#there's still a process behind the shading and textures

[ell-arts]

This is just something small. A little slideshow of my process on a piece like this. 

I wish I could make proper timelapse/speedpaint videos, but my Macbook gets an asthma attack every time I try running OBS. So, separate and consecutive pictures of the process will have to do for now. 

[guiltyasdave]

like snow on the beach

pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

summary: You're on a work trip with your boss, who you don't like and who you're convinced doesn't like you either. Unfortunately, there's only one bed.

tags/warnings: only one bed trope (ayyyy), fluff, idiots in love, alternating povs, reader has hair that drips down her neck after showering at one point but there are no texture or color descriptors, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, my nonexistent knowledge of colombian geography which i'm asking you to ignore for the sake of this silly story THANK YOU

a/n: my entry for the summer lovin' challenge brought to us by queens @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy <3 i got the moodboard you see in the header and the location by the water. i'm also posting a little early but i'm too excited and it's almost midnight here so i think it's gonna be fine hehe

biggest love to @sizzlingcloudmentality who held my hand through writing this and patiently listened to all my complaints lol. i love drinking more caffeine than pedro and writing with you while getting distracted by cats <3

dividers by @plum98!

find my full masterlist here and follow @guiltyasdavenotifs to get notified when i post a new fic :)

You’re hot, too hot. 

It’s disorienting, as you blink awake, slow to get your bearings. Arms are wrapped around you, caging you in, engulfing you in the warmth of the body pressed against your back. Hot air is fanning against your neck, accompanied by a scratching sensation on the sensitive skin. 

Your surroundings are unfamiliar, faded wallpaper in an unappealing shade of green and light filtering in through the battered up blinds. It comes back to you in pieces, the motel you’re staying at, the small Colombian town where you’re hoping to get a hold of one of the Cali cartel men. 

The obnoxious scent of Peña’s aftershave is flooding your nostrils, paired with the traces of tobacco that follow him everywhere he goes. It’s honestly embarrassing, how easily you recognize it.

It clicks into place now. The arms around you, the warmth. The scratch that you now realize is his mustache as he’s breathing against your neck.

You start wriggling around, causing the man behind you to stir, a confused groan coming out slightly muffled, his mouth still so close to your skin. He lets go of you after a second, allowing you to turn around and glare at him. 

His face is already forming his signature annoyed scowl, an expression that you’re more than well acquainted with.

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

He sounds different like this, voice still thick with sleep, a hint of the disorientation that you’ve shaken off by now. 

“What am I doing? I woke up with your arms around me, Peña.” 

He blinks, shifting to sit up and lean against the headboard. You mirror him, putting as much space between you as the rather small bed frame allows. 

“Sorry,” he allows after a beat, running a hand through his hair, tousling the mess of black strands that has formed in his sleep. “That wasn’t… appropriate. I apologize.” 

If you weren’t as annoyed right now, you’d probably think that he looks adorable like this. The you from a few months ago would most likely go wild at seeing Javier Peña right after waking up, after he held you in his arms no less. 

The you from a few months ago hadn’t experienced what an asshole of a boss he could be yet, hadn’t been taken off investigations again and again, because Peña thought you weren’t ready. She also hadn’t heard about his terrible reputation with women, hadn’t been subjected to all the office gossip that surrounded him yet. 

Now, after days of practically begging him to take you along on this trip because the whole investigation was based on information that you had gathered, you’re stuck in this motel room with him. Something about your booking of two single rooms accidentally having been processed as one double room, with no other rooms available because of course there weren’t. 

Peña had offered to sleep on the ground, or in the car, but you had waved him off, thinking about how often he had complained how his back was getting worse the older he got on the drive here. You hadn’t expected to wake up to him all but wrapped around you. 

Maybe a small, very small part of you is still going wild about it. A part that you can easily swallow down though. He’s objectively attractive, yes. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s an asshole.

“Just forget it,” you mumble, heat rising belatedly in your cheeks. Gathering your clothes for the day, you flee to the bathroom, eager to wash the whole decidedly weird situation off your body and out of your mind. You’re here because you have a job to do, not to get flustered around your boss. 

When you reemerge, wet strands of your hair dripping down your neck, he’s already dressed, clasping his hands in a way that almost seems nervous. If you weren’t pretty convinced that Javier Peña isn’t physically able to get nervous. 

“I– I’m really sorry,” he repeats, raising from the worn down arm chair he’s been sitting in. “I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position. I’m not– I’m not exactly used to sharing a bed.”

A scoff leaves you at that. Sure, Agent Peña, who’s notorious for sleeping with his informants and with at least half of the female staff of the American embassy, isn’t used to sharing his bed. 

“Don’t worry about it, Peña.” 

You turn away before he can reply, collecting your notes on the investigation that you hope will come in helpful eventually. You don’t catch the remorseful look in his eyes, or the way they linger on you as you open the door, the early morning light illuminating your figure.

It’s another day filled with nothing but waiting and growing frustration, just like the one before. The sun is beating down on the car that you’re occupying, the heat suffocating even with the windows rolled down and the cool bottle of water that you’re pressing against your neck.

Minutes tick by, turning into hours that go by too quickly and seem to last forever at the same time. Peña is surprisingly quiet, not goading you in the way you had expected him to. 

“Maybe the information was bad,” you mumble eventually, sinking deeper into the car seat. The leather is sticking uncomfortably to your skin and you can’t shake the growing feeling that you’ve insisted on coming out here for nothing.

He slowly turns his head in your direction, regarding you through the dark tint of his aviators. 

“I looked at it. We wouldn’t be here if it was bad.” 

You huff, your patience running short and shorter at the subtle indication of his superiority, his quiet arrogance, always so fucking sure of himself.

“You weren’t exactly thrilled about coming here, remember?”

He raises a brow, a hint of impatience on his own features.

“I wasn’t thrilled about you coming here.” 

You roll your eyes, openly scowling at him now. 

“It’s my intel.”

“Doesn’t make it less dangerous, does it?” 

Biting your lip, you force your blood to not boil over. He’s still your boss, at the end of the day, someone you probably shouldn’t start cussing out, no matter how openly he underestimates you and how badly it annoys you. And you’re gonna have to share that wretched bed with him again tonight. 

Javier watches your face, watches you swallow down your anger, watches your teeth digging into your plush bottom lip. He understands your frustration, understands that no part of this trip is turning out the way you expected it to. 

You’re still new to the workfield, not yet experienced with the hours upon hours of waiting, more often than not without a satisfying result to show for it. If he’s being honest with himself, he isn’t mad about it this time. He’ll rather have you frustrated than in danger. 

You want to prove yourself, you’ve made that abundantly clear. You work hard, determined to bring in results, hungry for praise. It’s not that he doesn’t see that, doesn’t think that you’re capable. But he’s seen enough, enough injuries, enough psychological trauma, enough deaths, to know that he wants you far away from that side of your work. 

Even if that means you’re angry at him more often than not, a glint of bitterness in your eyes every time he refuses to send you out yet again. 

After another few hours, accompanied by the increasing rumbling in both your stomachs, he finally calls it quits for the day. 

“We can drive back to Bogotá tomorrow,” he quietly offers on the way back to the motel, after picking up food for the both of you and refusing to let you pay for your share. “Gather more information, see why we didn’t find anything.”

