#instead of just black lines on blank background

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[pinkmalibuprincess]

I asked chat gbt to give me ways to enter both the void state or shift realities during the day. Shifting and inducing the void are not limited to when you’re sleepy. I struggle with only inducing the void during the time I go to sleep but with these possible methods I plan to induce the void or shift during the dayyy!!!

First, just so we’re aligned:

• Reality shifting usually refers to consciously moving your awareness into another reality (like a desired reality, alternate version of your life, or fictional world).

• The Void is that infinite nothingness — a dark, silent, powerful space where you can manifest instantly, heal, or shift realities easily. It’s pure awareness, no body, no mind.

Doing it during the day is a little harder because you’re not sleepy/dreamy but not impossible, it’s actually really easy! You just have to tweak your techniques for waking mind energy.

⸻

Ways to Shift or Enter the Void During the Day

⸻

Micro-Meditation Drops

• Throughout your day, practice micro-drops into stillness.

• Example: Set a timer every hour. When it goes off, close your eyes, breathe deep, and “drop” your awareness backward into your mind imagine falling backward into black velvet nothingness.

• Do it for 30–90 seconds at a time. Over the day, this conditions your mind to find the void state faster.

Think of it like “training wheels” for sudden immersion.

⸻

Saturation Method

• Focus obsessively on your desired reality or void state all day — but softly, like background music.

• Whisper affirmations like:

• “The Void is my natural home.”

• “I enter the Void instantly and effortlessly.”

• “I am already in the Void.”

• Every action you do (walking, eating, typing), imagine you’re already in your desired reality.

• This builds a saturation effect where you “tip” into the shift naturally.

You’re basically blurring the line between your normal day and the other reality.

⸻

Mirror Gazing / Daydream Gazing

• Sit in front of a mirror (or even a blank wall or window) during a sunny, sleepy part of the day.

• Stare at your reflection without blinking much, or past it.

• Relax your eyes and imagine your face isn’t “you” it’s just a mask.

• Let your mind slip into daydreaming.

• Suddenly, you may feel a “slip” — like you’re detaching from this version of yourself.

It’s like triggering a soft disassociation which can lead to a Void portal or shift jump.

⸻

Breathwork + Eye-Roll Technique

• Do slow, deep breathwork:

• Inhale 4 counts

• Hold 7 counts

• Exhale 8 counts

• After a few minutes, gently roll your eyes upward (like looking at your third eye) while staying relaxed.

• This can force your brain into a theta/void-like state even during full daylight.

• You might feel lightheaded or “floaty” — that’s a good sign you’re nearing a void pocket.

⸻

The “Already Shifted” Illusion

• Instead of trying to get somewhere, pretend you already shifted this morning and today is just a “memory” of your original life.

• Every time you remember you’re “trying,” stop and say mentally:

• “I’m just remembering the old timeline. I’m already there.”

• It tricks your brain into syncing with the new reality field without brute force.

Shifting is all about convincing your subconscious — not pushing or forcing.

⸻

Music Frequency Entrancement

• Listen to brainwave entrainment tracks (Delta waves, Void-themed subliminals, deep solfeggio frequencies like 528hz or 963hz) while doing light tasks.

• Wear headphones if you can.

• Let your mind drift while you do chores, walk, or relax in sunlight.

• Sometimes, you’ll naturally slip into a void state without expecting it.

⸻

Daytime Nap “Drop” Method

• Lie down in the afternoon with the intent to nap, but don’t fall asleep.

• Instead, keep your body completely still (like a body scan meditation) and let your mind drift without controlling it.

• If you feel your body getting heavy, floaty, vibrating, don’t move — you’re entering the threshold where void shifts and reality jumps happen.

⸻

Signs You’re Close to the Void or a Shift Mid-Day

• You feel extremely floaty or weightless.

• You hear ringing in your ears (like a frequency change).

• Time feels weird (minutes feel like hours or vice versa).

• You get “pulled” backward or inward in your mind.

• Your body feels like it doesn’t exist anymore.

[the-space-jesus]

♪Ride The Cyclone première today...♪

I can't believe we've come so far, and I'm very excited (and nervous) to play as Ricky Potts in our production of Ride The Cyclone. We've been working on this for almost a year now (the casting started somewhere in August last year I believe?) and I can't believe we've come so far! I'm so thankful for all the moments we've shared and I hope we don't make too much mistakes.

To celebrate this, I've decided to share a few unique and awesome parts of our musical. What I haven't mentioned is that we have our own choreo for all of the songs that our director made.

We have not one but TWO Karnaks! Personally I think this is a genius idea. Since our Karnaks are not an animatronic, if it had been only one he'd have to just stare into everybody's soul and be bored when he didn't have text or we were performing a song. But now, there's two, and not only does that split the huge amount of text Karnak has in half, but the two have a very fun dynamic and interact with eachother throughout the entire musical.

We have an extra role who is briefly introduced but mostly helps with decor, props and singing. Her name is Rosalynn (Rosa Lynn?? It's been a while since I've seen the script printed out XD) and she died at the same fair a few years before the choir kids. Karnak explains how she decided to help them instead of going to the afterlife or "something lame like that" (please lmk if any of you guys want to see Karnak's monologue about her). As an extra, she's super helpful to us and often picks up our props after we're done using them and also helps the Karnaks die.

In WTWN everyone first leaves the stage like "wtf is this girl yapping about", then come back with POMPOMS! We're supposed to be her cheerleaders, fake smiles and all and we use them throughout our choreo.

In Noel's Lament, the background dancers (us) all have beautiful fancy fans that fit the old-fashioned French vibes! Once again, they're used in the choreo. Everyone has different colors. Mischa has blue (vibes), Ocean has red (vibes), Jane has white (it's a blank color and fits her color scheme), Ricky has purple (vibes again) and Constance has black (she's like Ocean's shadow).

In the 2016 slime tutorial (I think?) there appears a picture of Noel working at Taco Bell to which he responds "What is that?" and the whole scene continues and all. Since we don't have a projector (RIP Talia we originally wanted to cast a real person as Talia and project her), the Mariachi band who are all dressed with Mexican attributes and Mexican flags but aren't on stage yet (I believe it consists of Virgil, Rosalynn and Mischa) THROW A BUNCH OF BURRITOS AT NOEL. Not real burritos thank God that would be such a mess to clean up every time and also a waste of food. They throw a few crochet burritos (made by our Ocean) and a few plush burritos at him. That scene is very funny and it's become an inside joke to say "burrito!" And throw something soft at our Noel and he also often jokes that he now has a fear of Mexican cuisine.

In Talia, the guys except Mischa (Ricky and Noel) dance moves inspired by traditional Russian dance (and Rasputin...) which I find very cool since I'm Slavic I got to have say in it the funny thing is both me and Noel are Slavic so we know how to do this VERY WELL.

In the rest scene with Ricky and Jane, where Ricky wishes "Savannah" a happy birthday, he gives her one of his hairclips. You see, Ricky has four red star hairclips in his hair for the entire musical. He gives one of them to her as a gift. She at first has no clue what to do with it and tries to eat it until Ricky puts it in her hair. THE SPACEDOLLSSHSHSJS this is actually such a cute detail I love it I don't remember who came up with it though. In that same scene Ricky sits on a little rocking horse instead of a box.

We actually have a lot of background stuff happening! It's kindof boring to just have everyone standing completely still in a line when somebody else talks, so our characters occassionally improvise and talk to eachother, lean against the walls or sit somewhere. Of course, we don't do it too much else it would distract from what the vocal point of the scene is supposed to be. We have a few ones that are kind of scripted?? Like Mischa giving Ricky a high five after he says "Porno is magical" or Constance comforting Noel after he gets upset at his catchphrase.

There's a lot of purple and light in our posters, as well as some yellow safety tape. Idk I just thought that was really cool.

SABM is just generally very cursed, I have to speedrun putting on glittery suspenders and a glittery bowtie overall glitter is very prominent in our version there's also a few blow-up discoballs and everyone wears cat ears and a cat tail except for Ricky, I wear a cat hood quite similar to the one he has in the 2016 slime tutorial. At "FOR THEY'RE AT WAR WITH CANINE!" I burst through a silver curtain.

We have a CYCLONE SEAT™! When everyone is getting seated the Karnaks guide one (un)lucky person to the Cyclone Seat™. This seat is referenced a few times throughout the musical like "Count Dogulous that sonofabitch *points directly at cyclone Seat*" or "Don't be a dick! *Cyclone seat illuminated*", etc.

I can't explain our decor here but I personally think it's super cool and all together looks amazing and defininetely gives abandoned warehouse vibes. Our Karnaks have a little house that's COVERED with posters and stickers (it has everything, from show posters of other shows our cast has been in to Latin homework to a little cat Jane Meow I drew and stuck on yesterday) and they do have their little fortune telling ball aswell as a little sign to earn people of the high voltage. We have some Virgil-themed decorations, and some fair/circus themed decorations and loads of references to the show. It's GREAT!!

That's all I can think of right now, I might add some more later. Anyways, time to go to our last rehearsal before the premiere...

[kiame-sama]

What is your drawing process like?

Using my most recent drawing of baby shinigami for reference (since all my layers still exist for it).

Preemptive emphasis; DON'T feed my art to AI, I do not give my consent to such things. Don't use the line drawing and recolor to pass off as your own, I also don't consent to that and if you take it to pass off as your own, you are stealing. I will not tolerate such behavior.

First step is to decide what/who I want to draw and sketch what I generally want it to look like. What pose does the subject take? Where- approximately- do the features go? What do I want the focus to be?

Then, add in more definition on certain points (hair, feet, face, hands, ect) and decide how the character drawn interacts with their space (are they in a scene? Are they in a blank scape? Are they on something?)

For the baby Shinigami I decided to cover up their little bird talons with the blanket and put them on a pedestal for where they are laying.

Then, add more detail (like to the skeletons on the sides of the pedestal and facial decorations) and choose what lines are visible (anything behind the lines of the infant are removed) to help decide and distinguish to the viewer what the main focus will be.

I was originally going to put yin and yang on the cheeks of the Shinigami baby, instead of the rainbow tears and I changed a few of the hair flames to follow general motion of gravity while also flaming upwards like fire typically does.

After that, ink the lines in black (or whatever color you want to use for outlines if you want outlines) to see how the image reads with solid borders. Decide if the outlines need to be thicker or if they all should stay pen-tip thick. This is where all the details desired are needed as it is the base outline the colors go into.

This is where I decided I didn't like the look of the Yin-yang markings and went with tear lines as an homage to Papa Hades.

From here, add the base colors. The lighter colors, but not the highlights.

(as y'all can see here, I added in one of the top flames after the base colors because the hair wasn't looking right to my brain, so it looks unfilled when only showing base colors.)

Then add your shadows. Since I use layers, I duplicate the base color layer and tint the colors darker on the layer above the base colors. (Don't use just black to tint, use other related colors. Ie. When drawing using blue, use darker tinted purples for shadows or a green tint for a more trippy and visually striking appearance, or use more saturated colors to make it look darker) Once that layer is fully darkened, I go through and erase the darker colors where I feel the lighter colors show through, making the shadows more apparent and striking visually.

After the shadows are done, add an other layer for the darkest shadows and the brightest highlights, usually shadowing that which is less important and highlighting the subject of the drawing.

