#the problem with watercolour is that you have to let it dry

[juliamccartney]

i've been trying to teach myself watercolour-painting clouds and um. let's just say it's been quite the ride

[gumnut-logic]

Because of the storm that rolled over my house and because @katblu42 mentioned it :D

-o-o-o-

The hatch creaked as the hydraulics let it down to the dry hard packed dirt. A small puff of dust billowed up around the hot cahelium and it caught in his nose, tickling in the heat.

The horizon was flat and the earth iron red as it disappeared into the ominous grey of the cloud blocking the sky.

Virgil’s boots made their own puffs of dust as he stepped off the hatch and emerged from under the shadow of Two. The puffs followed him as he walked the length of his ‘bird. The dirt gritted under his specialised soles as he avoided the heat of her cooling VTOL and the scorch of her now quiet thrusters.

His landing was precautionary. A warning light had come on during the flight home and dumping himself in the middle of the Outback for a mechanical check was preferable to taking a swan dive in the middle of the Tasman.

Outside appearances gave no clue to the issue and unfortunately, he would have to wait for her engines to cool off before attempting to access the thruster that was the problem.

A sigh and he turned back to look at the horizon.

He truly was in the middle of nowhere.

“Thunderbird Two, status report.”

Typical Scott. His brother was hip deep in a rescue on the other side of the planet, but his brother radar still managed the range.

“Status a-okay, Thunderbird One. Just taking a moment to gaze at the scenery.”

“John says you have a mechanical fault.”

“Quite possibly. Fine for the moment. Just need a little cooling time. I’ll keep you updated.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Two.”

And then it was back to the silence.

True silence.

There was no wind.

No water.

No birds.

Just the heat of a dying day leaching out of the sand, the creak of his cooling ‘bird, and the potential energy in the air.

It was going to rain.

The Kansas farm boy could tell that much. Even in another country and an entirely different environment, he could feel it.

He didn’t need fancy instrumentation to predict that.

The impending storm raised the hair on his arms under his uniform. It itched at his skin and spoke of change.

Ants crawled across his boots, winged queens and drones launching to join a cloud of them off to his right.

It was eerie.

He shifted where he stood, unsure of what to do next. He wasn’t one for killing time. Time was a valuable thing and needed to be used to its upmost. But this stop was unplanned and there was little he could do while waiting.

Sure, there were tasks. There were always tasks, nitty gritty maintenance jobs. He was never short of work.

But the air was still. The sense of building atmospheric release buzzed across his senses.

It was tantalising.

He shivered.

There were still a couple of hours before sunset, but the air was dark due to the heavy cloudbank looming over the landscape.

A thought.

A flash of guilt followed by stubborn determination.

He turned and climbed back on to the hatch and retracted it, only to lower it again a few moments later with a folded chair and a box in his hands.

He parked it in the sand.

The silence was a physical presence.

He opened the box to reveal a portable watercolour kit – a neat palette of half pans, a fine brush and a small block of high-quality paper.

It was an indulgence he kept aboard his ‘bird. One he had yet to use, so this was definitely an opportune moment. A tiny amount of time to throw down some colour and capture this red-on-blue-grey intensity.

It didn’t take him long to realise he had forgotten a couple of things. A muttering step back into his ‘bird and he returned with a small table and a cup full of water.

He finally managed to settle himself. Painting while wearing his uniform wasn’t the most comfortable. It was bulky and in the way. He did shed his gloves, which meant he had to take off his wrist controller. Scott would frown enough to dent his nose, but he couldn’t paint with his gloves on.

There was heavy lifting, but there was also sensitive and tactile manipulation. He liked to think he was capable of both.

A dip of his brush into clear water, a dab of cadmium red, and colour spilled onto the paper.

Payne’s grey filled the sky in soft billows with just a hint of ultramarine. He tried to keep his touch gentle. Watercolour was so unforgiving. Fast and delicate, the colours could easily be overdone and unlike acrylic or oils, could not be undone satisfactorily.

It took all his concentration to sketch out the worn landscape.

The parched air dried the colours quickly and it wasn’t long before he was flicking strands of yellow ochre spinifex in the foreground, the little painting almost done.

In the distance, the clouds rumbled warning.

He dabbed in a second layer to bring up the contrast, the greys echoing the thunder on the horizon. Just a touch of green brought out the red of the iron in the sand.

“I really don’t know how you do that.”

Virgil nearly fell out of his chair.

“Scott!” His heart thudded in his ears and he clutched the drying painting in his hands as it tried to slip from his fingers. “What the hell?! How did you…?” He shot to his feet and turned to find his brother standing behind him. Beyond, at a respectable distance, sat Thunderbird One.

Scott held up both hands, taking a step back. “Hey, I saw you were painting, so I parked back a ways. Figured you wouldn’t want VTOL messing with your paints.” But then his brother was smothering a grin. “You were kinda zoned out there, Virg.”

“You were in Prague! How did you get here so fast?” It was a stupid question. He was Scott Tracy. Fast was part of his genome.

But his brother frowned. “It’s been over an hour since I last contacted you. The situation is resolved. I was on my way back and thought I’d check in. John said he hadn’t had an update.”

Virgil stared at his brother. An hour? He brought his wrist up to check the time, but his controller was on the little table beside his chair with his discarded gloves.

Oh.

Scott arched an eyebrow at him.

Virgil grunted before putting the painting down carefully and retrieving his equipment. A moment later, his gloves were on and his wrist controller back in place.

It was indeed over an hour later.

Thunderbird Two would have cooled down enough forty-odd minutes ago.

“You were lost in your painting, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. His brother sighed, walked over to the table and picked up the piece of art. Blue eyes scrutinised it. “Nope. I don’t have a clue how you do that. It’s great, Virg.” He handed it over and somewhat numbly, Virgil took it.

He stared at the strokes in which he had been so absorbed earlier. The landscape stretched into the paper, reds bouncing off blues, the stillness captured in pigments.

Okay, so he had to admit, it was working quite well. He had muddied the colour a little in one corner and there was a patch where he’d left more white paper than was probably necessary because he was too worried about over doing the paint, but overall it mostly did what he wanted it to do. Oh, his wash hadn’t quite worked in that bit. Damn.

But…

He could get away with it.

“Earth to Virgil? You okay in there?”

Scott was smirking.

Virgil glared at him before cradling the watercolour block in one hand, picking up the palette with the other and packing it away. He stomped his way back to his ‘bird.

He ignored the laugh behind him.

He was stashing the paints in their locker when Scott joined him in Two, both the table and chair folded up in his hands. “Where do you stash these?”

Virgil gestured in the direction of the utility store and his brother put the equipment away.

Back in the cockpit, Virgil pulled up the suspect control and found the red light still glaring accusingly as Scott entered behind him.

“Give me ten. I need to inspect her starboard thruster.” He grabbed a safety line and threw back the overhead hatch. The gloomy atmosphere crept into the cockpit, but he ignored it and elevated the himself up so he could climb onto the top of his ‘bird.

“Virgil, you do know there is a storm coming in. You’re standing on the highest point for miles.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Keep your pants on.

But his brother was right. His dawdling with his paints had cost him time and the weather was moving in.

He hurried across the back of his Thunderbird sliding carefully onto her starboard intake, and making his way down to the access hatch. He hooked in his safety line, prodded his controller to release the security, and hauled the hatch open.

Five minutes later, with several profane words that had Scott even more concerned, he yanked an obstruction out of her secondary intake valve.

It was a bright yellow, now somewhat grimy, Thunderbird Four.

No more than four inches long.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Virg? What? Who?”

“Gordon.” He didn’t elaborate. The sky was well and truly rumbling now and he needed to get inside.

Tightening the valve, he gave it a good once over to check for damage. Another poke at his controller and the dash confirmed the issue resolved.

Access secured, he unhooked his line and made a run for the main hatch just as the landscape lit up white with lightning.

He leapt into his ‘bird as if he had that lightning on his tail.

His boots hit deck plates. Virgil reached up and threw the hatch closed and sealed away the angry sky.

Scott was staring at him.

Virgil met that gaze before walking past his brother towards his pilot seat. He casually chucked the little Thunderbird Four to his brother like the grenade it was.

Scott caught it. “What the hell?”

Gordon was dead twice over and he didn’t even know it.

“You better get back to your ‘bird. The sky’s going to open up any minute and we should probably be above it rather than below it.” Virgil poked at the weather read out. It was only a weather front, nothing compared to the cyclone forces the Thunderbirds were capable of tackling. “You might get wet.”

Scott was still glaring at the model in his hand. A distracted grunt.

Gordon was definitely dead.

Possibly more than twice.

“Okay, less imaginary brother murders and more getting back to your ‘bird.”

“Huh?”

Yeah, so now who was zoning out?

Virgil nudged his brother onto the hatch platform and stepped on himself, lowering it onto the red dust again.

He stepped off the deck plates just as the first fat rain drops started to hit the dust.

Damn. “Too late.” And as if he had given the sky permission, it really opened up.

Water hit dry earth in big splats, puffs of red rose only to be taken down by more rain. The stipple of water fast became patches and then the land deepened in colour. The bright iron red darkened almost to a burgundy. The spinifex he had so finely painted not half an hour earlier, shifted from a yellow ochre to a gold that almost glowed in the remnant light.

As Scott stepped up beside him, secure under the protection of Two’s nose, the landscape bleached suddenly and the sky grumbled and cracked. The air smelt of ozone and the sharp evaporation of precipitation in the heat. But there was more water than the air or the earth could take and it puddled in the indents between the rocks.

Some kind of thorny lizard darted out from a tuft of spinifex and hurried under the shelter of Two beside the brothers. At the lack of the rain on its back, it looked up as if surprised. Two reptilian eyes stared at them before darting back out into the rain.

Scott took another step forward and Virgil put a hand on his arm.

“You’re not going to try to run through that.”

“I’ve got to get back to One.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His brother trailed off.

Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “Take a minute. This is a desert storm. It will be short lived. We can wait.”

Blue eyes stared at him.

Okay, so waiting wasn’t part of Scott Tracy’s genome.

“Take a minute. Watch.” Virgil turned back to the storm and revelled in the release of the tension that had been building for the last couple of hours. He watched the rain hit the earth, the patterns, the dance of spinifex leaves. He listened to the roar, the wet splat against cahelium, the sigh as the water disappeared into the grass and the grumbles in the clouds.

Scott eventually turned to look and, for a short while there, they were just a couple of brothers staring out at the storm.

The fact they were sheltering underneath one of the most advanced technological creations on the planet was unimportant.

“This is all your fault, you know.” Scott’s voice was soft.

A grunt. “I think Gordon’s is the more likely culprit.”

“If you hadn’t stopped to paint, we’d be home by now.”

Virgil didn’t answer immediately. He took a breath. “But then we would have missed this.”

At that moment the sun finally hit the horizon and slipped through a gap in the clouds to light up the wet landscape in gold. Rain still fell, but it was as if it was liquid sunlight failing from the sky. Water glistened on everything and the clouds lit up from underneath.

Thunder rumbled in clouds turning pink in the east.

“Yeah, we would.” But the acknowledgement was distracted as Scott stared at the spectacle.

Perhaps they had something for which to thank Gordon. It was a moment that they would never have experienced if Virgil hadn’t had to stop.

He breathed in the freshened air and let it out with a relaxing sigh.

No.

Gordon was still dead.

-o-o-o-

[bmpmp3]

WAS messing with my inks and fountain pens so here are some rosies

[clubyukhei]

a/n: um there’s 1.3k words in this gangster/dad!au filled with fluff and some basic tattoo aftercare. sorry i got carried away, i was feeling very soft and domestic, nothing new lol <3 reposting this due to tag problems. enjoy!

[10:55AM]

on sunday mornings yukhei would be found deep in slumber, his face buried into your pillow and his body sprawled across the california king bed you and him share. 

unlike the rest of the week where he’d be out early fulfilling his duties in the underworld, he had the weekends all to himself — and he’d usually sleep past noon to get all the rest he needed before spending the rest of his free time with his family.

today’s a different case though. he’s awake and sitting on a playmat in the living room, watching his little girl work on a new watercolour painting — and it’s only eleven in the morning.

moments like these are when yukhei feels like his life isn’t real. 

it’s not that hard to believe that he’s a high-rank, deeply respected member of the triad he’s been with since his youth, and a husband to the love of his life who has stood by his side through all the highs and lows.

but being a father? it’s a role yukhei still can’t quite fathom and struggles with sometimes — even after four years, and even after your countless reassurances that he’s doing a great job. 

“what happened to the dragon, papa? looks like you have a big boo-boo.” 

the innocence of that question makes yukhei smile. he feels the soft pad of a chubby index finger smooth across the nape of his neck, near the layers of cling foil wrapped tightly around his torso and over his shoulders to protect the freshly retouched tattoo on his back.

he hums tentatively, pondering how to explain such an intimidating concept to a child. it’s definitely not the first time she has asked about the tattoos all over his body — but all the answers he gave back then have long slipped his mind. 

“the dragon was… disappearing. it was becoming nothing, remember? i had to draw it again.” 

if only it was as simple as it sounded. 

throughout the past week, he was at ten’s tattoo parlour, enduring a needle bite into his skin as he lay chest down against a leather bed for at least five hours each day. afterwards he’d come home to you, and you — with all the patience and tenderness in the world — would take extra care of the inked dragon on his back. at the start of each day and end of each night, you’d smooth healing cream across the sensitive skin, taking your time to trace the raised lines as he exhaled in bliss.

it was exhausting for both of you. yukhei thought he’d be free after the tattooing process was finished, but that was only because he completely forgot how troublesome the aftercare process was. after seeing how fast you fell asleep last night, he felt terrible. he woke up earlier today so you could sleep in and phoned his colleague chenle first thing in the morning, telling him to take over his work for the upcoming week. 

“it looks like it hurts really bad.” the little girl says softly. 

she looks up at him, her big and curious eyes meeting his own. yukhei will always find it endearing how even though she’s pretty much his mini-me appearance-wise, her personality is almost all you. 

as a kid he was loud when it came to expressing himself — but she’s the complete opposite. she’d make her thoughts known only when she felt strongly about them, and those moments never failed to tug at yukhei’s heartstrings. like that time she openly disagreed with her friends at school who thought her papa’s tattoos and piercings were strange; or that time she refused to sleep until he got home late at night and read her a bedtime story, then confessing that she missed him a lot.

“it hurts a little.” yukhei says, immediately regretting it when he sees her bottom lip pucker into a pout. 

“but it’s okay!” he quickly adds, pulling the little girl closer to him before gently nudging her knee with his thumb. “it’ll be gone soon. when _____-ie fell down and got a boo-boo here, it hurt too but it went away later, right?” 

her eyes widen with hope as she nods. “you have to be strong, papa! like me.” 

yukhei doesn’t even get to react to her precious statement because she’s already crawling into his lap. he watches her trace the various designs of the huge tattoo sleeve on his arm, her fingertips dancing along his skin before stopping on the angel on his bicep. 

“this one’s your favourite, huh?” yukhei presses a kiss to her cheek.

“yeah,” she mumbles, now touching the large wings belonging to the angel. “mama told me it’s her favourite too.” 

yukhei feels the corners of his lips curl into a silly grin. of course it’s your favourite — it’s you. 

she doesn’t know that though. it’s still a secret between you and him since the intricate details of it aren’t obvious to a four year-old. but when she’s older, she’ll hear the story behind it — how yukhei calls you his angel whenever he’s sappy, and how he enthusiastically decided to have you inked onto his body in a drunken stupor. 

“but there’s no colour in it.” the tone of disapproval in her voice makes yukhei chuckle. he rests his chin on top of her head, glancing towards the coffee table where her painting was left to dry. there’s a palette and a few paintbrushes neatly arranged next to it.

“i know, sweetheart. maybe you can help me?” 

“how?” 

and so began another painting session — except this time, his arm is her canvas.

yukhei couldn’t believe he didn’t think of this idea sooner. the watercolour paint was thick enough to not fade away yet easy to wash off after, which already made his life easier. but it also felt strangely therapeutic lying on his side and watching the empty spaces on his sleeve come to life with all sorts of colours. 

a while later, you stroll into the living room in a sleepy state and instantly beam at this adorable scene. 

