting across from you with flushed cheeks.

Wait a second. 

She said he’s attractive. 

Death kink with those weird dreams. 

(Y/N) has been dreaming about Wonwoo murdering her. 

Just when you thought things were just starting to become normal-ish between you two. 

Your face flushes as you remember all the things your friends said… which were most likely echoed to Wonwoo through Mingyu (seeing how much blush is present on his face). 

There’s only one thing you can say. “I can explain.” 

He lets out a little, breathless laugh—but it sounds more like an uncomfortable one. 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, I swear.” 

He pushes his glasses up once more. “You—you don’t have to.” 

“It’s okay,” you say. “I should explain myself. It’s not supposed to sound as bad as they made it out to be and it’s not even your fault. I don’t even know why my subconscious chose your face out of anyone else’s. Yongsun said it’s repression, but you probably already know that and—” You sigh. “I’m—I’m sorry.” 

“For what? It’s not really your fault.” 

“Yeah, but I guess, it’s just in general.” Your fingers glaze over the keyboard, absentmindedly toying with the keys. “Over break, I watched a horror movie with my friends and then I started getting nightmares. Again, I don’t know why your face was there, but… it just was.” 

“I’m not mad,” Wonwoo says. “And it’s not your fault—you don’t have to apologize.” 

There’s a small silence, which is just you and Wonwoo looking at one another with wide eyes, unsure as to what happens next. 

“I will say,” Wonwoo says with a small voice. “I’m a bit flattered.” 

“That I dream of you murdering me?” 

“No.” He lets out a small laugh. “That your subconscious ‘chose my face.’” 

You chuckle rather sheepishly when he took the words from your previous rambling. “Yeah… Seungkwan suggested that it was just a face that was most memorable.” You let out a long sigh. “And Yongsun likes to psychoanalyze into things.” 

“So, do you… think my face… is attractive?” 

You look up at him from your keyboard, only to see him dodging your eyes. His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. On the table, you can see that his hands are curled underneath the sweater paws, moving as he fiddles with his fingers. You can feel yourself shrinking into your seat, shyness overpowering you. 

“Well….” you say. “You are… attractive…” You say the last part quieter than you intended, but Wonwoo’s eyes meet yours once the words are said. 

His face turns a shade darker and he smiles a bit wider than before. “Even.. Even if I was part of a nightmare?” 

You nod, but look off to the side to shake off the embarrassment. 

“I think you’re attractive too.” 

Your head turns to him, but his concentration is back to his laptop. While he can act like he didn’t say anything all he wants, the redness of his ears give his emotions away. You press your lips to repress your smile. 

A bag being thrown into the table interrupts your moment. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Seungkwan says, clearly out of breath. “This ladder here wanted to stop by Starbucks and there was a line.” 

“How was I supposed to know?” Mingyu yells. 

“It’s Starbucks! You should have known!” 

“You couldn’t have sent a text?” you ask. 

“My phone died,” he says with a pout. “Speaking of which, do you have a charger??” 

You can only sigh in disappointment, but rummage through your bag nevertheless. “You’re lucky I brought this one.” 

“You’re a lifesaver.” 

“I know, I know. Now sit down and shut up, people are looking.” 

When you open your eyes, you’re running—from what, you are unsure of. This tunnel is nearly pitch black dark. A part of you is calm, but the other is panicking. Probably due to previous experiences you’ve had in this subconscious. You continue to run, refusing to look back at whatever remains behind you, but you can hear its footsteps echoing. 

Your shoes are soaked and continue to splash against the muddy waters, as you continue to run. It stays dark for so long, but then it gets lighter, as if the sun poured itself into the tunnel. The footsteps stop. Whatever’s behind you diminishes. 

But you can’t stop running towards the light, which burns closer and closer. The light embraces you, shining brightly and bouncing along your surroundings. You try to shield your eyes from the sun, only to be greeted by shimmers. Your vision starts to clear, enough for you to identify your surroundings. 

You’re at the park. But what for? 

You stand in the grass, surrounded by trees and rose bushes. The flowers are just in bloom, blossoming towards you, as if you were the sun itself. The skies are clear of clouds and the sun shines down, but it isn’t beating. Butterflies flutter and graze above the ground, but they don’t get close enough to you. The birds are chirping lightly, sounding like a song’s melody. The air is fresh and the aura is soothing. 

As you walk through, you start to soak in the aroma. To the side, you notice a small hill with, no doubt, the best view. A picnic blanket is laid out, along with plates and other objects. 

Someone else is also there. 

It’s a familiar figure, but you can’t make out who it is from the distance. 

You call out. “Hello?” 

The figure turns and there Wonwoo sits.  He has his glasses intact, but, instead of the casual wear, he’s a bit more dressed up—his white button-up showcases his nicely built chest and his slacks reveals how long his legs are. 

He smiles at you, white pearls sparkling and eyes shining—you feel as if it’s almost like the buds have bloomed as well. For a moment, you think you’re stuck in a picture. 

And then the wind blows, brushing his hair against his forehead. 

“Are you coming, (Y/N)?” 

---

Your eyes shoot open. The warmness in your chest is gone and is replaced by the coldness of your sheets. You shift under the covers and attempt to sit up. 

The grogginess stays, but one thing remains in your mind—what was that and why did the dream change? 

It’s 11:15am once again and you sit at your unofficial reserved spot. Your head lies on the desk, awaiting for the other students and your professor to arrive at the lecture hall. Tiredness continues to overpower you as your eyes consistently flutter to shut and reopen. 

A knock on the table interrupts your attempted naptime. You look up to see Wonwoo’s face above yours. He gives you a small smile as he sets his bag on the seat next to yours. From his presence, you sit yourself up and rub your eyes, in an attempt to wake yourself. 

“Are you tired?” he asks. 

You can feel yourself internally curling from his close proximity. “Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

He lets out a small, airy laugh. With a shake of his head, he jokes. “Still getting nightmares about me murdering you?” 

A blush creeps up to your face. “Ha… Not really,” you say. It’s not like it’s a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth. You unconsciously move yourself a bit further from him as you recall the image of him surrounded by roses. “It’s probably just insomnia—bad sleeping habits most likely piled up.” 

He nods, humming along as you speak. He rummages through his bag, pulling out his laptop and notebook. His side profile is illuminated through the sunshine that’s reflected on the window. He looks like he’s sparkling… 

You quickly turn away as soon as he moves his head towards your direction. God, you were starting to stare a lot more than usual. You shake your head as you try to refocus on what you were doing. 

What were you doing? 

Closing your eyes, you try to regain your train of thought—only for you to lose it immediately after. You eventually decide to pull out your laptop and open up your lecture notes. On another tab, you see the essay that you’ve already turned in. 

“Oh,” you say. You turn back to Wonwoo, “I almost forgot, did your essay turn out okay?” 

“Yeah, it took a little bit of editing but I turned it in on time.” 