The shadows went to the actual pedestal (with the eyes of the skeletons free of shadows due to being points of light) holding the infant and the highlights went to the flame hair and gemstones

Then, adding the actual 'background' piece to show the focus of the drawing and draw away from the darker background with faint light colors to give depth. This also lends to the final step where I put the 'signature' somewhere it cannot be removed without removing a vital piece of the drawing that gives it context in order to discourage thieves.

[sunshinebingo]

A Gwynriel meet-cute fic inspired by my writer's block and the music video of I Hear A Symphony by Cody Fry.

Synopsis: Gwyn tries everything possible to put a stop to her writer's block, unbeknownst that her source of inspiration will appear right at her door.

Word Count: 2.4k

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

She sat, alone and upset.

She sat in her home, as lonely and desperate as she had ever been, and waited for a miracle to happen.

Gwyn crossed yet another sentence, the words becoming less readable with every line she frustratingly drew across them.

“Ugh. I’m a lost cause,” she complained.

What was she doing wrong? She was applying every advice she had received from her fellow authors, some of which had worked for her previous writer’s blocks. She was so desperate that she was even doing everything all at once to increase her chances at finally writing. Her head had been a blank slate for too many months now.

The first step had been to put on her comfiest hoodie and shorts, her hair up in a high ponytail, and to sit on her comfiest chair at her desk with some cool water. She was also using a pen and paper instead of her laptop. Typing everything out later would be an extra step, but one that she was willing to take. If, she hoped hard, she managed to write anything at all. In addition to all that, she was using a different colour than black, and had convinced herself that she was using a different font. If she always used Times New Roman, Arial or Calibri, her own handwriting had to count as a new font, right?

She even had ambient music playing in the background; the sound of a peaceful forest that she imagined her heroine – a nymph – living in. From the different sounds that floated around her, Gwyn imagined the nymph sitting in her little cottage, with a freshly polished dagger on a table next to a steaming cup of hibiscus tea. Magical birds could be heard chirping outside along with her ethereal voice humming. Occasionally, Gwyn could also hear tiny footsteps and giggles that made her think of the little folks that she had introduced earlier in chapter 3.

All the conditions were perfect. Every element was right here in her head; the setting, the mood, the time and weather. Yet it still felt like nothing was happening. As though she couldn’t get her heroine to do anything, no matter how hard Gwyn poked her with her mental stick. Perhaps she was also waiting for something more interesting than everything her creator came up with.

Gwyn sighed and rubbed her eyes. The bright pink was starting to hurt her tired eyes and making her annoyance with herself grow. Maybe she should have picked a different one among her many colourful pens. Could a glittery one work?

She took a few sips of water from her favourite mug, followed by a few slow and deeps breaths during which she wondered how the hell she had managed to publish two books in four years with a brain like hers.

Reading and writing were a passion that she had successfully turned into her job. It meant more to her than just paying her bills and affording everything she owned. It was her source of joy and fulfilment; what had slowly let her out of her safe shell and had given her a reason to live. At least it was all of this when the made-up creatures living in her head actually did things that she could write about. Her team of editors and publishers would never approve of a story where the characters only sat and waited for the unknown for half of the book.

“Someone could die,” Gwyn tapped her pen against her cheek and thought out loud. But for that to happen, she would have to come up with a motive and a plan.

She imagined her protagonist staring blankly at her as if to ask, “Really?”

She scowled at the pink ink on the white paper and asked, “What else do you suggest to spice up the plot?”

She refused to give up on her story midway through. Something would happen. She just needed faith in her creativity and her skills. And a prayer or two to the writers’ gods to send a genius idea her way. With little hope that they would listen, Gwyn plunged back into her story, where the nymph was still doing a whole lot of nothing.

She sat there, as lonely and desperate as she had ever felt, and slowly giving up on the hope that miracles could happen, when a rattling sound disturbed the quiet of her home. It persisted until…

“Wait a second.”

…until the author realised that the sound was coming from outside her own apartment door.

“What the hell?”

Both of Gwyn’s best friends, Emerie and Nesta, the only two who ever showed up at her place unannounced, were currently at work. Even if they had gotten out early, they would have knocked or called after finding her door locked. Which it most often was. The building that Gwyn lived in was quite luxurious with an excellent security system. But judging by the person who had been trying to forcefully open her door for the last minute, Gwyn’s anxiety about her safety began to surface again.

She stood from her desk and made her way towards what could be an intruder. Holding her pink pen up like a serial killer might hold a knife, Gwyn brought her hand to the knob. If she was fast enough, she could press the button on the interphone right next to the door as soon as she opened it and alert the security guard. But what if Frank was already dead and now the killer was coming for her? Gwyn damned herself for having gone with an apartment on the second floor instead of the twenty-second. What was the benefit of having one of the best balconies in the building if she was among the firsts to die?

“Pull yourself together Gwyneth!” she told herself.

Her heroine wouldn’t cower before the one trying to break through her cottage. She would feel the fear but confront it. Gwyn might have no dagger nor claws; she might have no magic to bring down her enemies. But, like her nymph, she refused to die. Not when she had a story to finish. Gwyn summoned as much courage as she had often infused her nymph with and yanked her door open.

What she saw crouching before her with a key in one gloved hand and a black and blue helmet in the other didn’t look like a murderer. Not that she had ever knowingly come face to face with one to know what they looked like.

Gwyn lowered her pen at her side as the man straightened and towered over her with strong arms and broad shoulders that were hugged by a black leather jacket. His brown skin glowed under the dim yellow light of the baroque-style hallway of the building. His hazel eyes were like a blaze that bore into Gwyn, even as the rest of his handsome face showed signs of surprise. There was a hint of confusion apparent in the frown of his obsidian eyebrows that matched the colour of his short, dishevelled hair.

He looked like a male straight out of a romantasy. The type whose looks alone could mark him as someone who is always broody. Until he meets the one who can effortlessly make him smile with an adorable laugh, a teasing remark or an irreverent challenging look; the latter being the kind a writer like herself would describe as a withering stare that would earn the object of the male’s fascination an amused chuckle.

Was he even real? Or had Gwyn dived so deep into her fictional world that she had landed somewhere inside it? If it was the case, then it meant that there was more to her story that she had yet to discover, since she had never met such a stunning man in that world of hers. She didn’t even know that such beauty and magnetism was possible.

He was just standing there in front of her. Yet his eyes seemed to hold a power that made it impossible for her to acknowledge anything else.

“Hello.”

The deep voice she heard didn’t sound like it was coming from her imagination.

“Hi,” she breathlessly greeted back.

“Uh... Hi... I was...”

Gwyn took in every single fumbled words that came out of his plump lips, ready to listen to him say anything. But he stopped and, for a moment, just stared at her with an intensity that she did not realise matched the way she was looking at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked when the silence stretched, hoping that she hadn’t looked at him like she had never seen a man before. Although she was still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t a manifestation of her fantasies.

The man shook his visible stupor away at her question and offered her a small yet very charming smile.

“I think this is my new apartment.”

Gwyn frowned in puzzlement.

“I’m sure it’s not?” she said like she wasn’t sure at all.

He cocked his head to the side in thought before looking around as though he had dropped something. Then, realising he was already holding it, he held his key up for her to see.

“Isn’t this number 9?”

Gwyn’s frown deepened until realisation struck her harder than a lighting bolt.

“Ah. I see.” Gwyn pursed her lips to hold in a laugh. “May I?”

She extended her hand to the mystery man and motioned to his key with a tilt of her head.

He raised a brow at her. A corner of his lips slowly tugged into a smirk that disappeared a few seconds later. Whether he was trying to consciously school his features or not, Gwyn didn’t know. But she enjoyed the mischief that she had glimpsed for a moment there.

“You may,” he said as he dropped the small object in her open palm.

Gwyn held the key chain up and placed it next to the engraving on the wall with her house’s number on it. She showed him how, in this way, the key chain formed a miniature version of the engraving, with the design being the exact same, except for the 6 of her house number which didn’t match the 9 of his key.

His eyes darted between the engraving and the key, and to the redhead who was playfully wiggling her eyebrows at him. Then he laughed, his rich voice so beautiful that Gwyn imagined it would be impossible to ever tire of hearing it. And when she laughed with him, she found that she very much liked the harmony that their two voices created.

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “That was very dumb of me.”

“I’ll give you that. It was,” she said with a shrug.

The man eyed Gwyn like he was disappointed that she had so quickly agreed. His expression only pulled another laugh out of Gwyn.

“Yours is the one over there.” She pointed at the hallway behind him. To the second door down to her left. “Next to the wall lamp.”

He look there before turning back to her. Gwyn dangled his key in front of him.

“You won’t get my home just yet but you’ll get to be my neighbour.”

She found herself curious as to what kind of neighbour mister handsome here would be. Would they come across each other at random hours of the day and night as they went about their lives?

The smile that brightened his face was more disarming than any that Gwyn had ever seen.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, neighbour.” He extended a hand to her.

“I’m Gwyneth. Or just Gwyn.”

She shook his offered hand with the same one that she still held his key. He took it with him as he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled his hand away.

“I’m Azriel. Or just... Azriel.”

He cleared his throat and adjusted the helmet he carried under his left arm. Gwyn smiled.

“Alright. Just Azriel.”

They stood there in silence for a while. Their gazes locked, their hands fidgeting with whatever they carried. Gwyn was here and somewhere else at the same time. His body, his face, his voice, his mere presence stirred something in her. It was thrilling and also...intimidating.

He was like a mystery that was yet to be unfold. A story that needed to be written. Gwyn sensed in her writer’s heart that his could be one with pain and pleasure, ire and love. His eyes were a window through which she wanted to dive into his soul and learn all of his secrets. She also wanted to know what kind of man he could be in his most caring or vulnerable state.

Knowing a person in such a deep, all encompassing way was almost impossible. But perhaps, Gwyn wondered as her eyes widened, her version of him could provide her with the answers she sought.

“I – ”

“I – ”

“I should – ”

“I need to – ”

They both laughed at their synchronicity.

“I should go check my actual apartment.”

“And I should get back to mine. I hope you don’t get lost on your way.”

One of his brows rose. “I will blame your directions if I do.”

Gwyn crossed her arms and scowled at him. But the effect was lost with the smile that threatened to spread on her lips.

She watched him turn around and walk to his apartment. No doubt sensing her eyes still on him after he opened his door, “just Azriel” looked at her again. Gwyn waved at him. He winked, then stepped inside. Without wasting another second, Gwyn closed her own door and rushed to her desk.

Words and images formed in her mind like music flowing out of her imagination; a scene playing out like a musician effortlessly soaring through the notes of their symphony.

Gwyn immersed herself in it and let her hand glide across pages after pages of her notebook. She wrote about the nymph and her intruder, a mysterious male that became more real with every element she discovered about his character.

It might have been luck or sheer coincidence. It might have also been an answer to her hopeless prayers. Gwyn had no time to care. What mattered was that she was now inspired.

[blazenfire223]

[ID in undercut]

Some Art I made for an English project that I'm not sure if I shared here. We were tasked to write a story based on the Hero's Journey after reading Beowulf. Me and some pals made the story and characters. I helped design most of them minus the love interest named Rhea (the girl in on the chair). It was fun to make!

---

Algún arte hice por un proyecto de inglés que no estoy seguro si mostré acá. Tuvimos que escribir una historia basó en el Viaje del Héroe después leímos Beowulf. Mis amigos y a mi hicimos la historia y los personajes. Ayudé hacerlos menos la chica romántica (la chica encima la silla). Me divertí hacerlo!