You huff in return, irritated about the whole situation. The one chance you had to convince him to take you seriously, and this is what you get. “Fine,” you agree, gritting your teeth. Maybe your intel was bad. Maybe you just aren’t that good at your job.

“Keep to your side of the bed tonight,” you grumble later, after the bored woman at the reception told you that there still aren't any other rooms available. 

“Of course,” he sighs, sliding under the covers with the biggest possible distance from you.

You nod, closing your eyes and willing for sleep to take you, but it’s a losing game. You toss and turn, feeling both too hot and too cold at the same time, unable to find a comfortable position and to get the voices in your head to shut up. 

When you roll over yet again, his voice rings through the dark, somewhat agitatedly asking what’s wrong. 

“Nothing,” comes your frustrated reply, pressing your face deeper into the cushion, your eyes squeezed shut. After a few more breaths and zero sign of your brain slowing down, you turn towards him, only able to make out his silhouette in the dark. Your judgment is probably hazy with how tired you are, but the words are out of your mouth before you can think them over.

“Can I ask you a question, Agent Peña?” 

“Javier is fine.” 

Your heart gives a tiny flutter, despite your conflicted feelings about him, despite the question that you’re about to ask. 

“Why do you not like me?” 

It’s inappropriate, especially right now, lying in the dark and sharing a fucking bed with him. But you think that if you don’t ask now, you probably never will, and you need to know. 

“Why would you think that I don’t like you?” 

You huff, squinting at him. “It’s pretty obvious. You don’t trust my work, you never send me to go out, dismiss my intel most of the time–” 

It’s silent for a long time, safe for his quiet breaths. 

“That’s not–” He sighs deeply, turning his head towards you as well. “That’s not true. You’re making it about yourself when you shouldn’t. I treat you exactly like your colleagues, you’re the one taking it personal.” 

It’s curt, dismissive. Laced with carefully feigned indifference, bordering on coldness. Too carefully. You didn’t think he’d lie to you if you asked him this directly, but here you are. 

Blinking back angry tears, you roll onto your back again, unseeingly staring at the ceiling. You don’t understand why it hits you like this. You’ve had shitty bosses before, far worse than Peña. You’ve just never wanted them to like you the way you want him to. 

“Good night, Agent Peña.” You turn onto your other side, your back towards him. 

“Good night,” comes his solemn reply. 

You don’t wake up with his arms around you again, thankfully, but he hasn’t exactly kept to his side of the bed either. One hand is curled over your shoulder, like he had to reach out and hold onto you in his sleep. 

You’re the one taking it personal. 

Clearly he hasn’t been reaching for you specifically. It’s probably just second nature for him, something that usually goes well with the women sharing his bed. 

You’re able to shake his hold off without waking him up, something that you’re grateful for. 

When he wakes and repeats how he thinks you should abandon the investigation, you don’t argue. It’s a quiet affair, packing up and getting ready to leave. 

Sitting in the driver’s seat, he turns to you, his brow furrowed into that moody expression you’ve gotten used to. “I’ve been thinking,” he begins, eyeing you warily. “We’re not far from the ocean right now. Have you been to the beach since you came to Colombia?” 

You raise an eyebrow in mild suspicion, curious where he’s going with this. 

“I haven’t been out of Bogotá since I landed there. But–” 

His eyes grow softer, his hand twitching like he almost reached out towards you. 

“No buts. At least then it won’t have been a total waste of time to come here, right?” 

The dig towards you, towards the reason you drove all the way out here for nothing isn’t lost on you. You don’t have it in you to argue against it, so you just nod, staring straight ahead. 

Javier realizes how badly you misunderstood his words as soon as they’re out of his mouth and he sees your face. He doesn’t know how he consistently manages to fuck up his interactions with you like this. It’s not him, the blundering, the words constantly coming out all wrong, but you make him nervous in a way that he hasn’t experienced in years. 

He starts driving, hopeful to somehow still be able to turn this trip around. There’s a whole day on the road ahead of them, and he’d much rather spend those hours without feeling like he’s made you hate him. 

You do soften at the sight of the ocean, the sound of waves rolling against the shore having a soothing effect almost instantly. It’s beautiful, the water a brilliant blue, the sun glittering on the surface. You can’t be mad right now, not even at Javier, who’s keeping his distance, letting you wander along the shore by yourself. 

You focus on taking in the scenery, hoping to somehow take it with you to when you’re back in your bleak, government issued apartment, staring at the vastness of gray buildings that is of Bogotá. 

When you turn back to him, his eyes are already on you, less tense, more open than you’re used to. You don’t know how long they’ve been lingering on you, how little attention he had been paying to the nature surrounding you. How good it had felt, to see you like this, without the usual distaste in your face that you have come to regard him with most of the time. The silhouette of you against the bright sky, your skin glowing under the beaming sun. 

“Thank you,” you say, actually smiling at him. A spark of warmth grows in his chest. “This was a good idea, I– I enjoyed it.” 

“I’m glad.” He eagerly returns the smile, allows himself to reach out and graze one finger against the soft skin of your hand. Finding himself unable to stop touching you, now that he’s had a taste of it.

Confusion crosses your face before you quickly avert your eyes, but you don’t pull away. It gives him a sliver of hope, that maybe you’re starting to understand what he doesn’t know how to tell you. 

After a mostly quiet drive back, both of you too exhausted to talk much, Javier drops you off at your apartment, his hand once again hovering over yours before you get out. 

“Good night,” he breathes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. After a moment of hesitation, he continues on. “You– you’re doing good work. Don’t beat yourself up over this, okay?” 

You manage a nod, murmuring thank you, Javier before opening the car door and stepping out onto your street, illuminated by the glow of yellow lights. You only realize that you used his first name by the time that your apartment door falls shut behind you. It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would. 

Breathing in the familiar scent of your own place, a deep relief washes over you, reveling in the knowledge that you’re gonna sleep in your own bed tonight, alone. You turn on your shower, eager to let the warm water soothe your muscles, stiff from spending the entire day in a car. 

When you exit the bathroom, wrapped into a towel and with a cloud of steam accompanying you, your answering machine is blinking. You press the button to let the message play, moving through your apartment to put on your comfiest sleepwear and ready to fall straight into bed. 

You stop in your tracks when Javier’s voice rings through the room, tripping over the words in a way that’s difficult to associate with the calm, self-assured man that you know. 

“Hey, it’s Javier. You– you’re probably showering, or already asleep. I just– I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings these past days, or– or any day, really. I wanted you to know that. You’re good at what you do, you really are, but– I worry about you, I guess. And I know that I shouldn’t, that I shouldn’t treat you differently. It’s– it’s not because I don’t like you. I like you too much, if anything, and– and now I know what it’s like to sleep next to you, and– anyway, I’m– shit, I’m making a fool of myself. Just– just call me back. Please.”

