#no i didn’t add the messy ink splatters i didn’t feel like it

[magicicephoenix]

could you pretty please draw the deformed version of the butcher gang with the pallette bonfire? /nf

-your "average" butcher gang enjoyer

why yes i can! :) here are your lovelies

the butcher gang with #25 - bonfire

[buzzkillers]

Burning like embers (falling tender)

Pairing: Regulus Black • Black!Reader

Summary: Regulus kidnaps the bride. (Wc:5k)

Warning: Dubcon, Kidnapping, Semi Unrequited Love, Attempted Non-Con, Pseudo-incest, Pureblood Politics, Regulus Embracing His Flaws (Yt and British)

Beta: @darksideofthecocoamoon !!! This would've been way worse without her.

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Regulus Black was not a good man. 

Good men existed in folk tales, in between the thick yellow pages of his childhood books. Where nobility and honor was permeated in ink and their righteousness was outlined in bold roman font, the letters too tiny for baby regulus to read. It was hard to be a good man,  he learned. And by the age of twenty four, he was barely a man at all. 

Rather melodramatic. His mother had said. 

Mother also said he should feel lucky.  

It was luck after all wasn't it? His mother said. A gift to have all of his boyhood crushed out and replaced with a substance that no good man ever possessed. Voldemort knew how to show his favor. He should've been grateful. 

And Regulus was. Grateful that is. He was grateful in the way ravens were grateful for a murder, fire to wood and a cowardly man to…well to him. Regulus. Who had no problem bringing all of these things to fruition. Better than him than the others. His colleagues that liked to add to the fire and wood first, turn a flicker flame to a conflagration. 

It was good that he had all of that goodness ripped out of him, the remnants stuck between Voldemort's teeth.  

Because good men became drunks; drunk on alcohol, indulgent on cheap thrills and even cheaper whores. Complacent. Regulus thought.  

Vermin. His father corrected. Dogs that pretended to be wolves before they latched back on their leashes and trotted home; clean shaven and pristine. 

Regulus knew good men well afterall. 

He's killed many. 

A poison there. A dog bone here. Family cemeteries made entirely in his name. 

So when he said he wasn't a good man, it wasn't an attempt to be humble or modest or bashful or coy or any other fanciful saying. Regulus Black was not a good person. 

The mark proved it. 

The murders cemented it. 

And your body chained to his bed, screamed it. 

Or maybe that was simply a gross overstatement? 

The word 'chained' naturally made one think of those muggle devices. A crude contraption with metallic locks and easily hexed metals. (An insult to human ingenuity, really.) No, your chains were of the metaphysical kind: sophisticated, invisible, snug. It was the nicest thing he's ever done for an opposer to his Lord. 

Unfortunately, you were not raised by Mother. So you didn’t understand to be grateful. Which was a shame. Even a bird admired their cages eventually. It was the least you could do. 

But of course Regulus' life was unfairly hard and his options null. So instead of admiration and dutiful respect, you laid with your back turned and her body curled against the dark corner of your bed. Small and pitiful— a bit wet too. 

Funny.

Maybe he should've called you a fish instead. You wouldn't laugh but it would be funny. After all the white gown that clung to your body was completely translucent, the edges covered in soap suds. (Nastily, Regulus Black curled his bruised lips; a caged bird indeed.)

He closed the door behind him.  

His own clothes drenched and his fingers bloody with scratches before he dumped the wand in his hand to the ground. It clattered unceremoniously. 

"My bird," he began, voice smooth, annoyed. 

"I hope you're incredibly happy with yourself," he slipped his loafers off and untwisted his family rings.  

"There's a dead wizard at our doorstep because of you," parts of him anyway.

The rest of him was about a few yards out. With chunks of flesh too burned and scarred to be identified as human spewed across the acres of land. (Dog meat, his father would say. Hopefully the animals thought the same.) 

The whole ordeal was unnecessarily messy you see? Uncivilized even as he looked at the 'dog' blood splattered against his light robes. Angered, he unbuttoned that too. 

"It was an avoidable death, don't you think?" 

"A complete waste of my time, even?" He cocked his head, his voice heavy with something that made your back tense. 

Yet of course, you refused to turn around, to look back… 

A recent nasty habit of yours as he threw his robes on a nearby chair. The excess blood dripping from hand woven cloth onto the concrete floor. A familiar sight. 

Slowly, his eyes dragged to the wand on the ground, so small and twiggy. It reminded him of the toy wands he saw poor half-bloods play with when no one was looking. A scrap of trash. No different than what you'd throw for a animal to catch. 

Yet, it took death for the wizard to let it go. (A dog and its bone.)

He frowned, then snapped it beneath his heel. 

Magic spurted out and when he looked up your head swirled back towards the wall. He frowned again.

"You could at least cry," he said, voice hoarse. 

“He died for you after all,” 

Besides your frame, a lamp flickered and its shadow danced across your back. He licked his lips, hmm. “They all died for you, actually,” 

"Should I tell them to stop?" He murmured. But you only curled further into yourself. Like a victim, like someone that's done nothing wrong. He gritted his teeth. "No that won't work, you'll just keep sending them," Regulus kicked the wand across the room. 

"Maybe if he had served his purpose…." The air crackled. “..But alas,” Then he crossed the small room and plopped himself on the bed. His head cushioned against the duvet. 

"What did you tell them anyway?" he whispered, before something cracked and your cuffs pulsed. He smiled.  

"Did you say you were captured? That I was holding you prisoner? Did you lie, birdy?" He whispered, before slowly you sat up and turned your head. Your pupils were fat, your breath still.  

"Shut up," 

"B-" he started before all air left his lungs, your hands wrapped around his throat.

"Tu putain de salope—" your knees dug into his waist. “—just stop talking," Spit flew with each word and it took everything in him not to lick it away. He could only smile and make it worse. 

Your eyes widened, a fury of emotion flickering in and out and Regulus only with luck missed the conjured dagger that dug into the place where his head once was. 

"Baise gluante-"  Then with a flick of his wrist the chains tightened, your positions switched and Regulus was on top once more. His bony fingers pressed into a neck that creaked beneath his weight. 

“That was an admirable trick,”

“You almost got me there.” He spoke too soon. 

The knife appeared again, this time pressed too close to his third rib. Huh. What was that muggle saying about kicked dogs again?

"Don’t make me repeat myself," You demanded again between clenched teeth and his skin that was beginning to unravel under the metal. Something in him warmed at that. He killed a man like this the day before. But that was more brutal, cruel even. This was not that. This violence was intimate, affectionate. 

So much so that the moment you spat your words back at him, this time he did lick it off. 

"Sweet," He murmured to himself, like burnt cranberries and raw strawberries, something natural that bursted on his tongue. He licked it again. “A little sour too,” Beneath him you laid frozen, your own eyes widened until your grip on the knife loosened. "Just like me,"

"You're sick," you said it like you were just noticing. "How could you just-"

Quickly, you took a deep breath. 

In. 

Out.

“I'm nothing like you," 

"Nothing?” 

With a grunt you attempted to get up but he kept you down with nails that dug into your wrist. An devilish embrace. "You killed him and you didn't have to, you didn't even need to touch him, you could've let him go, kept him out of it," you insisted, each word said with hard eyes and fat tears on your cheeks. "We're nothing alike," 

Regulus shrugged his shoulders. 

"Then leave," 

"…."

Outside your ‘dogs’ flesh had begun to be pecked off by the ravens and the bones by the flies. Inside, you licked your lips but you did not move an inch. “Here, I’ll even help you,” he confessed before with a whispered incantation, your chain vanished. “Go,”

A symphony of emotions flickered across your face. They all burned hot and they all made Regulus shift above your thigh. Before your knife clattered to smoke and your face twisted into something like hatred. 

His little bird drew back into her cage. 

"Yes," he sighed, his voice not at all shallow and not at all starved for air while he rubbed at the wound that would soon scar by morning, 

"That's what I thought," 

—

When he first met you, his first thought was: 'This isn't going to work,'  and his second thought was 'She's too good for Sirius,'

In hindsight, both statements were correct. 

You were a bold thing really. A beauty covered in rare gems and an aura that spoke of higher breeding. Mother boasted about you highly. The jewel of the west she called you. Someone, born and bred within the confines of a highly respected Afro-Caribbean pure blood family. It was a surprise that Mother even knew you but he guessed that was the point. She wanted someone not as connected in British society after all. Someone who only visited when they had to. 

In other words, the likelihood of Sirius already having fucked you was low and the likelihood  that you knew him was even lower. 

For his mother, ignorance truly was bliss. 

If not for Sirius than also for the fact that no non-British family paid attention to Voldemort.

Voldemort's tyranny was simply an English problem. The bloke didn’t seem to care about the muggles from other countries, much less ones from the Caribbeans. Still, people have heard whispers of him. Only a dip in the pond about a crazed muggleborn that had a bone to pick with British society. 

Nothing special because in hindsight, who didn't? 