“I’m sure it turned out great,” you say. “You’re definitely getting an A.” He gives you another shy smile and his cheeks start to blush. You shift into your seat, trying to find a comfortable position. “You’re really smart anyways,” you mumble. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” you say. “Nothing at all.” 

“Well, I’m sure you’re getting an A too,” he says. “It was really well put together. At least, from what I remember.” 

“Ehh.” You shrug your shoulders. “We’ll see.” 

“Give yourself more credit, (Y/N),” he says in a softer tone. “You’re really smart and it’s okay for you to brag.” He turns his attention back to his laptop. His red ears have made a return. 

On the other hand, you position yourself in your seat to straighten up and hide your smile. You take the opportunity to glance around, noticing the other students who’ve entered the lecture hall. Others are starting to enter as well. 

You check the time on your laptop and it looks like it’s time for class to begin. Your professor arrives as well and sets up her materials. 

“Open up your textbooks and turn to page 304. We’ll start with the four categories of ethical theories.” 

Without turning from your laptop screen, your hand hovers over the textbook in your bag, but Wonwoo’s whisper interrupts your movement. 

“Did you forget your book? I’ll share mine with you.” 

You should probably say no, but your hand speaks for you, moving away from the bag. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” 

He gives another smile, leaning closer as he scoots the book towards you. Your professor continues to lecture, going over the slide’s content, but you can’t concentrate—not when Wonwoo’s this close. He smells like fresh laundry, the kind that you want to wrap yourself in before the warmth is gone. When you look at him, the sparkles return, along with the image of him from your dreams. 

“Hold up,” Seungkwan says. “Yongsun thought that water is the weakest element? It’s clearly fire.” 

“That’s what I said!” Mingyu yells. He sighs in disappointment from the recollection of the conversation and moves his strawberry milkshake to the side. “Fire is just a stupid element that can be destroyed by water AND all living things need water in order to survive. There are so many benefits to water and—” He stops himself with another sigh and takes a long sip of his milkshake. 

Next to him, you shake your head with a small laugh. Taking a fry from your plate for a bite, you can only observe and let the conversation take its course. While your focus remains on the other two, your eyes glance over towards Wonwoo, who sits in front of you. 

“I think earth is debatable,” Wonwoo says. “But, I feel like fire is the weakest due to the fact that it’s more destructive rather than productive.” 

While the essay was already due, Seungkwan invited you to dinner at a nearby diner. You figured that it’d be nice to not eat dining hall food for once, so you agreed. But when you got there, you didn’t expect Mingyu and Wonwoo to already be there—hence your current position in front of Wonwoo, next to Mingyu, in a booth, while they’re arguing about the strongest element. 

You blame Yongsun and Chaeyoung for this chaos; if they hadn’t pulled him into this conversation, he wouldn’t have brought it up now—which also dragged Seungkwan and Wonwoo into the discourse. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you say. You continue to gnaw away at your fries, even when all three of their eyes land on you. Typically you’d refuse to engage in these conversations, but you refuse to let them walk around without an argument. 

Seungkwan clears his throat, as if he was asking you to elaborate. Meanwhile, Mingyu continues to sip on his shake and Wonwoo has an eyebrow raised. 

You let out a sigh from the eyes and toss the half-bitten french fry back to your plate before speaking. “You can argue that fire is the weakest, but we cook with fire and that’s what allowed our society to thrive because we started to have less time devoted to farming.” 

Seungkwan and Mingyu’s jaws slightly drop from your point, while Wonwoo smiles. 

“We can technically live without fire,” Seungkwan says. “We can go back to farming and let the animals thrive.” 

“First of all, cold temperatures are a thing and fire provides warmth. Secondly, did you not hear me? Cooking gave us more time to further develop society, so, without it, we would figuratively and literally be unable to live.” 

“She’s got a point,” Wonwoo says. 

“Thank you.” 

Seungkwan’s mouth moves, but no words find their way out. 

“Wow, I left Boo Seungkwan speechless,” you say, as you begin to finish off your fries. “You’re welcome.” 

Mingyu looks on impressively. “Niceeee.” 

“That’s a very hard feat,” Wonwoo says. “I’ll give you points for that.” 

Seungkwan has suddenly regained interest from Wonwoo’s words. He leans his chin on his hand, moving uncomfortably closer to Wonwoo, who attempts to swat him away. “When did you two get along so well?” 

“We have class together,” you say with narrowed eyes. 

“And I sit right next to her,” Wonwoo adds. 

Mingyu smiles slyly. “Since when did that happen?” 

You miss the way he looks over to Seungkwan. Wonwoo blinks at the question and you suddenly have developed more interest towards the salt on the fries. 

“I feel like we shouldn’t be here,” Seungkwan says. 

“You invited me,” you say. “But okay.” 

“I know that,” he says with a huff. “But it just feels like a moment we shouldn’t be in.” 

You roll your eyes in response, but the smile on your face shows no malice. Wonwoo remains quiet—scratching his neck, feeling the heat creep up to his face. 

“So, are you dating yet?” Mingyu asks as he glances between you two. 

“Oh my God,” Wonwoo mutters. He lays his face onto the table with a thud and you almost choke from Mingyu’s directiveness. 

Mingyu goes on, ignoring both of your reactions. “You both like each other right? Well, at least, I know Wonwoo does.” 

“DUDE!” 

“Oops.” Mingyu’s lips pull back. He turns to Seungkwan. “Should we leave now?” 

“Please don’t,” Wonwoo whispers. 

Your jaw drops as you watch Seungkwan nod, smiling at you like nothing’s happened. Seungkwan and Mingyu side out of their side of the booth, but. before they leave, Mingyu drops one hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t worry about the check. Consider it a present from your cupids.” 

“You owe me one, (Y/N)!” Seungkwan shouts from the door. They both head towards the door, giving both of you little waves with their fingers. 

Both you and Wonwoo sit in silence, not knowing what to say to the other. But, in all fairness, Wonwoo owes you the explanation. 

You swallow, suddenly feeling your throat dry up. “If it makes you feel better…” 

He looks up at you from the table. 

“I like you too.” 

A smile grows on his face and he starts to sit up slowly. “Really?” 

“What can I say?” Your smile mirrors his. “My subconscious chose you before I could.” 

He lets out a chuckle, readjusting his glasses and fiddling with his fingers, before settling them on the diner table. They’re free from the usual sweater paws and tap against the bright countertop. 

“Just to be clear,” he says. “You aren’t scared of me?” 

“Well, I was before,” you pause. “But that was before we even really talked or hung out. And now….” 

“What about now?” 

You blush, remembering the roses, the sparkling, the picnic—it all sounds so… nice. You couldn’t think of the words and Wonwoo could sense that. 

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.” 

A sigh of relief escapes you. “Maybe next time then.”

His smile grows. “So, there’s a next time?” 

You nod, feeling the butterflies in your stomach and your heart pounds in your chest. His hand moves towards you, closer and with caution—so yours meets his halfway. When your fingers intertwine, he looks from your hands to you with sparkling eyes and you can feel the warmth return to your chest. 