Your hand finds your phone as soon as the recording ends.

thank you for reading! as always, reblogs, comments and asks are love and absolutely make my day <3

[hotvintagepoll]

as a person who works in costuming and likes old movies, could you talk a little bit about like how costuming works/differs in black and white movies and I guess anything you know about the adjustment to color? I always wonder a lot about the true colors of costumes in old black and white movies and mean to research like what goes into like patterns and color selection for black and white but haven’t, so I’d love to hear anything you know about that :)

I actually don’t know anything about this, but it’s fascinated me for a long time! Looking at older films it’s clear that they were designed intentionally use bold patterns, textures, contrasting sheens, or shimmers in ways that direct the eye without color. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t some advanced color theory going on behind the scenes to still achieve the right balance of black, whites, and greys—this post does a good job sourcing some of Edith Head’s thoughts on the subject, and it sounds like there was a lot of collaboration with the DPs, as well as a lot of just departmental experience on how colors screen, to achieve the right contrasts and glow. Interestingly, the art of knowing what works and what doesn’t in black and white seems to have been lost to time—for The Artist costume designer Mark Bridges resorted to picking what grays he wanted and then doing camera tests to try to reverse engineer what shades would get him there [x], and it sounds like Trish Summerville went through a similar trial and error process on Mank [x]. But you’d think someone would have written down by now a simple guide to translate corals and limes into deep grays and moody blacks!

[genericpuff]

Hey so I have a question-

Is Rachel even contributing to LO's art anymore? Like, at all?

CAUTION: MILD FASTPASS SPOILERS AHEAD !!!

I've talked at length about the 'tells' of each assistant and artist, and while it doesn't guarantee that I can tell exactly who drew each panel, there's one thing there's been a lot less of in the most recent episodes that have caught my attention - things that I know Rachel would typically contribute.

And most of it comes down to her lineart.

The shading was always her, no doubt about that, you could tell with how consistently awful it is, how she would take actual decent flats from her assistants and proceed to butcher them with muddied shading.

AmyKim89's flats vs. after Rachel's gotten her hands on them:

(seriously Rachel why tf did you darken Persephone's legs here, it looked so much better before ??)

But there was also her lineart which, at first, I didn't realize who was drawing it. It didn't show up super often in LO but it was always very noticeable when it did so I knew it had to be someone on the team doing it:

The thickness of the lines and the extra little strokes added in along the knuckles and bends, that wasn't something that was really common in LO at this point... at least it hasn't been since S1:

And when comparing it to the lineart she used to do in The Doctor Pepper/Foxglove Show:

(look at the mouth in The Doctor Foxglove Show vs. Hera in the pilot version of LO, they're literally the same)

So yeah, it was certainly the revelation to discover that that one instance of "weirdly detailed lineart" wasn't one of her assistants having a little extra fun, it was Rachel herself. It was already so uncommon for her to contribute all the way back in S2 that her contributions seemed to be more of the exception rather than the norm.

And since seeing the art that's been in the newest FP episodes following the return of the series... is Rachel even drawing at all anymore? Because lately the lineart has felt very thin, in a way that I can't tell if it's her assistants just doing all the lineart now or if she's trying to emulate S1 LO more by using less lineart. But S1 didn't have thin lineart, it had very thick lineart, BUT only being used where necessary to emphasis shadows and depth.

Now the lineart feels very... dinky? Especially when you look at the eyelashes.

That said, there are moments from S1 that had similarly 'dinky' lineart, so take this with grains of salt. It still didn't feel as dinky though as it does today where the lines are practically non-existent in how thin they are.

There are also times when you can tell they're really trying to emulate that S1 look, the pieces are there but they aren't being put together very well:

So yeah at this point I wouldn't even be shocked if all Rachel's doing at this point is scripting and roughs. And considering there are definitely times where she'll just draw without knowing what to write, the 'scripting' is also practically non-existent. It's just her leaving her roughs off to the last second for her assistants to whip out with very little time to pay attention to what's being submitted.

Once again it's Rachel fundamentally missing the point of the criticism that's being made of her work. She's trying to forcefully emulate something that she didn't even have a process behind. I can attest as someone who's been trying to do studies of her past work to recreate it as faithfully as possible through Rekindled, it's very difficult to achieve the 'old LO' look because 'old LO' was literally just Rachel slapping down brush strokes until they looked good, there was no specific process or guidelines that she followed, she just made things look textured and colorful. Everything else was basically up to her figuring out what actually looked good, with panels often having their own vibes separate from others in isolation of one another.

Now she's trying to replicate that look while missing the point entirely that it's not something she can really replicate anymore. Though we do get the odd panel that's way closer to the point, those panels have one thing that she's clearly not putting into the comic as a whole anymore - love and effort.

(fr this panel is so gorgeous but I feel like at this point it was more sheer luck because of how rare it is to see panels like these nowadays, this feels like an accident LOL)

Case in point, this honorable mention towards Persephone's outfit which is literally just a color-swapped version of the sketch that Rachel posted to Blue Sky that got meme'd to death in the ULO sub:

Did you catch that though? The weird dark patch over her boob and the gap in the lineart of her cleavage?

That's because they copy pasted the first panel and then erased out the hands, but missed the part of the hand shading that was overlapping the breast and the gap in the lineart.

I shit you not, Rachel coming up with memes on Blue Sky that she's scraped out of shows she watched 20 years ago is basically the full extent of her writing at this point.

Haha take a thing and make it bigger! So funnyyyy!

(seriously Rachel's 'humor' feels like it's stuck in 2010)

Yep, you're really earning that #1 NYT Bestseller label that you haven't even gotten since Volume 3, Rachel. Put your hand down, there are no high fives for you here.

[comatosebunny09]

say “i love you” | leon k.

genre(s): fluff, romance warning(s): steaminess, language, stuck in a tight space trope, short af, stream of consciousness, lowercase notes: because i listened to claire de lune on repeat and was in the sappiest mood. thank you so much for reading!

somewhere between the grime and rain and a metallic taste sinking between your teeth, you murmur his name.

his hair shines through the darkness when he directs his attention to you. voice rivaled by the gentle patter of the rain beyond the cave’s entrance—you’d both slinked into it for a rest, unaware of how it tapered off the further you ventured in.

“yeah?” he whispers above the crown of your head.

such a gentleman, his hands pressed on either side of your body against the cool surface of the cave’s wall to keep from crushing you. though the power of his hips and torso still permeates through the thickness of your uniform.

you swallow your resolve. shift your weight between your feet as best you can, given the proximity of your bodies.

maybe it’s the heat wafting off his skin, furling in your mind like smoke. maybe it’s the fatigue of outrunning ornery villagers settling into your bones. or maybe you’re just delirious or bold or just so fucking sick of running away from your feelings, and you just have to open your silly little mouth and—

“tell me you’re in love with me.”

it’s out before you can really think. before you can process the waver of your voice, and—

“what?” coupled with a snort and half-incredulous eyes downcast on you.

the air between you shifts. thick with awkwardness, and you would smack your forehead if you had enough space to. instead, you blanch. sputter. avert your gaze, the heat of embarrassment taking residence beneath your skin.