So, it was unsurprising that your parents agreed to a marriage of convenience with the one family that was in His pockets. What was surprising was how well you took to it. 

According to Sirius, arranged marriages were archaic and boorish. Not because of any logical reasons like loss of autonomy but because ‘Only a pauper let's their parents pick where his cock goes'. Of course he paid Sirius no mind. 

 Yet, solemnly he wondered if you felt the same. As a boy he would've scoffed at the idea of someone not wanting to marry into the powerful House Of Black but he hasn't been a boy for a long time now. The scales had long fallen from his eyes. In the privacy of his mind, he could not say that it was truly an honor to marry into the Black Family. 

Not with the Potters and Misli’s right there. Not with witches like Bellatrix in the family. On the contrary, it's most likely that you were in for a shock. And you'd probably run for the hills while Sirius laughed into his fifth bottle of ale and mother seethed in the shadows. 

It was the logical conclusion, he knew it and father knew it. But sometimes wolves liked to just watch their prey die. And who were they to go against Mothers will? Father the patriarch and him the–good son. The dog. So he even prepared for it. What a waste of time that was. 

He told Kreacher to prepare for a crying wailing woman. He didn’t prepare for the force that walked through the door instead. It was raining when you visited but you didn't seem to notice. Instead your face was held high as you met mother, your grip firm when you met father and you smiled at him. Very toothy and almost childish but it fit you well.

Father and Mother were nervous that Sirius wouldn't take to you. That they'd have to find another poor woman for their plans but Regulus remembered the sparkle behind his brother's eyes, the twitch of his fingers when you matched fire with oil. You gave him boorish jokes with a classy smile and a mouth no different than a muggle sailor. You were everything dirty about Sirius, wrapped and repackaged into someone pretty, someone that could take it, take him. 

Regulus wasn't impressed of course. It took anyone with a halved brain cell to get along with Sirius. You were really no different than James in his mind. Someone that could code switch between two worlds without making either party uncomfortable. A chameleon with nothing inside. It was good that you only had one job really. One simple, impossible to fail job: 'Bring my son back to me,' He heard mother whisper, both of your bodies hidden in the shadows of the back rooms. ‘Bring Sirius back into the fold’ 

‘Bring him back with a mark,’ She really meant to say and then the conversation was over. 

And of course you failed. 

____

"Do not touch me with blood still on your hands,"  you barked as Regulus dipped your head into the water. The soap suds in your head mingling with the crusted blood on his fingers until the water became a dull, faint pink. 

He hummed. "You demand a lot of me," but his hands do hover away from your hair and to the lip of the porcelain tub. You'd smell so much better without the after-smell of spilt blood anyway. 

Without thinking he rinsed his hands in the water bowl by his side. His pink reflection looking at him before he went back to your puffed- no braided hair. It wasn't like that before. Did you do that while he was upstairs? With your bare hands at that? No, you must've used a spell. Strangled together the few bouts of magic his bindings granted you and did what he offered to do freely. Impressive. 

He should take it all apart. 'Just to spite you,' he thought before with a hum he squeezed more shampoo in your hair. Suds dropped to the wooden floor, and seeped between the cracks. The scent of juniper berry erupted in the air. Your hands gripped the lip of the tub tighter. 

“Sirius used to wash my hair like this.” you murmured, your teeth dug deep into your lip. “Eventually, he’d join me and we’d stay in the tub for hours,” 

He paused, his fingertips wrinkled in your hair before you took a long and hard inhale. In.  Out. 

“Is that so?” he murmured, something tough in his throat. It was only because of the hand of Merlin that he was able to sound nonchalant. 

From his position, he could not see your features. But he could look at the mirror that faced the both of you. It stood at the opposite side of the room; decorated in golds and engraved with faces that he had no interest in knowing. Your own face was the only one that captured his attention. And at this moment, it was closed off. Your lips twisted sardonically and your eyes cut to the side.  

“Yes, there was more that was happening of course, but—that would be inappropriate to tell, " you snickered as if you were the leader on all things dealing with propriety. He took a moment and breathed in. 

“Was this before or after you betrayed him,” Regulus asked. You went silent. 

Coward.

“Or do you even remember,”

“-shut up,”

“Is that a no then?” 

"Are you deaf?" you cut your eyes towards the mirror. "I told you to shut up," 

His own lips curled, "You are still wet," The suds in your hair have now dried. Leaving behind dollops of water that now pooled at his feet. The excess had begun to drip to the floor, the rest down your neck, to your back. 

"Did that also remind you of your time with Sirius?"  Then you shot up, the water falling from your shoulders.  

"Do you constantly think about what gets your brother hard?" What a dirty mouth.

His lips twisted. "You should get back in,"

"No," 

"You'll get a cold," 

You rolled your eyes. "Then you shall tell my family I died of hyperthermia, they'll believe that," 

His eyes fell flat but Regulus didn't say a word. Just kept his touch gentle, his movements soft. As if you were a lover, a friend and not—

The knife only nicked his shoulder this time.

"I said-" you shuddered violently,. "-To stop it," 

In the mirror, Regulus watched as you shot him a look. Weeks ago there was a fiery rage in there, dragon eyes in human form. Now it was just tired, bored even. Then you looked back down, silent. 

He narrowed his eyes. "Ask me,"

Your grimace only deepened, but now there was humor laced in the edges. "Ask?" your lips twisted into a nasty tired smile; 

"Demander?" You giggled. "Did you forget what's in our blood?" You questioned with all that humor quickly gone and replaced with a tone ancient and old.

"We do not ask," you sneered, then rolled your shoulders. 

"Even Sirius knew that,"

_____

You didn't even know Sirius. 

That was the worst part. You giggled in hidden corners and you kissed his hand to make the elders gasp in horror and Sirius like a fool ate it up and you didn't even know him. 

Sometimes,the depths of his brother's stupidity astounded him. Did he really think that a woman like you would just fall in his lap? You were already out of his league. A barmaid would be a better fit. 

It was foolish, idiotic, ridiculous but it worked. Because without knowing Sirius was getting closer to taking the mark. He no longer grimaced when Regulus arrived home smelling of iron. Or when he got caught with scratches on his arm and blood on his collar. Mother's plan was working and he only felt pity.

It was one thing to pretend, it was another to have to dumb yourself down for a bonafide pauper. If Mother had picked him, there would be no farce. Not like he wanted that. He didn't want anything. 

He was fine with watching from the shadows. His entire presence ignored while you and Sirius pretended you were the only ones in England. It was simply the way things were, he realized with clenched knuckles and a tight smile. 

But did it have to be? 

 __

No, it didn't.

—-

Six months later, Regulus understands why Sirius gets so addicted. A drunk like him, so prone to tasting what was bitter, his tongue rotten with ale. You were an overturn. Something annoyingly new. Regulus had never tasted something so sweet. Poppy pomegranate and sunburst cherries. He swore that he’d get a cavity as he dug his fingers into your hair. 

Twisting you into position, tight, proper, the way you gripped the stem of any fruit. Of anything that you wanted to get a better taste of. You were too stunned to fight back then. The bitter after taste of champagne you were prone to drinking sticky on your tongue. Your glass already shattered on the floor. 

In the next room, your husband argued with portraits. And when it's done, and when you slap him. Regulus received a thought. An awful hypothesis. 

What else could he get away with when enclosed by walls? The rest of the world locked away? 

An awful thought indeed. 

—--

It's only a week later that it happened. Sirius waking up to an empty bed and Regulus miles away on a mission, in the middle of nowhere, in a quaint little cottage.

It was almost too easy. 

—

You didn’t leave of course. Not at first. 

Because leaving met acknowledging that you were wrong. That there was nothing to gain at keeping his attention. Leaving meant having to look Sirius in the eye and tell him you lied. 

Of course you had questions. Regulus of course didn’t answer. 

You didn't need to know how distraught Sirius had become. A pathetic puppy that moped around the manor destroying everything in sight. Regulus didn’t even need to plant ideas in the brutes head. No, all the seeds were already there. Sown in from years of idiocy and your failed meddling. 

'It was Dumbledore, I just know.’ 

‘That stupid old git is trying to punish me,' he whined to Regulus. 'He took her, I know he did Reggie, you need to help me' 

'Prongs and-" he'd gnaw at his cracked lips. 'they don't believe me, they think I'm mad, they think I'm—Regulus'

Sirius was mad for you. Unnaturally obsessed. A fool with his alcohol taken away. A dog that's lost his chew toy. He didn't know any better. He couldn't have. But Regulus did, Regulus knew you. He understood your games and twist. Poor Sirius. 

If Regulus had to be the bad guy then so be it. He could be the executioner and the judge, he just needed to play his cards right. 

Murder would create a martyr but someone missing? Someone that Sirius could say left him high and dry. It was what you were planning to do anyway. And if Regulus quickened the process that didn't make him anymore of a bad person than the murder and countrywide slaughter ever did.

—

You were surprisingly clumsy by your lonesome. 