“look at you two.” you coo affectionately, giving your very busy daughter a good morning kiss on the forehead before doing the same to your husband. “you didn’t wake me up.” 

“i wanted you to rest.” yukhei replies, watching you smile back at him shyly before looking at the colourful masterpiece on his arm.

“i’m tempted to take a picture of this just so i get to see you two look this cute all the time.” you chuckle as your hand lands on his torso, caressing the lion tattoo on his rib cage that isn’t covered in plastic foil.

yukhei gazes at you for a few seconds, silently taking in everything about this moment  — how he’s relaxing in the safety and comfort of his own home, with his two favourite girls close to him, and soaking in the warmth of the morning sunlight falling onto all three of you. 

it’s the complete opposite of his day-to-day at work — it lets him shed the cold and gritty exterior he presents to the underworld. he wonders what he did in his past life to deserve this experience, wonders if he could revel in this airy presence with you two in his next life too.

“and maybe i’ll send it to the boys,” you lean in and whisper to him when your daughter scampers off to get more paint. “and show them what their boss is up to when he’s not huang xuxi, watcher of the lion’s heart.” 

grinning at your silly suggestion, yukhei engulfs your hand with his, intertwining your fingers. he’s so overwhelmed with contentment that it doesn’t even matter if you go ahead with an idea he’d normally roll his eyes at.

“it’s all up to you, my love.”

-

[kintatsujo]

ADVICE FOR ADVICE. If you have any cake/tube watercolours. Always make sure that you make swatch guides and tests before using them for the first time. Gradient from least to most water, medium water amount cross colour grid to see how they layer when dry, and some attempts at gradienting. Have two water glasses, one for brush clean up another for water to add to the colours. I dint have two water glasses, but i do have an aquabrush that has its own water tank. Most tube watercolours you can let dry on your pallete and they will re-wet easily. But do read the labels to make sure the watercolours arent secret liars. I have tube colours but never use them because im a cake colours supermacist. You can generally leave water colours on your paletes to reuse them, if it's plastic it may stain a smidge, if its ceramic it will stay unstained. Staining is only a problem if you're mixing the colours on your pallete. But always go, brush into water, then colour, then pallete, to make sure what sort of consistency you have, then on the paper. If you mix water colours on the pallete, its big brain to have a scrap paper to test what colour you just mixed. Natural brushes are way better at absorbing water than synthetic. If you accidentally put too much water on the paper you can just, pick it up by gently touch it with a dry natural brush. Another water thing. Get masking tape, put it all around your paper before adding water. Then add water. Should dry mostly straight depending on paper. In sketchbooks its less of a problem because the sketchbooks have hard surfaces and so they, kinda flatten the papers over time if you pile them up. Whitenights has good quality watercolours at a cheaper price than some other good quality watercolour suppliers. Now, how to use them on paper? No idea. I usually use them to add quick light colour to my sketches. (Somewhat consistent use of water and colour, just colour in the shapes like i would with pencil but way faster. Add layers as needed depending on how strong/multicoloured i desire the figure/surroundings to be) I also know how to draw landscapes with lots of water. (Do the paper prep with masking tape, just cover the paper with a layer of just water, then with a higher consistency of colour on a brush colour in nature shapes. When drier you can add in details that require sharp non fuzzy lines.) You can put water colours on ink, or do ink over water colours. But before puting it on ink, make sure it dries, and that you before hand do a test to see if water makes it smudge or not. Most water colours i used so far, if you use them over a pencil sketch, its a smidge hard to, erase the sketch after wards.

You are the best anon

Anyway thank you so much for all the advice!! The two water cups especially is an excellent idea (I have a couple of brushes with water containers too but I use a regular brush for the wash backgrounds)

I've been doing most of my watercolor work in multimedia sketchbooks but I also appreciate the masking tape advice bc I'm sure once I get good enough at it I'll want to move onto things I can gift to people <3

[imagine-darksiders]

When and where did reader meet the mermaids again?

I’ve left the endings purposefully vague in case anybody wants to carry on with their own stories :) XX

War: You’re a watercolour artist of some renown, successful enough to have earned a break from your busy life at home by purchasing a holiday cottage overlooking the ocean. It’s a quiet little place that has sat abandoned for decades, alone on the top of a grassy hill. You work tirelessly to fix it up, give it a fresh coat of paint and refit the broken windows and in no time, it’s as good as new. 

Outside, at the bottom of the garden, there are a set of stone steps that wind all the way down to a private beach. 

It’s one fine, autumn evening that you find yourself standing there on the sand with an easel and paintbrush, simply content to fiddle with the silver shell you wear on a chain around your neck and stare out at the endless horizon stretched out before you. Nature’s own canvas that she paints over every night to show the world a sunset just as remarkable as the one that came before. 

Filling your lungs with crisp, salty air, you smile and nod, at last ready to paint. Just as you put brush to paper though, a strong gust of wind howls across the cove and steals the paper out from beneath your hand. 

“Hey!” you cry out. 

You knew you should have taped it down. 

Dropping your brush into a jar of water, you swiftly give chase, stumbling across the sand in pursuit of your lost canvas. It flutters and flits through the air as if kept out of reach by an invisible, playful hand until it eventually floats towards the cliff face, therewith stands a cave with its vast mouth stretched open like a cragged maw that points out towards the open sea. The tide has come in enough that the entrance is partially flooded and of course, your paper drifts helpfully inside, landing straight in the water. 

Puffing and panting, you trail to a stop at the edge where sand meets sea with your hands on your hips and give the scrap of paper a harsh scowl. But, rather than trail all the way back up to the cottage to retrieve another, you decide that you won’t be beaten by a rogue wind and an elusive piece of watercolour material. 

So, slipping off your shoes, you bend down and roll up the legs of your trousers. The stubborn cold immediately nips at your exposed calves but you simply pull the thick, wooly cardigan more snugly around your shoulders and wade out into the sea. 

You stop directly in the mouth of the cave and fish your paper out of the salty water, triumphant, if not completely numb from the knee down. 

Turning to leave, you’re stopped when a sound drifts into your ear, easily cutting above the crashing of waves and chattering seagulls. It isn’t dissimilar to a gentle sigh of wind. The only problem is, this sigh had come from inside the cave and it was strong enough to whip a strand of hair off your face for a few seconds as you stiffly swivel around to peer into the darkness. A moment later, the sound stops. 

“Huh,” is all you can mutter, giving a shrug and starting to wade back towards the beach. 

Before you can get very far though, that strange sigh returns and this time, it seems a lot louder. Something rumbles beneath your feet and you gasp, squinting once more into the dark cave. 

You’re wholly unprepared to see another pair of eyes staring right back. 

A scream catches in your throat and you can only stand there, slack-jawed and staring up at the colossal monster that emerges from the cave. Up and up you crane your neck back, past the body of a gigantic, red crab with claws that look like they could tear the steel off a battleship’s hull, past a thick torso that protrudes up out of the shell, past an arm that’s been severed at the elbow until at last, your eyes reach its face. It’s the face of a man, a man who’s upper body blends seamlessly into the lower body of a goddamn, giant crab. 

Two, curious eyes blink down at you, solid white and lacking any kind of pupil or iris. They glow in the fading light and widen noticeably, almost as though the monster is as surprised to see you as you are to see it. 

All at once, your head begins to spin and before you know it, you’re tipping backwards, overcome by such a horrific sight. With a splash, your spine hits the icy water, which serves as such a shock to the system. The impact snaps you from your daze and you finally let out the scream that had become trapped in your throat. Unfortunately, your head is submerged, and when your mouth opens, it promptly fills with salt water. Coughing and spluttering, you twist yourself around frantically and try to get your feet underneath you again so that you might better flee back onto dry land, a task that seems relatively simple in concept. In reality however, another, strong quake knocks you onto your stomach as the beast steps closer and you fall face first into the sea, once more receiving an unpleasant rush of water straight up your nostrils. 

All of a sudden, just as you break into a mad doggy paddle for shore, something pinches the back of your waterlogged cardigan and a second later, you’re hoisted up and out of the sea and dangled in front of a face so large, you couldn’t cover it’s height if you stretched your arms overhead and stood on the tips of your toes. 

The giant’s broad nose twitches as it sniffs once, twice, and on the third, it gently presses the tip into your chest and nudges the tiny, silver shell sitting against your clavicle. Then to your utmost horror, the creature gives an approving grunt and twists itself about on its six, robust legs and makes its way carefully back into the cave, carrying you along for the ride pinched between its only remaining claw.  

Strife: It had been your ex who suggested the boating trip, just the two of you, to try and clear the bad air that had been lingering between you both since the break up. 

‘Bad air...’ The thought made you scoff.

Terrified of what might happen if you said ‘no,’ you reluctantly agreed. 

Only when you’re both out on the boat, miles from any other living human does it quickly become apparent what their true intentions are; To pressure you back into that unhappy relationship. What they didn’t bet on though, is that you’re surer now, steady in your resolve and not so easy to lead on a guilt-trip.

They plead and beg, asking you to give them another chance, telling you that they’ve really changed this time, that they love you....

...But you’ve heard it all before. Nothing ever changes, not where they’re concerned. You’ll give them an inch, and they’ll always take a mile. Well, no longer. 

With a stern scowl, you adamantly tell them that ‘no, they’ve had their chance,’ and then you demand that they drive you back to shore this instant. 

You should have known something bad was going to happen when their face contorted with rage. 

Without warning, they lash an arm out, knocking you down onto the boat’s hard floor and the impact pushes a pitiful cry from your lungs. Then, wolflike and predatory, they begin to circle you, ranting that you’re being unreasonable, that you’ve always been unreasonable, and you won’t be going anywhere until you agree to take them back. 

“Never,” you hiss between clenched teeth. 

Caught up in the throes of their own temper, they lift their boot back and aim a kick at your side, causing you to cry out in anticipation of pain. However, the blow never connects.

There’s a sudden, almighty ‘WHAM!’ and the whole boat tips sideways in the water, almost upending itself. 

Your ex is thrown against the starboard side with a thud and they yelp, barely catching their feet before the boat is rocked again, this time tipping in the opposite direction as if it had been hit from the other side.

Helpless, you roll around on the deck, slipping and sliding about in the three inches of water that has splashed aboard. After a few moments, the boat blessedly falls still and only rocks with the gentle lapping of the ocean waves. Getting onto your hands and knees, you glance up just as a cloud passes over the sun and you find yourself cast cast in shadow. 

You hear your name being called and the voice sounds frightened and alarmed. Shaking your head to clear it, you blink the beginnings of tears from your eyes and finally notice your ex on the opposite side of the boat, their neck tilted back to stare at a point above you. Strangely, the sun is shining down on their face, but you’re still standing in the shade. 

Creeping dread turns your veins to ice. You really don’t want to see what’s casting that enormous shadow over the boat, nor do you want to face the thing that’s raining droplets of salty water down on you. 

Steady, rhythmic gusts of warm air caress the hairs at the top of your head and at last, unable to bear the suspense any longer, you turn, shaking all the while as your eyes rove upwards and come to rest on the underside of a gargantuan, grey face. Two ovals of shimmering gold blink right back down at you and it takes a few instances to realise that you’re peering up into the eyes of a vast monster. Perhaps if you weren’t so transfixed on that hypnotic stare, you’d have had time to take in more of its features. The silver-armoured plating that covers its forehead, the gills that flare open and shut on either side of its thick neck and the unruly, ebony hair poking out of the back of its skull...

The beast makes a sound, and the adams apple in front of you quivers around the force of a low, albeit gentle warble. It’s enough to snap you out of a stupor.

Spinning on your heel, you make a mad dash for your ex because, in this moment, you’re far less afraid of them than you are of the monster. 

However, before you can make it even halfway across the boat, a guttural trill blasts through the air and something snags the hem of your shirt, dragging you up and off the deck. Terrified, you let out a bleating cry for help, reaching both arms towards your ex who only remains frozen in place, jaw dropped. That’s the last you see of them before you’re turned around to face the ocean, swinging helplessly from a mouth filled with dozens of razor-sharp teeth. 

Death: ‘The rig is haunted!’ is all you were told by your friends. 

This warning came after they’d convinced you to go with them on a borrowed boat and check out the abandoned oil platform that sits alone and still in the ocean, some fifty nautical miles from shore. 

You’d been wondering what all those secretive smiles and hushed whispers had been about. They damn well knew you’d be less inclined to join them on this little excursion of theirs if you’d realised there was the potential for running into a ghost. 

By this point, you’re already on the boat with all three of them and land has long since faded away behind you, leaving no room to argue a return trip. You wouldn’t be going back, not now that you’re more than halfway to the platform already. Irritated, you try to insist on turning around anyway, though your suggestion is quickly shot down. They go on to excitedly explain how a stranger in a bar had shared a drink with them. He ended up telling them of an old oil rig, one that has stood empty since the 1960′s, abandoned after the men working there had begun to complain of seeing a monstrous shadow moving through the waters below the platform.

The stranger told your friends that he’d been out there one night a few months prior, drawn in by the mystery that surrounds the platform, but although he didn’t see hide nor hair of any kind of gigantic sea monster, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had eyes watching him the whole time he was there. 

Sensing that they seemed the adventuring sort, he’d given your friends the coordinates, finished his beer, and left without a trace.

The prospect of travelling - in the dark no less - to a remote location provided by a stranger from some seedy bar doesn’t fill you with the utmost confidence, but at least there are four of you together, should things go south. 

Soon enough, standing dark and ominous against the light cast by a full moon, the oil rig looms into view. Your friends waste no time in pulling the boat next to the ladder and clambering up onto the first platform whilst you, a tad warier, follow behind them, ears straining to hear above a metallic creaking as the entire structure sways too and fro in the wind. 

While you’re tentatively exploring the exterior, you make your way to the very edge and peer down over it, staring into the inky black waters far below. The moon sparkles on the ocean surface and you find yourself gazing dreamily at the mesmerising display. 

Then, suddenly, you hear a screeching of metal and one of your friends cries your name. You turn too late, too slow to move out of the way as a gigantic, steel beam comes loose from the wall and topples towards you. All you can do is take an involuntary step back....

...And slip straight over the ledge, plunging down into the cold, gloomy ocean fifty feet beneath you. 

The cold that hits you steals any air from your lungs and you sink for the first several moments, limbs stiff from the shock and your brain still attempting to process what’s happening to it. Horrified, you open your eyes and the sting of saltwater almost has you slamming them shut again, but a shadow moving swiftly towards you from above prompts you to keep them open just a little longer. 

A muted splash reverberates in the water around you and before you know it, something slams into your thigh with the force of a freight train. It seems the steel beam has followed your descent. A sharp, metal edge tears through your trouser leg on its way past and leaves a searing cut behind as a reminder of the encounter. Unable to bear the sudden, overwhelming sting, you open your mouth and try to scream, only succeeding in swallowing sea water until you have the sense to stuff your lips together. Meanwhile, uncaring, unaware of the damage it has done to you, the beam continues on its way, sinking down into the murky depths until it too is lost to the sea.

The need to breathe soon becomes more prominent than the throbbing pain in your thigh, and so, focusing on the faint, white glow of the moon overhead, you kick out your one, good leg, clawing your way through the water with a mad sort of desperation. But with every stroke, the light only gets further and further away. 

Just as you’re about to burst, when you’re certain your lungs can’t take another second of strain, your whole world is surrounded quite abruptly by total darkness and something presses in around you, suffocating. To begin with, you think it’s the ocean crushing you, but then, there’s the unmistakable sensation of being catapulted upwards and in seconds, a rush of sound floods back to you. Real sound, sharp and crisp, unlike the deadened and muffled noise of water in your ears. Finally, your reflexes kick in and you suck in what you’re sure will be your last breath, only to find your lungs filling with cool, salty air instead. 

Barely a second after that, the shroud of utter darkness lifts and you can see the moon again, shining bright and round in the indigo sky and suddenly, you’re no longer floating, rather, you’re sitting on something soft and pliable as the water that had surrounded you moments earlier falls away and splashes back into the ocean where it belongs. 