“never…never mind.”

like a balloon, you deflate, wishing to recede into yourself.

what in the fuck possessed you to say something so stupid?

you shift. make a motion to dislodge yourself from the passageway. mortified.

yet, to your surprise, gentle fingers slip beneath your chin, coaxing you to look up. and through the inkiness, you see them. shades of lazuli panning in before tender lips descend on yours, siphoning the air from your lungs.

once the initial shock peters, you melt against the weight of him. when he molds himself against you, anchoring you between the rigid press of his body and the glacial texture of the wall behind. and he kisses you as if he’ll never see you again. tentative at first to test the waters, but when you whimper so wantonly into his mouth, his lips slant possessively over yours, and he holds your jaws in place as he encourages your mouth to open wider.

you shackle his wrists between shaky hands. feel heat spume through you like liquid fire, and the sounds of your labored breaths and groans intermingle, reverberating off the walls like the sweetest symphony.

and well, maybe he doesn’t have to tell you he’s in love. because why would he tell you when he could simply show you instead, with his hands slothfully easing southward to cup the swell of your hips. and he smiles into the kiss, spilling the beginnings of a satisfied chuckle into your mouth, laying your insecurities to rest.

[shannonmanorart]

TWST Process!

So I got a comment this morning asking if my Ignihyde piece was a Memoji---a thing I immediately had to google to even know what that means lol I'm not mad, no shade to OP but it really threw me for loop to be asked if my art is a customizable avatar.

I know this blog is mostly my fun little sketches or side projects but I am a professional artist! Even if this is a silly little side project to keep my brain from falling it the abyss, it's still my art I drew with my own hands and it's important to me for people to know that!

Process breakdowns below the cut! it's not very detailed but figured i'd be fun to show a peak behind the curtain!

First things first! I do all of these in Proceate on my iPad! These are very casual and just for me to have fun--I'm very burnt out after my associate art direction job on Hit Monkey so I'm just trying to give myself a tiny piece of joy so I can get myself back to drawing my web comic and merch for cons/my store.

I draw each dorm in their own file just to keep things from getting too cluttered. The group shots I do separately in another file. So I'll finish them, flatten them and paste them into another file to size them up together/add backgrounds/effects. I included screenshots to show the breakdown of the original drawings along with the group shot. Nothing too fancy. Also forgive all the unnamed layers x_x I am usually incredibly organized but typing on my iPad annoys me so I tend to not name Procreate layers. You can see where I thought about it by naming ONE layer.

Here is the timelapse for The Ignihyde boys! You'll notice I keep Ace+Deuce in the file--I use them as a base reference for the stylization. I stylize everyone a bit differently but I try to maintain some consistency. I also reuse some bits of their palette as a piece of that consistency. You can also see me go 'oh yeah Ortho's hip thing goes all the way around so we should see it behind him........oh no. nvm that looks bad.' lol

What was most important for me to sell with these two was the difference of their personalities. I was aiming for that 'Someone will die' 'of fun!!' vibe haha So I wanted Idia very compact and to himself while Ortho is energetic and friendly. I also wanted to bring some design elements of Hades face to Idia's face. His bangs cover it up but I gave him a long nose that starts right from his brow the way they stylize them in the movie. I also gave them more color to their skintone but kept Idia more ashen/desaturated--I liked the idea of him looking kinda grey to match Hades instead of just pale.

Here's the non-default brushes I use--Jingsketch brushes are available here and the free comic brushes I got from Di Brushes. I'm usually a default brush kinda person but Procreate's default textured stuff wasn't really doing it for me anymore. I really like using stuff that looks more like pencil or pastel. I've also been addicted to adding noise a lot to my pieces. I know that's not the most original thing in the world but idk, it looks cool. My group shots always get a layer of noise.

But yeah, that's it! These are purposely kept pretty simple so I can knock each one out in about two hours or so. More detailed dorm outfits obviously take longer--I hand drew all the patterns on the Pomefiore kids like a mad man. Every time I erased the edges, I went 'I should probably copy and paste this' and then never did. I love making things harder for myself lmao

See y'all in Diasomnia! (I also have plans to draw my MC and Grim so Diasomnia won't be goodbye~)

[neko-naruto]

"I think he would like the pink."

So I was thinking about the cherry biome release date and I just, I wanted to draw something because of that, don't know why. I know I'm what, twenty seven days late, but it's still a contribution to the memory of him, so, I'd say it counts even though it's not perfect. I usually don't draw a lot, but I do like to do mixed media, so please excuse how shoddy Techno looks because I never really draw humanoids, mainly backdrops and scenery if ever.

Anyways, stuff I used to make it: pencil, marker, oil pastel, water color (dry on dry), and colored pencils! Most prominent being the water colors and least prominent being the pencil crayons

Tagging @h3xt0r @sobredunia @samathekittycat @plutoprophecy @lucifers-golden-bitch-apparently and @disasterofahuman because fuck it I worked hard on that art and I want everyone in the mutual tree house to see it

Also I splurged and wrote a ficlet to go with it, I assure you the quality of the fic is better than the art-

Techno gave a sigh as his hand ghosts through the stem of a pink flower, they were so small, so fragile and delicate. And he supposed that now he also was, stuck in this pseudo ghost form. His sense of touch and mortality comes and goes, but he can't be snuffed from this existence, so long as he's remembered. Even when his mortality is strong and he can touch and feel and live, a drop won't kill him nor will an arrow jutting through his skull.

He didn't know this biome existed, he didn't know there was a place so pink. He's shocked that the animals don't turn pink with how much they graze on petals. Cherry trees and Sakura petals litter the air as he drifts through the fields, it's like looking in a distorted mirror. So many hues of pink and magenta, like his skin, his hair, and his eyes, he loves it. He's aware his cape is phasing through the grass as it drags on the ground, velvet red fabric trailing behind him, the animals are curious. The rabbits stare at him from burrows betwixt roots, the bees flutter around his form curiously, and the pigs, they simply saunter past him.

He smiles a bit as he takes a seat on the ground below him, the sensation of the grass jutting into his form still makes him cringe. He knows it's only pressing into the memory of his form, the outline of what people saw him as- he barely grasps his own memories. He still doesn't like the way it feels having grass, twigs and leaves pass through his skin. He waits patiently for the creatures to crowd him, bees land on the petals around him, he raises a hand to brush across the striped fuzz. The bug doesn't shy away, it's like he doesn't even exist, Technos smile falters for a moment.

He gives another sigh as he stands up and leaves his space in the depths of the grove. The grass starts to give under his boots, his physicality returning even if only for a brief moment. His pace picks up just a bit, he can feel the holster of his sword hit his leg as it jostles, he usually can't. He's alive again, but he might as well be dead at the same time, just with a body and a mind left over in the process. He can feel his legs move as he walks, he can feel his breathing enter and exit. His chest rises and falls, the fabric against his skin is there and real once more. He has hands to grab stuff again, hands that'll actually work when he tries to grab stuff at that.

He's quick to trail them across the bark of the tree trunks and the petals of the cherry trees, the textures are there, he's not just phasing through them. The bark is a dark shade, nearly black and where it peels back he can see that the flesh of the tree is faintly pink. He let's his nails dig into it and the fresh wood gives under his touch ever so slightly, it's damp and soft, not suitable for building with. But he wouldn't mind a pink house, or one with pink highlights at least, it wouldn't be that bad.

Then he's climbing up a hill, one a bit steeper than he had accounted for. But the dirt under his nails and catching on his cape and his feet pressing into soft ground as he climbs make up for it. It feels like life again, what he remembers, the slight burn across his tendons, it's adrenaline. He misses adrenaline, the rush of blood as he comes further up the edge of the mountain, it's so familiar yet so distant and all he can do is hope his physicality doesn't falter.