Random scars and cuts littered your body when he wasn’t looking. Ghost of attempts at escape most likely. Which was fine. Regulus could play doctor. Even if it included a bath. A mutual need, probably. The blood on his hands had begun to make his nose burn. 

He watched you flinch, took relevance in the way your eyes settled: tired, bitter. It was the same look worn by others. It reminded him of himself, of mother. Abrasive. Challenging him. 

After all these weeks, you seemed to still be under the impression that Regulus was anything like Sirius. That they shared the same rotten brain cell that Sirius had split amongst his new brothers, his new family. 

He unclenched his fist. Let his anger burn and flick in the atmosphere before with a turn of his head he looked at the hair moisturizer on the counter top. 

"Your hairs going to be tangled tomorrow. You should let me rebraid it," You scuffed at that. 

"Touch me and you die." You said the same thing to Sirius once. He heard it through the walls during your consummation night. Between the sounds of ruffled sheets and curses. And surprisingly, Sirius listened.

Regulus didn't have the same control. He grabbed for a braid, a knife appeared once again at his rib. He sighed. “You’re being stubborn,”

“I will rebraid my own hair,”

“..With what autonomy?”

You rolled your eyes. "Want to find out?”

He snorted, hands gripping your strands. "Sometimes, it astounds me how well you lie."

"Don't you realize that I already know you're guilty?"

You sighed. Tired, as if this was a conversation you two have had a million times before. It was.

You looked away. "I'm not," he yanked your head. "But you are." Then when with a snap of his wand you were dried and dressed. Your body plopped on your bed without care. He rolled his eyes.

"You fed my brother lies and lured him away f when your job was so simple. to bring him back," Get him to take the mark, be the whisper in his ears, that was what Mother told you. All that deceit just so that the family could have a proper Heir. A better head outside of him the runt and Bellatrix the mad woman. 

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You lured him away and then-” he gripped his fist into the sheets. “-and then you attempted to run with another,” 

“You were going to betray him,” it was funny really. Outside of the curses and the hexes and threats that was the one that got you to pay attention. That indifference melting away with ease.

"You are a liar and you should be happy that I even-":

"Look at me?" You rolled your head to the side. "Cause you look at me alot Black, even when you think I'm not looking back," you said this with shadowed eyes and a laziness to your movements. Like you had all the time in the world to revel in the fact that Regulus watched you back. That he wasn’t as suave as he thought you were. 

Regulus flickered his eyes down to the crotch of your dress. Theres a wet spot there that never fully dried. Regulus shot to his feet.

 "You're angry," 

"Regulus," 

"I get it, truly" he found himself at the edge of your bed. A wand less spell on his lips that warmed the fabric. 

"I've been nothing but terrible to you, completely awful. That's no way to treat a sister-in-law, now is it?" he sat at your side, his hands on your thigh. Fabric brushed against your bare skin. Under his words, you shook. "But if you bring up his name again, I'll-" 

"What?" You sneered, that hatred bleeding back in. "Let me go?" 

"Tell Sirius what I did?" With a blink your eyes began to sheen. "I do not care," 

Then your face twisted. "Not anymore" 

He gripped your face, his own features  suddenly inhumane. "Your boy toy has made you cocky," 

"Do you think I won't do it? Are you prepared to make that gamble?" There was a frenzied tone to his voice as he said this. For a moment he wondered if it was the weather. An effect of being so sick of your behavior. He must've been worse than he thought but you were looking at him with defiance. He wanted to find control but there was a smolder to your eyes, a spark and suddenly Regulus lost all control. You were serious. 

And then you screamed as he gripped your shoulders and shoved you into the mattress. It bounced beneath the weight. "No," he whispered. 

Your slip entangled in his fingers. You were slipping between his fingers. The harsh tear of fabric brought him back to the present as the top of your slip laid torn in his hand. 

You laughed. It too sounded frayed while your fingers trembled. "No?" 

But outside of that you said nothing, just stared at him the way you stared at potion books and Sirius odd muggle gimmicks. Something dangerous, that you were simply waiting to explode and somehow that was worse than screaming. Worse than you cursing at him while his fingers dug into your ripped dress. 

"You do not know him,"

But youre stupid so you only grunted back, "Don't I?," 

He laughed "My own brother? You really think you know him better than I?" 

"No—" 

"No?" 

"I don't know what Sirius was like as a child but I do know that the boy you call your brother is dead" 

You gripped his arms now, like an anchor. "I know that he only exist in your memories, and I mourn your loss"  

"But the man is different and I know him and I know that he would never give into Voldemort—not even for you,"

Don't say his name, rested heavy on his tongue. But he crushed it. In that moment something in him died and something else was born. A substance unknown to good men or even Voldemort. 

 So, he smiled. Soft hands coming up to pick at the soft white gown. The fabric was practically translucent up close. 

"Those are harsh accusations," he plopped on the bed and felt himself jump a bit before his hands relaxed against your knee and then your thigh and then- paused with a look. 

 Your body trembled beneath his fingers. 

"Fratricide, sororicide? You really can't think of anything worse?" He whispered, his words painting a portrait that only you could see.

 Still, he watched your eyes widen and felt your breath stutter. A fine drip of water that didn't come from your hair, slid down your forehead. Before a hummingbirds heart fluttered beneath your skin. And all he could do was stare, his hand pressed firmly against your cunts entrance. 

"I can.." he said, still covered in blood, still burning with the mark, before his fingers slipped between your thighs. Plushy and warm then suddenly damp, drenching his fingers.

 "..I can think of something worse for Sirius to find." 

"He'd only have to look at my hands" 

You jumped back and thrashed but it was worthless, his fingers were already against your cunt.

  The sounds only got louder, your thrashing more manic but the spell he put on your hands and feet kept you plastered to the bed. He grounded into you further, chest against chest before his head nuzzled against your own. 

 'Frankincense and juniper berry' he thought with a whiff. Like the familiar books he read as a child and the aroma of the Black home after night had fallen. Divine and familiar. 

His own little goddess. 

The revelation forced him to kiss your cheek. His own lips pressed firmly against your skin. He could taste the shea butter. Could still smell the fruity body wash as your screams turned into whimpers and then morphed into ugly moans. The sounds of pleasure ripped out of you through clenched teeth and bitten lips. 

He brought his free hand up, clenched your neck. Felt the arteries jump and your jugular twitch. He killed a man like this earlier today. A long and dirty muggle way of murder. 

Still, he took interest in the way the man's eyes slowly turned glossy and the way his hands clenched helplessly at Regulus' clothed arms. As if this would rip him away from Regulus. Force him to not carry out his duty. Beneath him, you did the same. Your soft hands grasping helplessly at his clothes. Pulling him in, pushing him back. Delirious. 

"Tu vas le regretter, Black," 

"You gain nothing-" 

"C'mon you can beg longer than that, give me a tale for Sirius.” He sneered. “Let me tell him that you put up a fight," he bent down. 

"Let me tell him that his wife fought hard for me not to fuck her," you spat on him, he kissed you. 

Then you knee him in the face. He jerked back, blood spurted in his hand. He smeared it against your knee. 

"You palefaced-" you punched him this time, his teeth rattled. the bed met his back. The force ricocheting till the bed frame cracked and your chains went loose and Regulus was back on you like a feral dog. 

You would not leave this place. 

But youre quick, a snap of wind that pushes him to his back, elbow in his throat. Above, him you look like a God. Vengeful.  And ready to destroy the only person who exists just for you. “You can't stop me, “ 

And Regulus is weak. A small pathetic thing just like Bellatrix said he was because his eyes burn. The edges wet with admonishment. The edges of his lips quiver. And suddenly all that anger bleeds away.  He gripped your wrist. Sharps nail dug into your skin with something worse.  

“He doesn't deserve you,” He pierced, throat burning. Above him, your eyes melted. The look indescribable.  

“I know.” 

“You will get bored of him, and I'll still be here waiting, watching,” he pulled you closer, nose to nose. You filled his vision. “Do you like making me your dog?”

You opened your mouth but no–

He persisted, tears fat. “Can't I just have you,”

“Can't you just want me? Is that too much to ask? Is it too much to want?” Regulus wanted so much already. He rarely ever had it in his grasp. The back of his mind filled with ideologies of freedom, and family and lonely nights in nowhere cities where no one would know his name. All of that was too far away though, intangible. But this–

He crawled into your space,  gripped your skin. 

–This was so close.

He shuddered. Lips red and his face damp with anticipation. Below him, you looked ethereal. The edges of your eyes burning soft.  

“Is this really all you want from me? Sex? After everything?” 

No. What Regulus wanted was much darker than that.  More debased and immoral and such an awful sticky thing that he could not even admit it to himself. But for now, if that's what you needed to believe. If only a physical communion was what you thought he wanted of you. Then so be it.  

He opened his mouth, ready to lie. 

Yes.  

It's right on his tongue.  

Yes.  He was not greedy. Yes. He did not want anything more. 