This. 

This is what feels right. 

[ussthunderquack]

“Come Together” by the Beatles is Nick Fury singing about the Avengers

Shoot me refers to Nick Fury

Nick Fury got shot by the Winter Soldier

Verse 1 is about Thor:

Here come old flat top - 

Thor wears a helmet; as God of Thunder he sometimes works up in the air; he's heir to his throne, and thus would wear a crown, etc.

He come groovin' up slowly - 

Thor, originally, was the most slow and dramatic of the Avengers

He got joo-joo eyeball - 

Thor's eyes sometimes glow when he uses his lightning powers

He one holy roller - 

God of Thunder

He got hair down to his knees - 

Thor had long hair for most of the series

Got to be a joker he just do what he please -

 Thor was the most eccentric of the main four, due to being from another planet. Could also be a jab at Thor not having a great grasp on humor in his early Avenger days.

Verse 2 is the Hulk/Bruce Banner

He wear no shoe-shine - 

Hulk barefoot

He got toe-jam football - 

Hulk is a renowned athlete on the Grand Master's world, and plays dirty

He got monkey finger - 

Bruce Banner is great with technology

He shoot Coca Cola - 

That fateful injection Bruce gave himself, which lead to the Hulk.

He say I know you, you know me, one thing I can tell you is you got to be free - 

Referring to his duo personalities

Verse 3 is Tony Stark

He bad production - 

Tony is the most troubled of the main four, and in the early days, caused the most trouble

He got walrus gumboot - 

Tony often does his own investigating when something doesn't smell right

He got oh-no sideboard - 

Tony's personal issues that he deals with on the side

He one spinal cracker - 

As Iron Man (and even as Tony Stark) he's a badass

He got feet down below his knee - 

He doesn't "kneel" to anyone else, he stands his ground and does what he wants

Hold you in his arms yeah you can feel his disease - 

Referring to his mental "diseases"

Verse 4 is Steve Rogers

He roller coaster - 

Refers to Steve’s inconsistent and increasingly erratic moral compass and priorities 

He got early warning - 

Of the main four, Steve was the first to work as a superhero on Earth, and saw how dangerous supervillains could be before the other four did

He got muddy water - 

As time went by, Steve gradually became less and less "pure" than he thought he was

He one mojo filter - 

In the early days of the Avengers, Steve was known for his humility. In his later Avenger years, this statement becomes more ironic, culminating with his infamous “apology” at the end of “Civil War”  

''He say 1 and 1 and 1 is 3" - 

Steve was the first to leave the Avengers, causing the domino effect of their breakup

Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see - 

Referring to the image of Captain America that the public puts on a pedestal, while the real Steve Rogers struggles with his identity and purpose, and doesn’t have much to offer outside of his superhero persona 

[howaminotinthestrokesyet]

No Stones Unturned: Keith Richards

Keith Richards’ interest in the guitar began at a very early age due to his grandfather. Gus Dupree had been a jazz musician during the big band era, who actually toured with a group called Gus Dupree and the Boys in Britain. His interest in the guitar began when his grandfather placed the guitar on a shelf out of reach of the young Richards. He made a deal with the young child that if he could reach the guitar, then he could play it. In interviews, Richards talks about using all kinds of boxes, cushions, chairs in order to get that guitar, His grandfather began to teach him very basic guitar lessons. The first song that he ever learned was “Malagueña,” a Spanish song. He was able to keep the guitar, but his father a war veteran who have been injured at Normandy did not share his son’s musical enthusiasm. Speaking of his father, upon his death Richards was given his ashes, which led to another humorous story about the guitarist. He said in an interview that he actually smoked his father‘s ashes.

Keith Richards attended Wentworth Primary School until 1954 with fellow classmate Mick Jagger. He also lived as his neighbor until family moves separated the two. The pair met again by chance years later on a train when Richards admired an album Jagger was holding. At the time, the latter attended the London School of Economics. He had sent away for Muddy Waters and Chuck Berry albums by mail to Chess Records in Chicago. They immediately bonded over their love of music. Soon after, they formed a band with mutual acquaintance Dick Taylor called Little Boy Blue. A few years ago, a recording for that very short-lived group was discovered and eventually put up for auction. An anonymous person purchased the recording, who turned out to be none other than Mick Jagger. The band folded when Brian Jones approached Mick Jagger about joining his blues group. This led Jagger to bring Richards along to the Bricklayer’s Pub to meet anyone else interested. Here they met Ian Stuart. The Rolling Stones were officially formed.

As previously discussed, a couple of key observations can be made about Richards and the band. First of all, unlike other bands that revolve around the rhythm of the drummer, the Rolling Stones has their tempo always set by Richards. They look to him in order to determine how fast or how slow they should be playing. On stage, this makes him more of the unquestioned leader as far as the music goes. Off stage, that role has alternated between him and Jagger, but now the singer runs everything. The other thing to be noted is that just like Ron Wood and Brian Jones each guitarist like Richards plays both rhythm and lead sometimes within the same song. This guitar weaving was developed by him and Brian Jones, but it is the talent of Richards that allows this to work so seamlessly. Actually, if you were describe his guitar playing overall you would notice that it stands out as in no way flamboyant or showing off. His solos get right to the heart of the matter, but you never see him venture off like his contemporaries Jimmy Page or Eric Clapton. Another quality of his guitar playing emerges in the acoustic guitar. He believe that playing acoustic was the key to maintaining his excellence as a guitar player. Certain songs like “Street Fighting Man” and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” were actually originally recorded with acoustic guitar, then placed in a tape recorder and overdubbed using a louder speaker. In 1967-1968, he began to experiment with what are called open tunings. I will try not to get too technical here, but his inspiration for it was how a banjo is tuned. This became a trademark of the guitar sound in later years most notably the 1970’s like “Honky Tonk Women.” Vocally, Richards has sung on almost every Rolling Stones studio album with background vocals. He is also occasionally sung tracks on his own with the most notable one being “Happy” on Exile on Main Street in 1972. The song entered the regular concert set list, which led the band to have Richards sing one or two songs at every concert from then on. Another notable track was on Voodoo Lounge entitled “The Worst.” At a young age, As a student he stood out as an excellent singer in the choir, but when adolescence hit his voice changed, which led him to concentrate more on guitar from then on.

Jagger and Richards began their songwriting collaboration beginning with Andrew Oldham Loog coming on board as their manager. Coincidently, it was Oldham that told Richards to drop the S from his name for a time. A few years later he would add it back. Their first top ten hit was actually not for the band, but Gene Pitney. Another hit was “As Tears Go By” featuring Marianne Faithfull. Their first hit featuring the band emerged with “The Last Time” in 1965. Their major breakthrough came with the song “Satisfaction,” which included a famous riff Richards would later say came to him in his sleep. One of the qualities of their songwriting comes in the sheer variety including r and b, folk, reggae, disco, psychedelic, country, funk, and punk. Unlike other bands of the era, as popular music changed, so did The Rolling Stones. The basic process of the pair actually writing a song usually started with Keith producing the first chords and harmony. Mick would then complete the song with lyrics and a bridge. For the longest time, Mick would have to wait for Keith to create the music before he could start in on the track. This became the case with the recording of Exile on Main Street as he alternated between music and shooting up heroin.