[ID 1/8: A traditional illustration done in watercolor, acrylic paint marker and colored pencil of Rosa and Cain. The illustration is split like a comic frame with the top frame of Cain wearing his angel mask and purple and gold cult outfit. He is also holding his staff that is a cross with a circle connecting each point of the cross and a the sun shining bright behind him, making it look like a halo is shining behind him. The bottom frame is Rosa looking up at him from the ground. She is beginning to get up after she was pushed to the ground. She is a black woman with curly red hair in 2 puff balls and, from where she is on the ground, you can see she is wearing armor that consists of a metal chest plate, leather shoulder pads, and a chainmail body suit. The background is a light green to indicate grass. /End ID]

[ID 2/8: A traditional illustration done in alcohol markers and colored pencils of Rosa and her future lover Rhea. It is also done in a mini comic style with 2 panels. The top panel is a profile shot of Rhea, a deep red headed lady with long hair put in a half bun, a purple dress, and a brown and yellow half corset, and Rosa. Rhea is standing on a chair with her hands on her hips. to make herself taller and more intimidating to Rosa. Rosa looks up at her with her arms crossed and glaring at Rhea. The bottom panel is a close up of their faces glaring at each other with a black background and a lightning bolt between their eyes like an anime. /End ID]

[ID 3/8: A traditional sketch of a full body view of Rosa. She is standing with her right arm out to the side and a blank expression. It shows her armor in full. She is wearing a chest plate, a chainmail body suit, leather shoulder pads, armored plates held up by a leather belt that run from her waist to her legs that create an upside-down V shape, cloth between the V plates and chainmail body suit, armored forearms, fingerless gloves, a sword at her right hip, and armored boots. She also has a bag around her tight shoulder and sits at he left hip that holds a rose necklace she got from her mother. /End ID]

[ID 4/8: A traditional sketch character sheet page of Rosa. The top left has a small doodle of Rosa's armor with foot notes and arrows pointing to various parts of her armor; an arrow pointing at the shoulder pads that says, "plates", an arrow that points to her right arm that saya, "chainmail", and an arrow that points to the necklace on the bag that says, "Rose thing". Next to the armor is a spiky helmet that had a note next to it that says "sharp helmet contrasts soft look" there is another arrow that connects this note to Rosa's face. She has a rounder face, 2 puff buns, big lips, a scar on the right side of her face, a big nose, and round eyes with lashes. Below that is Rosa's side profile to better show off her features and then to the left of that is a rough doodle of Rosa's armor from behind that was never lined with black. /End ID]

[ID 5/8: A full body sketch of Rosa's friend Aelius. He has short curly hair, big round glasses, some chin scruff, earings, and a head band. He also has a similar outfit as Rosa with the chest plate, chainmail, forearm plates, and cloth that runs down his front but instead of an upside-down V waist plates he just has puffed pants and boots. He also wears a cape and carries a lyre. /End ID]

[ID 6/8: A traditional character sheet page of Aelius. The top left and bottom left are fully body doodles of Aelius's outfit front and back with notes that say "Short king", "Similar fit to Rosa", "Cape", and "Lyre". The notes have arrows pointing to various spots on him. The right side of the page are 2 head shots of Aelius; the top right being a front facing shot and the bottom being a side profile. In the side profile it's made more obvious that he has a more downturned nose and his front view demonstrates his round but down turned eyes. /End ID]

[ID 7/8: A full body sketch of the villain in the story, Cain. He is an older man a small beard and mustache and holding his angel mask in his left and his staff in his right. His outfit is also equipped with 4 Doc Oc esque mechanical arms behind him. He is wearing a priest outfit underneath some armor: chest plate, shoulder plates, metal arms, and metal neck brace. He is also wearing a head cloth that hides his hair. At the bottom of it it has a pattern of crosses. /End ID]

[ID 8/8: A character sheet of Cain. There are 3 doodles of him, one of his full costume with the Doc Oc arms and staff, and 2 of his face with and without the angel mask. The angel mask is one that makes him look like he is crying with 4 sets of wings by his head. Without the mask, it shows his hair that is short and slicked back. He is just an old white man that looks like a fusion of Izzy Hands from Our Flag Means Death and King Magnifico from the movie Wish. /End ID]

[yarrowleef]

I thought I made a post about the Onestar's SE back in 2022 a couple months before it came out and I found it in my drafts, never posted for whatever reason

anyway, as a "pre-thoughts before reading (more of) it", how I felt was that I wasn't super excited about the idea of a Onestar book.

idk. warriors is funny for me in that even though I like messy morally gray characters in literally any other property i’m into, all of warriors (in)famous morally gray characters are just. annoying to me. in a not fun way.

Like with Clear Sky, narrative misogyny aside (bc I didn't really unpack All That until after finishing the arc) I found it completely impossible to enjoy any of his POV chapters, or...anything about him, really (I’m sure a lot of it has to do with an unwillingness to let him face lasting consequences for anything. I’ll never recover from the pure elation I felt at his mother roasting him and then the stark plummet into disappointment when five seconds later she back pedals into “it’s ok actually, what you REALLY need is to forgive yourself and move on uwu”)

the frustrating thing is, I wouldn't find this character horrible to read about in theory. I feel like nearly every action he took, how quickly he escalated things, how is ego manifests.....If I was just given a summary of Clear Sky and what he did, I could probly fill in the blanks for how he made (most of) those decisions, and I might think “that would be an interesting character to read about, especially as a POV"

and yet in practice it was Not Fun to read Ever

I think erin hunter is just... really bad at believably arguing for their characters

Sometimes it feels like someone got an outline saying “this character kicks a puppy” because that puppy needs to be kicked in order to motivate the plot. and instead of sitting down and thinking through what kind of mindset would lead to someone kicking this puppy, what kind of internal arguments are they making, how are they rationalizing it, instead they just. copy the instruction down in black and white with no expansion. Character thinks “I have to kick this puppy!”, someone else asks “why do you have to do that?? wtf is wrong with you?”, character responds with “they just don’t understand! I have to kick this puppy!” without really any delving into what made them come to this conclusion first, and every obstacle and bad consequence that comes up they just repeat some variation of that same line over and over “they just don't understand why I have to kick this puppy!!” like ok cool but do YOU even understand why you have to kick this puppy???? cause sometimes it doesn’t feel like your writers do, it feels like they are dispassionately following instructions.....y'know what i mean????

Anyway, that’s what it felt like reading Clear Sky’s POV chapters

and I suspect I'm going to feel similarly about Onestar once he enters his Bitchy Leader era. Not that he is anywhere near as bad as Clear Sky, he's not, but just that this particular feeling pops up any time the Erin's try to write from the perspective of someone acting aggressively for complicated reasons. I could envision how the things that happened to Onestar led him down the road he ended up on but I'm afraid seeing inside his head will only make the character way more brainless and shallow then he was as a sort-of background character that we had to piece together on our own

[ipsen]

Blank Canvas, Chapter 5

Read on AO3. Summary: Kaneki is teased, and Takatsuki plans a special outing. Word Count: 3368 CW: Brief history lesson on comfort women in Japan during WW2 Chapter 6 Chapter 4 Master Post

Unbelievable.

From across the table, she glared at the man that was supposed to be her father. Tall, old, and dressed in all black. Like a mafia figure in stories. If this were like those stories though, they wouldn’t even be here.

But instead, she was being given away to someone else. Again.

Her eyes, thin as snakes, followed the paper that was slid over to him: despite not being there for her for fourteen years, his consent was still required for someone else to adopt her. She watched him pick up the pen without any trace of hesitation and sign off on it.

How.

It was his fault that Papa died. If he’d just done the bottom line job of being a parent, or even just being there for her and Papa, then maybe they wouldn’t have been attacked by that weirdo, and Papa wouldn’t have been stabbed in the neck eight times, and she wouldn’t have had to slice that guy’s belly open before she suffered the same fate. If it weren’t for the man in front of her, neither of them would be here. It was his fault.

He seemed indifferent to her curses on him— that, or he was oblivious to them, and both were equally infuriating— as he passed the paper to her new foster father: some middle-aged guy with beady eyes and a tall face— Shouji? Shinji? It didn’t matter, even as he signed the paper as well and attached her to his hip. Who cared about him.

She scowled again at her ‘father’. Papa— the one that actually raised her— had told her about the organization. Some weirdo adults with god complexes who thought they could just walk all over anyone outside their circle. An organization that acted like the world belonged to them.

What a joke. And her ‘father’ was a part of them? Was power so intoxicating to the human mind that nothing could serve as an antidote?

“Well, Mr. Shiono, thank you for this.” Her ‘father’ stood up and held out his hand. “Take good care of *^~ for me.”

She hated that name. It was so cruel and unusual given the circumstances.

“Er, of course, Mr. Yoshimura,” Shiono replied nervously, shaking it. “You can count on me…”

And her ‘father’ turned his back on her once more.

She swore she would ruin him. Somehow, she’d do it. Him and his precious organization both.

———

It was now the middle of August, meaning summer was in full swing.

During the past three months, Kaneki drew concepts, backgrounds, and characters. He paneled key scenes and showed the sketches to Takatsuki, upon which her eyes would glow with approval. In return, she would show him her draft for future chapters, explaining her thought process, and he would give a thumbs up and a smile.

All in all, they worked surprisingly well together.

Where she was too angry, his empathy cooled the flames, and where he was too hesitant, she happily crossed the line. It was a dynamic that served to balance the story on a tightrope as it pedaled down the path to the end.

And between the outlining and the storyboarding, whatever image he had of Sen Takatsuki, the author, happily faded into the background in favor of Sen Takatsuki, the person.

Whenever they grabbed food together (which was often; she seemed to like dragging Kaneki to new restaurants he’d never heard of), she usually cleaned her plate. She liked her vegetables steamed and fresh— otherwise, Kaneki found himself with a fuller plate— and her favorite foods were meats and seafood. She especially liked takoyaki, and ordered a plate every time they went somewhere new.

She was also always quick to pay for both of them, even after Kaneki’s paychecks started rolling in. “You should spend that on more important stuff,” she told him, taking his wallet and shoving the bills he’d handed her back in. “Leave the monotony to me.”

(Even though there was nothing monotonous about it.)

Another thing he learned about her was that she didn’t care for her birthday. When June 19th hit, and he couldn’t find a suitable gift in time, Shiono assured him that she didn’t want anything. It was probably obvious based on how she didn’t call off their session that day, but Kaneki couldn’t help but be curious. He wondered why.

When they traveled for inspiration, research, or both, Takatsuki liked to spout trivia about the location. However, it wasn’t inconsequential stuff like the year something was built, but rather the bloody history behind it. The types of things that weren’t in childhood textbooks, even adult textbooks. The shameful things. The darker things.

While they were investigating a certain building, she pointed at it and said, “This is actually a repurposed brothel from World War II. They plucked women straight from their homes and brought them here to be raped by Japanese soldiers.” She then glared. “Not that the government wants you to know that; they still haven’t apologized for it.”

Most people would be uncomfortable with such knowledge, Kaneki imagined, but the fact that Takatsuki trusted him to bear the burden softened the blow. In fact, learning about the suffering of the world made him a little bit more confident in himself. If others could experience worse and still live to an old age, then why couldn’t he? At least, maybe he could.