Yes. The oath of one easily satisfied. 

But nothing came out. His voice stolen as you looked up at him. Eyes wide.  All seeing. Knowing of everything. 

Regulus shook his head.  

“No.” the word bled out in spurts. 

Weak. Bellatrix whispered in his ear.  So fucking weak. Maybe he was no better than Sirius. 

Because you were only going to deny him. You were going to say no. Laughing at his face because that's what people did in the face of fools. Regulus grip loosened. Beneath him you sighed. 

“Merde.”

“You're a piece of work, do you understand–” your lips twisted, eyes narrowed. “This is not my home and yet you keep me here, this is not my country and yet you keep me here, don't you think I've given up enough to simply be in your presence? Can't this be enough?” 

You say that but Regulus sees the molten desire in your eyes. The way you flickered across his face, unable to stay in one spot but lingering all the same as you crowded in him too.

Suddenly the air was dry. Regulus forgetting how to breath as you leaned back. Exposing your neck, dematerializing the knife. 

He gets closer. “Speak plainly.”

You looked away.  Outside the dog was barely bones. Rotten in the earth. You seemed to contemplate something, eyes distant before you're brought back to reality. 

“...I'll allow it.” 

Oh.

‘We’ can have this. Not just him, not just you. This had to be a gift. Before your grip turned tight, your face feral. A certain kind of wildness found only in martyrs and heroes and righteous fools littered your eyes before you smiled, teeth bloody. “Ask any more of me and i'll leave you here,”

“Alone, and then you’ll have to kill me to get me to stay.”  

"I will haunt you till you are dust and bones and-" he kissed you, his own blood smeared with yours before he pressed his forehead against your own. "Yes," he whispered, and it couldn't help but notice that it sounded like a prayer. Like holiness,a type of reverence found only at the foot of gods and priest. 

He said it again. You froze. 

"Just don't go where I can't find you." 

He smiled. 

Then he kissed you again, on your nose this time, then your eyelids. Then sweetly, softly the space between your lips and your nose. He sighed and then he took you. 

He puts his mouth on you. Slipped his head beneath your layers of clothing. 

Unbuckled and unzipped and pulled apart each single one before your bareness glistened in his face. Until he could see the disbelief at his urgency flood your features. The confusion at his delicacy. Regulus understood.

There was something horrific but about taking someone's defenses apart with a sensitivity. With the precision of a monster that did not have to rip you to shreds to make you feel fear. And when he got to your core Regulus wasted no time. 

....You tasted like pussy. 

Musky and sweet, and in your skin he smelt the juniper berry and in your lower hairs drenched with the smell of arousal. 

Above him you flinched and you shivered. It reminded him of a siren.

The unseelie ones that would flinch and cry as he electrocuted their water. Taking their oxygen away, fucking up the chemical imbalance, till their nails cracked the glass, 

All while his fingers brushed against your own. Your ring finger still entrapped by a silver snake ring. Regulus was not a good man. He was flawed with impatience, entitlement, narcissism, the list went on. But it was his entitlement that got you in his bunker. It was his impatience that made him act, his familial nature that got you here on your back. Body drained and his head placed timidly on your belly. 

He listened to your heart beat through skin and bones. Through vertebrae and arteries. Because everything was louder there, your blood even sang for him. A frenzied beat that made your skin hot to the touch. 

He collapsed further into you. Nuzzling his nose into the crux of your neck.

An unleashed dog indeed.

.

.

.

.

[unicyclehippo]

beaujester + either pyrrhic (won at too great a cost) or selcouth (unfamiliar, rare, and yet wonderful)

selcouth - unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful

//

it’s not that jester has never been touched before—she has! many times! her mama sweeping her up into a hug, a kiss, blud lifting her up so she can steal the cookies from the kitchens, the traveller setting his hands into hers and showing her how to cast her newest spells.

even so,

even so, she is unprepared for how it feels to have someone’s fingers brushing over hers, slow and purposeful. those fingers—long, clever fingers so adroit at picking a pocket or a lock, fingers that pluck at the strings of a lute they’d brought across the city for a paying customer when she thought no one was looking, fingers that can assemble and dissemble a clawed ring in a matter of minutes—sweep over hers and then lace between jester’s. a thumb brushes over her knuckle, taps on the bone just barely covered by skin.

jester feels that touch shiver in her bones still, nearly an hour later. settles in her skin, prickling. for a moment, her mind wanders and she barely notices herself taking out her notebook and pen. what it would look like if beau’s hands were covered in stinging nettles, she wonders. what if that was why she could feel so very powerfully everywhere the girl’s fingers had traced over her skin. as funny of an image as it is, she doesn’t feel like she’s itching. it’s more like a—tickle? the lightest possible brand.

a green pen dips into view. adds a few flourished lines to the image on her page—in place of nettles, beau’s hands are dripping in molten gold and the little stick figure the traveller has added of jester herself floats beside her with a bubble over her head, a jagged little OW written in it.

jester screws up her nose. erases the OW, replaces it—OH? connects stick figure jester’s hand with beau’s.

draws a smile on both of them.

what’s this? the traveller’s silken voice curls into the shell of her ear. what’s this now?

‘i don’t know,’ jester admits.

holding hands? with beauregard?

‘don’t say her name like that!’

like what?

‘like—like it’s a bad thing!’

i’m sorry, jester, he says, soothingly, kindly. his voice like a cool balm brushed over a burn. i certainly didn’t mean for it to sound like that. you know i like her—she makes you laugh, how could i not?

jester’s pen scribbles messy knotted lines in the corner of her page. ‘sorry for snapping,’ she says after a moment, eyes kept low to the page instead of at the cloaked figure who sits lightly on the bed. it bows a little under his weight, creaks.

that’s alright. you’ve been doing a lot lately. i’ve been watching.

‘yeah. i guess i’m tired or something.’

or something, he agrees. he doesn’t seem to move but suddenly she can see the curl of a mischievous smile. so. beauregard, he says, and now her name sounds very different. curious. teasing?

jester shifts. her tail coils and curls beside her. ‘mhm.’

stinging nettles.

‘mhm.’

and gold? i see you didn’t change that part of the drawing.

‘well...’ jester’s eyes flick to it, to beau’s shining hands, lit not by any real paint but by a shining light she thinks only she can see. ‘maybe? i don’t know. it’s just nice. she’s—um,’

your best friend?

‘yes,’ jester agrees, forcefully. then, less certainly, twirling the pen between her ink splattered fingers, ‘yes? obviously. traveller?’

mm?

‘can you hold my hand?’ she doesn’t have to ask twice, his hand moving to cover hers. jester stares down at them, squished her lips to the side thoughtfully.

not the same?

‘no, not really.’

very curious. so it isn’t because you’re best friends—

‘—because we’re best friends,’ jester agrees, finishing his sentence.

indeed. he waits a moment, then, is it possible that there’s a very obvious answer that you’re... not thinking about?

jester frowns. ‘like what?’

oh, i don’t know. it could be all manner of things. you could be allergic to something she wears, or you could be very attracted to her, or there might be residue from a spell on her.

‘do you think so?’

are you fixating on two of three possibilities that definitely aren’t right? he asks, sounding terribly amused.

‘...maybe.’

jester,

‘don’t say my name like that! i’m not stupid!’

i know. i know that.

‘i just—i can’t—that’s not—‘

and why not? you know your mother, your father, have both loved men and women. your friend yasha had a wife.

‘i know,’ jester whispers. draws her knees up to her chest, closes her notebook and drops her head down onto it.

the traveller sets his hand on her shoulder, now seated beside her. why so distressed? beauregard is handsome and noble and brave. she makes you laugh. why so upset? haven’t you always wanted to fall in love with your best friend?

‘well, yes,’

then i don’t see the problem.

jester holds herself very tight and tense and doesn’t answer. maybe, maybe she doesn’t know what the problem is either except she feels very scared and alone all of a sudden and even the traveller’s hand on her shoulder isn’t helping.

i’m sorry, jester. i shouldn’t have pushed.

‘it’s fine.’

is it? you’re crying, he points out.

she swipes the tears from her cheeks, sniffles. ‘no, i’m not.’

hmm.

‘i’ll be okay. I’ll be fine—really! just - a lot to think about. but you’re probably really busy and, and have heaps to think about for traveller con so,’

are you sending me away? he asks, and she can’t see his face but she can imagine the way his brows lift. your god?

‘my friend.’

ah. well, that is all the difference, isn’t it? he brushes a kiss as soft as drifting fabric onto her forehead and fades into the ether, one last squeeze to her shoulder and parting words echoing in her mind. i have seen many things and been to many worlds, my dear. but love is a splendid and wonderful journey in and of itself. i look forward to going on it with you...

[thewinedarksea]

the asked-for coffee shop au. 

tw: for the ink mage, who is himself a warning; mild abuse??; overly complicated starbucks orders; the girl, who is little knife, who is also a warning in her own right. my point is they’re all kind of awful, even in the pastel-y iteration of a coffee shop.