Keith Richards has been active as a producer for the better part of his career, as well. Since 1974, he and Jagger have been credited as the producers of every studio album the band has made. The duo also has contributed as a producer for other artists working alongside other producers. For those albums, the pair are usually listed as the Glimmer Twins, which writers will sometimes refer to them in general. Some of the notable artists that Richards has produced for include Aretha Franklin, Ronnie Spector, Johnny Johnson, and a band signed to their record label, Kracker. In 1987, Richards formed the band the X-Pensive Winos as a solo project, which led to the release of the album, Talk Is Cheap. The album would go on to attain a gold status, and it still sells consistently to this day. The reason for the solo project came about because at the time of Jagger was increasingly interested in pursuing a solo album. This stood out as a time referred to in the band as World War III as Jager and Richards had a monumental fight in endangering the very existence of the band. An interesting sidenote to all of this was the band first originated for the Chuck Berry tribute film, Hail Hail Rock ‘n’ Roll. They would release a second album in 1992 entitled, Main Offender, while Richard‘s most recent release as a solo artist came in 2015, Crosseyed Heart.

As popular culture can attest, Richards has a reputation well deserved for his drug use. The interesting thing about it is that he fundamentally embraces that reputation. He has been arrested on drug busts at least five times throughout his career. The most famous one being at his Redlands estate in England in 1967 along with Mick Jagger. The bust cemented the reputation as the bad boys of rock and roll as well. Surprisingly or perhaps not, he has only served time in jail for the first bust. He was subsequently arrested twice in 1973, 1977, and 1978. Yet, one must know that for the Redlands arrest, which in retrospect was completely overblown by the authorities and the media; he only served one day in jail. As previously noted, he was arrested in Toronto in 1977 for heroin possession. At the time, they were planned to charge him with trafficking, which represented a fairly serious charge. His visa was confiscated, so Richards had to remain in Toronto for at least two months until the case came to trial. Thankfully for the guitarist the charge was reduced to possession. He was finally allowed to leave Canada to travel to United States on a medical visa in order to be treated for heroin addiction. For the most part, his use of heroin has always been the number one contributing factor to his legal problems. This final bust was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to his heroin use. The legal troubles from this caused such an inconvenience in his life along with court ordered heroin addiction treatment led him to being able to stay clean since 1978. Since that time, he has only used cannabis and alcohol, but never in moderation at times because that would just not be his style.

As previously stated, his decision to get clean in 1978 led to the end of his relationship with Anita Pallenberg. As that relationship was going downhill, he met model Patti Hansen in 1978, who the guitarist would marry in 1983. They have two daughters together born in 1985 and 1986. He wrote a children’s book about his grandfather introducing him to the guitar co-written by one of his daughters, Theodora in 2014. Her participation in the project made it all the more meaningful because she was actually named for the grandfather.

Actor Johnny Depp, who played Captain Jack Sparrow in the popular Pirates of the Caribbean film franchise previously stated that Richards was partially the inspiration for the character. He utilized a few of his mannerisms for the films. As life will sometimes meet art, the Rolling Stones guitarist actually appeared in the third and fourth films of the franchise. The name of his character was Captain Edward Teague. Coincidently, the other influence Depp used for the character was the Warner Bros. cartoon, Pepe Le Pew. These influences that were mentioned by Depp did raise concerns among Disney executives at first because they did not represent the wholesome image of their brand.

Growing up, Keith Richards was hugely influenced by a few notable artists. One of the first emerged in Elvis Presley in the mid-1950’s. The interesting thing about his admiration for Elvis came in the fact that Presley‘s guitarist Scotty Moore was probably much more influential than the king himself. Richards has stated previously that he listened to Elvis records more for the band, not just the singer. The second influence was Chuck Berry, who he later performed on the same bill with early in his career. This led to a funny story looking back, but maybe not so funny at the time. The Rolling Stones guitarist had picked up Berry’s guitar while he was out of the room. Berry came back seeing Richards holding his guitar, then promptly punched him in the face. He told him that nobody ever touches his guitar. Years later Richards would participate in the Chuck Berry tribute film Hail Hail Rock ‘n’ Roll, so time had healed those wounds apparently. The final influence emerged in many of the blues artists of the day, but if you had to name one it would have been Muddy Waters. The famed blues musician emerged as a giant influence on the band from creating their name to the music that they played. Richards played live with him a few times leading to a lifelong friendship. In 1982, in a BBC interview he was asked if the Rolling Stones could keep going for another 20 years. He answered that it is entirely possible using the example of Muddy Waters still performing and looking vibrant on stage at 80.

Keith Richards currently has three residences including ones in England, Connecticut, and Jamaica. The residence in England is actually the same house, the Redlands estate, where he and Mick Jagger were arrested for drugs in 1967. At home, his favorite dish to eat is shepherd’s pie. In his 2010 autobiography, he actually devoted a paragraph on the best way to cook this very British dish. The drummer from the band, the Stereophonics, once told a story that he had accidentally eaten some shepherd’s pie meant for Richards. He was immediately confronted by him, but no punches were thrown. If the guitarist is not working on any music, one thing that may surprise some people comes in the fact that he likes to read books. Although he never attended college, Richards reads quite a bit with a preference for history. He would say in an interview that if he had not become a musician, then he probably would have been a librarian. During his days of using heroin, he once said that he really regretted the fact that it prevented him from doing things like going to a movie or reading a book. Funny guy.

[tortleofwar]

Malcolm

It wasn't even Monday and things had started to go downhill. Malcolm rounded the corner to his restaurant and was greeted with the sight of shattered glass and an alarm going crazy. Shaking his head he trudged through the puddles to reach the front door. Once inside Malcolm poured himself a glass of Crown Royal and sat at the bar. This night could only get worse if he was blamed for this.

Malcolm had gotten the alert about the restaurant an hour ago and jumped out of bed immediately. While racing down the stairs he'd forgotten his keys and locked himself out. No keys meant no car. So Malcolm had to walk throw the the rain with no umbrella or coat to protect him from the storm. His soaked and muddy attire gained stares and giggles as he made his way through the busy downtown streets.

Cars splashed him as they drove past. No taxis would stop to pick him up and the building was an hour away. Whoever broke in would surely get away with whatever it was they were looking for. Malcolm's pm prayed the cops showed before he got there to sort everything out. But his prayers fell on deaf ears that night.

After finishing his drink, Malcolm walked through to see what the damage was going to cost him. The front windows and glass door alone would total close to $6,000. That deserves another drink. It would take months to pay off a loan that size. Malcolm walked to the back, glass in hand.