 Greedily, you gulp down breath after breath, too relieved to question how you’ve suddenly come to be on the surface. It’s only when you hear a soft, wet gurgling from behind that you twist yourself about whilst rubbing the salt water from your stinging eyes.

Two spotlights of brilliant yellow shine down at you, winking in and out of existence every once in a while and you’re confused at first as to what you’re seeing until, with a few more blinks, your vision clears.

The night is chilly, the water is cold, but your blood freezes solid and creeping fingers of ice run up and down your spine. 

What stares back at you, what holds you in one, cupped palm, is nothing short of a nightmare.  

A man’s head and shoulders rise out of the water like a gigantic monolith, skin a sickly, pale grey, and the upper half of his face obscured by a protruding skull that looks to have been added as decoration, or perhaps defence. The yellow spotlights that had turned out to be eyes blink again from their place set back in the dark sockets of the skull mask. He’s utterly massive, too massive for you to see the rest of him, though you aren’t sure you want to when you notice the gills flaring on the side of his neck as he inhales and exhales, a soft wheezing that you’re sure you’ll be hearing in your worst dreams from this night on. 

Without warning, the monstrosity looms in close, and you catch a glimpse of what lays behind his parted lips. Teeth, sharp and jagged, and a tongue that slides out from between them, black like the night sky with a pointed tip. 

Too afraid to scream, too shocked to move, you can only tremble as that tongue slithers over the wound on your thigh, lapping gently at the blood seeping out through the fabric of your trousers. Instantly, the action causes you to wince and yank your leg away from it, earning a low, rumbling growl from the creature. 

Somewhere high above, your friends are calling your name, sounding about as terrified as you feel, though you can’t be sure they’ve seen the creature yet. Summoning all your courage, you suck in a breath to cry for help. The moment you do however, the monster’s yellow eyes grow wide and it shakes its head, clamping a hand over the one holding you and effectively trapping you inside the space left by its palms. 

Then, you’re moving, at speed, the sound of water rushing by as you fruitlessly yell and smack your fists against the solid wall of flesh, petrified and, for the second time tonight, convinced you’re about to die. 

Fury: You were out fishing on your father’s old boat when another vessel came shooting by, the men on board screaming at you to turn back and head for shore. From what you can decipher between the incoherency, they’d just been harpooning tuna when something big swam to the surface and in a panic, they ended up harpooning it. 

Having grown up around fishermen, you meet their warning with a healthy level of skepticism and continue to search around for a school of fish. Suddenly, you’re passing over an open stretch of water when your boat’s scanner picks up something massive. It could be a school, but the fishermen’s warning rings in your ears and so, overcome with curiosity, you drop the boat’s anchor and don one of the scuba suits your father kept when he used to take tourists out on dives. 

Equipped with an oxygen tank, wetsuit and goggles, you dive into the water and immediately, you can tell something is wrong. A viscous blanket of black water stretches out below you, a cloud of darkness that contrasts with the ocean’s natural blue haze that looks like someone dropped ink into a water jug, but on a massive scale. And then, there’s a sound. Some howling, yowling animal. You’d think it a whale if it weren’t so guttural. 

Cautious, you swim down, down and down and further down still, through the midnight sea until at last, you burst out into clear water again. 

Then, you freeze. 

There below you, writhing on the ocean floor, is a monstrous creature, a mass of twisting tentacles that stretch out in eight, different directions for what seems to be miles and sticking out from one of them, about halfway down and jammed right into a suction cup bigger than your head, is the end of a harpoon. Blood oozes from the wound, turning the water all around it a murky shade of red.

For a second, you become convinced that you’ve stumbled upon some undiscovered species of colossal squid, although that theory is soon abandoned when you roll your awestruck eyes up from the tentacles and land upon....an impossibility. 

It’s a woman, from what you can tell. An enormous, vicious woman with pale skin and a head of long, magenta hair that has about as much life in it as her tentacles do as it whips about with every thrash of her neck. 

You can hardly comprehend what you’re seeing. All you know is that you’re suddenly filled with an awful flood of terror that turns your blood cold and clamps your heart in a vice. Panic sets in then, and in a dizzying flurry of bubbles, you scream into your breather and spin about, bringing your legs up, ready to push yourself into a powerful upwards thrust and shoot on out of there. 

But....something gives you pause. 

The blood in the water. 

The haunting screams....

Driven by a burning need to look, to see, you paddle yourself around again and face the creature, half expecting it to be gone, just a hallucination brought on by swimming through that cloud of dark water. But no, it’s still there, and the rebreather almost drops from your mouth as you find its pale, blank eyes have locked onto you. 

One of the beast’s hands is hovering tentatively over the harpoon and its wounded tentacle gives a sporadic twitch as its fingers brush against the offending projectile, prompting it to scrunch its face up and wince. The expression is so strangely human, you recoil slightly, blanching under your scuba suit. 

God, you can’t just leave it like that....

Can you? 

[sarcastic-bubble]

Even Jedi Get Nervous

Paring: Obi-wan Kenobi x Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Request: heya! Could you do an obi wan fic where before the clone wars obi wan meets a painter on the side of the street and falls head over heals, stuttering and blushing - Anon

A/N: This was fun to write! Like just imagine the crap Obi-wan had to put up with while Anakin was still young.  (Also I hit triple digits on my follower count and I feel loved so thank you!) 

Masterlist

You dipped your brush into the paint and smeared the light blue pigment over the entirety of the blank canvas. You weren’t quite sure what to paint just yet, but you had learned early in your career that sometimes putting down that first stroke was the hardest. You looked around you for some inspiration. You currently sat on a stool surrounded by your various works of art. Some were hung on the walls of the small stall you rented out others were stacked against each other inside various sized boxes. You looked out a little further, despite the clean and peaceful manner you attempted to keep your stall in the rest of your surroundings had the usual characteristics of a rather seedy flea market. Off in the distance, you could see someone being arrested, most likely for stealing. That was a very big problem among these parts after all and sadly not a great inspiration for a painting. You couldn’t wait for the day you managed to save enough to save credits to move out of this hellhole and buy a proper studio in the nicer part of Coruscant. Of course, that was a far-off dream at the moment. It was hard to find clients in a place like this, but it was even harder still to afford the rent anywhere nicer.

You dipped your paintbrush into a small pot of paint having come to the conclusion that you paint the Coruscant skyline; it was lovely after all. But before you could start something caught your attention. You rarely saw new faces. The market had a very loyal set of regulars and others rarely ventured in. The two newcomers had to be Jedi judging by their outfits. It struck you as odd until you remember that one of the local crime lords and been making things very difficult for the Senate. You watched the Jedi for a moment, trying to take in as much of their appearances as you could in the short amount of time you had. Both appeared to be young, far from the wrinkly old master you usually pictured when someone mentioned the order. The younger of the two was a small boy, you imagined he was no more than eleven. He had short blonde hair and a single long braid. He had to be a padawan then. You turned your attention to the older one; he was quite handsome you noted. His features were strong, but his expression was still soft as he spoke to the child next to him. You forgot your original plan of painting the Coruscant Skyline and instead picked up your stylus and began to sketch his features; you worked quickly not knowing how long he’d been within your sight.

You were quite engrossed in your work when the voice a child asked for your attention. You set the brush down on your palette careful not to let it roll off and looked to the boy; it was the Padawan you had been observing earlier. “Can I help you?” you ask with a friendly smile.

He pointed a finger at one of your larger paintings, “What kind of starship is that? I’ve never seen one before.”

You shrugged before gently placing the canvas you were previously working on onto the table. “I don’t really know, actually. I just paint and draw things as I see them. Do you want to see more? Maybe you can tell me about some of the starships in my sketchbook?” You weren’t entirely sure why you offered the kid to come see more of your work. After all, you had paintings to finish and future clients to chase down but you had always had a soft spot for children and the way he grinned at your offer warmed your heart in the most wonderful way.

You pulled up a stool for the young boy and riffled through your bag until you came to one of your paint covered sketchbooks. It looked like it had gone through hell and back. The bindings were coming apart and the leather cover was peeling in far too many places, it had been well used and loved to say the least. You took a seat back on your stool and opened the sketchbook to the first page. It was a watercolour painting of a cruiser half-submerged in a lake; you had come across it during your travels. You looked to the young boy, “I don’t believe I got your name.”

“Anakin.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Anakin. I’m (Y/N)”

-------

You weren’t sure how long you and Anakin talked but it was nice to have some company. You told him about the places you had travelled to before decided to settle down in one spot and he told you all about the ships in your many paintings. You had started working on the painting of his master again. You had assured Anakin that you were really enjoying his company but that the paint was drying so you had to work and listen at the same time.  

It didn’t take long for Anakin to become curious about your current project. “Are you painting my master?” he asked tilting his head to the side trying to get a better view.

“I suppose I am,” you replied with a laugh, “but why don’t we keep it to ourselves? I’ve found some people don’t react well when they find out I’ve been painting them without their permission.”

Anakin’s smile turned into a wide grin, “Obi-wan isn’t like that. I bet he’d love it! You should show him!”

You couldn’t help but laugh the kid’s enthusiasm and confidence. “Oh, I really don’t want to disturb him, I’m sure he has important work to do.”

“I don’t think it’s too important. I mean he’s coming over here anyway,” he said gesturing towards his master who was, in fact, approaching your stall.  You were quick to tuck the painting away.

When the other Jedi arrived, he wasn’t paying any attention to you and you were just fine with that. His focus was purely on his Padawan. “What have I told you about running off Anakin? I’m sure this lovely lady has lots of work to do and no time to answer all your questions.”

You couldn’t let Anakin take all the blame for this; you had been the one to offer to show him your paintings. “He’s actually been great company, Master…” you trailed off at the end, realizing you didn’t know his last name.

“Kenobi,” he replied quickly giving his young Padawan another scolding look. “I really am sorry though; he tends to get…” His words caught in his throat when his eyes met yours. Maker, but you were gorgeous. He stood quiet for a moment trying to get his body under control. There was no way he could effectively scold Anakin if he was blushing like an idiot. He opened his mouth as if to say something to you but then closed it again. He grabbed Anakin’s hand and looked back at the boy; finding it far easier to speak when he wasn’t looking at you. “Let’s go Anakin.”

Before he could pull the boy away you grabbed the sketchbook you had been showing him and quickly slipped it into his free hand. You held a finger up to lips indicating to him that this was supposed to be a secret. As you watched the boy get pulled away you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He was such a kind kid and well you didn’t know much about his Master, but he was certainly something to look at. You went back to your painting of Master Kenobi, wanting to get as much done while his features were still fresh in your mind.

-------

That evening Anakin found himself sitting in his master’s quarters as he flipped through the book you had given him. He went from page to page telling a rather distracted Obi-wan all the stories you had told him earlier. He was quite excited to share all his new knowledge with his master.

“She visited Tatooine once, you know. It’s too bad we didn’t know each then, it would have been fun if she had visited. I could have shown her all the best places to paint.” Said Anakin as he admired a painting of a desert with a single bantha standing in the distance.

“Who visited Tatooine?” asked Obi-wan. He wasn’t very interested in the answer but if he didn’t show any interest Anakin would get bored with talking and most likely find some trouble to get into.

“(Y/N)”

“Who?”

“(Y/N). The painter in the market,” answered Anakin turning to the next page in the sketchbook.

“Is that where you got that book from?” asked Obi-wan looking over his shoulder at his padawan.

“Yep! She’s really nice! She told me all about the planrts she’s visited but we didn’t have time to look at the whole book, so she gave it to me! We talked a lot about starships too!” replied the young boy. He was obviously very excited about the new friend he’d made that day. “I want to go back and thank her tomorrow.”

“Well I, I suppose that would be appropriate. We’ll go first thing in the morning,” stated Obi-wan, if Anakin didn’t know him any better, he would have missed the slight blush and hint of nervousness in his voice.

“You think she’s pretty; don’t you Master?”

Obi-wan scoffed. Of course, he had thought you were pretty, you were easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eye on but his young padawan didn’t need to know that. “Go to bed Anakin.”

“So you do think she’s pretty?”

“Go to bed,” he repeated this time voice firmer.

-------

Obi-wan and Anakin arrived at the market just as it opened the next morning. “Now Anakin,” started Obi-wan, “you’re just here to say thank you. Please don’t take to long. Now go on, I’ll wait here.” He waived his young padawan off and turned his gaze to you. He admired the way you happily turned to greet the young boy. He would have loved to go up and talk to you himself, but he was afraid that if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to get many words out. Admiring from afar was much easier anyway, he didn’t have to worry about embarrassing himself. He watched you give Anakin a gentle hug and then look up at him. When your eyes met, he tried to look anywhere else but you. He didn’t want you to know that he had been staring.  

Once he had determined it safe to look again, he found you kneeling by Anakin laughing about something. He couldn’t hear your laugh over the noise of the market, but he could only imagine it being as beautiful as you. He had decided he really was quite content just watching you when Anakin waved him over. Had something happened? He couldn’t just ignore his padawan, so he approached with his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.

“Master! (Y/N) invited me for tea and we wanted to know if you’d like to come too!” said Anakin with a wide grin.

Obi-wan looked from his padawan to your smiling face. “I.. I would, um…” He tried so hard to answer. Of course, he wanted to go for tea, after listening to Anakin spend the better part of the day before and the evening talking about how wonderful you were he wanted nothing more but his mouth just wouldn’t form the words. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him or the way your gentle eyes reflected the sunlight.

“Is everything all right Master Kenobi,” you ask kindly.

“He’s fine. He’s just nervous cause he thinks you’re pretty,” states Anakin very matter-of-factly.

Obi-wan’s heart stopped and he was ready to drag Anakin away to keep him for embarrassing him anymore. He glared at the young boy while trying to suppress the heat he could feel rising on his cheeks. Your laugh pulled his gaze back to you. He had been right in assuming it would be beautiful. It was absolutely magical if he was being honest with himself, if he could hear that sound again every day for the rest of his life he would count himself a lucky man.  

“Well,” you said holding Obi-wan’s gaze with you own, “Tell your Master that I think he’s incredibly handsome and my offer for tea still stands.”

Obi-wan didn’t have any words, he just stood and stared at you as you spoke. There was no doubt in his mind that he was blushing, but you were now too. It was much less embarrassing when he wasn’t the only one. “I’d like that very much,” he replied in an even and gentle tone as he could manage.  

Anakin couldn’t help but make a disgusted noise at the way the two adults were looking at each other. At least his master was happy.

Tag List: @psionicsnow​ @in-the-frap-of-the-gods​ @glitchnovax​

[jungxk]

just one (vi)

notes: the only guy on campus who’s track record trumped that of your best friend’s - park jimin - was jeon jungkook. not that that was a problem…until he set his sights on you.

warnings: smut (f recieving), protected sex

genre: drama, romance, humour, college!au

wordcount: 5.3k

part i // part ii // part iii // part iv // part v // part vi // part vii // part viii // part ix // part x 

you watch sadly as you tip your case of empty paint tubes into the bin. they were your absolute favourite, a birthday gift from jimin almost two years ago. you had been so careful and stingy with them all this time to preserve as much as possible - at least to get you to the end of the semester - so it was disheartening to have to finally throw them out. oils were always your favourite. still, there wasn't much time for moping; if you were to get your next piece finished by the deadline you better start now because of the drying period between layers of watercolour.

"maybe jungkook has a hairdryer..." you mumble to yourself before padding over to his room. he's sitting at his tiny little work desk with his back to you when you peek over his shoulder. "kook, do you have a hairdryer?"

he points without removing his eyes from the screen. "the bottom drawer over there."

"thanks," you do a double take as you pass him with the appliance in tow, his eyes a little bloodshot and face twisted into what looks like terror. usually you couldn't so much as clean a paintbrush without jungkook all over you while you were at his place, but he barely spoke the whole afternoon. you take a tentative step towards him, because if he was anything like jimin when he's stressed he might get rabid. "you alright?"