“Cinnamon shortbread latte. Three shots of espresso, raspberry whipped cream. Add some chocolate syrup, too, I don’t care how much. Venti.”

The voice is cool and flatly annoyed, rattling off the order with the air of someone who has done it a hundred times before and will do it a hundred times again, but they’d better not have to within the next three seconds or someone’s getting fired. 

Not that they’ll have to. The girl writes down the order, accepts the handful of crumpled dollar bills passed wordlessly over the counter, and slides the cup down to the barista. She doesn’t look up, and the customer leaves without speaking again. In her peripheral she watches the long edge of their coat whip across the tiled floor, black and spotted with dust, until it vanishes from her sight, and then goes back to counting down in her head until the end of her shift. 

————————

“Caramel macchiato. Almond milk, three shots of espresso, a pump of vanilla syrup. Venti.”

Two days later; same voice, same level annoyance. Same unnecessarily complicated order. It’s interesting enough that the girl deigns to glance up, and comes face to face with one of the prettiest men she’s ever seen: sharp cheekbones and large, dark eyes, framed by sweeping lashes. His hair is gathered into a messy bun, and red ink marks the left side of his face, stretching from the corner of his eye to just above his jaw. There’s a University-issue lanyard dangling around his neck. 

He fishes a wad of dollar bills from one of the pockets of his coat; his fingers are long and slender, ink-smudged as the rest of him and cold where they brush against her skin. She takes them. Rings him up. Slides the cup down the counter with a flick of her wrist.

She spends the next few customers stealing glances in his direction as she writes down orders, watching the irritated way his fingers drum across the counter, the faint sneer of disdain as he plucks his drink from her coworker’s hand and stalks off to get a straw. 

He sits in one of their corner booths and upends his bag onto the table. Papers fly in a snowstorm across the laminated surface.

Interesting. That’s what he is. The girl likes interesting—it helps stave off the boredom.

————————

His title, as far as she can find after a few hours spent googling ‘ink-covered asshole with no manners,’ is the Ink Mage, and he works in the University’s Theoretical Spellwork department. Some kind of prodigy in his field, concentrating in spell creation and sustainment, with the occasional foray into void studies and runes. 

He has a .5 on ratemyprofessor—“for excessive hotness,” reads the sole non-zero rating. “at least you’ll be able to admire his cheekbones as he drives you down the path of suicide.” 

Their shop does a steady enough business in University students coming in for caffeinated courage and to have a quiet place to cry for finals; the girl hasn’t seen any in a while, and she supposes now she knows why. That’s one mystery she didn’t care about solved, then. 

Idly, she clicks through a few of his published articles, gets distracted by the flame wars he ignites in the comments, and then, bored, wanders off to stare at a wall and not do her chemistry homework. 

————————

“Iced caffè americano. One espresso shot. Venti.”

“Vanilla latte. Soy milk, iced, two pumps of chocolate syrup. Venti.”

————————

They fall into a routine. The Ink Mage comes in Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, rattles off a complicated order, and retreats to the corner booth and his piles upon piles of paper where he stays for several hours, scribbling and downing coffee and occasionally swearing violently.

After the fifth visit, she starts bringing his coffee to the booth after he orders it. After the tenth, she starts bringing refills every three hours, and a collection of napkins for him to write on because her manager complains when he starts writing on the walls and her manager’s voice is very, very irking. After the twentieth she settles into the booth across him during her break—she has to shift a stack of essays, all marked with red ink and scorched around the edges—and waits to see what he’ll do.

He ignores her for the entire thirty minutes, and then tells her to bring him a cake pop when she gets up to leave. 

————————

Half the time the store can only afford to have one staff member working the counter, which means the girl ends up making a lot of the Ink Mage’s drinks. It’s a lesson in multitasking, and also the ingredients they have stashed in the various drawers and cubby holes. 

The first time she fucks up his order he dumps the entire cup over her head. She has to make him a new one, free of charge, and then clean up the spill on the floor, iced mocha dripping down her neck all the while. When her manager yells at her later it’s all she can do to keep from rolling her eyes, or punching her, or setting the store on fire. She settles for staring blankly until she’s dismissed.

Patience. She’s learning it.

————————

“Java chip frappuccino. Five shots of espresso. Do you have a size larger than a venti? Forget it. Just double the order, both ventis. Extra whipped cream. I don’t care how much caramel syrup you add just add some.”

The Ink Mage looks harried: there’s five pens stuck in his bun, two with the caps off, and ink splatters his cheeks and trails down the curve of his neck in a ribbon of black. He’s thinner, too, the planes of his face even more pronounced than usual, and against the pallor of his skin the bruises around his eyes stand out like blood on snow. 

Silently, the girl reaches for the cups.

————————

“My students are a bunch of soft, blubbering idiots who couldn’t tell the difference between a summoning rune and a summoner rune if I carved it into their foreheads.”

The girl makes a noise in the back of her throat, less sympathy than acknowledgement, and edges the blueberry scone she’d brought him a bit closer. The Ink Mage ignores it. Honestly, he may not even see it; he’s calmed somewhat with his double order and the refills she’s brought since then, but his eyes are still dark-rimmed, and another pen has made its way into the nest of his hair. Finals, it seems, take their toll even on him.

“No,” the Ink Mage continues, “No, I refuse to handhold a bunch of children through the finer parts of basic runal spellwork and grade their subpar garbage as if it means something, as if they will amount to anything more in their worthless, pathetic lives than to be the absolute dregs of human innovation. Honestly. If these little brats want me to read their drivel the least they could do is type in an interesting font.”

With deliberate care he gathers the entire stack of essays before him and, getting up, tips them into the trash can. 

“There,” he says. “Problem solved.” Then he sits back down and picks up the scone. Her scone.

Warmth bubbles in the girl’s stomach and fizzes through her bloodstream. Not happiness, exactly, but maybe satisfaction. Contentment. Knowledge of a job well done. 

————————

The days tick past. The register dings, dings again. The girl’s never bored on shift, now; if she’s not seeing the Ink Mage, she’s counting down to his visits, measuring the time in the bland orders and blander customers that fill the time in between. 

On her breaks she comes to share the booth with him, bringing pastries and refills of whatever confection he’s ordered that day. Equations and theories and critiques of others’ works radiate out from him as he sits, a gangly black spider in the center of his web. He has no laptop (“useless technological drivel. It can be hacked”) and no pencils (“only idiots and Professor Miller need to erase their work”), and so his work is written on paper or dashed onto napkins in his tiny, cramped scrawl, ink weeping across it all. 

The first time she undresses to find ink staining her own arms, she stares at the shower for thirty minutes before she can bear to step beneath the cold spray of water and wash it away.

————————

“Chai tea latte. No foam, skim milk, three pumps of caramel sauce. Venti.”

“Iced coffee. Ten pumps vanilla, five pumps hazelnut, eight pumps caramel, a splash of soy, light ice, double-blended. Venti."

————————

“Latte. Nonfat, two percent foam, three espresso shots, five pumps mocha,” the Ink Mage says on his fiftieth visit, and then, “What do you know about theoretical spellwork?”

She blinks at him. The back of her mind is still scrambling to figure out what the fuck ‘two percent foam’ means and how to make it a reality. “It’s theoretical,” she says after a stretching pause.

“Mm.” 

He goes to sit at his usual booth. It feels like she’s failed, and her hands shake so badly she has to remake his drink three times over.

————————

“I read Zhang’s Animus Theory,” she tells him the following visit. The words rush out of her, too loud and too desperate in the hushed, coffee-fragrant air. She bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood to keep herself silent. 

At her words the Ink Mage pauses, examining her with the level of intensity he typically reserves for judging the artistry of the caramel drizzle on his drinks. The girl has never noticed how blue his eyes are before—not black but indigo, like wet ink, or the deep, velvety centers of the flowers blooming on her windowsill. 

“Animus is trash,” he says dismissively, and her heart does something strange and painful in her chest. “Chocolate chip frappuccino. Two pumps of every syrup you have, extra coffee whipped cream. Venti.”

————————

“Li. Whistler. Astre’s an idiot, but their theory is solid. Diaz is annoying, but accurate; Okada’s Synthesis is a good groundwork if you’re trying to break into incantational magics.” The Ink Mage frowns at her over the lip of his refill. “Are you writing this down, girl?”

“I’ll remember.”

She will. It’s his words, she thinks; his coffee order, his insults, the occasional tidbit of information he deigns to share with her, all of them creeping into the soft gray tissue of her brain and nesting there. Like maggots in the carcass of some strange animal, breeding new life.

————————

“Hazelnut macchiato. Four shots of espresso, extra whip, light ice. Venti.” 

“Pumpkin spice latte. One shot of espresso, seven pumps pumpkin, light foam, light whip, light caramel drizzle. Venti.”

————————

On his seventy-second visit to the shop the Ink Mage pauses after he orders, frowning across the counter at her.  

“Where do you go to school?” 