When he makes it to the top he's heaving his breath, hands on his knees as he leans forward, trying to regain some oxygen in his body. His face is burning and his pulse is racing, he hasn't had a strain on his body (even though it's light compared too fights he's fought) in so very, very long. It feels good, even as he hobbles over to sit down next to a tree, he crosses his legs, one over the other. He's grinning, he doesn't know why though, it just feels good to be real again, he's sure that it'll fade soon enough.

But he loves it so much, to be real in a place with so much pink.

"You good man?" Sapnap asked gently as he sat down next to Dream, the latter gave a nod.

"Fine," Dream answered with quietly, staring at the grove of trees in front of them, down at the base of the sloping mountain they built into.

Sapnap placed a hand on Dreams back, "You sure about that? You've been awfully quiet since we got here."

Dream gave a sigh, "I'm sure."

Sapnap nods, "Alright."

He follows Dreams gaze into the orchard of cherry trees and Sakura blossoms. His hands drop to tug at the hem of his shirt, unsure of what to say as an uneasy silence falls over them. He catches a glimpse of Georges familiar outfit, bright blues that stand out against the green of the grass. He's practically running up the hill, bundle of flowers in hand, bright pink petals and twigs. He has to stop and heave his breath when he makes it back up, falling back and sitting on the opposite side of Dream.

He props himself up on his elbows, "Found some flowers," he hands them to Sapnap who gives a brief thanks.

"Hey George," Dream begins, George gives a hum of acknowledgement, "Do you think he'd like this place?"

It takes George a moment to fully register the words, but he nods, "Definitely," He fully sits up and leans against Dream a little bit, "It's really nice down there."

Dream doesn't respond right away, focusing more on mechanizing his breath than reminiscing. It's something better to focus on than memories of days past, "It looks nice."

"Yeah, wonder if there's any cherries down there," Sapnap said gently, he let go of the hem of his shirt, returning his hand to Dreams back and nudging a little bit.

No response from Dream, Georges smile falters, Sapnap feels a little bit worried.

"Are you feeling alright?" George asked gently, he nudged Dreams shoulder a little bit.

Dream nods, "I'm fine, I just," He pauses to take a breath, "I think he would like the pink."

George and Sapnap share glances of mild concern.

"He probably would," George said softly.

"He'd probably want us to go check it out instead of sulking too," Sapnap added on almost nervously, he got a glare from George.

Dream gave a weak chuckle, "You're right," he heaved a sigh as he stood up, "Let's go check it out."

[sweetdreamsjeff]

The Rebel: Patti Smith

--I bring Tim Buckley's unreleased demo of the old folk tune ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ for Patti, and she talks about how the singer/songwriter was a favourite of Robert Mapplethorpe’s back in the early Brooklyn days, and chuckles when she recalls how she and her first partner in artistic crime would neck like high school kids to the Goodbye And Hello album. She was delighted when Jeff Buckley stopped by the recording sessions and added a high, ghostly vocal part to ‘Beneath The Southern Cross’, and even more delighted when he raced home and returned to the studio with an essrage, an Egyptian instrument he used to texture the track ‘Fireflies’.--

---

Ben Edmonds, MOJO, August 1996

To R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe, she is "one of the premier artists of my lifetime – I’ve blindly stolen from her for years." To Bob Dylan, she is "still the best, you know." She is one of rock ‘n’ roll’s true originals, and on her return to the fray after eight years of joy and tragedy lived out of the public eye, Patti Smith grants Ben Edmonds the most revealing interview of her career.

PATTI SMITH IS IN FULL SWAGGER, WORKING THE ROXY Theatre stage in LA with relaxed authority. She takes the stage alone, wearing a shapeless warm-up jacket with hood tightly framing her face, to deliver a fiery reading of ‘Piss Factory’. With each succeeding song she adds band members until her musical complement is complete. Left-hand man Lenny Kaye and drummer Jay Dee Daugherty are Patti Smith Group confederates, while bassist Tony Shanahan has played with Kaye and John Cale (and backed Patti on some solo dates last autumn). This core trio is augmented by Patti’s 23-year-old poetry protege Oliver Ray on rhythm guitar and — seated stage left behind impenetrable shades and cradling his guitar like some old CBGB's bluesman — Tom Verlaine.

Smith has a couple of wild cards up her sleeve as well. She introduces Bob Neuwirth as "the person who encouraged me to sing and gave me my first start," after the legendary personage – Bob Dylan road companion, Jim Morrison babysitter, painter, filmmaker, composer of ‘Mercedes Benz’ for Janis Joplin – has sung a typically wonderful song called ‘I Don't Think Of Her’. "Bobby has a new CD out [Look Up on Watermelon Records] on which I appear," Patti announces. "It's available almost nowhere."

Her son Jackson, 13, appears plugged in and joins the troupe for a romp through – are you ready? – ‘Smoke On The Water’. Jack and guitar stand nose to nose with the amp, noodling noisily as Lenny Kaye sings Deep Purple's stirring lament for the tragic death by fire of recording equipment. Mom makes the most of her vocal cameo, belting out "Fire in the sky-eee" in the most godawful screech you've ever heard. It's a small glimpse of what the future might have held had Patti chosen to become the singer of Blue Oyster Cult (for whom she wrote songs) instead of setting off on her crusade to save the soul of rock'n'roll with The Patti Smith Group.

The band has a homemade, slightly ragtag quality that reminds this audience member of nothing so much as the earliest Patti Smith Group when it consisted of Patti, Lenny and Richard Sohl. That trio "toured" California in 1974 to "promote" ‘Piss Factory’, and you felt like you were watching something invent itself right before your eves. This mini "tour" follows almost exactly the same path, and once again you feel like you're watching something in the exhilarating process of becoming.

They attack a fair number of familiar songs – ‘Ghost Dance’, ‘Rock'N'Roll Nigger’, ‘Dancing Barefoot’ (although, curiously, nothing from Dream Of Life) – with gusto. The 10 shows opening for Bob Dylan last winter seem to have jump-started this aggregation's chemistry, and they're now also capable of moments of transcendence that rival anything Patti's bands have attained in the past. ‘About A Boy’, her meditation on the loss of Kurt Cobain, has grown from humble acoustic beginnings into an oceanic noisefield than tonight is staggering. And their ‘Wicked Messenger’ ranks with the great rock rearrangements of Dylan songs. It's a treat that such a thing remains possible in 1996.

The small acoustic shows and guest spots she's done sporadically over the past year have been tentative in tone and occasionally awkward. She is not – nor does she have the slightest inclination to be – the punk tornado who ripped through this room 20 years ago, when the Roxy was LA's premier showcase club, hosting legendary engagements by Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and Bob Marley, and live recordings by Frank Zappa, Talking Heads, Warren Zevon and others. But she has certainly regained every bit of the belief that the space is hers to command.