Multiple utensils were missing but nothing too important. Dishes shattered on the floor. Some food items were missing, but Sunday was Malcolm's shopping day to restock the business. For the life of him, Malcolm couldn't think of who would do this and how no one saw it. The streets were packed, cars flew past at least once every two minutes, and the cops had yet to arrive.

Swirling his drink Malcolm headed to the front to top off his glass. He looked up to see three cops with guns pointed and fearful looks in their eyes. Malcolm raised his hands as he rolled his eyes.

"Here we go again." He thought as the three cops trained their weapons on him. "Ain't this about a..."

One cop put their gun down and walked carefully towards him. Malcolm could see her Auburn hair under her cap and a pair of green eyes staring at him. The last time he got lost in a pair of green eyes was Helen ten years ago. The chances of this being her were slim.

"Malcolm Little?" A soft voice called out quizzically. "From Drover Way?"

Malcolm had left that part of his life behind. If someone knew him from there he'd have been better off with the cops shooting. In an attempt to garner good will Malcolm responded.

"Yeah. That's me. Who are you?"

"Guns down guys. This guy couldn't hurt a fly let alone rob a joint like this." There was a slight giggle to her words as she waved off her partners. Returning her attention to Malcolm she asked, "You don't remember me do you?"

"Helen?" Malcolm guessed. His hands were still raised as he tried to get a better look at her. "Is that you?"

"Helen was my daughter. You two were nearly inseparable." She removed her cap and shook out her ponytail.

"Mrs. Williams?" Malcolm stumbled over her s words as he looked her up and down. "It's been decades. You look great."

"Thank you darling." She posed playfully and approached for a hug. During the embrace she whispered, "It's Ms."

Malcolm pulled away and tilted his head at Ms. Williams.  Although his heart had belonged to Helen, he’d have been lying if he said the thought never crossed his mind.  But now wasn’t the time for that. He broke the eye contact and noticed the awkward stances from the other officers. Walking behind the bar he lifted three glasses and pointed to the wall.

“I assume there needs to be a report filed.  Pick your poison and I can tell you what I know.”

Behind the bar was a wall of alcohol. Different rums, vodkas,and other exotic glasses were lined up on three shelves.  Malcolm slid the glasses out to three stools and gestured for them to sit.  The two male officers raised their hands to decline while Ms. Williams bounced onto a stool.  She stared up at the shelves looking over each bottle.

“We are still on the clock. To imbibe in any libations would be against the rules.” Cop 1 waved his hands while shaking his head.  “We just need to get the report and we can move on.”

“We can wrap this up in five minutes and be on our way.”  Cop 2 looked at Ms. Williams.  “Deputy if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’ve only got 30 minutes left on my shift.”  She turned to look at her peers.  “I can get the report and have it back at the station if you guys want to leave.”

“Are you sure?”  Cop 2 looked Malcolm over again.  “We wouldn’t want to leave you in a dangerous situation.”

“She laughed at this remark.  “I told you he couldn’t hurt a fly.  Besides, when it comes to me, he knows to be on his p’s and q’s.”

Malcolm blushed and shook his head as she said all this.  He’d already started to pour his third glass to  sip on.  The cops looked at each other and shrugged.  Turning for the door they looked back one last time.

“I could cuff him to the bar if it would make you guys feel better.”  She teased them and winked at Malcolm.  “I’ll take my cruiser home for the night.  Will you guys let the Captain know what went down.”

Her laughter could be heard as the cops left the building.  Turning her attention back to the wall, Ms. Williams continued to gawk at the selection.  Her brow knotted, she sighed and slumped down.

“I could really go for a sweet wine right now.  Drink off the day's worries.”  She reached for a notepad and turned to see a bottle of Tokaji Aszu on the bar.  With a smile she pushed her glass forward.  “You’ve traveled I see.”

“I needed something to take my mind off of this place.”  Malcolm swapped her glass for a flute.  “No matter how far away I got though, my heart always wanted to come home.”

“Is that why you  came to your parents’ restaurant tonight?”  As she sipped her wine, she looked around writing details about the building to file in the report.

“This is actually my business.  My parents have more experience running a business so I left them in charge while I take online classes.”  Malcolm moved around the bar to sit next to Ms. williams.  “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“Helen has fallen off the map.  The last time I saw her was when you two split.  Jessie picked up a guitar and left town.  That boy has always had a flair for presentation.  He’s part of that band Swaying Hills.”  She took another sip of wine.  “Aleina is actually getting married next Autumn.  They are coming back here and having a small ceremony.  I hope everyone can get back in time for it.”

“That sums up my curiosity.  Is there anything you need for the report Ms Williams?”

“Aside from the obvious damage, what else was taken?”

“A few utensils from the back. Some of my pots and pans are also gone.  I’m not worried about the food they took.  Today is my market day. Mom drags me to every store to make sure we have the freshest ingredients.”  Malcolm looked her over again.  Straightened hair, horn rimmed glasses, and a uniform.  He could have been in love if it were another woman.

“Alright.  Do you have any idea who might want to hurt you or who would do this?”  She shook her glass to signal that it needed a refill.

With a chuckle, Malcolm slid off the stool and proceeded around the bar.  Vanessa’s eyes followed him as she pretended to write in her notepad.  With a lick of her lips and a shudder she returned to her work.  Malcolm refilled the glass and opted to stay behind the bar.

The conversation bounced between work and catching up.  Vanessa polished off a bottle and a half of wine before they were finished with her work.  As she headed for the door Malcolm watched her hips sway with the seductive expertise of a woman.  The girls he’d been bedding paled in comparison to what he was seeing.  Dirty images filled his mind as Malcolm’s eyes trailed up her body.  He eventually locked eyes with Vanessa and turned away embarrassed.

Pleased that she could still catch the eyes of young studs, Vanessa leaned against the doorway.  Her pose caused the frame to draw full attention to her breast.  Vanessa waited for Malcolm to return his attention to her.  She slowly stroked the frame while eying him.

“How are you going to lock up with the front exposed like this?”  Vanessa’s voice was heavy with seduction.  Malcolm’s shifted posture told her it hit its mark.  So she continued while bending to touch the bottom of the frame.  “If you have the wood for this job, I’m sure I could help you finish it off.”

Malcolm was biting his lower lip and twisting his face.  His thoughts of her were not what he should have in his head.  This woman had raised the girl he once thought was his soulmate.  Maybe it was the wine or it could have been the circumstances, but she was teasing him and Malcolm wasn’t the type to back away from a challenge.

Once he’d regained composure, Malcolm proceeded to the front room.  He drew down the solid metal walls that were normally used to keep the store safe at night.  Malcolm brushed past Vanessa close enough to smell the perfume she was wearing.  He pulled down the other wall with a look of superiority.  Malcolm returned to Vanessa who had returned to her original leaning pose.

“That should do it.”  Malcolm gestured for her to lead the way.  “After you.”