She tells him, and his mouth curls with disgust. 

“Transfer. Now.” When she doesn’t respond, merely cocking her head, birdlike, he rolls his eyes. “I need a new lab assistant—mine are useless.” 

“I’m failing all of my classes.” There’s no way she can get in—it’s the University, after all. People would kill for a place. People do kill for a place. 

The Ink Mage rolls his eyes again, harder. “Lab assistant. Mine.”

A good point, but:

“You don’t even know my name,” she feels compelled to point out. 

“And?”

And—

Well. And nothing. And being the Ink Mage’s assistant sounds mildly more interesting than being a barista, and she likes the sound of the word ‘mine’ in his voice: cool, level, lips shaping the ‘m’ and tongue flicking sharp around the ‘e.’

She shrugs, and slides his cup down the counter with the ease of familiarity. “Okay.”

During her break she brings him an orange scone, a day old and slightly stale, and a fresh cup of matcha green tea (iced, heavy on the whipped cream). The booth is awash in papers; she has to shove a few stacks aside so that she can sit, curled up and small, in the seat across from him. Then she breaks out her beaten-up laptop and begins filling out the transfer application. 

She skips over all the parts about personal information, statements. The only thing that matters is the name of the Ink Mage, bold and black, across the top of the form.

[mysticsparklewings]

Bug Girl

My WIP Wednesday! piece is all finished!   (Warning: LOOOOOOONG description about the art process ahead!  ) I don't think it's terribly obvious for a number of reasons (at least not at first), but this piece is actually a bit of fan art/inspired by How to make Friends with the Dark by Kathleen Glasgow, which I finished reading Monday night--Though I actually started this piece a couple of days before   There's a concept that gets brought up a few different times in the book of the main character Tiger imagining a "bug-girl" in a jar, usually to help visualize her emotions to us, the audience. This concept really resonates and stuck with me even before I finished the book, and thus I was compelled to draw it. Technically the way I see that concept in my head looks different from what I've done here, so sometime in the future I may take another stab at it, but for this time I wanted to strengthen the connection between the bug-girl concept and the book, so visually I modeled the overall aesthetic largely off of the book's cover; white lines and white dots on a dark blue background that has a slight gradient at the bottom. The gradient on the cover is more subtle and is more on the lines than the background itself, but I took artistic liberty on that to make my life a little easier. My original plan was to do the background with watercolor, do the lines digitally and print them out (since I had some kinks in the sketch I wanted to experiment with digitally instead of doing a lot of additional drawing and erasing) and then use my lightbox and a white gel pen to trace directly on top of the watercolor, then splatter away with some white ink. But of course, things can never be that simple. The way I see it in my head, the bug-girl has, well, bug eyes, but for this piece, I didn't want to lean too heavily into the "creepy" factor, given it doesn't really fit with the content of the book (which is a great read if you like realistically heavy YA novels, by the way) so I angled her head down and her hair covering her face to keep from having to make the decision on whether or not I wanted to go with that look. And additionally to do proper bug eyes (at least the kind I was imagining) would've involved a lot of tiny circle/cell shapes, and I imagine that would've made things feel too crowded or would have blended into the splatters/background in an uncomfortable way. Additionally, I was going to have her wings raised behind her, but after playing around with a few different references and positions in Photoshop (knowing full well I was not happy with the original wings from the sketch that I completely free-handed), I felt like this more asymmetrical, lowered position and dragonfly-type structure just looked better and fits better with some of the movements of the wings described in the book (using them to cover her eyes, etc.) which in most cases aren't technically plausible with normal bug wings. My first real problem was with the jar. Realistically, it needed to be tall enough for the girl to stand at full height at least. And in theory, probably a little bit higher so it would be more comfortable overall and so that in theory she wouldn't just stand up and be able to push the lid off. But I was having issues with the sizing because the jar could only be so big so that A. it would fit comfortably on my paper and B. if it was too tall, the empty space between the top of the jar and the girl would noticeably awkward. So I fiddled with that for way too long and ultimately, it's probably too short, but the size balanced is more comfortable to the eyes, I think. (I also added the cross-hatching to the lid to make it more obvious there was a lid since originally it just kind of looked like the jar had a very wide lip.) I also gave her a set of antennae, and after trying the concept of segmenting her whole body to be more bug-like (which was way too many lines everywhere) I decided to add some plates on the front of her forearms and calves. It's not much at all, but I didn't want to stick solely to traditionally "fairy" imagery since she's a bug-girl, not a fairy, but in this lines-only format, there was only so much I could do and still get the proper impact I was looking for. Speaking of which... I did a lot of swatching and testing of my various watercolors that I have on hand to A. get the colors I wanted right, B. practice my blending of two colors with more paint than water since I wanted very dark, opaque colors, and C. test if my lightbox would even work under the thick watercolor paper and the actual watercolor. However, I made two errors in judgment during the testing: 1. The areas I swatched to test were considerably smaller than the actual size of the area I wanted to cover and even with my biggest brush when I went to do a practice go I very quickly realized that was going to take an absurd amount of paint, time, effort, and I was very likely to run into some blending problems with the gradient. (So, in summary, half-pan-sized watercolors and mostly small brushes are not great for very large areas) 2. Once I realized the above, (and I had already done two very quick tests with alcohol markers and that idea almost immediately went out the window for the same issue) I had to switch course and ended up using some water-soluble pencils (one Arteza Woodless Watercolor Pencil for the dark blue and one Derwent Inktense pencil for the dark teal at the bottom) to lay down the color for the background and then wet them down to smooth out the color. Which turned out pretty nicely, especially once they dried. (I was a little worried at first since while still wet it was looking kind of patchy and weird ) The problem with number 2 is that after it had fully dried (aside from the paper curling pretty badly since it was in a sketchbook and I didn't think to tape the edges of the page down before taking water to it, which was mostly fixed pretty easily by wetting down the back of the page and sitting a very heavy box on it while it dried overnight) when I went to use the lightbox, the pigment from the water-soluble pencils was noticeably more opaque than the straight watercolor tests/swatched I had looked at previously. It wasn't so opaque that I couldn't see my lines underneath at all but it was opaque enough that a lot of the smaller details wear really hard to see. And thus I had a pretty big problem on my hands. What I should have done was trace the lines in black on the blank paper first so they would be more likely to show through the pigment in the first place and there's a good chance that would've fixed the problem, even if I still needed the lightbox to see those lines perfectly. But hindsight is always 20/20 so that knowledge didn't really fix the matter at hand. I knew pretty instantly that I didn't want to try tracing the lines onto another piece of watercolor paper and trying to color matter since I seem to always have majorly noticeable issues with that, especially when there's a gradient involved, and also because I knew when I scanned it in it would be fairly obviously there were two layers of paper instead of one because of how thick watercolor paper is. I also knew alcohol markers were out because, again, color matching issues with the selection available to me, and also from some of my much earlier testing with trying to get the specific gradient that I wanted. That left me with colored pencils. And thus I went through the five different sets I use enough to keep where I can easily access them (I have others I don't like as much that would've just been a waste of time) and started swatching colors on a piece of the same paper I had the lines on and then held them up to the background to color match as closely as possible. I ended up picking one dark blue and one dark teal each from both my Prismacolor and Polychromos sets since the blue from the Prismacolor was closer but the teal from the Polychromos was closer but they were both slightly off, so to keep the texture consistent I mixed both together for both colors. This ended up being a very good idea in hindsight because I finished off with a final layer of the Polychromos and that kept my white gel pen from having the problems it would normally have over straight-Prismacolor pigment. (Since Prismacolors are wax-based the wax usually clogs the pen tip very easily; the Polychromos are oil-based, so the oil created a slicker layer between the wax and the pen). And all I did was use my lightbox to see the black printed lines through the colored pencil as easily as possible and went back over them with my white Sakura Gelly Roll, then I went back and outlined the jar and the lid specifically with my white Uni-Ball Signo, since the ink is slightly brighter and the nib is larger. Once that was all done to my satisfaction, I cut out the girl in her jar and placed it on the watercolor background with some double-sided tape I picked up the day before from DollarTree, clipping a few edges so they'd be as flush with the edges of the paper as possible. And I figured that would be a better idea than glue because the glue had a very good potential of being very messy and leaving notable marks. The tape was just a safer bet. And fortunately, the paper laid pretty flat, save for a couple of spots I either missed because I applied the tape by lifting up the edges so I wouldn't totally lose my placement or up by some of the nooks and crannies that make up the ridges at the top of the jar that were just too small to do individually. And there is one spot where that tape wrinkled on me, but it's fortunately not terribly noticeable in the final product. Then I made a paper mask for the girl inside the jar and got to move on to the slightly more fun part; I dipped a paintbrush in some white ink (white ink as opposed to white watercolor because I was concerned the water part might cause some reaction to the existing watercolor background that I didn't want and I was a little concerned it would make the non-watercolor paper that the girl and the jar were drawn on warp) and started tapped it against another paint brush to get splatters everywhere. I masked the girl since I was pretty sure she'd blend in too much if she got splattered too. After the ink was dry, I removed the mask and went in with the white Gelly Roll again to make some stars here and there; mostly just because I wanted to since the original book cover only has dots. I left it at that for the night since it was almost 3 and I was tired, but I came back to it the next day and racked my brain for a bit since it felt like it was missing something. I ultimately ended up putting the mask back on the girl and used my pastel blue PanPastel to create a glow effect around her. After that, I scanned it and did make some minor adjustments in Photoshop (mostly color correction, but there were a couple of black lines of shadow around the edge of the jar since it was still a separate piece of paper on top of the other one at the end of the day. And here we are. It's still not perfection, but I am ultimately happy with it since I think I got the look I was after in the end. Plus, I think I capture the spirit of the original book cover's style pretty well ____ Artwork (c) me, MysticSparkleWings I do not own How to make Friends with the Dark or the cover art ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[jemimaboultonmessagesmultiverse]

Damien Hirst splatter paintings

The first words that come to mind when I see these splatter paintings are vibrant, chaotic, mindless, circular, messy, rippling, explosions, waves, expressive, free flowing and atomic. 