Plus, it was those moments that the simmering layer just beneath Takatsuki’s friendly demeanor poked its head out. A creature whose jagged edges occasionally cut the cloth that hid it— a hint of the angry thing that inserted itself between the lines of her books.

It was those fascinating glimpses that Kaneki drew. In secret, of course. When he wasn’t storyboarding. For himself. In a separate sketchbook. That he locked in his drawer. Where the key was tucked in his copy of Frankenstein. Not the special edition that he usually brought around when he was feeling the itch for a reread, but the paperback cover with missing pages that he had bought in middle school.

Point being, only he would ever see those drawings.

———

“Ken,” Kaya spoke gently, but Kaneki could tell by her smile she was ecstatic, “Touka tells me you’re dating again.”

Kaneki groaned. “Why does everyone think that I’m—”

“You can fall in love with a coworker. It’s not illegal.” She chuckled. “It won’t always work out, as we both know, but it’s perfectly normal.”

The two of them were at Apes & Dobers, the nonprofit charity co-owned by Kaya and Enji. The members— mostly remnants of the old Devil Apes and Black Dobers gangs— offered shelter and food to those who could not yet afford it. Located in the 20th ward, it (secretly) took unused food from Anteiku and gave it away for free; Mr. Yoshimura, as Anteiku’s owner, simply looked the other way.

In fact, Kaneki and Kaya were working on organizing that food right now, along with donations from the latest food drive, in one of the many storage rooms.

“Th-That’s not what’s happening!” Kaneki protested, lifting up a box full of soup cans. “I just— I just admire her, that’s all! She’s my favorite author, and now I’m working with her. E-End of story…”

“Mhm.” Kaya shrugged in such a way that was so unbelievably fake. “Ken, you miss every single shot you don’t take; you know that, right?”

“Of course I do, but—!”

The door flew open, and in stepped Hide and Touka, bringing a cart full of new foods between them. “Yo!” Hide said, hand raised in greeting. “Work’s finally slowed down a bit, so I figured I’d come help!”

“Hey, Hide! Hi, Touka!” Kaneki said a little loudly, grateful for the chance to change the subject. “Great to have you!”

“Yo.” Touka made the same greeting as Hide. “Just dropping by to help.”

Kaya checked her watch, then raised an eyebrow. “On your lunch break?”

“Yeah.” Touka shrugged. “Why?”

Kaneki watched as Kaya circled around him, approached Touka, and promptly shoved her out the door. “Excuse me,” she looked at him and Hide, “but I have to make sure someone eats. Can you take care of the rest for me?”

“Sure thing, boss!” Hide saluted with a laugh. “Have fun, Touka!”

Touka protested the entire way out, but it was mostly inane phrases, and she was clearly smiling. Kaneki, chuckling, couldn’t help but think she lied to get Kaya to eat instead; it was one of her worst habits, and part of why he got along so well with her. That, and she was the only one who could understand how he felt when Rize disappeared.

Hide glanced about as he unloaded the rest of the cart. “No Enji again, huh?”

Kaneki shook his head. “No…” It went unsaid that Enji was taking care of Mr. Yoshimura. The decline was getting steeper.

“That’s too bad.”

A beat of silence. Food was organized. At least Kaneki got to spend time with Hide, which was surprisingly rare. Hide’s work kept him so busy during the day, and that didn’t change with Kaneki’s new job. So hearing that Hide would be around more often eased the invisible tension in his shoulders.

“Sooo… How’s Takatsuki?” Hide asked, grinning.

“Not you too…” Kaneki groaned, fighting a blush. “But she’s… fine, I guess?”

Hide cackled. “Just ‘fine’? Doesn’t sound ‘fine’ to me.”

Of course Takatsuki wasn’t fine. She was great. More than great. But calling her ‘great’ would just earn Kaneki some heavy teasing, and he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

But he couldn’t let Hide’s opinion of her get sullied. “She’s… Uh, a really good coworker.” It was safe, and it was apt. It didn’t encompass everything about Takatsuki, but it was a good start. “She doesn’t wear any business clothes like everyone else at Shoeisha, which is nice, so I’m not pressured to be fancy all the time.”

“Oh, wow. That’s cool.” Hide grinned, counting some canned fish and recording the number on a nearby clipboard. “Pretty casual environment, then? Actually, what’s it like working on a story?”

“Well, we go to a lot of different places to study the area. We also study some of the local people to inspire character mannerisms. When we’re not doing that, it’s just me and her in her office.” As soon as Kaneki said it (plus Hide’s lack of interjecting), he knew he slipped up.

Hide gasped like a true gossiper. “No shot! Just you two, alone, in an office space?! Scandalous!” He cackled at his own joke.

Kaneki palmed his face, then crossed the room to double check Kaya’s work on a previous stack.

“But seriously man, be honest with me.” Now that he’d had his fun, Hide went into serious mode. “What do you think of her?”

Kaneki paused mid-count, then looked at Hide and smiled gently. At the end of the day, he knew he could always count on Hide to look out for him. “She’s amazing,” he confessed comfortably. “I think we can make something great together. And we will.”

Hide smiled back at that. “Sounds like a dream come true.”

Kaneki chuckled. “I guess so.”

“I’m serious!” He trotted over to pat Kaneki’s back. “I know what they say about meeting your heroes or whatever, but you seemed to have lucked out!”

“You think so?”

“I know so! Think about it: despite having zero experience, she thinks you have the chops and personality to make her work shine!” Hide wrapped his arm around Kaneki and pulled him close. “I mean, that’s, like, a one-in-a-million chance of happening! You, sir, are the luckiest rabbit of them all.”

Kaneki laughed, and Hide laughed back. As they did, crouched on the floor in front of a stack of canned beans, footsteps rounded the corner and stopped at the doorway.

“Kaya, you in here—? Oh shit,” a new voice sounded from the doorway.

The pair turned to see a young woman with straight black hair and beige eyes, dressed in dark clothing.

“Kurona!” Kaneki exclaimed, shooting to his feet. “I didn’t realize you were here!”

The (younger) Yasuhisa twin was actually a member of Taiwa Act, one of the sister organizations of Apes and Dobers, after her family fell out of public favor and her father was murdered. However, she and her (older) sister, Nashiro, went over to offer their services when work wasn’t holding them up. Nashiro was an independent investigative journalist while Kurona worked closely with Kimi, head of Taiwa, on organizing events.

“Hey, Tree Branch,” Kurona greeted back. It was her stupid nickname for him using the kanji of his family name. “Hide.”

“Yo, Kuro.” Hide waved, and serious mode was over. “I was just trying to figure out if our dear mutual friend here has a—”

“A great time at his, uh, his job!” Kaneki interrupted, scratching his chin. “A-And I am, Hide, thanks so much for asking!”

“Oh, you got a job? Well, shit, I thought— Never mind.” Kurona shook her head and sighed. “I guess making you the butt of the joke is just that easy.”

“Okay, yeah, it’s a job, but he totally has a crush on his coworker,” Hide said, cackling.

“Hide!” Kaneki hissed.

Kurona, dead serious, walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have my pity.”

That was a new one. “W-What?”

She raised a brow. “You’re kidding, right? Imagine if you had to work with your ex. Sounds like a shitty deal to me.”

In response, he glanced down at his shoes, which were suddenly very interesting. He hadn’t even thought about that. If he was considering dating Takatsuki— which he wasn’t— then the risk was way higher than the reward. He wouldn’t just lose a relationship— he’d probably lose his job, as well as all future hope for a career as a comic artist. Not that he’d ever commit career suicide this early on (even for someone as amazing as Takatsuki stop it), but it was certainly an angle to keep in mind.

“Oh, Kuro, where’s Shiro?” Hide glanced behind her. “She outta town again?”

Kuro backed off and shrugged. “Sorta. Said she’s pursuing something more local this time, somewhere in the 13th, but won’t say a peep more. I’m sure she’s fine, though.”

“What about that Torso guy, though?” Hide stuffed his hands into his pockets. “They’ve been really active lately; should she really be alone like that?”

“The Torso only targets women with visible scars.” Kurona traced lines on her arms. “Nashiro doesn’t have anything, so she’s not their type.”

Hide went quiet, but the strange moment passed as quickly as it came. “That makes sense. Phew!” He stretched then. “Well, the food won’t sort itself!”

Kaneki swallowed. Women with visible scars… Now that he thought about it, he’d never seen Takatsuki without her tights or in short sleeve attire. She was always covering up her whole body, and he’d never thought to ask until now. What if…?

He tried to ignore the new sense of dread growing in the pit of his stomach.

———

“‘Cruelty is permanent, but it can be tempered’,” Takatsuki recited aloud.

Kaneki, on the couch, didn’t respond, idly drawing scars in his sketchbook. Cuts, bruises, burns— marks that interrupted the smoothness of skin like nothing else. Flesh crumpled and darkened and changed under the weight of such things, never to return to the halcyon days of normalcy. And when the Torso saw such things, he—

“Haise.”

Kaneki jolted up. “H-Huh?”

Takatsuki shot him a rare look of irritation and repeated the line. The story itself was split up into chapters, and each chapter had a poem that she wrote; she must have been working on the chapter after Fushimi, the protagonist, learns about the lobbyist organization’s connection to the antagonistic serial killer.

Serial killers… He cleared his throat, trying to laugh it off. “O-Oh, it’s, um… I-It’s good!”

It was clear it wasn’t the response she desired, and returned to scrawling in her notebook. “Okay.”

A wave of shame washed over him. He shouldn’t be thinking about this; Takatsuki was smart. She wouldn’t get caught like a deer in headlights like him. Right? Right. She probably had way more experience dealing with crazed fans too; a stalker killer was probably not too fundamentally far off from an unhealthy fan. But what if she was caught and subsequently froze up? He couldn’t know until it happened, and if it happened, it’d be too late; she’d already be doomed and he’d be powerless to help her.

He had to ask. But what if she suspected him? No one had ever seen the Torso’s face; Kaneki could be him, for all she knew. An unsociable artist with an eye for anatomy— he wouldn’t have much ground to stand on if he started asking about Sen Takatsuki’s body scars. He shouldn’t risk his reputation this early into his career, but…

He looked at Takatsuki as she crossed out a few lines. She was using her left hand today, he noticed. She liked to switch it up every now and then, much like her hair. Today was two buns instead of one, the bunches of hair gathered up in a messy style on either side of her head. She rested the end of her pen on her mouth, gently parting her lower lip from her upper. Kaneki didn’t realize that he ran his tongue over his own lips as he stared.

What he did realize was that he was drawing her again. A focused expression, representing a mind trying to pry apart the future and ignorant to the present. The sunlight through the window worked with the shadows to glint off the rim of her glasses, lightly obscuring part of her face and creating an air of comfortable mystery. A dash of indescribable weight to her irises to top it off.

He looked between the finished product and his muse, then smiled in defeat. He still could only capture a fragment of the real deal. He closed the sketchbook and sighed.

“I-I’m sorry, Takatsuki,” he said, getting her attention. “I’ve been… worried about something. It’s been distracting me for a while.”

She glanced up. “Oh?”

“The serial killer… A real one. The Torso. I learned that he targets women with scars.” If he was going to do this, he had to be honest with her. “And… I was just worried about you. B-because you, um… you cover up a lot.”

He hoped his question was implied. He watched her expression dip deeper into the shadows, obscuring itself from his vision.

“I-It was just a passing thought,” he hastily explained. “Stupid, really, in hindsight. I let it get the best of me, so I’ll, uh—”

“You want to know if I have scars, then?” Takatsuki had stood up and crossed the room, and now she stood before him.