"i dunno, am i?" he collapses back into the chair, threading his fingers through his hair which was getting wonderfully long. but the only thing you can pay attention to now are his panicked eyes and jittery knees. "i don't know what the fuck any of these numbers mean! why do i even need this for photography-"

"what is it?" you smooth your hand over his back, muscles stiff.

he deflates under your touch. "i agreed to peers taking questionnaires about my portfolio so far and i fucking regret it, noona. this stats software looks nothing like minecraft. i dont know what this all means. my prof said it'd help with cohesiveness - whatever that means - but he's off on one if he thinks this has done anything other than confuse me and ruin my life."

you try your best to hold back a smile, but jungkook is so cute when he's pouty and frustrated. "okay, well what are your variables?"

"my what? baby, i'm not in the mood right now-"

"no you dipshit, like," you gesture with your hands. "what are the things you're measuring? in the questionnaire?"

jungkook stares at you blankly. "i'm...what?"

you roll your eyes, grabbing the back of his chair to swivel him and plop onto his lap. "let me see."

jungkook has no idea what's going on, both because he doesn't know what you're talking about and also because you're covering the screen so he's spared of having to follow your clicking and tinkering. all he knows is that you fit nicely on his lap and that your bare thighs are warm on his, and it's much easier to focus on that anyway. especially since you aren't wearing underwear. after a few minutes he hooks his chin over your shoulder to at least try to keep up. "what are you doing, noona?"

"just cleaning up your dataset," you mumble. you finally perk up after a few more minutes. "oh, okay! so all you want to know is if the people who like the first half of your portfolio like the second half just as much, and whether that opinion affects the other? like a correlation, right?"

he sits up excitedly. "yeah! yeah, that's it," he stares at your profile in disbelief while you waste no time in running the analyses. "how do you know about this stuff, noona?"

"i did stats in my science major. the software i had back then, now that was a real pain in the ass. but this one isn't so bad," you reply absently while jungkook keeps staring at you like you're an angel that descended from the heavens especially for him. he has yet to believe otherwise. "hmm, you know i think you can skip all the sample level descriptives and cronbach's alpha scores and go straight to pearson's r if all you're looking for is a correlation. what would you prefer?"

he breathes in your hair; coconut, jasmine. his cologne. "you’re so sexy when i don’t understand what you’re saying."

x

x

x

jimin's face twists when he tests the contents of the pan. "can you tell me why this tastes like tae's dirty socks?"

“can you tell me why you know what tae’s dirty socks taste like?” you lean over the counter, swiping a finger over the ladle before bringing it to your mouth. you always used to cook for your family when you were younger, and although you had gone off it after what happened, you didn't mind when it was with jimin. with him, you didn't think about the memories of cutting onions with your father or grinding chillies with your mother and sister. it all felt new again, something that was never tarnished. which is why jimin is the only one you can stand to cook with even if he's unable to make anything but mojitos and a single pasta dish. "not enough garlic."

he squints at his phone while you manoeuvre him out of your way. "but it says two cloves in the recipe?"

"it's never two cloves," you take the knife and start to crush and peel more. "always start with four, maybe five."

"can't we just order takeout?" jimin pouts pathetically. he just washed his hair so its still damp, cheeks a rosy from the bathroom steam. you only wish his long line of hookups could see their ladies man now, bundled up in a powerpuff girls  sweater that he stole from you months ago.

"no," you pluck his phone from his hand before he can dial, replacing it with more cloves for him to peel. "you've been having takeout all week! all that oil can't be good for you, what's the point of sweating your tits off in that gym if you're just gonna eat shit?"

"i don't always eat shit!"

"jimin. we share a just eat email account. i know the chinese place isn't sending me customer loyalty codes," he rounds the stool where you're sat in the small place between your back and the wall, his palm skirting behind your waist to move you gently aside. "just let me see you eat a vegetable today, i'm begging. so if you keel over tomorrow from IBS i'll feel less guilty."

"alright alright," he huffs, rubbing at his puffy eyes with his sleeve before picking up the knife again. "i don't see what the big deal is, if i was breaking out then that'd be another issue but my body can clearly handle it. maybe it's like that episode of drake and josh where his body becomes accustomed to all the junk food he eats and-"

"please don't use drake and josh as a marker for your health."

"fine," and then without missing a beat, "but what about kenan and kel? all that orange soda and kel was totally fine. healthy even."

"physically, maybe. but did you see the screw in the tuna episode? don't tell me he didn't have inner demons that may or may not have been increased by an overly processed diet," you pause. "wait, am i the kenan in this friendship?"

"depends. i want to say you're the brains but i've also seen you try to open a can with a fork, so."

"hey! that wasn't my fault!" you exclaim, but jimin ignores you purposely. "taehyung told me you fucked yeri in the kitchen, how was i supposed to know what was and wasn't contaminated?"

"___, the fork was plastic."

"well what else would you have me do, starve?"

"what is this, the fucking famine? you said it yourself, we share a just eat email so the smart thing to do would be order. besides i dunno what makes you think i'd fuck a girl with a can opener in my vicinity anyway-"

"um, you're you," you chastise. "so i rest my case."

"then i'm definitely kenan," jimin laughs when you swat at him before your phone vibrates, one after another until it almost falls off the kitchen counter if you didn't grab it in time. you don't dare to unlock your phone when you see the contact name on the screen, too hyper-aware of jimin eyeing you over the chopping board. even he sees the gist of the messages jungkook sent you.

[jungkook 7:13pm] u left ur shirt here again noona

[jungkook 7:13pm] at this rate ur never gonna get it back are u :)

[jungkook 7:14pm] i'm free all day tomorrow

[jungkook 7:16pm] wanna come over?

[jungkook 7:16pm] i still haven't washed it btw so

[jungkook 7:17pm] we can do laundry together :))

[jungkook 7:18pm] or maybe later tonight ? i can pick u up ?

you don't even get a good read of the messages - all those smiley faces gave you enough of an idea. it wasn't a surprise or anything, but you still switch your phone to do not disturb and leave it face down on the counter like you have something to hide. which you don't. so why did it feel so wrong? so disrespectful, here in jimin's kitchen? you gnaw at your cheek.

jimin has his back to you so thankfully you're spared of having to gage his expression. he's probably sent a million thirsty texts so he knows what they look like, knows that he shouldn't be surprised. still, he shifts from foot to foot uneasily. the only thing that makes him stop is you leaning wordlessly over him to lower the stove to a simmer, turning the tap on to wash some rice and hum quietly. here was jeon jungkook, arguably the biggest stud on campus blowing up your phone on a friday night but nothing felt different. you'd always choose him and jimin knew that.

"what do you think of egg fried rice?" you ask over your shoulder. "i haven't made it in ages. the one with the veggies?"

jimin smiles. "i love that one,"

x

x

x

"he's not back yet?" you ask when yoongi lets you into the flat, shoulders deflating childishly. he gives you a lazy shake of his head before nudging you to the sofa to take up your usual spot on the matted cushion in the corner, kicking your shoes away and sitting cross legged. yoongi and namjoon's flat was only round the corner from jungkook's, a worn down little two-bed that smelled rather questionable at times, but it quickly became a familiar place. a safe place. especially because of how often you'd come over while jungkook was running late at class or the gym or photo-hunting. coming to terms with the fact that you were sleeping with jungkook wasn't that hard, but being friends with his friends was.

"it's leg day. you know how jungkookie feels about his chicken calves," yoongi says before flopping down next to you. namjoon was tucked into the other side with a book, effectively squishing you into yoongi with his big shoulders. if jungkook was here he'd pout about having nowhere to sit and the thought only makes you more pleased. "he'd be there until sundown if you weren't waiting for him."

"are you sure you're one to talk about chicken legs?" you reach to tickle yoongi's knees and he barely manages to flinch away in time.

"i love my chicken legs the way they are, thanks. can't say the same for your boyfriend though."

you freeze. "i told you to stop saying that, yoongi. you know he hates the b word. one more slip up and you won't ever see me here again. last time he avoided me for two weeks!"

"never see you again? doubt it. your hair clogged the shower drain yesterday so you pretty much owe rent at this point," yoongi keeps flicking through the channels on the television. "besides, i know what a man with a monkey on his back looks like. kookie just doesn't like being reminded of it because unfortunately for him there's no rehab to quit you."

a rush of blood goes straight to your cheeks. yoongi loves to tease you and you know that, second only to jungkook who actually does get off to it, but you still tap nervously on the carpet with your toes while desperately hoping for namjoon to step into the conversation with a weird conspiracy theory or black hole fact he read on an astronomy blog. anything to dig you out of this metaphorical hole you and jungkook are hellbent on ignoring. yoongi sees the way you curl in on yourself slightly, a sensible and collected flower like you reduced to a fidgety school girl. it's cute.

"hyung," namjoon says with his eyes still glued to his book. "stop winding her up or her face'll explode and then jiminie will come for your throat."

yoongi scoffs. "and? what's that short-ass gonna do, cry on me to death?"

"you're like two inches taller than him."

"two and a half, actually."

"so he really was a crybaby?" you scoot to fold your legs under you. "jungkook told me before but i didn't believe him! i've tried everything but i can never get a reaction out of jimin...i mean, if horny isn't an emotion."

"oh yeah, totally," namjoon puts an arm on the back on the back of the sofa behind you when he looks up. his silver hair brings out the beautifully rich undertone of his skin and it's difficult not to stare, being so close. "if the patriarchy hadn't fucked him up he'd be a real tree hugger, i'm sure of it. but the last time i saw him cry was...hmm..."

"five years ago," yoongi chimes. "when jungkookie got caught."

"ooooh yeah," namjoon nods. "but jimin and jungkook were super close back then. he was so protective of him, waited in the custody office for hours until they finally-"

"wait," you look between them. "caught? what do you mean?"

the boys exchange a glance between them. it's not like you didn't know that yoongi sells weed and often with namjoon's help. in fact, they often told you about their wild stories and close calls. but they had never mentioned jungkook being involved with any of that stuff, and neither had he. you always just assumed that he'd kept his head out of it, being a college student and all but yoongi's shrugging and namjoon's pursed lips tell you otherwise.

"jungkook got charged with possession as a minor," yoongi says. "i mean, seventeen but still. too baby-faced."

"jungkook sold for you?" you repeat, not quite believing your ears. he had always been the better off out of his friends that often did shadier things, but the more you got to know him the more you felt like the jungkook you heard about and the jungkook you knew were two different boys. it really shouldn't have come as a surprise, since he had practically grown up with yoongi, namjoon and jimin. his hyungs were his family and he'd do anything for them, there was really no reason he wouldn't take up their trade.

"oh yeah, almost a year. he was good at it too," namjoon laughs. "our kookie's good at everything if you give him enough chances."

"so what happened?" you press. "does he...does he still sell?"

"are you kidding? we got him out of all that shit the second he stepped out the office," yoongi rubs the back of his neck. "jungkook isn't like us. he's a good kid with a lot of talent and he didn't need to be doing all that you know? we convinced him to go to school instead but even then, jimin made us swear to look out for him because he left earlier than kookie."

"wow, jimin really hasn't changed," you lean back. "in like, taking care of people i mean. so is that when jungkook got into photography? he did talk about getting his first camera when he was like eighteen or something..."

namjoon nods happily in recollection. "yup! we were so proud when jungkook got accepted into university, especially after jimin and hobi. people from our town don't usually pursue higher education-"

"especially with kookie's record," yoongi laughs.

"why?" you blink at him.

"the weed was one thing, but jungkook also got a strike for violence."

namjoon winces. "hyung, he's gonna throw a tantrum if you tell her..."

"i don't care. she's fucking him, she has a right to know," yoongi retorts evenly, dark eyes swivelling to meet yours. his light hair is matted from under his beanie, barely missing his lashes. "a few years ago jungkook beat a guy so bad he had to go into emergency. it was pretty gross. broken nose, missing teeth, you name it. he's been on thin ice since but he doesn't act like it."

you take a second to digest the information. "do you...do you know why?" you waver, unable to keep the horror from your voice. "knocking a guy's teeth out? people don't just do that!"

"kookie did," namjoon sighs.

"but why? it's so...i just can't imagine jungkook doing something like that..."

"something like what?"

your head snaps to the doorway where jungkook can be seen only partially when he bends over to unlace his shoes, namjoon and yoongi simultaneously pinching your legs to wipe the wide-eyed look off your face. it was one of the many times when wearing your heart on your sleeve did not do you any favours. you just about manage to look normal enough within the half a second it takes for jungkook to come in, hair mussed from his post-gym shower and tee wrinkled from being stuffed into the bottom of his bag. his eyes look extra big today, nose and knuckles blushed pink from all the lifting. he couldn't look farther from the violent offender yoongi and namjoon described. in fact, the sudden urge to kiss him hello was near suffocating.

"i was telling her about the time you wore hyung's underwear for two weeks," namjoon explains, years of lying paying off with how smoothly he returns to his book.

"what!" yoongi splutters. "are you kidding?! a whole week, jungkook that's disgusting-"

the younger boy winces. "not the same pair!"

"wait. you took more than one?!"

"um..."

"how many. tell me right now you little shit."

"i promise they were clean!" jungkook says defensively, but his buck teeth show in a defensive little grin. it's impossible to be mad at him. "my washing machine broke, remember? and i never have change so i didn't go to the laundrette's and-"

"which ones?" yoongi's voice becomes obnoxiously loud with dismay. "tell me right now so can go upstairs and burn them. jesus jungkook you could have at least asked me, now i have to live with the knowledge that your bollocks is acquainted with mine until i die-"

"hyung they were clean," jungkook insists. "and if i asked i knew you wouldn't have let me borrow them!"

"yeah because it's gross! why didn't you just take joonie's?"

"i did. but he caught me and told me to take yours instead."

you just about manage to insert yourself between yoongi before he can grab a fistful of namjoon's hair while jungkook throws back his head in a loud cackle.

x

x

x

[jimin 7:58pm] you dont mind do u?

it's hard not to roll your eyes at his message, momentarily leaving your phone on the bed while you unclasp your bra. it wasn't the first time jimin had bailed on you last minute because of some girl he'd picked up for longer than expected. you're just thankful that this time he had the courtesy to tell you before you got to his house and burst into his bedroom without knocking only to see areas of your best friend you really did not need to see. even though you shudder at the memories - yes, plural - the sinking feeling of disappointment can't be masked. it's movie night.

[you 8:01pm] yh its fine

[you 8:02pm] but u owe me one i put on a bra for you asshole

[jimin 8:04pm] ofc babe

[jimin 8:04] just skip it next time :)

you snort before locking your phone and throwing it on the bed, padding over the room in your knickers to select some sleeping shorts off the floor. jisoo went home for a family birthday and seulgi had a deadline for monday, so it was safe to say you were alone for the weekend. you were used to being alone but you didn't like it; it was the reason why you'd always trudge to jimin's if the girls weren't home or even yoongi and namjoon's, even if it was just to take a nap on their sofa. you needed the noise, the background bickering. that's why there's only so much paint brush washing and kitchen cleaning you can do before reaching for your phone and messaging jungkook.

or at least that's what you tell yourself when he's in your bed within the hour, head resting on your stomach and his leg thrown over your ankles. you trace along the tattoo on his bicep closest to you, admiring the cohesiveness and line placement while jungkook dozes off, like he often does after sex. he's had a long week so you let him sleep, hair sticking up and mouth open like a toddler, so impossibly cute you can't help combing through his nape. jungkook doesn't often spend the night at yours so this was a rarity, and you had to admit he did look a little out of place in your tiny little room. he was far too big for your bed, one foot already hanging off, clothes and jacket hurled into the corner with only cheap fairy lights to rely on so you don't go tripping over his shoes at the door.

you could draw him like this. jungkook's eyelashes are short and pin-straight, eyebrows angled and distinctive. quick, sharp pencil strokes. he's got the faintest shadow above his top lip from where didn't have time to shave today. you'd use charcoal for his hair, black with a slight wave. a swooping curve for his nose, a more gentle line for his jaw. he looks harmless like this: not at all resembling the boy yoongi described.

"why are you so quiet, noona?" he grumbles into the duvet, eyes still closed. "you should be snoring my ears off by now."

you pout. "i'm too busy wondering how i'm gonna get your river of drool out of my pillow."

he snorts. "throw your sheets in on a fast cycle and voila."