Damien Hirst created these pieces by allowing people to pay  £1 to create them despite them having his name on them. they were created by throwing paint  onto the spinning canvas, with the end result being very explosive pieces of art which draw you in and then throw you out to the edge of the canvas.

When I view this piece of art my eye is drawn to the centre of the circle. This is because that is the area where the marks are much smaller and more frequent, reminding me of the nucleus of an atom or the earths core. From the centre, my eyes follow the marks outwards to the edge of the page, mesmerised by the vibrancy and fluidity of the pieces. The colours portrayed are chaotic and rippling, the way they move outwards and across, overlapping each other and interacting with one another is similar to waves in the sea and the way in which a wave can change when it hits the shore.

The shape of the canvas suggests space very strongly as it is circular like a planet, and the colour placed on top of them further emphasise this as they look like the colours of gases and ice and the weather which you can see in NASA’s photos of the planets in our solar system. These pieces make me feel small within our universe in the same way the planets do.

I actually had the opportunity to see some of Damien Hirst’s work at an exhibition at Houghton Hall a few years ago and I remember my initial reaction being shock at the scale of many of the pieces. The splatter painting displayed was filled with many smaller paint marks and below is a photograph I took of it. The painting itself stood taller than me and looking at it made me feel as though I was being sucked into a vortex I would never escape from. The colours appear to all be getting sucked from the outside of the painting to a point of nothingness in the middle and I felt like I was going with them.

These pieces link to my work due to the shape they have resembling a planet and the way that the paint draws you in like a black hole. The piece above also reminds me of a sky of stars given that it is filled with white flecks. The way the canvases were spinning whilst the paint was being applied resembles the way that the world isn’t stopping turning whilst we build upon it and change it.

My Splatter Paintings

In my own splatter paintings I didn’t have any way to spin the canvas, so I focused on trying to create interesting splatters and textures in my application. I used acrylic ink for this as I felt it would be the best for splattering whilst also creating vibrant colours which can overlap and merge with each other, creating interesting colours and swirls which remind myself of the galaxy and universe.

Unlike Hirst, I haven’t filled all the negative space in my work with ink, and instead have opted to leave parts white to allow the shapes of the splatter to shine through. An idea of space is crucial to my concept as the way the colour is intercepting the white background is very representative of parallel universes and how things are different in each one. This is also why I made a series of these paintings each with a  similar colour scheme, as at first glance they look the same but when it gets down to the finer details they are different.

My colours are very vibrant just like Hirst’s, although I have less variety in tones of each colour. The prominent use of red, blue and dark purple are to create galactic imagery. I also included some greens and yellows however, to prevent the whole page becoming a big purple and brown blob. The yellow also reminds me of meteors and the green is similar to some of the galaxies I have seen in NASA’s photography.

Every line I applied was applied very freely and aggressively, I really tried to allow myself to just throw the ink at the page and experiment with how to create the best splatter, I wanted there to be lots of the smaller lines coming off the larger splatter as this reminds me of stars and constellations, therefore working well with my current ideas and inspiration. I tried to create a sense of movement and layer all of my marks over each other to further relate to my parallel universe concept, as they would all be moving across one another and existing simultaneously and conveying to the viewer that these lines are each a universe which is similar to the line below or next to it, but not exactly the same.

The contract of the light background and deep and bright colours on top of it are quite jarring and add to the aggressive nature of this piece. The stillness and ominousness of the background is emphasised by these moving striking marks upon it. The motion created was done by the way I made the marks and is crucial to my work as galaxies and universes are always expanding, therefore creating a completely still piece regarding space wouldn’t make any sense in my opinion.

This is an abstract representation of my perceptions of the universe. I have taken my views of the universe and broken them down until they are nothing but a seemingly simple splatter of ink on a page. I limited the ways in which I make marks to simplify my thoughts and ideas. I expect viewers of my work to experience it in one of 2 ways, either completely understanding that this art is more than surface level, or claiming that it is “just some paint on paper”.

[amberfoundation-blog]

Julie week 1

One of the first lessons of the exploratory stage unit(s) was spent creating large observational drawings using an extended arm. This was done by attaching charcoal and graphite or ink to the end of a bamboo stick and drawing on an A1 piece of paper from a large distance away. This method was used to help us loosen up in our drawings as a lot of the time we are very tight and tense since we want to be accurate. With extended arm drawing there isn’t much chance to be completely accurate, so we become more focused on the expression of our stokes and basic structure that the extraneous details.

I personally quite like most of my drawings as I really like the sketching style that I achieved with the use of multiple strokes. It is bold and somewhat aggressive and one that I would like to try continuing to replicate.

The first set of drawings I did were of a skull done while holding the bamboo stick at three different lengths; all the way at the end, one third of the way down, and then two thirds of the way down.

Technically there isn’t a lot of difference between the three drawings (other than the first being a lot larger). However, something that I can see is that the one done when I had with more control (two thirds of the way down) looks a lot more precise and accurate with the lines while the others a lot looser. I like this one the most out of these three as I like that it looks better and more like the skull. The others don’t look as much like the skull and they frustrate me.

This drawing of a hat was also done with the extended arm, but using a graphite stick instead of charcoal. This is probably my least favourite as I don’t like the thin pale lines that graphite produces in comparison with charcoal. This, paired with the inaccuracy of the extended arm, did not create something that I personally like. I also wish that I had picked a different object than a hat with a dent in it as this was very hard to define as being ‘dented’ since graphite doesn’t create as much depth when used a lot over one area with charcoal does. Due to these reasons, the hat just looks disproportional.

This drawing was done using indian ink and a stick as we wouldn’t have been able to tie anything to the bamboo stick without ink going everywhere when we needed to get more. Using ink mean that our strokes were often a lot shorter since we had to keep getting more ink on to the end of our stick. What I was drawing had a lot of spiky edges and I feel like the shorter stokes helped show this. The darkness of the concentrated ink helped create depth in contrast with the more spaced out, textures strokes of the rest of the drawing. When I was using the ink, it tended to splatter a lot before the drawings as it dripped off any stick that had just collected more ink. Although this wasn’t intended and isn’t a part of the actual drawing, I think that it works well with the textures of the strokes that do make up the drawing.

This drawing was done using both charcoal and graphite taped to the end of a bamboo stick. This is a technique that I really don’t like as both materials have different levels on intensity and darkness, and the charcoal overpowered the graphite stick a lot, so that’s the only thing you can really see well. On top of that it was difficult to make sure you were using both at the same time, rather than accidentally tilting the stick and only using one. Because of this I think that this just looks messy, rather than being a quick sketch. The materials don’t balance out well and if I were to redo this, I would choose materials that would work better together.

This drawing is one that I’m very pleased with as it portrays the sharpness of the flowers well and shows definition in the woven wicker that is wrapped around the top of the bottle.

When drawing this I made sure to use short motions as much as possible, and use them to make an image out of the texture they created.  I started using this technique when I was drawing the flowers, as they didn’t have a large solid shape to outline, and I thought shorter strokes would be better. I then used the same technique for the wicker as I noticed that it would portray the overlapping and weaving better than longer lines.

From using these techniques and materials I can say that I do really like using extended arm drawing to help gain freedom in my drawings but wouldn’t use this as a technique for a full piece, just because you can’t add a lot of detail to it (which is one of the points of extended arm; to not be restricted to detail).

[charlottetaylorfwxb3001]

Table Props

I’ve focused on the smaller props, things that would clutter desks like scrolls, papers, ink bottles etc. 

Using the glossy matte material in substance painter, I changed the colour and the roughness to imitate ink and used different alphas to crteate ink blots and splatters on the papers and scrolls. I feel like these details help to add to the realism of the game, instead of having a perfectly clean scroll.