“W-Well, I, um—” Kaneki scratched his cheek, looking everywhere except at her— “I-I don’t have to, but—”

“Tell you what.” She was smiling, and he immediately knew there was some sick enjoyment coming out of watching him squirm. “You show me one, I’ll show you one.”

He froze.

“Deal?”

“U-Uh… Sure… D-Deal…” What was he supposed to do, say no? If he didn’t show any scars, then the deal was basically invalid, anyway! Now he could just move the conversation along to—

“Great! If I remember correctly, I owe you for the park, don’t I?”

Oh, no. She meant metaphorical scars.

Takatsuki giggled. “Kidding, kidding! Your face was just too funny.”

Kaneki let out the biggest sigh of relief in his life. “You almost gave me a heart attack…”

“And I loved every second of it.” She tapped his arm with the back of her hand.

He gave a hesitant laugh. Well, at least he wasn’t distracted by the Torso anymore. Now he could focus on… another serial killer. A fake one, but a serial killer nonetheless. The Torso was terrible for becoming active again.

“Oh, but before the topic grows cold— Haise,” she turned to him now, “have you ever met a serial killer?”

His brow furrowed. “No…”

She tilted her head and gave him a toothy grin. “Would you like to?”

[ath1a]

Espressos and Almond Lattes

I work in a cafe as a barista. My job isn’t particularly hard, I go through the days serving customers and cleaning tables. I find enjoyment in making drinks for people though, the cafe being a microcosm of everyone’s lives, put together in an amalgamation of different personalities, backgrounds and experiences. There is one customer in particular who caught my eye.

A man, who comes occasionally, entering for the first time after ‘noticing the signboard outside’. It was hard to understand him at first, his likes, dislikes and if he had any preferences for any drinks.

Usually he orders the first thing he sees on the menu boards, barely making eye contact, paying and walking away after getting his drink. But occasionally he orders one specific drink; a double espresso, no sugar. He orders the drink for small periods at a time, before going back to choosing random drinks.

A lot can be said about a customer, from the drink they choose, to the way they enter and leave, and even their reaction to a drink. You can tell whether they’re happy at their current point in their lives or if they’re experiencing a major event.

The man in particular is an interesting case. When he orders the double espresso for the first time in a while he seems to really crave the caffeine, understandably when you work long hours like I suspect he does - the bags under his eyes somewhat visible. But during these - espresso periods let’s call them - over the short time he’ll order them he starts to enjoy them less, sometimes commenting that its too bitter for him, and the caffeine is taking a toll on his body. Sometimes I mildly suggest he choose another drink instead, or maybe adding something extra for a change. The man insists he wants the espresso, but then a few days later he’ll order the triple shot mocha with cherry syrup or the pistachio cold brew with whipped cream. It’ll go on for a few weeks before he’s back to ordering the double espresso, no sugar.

And the cycle continues.

Until one day a few months down the line he comes in, leaving his bag at his usual chair before coming to me. Huh, that’s strange, he usually takes his drink first. I pay no attention until I realise he’s making direct eye contact with me, and not just for a few seconds. I wait expectantly for him to tell me his order, only for him to look at the menu board, falter and clear his throat, looking me in the eyes again.

He asks me to make something for him, a drink of my own choosing. Oh.

Oh.

Right, yes I need to make him…

An Almond Latte, I tell him. That’s what I’ll make for him.

You see almond lattes are my favourite drink. They’re very warm and inviting, the mildly bitter notes mixed with the subtle sweetness of the milk and the coffee blend. But they’re also the furthest thing from an espresso, not only in taste but also in appearance. almond lattes are a warm brown, compared to the dark almost inky black liquid of espressos.

They’re so different I doubt he would even like it.

I don’t usually make them for others, as a general rule for myself. The last time that happened it resulted in the customer never returning… I guess they really hated it, huh? Yet, somehow I’m now standing by the coffee maker, and the small jug of milk is in my hands, about to be frothed. I keep blanking out while somehow assembling the drink well enough to serve to the man, his sudden behaviour change at the forefront of my mind. By the time I’m done making it, he’s still there at the counter, ready to take the drink. I dust some cocoa powder on top and I gingerly place the drink on the counter, steadily awaiting his reaction.

Until I realise he’s smiling. He’s actually smiling - the corners of his mouth have tugged up into a faint smile, an expression I realise I’ve never actually seen before on him.

I want to see it more often.

The man tells me that next time I can bar the cocoa powder, but he wouldn’t mind any variation in the drink next time. Next time. He wants to order it again.

And he does, again and again, until it becomes his usual order. Over time I make slight changes, until I find the best combination for him. Over time his expressionless exterior breaks, the both of us sharing smiles from the cafe, even an inside joke or two about the other customers. Over time I realise my heart swells whenever I see him come through the door. Over time he starts leaving his coat with his bag, and his stays in the cafe get longer. Over time I see his gradual change through the months of ordering the almond lattes as he becomes less aloof, and more open.

I feel as if we have gotten incredibly close over time.

Until one day, he comes through the door, the winter chill cutting through the steamy warmth in the air and I can tell something’s up. He doesn’t meet my eye as he comes in, putting his bag down but not his coat, and for some reason I feel sick. Understandably I make mental excuses, maybe he’s in a rush, and can’t sit down for long today. Even though he’s made himself late for meetings by staying here before, he’s told me that himself. He doesn’t make eye contact with me as he comes up to the counter, and there’s a sinking feeling in my chest when I ask him for the usual-

No. He says. He still refuses to meet my eyes, the space around me apparently more compelling than I am. I ask him what he wants instead as I try and swallow the lump forming in my throat. I feel like I’m having to silently beg him to look at me. Why won’t he look at me?

He awkwardly clears his throat and asks for a double espresso, no sugar. Oh. Wait what?

I have to stop myself from asking him to repeat his request, I know I heard him loud and clear. I feel empty inside, but still, I go through the motions, making the drink for him. At one point I blankly stand by the coffee machine, the large mechanical box being the only visual barrier between me and him, while multiple questions cloud my mind.

Why the sudden change, what prompted it, did he not like the almond lattes? And if he didn’t, why did I keep making them for him?

I pour the dark liquid into a to-go cup, since he doesn’t seem to be sticking around today. I place it on the counter, and he gives a hard look at the cup, before looking back at me for the first time today. His eyes soften, and there’s almost a look of regret, but I blankly look back at him, my unwavering gaze showing no sign of any emotion. He looks back at the cup for a split second and grabs it, taking the cup. I nearly don’t hear the muttered apology as he leaves, taking his bag from his usual table and exiting.

The man’s trips suddenly become less frequent, only for a few minutes to grab his drink and leave. I’ve been sitting in the break room a lot these days, while I drink my almond lattes by myself. I prefer the solitude, that way I can enjoy them in peace, without the input of others.

Sometimes when the man comes in, he looks like he might order an almond latte, but the words double espresso, no sugar come out his mouth.

Anyways, I don’t think he’ll order an Almond Latte anytime soon, he likes Espressos too much to stop drinking them. It’s not my job as a barista to make him change his preferences either.

That’s up to him.

Funny how he made me think I could, though.

All works belong to @ath1a. Please do not repost without permission.

[fmp-klecksography]

Postcard Ideas

Last project I made these postcards to support my final collection and garment. I really liked how these turned out so wanted to take them forward to this project as well.

For my first postcard I knew I wanted to incorporate all 10 of my designs I illustrated. Therefore below I created a line up of all ten however because there are so many, it looked quite squashed and left loads of blank space at the bottom and top of the post card.

Following the previous card, to fill in the blank spaces I decided to turn my illustrations into a repeating pattern. I really like how this turned out and think it shows off the designs a lot nicer and more interstingly.

Next I took one of my photoshoot images, removed the background and layered this over the name of my garment in which I repeated down the page. I like the idea of having words layered in the background however it does feel a little plain.

Here I zoomed out the image a bit more than my last and made the words transparent I definitely prefer this but I still feel like its missing something.

For this design I went down a similar rout as the last however this time put the name of my collection all over the background with a fully body shot from my photoshoot layered on top. I like this a lot more as it just feels a bit more interesting than the last.

Here i just took my last design but flipped it portrait. I feel this works a bit better as you can see the garment better and it makes that more of the central focus.

I don't want all my postcards to be edited with white backgrounds so instead I decided to create some with full images from my photoshoot. Here I took an image that I liked and mirrored it kind of to emulate the look of an inkblot with its mirrored design. I like how this looks and feel like it would be a nice filler postcard.

I also want some portrait postcards like this as well so here I took another photo but this time edited some glowing lines to make it a bit more interesting.

For the following designs I took an array of images from my outdoor photoshoot and collaged these together along with the name of my garment to create the designs below. I'm not a huge fan of how these turned out as they just feel a bit busy and awkward

Following on from the last design I essentially did the same thing however removed the background. I was then playing around with filters and found this really cool one named 'Newspaper'. This turned the images black and white but with this low contrast effect. I really like how this looks and think it creates this quite creepy, eerie atmosphere that matches the vibe of my garment perfectly.

I think this 'Newspaper' filter is the idea I want to take forward so I applied this filter to some of my previous designs that I liked to see how it worked.

Finally, I took a bunch of mirrored and regular photos from my photoshoots I liked and applied the filter to them. I really like how all these turned out but I now need to narrow it down to two.

[openstudio3qut]

Semester 1

...1.... Practice and Text

Visual Poetry- Making art with only text and language

-working within a limited visual language, being restricted to only using spoken language and text, was quite challenging and required me to really think compositionally and placement wise for each word or phrase etc

-In my own practice I do a lot of poetry but have always tried incorporating it in with my paintings or drawings, I find it very intimidating and scary stripping away the visual attraction to simply the letters of text that stand alone against a blank background.

In class task: I had been selected the word 'grammatology', and without looking at the meaning I deduced it had something to do with grammar and language. In the time that we had I decided to create a reduced abstract expression of how language has been formed over time to get where we are now, how the letters and punctuation and symbols we all associate with speech and voice has evolved and formed. I tore paper into circles, using the lighter and thinner torn edges to add a layer of texture and depth to the work, I also then overlapped these with smaller circles and as the time shortened I had to start filling up the page a bit faster, so I curled paper as though the circles were gradually unravelling and forming shapes that would become to mean something to us. I got frustrated with this process of restricting myself to what I saw as basic and simple practices of tearing and gluing strips of coloured paper, subsequently adding to the artwork by crumpling the end of the sheet, creating this symbol of the work unfolding and unraveling just as language has.

Outside of class task-Using photoshop I created 3 text works that explore different techniques of emphasising meaning through only the restriction to language rather then purely visual image

Artwork 1

My first work, below, was a practice of me navigating a way to explore meaning through only words. As a visual artist i found this difficult and initially planned to overlap words to create a image/self portrait (using tones and depth), however I was unsure whether this went past the task brief, so i ended up taking sentences and paragraphs from Steven Chbosky's 1999 novel, 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower', a highly relevant and personal story that I resonate with deeply.

I decided to restrict myself as the task said, avoiding imagery and instead abstracting the words to meld into chaotic whirlwind of letters that become almost illegible apart from when you zoom in and recognise each overlooked independent shape and detail, or isolate them from each other, which reflects the themes contained in the book itself, one of loneliness, isolation, feeling invisible/overlooked/unimportant/insignificance and fearful. All these emotions are clustered and drawn into a darker organic form in the center of the work.