"what fast cycle? i just press every button on the machine until it starts."

he opens his eyes. "you're an animal."

you laugh, tugging on the roots of his hair where your hand is still nestled inside. "how do you know so much about washing machines anyway?"

"my mum worked a lot growing up," jungkook yawns. "hyung did the cooking and i did the laundry."

you freeze. "you have a brother?"

"i swear i told you that," he scoots across your stomach, taking the pillow with him to position it over your hip so he can look at you properly. his eyes look glassy in the lights, lids hooded and hair pushed back. a real dreamboat wrapped in a hello kitty duvet. "two years older, same as jimin."

"no wonder jimin cares about you so much," you keep playing with his hair, watching his eyes droop closed. "he may as well be your brother." jungkook hums in reply, growing more and more drowsy from all the petting. "so...how come your mum worked so much?"

his eyes open to look at you, hesitating. "dad left when we were young. she didn't really have a choice."

"i didn't know that jungkook..." you pause. "that must have been hard."

he rolls to face the ceiling, like he's thinking twice before he answers. "not really. eomma's a badass, there's nothing she can't handle. yeah money and stuff wasn't easy, and it sucked when i was younger and didn't understand why hyung and eomma were so upset after what happened, but it's whatever. the three of us are so good together, you know? i like it like this."

you nod. because you do know. or, did. you wonder now if that's the reason jungkook got involved with yoongi and namjoon in the first place, to help out his family, but even you know some questions are better left unasked. instead, you chip away at jungkook while you can, since you know barely anything about him beyond student life and his friends. who knows when he would be in the mood to open up again. "so what does your brother do?"

"an accountant. for some fancy law firm in the city," he smiles. "hyung is super smart. like you."

you laugh. "you know i didn't finish my first major, right?"

"by choice. not because you weren't capable," he finishes, and to that you have no choice but to shut up. no one had ever put it that way before. "he's super quiet like you too, keeps to himself. gives really good advice. oh my god, and his kimchi pork stew - amazing!" his teeth gleam take up his whole mouth when he smiles, lines creasing around his eyes. "so many times when me and mum would argue, hyung was the reason why we'd stop. guess i got her temper."

you watch him closely. "you argued often?"

"at one point, yeah. not because we didn't like each other or anything, just..." you can see him hesitating again, cheek sucked in from where he chews it while staring up at the ceiling as if the memories are playing back at him on a projector. you keep quiet, let him get there on his own. "mum went through a phase where she dated a lot. felt bad that neither of us had a father figure and all that bullshit. she brought home some real dickheads, some top tier cunts i'm telling you. and i...wasn't exactly nice to them. ever since then i just hate seeing girls be pushed around by assholes, you know? it does something to me, i dunno. here," he lays a hand over his stomach. "i can't just watch. i can't. it's like i'm gonna be sick."

it's hard not to cry listening to him, seeing the lines in his forehead appear along with the crinkle above his nose. it made sense now, what yoongi told you about before. thinking back to the whole escapade with jinyoung in your kitchen, the whole thing hit you differently.

jungkook was exactly the kind of boy your old family would have frowned upon, reckless and thoughtless and emotionally-driven in the face of adversity. absolutely everything you were taught not to be. but you admired him for those very reasons. before you can start crying you sit up, silencing jungkook with a kiss before he can ask you what's wrong. it's firm and deliberate, your hands holding both his cheeks. he's breathless. "you seriously fucking worry me, slick."

"oh?" his eyes stay focused on your lips while he moves to you, positions you underneath him on the foot of the bed, pulling your thighs around his hips so you gasp at the feel of his semi on your soft inner thigh. he dips his head to kiss along your sternum, hand ghosting over your breasts before closing his mouth around your nipple.

"i nev-never know what you're gonna do next," you exhale shakily, arching into him involuntarily at the sensation. jungkook takes the opportunity to rub the pads of his fingers against your cunt, using the remnants of your arousal to help you along. sure enough you accept his fingers greedily, but he takes his time in stretching you out and easing in further, further.

his thumb gently passes over your clit and you shake. "never? not even now?"

you have to forcibly yank his face away from your tits to kiss him, slowly and with passion. his skin grows damp under your hands, muscles rippling under your touch from where he holds himself up on his forearms. he likes feeling the softness of your tummy against his, your thick thighs cushioning him snugly against you. just like always, it's torture having to pull away from you for a brief second to grab a condom, but the familiar chuckle you breathe out to see him speed back into your arms almost makes it worth it. you take the packet from him, about to tear it open before he grabs your hand with a cheeky smile. "in a minute."

before you can question him about it you yelp he tugs you by the hips, sliding up to angle your ass so your knees have no choice but to hook over his shoulders. jungkook's arms wind around the top of your thighs, thick and secure, nails scraping gently through your coarse curls before he pulls your legs apart as wide as they'll go and lowers his mouth onto you. the noise you make is just as embarrassing as always, so loud and uncontrollable, hysterical even. you've gotten used to being jungkook's fourth, fifth and sixth meal of the day but he steals your breath away every time, leaves you squirming and trembling and this instance was no exception. today he was feeling indulgent so he eats you out messily, makes sure he's loud enough for you hear every squelch and slurp. you physically shake when he sucks a gently kiss to your clit, proud of yourself for not screaming. jungkook, however, isn't happy about that and keeps sucking until you do. harder, harder, and then filling you up with his fingers so you have something to clench around when you cum all over him in a rush.

your back is still off the bed when he reaches your eye level again, the family sound of the foil wrapper ripping from the condom packet making you lift your head up to look at him. he's already rolling it down his length when he peer downwards, and even though you only get a glimpse of his blushing head he's sticky and hot with pre-cum. you wiggle in anticipation and jungkook laughs at your cuteness before leaning back down, taking your hands in his for a change. he can see the appeal, interlocking your fingers with his palms against yours and using only his hips as leverage to push into your sopping center, letting you move against him so he's lodged in as deep as he can fit before he starts rocking into you.

your moans are his favourite song, maybe that's why he wants to listen to them all day. he'd like to make you cum again but it's difficult for him once his hips start stuttering uncontrollably, no matter how much he tries to slow his pace. you let go of his hands then to take his face, his eyes closed when he feels you press your smooth lips to his cheekbone; an encouraging kiss. a go on, i want you to kiss. the moan he let's out before giving in is fragile and wispy, nose digging into your neck while he ruts against you to his end. you clench around him harder just to hear jungkook whimper again, pliant and weak in your arms. all of a sudden, out of nowhere you wish you could feel the rush of his cream spilling from you when he pulls out to discard the condom. he nestles back into your breasts afterwards, smelling himself on your skin. 

jungkook falls asleep smiling.

[drawmealama]

Painting Tutorial

Disclaimers !!! (important)

I’m not an expert or teacher.

There is an infinite number of ways you can paint. THERE IS NO WRONG WAY TO PAINT! This is how I do it / how I was taught to do it.

I’m doing this (during mars 2020) because I’m getting restless during the global quarantine. If you want to paint but you don’t have the supplies: PLEASE don’t go out to buy supplies. This is not a necessity so please stay safe. Also, if you’re considering buying art supplies on the internet ask yourself if it is necessary (like if you have an assignment/it’s part of your job/...) and try to minimize the strain on delivery services for non-essential supplies.

This post will still exist in a few months. I’ll even self-reblog it at the end of the lockdown so that, if you’re still interested, it’ll be here.

I’m going to make fan art for @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels​ (madsthenerdygirl on AO3) and her witcher fic “Even Steel Blades Need Fire” that you can find here.

I’m trying to make a non-spoiler piece, but I’ll talk about the fic (so spoilers!) during the process. If you have not read her fic and you don’t want to get spoiled, go read it before you continue.

I started painting two years ago, and I remember vividly my struggles in the beginning. Painting can be confusing, and I am going to assume that people with no experience are going to read this.

I’ll be explaining the painting process in-depth so LONG POST (I guess) and stay tuned for updates !!! (yay)

I think that’s all. 

Let’s start !!!

Here we have it all! All the supplies (and some) I use when painting with acrylic paint.

First, note that you don’t need all these supplies to paint. Most of the time I do it with less, but this is a tutorial so...

1. Paper

Good news, you don't need to have a canvas to paint !!! You can just use paper (cool right?!).

Any size is ok, but I prefer to paint big (this paper here is on the smaller side. I usually paint on “grand aigle” paper or “double grand aigle”. Which translates to “great (?) eagle”. Look it up!). 

Here I’ll be using a 65x50 cm piece (called “format raisin”/ “grapes format”...)

I advise to use 200gms (or 200g/m2) or more but 180g can work too.

225gms and 250gms are my personal favourites.

2. Something to protect the surface you are painting on. 

when I started painting I was super messy. I had no control over the paintbrush/the paint/etc..

I recommend using something (cardboard, plastic bag (not the best...), or newspaper) to cover up where you're going to paint. 

The smaller your paper, the more likely you are to spill paint next to it.

On that note, when I started painting I used to wear a chemistry lab coat to protect my clothes. 

It can save you when you least expect it (read: the whole bottle of paint falls and explodes everywhere). Now I stopped doing that (bad) but I don't really care about my clothes and also painting in your underwear when you're alone is fun.

remember to remove any jewellery (RINGS!!!) (you don't want to scrape off dried paint of off jewellery).

Don't wear gloves. (acrylic paint washes of with soap and hot water). Plus gloves are going to make your hands sweat and I don't recommend wearing them for long periods.

have a towel nearby or something at your disposal (but only use old stuff. you will probably never get all the paint stains off. I use my old lab coat.)

where you are painting is important too. When I started painting I liked using an easel. If you don't have an easel, that's ok. I don't have access to one during this quarantine business, so I'm doing sans-easel.

Also, I prefer to paint on the ground or on a table (depending on the cleanness of the ground and the paper size. if it's too big for one table, I sometimes use two side by side but it's not really practical).

Also with bigger papers, an easel can be impractical = you can't reach the top/bottom easily and you tire very easily.

Here is something my teacher used to tell us: 

“Don't sit on a chair.”

Explanation: when using a chair your paintings tend to look "tired" or "sloppy" (Idk how to describe it, but for better results try to stand up)

however if you are doing:

a big piece

painting for a long time

or you have medical issues that make standing up for a long time painful

 then I recommend either having a chair nearby to take "sitting" breaks or painting on the ground.

In all cases take breaks! 

Second advice from my teacher: 

“Don't listen to music while you paint.”

Explanation: when painting you want to avoid "coloring" with brushstrokes that go left-right and up-down all the time. when listening to your music you will unintentionally start following the rhythm of the music with your strokes and making them repetitive. Similarly, I noted that I'm slower when listening to music because I tend to focus more on the music than on what I am painting.

BUT, I know someone who makes these beautiful, giant paintings on bedsheets, which take like weeks to complete and with lots of details. And guess what? Not only does she sit down but she also listens to music while doing so.

In conclusion, it's up to you. but if you struggle painting: try sitting down/standing up/ taking more breaks/ turn on/off your music...

3. Paint pallets

Ok, so here again it's up to personal preferences.

you can use a

plastic/wood/glass pallet (that you re-use every time)

or you can use

disposable paint pallets/a piece of cardboard/paper plates (that you reuse a couple of times before throwing away).

At first, I started to use plastic pallets but I kept trying to clean them at the end of each lesson and I was losing so much time... (note: I found that bigger pallets with no little "holes" work the best).

Problems:

If the paint is dry it’s super difficult to get it off without soap or other types of cleaning products.

You use a lot of water to clean it and paint gets in the sewers.

An alternative is disposable pallets like on the picture (or cardboard/paper plates). you don't have to clean them, it's super cheap/free and a lot lighter.

Problems:

you can't use them forever and will need to throw it away (or recycle them into weird paintings).

If you use straight-up cardboard and try to mix a lot of water in your paint it will make a mess and destroy your pallet.

4. Water dish

Anything that holds water and that you don't use to drink is ok. Remember you will probably never get all the paint off.

5. Paintbrushes

Okay, this is the weird part where I tell you that "paintbrush" is "pinceau" in french and that the word comes from the Latin  "penicillum" which means "small tail" or "penis". Also, there's this text (of which I don't remember de name or the author) but it discusses the implication of artist's preferences for certain types of paintbrushes when you compare them to penises and it's silly and fun but now I need to talk about the paintbrushes I use and I don't want to make this awkward, so just forget what I just wrote there.

Let's see. I grouped and ranked each brush from A to G depending on how much I use them.

A) My personal favourites, that I use all the time: they are mostly round brushes.

There's a big one that's actually to paint walls but works well when I need to cover big surfaces

then a few tiny/flats with rounded tips for detail (called ”Filbert”)

a couple of medium/rounds 

and this flat squared tipped (called “Flat” or “Bright”) for when I need to get clean edges.

B) Medium/flat and square tipped brushes I use the same way as the big round.

C) These ones I use when the others are already in use and I need a clean brush. the problem is that some of them have these synthetic bristles that are super bendy and I don't like it.

D) Some more small brushes for detail. I sometimes use them for watercolour because they can hold a lot of water. See how they have a shorter handle? Long handle = for easel painting (because then you can get further away). The small handle = not for easel painting.

To be honest I don't really care. it's not super important (but I prefer the long handle ones).

E) These are really tiny small round brushes that can be used for even smaller detail (but I don't use them a lot).

F) I never use this paintbrush. the bristles are super soft and fur-like and see how they're pointing outward instead of inwards, and don’t make a point? yeah, I can't do anything with that.

G) Please, PLEASE, for the love of god do not use these types of brushes with acrylic paint. they're for ink painting and calligraphy and other stuff. They're super expensive and a pain to wash. I've seen people use them with paint and I don't judge but personally, it just feels wrong to use them with paint.

General tips to keep in mind when buying brushes:

Size matters.

The bigger the better.

Hog bristles = texture + (in general) better quality + stiffer

Synthetic or nylon bristles = cheaper + bendier + smoother finish.

If you are getting a pack of brushes try to look for one with more of the bigger brushes than smaller ones.

You don't need every size but you need a couple under 10, one or two around 20 and one 30 or 40.

Brushes are expensive. Like, think book price range (where I buy them they are around 15 euro or around 20 euro).

Any free brush is a good brush.

Handles don't matter.

General tips to care for brushes:

Wash your brushes.

Use soap (dish soap is fine). I've seen people use shampoo and I'm sure it works but for acrylic paint (= water-based paint), it's a bit overkill.

Let them dry laying flat.

Don't let them sit too long in the water. you don't want to weaken the wood or glue or metal that is holding everything together.

Handles don't matter (just keep a picture or a reference of your brush before it gets covered in paint and you can't tell what size/brand it is anymore).

6. Paint

The fun part!

Here are the colours I am going to use (I'm not using all the colours i have and I tried to make a varied but coherent pallet).

(from top to bottom, left to right.)

Titanium White (neo acryl, Gerstaecker, 102)

Black (neo acryl, Gerstaecker,704)

Prussian blue phthalo (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 566)

Quinacridone pink (I love art, Gerstaecker, 350)

Reflex rose (I love art acrylic, Gerstaecker, 384)

Primary yellow (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 275)

Raw sienna (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 234)

Burnt sienna (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 411)

Burnt umber (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 409)

Vandyke brown (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 403)

Carmine (acrylic standard series, Amsterdam all acrylics, 318)

General tips to keep in mind when buying paint, or how to choose colours when you don't want to spend too much on paint:

You CAN NOT paint with only primary colours !!!

NO magenta (it's like using 100% red. Also paint is pigment not light so magenta does not equal red)

Get more white and black paint (you can start with small quantities but these two getts used the most. I've also seen people buy "handyman paint" in white to get large quantities for cheaper but I never tried before.)

Pick darker colours over lighter ones

and pick lighter colours over mid-tones (I will go over this later when I start painting)

If you're like me and don't have tons of money to spend on paint, avoid paints with double colour names like "greenish-yellow", get yellow and get green and get white and then mix! (so you have green, yellow and everything in-between...)

When in doubt pick colours with:

fancy names (royal blue, ultramarine blue,...)

natural pigments names (cobalt, carmine, sienna,..)

well known names (TITANIUM white !!!)

artist’s names (Vandyke brown, Klein blue, ...)