I like the look of the scrolls and the way you can layer them in engine to create a messy, used table look. I think a layout like this would suit the game and help convey realism in to the player.

Modelling in Maya, using a reference image to make sure the shape of the feather was realistic, using the soft select to move the edges into a realistic curve, etc.

I layered on colour using a spaced out thin brush in Substance Painter, this created the illusion of a feather. I wanted to look into creating a realistic feather in Substance Painter but I didn’t have time in my schedule to learn something like this so I stuck to the technique I knew and would like to iterate on this particular model in the future.

I tested these props in unreal to see how they looked, if the pivot and sizing was good as well as being able to what my props look like in engine.

[archi-anime]

Hey hey hey fellow ani-lovers and ani-friends!! It’s Archi-Anime’s turn to contribute to  the OWLS January blog tour. OWLS: Otaku Warriors for Liberty and Self-Respect, is a group that hopes to spread the important message of respect and kindness to every human being. Our monthly blog tours reflect this message of tolerance and self-acceptance, through various analysis of the anime medium; although it is not limited to anime.

January’s theme is “Revival”:

A new year implies “new beginnings.” Yet, rather than discussing the “new,” we will be discussing the “revival.” “Revival”  has multiple definitions, but the meaning we will be focusing on is the improvement, development, or refinement of something. Our posts will be about characters that undergo a positive or negative transformation and what we can learn from them.

The life of an artist is a precarious path, and the same could go for us content creators. We all start from zero. We start with the basics and once we’re comfortable with that we start to add our own view, our own flourishes to make our content our own. Some people are born with natural talent while others have to work really hard. We’re inspired by others and strive to be like them so in a sense we also start to mimic those as well. We’ve all at some point hit a wall, a plateau, that hinders us from creating, this is usually the time we have to start changing things up and find new inspiration.

In the case of Barakamon, Handa Sei is a naturally talented calligraphy artist bound for glory in the same steps as his father, another renowned Calligrapher.  Handa is quite proud of his work, it’s perfection in it’s subtlety, and its grounded in the foundation it was built on, the influence of his father and the basics he’s known all his life. He’s comfortable in thinking he’s the best, until one fateful competition that breaks him. What happens afterwards revitalizes him via his own renaissance and a better understanding of himself.

  Crash & Burn

“For one still so young, your calligraphy is highly conformist. I don’t know if it’s better described as copybook-style, or made simply to win calligraphy awards. Did you even attempt to scale the walls of mediocrity?” – Director

At the beginning of the series, we see a manically laughing Handa practicing calligraphy, or more like splashing black ink around on an canvas before he flops onto the ground satisfied with what he sees. Until we enter a flashback scene from the latest competition in which his work was displayed. We see his art being criticized by a big wig, a director of the gallery. The above quote is what he says about Handa’s work on display, basically saying that his work is basic and is missing something. So, as a response, instead of talking, he uses his fists and knocks out the Director.

Rejuvenation 

After having punched the lights out of the Director, Handa is sent to the island of Fukue to cool his head and take a break from his work. What Handa has failed to realize what the director is saying is that while Handa’s work is beautiful in it’s foundations of basics, where is Handa in his work? Where is his style of calligraphy? What does he want to convey outside of pretty calligraphy?

On the island, Handa is adverse to socializing with the community at first; hell-bent on solely focusing on trying to better his calligraphy by thoroughly practicing everyday all day with the thoughts of the director swirling through his head. But throughout the duration of his stay, the community worms their way into his life and eventually his heart thereby causing a noticeable change in his work ethic.

Enter Naru Kotinishi, the biggest thorn in his side due to her pestering nature. However, her pestering nature cuts through to the very center of who he is without her knowing, reiterating what the director has also noticed about the very truth of his work ethic, and who Handa is as a person. At first he despises the child, but he can’t fault her for speaking so frankly – she’s a kid. She only knows how to speak the truth and speak on her mind. Handa is too stubborn, too caught up in his ways and his ideals of perfect calligraphy, that he doesn’t know how to have fun or to let loose. Naru interjects spontaneity into his life with daily events, and unplanned life anecdotes and becomes an unlikely friend that sparks the catalyst to his renaissance.

After his first day on the island he’s inspired to write, which is a call-back to the beginning of the first episode. He’s laughing like a crazy person as he “writes”. But as he looks as it the next day, he says he can’t claim it as his style, because as wild and spontaneous as it is, is that what represents him?

Rising from the Ashes

Due to his encounters with the locals and having spent loads of time with Naru, Handa learns to let loose a little, learns to have fun. This hits a switch inside him, he goes home and practices his calligraphy, but instead of doing it in his usual measured and perfect way, he has fun. He tries to capture the feeling of that word based on something he experiences that day on the island. He ends up producing large pieces of work. Wild broad strokes fill up the canvas before him, random splatters here and there, there’s nothing clean and nothing perfect about it but it’s painted with feeling.

There’s a particular scene that stands out as the turning point of Handa rising from the ashes. His reputation as a calligrapher is known to all the villagers on the island. One day, he’s asked to paint a name on the side of the boat. The boat is brand new, pristine and sparkling white. He’s hesitant to write on it and mess up the perfection in front of him, so he takes to practicing on wooden planks. When he think’s he’s ready to paint on the boat, he hesitates because that first stroke will determine perfection. He starts to create excuses as to why he can’t paint just yet and that he needs more practice. Naru sees his hesitation of the blank canvas, so she takes the initiative and dips her hand in the ink and sets a handprint on the boat which caused all the other children to follow suit. Handa starts to panic and freak out as he realizes he has to abandon all his planning and use splotches of bold black strokes to hide the small handprints.

“It’s strange. I was so scared a moment ago. But the pressure’s completely gone and the brush is moving easily, just because of those little handprints.” – Handa

At the end of the job, it’s messy, but it works. The client actually loves it and thinks it fits the boat perfectly. Naru is there pushing Handa’s boundaries and making him break the mold that he’s so accustomed to, and because of this refreshing outlook, he can’t help but adapt to the idea of having fun in doing calligraphy.

Handa’s Renaissance

Handa abandons perfection. He abandons the basics. He never realized how happy calligraphy actually makes him until he does it more free-form.

Another scene comes to mind when this realization comes to fruition. Handa enters a competition from the island, but comes in second place. This throws him into a short depression, but soon he gets over it. His best friends/manager comes to visit him on the island, bringing along a new face. Turns out that this character is the person that won first in that one competition. He’s come to save Handa from himself, as he saw the entry and didn’t find it beautiful and representative of who Handa was, and wanted to bring Handa back to Tokyo as his art was being tarnished by living on the island. Claiming his new wild style is forced and not like him at all, and that being on the island is not helping him gain anything.

Handa has a mini-breakdown with his rival badgering him to return. He’s confused as what’s expected from him. If he wins an award he gets told its boring, but if he writes something he likes and is actually good it doesn’t win a prize. Naru interrupts by flying paper airplanes made of magazine cutouts of Handa and she tells him that he’s flying. I think Handa takes this as a hint; that he’s free to do what he wants.  He has a moment of clarity that settles his inner demons and realizes what it is he really wants:

“My calligraphy that you call pretty is well-behaved calligraphy, written the way my dad told me. I don’t mind if you get mad. I want to write calligraphy only Handa Seishuu can write. I don’t know what the right answer is, but letting your words goad me into returning to Tokyo is wrong.  I want to change myself, here.” – Handa Seishuu

 Lessons Learned

When I watched that particular episode of Barakamon, I was reminded of my own struggle with the blank page. I’ve always been obsessed with that the first stroke of the pen, pencil, marker, brush had to be immaculate. It’s really a hard habit to break, so I understood Handa’s struggle. Nothing is perfect, and that perfection could lie in the imperfections.

On the other hand, he reminds us that in throwing caution to the wind with our pre-meditated thoughts and breaking the molds of tradition are also the catalysts for our own personal renaissance. Or maybe there’s one person out there that can make you realize the change that needs to be made, whether that be a friend, a significant other, or even a lover.

Through trial and error, we find ourselves and our passions. Through trial and error we find what works and what doesn’t work. But, without trial and error, the catalyst for a renaissance will never arise. I take this to heart, because this blog has gone through it’s own Renaissance, and has finally flourised in the content that is what I can only write.

That just about wraps up this month’s tour here at Archi-Anime. Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Feel free to leave any in the comments!

And don’t forget to check out Zoe’s (Let’s Talk Anime) OWLS post about ReLife here.

And look out for Naja’s post on her site: Nice Job Breaking it, Hero.. where she looks at Samurai Flamenco.

Also, if you haven’t don’t forget to follow us on facebook as well as our twitter @OWLSbloggers and our official blog and our Facebook page  as well as our YouTube channel! And if you’re interested in becoming an OWLS member, you can contact us here.

[OWLS Blog Tour] A Calligrapher’s Renaissance: Barakamon Hey hey hey fellow ani-lovers and ani-friends!! It’s Archi-Anime’s turn to contribute to  the OWLS January blog tour.