The sold-out house is evenly divided between the older soldiers who served in the rock revolution Patti Smith heralded in the early '70s and those who wish they could have been there, having heard their own heroes like Michael Stipe say that were it not for Patti Smith he wouldn't exist. The R.E.M. singer has been all over MTV News this week, quoted as saying that Patti's show at the Wiltern Theatre a few days earlier had been not simply the greatest concert he'd ever seen, but one of the greatest emotional experiences of his life. *

THE PATTI SMITH RESUME: ARRIVED IN NEW YORK FROM New Jersey in 1967 and wrote herself a new identity in concert with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe; wrote plays like Cowboy Mouth with Pulitzer Prize winner Sam Shepard one line at a time, pushing a battered typewriter back and forth across a Chelsea Hotel tabletop in a game of attitude chess; published small press volumes of hallucinogenic verse inhabited by James Joyce, Johnny Ace, Jesus Christ, Harry Houdini, Joan of Arc, James Brown, Georgia O'Keefe, the Paragons and the Jesters, Picasso and Rimbaud and Bob Dylan's dog; wrote poems, profiles and record review reveries for Creem and Rolling Stone; put her big ideas into embryonic practice at her Rock'N'Rimbaud readings accompanied by guitarist Lenny Kaye at St Mark's Church, New York's new poetry nirvana; released ‘Piss Factory’ b/w ‘Hey Joe’ in 1974 on their own Mer Records, now regarded as one of the first shots fired in the punk/indie revolt (though at the time it was a shot barely heard in the next block); released in 1975 a debut album Horses, a parable in spoken word and song for the declaration of self that adolescents itchy to slip their skins will probably respond to for generations to come; sounded a clarion call with her amped-to-the-teeth Patti Smith Group that has been answered only in part by punk rockers, alterna-nerds and riot grrrls; fell from a Tampa, Florida stage in 1977 to a concrete floor 14 feet below, breaking her neck; came out of traction and back into action with ‘Because The Night’, a hit single co-written with Bruce Springsteen, yet always gave equal time to noisy improvisational epics like ‘Radio Ethiopia’ that were unplayable on any radio format (and guaranteed to scare the living piss out of anyone attracted by her Brucie ballad); announced her retirement from public life in the shadow of her biggest-selling album (Wave); and immediately following her biggest concert ever (85,000 in an Italian football stadium on September 10, 1979) quietly married former MC5 guitarist Fred 'Sonic' Smith in 1980, and moved to an unassuming Detroit suburb to raise a family. In the next decade she raised her head above the parapet only once, with her 1988 album Dream Of Life.

Since 1990, Patti has suffered the loss of four of her closest comrades. Her best friend Robert Mapplethorpe was claimed by AIDS. Her piano player (and, after Lenny Kaye, longest-serving musical ally) Richard Sohl succumbed to heart failure. Then in late '94 her husband, soulmate, and hero of so many of her best songs (‘Because The Night’, ‘Frederick’, ‘Dream Of Life’), Fred 'Sonic' Smith, suddenly passed away, a shock compounded by the death of her brother and crew manager Todd Smith only a month later.

The release of a new album, Gone Again, and a limited return to live performance is part of a plan she and Fred had mapped out before his untimely passing. Yet there's no denying that these activities have now become, at least in part, a memorial to all her fallen comrades. This mission was launched in earnest last December when, at the personal invitation of Bob Dylan, she opened 10 of his shows on the East Coast, a pairing he dubbed The Paradise Lost Tour.

"A lot of girls have come along since Patti started," Dylan told a Boston audience the first of many times they duetted on his song ‘Dark Eyes’. "But Patti's still the best, you know." Then he kissed her. *

DRIVING TO PATTI'S HOUSE, I WAS THINKING ABOUT something she had told me recently. The subject was her desire to play only those places where she'd been treated well. I wondered, then, what places this might disqualify.

"Detroit," she said without hesitation. "They've never been that supportive of our work. I don't think Fred got the support from the music community that he was entitled to. The radio stations knew who he was and what he'd done, and they should've tipped their hat to him. I guess I feel somewhat bitter about that. Not for me. I don't care; but it hurt Fred deeply."

Patti will soon be moving back to New York. This move is not unexpected. Detroit was where she came to make her life with Fred. It was his town, his family, his roots, and there's probably no place she can turn here and not be confronted by a reminder of her late husband.

This has got to be especially true of their home, which they bought, furnished, and within which they created a family. Patti and Fred even saved it together, sandbagging the place when torrential rains and a rising lake very nearly flooded them out. Because the family was so reclusive, all sorts of rumours circulated about their domestic refuge. One had them living in a sumptuous lakefront estate, another pictured them in utter sub urban tract home anonymity. Neither turns out to be accurate.

They're not on the lake, though they could most certainly see it if there weren't so many other houses in the way. They live in a normal middle-class neighbourhood where many of the smallish homes sport obvious additions to accommodate expanding families, resulting in houses that are a little too big for their modest plots but never quite big enough to contain all the kids' stuff which litters the porches and short driveways. Yet there's no doubting which is the Smith residence. It's easy to spot, being the only castle on the block. A small castle, to be sure, really no bigger than most of the surrounding homes, but a towered and turreted castle all the same.

Seen from the insight, the tower contains the winding staircase that leads to the upper floor. The house is sparsely though comfortably furnished, in casual boho. The usual family stuff is posted on the fridge and scattered about; handmade birthday and Mother's Day cards, postcards, school meeting notices. If it weren't for the guitars and amplifiers in the living room, you'd never know this was the lair of musicians. Where you might expect to find a portrait of some revered family elder hangs a picture of honorary uncle Allen Ginsberg.

Once past the idea of amps in the living room, the closest we get to rock'n'roll excess is an extravagant selection of teas. Oliver Ray brews some camomile for Patti, whose stomach is acting up.

At 48, Patti Smith's hair is unashamedly lashed with gray and worn in simple braids. Her interview demeanour is pretty much as it's always been. She considers each query carefully and answers at length, not looking at her interviewer but staring at some private point beyond the opposite wall, a safe place she always returns to. Though Patti is never at a loss for a forcefully expressed thought or opinion, whenever the conversation touches on her late husband – which is frequently – her voice falters and she has to bear down hard on her words to get them out.

I bring Tim Buckley's unreleased demo of the old folk tune ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ for Patti, and she talks about how the singer/songwriter was a favourite of Robert Mapplethorpe’s back in the early Brooklyn days, and chuckles when she recalls how she and her first partner in artistic crime would neck like high school kids to the Goodbye And Hello album. She was delighted when Jeff Buckley stopped by the recording sessions and added a high, ghostly vocal part to ‘Beneath The Southern Cross’, and even more delighted when he raced home and returned to the studio with an essrage, an Egyptian instrument he used to texture the track ‘Fireflies’.

You find yourself wanting to somehow crack the fog and get her to smile. During the second of our two interviews, conducted at her Michigan home, it is her eight-year-old daughter who unintentionally provides the cue. Patti is expounding on the divine bliss of parenthood when Jesse, who's been yakking to a friend in the other room, suddenly calls out, "Mommy, can I have a cellular phone?"

"No," Patti immediately shoots back, rolling her eyes at the cosmic timing of this interruption, and then dissolving into the best laugh I'd heard from her in a very long time.

In the words of one of those Irish poets, "the healing has begun." *

This album is unique for you in that it has so many solo songwriting credits.