Exciting and unusual names (what intrigues you? If you go: wtf is "Quinacridone pink?", "Phthalocyanine emerald"  "Vermillon?", then pick that.)

I know I said don't use primary colours but you NEED to mix colours. Go crazy! (note: straight from the tube colour can be used but in moderation or with good reasons..)

BUT You NEED brown, don't try to make it yourself

you DON'T need purple (I'll explain later)

(fluorescent colours can give you unexpected results when mixing. (I bought the fluorescent pink thinking I'd only use a small amount but now I'm kinda running out. And I don't even like pink that much...))

7. Something to pin down your paper

You only need this if you are going to work on something not horizontal.

Any type of pins (that can support the weight of the paper)

repositionable tape

or any kind of masking tape (that does not ruin paper when removed)

8. references

(The references on the picture are from another project.)

If you're not painting from life I recommend printing out your references over just having it on your phone or laptop or any screen, because

when you print them you are using pigment 

and then when you are painting you're looking at pigment and not pixels/light.

So it's actually easier to SEE the colors you have to use (and it can improve your results when painting with PIGMENT).

Also, try to print them as big as you can.

Right now I don't have a printer with me and I can't, like, get it printed or anything (not only because of the lockdown but because this is witcher stuff I'm going to make so I'm going to need reference photos of the actors and everything... yeah, no).

I'm just going to have my refs on a screen...

Hope some of you made it this far. If so, congratulation!

(I tried to make this as clear as possible (English is not my first language and I struggle with writing)).

[alinette-coccinelle]

Written in the Tea Leaves

Hey Katelyn! I was your MLB Secret Santa, Merry Christmas! You said Lukanette was your favourite so I hope you like this little meet cute ficlet; I tried to pick two complementary cute AU's for this fluff piece so i hope you like it!

AO3

Despite the lack of sleep and her usual hatred for mornings Marinette had woken up long before sunrise today, her mind caught up in the opening of her and Alya’s very own Tattoo shop, their dream come true after years of hard work. She’d attempt to plan her outfit out the night before but with hours to kill in the morning she’d gotten changed a further six times, her nerves and excitement refusing to let her sit still. In the end she settled on a lacy dusky pink sundress that was both her favourite colour and still flashy enough to show off the art she wore on her own skin proudly.

And Marinette was no stranger to Ink, her fingers itched daily to add to the scrawling elegant display of watercolour flowers that spiralled both her arms and nearly met across her shoulder blades and collar bones. It was getting to the point where she struggled to add to the piece herself, instead bothering Alya to copy out her designs onto skin; Alya who was almost as talented with ink, though she preferred to stab people with jewellery usually.

The most recent addition to Marinette’s piece had been three small gold washed marigolds across her shoulder blade, to represent her and Alya’s creative dream coming true, every single one of the flowers she wore held a meaning of some kind, literally wearing her heart on her sleeves for all to see.

With the healing process finally over and the urge to show off her skill for the opening Marinette decided she was brave enough to skip the coat and bare the brisk spring air, after all it looked warm enough with the rising sun and it would be a shame to cover up the art she wanted to show off. With her heart still fluttering somewhere rapidly in her throat in excitement she decided she couldn’t wait any longer to get into the shop and so for the first time in forever she set off from her apartment ridiculously early, Alya would be pleased.

In her unrestrained glee Marinette had failed to notice the sky darkening or even the air growing cold as she practically skipped down the cobbled streets to their shop. When the rain finally broke overhead the squeal that ripped from her throat was genuine shock and despite trying to keep under shop awnings she was truly and unsurprisingly soaked, hair plastered to her face within minutes and her whole form violently shivering as she dripped.

Sheltering herself against the side of the building Marinette found herself cursing her luck and scowling down at the ‘lucky’ ladybug tattooed on the outside of her wrist, as if it was going to give her a solution; she was only about half way between home and the shop and in either direction laid more rain. In the end Marinette made the split-second decision to duck into the only open looking coffee shop on the corner, the lights glowing warmly through the window into the rainy gloom. Sure she wasn’t far from the safety of her own shop but the hottest tea she could stand sounded like a good pay off to her rain soaked self and maybe she could even miss the rest of the downpour safely inside, it wasn’t like she was running late.

Feeling a little more hopeful Marinette dashed back out into the rain and darted through the coffee shop door blindly, water dripping in her eyes as the bell chimed above her. As soon as the door shut and the warmth hit her and she stilled leaning back on her heels just slightly as her shivers subsided and her eyes slid closed happily, rubbing her arms a little for warmth as she adjusted.

“You’re dripping on my floor.” came an amused voice from her left, startling her eyes open.

Marinette immediately rushed to apologise, hands fluttering and her whole face turning scarlet but before she could mumble the words aloud a soft towel was being pushed into her hands, stilling them.

“It’s clean, dry yourself off and go sit by the guitars, it’s where the heating vents are.” He winked at her like sharing a secret before turning back to head towards the counter. “I’ll bring you something warm; tea?”

The unbelievably flustered Marinette just nodded in response, eyes wide and face burning but he at least seemed amused by her speechlessness, smiling as he left.

Despite still dripping with rainwater her brain failed to jump into action, instead allowing her eyes to follow the baristas retreating form unbidden, the teal tips of his locks reflecting in the lights and the muscles under his black button up flexing casually as he moved. ‘He’s Cute’ was the first thing to flash forward followed in the empty silence of her thoughts followed rapidly by ‘I look like a took a swim in the Seine! Argh!’

Finally kicked into action she immediately began towelling the rainwater off her face and shoulders before gently rubbing her hair, careful to try and make herself as presentable as possible by pulling her fingers through the now wavy damp locks. She eventually remembered to move from the door, eyes darting back to the Barista as she walked, this time watching as he selected tea leaves from a variety of jars on the counter adding them to a glass teapot. She was pretty sure could hear him humming as he worked which caused her lips to twitch into a small involuntary smile.

For a beat she hovered next to the table unsure if she wanted to get the comfy looking fabric seats all wet but when she next glanced up she could see the barista’s dimpled smile sent her way across the counter and as their eyes finally met her suddenly weak knees decided she needed the seat after all. So Marinette perched gingerly on the edge of the chair, fingers worrying in the damp fabric of her skirt as she waited, the returning smile on her lips refusing to be squashed by her embarrassment even if she couldn’t quite look his way again.

She instead cast her eyes about the café quickly catching on to the musical theme as she spotted all sorts of instruments mounted to the walls, not just the guitars she was sat near. There was even the odd album poster dotted around and she couldn’t help but smile as she spotted her own Jagged Stone cover amongst the rest; Uncle Jagged had like the design so much he’d let her tattoo it on his arm years later and she wondered idly if the barista was a Jagged fan, maybe she could ask him, If she could find her words again.

Marinette was startled out of her thoughts by a polite clearing of a throat. The Barista and his warm eyes were back, and he was baring a steaming teapot that smelled divine.

“I thought you might like-“ he began,

“I’m sorry about your-” she clattered over him.

His easy smile as he gestured for her to go first calmed the pulse ringing in her ears and Marinette found herself able to meet his lovely teal eyes as she spoke her own soft smile blooming in response.

“I’m sorry about the floor and thank you.” she finally breathed, relieved.

“It’s no problem, we’re not really open yet but you looked cold and a just little damp, so I thought I’d offer you a place to warm up.” He spoke lightly with just a hint of friendly teasing as he placed a musical note patterned mug before her.

“I really appreciate it, thank you! I, um, well I wasn’t quite prepared for the weather.” She admitted. And whilst Marinette had meant to be witty or charming, to try hard and make a good impression something about him put her instantly at ease; happy to just be herself for once, exactly as she was, even if that was a little bashful.

It seemed to be the right move as he grew flushed by her sincere thanks a small blush spreading across his cheeks as his eyes dropped from hers. In fact, Marinette got the distinct impression he’d rub his neck in shyness if his hands weren’t full of teapot, the thought alone caused a warmth to grow in the pit of her stomach; he was as adorable as he was kind.

“I thought this would suit you, jasmine and sakura blossom with curl of apple.” He nodded his chin to the leaves and fruit floating clear teapot before reaching across the table to pour, unintentionally causing his long sleeves to ride up baring the edge of a tattoo to her.

Like a predator spotting pray Marinette instantly zoned in on the tattoo, her bashfulness vanishing in curiosity, her hands reaching forward without thought to push the sleeve further up baring the beautiful design. It was some sort of snake surrounded by fresh tea leaves and music notes, the colours greyscale but with a watercolour wash of blue and teal; very much like her own preferred style.

“Oh! its beautiful.” She gasped delightedly, gently lifting his hand off the lid of the tea pot so she could turn his arm to view it better, revealing a burn scar running through the back of the design.

“I could fix this!” she blurted out, eyes darting across his skin mentally designing and recreating the piece with new details to cover the scar.

In the responding silence she finally glanced up to meet his startled but soft gaze when she remembered they were practically strangers; she didn’t even know his name and she’d gotten carried away again! Quickly releasing his arm, she sat back, linking her fingers together to stop the fidgeting as she turned slowly scarlet from head to toe her eyes fixed somewhere around his chin, no longer brave enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, that was so rude! I’m a tattoo artist and I get carried away and I shouldn’t have and–“

He cut her off with the scrape of the chair next to her as he took a seat, carefully arranging the music note patterned apron on his knee, as if giving her a chance to breathe before ducking slightly to try and gently catch her gaze.

“It’s okay but maybe we should start again properly. I’m Luka.”

His voice was so warm, like honey, that it took her a moment to realise he was offering his hand to shake; her daintier hand engulfed by his as she finally reached out and shook. She forced herself to untense and to meet his eyes with a smile despite the tingles in her fingertips of the hand he still held.

“I’m um, I’m Ma-Ma-Marinette! Pleased to meet you!” she stumbled the moment his eyes connected with hers, really at 26 she ought to be better at this, but Luka just chuckled softly squeezing her fingers but seemingly in no rush to let go either.

“Well Ma-Ma-Marinette, let’s talk about these tattoos...”

And they did her mouth spiralling out of control as her nerves calmed when supplied with a topic she loved, quickly explaining her skill and style before expressing exactly how she’d like to cover the scar in his design, absently tracing her plans with her fingertips on his skin. Luka in turn explained exactly how the scar came to be and how he ended up trading in music and fancy tea leaves, before shifting closer and gently touching the flowers across her arms, quizzing her on the meaning behind the art and how she’d come to be an artist in ink.

In the end he ended up getting down his favourite guitar off the wall and playing her some pieces for inspiration as she rapidly sketched out his new tattoo design on a napkin in biro; she couldn’t wait for a sketch book not when the idea was so perfect.

Before they knew it, hours had passed, the sun was breaking through the clouds and Marinette was getting a frantic call from Alya about being late to opening day as Luka realised that he should have opened the store front an hour ago. There wasn’t time for awkward lingering goodbyes, Marinette instead throwing her arms around the taller boy in a soft slightly to long hug before she was dashing out of his arms and running out of the door, wearing his borrowed jacket. A jacket that she’d later find a hastily hidden note baring his number in the pocket of.

So, when Marinette happened to get a craving for tea the next morning and returned his jacket with the pocket now hiding a preliminary sketch of his new design and her own number neatly in the corner it was only natural. As it was when she was invited back day after day, after all it was on her way and they had design to settle on.

Nearly a month later when that design was finally on his arm but now also baring greyscale sakura blossoms amongst the scattered tea leaves, it seemed almost logical for matching tea leaves to appear on Marinette’s design in return too, it was such an aesthetic combination after all.

And months after that when a beaming Marinette moved into the flat above his cosy tea shop to live with an overjoyed Luka no one even blinked, it seemed some people’s fate were written in the tea leaves after all.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Tea at Twilight

(Please ignore the terrible title–I know it’s bad, but my brain is fried and I can’t come up with anything better right now)

Word Count: 1327

Summary: Curiousity has always been a strong trait in Logan. Maybe that’s why he and Remus get along so well.

Warnings: Remus and the disturbing things he says and does: graphic discussion of disembowelment and various mentions of gore (none of it actually happens, it’s only talked about), Remus gets an injury that heals immediately. Logan is sympathetic/amiable toward the dark sides, and feels a disconnect from the other main three, though he isn’t upset with them or unsympathetic towards them. That’s about it, I think!

A/N: Honestly, I didn’t expect something like this to be the first work I’ve posted for this fandom, but @nachosforfree mentioned wanting some intrulogical/dark sides-centric stuff so I got a bit inspired and thought up this little ficlet somewhat based on a conversation I had with @illogical-anxieties a while ago. Sorry this is late, and sorry if it wasn’t what you wanted, Emmit! I sure do hope you’re feeling better!

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 2 here)

It’s late afternoon this time, a quiet hush falling over the mindscape as Thomas settles into his favourite spot on the couch for yet another insomnia-fueled Netflix binge. The silence is certainly welcomed, at least in Logan’s opinion; it’s a relieving break in the hectic stream of problems that their host comically gets himself into. There’s a certain tranquility that comes in the twilight hours, lending itself to a litany of praise and an almost inherent respect from the logical side. Settling down in his big library chair with a compelling novel, a soft blanket, and a warm beverage is an especially beloved stress-relieving method of his, and one he unfortunately is unable to participate in often. However, today has been an easy day, restless after the unusually ramped-up amount of moral dilemmas Thomas and the sides have had to talk their way through and overcome in the past week, but they’ve remained mostly reserved. The others had invited Logan to join them for a low-energy movie night, but as much as Logan wishes to be a more normal, acceptable part of their group, he has long surrendered his internal protests to the knowledge that he is displaced among them, and keeping a neutral but removed facade is the only way to keep their social relations on the more amenable side of the scale. So here he is, hardback book in hand and quilted blanket resting upon his legs, losing himself in the near-incoherent, dreary prose of his favourite authour as the faint sound of a Disney movie echoes from the living room.

“Hey, Logan?” The voice comes from the direction of his bed, high and grating with an audible smile permanently ingrained in its tone. Logan has been aware of Remus’ presence, of course, but the other side hasn’t said anything before now, so he’s just left him be.

“What do you think happens when you take out someone’s entrails? Could I make a painting with their blood and guts?” Remus asks, just as inquisitive and sincere and ornery as he always is. Logan almost finds comfort in Remus’ unpredictability, because it’s so predictable. How could it not be, when nearly everything that comes out of his mouth is tainted and disturbed and curious in nature?

Curiousity has always been a strong trait in Logan. Maybe that’s why he and Remus get along so well.

“If the intestines are only resting outside the body, a person would likely fall unconscious due to blood loss within a minute or so, and die sometime during the next few. If they are cut out, however, they will experience a quicker but far more agonizing death,” Logan answers without looking up, turning a stiff page oh-so-deliberately just to hear that satisfying, searing noise. He retrieves the teacup from the saucer on which it sits, carefully bringing the warm porcelain up to his lips. The tea is still hot, but he pays no mind to the discomfort caused by the liquid sliding down his throat; the pain is never permanent, after all. Dry throat now successfully moisturized, soothed even despite the scald, the bespectacled side clears his throat to address the second part of Remus’ question. “And although painting with blood is possible, acrylic or watercolour paints are a much cheaper and more sanitary medium to use to create artwork. I’m sure that, given the necessary supplies, you would find acrylic paint much more enjoyable, especially considering the fact that you would have many more colours to paint with. A monotone piece is a bit… boring, don’t you think?”

Logan finally looks up from his novel, glancing over to where Remus lays upside down off the side of his bed. Said side looks awestruck, as if using a colour other than blood red to create art has never occurred to him, and Logan is left wondering how much of his creativity and potential is overshadowed and forcibly repressed in the face of his intrusive thoughts.

“Woah, you’re right! That does sound fun! I can use the different colours to make a painting of the blood and guts all over the floor after the disembowelment! You’re so smart!” Remus exclaims, childlike wonder acting as a juxtapose to the horrific imagery his words exhibit so proudly. Logan finds himself smiling despite himself, huffing a silent laugh under his breath as he slips a slim finger into the teacup handle once again. The tea has cooled considerably by now, much more tolerable than before, and the logical side finds himself unable to drop his tiny grin even as he sips quietly on the strong beverage.