Vanessa’s sway was not deterred by Malcolm’s efforts. Evident in her walk and twirl to lock eyes as she moved towards the cruiser.  Malcolm gave enough space to get a good view of her body while remaining close enough to let her know he was interested.  As she slid her hand over the roof and Malcolm got closer, Vaness pushed out her rear to bump into Malcolm.

In an instant Malcolm was slammed into the cruiser and pressed into the door.  He felt Vanessa’s breasts heave as her breath brushed past his ear.  A look of shock and concern coated his face as he looked back to see what she was doing.

“Assaulting an off duty officer is a VERY serious offense Mr. Little.” Vanessa’s free hand started patting him down starting at the shoulders and running down his side.  Eventually she got a handful of cheeks.  The concern left his face as only surprise could describe what Malcolm was feeling. Vanessa disappeared for a brief second and found its way to his crotch.

“A hidden weapon?  I’ll have to take you to confiscate this and ask some questions.”

Vanessa slapped on the cuffs on the crowded street and shoved Malcolm into the back seat.  She slammed the door and got up front.  Malcolm sat in surprised silence as the car turned down back roads and sped through intersections.  Eventually the streets began to look familiar and Malcolm realized they must be heading to her house.

As they approached the house Vanessa showed no signs of slowing down.  Malcolm gawked at  the house as they passed it. The color and life itself looked like it had been drained from it.  An eyesore on the neighborhood if he was being honest.  Vanessa turned down another street and drove to the end of a cul de sac.  Malcolm used to play ball at the house they parked at.  Mr. Jerome would always play against the kids two on one, but he never lost a game.

Vanessa pulled into the driveway and got out. She opened the back door and let Malcolm out.  As he marveled at the house she shoved him up the path to the front door.  In a flash it seemed like he was inside.  Warm lighting greeted him and the yelp of a small dog.  Vanessa didn;t undo the cuffs as she led him away.

“Searge we got a serious offender here.”  The once approaching yelps began to fade as if redirected.

“That’s a well trained dog.”

“Shut up criminal.”  Vanessa barked.  She leaned in to lick at his ear.  “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”  Malcolm figured it was best to play along rather than fight this.  Why talk yourself out of a good time?  “This is extreme misuse of power.”

“I got you on camera.  Assaulting a uniformed officer.”  Vanessa threw Malcolm onto a couch.  “And sexually no less.”

“Look, it wasn’t even like that. I was just trying to get past you.”  Malcolm looked around noticing the interior decor.  It was filled with various flowers and light colored birds.  “My bad if you took it that way.”

“So you’re saying I got the facts wrong?”  Vanessa leaned down.  Malcolm noticed half of her buttons were undone. Underneath her uniform was a black lace bra fitted to show ample cleavage and give the girls a lift.  “I didn’t find this dangerous weapon on you?”

Vanessa reached again but this time her face showed confusion.  She looked from his crotch to his eyes with bewilderment in her face.  Malcolm shrugged.

“You have to warm up the engine before you take it for a drive.”  He lifted his brow seductively.  “But the ride always brings satisfaction.”

After hearing his words Vanessa backed away and undid her belt. She swayed and gyrated her hips as she turned away from Malcolm.  She looked over her shoulder as the sound of her zipper was heard.  Vanessa walked backwards to wiggle her butt in Malcolm’s face as she pulled her pants down.  To his surprise there wasn’t anything underneath.  Malcolm looked on, licking his lips and enjoying the show.

Vanessa kicked her pants into a corner and turned to face Malcolm again.  His eyes drank in her sexy visage.  Toned legs, wide hips, and ample breast all laid out in front of him.  Malcolm tried to reach but was reminded he was still cuffed.  Vanessa walked towards him as she undid the rest of her buttons.  As she approached her smile grew.

“I see we have found that weapon you hid so well earlier.”  Dropping the shirt on the ground, Vanessa crawled towards Malcolm.  “By the looks of it we could be dealing with a magnum. Thick.  Heavy. Fully loaded.”

“Look ma’am.  If you’re so convinced I have a weapon then search me thoroughly and find out for yourself that I’m innocent.”  Malcolm locked eyes with Vanessa and lifted his chin for her to get closer.  “When I’m proven innocent, I expect to be compensated for my wasted time.”

“I intend to search you thoroughly.  Make no qualms about that.” Vanessa climbed up Malcolm’s body and stopped when she was eye level with him.  “And what you see as a waste, I see as building police/community relations.”

Vanessa kissed Malcolm hard and forced her tongue into his mouth.  When she broke the kiss Malcolm found a metallic taste in his mouth.  He pushed out a key and looked down at Vanessa.

“If you can get out before I get you off the game continues.”

[mysticsparklewings]