Fred was giving me guitar lessons. He had taught me some chords, basically so I could write songs. We studied song structure and things I didn't know a whole lot about. He taught me enough on the guitar that, after a lot of practice, I could write simple songs. When he passed away...I just…um… I used to spend a lot of time by myself at night with the acoustic guitar just making up little songs. A lot of the songs on the record – ‘Farewell Reel’, ‘About A Boy’, ‘Raven’, ‘Dead To The World’, ‘Wing’ – were written that way late at night. They're all in waltz-time, 3/4, which is the only time signature we worked on so it's the only one I know.

The version of ‘About A Boy’ you played at the Roxy is already far beyond the album version.

That song has really grown in performance. It's the closest thing to anarchy – controlled anarchy – that we have right now, because we let the song completely open up at the end. I always like having a piece where everyone goes out but then returns. That was the beauty of John Coltrane, and what separated him from the noisemakers and indulgent jerk-offs. He would go out there and stay out there as long as he could, but he always returned. That's what we strive for.

When Kurt Cobain took his life, Fred and I were extremely disturbed about that. Both of us liked his work. We thought it was good for young people. I was happy that there was a new band I could relate to, and looked forward to watching them grow. He had a future. As parents, we were deeply disturbed to see this young boy take his own life. The waste, and the emotional debris he left for others to clean up.

I was also concerned how it would affect young people who looked up to him, or looked to him for answers. I guess that's the danger of looking to anyone else for answers, but I perceived that he had a responsibility. To himself, to the origin of his gifts, to his family, to the younger generation.

So I wrote the song for two reasons. One was as a well wish, even after what he did, that his continuing journey be beautiful. But it was also written with a certain amount of bitterness. The chorus says "About a boy/beyond it all." One way of looking at it is that he's beyond this particular plane of existence. But it's also a wry statement, a frustrated refrain. It relates to my sorrow for the various boys we've lost. Whether it be Jim Morrison or Brian Jones; any of these young, gifted, driven people who do feel they're beyond it all, that they can completely ravage and ruin their bodies or have no sense of responsibility to their position and their gifts. We all were pioneering some kind of freedom, but I don't think what's been done with it is all that constructive.

When you were that age how did you deal with those feelings?

All young people feel sometimes that they can't take it, that they'd rather die than get up out of bed. But there was always something that reminded me, it could be anything. The handiwork of man. I could be feeling totally desolate and then look at a beautiful prayer rug or a Picasso, and that would be enough to make me want to live. That's what other people's work did for me. When I say that The Rolling Stones got me through this, or Bob Dylan got me through that, they did. That in itself is a motivation for working. The act of creation is a beautiful thing. That belongs to the artist; he's got that moment of illumination, when a kernel of an idea erupts and blooms. But after he creates it, it ceases to be his. It's really for other people.

What brought you back to New York to record?

I love Electric Lady, which is where we cut Horses; it's intimate but highly developed. It's right on 8th Street, so you can walk out at three in the morning and there are people on the streets. It's a good energy. I don't require privacy and silence when I'm recording. It's the first recording studio I was ever in. The first time I ever went there was also the first rock'n'roll party I'd ever been to. Jane Friedman invited me to this party for Jimi Hendrix because he'd just opened the studio up. I was so excited because I'd never been in a recording studio before. But when I got there I was too nervous to go in, so I sat on the steps. Then Jimi came up the stairs. He was incredibly beautiful; tall, very... he was Jimi Hendrix, y'know? A great-looking man. But really shy. He came up the stairs and I was sitting there so he sat down next to me and just talked. He asked me why I wasn't going down and I told him I was too nervous. He said, "Me too, I'm too nervous to stay." Then he told me some of the things about the studio, and how he wanted to work on a more global kind of music. He said that he was going to London, but that when he came back he was gonna go up to Woodstock with new musicians and then bring them into Electric Lady to record. But of course he never came back from London... That was a great moment for me. So when Robert Mapplethorpe gave us money to do ‘Piss Factory’, even though it was not much money I had to go to Electric Lady.

The equipment has been updated, but it's got a lot of the same things – the late '60s psychedelic paintings and bad murals of Jimi Hendrix playing right-handed. It didn't really occur to me how cyclic it was until I was in the middle of it. I was standing by myself in the hallway looking at those murals, when I remembered standing in that same spot in 1975 and Robert Mapplethorpe taking a picture of me and John Cale. Lenny came out and stood next to me and said, "Amazing, isn't it?" It was like he could feel what I was feeling. The first time we were back in the studio, just hearing those Lenny guitar tones and Jay on the drums, it was so... from the subconscious. It triggered so many memories.

How was this one as a recording experience?

This album was both joyous and heartbreaking to do. We were 80 per cent done with the record and I had to stop. I couldn't take it any more because... I just really missed Fred. It was so difficult, and I was so emotionally depleted. So we stopped for a while. When we did that little mini-tour with Bob Dylan I was supposed to be finishing the record, but I still couldn't face it. But I got a lot of energy and positive feelings from the Dylan experience, and then we went in and completed the album. Those dates gave me my confidence back.

Do you know what made Bob reach out to you?

What I gleaned from Bob is that he felt it would be good for me to come back out, that he thought people should see me. I wouldn't presume to speak for him, but he has been so highly influential that he knows probably what it tasted like to be influential and then get shuffled around somewhere. I guess he felt I could use some encouragement.

We weren't prepared, but I wanted to do it so badly that we prepared ourselves practically on stage. I think we had about five hours of rehearsal. But all of us had pretty much played together, and we all pooled the things we could do. The first night was pretty shaky, but after that I felt like I was back in familiar territory. My mission on that small tour was to crack all the energy, crack the atmosphere and set the stage for him, to get the night as magic as possible, so that when he hit the stage – 'cos he hits a lot of them – that maybe it would feel a little more special. I think we did a pretty good job and I know that he was happy.

Had you been in touch with him over the years?

No, not really. I met him back in the '70s, before we even had a record deal. It was at the Other End on Bleecker Street in the Village. I was told he was in the audience, so I made a few obscure references that I knew the crowd wouldn't get, but would let him know that I knew he was there. It was kinda presumptuous, but that's the way I was then. I was thrilled that he was there, but I wasn't gonna let him know it. When he came backstage I was kinda snotty. "Any poets around here?" he said, so I said I wasn't into poetry anymore – Poetry sucks. Can you believe I said that? But he was very gracious, and even put his arm around me to have our picture taken. The next week it was in the Soho Weekly News, right on the cover, and seeing that was definitely one of my best moments ever. But it also made me kinda sad, 'cos I knew I hadn't treated him well and I felt like I'd kinda blown it, y'know?

A little while later, I was on 4th Street and I saw him walking toward me. I tried to shrink but he saw me anyway. And he was really nice. He pulled out that picture and said, "Who are these two people? Do you know them?" And he gave me this beautiful smile, just to let me know it was all right. So he's been incredibly generous and understanding toward me from the very beginning.

I've admired Bob Dylan since I was 15 years old; he's been an important part of my life for two-thirds of it now. So to have someone like that give you encouragement is... beyond words. [On the tour] we sang ‘Dark Eyes’ almost every night, and singing with him was just like being in heaven. I was so happy. I kept thinking…sometimes it made me think of Fred, because Fred really liked and admired Bob too. He often said that there were only two people that would be able to pull him out of his self-imposed retirement, Keith Richards and Bob Dylan. He'd say, "Now if Keith or Bob call and want me to play with 'em, I might have to come out." So how could I not answer the call? It was a great experience.