“Hey, Logan, have you seen-”

Before Logan can reply, his door opens after a few short knocks, and a certain snake-themed side pokes his head through the doorway. He apparently didn’t open the door enough, though, so his bowler hat is dislodged from his head with the force of the frame pushing back on it, and it falls to the floor somewhat anticlimactically. Deceit stops in his tracks and stands there as he stares ruefully at his fallen hat, muttering something under his breath after a moment that sounds suspiciously like a eulogy.

“Dee!” Remus exclaims happily, rolling backwards off the edge of Logan’s bed and hitting the floor with a sickening crack. The logical side has learned not to worry about Remus retaining any of the injuries he (usually purposely) inflicts on himself, but it doesn’t mean that his heart doesn’t jump minutely in his chest or that his fingers don’t twitch in his aborted impulse reaction to reach out and somehow remedy the new laceration or contusion on Remus’ body he knows will disappear within seconds. And sure enough, Remus is already up and bouncing in excitement like a puppy dog bounding to greet its owner after a long, arduous day of chewing up shoes and getting into things it shouldn’t.

Deceit reaches down to pick up his hat, enduring the friendly butt slap from Remus without so much as a flinch, which is likely testament to how often the wayward twin uses the action as a greeting (and probably for goodbyes, too. And any other excuse he can use to touch someone’s butt). After plopping the black bowler right back on his head, Deceit sighs, reaching a gloved hand up to ruffle Remus’ wild, unruly hair. The latter of the two displays a bright, toothy grin, even as the snake-like side gently yanks Remus’ head to the side by his hair, sticking his tongue out in a playfully mocking challenge. Logan’s eyes swim with mirth as he watches the casual interaction, and the amused smirk that finds its way onto his face doesn’t let up when Remus lightheartedly punches Deceit on his upper arm. “Alright, Rem, enough messing around. Time for bed. You know how you get when you stay up past ten.”

Remus pouts, then opens his mouth to start complaining. Deceit is obviously used to this, so he gently but firmly grabs Remus by the arm and steers him around into the hallway. The second twin’s incessant whines fall on deaf ears, though–Deceit simply ignores him and turns back around briefly to send Logan a courteous wave. The bespectacled side returns it congenially, then turns back to his novel. The tea has completely cooled in his grasp, and Logan finishes the rest of it off in a single swallow before delicately placing the ornate cup back onto the saucer. He curls into the blanket again, relaxed and drowsy, and turns the page as he hears Remus’ requests for a bedtime story met with Deceit’s exasperated groans fade out down the hall.

And if Logan walks past Remus’ room the next night and sees him conjuring gleaming palettes and smooth canvasses and an array of colours of bold, bright paint to use to his heart’s content, well, nobody has to know about how much more content he is for it.

[octopusunoreverse]

Little white lies

Little white lies is a magazine created with the sole aim of capturing and reviewing movies through out the year normally printing 4 times a year quarterly, though the magazine has become more well known for its independent ethos and iconic, striking illustrative covers created by a new artists each time, deadicating its front section to upcoming theatrical release.

Sin City Issue 2 - Jul/Aug 2005   this one was one of the first early covers that stood out to me, reminiscent of early grunge comic styles used for the gritty Noir/Action graphic novels, fitting for the fact that the movie itself is based of the Sin city comics, the difference for this is that the artist for this cover has taken the features form the actor to then blend it with the style used for comics; heavy sett shadows sonf light shown but blacking out the ares where the shadows are completely in black and leaving the background showing through to show where the light hits, but they still show a lot of texture in the face by using what I can assume is almost like a dry brush texture, roughing up the face  implanting the idea that this character is ether rough character or dangerous, the artist also hints at the story itself with smaller type and illustration shown in the form of tattoos hidden under the layers of grime and of what I would assume are plasters, I do like the white negative look off it.

Marie Antoinette Issue 8 - Oct/Nov 2006  I personally like this one because the vibrant colours, hinting most likely to her more risky and existing life before she became romantic heroine that we know now in history, though its nice to at least learn more about the various females throughout history as there stores are normally erased or twisted, so for a historical drama I believe it works well, the one single figure of Marie Antoinette by herself standing out against the flat black background, making the character of Antoinette the main visual point of the illustration, because she is, looking at the portrait itself, id assume they took a image of the actor in their costume and thresholded it and then they most likely multiplied the layer so that they could then drawn underneath, similar to the techniques in the pen tool workshop.

Control Issue 13 - Sep/Oct 2007  the cover for this one I like the monochrome colours and black used, it gives this feeling of hollow pared along side the mood the thresholded image of the actor, I particularly enjoy the typography the font strong and bold in its shapes has these spirals exploding, visually interpreting it as them loosing control which I thinks works very well for a  sci-fi mystery thriller film, so meany lose ends left unsolved. the colour palette as I said before is monochrome which I think is a interesting handle on a typical cover the highlighting the character with lighter colours showing the characters important and stands out against the simple darker colour background and text.

Let the Right One In Issue 22 - Mar/Apr 2009 This Swedish romantic horror film reinvented vampier in the love film, because lets be honest most vampire movie suck, the artist took one of the iconic scenes from the movie and beautify painted it with water colours and pencil/graphite, the iconic light eyes of the character shine through as the, watercolour blood drips down her face ones again reminiscent to the movie itself, I like the use of the hair being used to silhouette  the face, the position/placement of the face itself it feels like its looking directly into your soul almost.

An Education Issue 25 - Sep/Oct 2009 I think this is a brilliant depiction of a coming of age movie, straight away introducing you to the main character, the bright pink hue, brilliantly used to show off the innocences of the character themselves, and that is pushed by the limited about of skin showing. the illustration itself seems to of been done with gouache paints considering the smoothness of the colours working together on the page, the hair, nose and eyes are my favourite, especially with the eyes and nose they have so much detail, you can see the youth in the eyes and the realistic look of them works so well and I love how the artist has used just shadow and light to detail the nose, and I like the hair personally because of the way they got light to reflect onto it as well as how it looks so soft and neat it looked.

Where the Wild Things Are Issue 26 - Nov/Dec 2009 I wanted to personally wanted to look at this issue was because it relates to the movie/book that I am looking at now, I think this is a brilliant concept for the movie I personally love the childish simple drawing, reminding me of childish drawings, and I like the idea of the ‘wild things’ climbing from in Max’s mouth, I think this is brilliant due to the fact that Max has problems of acting out in such a wild way. it also relates to the original poster for the movie ‘there is one in all of us’, I like the use of the colours are quite depressing in itself, but in the realistic view of the movie where in the ‘real’ world the character maxi is struggling with the divorce of his family.

Attack the BlockIssue 34 - Mar/Apr 2011 This one stood out to me both because of the colour pallet and the style of the outline. The outline themselves reminds me primarily of the linocuts, I think it shows the mystery and the lack of empathy for there assailants and how the gang themselves blend together when the character is all one colour. I personally loved the background/the sky it has beautiful speckles of stars and meteorite shower. I don’t particularly understand the Artists use of smoke, id have to assume that it has a impact or relevance to the story itself but it beautify shapes that fit with the Lino style.

Call me by your name  - issue 71- Sep/Oct 2017 I particularly like this illustration for this coming-of-age romantic drama film, though I personally don’t like cinematic worlds use of age gaps between their gay romantic relationships. but this particularly artistic interpretation, the oil pastils drawing dose defiantly scream coming of age movie and it also dose make me think of the link that combines with the main character being half Italian, the background flows but also seems to be pulled away from the page, maybe because of the fact that there is less gaps in the foreground, I also like there use of lighting its done well to be presented coming from the right side of the page. But the type that they used to show the title docent fit for the rest of the image, naturally I believe that the artists probably wanted to remove from the original type from the movie poster.

The miseducation of Cameron post Issue 76 - Aug/Sep/Oct 2018 I believe that this depiction of their movie, the colour used for the face is a direct reference to the film poster the yellows, green  and pinks. the background gives away so much for the movie and the elements and its relationships with the story of being sent to a conversion camp, and the coping methods that one turns to. The expression on there face is a well done illustration of Chloë Grace Moretz, I honestly recognised her straight away without knowing that it was her in the movie; back to the expression itself shows so much betray, sadness and heartbreak all in one, its an expression that is shown through out the film a common apparition.

isle of dogs - Issue 74 - Mar/Apr 2018  I personally loved this movie, the entire stile used in the cover in the magazine is in the same style used throughout the movie itself, the movie used these 2D elements through out the stop animation. the posters show off so meany aspects of the movie the setting of the movie ‘the isle of dogs’ the science group trying to find a cure for the ‘dog flu’ it hints to the open scenes that were done in the original Japanese style. This is a common aspect in this imagery it has little elements of the story dotted around this.

[gumnut-logic]

The hatch creaked as the hydraulics let it down to the dry hard packed dirt. A small puff of dust billowed up around the hot cahelium and it caught in his nose, tickling in the heat.

The horizon was flat and the earth iron red as it disappeared into the ominous grey of the cloud blocking the sky.

Virgil’s boots made their own puffs of dust as he stepped off the hatch and emerged from under the shadow of Two. The puffs followed him as he walked the length of his ‘bird. The dirt gritted under his specialised soles as he avoided the heat of her cooling VTOL and the scorch of her now quiet thrusters.

His landing was precautionary. A warning light had come on during the flight home and dumping himself in the middle of the Outback for a mechanical check was preferable to taking a swan dive in the middle of the Tasman.

Outside appearances gave no clue to the issue and unfortunately, he would have to wait for her engines to cool off before attempting to access the thruster that was the problem.

A sigh and he turned back to look at the horizon.

He truly was in the middle of nowhere.

“Thunderbird Two, status report.”

Typical Scott. His brother was hip deep in a rescue on the other side of the planet, but his brother radar still managed the range.

“Status a-okay, Thunderbird One. Just taking a moment to gaze at the scenery.”

“John says you have a mechanical fault.”

“Quite possibly. Fine for the moment. Just need a little cooling time. I’ll keep you updated.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Two.”

And then it was back to the silence.

True silence.

There was no wind.

No water.

No birds.

Just the heat of a dying day leaching out of the sand, the creak of his cooling ‘bird, and the potential energy in the air.

It was going to rain.

The Kansas farm boy could tell that much. Even in another country and an entirely different environment, he could feel it.

He didn’t need fancy instrumentation to predict that.

The impending storm raised the hair on his arms under his uniform. It itched at his skin and spoke of change.

Ants crawled across his boots, winged queens and drones launching to join a cloud of them off to his right.

It was eerie.

He shifted where he stood, unsure of what to do next. He wasn’t one for killing time. Time was a valuable thing and needed to be used to its upmost. But this stop was unplanned and there was little he could do while waiting.

Sure, there were tasks. There were always tasks, nitty gritty maintenance jobs. He was never short of work.

But the air was still. The sense of building atmospheric release buzzed across his senses.

It was tantalising.

He shivered.

There were still a couple of hours before sunset, but the air was dark due to the heavy cloudbank looming over the landscape.

A thought.

A flash of guilt followed by stubborn determination.

He turned and climbed back on to the hatch and retracted it, only to lower it again a few moments later with a folded chair and a box in his hands.

He parked it in the sand.

The silence was a physical presence.

He opened the box to reveal a portable watercolour kit – a neat palette of half pans, a fine brush and a small block of high-quality paper.

It was an indulgence he kept aboard his ‘bird. One he had yet to use, so this was definitely an opportune moment. A tiny amount of time to throw down some colour and capture this red-on-blue-grey intensity.

It didn’t take him long to realise he had forgotten a couple of things. A muttering step back into his ‘bird and he returned with a small table and a cup full of water.

He finally managed to settle himself. Painting while wearing his uniform wasn’t the most comfortable. It was bulky and in the way. He did shed his gloves, which meant he had to take off his wrist controller. Scott would frown enough to dent his nose, but he couldn’t paint with his gloves on.

There was heavy lifting, but there was also sensitive and tactile manipulation. He liked to think he was capable of both.

A dip of his brush into clear water, a dab of cadmium red, and colour spilled onto the paper.

Payne’s grey filled the sky in soft billows with just a hint of ultramarine. He tried to keep his touch gentle. Watercolour was so unforgiving. Fast and delicate, the colours could easily be overdone and unlike acrylic or oils, could not be undone satisfactorily.

It took all his concentration to sketch out the worn landscape.

The parched air dried the colours quickly and it wasn’t long before he was flicking strands of yellow ochre spinifex in the foreground, the little painting almost done.

In the distance, the clouds rumbled warning.

He dabbed in a second layer to bring up the contrast, the greys echoing the thunder on the horizon. Just a touch of green brought out the red of the iron in the sand.

“I really don’t know how you do that.”

Virgil nearly fell out of his chair.

“Scott!” His heart thudded in his ears and he clutched the drying painting in his hands as it tried to slip from his fingers. “What the hell?! How did you…?” He shot to his feet and turned to find his brother standing behind him. Beyond, at a respectable distance, sat Thunderbird One.

Scott held up both hands, taking a step back. “Hey, I saw you were painting, so I parked back a ways. Figured you wouldn’t want VTOL messing with your paints.” But then his brother was smothering a grin. “You were kinda zoned out there, Virg.”

“You were in Prague! How did you get here so fast?” It was a stupid question. He was Scott Tracy. Fast was part of his genome.

But his brother frowned. “It’s been over an hour since I last contacted you. The situation is resolved. I was on my way back and thought I’d check in. John said he hadn’t had an update.”

Virgil stared at his brother. An hour? He brought his wrist up to check the time, but his controller was on the little table beside his chair with his discarded gloves.

Oh.

Scott arched an eyebrow at him.

Virgil grunted before putting the painting down carefully and retrieving his equipment. A moment later, his gloves were on and his wrist controller back in place.

It was indeed over an hour later.

Thunderbird Two would have cooled down enough forty-odd minutes ago.

“You were lost in your painting, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. His brother sighed, walked over to the table and picked up the piece of art. Blue eyes scrutinised it. “Nope. I don’t have a clue how you do that. It’s great, Virg.” He handed it over and somewhat numbly, Virgil took it.

He stared at the strokes in which he had been so absorbed earlier. The landscape stretched into the paper, reds bouncing off blues, the stillness captured in pigments.

Okay, so he had to admit, it was working quite well. He had muddied the colour a little in one corner and there was a patch where he’d left more white paper than was probably necessary because he was too worried about over doing the paint, but overall it mostly did what he wanted it to do. Oh, his wash hadn’t quite worked in that bit. Damn.

But…

He could get away with it.

“Earth to Virgil? You okay in there?”

Scott was smirking.

Virgil glared at him before cradling the watercolour block in one hand, picking up the palette with the other and packing it away. He stomped his way back to his ‘bird.

He ignored the laugh behind him.

He was stashing the paints in their locker when Scott joined him in Two, both the table and chair folded up in his hands. “Where do you stash these?”

Virgil gestured in the direction of the utility store and his brother put the equipment away.

Back in the cockpit, Virgil pulled up the suspect control and found the red light still glaring accusingly as Scott entered behind him.

“Give me ten. I need to inspect her starboard thruster.” He grabbed a safety line and threw back the overhead hatch. The gloomy atmosphere crept into the cockpit, but he ignored it and elevated the himself up so he could climb onto the top of his ‘bird.

“Virgil, you do know there is a storm coming in. You’re standing on the highest point for miles.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Keep your pants on.

But his brother was right. His dawdling with his paints had cost him time and the weather was moving in.

He hurried across the back of his Thunderbird sliding carefully onto her starboard intake, and making his way down to the access hatch. He hooked in his safety line, prodded his controller to release the security, and hauled the hatch open.

Five minutes later, with several profane words that had Scott even more concerned, he yanked an obstruction out of her secondary intake valve.

It was a bright yellow, now somewhat grimy, Thunderbird Four.

No more than four inches long.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Virg? What? Who?”

“Gordon.” He didn’t elaborate. The sky was well and truly rumbling now and he needed to get inside.

Tightening the valve, he gave it a good once over to check for damage. Another poke at his controller and the dash confirmed the issue resolved.

Access secured, he unhooked his line and made a run for the main hatch just as the landscape lit up white with lightning.