On The Edge

It feels like it's been quite some time since I sat down and got to work on a more involved mixed-media project. And in plenty of ways it has, but I have been working on other artsy projects behind the scenes, which I should be posting sometime soon, I hope. Anyway, this artwork had to be moved to the top of my priority list and also my upload schedule (some of those other projects are already finished, just back-logged) because this is my entry into the Arteza Awards hosted by, shocker, Arteza, and the deadline to enter was the 24th. I actually started working on this piece a week or two early, but me being me, I procrastinated and only just barely got it posted to Instagram with the appropriate tags (per the contest rules) with about 20 minutes to spare.  Then again, maybe that's a good thing because I've been known in the past to pull some of my better work out of thin air at the last minute. If that proves the case this time, it would certainly be to my advantage. Anyway. There was no set theme for the contest. The main rules were that you had to use Arteza supplies and they needed to be visible in the image posted to Instagram. I understand why, but I normally don't photograph my art with the supplies because I can usually get more accurate colors and proportions with a scan, and you can pretty much always see the details way better on a scan. But considering the prizes on offer, I wasn't about to let that stop me. I figured I'd just post the supply image first, then add the scan so you could swipe to see it. That way I could have my nice scanned version and still follow the rules. (Also, since they specify Instagram is the main platform for the contest, I'm assuming it doesn't matter if I don't post the supply picture everywhere else. If it does...whoops :P ) For reasons I don't think I should get into here, I knew I needed to go for something kind of high-impact when you first glance at it. But it also needed to not be too involved, lest I be working on it well after the entry window closed and my efforts become somewhat less valuable. I'm not exactly sure how, but this led me around to a concept I've had floating around in my head for a while: A girl (because I am one and know I can draw them better) standing on a mountain top, that looks as if she's one step from free-falling. Originally, I dreamed up this idea hoping to make it into an acrylic painting, but (aside from that fact that I didn't get around to executing the idea until now) I do not own Arteza'a acrylic paints (though I have wanted them for quite some time--It just hasn't happened yet) and also acrylics are not my strongest suit, so now did not seem like the time for an impulse-purchase that could compromise the integrity of my work and therefore my chances in the contest. Although for the day I do get my hands on their acrylics, I now have a solid idea to use to test them out.  ;) The Arteza supplies I do have at my disposal are their tube watercolors, woodless watercolor pencils, and 72 expert colored pencils. Which as I learned the last time entered a contest hosted by Arteza, is a fairly limited variety as to what I can actually do. The watercolors by far as the most versatile and my personal favorite of the three though, so they're what I used the most of here. Also, somewhere between deciding to run with my standing-on-the-edge idea and actually doing it, I also decided to add-in the wings in this constellation style I've used somewhere infrequently but am very fond of. As a result, the whole concept has a very similar feel to me as this artwork that I found here on dA years ago and fell so in love with that it spent a good few months as my desktop wallpaper. Obviously, the two images are very different, but to me the idea of the wings is similar: Their structural integrity to fly is questionable, as the wings in the original image appear to be made of glass. Maybe it matters, maybe not. Same thing here: Maybe the wings are really there and just look like a constellation, or maybe this girl just stood in exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. Is the girl even there? Is she real? Can she die? Does it matter if she falls? Would she choose to fly at all, whether the wings work or not? It's sort of a Schrodinger's Cat situation, and something about that is really intriguing to me. Anyway. I started out with a digital sketch this time, mostly to iron out the kinks with...well, everything. I knew getting the right pose would be difficult, and I actually had a pretty different one of her looking out over the edge, maybe clutching her chest or something, originally, but I just couldn't get it to work the way I wanted to and I really struggled to find references for it, so I went with the pose you see here, that I found references for by accident while looking for the other one. I have to admit, seeing the final product I think this pose might actually have been the better choice anyway. The mountain/cliff/whatever I was also having a hard time finding references for, at least for exactly what I wanted, so in the end I had to mostly wing it. I think it turned out okay, though. The wings were probably the most challenging part to plan because I wanted something between traditional butterfly/fairy wings and something that stretches out farther like bird or bat wings. I toyed with the lines for a long time until I got something I was happy with, and then I actually went in and did the constellation lines for both sides by hand instead of doing one side and making a flipped copy, because I wanted to make sure I kept the overall shape of the wing on the (our)right (her left), as after all the warping I did to get the original lines, I wasn't sure I could replicate the process again. I also drew 2 or 3 versions of a simple dress over the figure before giving up because I wasn't happy with how any of them were turning out and decided that I would instead preserve her modesty with magically misty cloud-things. Although, it's kind of a shame because that ended up mostly hiding the one piece of hair clinging over her left (our right) shoulder. :P But once the digital sketch was done so I had some idea of what I was doing, it was time to move on to the traditional, actual artwork. I cut a piece of my 100% cotton paper down to size (nice paper because I didn't want to be held back in that regard--go big or go home, as they say) and then held it up to me screen to trace my cliff lines into place, and some vague markers for the figure and her wings. My idea from the very beginning was to make the galaxy largely with watercolor in such a way that it gives the wings color and focus, without having to actually color all the individual segments. This means lighter colors towards the main area of the wings, and getting darker as I moved out/away from them. Now, because it has been a while since I was painting with watercolors regularly, I did set aside a smaller piece of the same paper and busted out a practice baby galaxy before diving into the final. I learned very quickly I was going to have to be extremely careful with my placement of this orangey color and black, less either of them ends up mixing with colors they weren't supposed to and leaving me with a big muddy mess. (The practice piece did survive though and I'll be posting it some other time.) Before I could get to the fun part [the galaxy] though, I painted the mountain with a mixture of black and blue, which actually went a lot smoother than I thought it would. It took several light layers of blending out the paint built up slowly, but ultimately I'm pretty happy with how the color for it turned out...Even if it's still kind of up for debate how much it looks like a "mountain" or "cliff-edge" or not.   With that out of the way, I cut some paper to act as a mask for that section and then spent far too long going back and forth, putting down layers of color and blending them out, dabbing color on and waiting for it to dry, rinse, repeat, trying to get the Galaxy portion just right. I was actually having a fair amount of trouble getting the right color balance, and as sometimes happens with these things, I was pretty worried about how it was looking before I went to bed that night. (I had procrastinated just long enough that I had 2 nights to do this is; the bulk of the painting took place on night 2) But the next day, once it was fully dry, it didn't look so bad. It did need just a few more touches before I went in and added the splatter/stars, though. So I broke out the colored pencils, which I really should have done sooner because they were much easier to blend out and had a bit more covering power over the watercolor than...more watercolor because watercolor is often transparent and there it can be hard to cover with it. Admittedly, I still had more worries about the "naked" galaxy, but then I went to splatter town with the white, added a few pointed stars, and as it usually does, that really brought everything together and made it look a lot better. Never underestimate the power of a good splatter-fest! ;)  I must say though, I underestimated the combination of the white watercolor and white colored pencil together when I moved on to the figure and wings. I was trying very hard to not use my white gel pen (because the rules for the contest didn't say if it was okay to use non-Arteza supplies in conjunction with Arteza supplies or not) and so I was sort of bending over backward to find another way with my limited resources. (Although I assumed using a lightbox to see the lines underneath the paint, as is a normal practice for me, wouldn't really matter because it's not like you can really tell from the final product anyway.) Still, even though a mixture of paint lifting, the white colored pencil, and the white watercolor were better than I expected, I still ended up having to punch the lines up a bit digitally to get them to pop the way I wanted them to. But oh well, at least it made a nice glowing effect and mostly worked for the cloud-mist covering. :P  Overall though, I do really like how it turned out. If it weren't a little on the small side I might actually consider using it as my new wallpaper/banner art everywhere. Maybe that's a conversion project of some kind for another day? Point being, I'm pleased. I probably won't place in the contest because I'm just too small of a fish in this pond, but I made some pretty art and it was mostly fun, so no harm done. :)  Actually, if this could maybe be the excuse my brain needs to get back into posting regularly, that would actually be really great. I miss it, despite what my most recent journal entry and my spotty activity levels might lead one to believe. If it is, I hope you guys don't mind seeing some crafty things thrown into the mix! :D  ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings 

____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

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XXIX. Lost

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Lecter Sanders, the doctor assigned on Scouting Legion patients that one fateful day, was having trouble on how he could properly execute the Commander's orders.

He was a man of vast knowledge when it comes to his field of expertise. He was actually sought after by the elites of Wall Sina because of that. He was also known for being the only Wall Rose expert who has successfully treated over a hundred patients during the course of only three years after graduating and passing the license exams. On top of that, he was also known for being the most calm and patient among his colleagues.

Doctor Lecter Sanders was also a man of his word.

A man of truth.

So, essentially, what the Commander of Scouting Legion was asking him to do was far beyond his imagination.

What he's asking him to do was downright illegal!

But, for a hefty price?

"No, no, no!" he said to himself as he walked down the hallway towards the designated room. "This is against my own will! But, why did I agree?!"

Yes, why did he agree?

When he finally reached the door that separated him from the said patient, he stopped, closed his eyes and breathed heavily.

He was aware of the danger this action and what it could cause him and his position should this thing gets out on public. The Commander knew that, as well. But, he promised to make sure that that would not happen. Not in a million years,...

Oh, hell and it's demons,...