Process-

-Overlapping text

Artwork 2

uses the last sentence of the same book

stands out against black background, the black and white create a stark contrast

I put a red line through the two specific words 'believe' and 'me' to emphasis the further messages contained within the text itself

Its a clear and bold message that contains allusion towards another message

Artwork 3

I used a specific font, a old VHS font to convey the idea of nostalgia within the piece, an aging medium that has been phased out, just as writing does by fading it as it repeats itself

repetition

sense we are witnessing the end of something

using dictionary style to try and define a feeling, a non physical thing that I struggle to put words to

Artists Research

Qiu Zhijie

Zhijie is a Chinese artist whose works often incorporate text and language. In his artwork, Writing the“Orchid Pavilion Preface” One Thousand Times(1990–95), Zhijie employs the art of calligraphy, writing out China's most renowned calligraphy works by Wang Xizhi(303–361 AD) called the 'Orchid Pavilion Preface'. He wrote this repeatedly over and over 1000 times on the same piece of paper, overlapping the words, building up tonal areas, depth and shadow. Zhijie said that in school it was a practice for students to repeatedly write this text in order to master it. This process was filmed, charcaters dissolving and bleeding into one another to create a powerful effect. The eventual lack of legibility reflects Zhijie's ideals of calligraphy and text in art becoming a way to communicate the artists process rather then necessarily the actual words meaning.

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-the-top-10-chinese-artists-not-named-ai-weiwei

https://www.guggenheim.org/teaching-materials/art-and-china-after-1989-theater-of-the-world/qiu-zhijie

Filippo Tommaso Marinetti 'Zang Tumb Tumb'

-Onomatopoeia

Jenny Holzer

-Objects to create symbolism and irony

[visuallanguagesophie]

PROJECTION WORKSHOP

Material preparations:

We have been asked gather materials such as:

For slide transparencies - Old 35mm slides (if you or someone you know has some - don't worry if you don't, we have some), blank acetate, acetate with imagery photocopied on to it (relating to your chosen brief), letraset, paint, a sharpie. Really anything that makes an interesting mark on acetate/slide film.

For OHPs – Transparent/semi-transparent materials, acetates (with imagery/text), packaging materials, fabric, transparent objects. Anything you want to experiment with! You could, for example, photocopy some of your map drawings on to acetate.

I didn’t have 35mm slides but I thought I could try using film negatives that i have, and so I have gathered a few of these from different photo albums - mostly photos of myself from when I was a baby and a toddler. I thought this could be relevant to the strange brief - being new to life.

I also found some photos from my mums digital camera and thought it could be interesting to edit these photos and photocopy them onto acetate:

I really liked the last one where I got rid of the background completely and and traced the figures, I made myself just an outline rather than coloured in black like the rest as I thought this was an interesting way to highlight myself and to show how I felt alienated in school and indifferent and alone despite being around people. I am thinking of continuing this further with different imagery and creating text on acetate relevant to the images so that I can project this with the figures. I’m thinking of using text similar to the ones on my map: divided, alone, distance, outsider.

I have also prepared some materials from packaging such as honeycomb packaging and bubble wrap (I am not sure how this will project as it is clear but could still make interesting marks). These are more for textural purposes rather than relevant to my concepts so far.

I am also considering photo copying sections from my map onto acetate, I think a lot of the likes and text could be interesting - I am also thinking about colour and how it could be interesting to use coloured transparent folders I have that could add colour to my projections.

more images

I really liked the drawing over the people in the images, showing the alienation and disconnection through my childhood. I also thought it was interesting to completely trace the image and leave myself as just an outline, showing an actual deference compared to the other figures - giving a more sense of disconnection.

Looking at my map I wanted to print this one section into acetate to see how this would look projected as I think it would look interesting with all the lines and words. I also particularly liked the eyes on my map, how these reminded me of being watched or watching others seeking connection or even the uncomfortableness of eye contact that becomes isolating for a lot of people. And so I took a phot of my eye which I plan to print in acetate.

I also was really interested in the text used in my map so I thought it would be interesting to separately print out some words that I could then project onto my silhouettes if people and other imagery. I felt the words “alone” and “disconnect” “disconnected” resonated with my concept so far and so I decided to use these. I wanted to go for a news paper clipping look but I figured it would’ve been difficult as took a lot of time to find all the letters, photocopy these and then find away to enlarge this so that they are bigger than actual size and so instead of doing this I found a website that you can type your text into and it gives you a scrambled font for each letter. I found this really easy to use and much more convenient. Although if I decided to use text and develop my projection further I would experiment with using actual newspaper.

My final idea for acetate prints for my projection was to print some textural images that I could use to overlap with my other images. I thought about the literal sense of alienation and thought about space, especially the interesting textures of planets and so I found some images and adjusted these for printing.

Photographs by: James Webb (image 1) A. Simon and M. H Wong (image 2)

Projection results:

I wanted to try project my film negatives although I didn’t want to cut them to fit into the machine and so I tried photocopying them instead. Although this didn’t work, it became really useful in making my own images for projecting since I could scrape the ink off of the acetate - for this I used a fountain pen nib. I tried to draw images related to the stranger brief, for the one above I drew silhouettes of a crowd with a person scribbled un the centre, showing the disconnection from others. I enjoyed the scraping process to make this but felt I could’ve experimented more as this process was quite simple, in the future I would like to use colour and texture using paint and perhaps overlap slides.

Tried to overlap slides on the second last photograph, I liked how the text showed up - not completely clear and slightly blended with the scribbles I also thought the text worked well with that slide as to the word being detached and the imagery being a person surrounded by scribbles - symbolising being detached from reality.

[moonlight0934]

Atsushi stands in front of the police station, racking his brain for any reason that Dazai would lock Akutagawa up. He finds himself storming back to the ADA's office. Dazai is sitting in the office, at his desk with his feet propped up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, knocking his feet off.

Dazai sits up, looking annoyed, but mostly blank still. "You're making an awfully big deal out of this. He's not going to be convicted or anything, I just needed Chuuya's attention. There's a mission I need him, and the Black Lizard for. They worked with a group a while back that we're trying to hunt down, but the mafia has a code about giving out information about coworkers."

"What does that have to do with Akutagawa?"

"I'm gonna tell all of his secrets if Chuuya and the Black Lizard don't give me the information I want. Or I’m going to tell their secrets and make it seem like Akutagawa did. After all, everyone else would believe me if I said I told him to.”

“What in the hell? What’s wrong with you?”

“They already said no, and I need this information. People’s lives are on the line. You need to understand that this gang needs to come down.”

“Yeah, we are talking about people’s lives, but that includes Akutagawa! He’s a person too, and we need to think of him. What if they say no again? Will you really tell everyone that he snitched? Just cause Chuuya and Gin wouldn’t believe it doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t be killed for a rumor like that!”

Dazai rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Nothing is going to happen to him, and I’m going to get Chuuya on my side. You know how much he loves his pet projects.”

Atsushi can feel his blood begin to boil, hearing Dazai call Akutagawa a pet project. Probably because he knows that’s all Akutagawa was to Dazai, and here Dazai is accusing someone who really cares of using Akutagawa the same way he did. The way he still does.

"I'm not risking it. I'll take down the gang myself, and then you and I are going to get Akutagawa out of there. Your plan is insane, and they might not even know what you want them to. Do you realize the risks you're putting Akutagawa in?"

"I don't care, and I'm not really sure why you do either."

"Because he's a person, one who's doing better. Who hasn't even been killing people, and has helped us save the world on multiple occasions. He doesn't deserve for us to treat him like that, even though he does still try to stab me every once in a while," Atsushi adds absentmindedly.

"It's just Akutagawa, you're making a big deal. Nothing is going to happen, and he'll be fine. He's not even mad about it. I spoke with the officer watching him, he's fine."

"You didn't see the look in his eyes. Not that you would have cared if you did. You know what, forget it. I'm going to talk to Chuuya and the Black Lizard myself. I'm going to figure this out without your help, and I'm not going to let you hurt him anymore."

Dazai rolls his eyes, attempting to say something else, but Atsushi storms away before he can. He doesn't even stop to consider what he's doing until he reaches the mafia's headquarters. It's not as though it was hard for him to find, he already knew where it was. Dazai had taken Atsushi to pester Akutagawa and the Black Lizard at work a few times until they agreed to whatever Dazai wanted. Atsushi hadn't thought much of it, just lingering in the background, thinking that the end goal justified the means it took to get there. Now he's not so sure, not after seeing Akutagawa's mask drop. Not after seeing just how defeated and tired he was, worn down by everything that had happened to him. The guards don't try to stop him, instead Gin is the first one to reach him. She's glaring, her face set into hard stone.

"What did you do?"

"Dazai got him arrested. I need your help to fix it. He's going to blackmail you and Chuuya about some gang you worked with. I figured you would know which one since the Black Lizard and an executive working together can't be that long of a list."

Gin's eyes soften, just by a fraction, but her fists unclench a little, and she nods. "Walk with me," she says, waving off the security guards still hanging around behind her.

Atsushi complies immediately, sticking close to her, but not close enough for her to stab him before he has a chance to move. He learned the hard way that the Akutagawa's could be faster than his enhanced speed.

"I'm pretty sure I know what gang it is. It's one the mafia cut off a few months ago, the only one we all worked with. Chuuya figured out that they were dealing drugs to minors, and almost killed them all. Mori stopped him, didn't want to insight a gang war."

"What do you want to do? All I need is the name, and I can figure everything else out on my own."

Gin laughs, sounding genuinely surprised. "Really?"

Atsushi nods, earnest and confused about her reaction.

"Of course you would. Anyway, that won't be necessary. We'll be helping you if that's what it takes for Dazai to back off, and then we're going to get Ryuu. Hirotsu is calling Chuuya now. It's his day off, so he might be a bit whiny about it, but he'll deal with the jailbreak itself. We'll take care of them, and then you'll tell Dazai to back off."

Atsushi nods, honestly ready to fight Dazai over this if it comes to that. "Will Akutagawa be ok? This doesn't really fix the root of the problem," Atsushi adds tentatively.

"He'll be fine. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. He's always had odd ways of punishing Ryuu."

She opens the door, leading him into the room where the rest of the Black Lizard are gathered around a round wooden table.

"What is he doing here?" Higuchi demands, standing fast enough to shake her chair.

"He's going to help us with Dazai. He knows what Dazai wants, and he's going to arrest them after we gather them up. That way when Chuuya breaks Akutagawa out, we don't have to worry about Dazai going after him."

Higuchi looks angry, but she doesn't say anything else, dropping back into her chair. Her eyes stay on Atsushi, hateful and intense. Gin opens her mouth to say something else, but Chuuya walks in before she can. He looks like he might have just woken up though his outfit is still pressed, and he has his hat clutched in his right hand.

"Ok, what's so important that you called me on my day off?" he asks, barely giving Atsushi a single glance before turning back to Gin.

"Akutagawa was put in jail while working for Dazai on Mori's orders. We need you to break him out while we deal with the reason."

Chuuya raises one eyebrow before pinching the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and forefinger. "Ok, I can do that. Are we meeting back here afterwards?"

Gin nods, and he hums. "Ok, I'm going to get the schematics of the high security place in town."

After he's left, Gin turns to the people around the table. "Who here as a problem with the weretiger being here?"

Tachihara and Higuchi both raise their hands.