He leapt into his ‘bird as if he had that lightning on his tail.

His boots hit deck plates. Virgil reached up and threw the hatch closed and sealed away the angry sky.

Scott was staring at him.

Virgil met that gaze before walking past his brother towards his pilot seat. He casually chucked the little Thunderbird Four to his brother like the grenade it was.

Scott caught it. “What the hell?”

Gordon was dead twice over and he didn’t even know it.

“You better get back to your ‘bird. The sky’s going to open up any minute and we should probably be above it rather than below it.” Virgil poked at the weather read out. It was only a weather front, nothing compared to the cyclone forces the Thunderbirds were capable of tackling. “You might get wet.”

Scott was still glaring at the model in his hand. A distracted grunt.

Gordon was definitely dead.

Possibly more than twice.

“Okay, less imaginary brother murders and more getting back to your ‘bird.”

“Huh?”

Yeah, so now who was zoning out?

Virgil nudged his brother onto the hatch platform and stepped on himself, lowering it onto the red dust again.

He stepped off the deck plates just as the first fat rain drops started to hit the dust.

Damn. “Too late.” And as if he had given the sky permission, it really opened up.

Water hit dry earth in big splats, puffs of red rose only to be taken down by more rain. The stipple of water fast became patches and then the land deepened in colour. The bright iron red darkened almost to a burgundy. The spinifex he had so finely painted not half an hour earlier, shifted from a yellow ochre to a gold that almost glowed in the remnant light.

As Scott stepped up beside him, secure under the protection of Two’s nose, the landscape bleached suddenly and the sky grumbled and cracked. The air smelt of ozone and the sharp evaporation of precipitation in the heat. But there was more water than the air or the earth could take and it puddled in the indents between the rocks.

Some kind of thorny lizard darted out from a tuft of spinifex and hurried under the shelter of Two beside the brothers. At the lack of the rain on its back, it looked up as if surprised. Two reptilian eyes stared at them before darting back out into the rain.

Scott took another step forward and Virgil put a hand on his arm.

“You’re not going to try to run through that.”

“I’ve got to get back to One.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His brother trailed off.

Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “Take a minute. This is a desert storm. It will be short lived. We can wait.”

Blue eyes stared at him.

Okay, so waiting wasn’t part of Scott Tracy’s genome.

“Take a minute. Watch.” Virgil turned back to the storm and revelled in the release of the tension that had been building for the last couple of hours. He watched the rain hit the earth, the patterns, the dance of spinifex leaves. He listened to the roar, the wet splat against cahelium, the sigh as the water disappeared into the grass and the grumbles in the clouds.

Scott eventually turned to look and, for a short while there, they were just a couple of brothers staring out at the storm.

The fact they were sheltering underneath one of the most advanced technological creations on the planet was unimportant.

“This is all your fault, you know.” Scott’s voice was soft.

A grunt. “I think Gordon’s is the more likely culprit.”

“If you hadn’t stopped to paint, we’d be home by now.”

Virgil didn’t answer immediately. He took a breath. “But then we would have missed this.”

At that moment the sun finally hit the horizon and slipped through a gap in the clouds to light up the wet landscape in gold. Rain still fell, but it was as if it was liquid sunlight failing from the sky. Water glistened on everything and the clouds lit up from underneath.

Thunder rumbled in clouds turning pink in the east.

“Yeah, we would.” But the acknowledgement was distracted as Scott stared at the spectacle.

Perhaps they had something for which to thank Gordon. It was a moment that they would never have experienced if Virgil hadn’t had to stop.

He breathed in the freshened air and let it out with a relaxing sigh.

No.

Gordon was still dead.

-o-o-o-

[just-kit-ink]

All the rest of WFRR characters loll

*deep breath*

//Okay let's do this! I'm only doing characters that were created for the movie/those that had the most screentime.

Part 1/2

Lt. Santino

1: sexuality headcanon: We never really see/hear about a significant other in the film but I'm going to headcanon that he's bisexual but closeted.

2: otp: ? Maybe he has a lover we don't know about who also works at the police station.

3: brotp: Him and Eddie Valiant of course!

4: notp: Him with Jessica or Dolores

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he's been a friend of Eddie's since his brother was still alive and on the force. That he doesn't have as much of a prejudice towards toons as his detective buddy does.

6: favorite line from this character: "Marvin Acme...the rabbit CACKED him last night!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: He has to look away when Doom dips the shoe.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That he treats Eddie's drinking problem as an inconvinience instead of an addiction.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Complete cinnamon roll, just a very professional one.

Marvin Acme

1: sexuality headcanon: He likes the laaaaddiies

2: otp: Don't know? I always assumed he was already married and if not that at least has a string of messy affairs/seperations with both human and toon women.

3: brotp: I'll bet he was at least on speaking terms with RK Maroon before his death.

4: notp: Him and Jessica Rabbit of any sort, even fake for the cameras.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He's pulled the disappearing ink trick with wealthier and scarier people. Some found it amusing, others earned him a black eye.

6: favorite line from this character: "Oh it's a Panic!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: I love cartoons and I laugh a lot.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The fact that he keeps on pestering Eddie with his gags even after Eddie has made it clear that he's not in the mood. Also the Patty-Cake pictures, where he's making all those sounds but you can't see what's happening!

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: A little bit of both. On one hand, he loves what he does and clearly has a respect for Toons but he also did business with Maroon which eventually lead to his death at the hands of Judge Doom.

Dolores

1: sexuality headcanon: Heterosexual and in love/going steady with Eddie Valiant

2: otp: Dolores and Eddie

3: brotp: Also her and Eddie as well as her and Roger but I quite like the idea of her being good friends with Jessica.

4: notp: Her and any of her patrons.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That she and Eddie love Catalina so much because it was where they met. Eddie, Teddy and their father were doing a circus show there and needed a volunteer from the audience. He pulled a bouquet out of thin air and gave it to her and then pretended to saw her in half - it was so romantic!

6: favorite line from this character: Too many! She's such a sass mouth! "Dabbling in watercolours, Eddie?" "Is that a rabbit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" and "Is he always this funny or only on days when he's wanted for murder?"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: That she works hard and is tired all the time.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The scene where she sees Eddie and Jessica together and Eddie's trousers have fallen down while Jessie is talking to him and it looks...bad. Doesn't help tt he bumps his head on her chest as he goes to pull them up.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Cinnamon roll that you don't want to mess with!

Baby Herman

1: sexuality headcanon: He loves human women...and is possibly a little bit gay for some male toons. (But the idea of that is weird to me, because he's literally a baby it's like shipping Stewie Griffen with someone.)

2: otp: Him and his human girlfriend that you see in the movie. I think she's just credited as "Ms Herman."

3: brotp: Baby Herman and Roger Rabbit. Before Roger started being late to rehearsals and messing up his cues, they were best friends.

4: notp: Probably him and Jessica, although he is very envious of Roger.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He plays both male and female baby roles. That everything in his home is baby-themed, right down to the giant cot and mobile. If he needs anything, he calls his mistress via a baby monitor.

6: favorite line from this character: "The whole thing stinks like yesterday's diapers!" and "What da hell was wrong with that take?!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Looks pure but is actually a foul-mouth.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When he throws a tantrum because he dropped his cigar after Eddie pushed his pram down the hall...and when he darts underneath a woman's skirt...and the fact that he claims to have a "50 year old lust and a 3 year old dinky..." Wtf.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Both. He's a baby who chain smokes and can wrap anyone around his little finger by offering to pay them.

Benny the Cab

1: sexuality headcanon: Well he's a car, so I don't think gender's an issue. If you're wheels are shined and you got a nice set of headlights, he doesn't mind.

2: otp: I'd pair him with a nice flower-glass Corvette.

3: brotp: Benny and Roger. He is Roger's car after all.

4: notp: Him and any human character.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he also often appears in Roger Rabbit shorts, as the vehicle for a quick getaway during a chase, or comedic car wash scene.

6: favorite line from this character: "Sister, Mary Francis, what the hell happened in here?" and "I can't believe they locked me up for driving on the sidewalk!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Likes helping, makes sarcastic quips.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That he drives straight through the Dip and burns his tires and has to waddle over to Roger when he finds him which is like the equivalent of burning your feet with acid to him. Also, when he tells Roger to be careful using a real gun because "this ain't no cartoon ya know!" ...As he, a car, drives away in his own car.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Cinnamon roll unless you're a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Smartass Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: I'm going to go with pansexual. He only cares if you have status and are not human (though that doesn't mean he hasn't had a fling with one or two.)

2: otp: No love interest in the film. Although I'm kind of a sucker for a tough guy character falling for a really sweet and innocent character.

3: brotp: Him and the rest of the Toon Patrol. He does care for them and he only hits them for laughing because he knows they are suscepitable to dying from it. Also, I feel like he would have gotten along better with Eddie Valiant had he not fallen in with Judge Doom because they're both bitter and hate the industry.

4: notp: I would say him and Doom. Or any of his boys.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he was drawn to be wicked but not a villain. He has multiple other items aside from his suit that are bright pink because he likes to dress flashy...and that the only people exempt from potential target by his patrol are children.

6: favorite line from this character: Honestly, every line of his is terrific. "Step outta line and we'll leave you and your laundry out to dry!" "Say Boss, what do we do with the wallflower?" and "Want us to disresemble the place?"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Small but feisty.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That all his team members get cute little toon ghosts when they die but he just...dissolves in Dip.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fave definetly! But even though he's mean, sneaky and carries a lot of weapons, he's also funny, charming and I can't help but feel a bit sorry for him because he was just tryig to please his boss. Weasels certainly are assigned villain roles in cartoons and maybe he was just fed up with it so he decided to become a real one.

Greasy Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: Heterosexual, biromantic...and he's an utter sex-pest.

2: otp: He needs someone who can reign him and his desires in so he can actually focus on whatever he's doing.

3: brotp: Him and the rest of the Toon Patrol, especially Smartass. He admires his boss' attitude.

4: notp: Him and Jessica. Their encounter in the film is cringe-worthy to watch.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he has a gentler, romantic side deep down but doesn't want to show it because he has too much bravado.

6: favorite line from this character: "I'll handle this one..." followed closely by a LOT of uncensored Spanish curse words!

7: one way in which I relate to this character: We both get crushes easily.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When he reaches down Jessica's dress. He's so confident until her hidden bear-trap clamps onto his hand. He probably replayed the first three seconds beforehand over and over in his head though.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fav for sure! Perverted, knife-wielding henchman who reaches into someone's bosom in a canon Disney movie. Yet, he's still weirdly adorable. If he were human, I might say different.

Wheezy Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: I'm just going to say it...I headcanon him as gay and asexual.

2: otp: Don't really see him with anyone unless they're another smoker, (or are willing to put up with smoke.)

3: brotp: Definetly him and Stupid! Look at the way they drill through the wall together and laugh at our hero's predicaments towards the end if the film! They're great pals, having a good time!

4: notp: Him and Greasy.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He enjoys Camel cigarettes the best. And he's the best card player in the group.

6: favorite line from this character: It's so funny because he doesn't have many lines in the movie so I'm just going to say his dialogue from the Cartoon Spin ride at Disneyland "But Boss, Benny knows ToonTown, like the back of his tread!" and his laugh.

7: one way that I relate to this character: Chill most days until I see or hear something funny then I lose it.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The fact that he tries to grab onto his ghost to try and pull it back into his body before it leaves.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fav. Carries a tommy gun and is not afraid to use it, knows that smoking won't do him any harm since he's a toon and is good at following orders even if they're immoral.

Psycho Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: N/A Psycho is like the family dog. A feral one...that was rescued from the streets.

2: otp: None. Unless you like snuggling, just mind the teeth.

3: brotp: Psycho and Stupid as well as him and Wheezy. Wheezy is like a parent looking after him and Stupid is like his sibling.

4: notp: Basically him with any other character.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He doesn't really use his barber-shop razor for anything nefarious, but he likes how threatening he looks with it. Also, when you scratch behind his ear, his leg does the scritch thing where he kicks behind it.

6: favorite line from this character: "Time to kill the raaaabbbit...hee hee!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: We're both a bit mad. He's just toonier. And we laugh like maniacs.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When Eddie Valiant just straight up kicks him across across the bar when he tries to attack him.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: I'm going to say he's a problematic cinnamon roll. He has no problem doing wicked things but he's too small and cute to really be considered awful. At one point Eddie snatches Marvin Acme's will out of his hands and he looks like a kicked puppy. He bad but he baby.

Stupid Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: A hopeless romantic for anyone, but too dumb to realise when someone's flirting with him.

2: otp: I like the idea of him and an equally dim character so they can both be ignorant and happy together.

3: brotp: Stupid and Psycho. They're just the children of the patrol.

4: notp: Him with his boys or human characters.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He once got into a heated argument with another weasel who had broken into their hideout until Smartass informed him he was looking at a mirror.

6: favorite line from this character: Again, he gets hardly any lines. "Boss! Look at the little birdies!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: I have my moments where common sense just leaves me.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: Him falling backwards into a row of humans at the bar when he is pushed by Eddie. They just...goes right down, like bowling pins or dominos.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Despite being in the Toon Patrol he's a total cinnamon roll. I don't even think he knows what he's doing half the time and that's really sweet.

[vrytired20]

Embrace 🫂 - - Reference No reference was used. - - ❗️RANT ❗️ Our generation surges into relationships way too often. Sexual desire is becoming far more important than actual compatibility. Isn’t that absurd? Physical connection is important, but it doesn’t determine the value of a relationship. The problem is that we view love as something separate, something that we can't grasp without a romantic partner. But that's not true! Love exists in such small details, all around us. Your body’s purpose is to keep you alive, is that not love? The Earth allowing us to walk on it, what do you call that? The animals who accept us no matter how evil we might be, that's love! There should be more love in our day-to-day life! What's so bad with inviting someone out for a meal without expecting something beyond that? Let us go out for coffee and just exist at this moment, with no pressure for future interactions. Have we ever stopped to consider the beauty which exists in someone’s physical presence? Not sexually, but someone simply existing beside you. No conversation is needed, simply exist. Breathing. Moving. Observing. There’s so much pressure on finding “perfection” in our interactions with people. Why? The universe will never leave you alone. Remember the time you thought you had no one? Remember the time you felt extremely lonely? Count all the people that have come and gone! Understand that you will never be alone. Never. So, breathe! Just enjoy these simple interactions. The “hi, how are you” from your classmates. The familiar faces we meet every day, the silent greetings! Enjoy this experience, this connection. Love the world so much that it heals❤️ - - - - What I use: * IpadAir3 * Apple Pencil 1st Generation * Procreate App * Dry Ink Brush * Canva App for editing - - - - Tags 🏷 #graphicdesign #illust #イラスト #sketch #sketchbook #draw #doodle #instaart #pencil #illustrator #painting #sketching #artoftheday #creative #watercolour #instaartist #pen #graphic #artsy #ink #digitalart #drawings #arte #paint #paper #dibujo #sketches #pencildrawing #wip #myart (at Montreal, Quebec) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfUdayAJlfQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[visualskills2]

Exercise 5.2: Monoprints

I did something a bit different for the college that was required for this exercise because I wanted to experiment with new techniques so I used this as an opportunity for this.

I used two different monoprints one the gelatine and the other the acetate. Both techniques are based on an online course. While doing the experimentation other ideas came like using the acetate to draw on paper. That was also very successful.

Let's see some examples.

The image above is one of the raw monoprints done with watercolour ink and gelatine plate. This is a bit more random and difficult to control.

This is done with acetate. You paint on top and it drys, so you need to scan it. You do not pass the ink to the paper like you will normally do on a monoprint. The texture that creates is rich but the control that you have over it is minimal.

So I wanted to add more control over the work I was doing so I used the acetate as a carbon paper and this was the result

This drawing is fantastic because the texture is rich the only problem with it is what you need to do in order to add it to a final piece, so this is kind of a puzzle at this stage.

I used all the monoprints, I like them or not as a background so I scan them and clean them in photoshop. This is one of the examples:

After that was a bit of moving things around until I found a piece that I like. The last two pieces are a combination of the three techniques and I think that was successful.