He cleared his throat, readjusted his fine tie, and finally knocked on the door.

"Miss?" he called, and when no one answered, he decided to come in.

It was on that room that he found a very confused looking female who was looking out on the window. He closed the door and decided to get this thing over and done with.

"I'am glad that you are awake, Miss." he said nervously. "I'am Doctor Lecter Sanders of Jinae District, and I'm here to - "

But, he was interrupted when the girl looked at him with such confused eyes that he momentarily forgot his own troubles.

"Doctor?" she said to him, her wounds and bruises actually distracting the hell out of him.

"Yes, Miss?"

"What am I doing here?" she said.

"Oh, you were in a state of deep sleep. It's only natural that you feel - "

"No."

"Sorry?"

The girl looked as if she was on the verge of tears.

Doctor, expert, or not, Lecter's not really good with women.

Especially ones who are on the verge of tears.

"It's perfectly fine, Miss."

"It's not fine, doctor." she said, the pitch of her voice an octave higher.

"I'm afraid I don't understand,..."

"I don't understand all of this, as well." the girl went towards him and only stopped when she was just three feet away from him. "I,... can't remember anything!"

"You,... can't remember,... anything?"

"Even my own name!" she whined. "Doctor, who am I? What am I doing here? Why am I dressed like this?"

Lecter couldn't decide what his reaction was going to be; whether to get worried for the girl or to get relieved because his job became so much easier for him to deal with.

But, all things and worrying aside, this seemed to be a very serious case.

He never had a patient with lost memories before.

And, it was totally unheard of.

Is the Commander aware of her condition?

"Doctor?" the girl asked once more.

Lecter chased away the doubts in his mind, all the while taking this opportunity to perform what he was originally asked, or ordered, to do.

"Your name is,..."

Before he could even answer, the door suddenly burst open, and in came a stunning blonde and a gloomy looking dark - haired teen who both looked as though they were being chased by a killer.

Both the Doctor and the girl looked at the two with such confused looks on their faces.

The blonde woman, who, apparently, realized that she just invaded an important conversation between the two, just smiled at them, pretending that nothing ever happened. This earned a strange look from the moody teenager, who just rolled his eyes on the people before him as if they were just peasants.

"(F/N), I'm glad you're awake!" the blonde said to the confused girl.

"(F/N)." the girl replied. "Is that it? Is that my name?"

The woman raised an eyebrow at the Doctor, who just gave her an I'm trying to tell you look.

The moody teen just looked at each person with complete disinterest.

The woman, who just realized what the Doctor was trying to tell her, cleared her throat and decided to take things into her own hands. She went towards the girl and placed a reassuring hand on top of her shoulder.

"Yes, your name is (F/N). (F/N) Carlstead. And you are my niece." she said to her.

"You are my - ?"

"I'm your aunt, yes. I'm Marie Dawk. And this is my son, Jonas. He's your cousin." she said while pointing at her son.

Lecter Sanders breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God it wasn't me who told her that lie, he thought.

"What am I doing here? Why can't I remember anything?"

"You were, ah,..."

"Involved in a carriage accident, yes." the Doctor helpfully said. "The damage to your head must've caused the memory loss. I may have to study on that to further understand it, yes."

"But, I will get my memories back, right?"

The Doctor was speechless. He honestly didn't know whether her memories will return or not.

"Of course, dear." Marie said, keeping things positive for the girl.

"Unless you're a hopeless case, that is." Jonas said, his eyebrows raised in utter doubt.

"Jonas!" Marie scolded.

"Just saying." the teen uttered and shrugged his shoulders.

All of a sudden, they could hear the bells of the nearest church ringing, signalling the return of the Scouting Legion from their week - long expedition.

"Our time is running out." Marie whispered.

"What?" the girl asked her.

"Nothing, dear. We're going home now. Let's go."

The Doctor scratched his temple, relieved that the girl was finally going out of the room and out of his life.

The girl was about to put on the coat provided by Marie when something suddenly entered her mind.

"I,..."

"Yes, dear?"

"Someone was here with me, I,... remember saying his name,..."

"His?"

"Yes." the girl said. "He's,..."

But, of course, she can't remember. No matter how hard she tried to rack her brains, she just couldn't conjure an image of that someone on her mind.

"Are we done here?" asked Jonas, getting more and more irritated as time passed by.

And so, Marie and Jonas left with (F/N), not looking back at the Headquarters, even once.

It was also during that time that she was given a new name, a new home, a new family, and a new identity.

It's as if a new (F/N) was born.

Approximately an hour after the three of them left, the Captain of the Scouting Legion entered the room, only to find two nurses rearranging the sheets of the empty bed where (F/N) used to lay down. The nurses looked gloomily at him.

Of course, they were also ordered by the Commander to keep up with the Doctor's act.

"Where is (F/N)?" he asked them, fear and nervousness starting to linger on his soul.

The nurses looked at each other, looking confused and nervous. They looked at him once more.

They wanted so much to tell him the truth.

"She's gone." one nurse said.

It hurts, but they had to do it.

"What do you mean she's gone?"

"Sir, I'm afraid to say that she passed away. She's gone, Captain Levi."

Levi couldn't believe what he just heard. For a brief moment, he looked at the nurses with a bemused expression.

"You're joking, right? Tell me it's all a lie, please."

A tear rolled down the face of one of them and the other just shrugged her head helplessly.

Captain Levi may think that (F/N) was dead, but Commander Erwin Smith thought differently.

He thought,...

Marie came,...

...just in time.

******

(F/N) collapsed on the bed, gaining a surprised look from the girl who was already lying on it.

"You look,... happy." the girl said to her.

(F/N) looked at the pretty blonde girl, her (E/C) eyes shining in delight at what just happened to her an hour ago in the living room.

"I just met someone."

"Oh, you mean Lord Shunerman and Lady Baxter?" the girl covered her face with the pillow, her muddy mood due to her monthly flux still not leaving her. "And, what about it?"

"Nothing."

The girl threw her pillow across the room and looked at (F/N)'s eyes. "Nothing?"

"Nothing! I just felt,... really happy. For some reason,..."

"Oh, really?" the girl yanked the white sheets off her and sat up straight. "Then, why are your eyes shining like - oh! Don't tell me you like Lord Shuner - "

"No, it's nothing like that, Rosemarie!"

"Yeah, you better hope it's nothing, (F/N)." Rosemarie answered her. "He's engaged. You have no hope against him."

"I'm telling you, it's not like that!"

"Okay, I'm just saying. You better find someone else in the Season. And find someone who's tall, handsome, and rich."

(F/N) stared at her cousin, amazed at her sarcasm. She was so glad that she got along with her. And she was so thankful that she's not like her moody younger brother, Jonas.

But, her, finding a tall, rich and handsome bachelor?

That was beyond her.

And she's not even thinking about getting married.

Yet.

***

~ @levi4mikasa , @unhappysap , @yepps , @shewolfofficial , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

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💜💜💜

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