"Ok, you're both dismissed."

It's quiet for a few minutes before Higuchi says, "I am your superior. You can't dismiss me!"

"We all know you're only here cause you want to impress Akutagawa, and that's not going to help. Neither is both of you acting like children cause you don't want him here. Leave. You can either go take it up with the boss, or you can go home, and wait for us to be done. I don't want to make you leave."

Tachihara pauses. "I want to help."

"Can you behave?"

He nods.

"Then you can stay. Higuchi, either you leave, or I'll escort you out."

Higuchi stands, and storms out.

"Now, I'm going to research what tabs we still have on them, and then we're going to leave. You all can start on mission prep, weretiger, you're with me."

Atsushi nods, wringing his hands. He follows Gin back out, and through a few winding hallways. He knows that he should probably be paying attention to where they're going in case he needs to leave quickly, but he's too anxious to care. Gin doesn't say anything as she goes through their records and files, though she does make sure he doesn't see them. He turns to look at his feet, standing by the corner.

"Alright, will you have any problem doing what I tell you to?" Gin asks, turning her hard look back to Atsushi after a few minutes.

He shakes his head. "I know my biggest role is arresting them, and dealing with Dazai. How we get there, I can leave that up to you. I'll do what you need me to."

Gin nods, and then takes him straight out to a car. "Get in, I texted the others, and they'll be taking a different car. They feel more comfortable that way."

Atsushi nods, and climbs into the passenger's seat. Gin makes a phone call before climbing in behind him. "Chuuya said he'll have Akutagawa out and back home in an hour and a half. We have till then for you to deal with Dazai."

Atsushi nods, his jaw set. It's a fifteen minute drive to the main base for this gang, and Gin climbs out immediately.

"I'm going to scout, and you'll wait for the others. Follow Hirotsu's orders, and send Tachihara in after me."

"Ok."

She jogs off towards the building, disappearing into the shadows of the building next door. Atsushi stays crouched behind the car as he watches people mill around the building, clearly on watch. Another car drives up after a few minutes, and Tachihara and Hirotsu climb out.

"Gin wanted you to meet her inside, and for me to go with you," Atsushi says addressing Tachihara first, then Hirotsu.

Tachihara nods, and makes his way towards the building.

"Come on, son. We're going through the front door," Hirotsu says, putting a gloved hand on Atsushi's shoulder.

Atsushi blinks, surprised. "Oh, alright."

The fight lasts longer than Atsushi thought it would, a few skilled ability users inside. Though he can see why the Black Lizard are some of the mafia's best. They always seemed subpar with the things they were up against, but watching them work in their natural mission type is astounding. They're efficient, and while it took some time, that's because they were careful to make sure no one got killed, and none of them got hurt. Gin wipes the blood from her hands, her head cocked to the side as she surveys the pile of unconscious bodies.

"You can call the police now. We'll be taking our leave, but I trust you'll deal with Dazai."

Atsushi nods, his phone already in his hand. It takes almost an hour for the police to fully process them, and all the evidence in the warehouse, but Atsushi already has seven missed calls from Dazai by then.

He finally picks up once everything is taken care of, "Hey."

"You really dealt with them yourself?"

"Yep, and you're going to leave Akutagawa alone. I don't want to hear anything about it, and you don't want to know the chaos I will cause if you make any more problems before I've mentally worked through this one, and figured out what to do. Are we clear?"

Dazai laughs. "Yeah, I guess. You'll get used to my way of doing this eventually, and you'll realize that the methods are far less important than the results."

He hangs up, and Atsushi finds himself walking back to Akutagawa's apartment. He doesn't even know that he'll be there, but he remembers Dazai taking him one time. Akutagawa's haunted eyes play through his mind over and over again. He knocks; once, then twice. Right before he's about to knock for the third time, Akutagawa opens the door. He's dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, dark circles under his eyes. He looks surprised to see Atsushi, his arms coming up to wrap around himself.

"What are you doing here, Jinko?"

"I wanted to check on you, and apologize for my part in all of this."

"There's no need for that. My sister told me what you did... and I greatly appreciate it."

"Can I come in?" Atsushi asks, straightening up.

Akutagawa looks surprised again, but nods. "Gin was just making tea. We were going to turn something on the TV. You're free to join us if you want."

Atsushi nods, and Akutagawa leads him to his living room. It's cozy, and Atsushi settles on the comfortable couch while Akutagawa flips through TV shows. For the first time since he left the police station that morning, the nausea in his stomach goes away, and he's able to relax, sitting next to Akutagawa and letting his muscles untense.

Wrongfully Arrested

Atsushi and Akutagawa walk down the sidewalk together, not trying to kill each other for once. Instead just walking to a mission like normal partners.

“What did Dazai tell you about this mission?” Akutagawa asks, sounding tense.

“Not a whole lot. He said that it was really important that we catch the ability user. Said that they have a hallucination type ability, but he didn’t give me anything else. Why?”

“The only thing he said to me was that he wasn’t asking me to kill an ally of the mafia. As vague as he normally is, it’s not usually this bad. Something feels wrong, but he hung up before I could ask any questions.”

“If it felt wrong, why did you even come?”

“That is a stupid question, Jinko. You know why I’m here.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Anyway, what’s our game plan? If they have an illusion ability, then anything can be fake as soon as we get into range. I don’t know how large that is, but how do we go about that?”

“Easy, I cut the air right before actually hitting the target. Rashomon cuts abilities, so that close, it should disappear. If not, I can just go for a non-lethal cut. A small one just to make sure that whatever it is is real.”

“Like a paper cut? Do you have the precision for that?”

“Yes, of course I do, you fool.”

“Stop being so persnickety. I was just making sure. I don’t want you to accidentally take off any of my limbs again.”

“Oh, believe me, if I do that, it’s on purpose.”

“You are so mean for literally no reason.”

Akutagawa smirks, showing off his teeth.

“Yeah, no reason at all.”

Atsushi makes a face.

“Please never smile like that again.”

“Can you please shut up?”

“Aw, you asked so politely.”

Akutagawa glares at him as they come up on the district that Dazai said their perp would be hiding in. Atsushi’s phone rings, causing him to pause.

“Do you want me to stop?” Akutagawa asks.

He glances at his phone.

“Nah, you can keep going. It’s Dazai, so I shouldn’t be long. Text me if you find him, but don’t engage by yourself.”

Akutagawa nods, tucking his hands in his pockets as he continues on.

Atsushi answers his phone with a cheerful, “Hey, Dazai, what’s up?”

“Are you with Akutagawa, or did you send him on without you?”

“I sent him forward. Do you need me to get him?”

“No, I wanted him gone. I needed to talk to you alone.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“The perp. I wanted to tell you a little bit more.”

“Why wouldn’t Akutagawa be here for that?”

A weird suspicious feeling starts to take root the longer the conversation goes on. He looks around to see if Akutagawa is still in view, but he’s not.

“I just think that Akutagawa wouldn’t be able to be impartial.”

“Impartial?”

“Yes, I know that he hasn’t killed anyone because of your deal. However, I don’t trust his temper to hold forever.”

“What did this guy do? Can you get the point already? I have to get going.”

“Right, I can do that. He attacked an orphanage in a specific town. Got them to kill each other. That happens to be where Akutagawa grew up before I took him in. That’s why I don’t trust him. He can be very rash.”

“You think he’d really care about that? Anyone he knew wouldn’t be there anymore. He doesn’t seem like the sentimental value type.”

“I know, but he can be. I’ve known him a long time. Trust me on this. I’m only letting you know in case he figures out. Just to make sure that you’re ready in case he attacks you too.”

“Are you stalling?”

“No, but you should be prepared.”

Atsushi hangs up before Dazai can convince him to stay on the phone. He runs in the direction that Akutagawa walked in.

“Akutagawa!” he yells, even though he knows that there could be dangerous people lurking around.

Then he sees them, a group of police men outside of a nearby building. He runs over, trying to see what’s happening.

“Who are you?” one of them demands.

“I work with the Armed Detective Agency. What’s happening over here?”

“We just arrested one of the members of the Port Mafia. He was here to kill someone. We were too late to save them, but we were able to apprehend him with few injuries. Were you sent down on the same mission?”

“No, I was down here looking for a different perp . They weren’t part of the mafia.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I don’t think he’ll have stuck around after this. I’ll just call my superior.”

The officer nods, and Atsushi rushes off to the side to call Dazai.

“What is wrong with you?!” he demands in a hushed whisper.

“I have a reason.”

“What do you mean? You led him to get arrested! Did he even actually kill the guy?”

“I can’t tell you anything, Atsushi.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, and this is how things had to happen. I had to handle it this way. You’ll understand someday.”

“How long are you going to leave him there?”

“Oh, I’m not getting him out at all. I’ll leave that to someone else. The reason why this had to happen in the first place.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m going to do something about this if I have the power.”

“You don’t. Don’t start making trouble where you don’t have any. Leave him alone, and stay out of this.”

“No. I’m not doing that. He’s my partner. That’s your doing too.”

Atsushi hangs up, but most of the police have already left. So, he heads to the nearest police station. He shows them his ID and asks if they had processed any criminals in the last half hour. The man at the front desk looks at his ID closely before proudly telling him that they caught one of the Port Mafia’s top enforcers. They even had fingerprint and DNA evidence pinning him to the murder.

“I want to talk to him.”

“He’s not talking to anyone. We already tried.”

“I don’t care. He’ll talk to me.”

“If you say so. He’s still in the interrogation room anyway.”

He leads Atsushi to the interrogation room where Akutagawa is sitting. Akutagawa has his arms folded, leaning back in his chair with a bored look.

“Akutagawa.”

He frowns deeper as he turns to look at Atsushi.

“What do you want, Jinko?”

“I’m not sure yet. What happened?”

“I showed up at the warehouse that the perp was allegedly last seen at, and there was a body instead. Then the police arrived, and said that I murdered him. I assume that Dazai set me up. They said that they had fingerprints and DNA though I hadn’t touched anything yet. Also, the man was torn up, which I certainly could have done. Not that I leave fingerprints, cause this isn’t amateur hour.”

“Yeah, I talked to him. Why didn’t you just leave?”

“Cause the police were already there, and they were there in droves. I couldn’t just leave without killing at least half a dozen people.”

Atsushi drops back against his chair, his brain fuzzing out for a moment.

“He used me to get you arrested.”

Akutagawa laughs mirthlessly.

“First time? He’ll use you till there’s nothing left of you, or until you die. Both in my case.”

Atsushi looks up to see Akutagawa’s eyes cast downward. They’re dark, his jaw set, and his body tense.

“I’ll figure this out.”

“No you won’t. Not if he doesn’t want you to.”

“There has to be something I can do.”

Akutagawa doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at him. Atsushi stands up, rushing back out of the room. He can’t take Akutagawa’s silence anymore, can’t take his lack of anger, and his acceptance of the situation. He barely gets outside before he’s throwing up in the grass. Despite everything, there isn’t a single thing he can do in the long run.

[roseaesynstylae]

I have some thoughts about Caribou's cover story.

You know, if I ignore Caribou's... everything... during the Fish-Man Island Arc, I can almost tolerate him in this. That said, the main reason I want to talk about this cover story is Jimbei's cameo at the beginning and another character who shows up near the end.

I guess that giving Caribou a few redeeming traits is a good thing. I like him going back to help the old woman and his implied affection for his grandmother.

Jimbei punching Caribou is very satisfying. One thing I do like about him (design-wise) is that his Devil Fruit allows his face to contort even more than the average One Piece character.

Okay, enough about Caribou!

I want to know more about Gaburu's grandmother. What has her life been like?

I love the whiplash between the Caribou Pirates celebrating and Drake coming in out of nowhere. He's pretty stealthy for a dinosaur. I also like that the scene is drawn in solid black against an empty white background, with the only visible eyes being Drake's as a white dot. It makes him look downright feral and enraged, and I have to wonder what he's feeling in this scene.

I like the cover of Drake dragging Caribou. It gets across how strong he is, given that Caribou has absorbed Scotch (a man who seems to be made of metal) and is probably really heavy as a result. Drake just has him by the ankle and doesn't seem bothered at all. I like his post-time-skip design, with black leather, that weird sash thing across his face, and that bolero jacket/cape. It's just me, but I'm glad he got rid of the hat. (Also, I initially thought that the X on his chest was a scar instead of a tattoo.) I get the impression he isn't in a good mood during this mini-arc. Look at his face when he's captured Caribou. Granted, he usually frowns, but the lines on the eyes that Oda adds whenever a character is furious are present.

I wonder what's going on in Drake's head when Caribou is protecting the old lady. He's stoic as usual, and the scene is presented as a flashback on a cover, so it's hard to tell what he's thinking. Would he have hurt her if Caribou hadn't interceded? On his own, I don't think so. He can be hard to figure out, but I think he tries to do the right thing. Unfortunately, the situations he keeps getting into don't make it easy to be moral. Also, I wonder if he was thinking about his own biological family. We know about his relationship with his father (justifiably awful), but the rest of his family is a complete blank. Maybe he had a good relationship with his grandparents. I also must note that he leaves Graburu's grandmother alone.

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

Team Green: Sorry your faves are boring 😊🤷‍♂️ Sure you're supposed to root for the Blacks but the Greens are just more fun. Jace is boring I'm here for my angsty disaster mess 💚

You realise that's bad writing, right? This is a family civil war drama. One side of that family civil war shouldn't be populated with blank slates. If no effort is made into making Rhaenyra and Daemon's children as fleshed out as Alicent's children then that is bad writing.

Some people find the Lannisters more fun than the Starks, but the Starks are still fleshed out characters (and considering in the books Jace is 14/15, Luke is 13, Joffrey, Baela & Rhaena are 12, Aegon the younger is 9 and Viserys is 7 - these kids ages almost map straight onto the Starklings so they were so meant to be our Targlings). It didn't have to be a zero sum "you can only have ONE side that's interesting". The show is poorer for it. Game of Thrones was a disaster in many ways, but at least the different sides of the conflict had equal screen time and attention.

How hard would it have been to flesh out Jace, or at least give him a half-decent haircut? He could have been a mirror to Jon Snow (they technically have the same initials). One is a bastard who does not know he's a targaryen prince, the other is a targaryen prince who discovers he is a bastard. In a world that hates bastards, that insists they are 'wanton and treacherous by nature', there was plenty of potential to explore some complicated emotions, to give weight to how he feels about being a bastard. The whispers that would have followed him, the scrutiny he would have felt, the internalised guilt and shame, his protectiveness over his little brothers and wish to spare them the truth. Maybe after Alicent confronted Aegon over the pig there could have been a shift where Aegon turns his bullying away from Aemond and towards Jace (more in keeping with book canon). Maybe Jace could feel anxious about lessons with Criston Cole due to his open hatred of him. Maybe he could be equal parts devoted to and resentful of his mother over his parentage, maybe he could be driven to perfectionism to prove himself worthy.

The show made Jace more violent in the fight with Aemond than in the book, by changing who started the fight (from Aemond to Rhaena and co.), by narrowing the age gap to make Jace more of a match for Aemond, and by having him draw a knife instead of a wooden toy sword. But they didn't earn that moment. How much more satisfying would it have been if both Aemond and Jace were given equal emotional weight in the build-up to the fight? If the hurt and anxiety at discovering he was a bastard had been building and building until it burst out. The entire reason the show changed the age dynamic between Rhaenyra and Alicent to make them peers and best friends was supposedly to make their conflict more dramatic - why would you then drop that approach with their kids? How does it make the civil war story better if one half of the next generation of characters aren't really characters?

They didn't even have to put much effort into Baela, as GRRM already had her brimming with personality on the page, but they just... ignored that and made her a non-entity. Oh she gets one punch in, and there's a blink and you'll miss it background shot of her trying to hit Aegon (at this point I don't think the actors were even directed to do that I think they just took it upon themselves). Meanwhile Baela in the books is wild and fearless and deliberately provocative and quick to anger and fiercely defensive of her loved ones and wrestles squires in the training yard and has a pet monkey and sneaks out in search of adventure and brings home 'unsuitable' friends. Including a legless beggar, a blacksmith's apprentice whose muscles she admired, a street conjurer, twin prostitutes and an entire troupe of mummers. And she alarms everyone due to being 'overly fond of boys' and gets epic lines like this when it is suggested she marry Lord Rowan:

“I’ve bedded two of his sons. The eldest and thirdborn, I think it was. Not both at once, that would have been improper.”

She could have been an absolutely chaotic presence onscreen. Rhaena meanwhile is a little more like Sansa to Baela's Arya, but would have needed more work to flesh her out onscreen. Her insecurities and wish for a dragon seemed promising at first, but they were dropped as soon as Aemond lost his eye. Because that was ultimately the narrative purpose she served - to provide a new reason for the fight to start that wasn't Aemond hitting and pushing a toddler into a pile of dragon poo. She helps Aemond's image by being the one to start the fight instead of him, and from then on she becomes a voiceless non-entity. We watch Aemond fly away victoriously on Vhagar, we don't see Rhaena tearfully watching the last link to her mother vanish over the horizon.

Considering the prominent role of bastards during the dance (especially the dragonseeds), the uninterest in exploring bastardy in Jace makes little sense. Considering the centrality of gender to the story (and considering a certain event involving key players during the dance), the lack of effort into Baela and Rhaena makes zero sense (the show doesn't even bring up their right to Driftmark in an episode dedicated to discussing the rightful heir to Driftmark).

Considering especially that in fantasy black women are so often consigned to minor Missandei roles, the fact that we were robbed of Baela and Rhaena as main characters particularly stings. Baela in particular was an easy fan favourite in the book, and its a role that black women and girls so rarely get to play. If you had told me before the show that Helaena would be a fan favourite over Baela, I wouldn't have believed it. And don't get me wrong, I like that they fleshed out Helaena in the show, like Rhaena she didn't have much of a presence in the book. But it is so typical that the relative non-entity that they kept white gets to be fleshed out, while the more fleshed out character that they made black becomes a non-entity. And Helaena is skinny now, of course (all love to Phia Saban, but I am mourning plump Helaena).

And don't get me started on Kylo Raemond.

[heartbeatlicense]

demotivated artist!reader x bllk boys

(bachira, kaiser)

tags: gn!reader, kaisers gratuitous stripping of course, bachira being a silly little guy, kaiser being an attention whore

bachira

you sat at your desk, mindlessly watching a youtube video that was supposed to be your background noise as you did your art. instead your sketchbook was left on the fresh blank page as you were completely engrossed in the video.

“aren’t you supposed to be doing something” you snapped out of your focus from the distraction and turned to see bachira cheekily smiling at you with an eyebrow raised and hands on his hips

“ugh fine you caught me,” you said as you turned back to look at your computer and felt bachira wrap his arms around you and his head rest on his shoulder.

“i just… don’t know how to start. i’ve been on an art block for weeks now and it’s starting to wear me down.” you let out a deep sigh as you rambled and tapped your pencil on the desk, “it’s just so hard to find any ideas now”

as bachira listened to your rant, he unwrapped one of his arms from your shoulder and silently reached out for your colored pens and markers with his tongue out in absolute concentration, none of which you noticed.

your ramble got interrupted the second you heard marker scratching on paper. you look down to see bachira doodling on your sketchbook

“bachira?! what the hell are you doing!?” when you said that, he quickly snatched up your sketchbook and a couple of markers and ran out the room giggling, too fast for you to catch up. ‘god why did i date a football player’ you sighed and ran out to find him

you spotted him on the couch, comfortably laying on his stomach as he continued doodling on your stolen sketchbook with your stolen markers. you immediately snatched the book out of his hands.

“i cannot believe you would take my things like that! not only did you take my sketchbook, you also drew in it without my permiss- oh wait…” your scolding trailed off as you took a look at the page he drew. you saw the vibrant squiggles and lines he did along with some star shapes and hearts.

“wow this is actually really pretty,” you said, sitting down right next to him. you took one of your pens that bachira stole from your desk and started to draw on that page, using the art bachira did as a colorful background to bring out the black ink of the figures you drew in front of it. bachira rested his head on your shoulder and watched the entire time.

“hehe looks like i once again saved the day,” bachira laughed as he looked at your ‘collaborated’ work.

you rolled your eyes at his comment. “ok fine i guess you did help with my art block,” you smiled and kissed his cheek, “i appreciate it and i appreciate you”

bachira grinned and wrapped his arms around your waist, “you are so so welcome!”

“is this something you did with your mom every time she couldn’t paint?” “oh yeah constantly” “ah should’ve guessed”

kaiser

you sat at your desk while scrolling through different photos on your laptop, trying to find something to draw since your brain was completely dried out of ideas

“babe~” you sighed as you heard a whiny voice from behind you. uh oh kaiser needs attention. you turned your head to look at him

“what do you need kaiser”

“how much longer are you gonna be in here for? you’ve already been here all day…” it’s only been an hour.

you rolled your eyes as his whining got more desperate and you spoke, “who knows at this point. i’ve been stuck for a while so you might have to wait for the rest of the day.” you glanced at him, knowing that would get to him.

“no darling! you cant stay here all day”

“well if you have any ideas for me, i’ll love to hear them”

he closed your laptop, pushing all your things aside, and sat on your desk right in front of you with his leg crossed over his knee, “how about this… you should just draw me.” he smirked as he looked down at your unimpressed face

you thought about it for a second before nodding, “you know what… that’s not too bad of an idea! i’ll do it.”

“ok great!” he said as he started taking his shirt off.

“kaiser no! i don’t need a nude model so please leave your shirt on!”

“fine…” he groaned, hesitantly removing his hands from his shirt and smoothed it out. he mumbled, “it’s nothing you haven’t seen before anyway”

you playfully rolled your eyes and got your stuff ready. you started drawing him as he did various poses while basking in all your attention. every now and then he would try to convince you that him stripping off his clothes would help more but you kept shooting that idea down. you had to deal with him constantly walking naked around the house already.

once you finished, you showed him the sketches. he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you multiple times, each one on a different spot on your face. “wow you did such a good job! you captured my beauty so well”

he took photos of your sketches while gushing about how good of an artist you are and how blessed he is for having you (and also how blessed you are for having a great and attractive model like him)

the next day while he was out at practice, he showed off your drawings to his teammates, bragging about how beautiful and talented his partner is

a/n: haha hai so like i was planning on only sticking to hcs format for this blog but i really wanted to do like a drabble/hc thingy and i also have very little writing experience so sorry if this sucks ass. hope you enjoyed it!

this was supposed to be a three character post but i struggled to

think of another so if anyone wants a part 2 with diff characters, feel free to request so with the characters you want!