Do you still regard Bob with a fan's awe?

Meeting him again, I can't say I'm in awe of him. The way I relate to him at this point in my life is that he's a man that has a fine presence, a very noble presence. He's an extremely attractive man. When I talk to him I still feel sort of like a schoolgirl, but also like a friend and a colleague.

After Fred passed away, the record I most listened to for solace was Bob's album World Gone Wrong, which is all those great old blues and other songs from the trove of his knowledge. I listened to that almost continuously. Once again he helped me through a difficult time with his music. And then to have him reach out to me as a human being... I'll be forever grateful.

And this gave you the confidence to finish the record.

We'd pretty much recorded everything; most of the vocals on the record are the live vocals. It was just a question of pulling all the threads together and presenting the record. But I just... I just needed time to think about everything. We had pretty much everything cut except the title track ‘Gone Again’, which we did right before we came out here. That was Fred's last music and...um...I just wasn't able to...write the lyrics. And finally I…I marshalled my energies and did it. Lenny had a lot to do with making certain ‘Summer Cannibals’ and ‘Gone Again’ came to light. We had a lot of cassette tapes with Fred playing acoustic guitar or chanting or giving some direction...to me, 'cos he often made tapes like that so I could write lyrics. Lenny had to lovingly piece those songs together.

So many people haven't yet discovered Dream Of Life, which I think is your best album after Horses. People are going to be discovering that album for years.

I hope so, because it's the only real document we have of Fred's range, though it's still only a partial account. It's pretty much his album; I look at Dream Of Life as his gift to me. He wrote all the music, arranged everything, a lot of the song titles, the album title, the concept of the songs, especially ‘People Have The Power’, were all Fred's. I told him we should call it by both our names but he wouldn't. But he had promised me that on this album he would sing on it and we'd put both our names on it. So I was really looking forward... I thought this was going to be a great album because people would see his face, hear him sing, and he was getting interested in performing live again. But...ah...it didn't happen. Which has been the heartbreaking part of making this album for me.

There was one thing released under both your names: the atmospheric piece ‘It Takes Time’ that you did for the Wim Wenders film Until The End Of The World in 1990.

Thank you for remembering that one! I love to hear it, because Fred's reciting poetry. Again, that's almost entirely his piece. Not only did he write the music and some of the poetry, he actually dictated how he wanted me to read my parts. Oh yeah, we had some friction, some healthy friction, in the recording of that song. He was the suggester in the family. He was clearly the boss, although he liked to pretend that he wasn't...

How did you first meet him?

It was March 9, 1976, and we met in front of the radiator at that hot dog place, Lafayette Coney Island, in Detroit. The Sonic Rendezvous Band was opening for us, but I didn't know anything about him. Lenny introduced me to this guy. I heard that his name is Smith, and my name is Smith. We just looked at each other and I was completely taken by him. I had no idea who he was or anything about him until afterwards when Lenny told me. Lenny introduced me to him and said, "He's one of the great guitar players." I said, Perhaps you'll want to play with us tonight. And he said, "Maybe so." Then he left and I asked Lenny if he was really any good, and Lenny said, "The best". So I was playing with him that night, and I had a lot of bravado in those days. I didn't have respect for anybody. But I totally submitted to his reign. He came on the stage and started playing, and after a while I just set my guitar down and let it feed back. I just let him take over because I felt that I had met my match, that I had met the better man.

As I understand it, the original plan you'd developed with Fred called for you to begin re-emerging now anyway.

Yes. This would've happened. It was according to plan. A couple of years after Dream Of Life, Fred wanted us to go out with just a percussionist, Richard Sohl, him and I. It would have been more spoken art, more poetry with them doing interpretive things behind me. Fred really wanted to do that, but then Richard died suddenly. It really broke his heart, 'cos Fred was really close to Richard. So we withdrew from that idea.

Then, after a time he really felt it was time for me to walk back on stage. In his own way he had a somewhat competitive nature, and he was watching how the arena of female artists has really widened. The girls have done a great job. Now, I don't consider myself a female artist – I'm just an artist – but Fred had that bit of competitiveness. He wanted me to take a stand, I think. I actually was the one who was reticent. He felt it in me before I did.

We were gonna do pretty much what we're doing now: do a record, do dates in the summer, do things when we could. But he was... actually (her voice slows down)... looking forward to…that. So…

Are any of the songs from that period on this new album?

Two. I didn't do a lot of them, just because I couldn't. It was just too painful. Even doing those two... They're two rock songs. Fred really wanted me to do rock songs again. For all the knowledge and sophistication that Fred had acquired over the years as a musician, he always said there was always room for one more great rock song, and he never stopped trying to write it. It's just so happened to work out that the pivotal rock songs on the album are the two that Fred and I wrote together.

It's funny, but I really always wanted him to go back out. I would've been happy staying at home taking care of the kids. I really wanted the world to see him. I really loved his work, and I do regret that people didn't get to see his full range. But he was his own man, he did what he wanted. He wasn't a guy trapped in a family situation. He wanted a family deeply, and he committed himself to his family... to a fault, I think. He was a great father.

One of the main reasons that I'm able to feel no guilt, nothing but pride when I'm performing, is that I know he wanted me to do it. I never regretted my decision to stop performing. I spent the '80s studying and writing, and becoming a far more facile writer. I learned quite a bit about everything from sports to cooking, whatever I needed to learn at any given moment. And I really treasure those years. I didn't yearn for or regret the past. I didn't even think about it. I was too wrapped up in our present.

What I often did was to wake up early and write from five to seven or eight when the kids got up. I always allowed myself a time, and continued the work ethic that I had developed with Robert Mapplethorpe. No matter what was happening, even when we were sick, Robert and I always worked. Every day. It was sort of a pact we made, and I've kept to that.

I've learned that I don't need to smoke pot all night and then at three in the morning write my poem. I had to learn a whole different system of creation. If I have from five to seven to do my work, then that's when I'll do it. I've completely grasped the fact that it comes from within me, and I take it wherever I go. Whether I'm in a prison in French Guyana or in my laundry room. You don't have to be the victim of inspiration. I learned a lot of things from Fred...

The recent Mapplethorpe biography painted you as a prisoner of Fred's tyrannical whims.

Oh, please... I made a decision about the kind of life I wanted to live. I made it, and I have never even once – never! – regretted making it. I mean, I missed my friends, I missed the camaraderie of the band, I missed certain things. Even though sometimes it was difficult, to me it was a privilege to be with him. I only regret that he's gone. I don't regret nothing else.

It was a treat to see Bob Neuwirth at your Roxy show.

I met Bobby around 1969 at the Chelsea Hotel. I was still kinda hoping to be a painter at that time, but it was beginning to become clear to me that it wasn't my beat and so I was writing quite a bit. I was in the lobby of the Chelsea and I had a notebook. "Hey poet," I remember him saying. "Well, you look like a poet. Do you write like one?" Defiant, very challenging. I thought, Whoah, Bob Neuwirth! He was in Don't Look Back. That's his leg on the cover of Highway 61 Revisited! So I gave him my notebook, and he read it and actually thought about it. He took me under his wing. He was a bit older than me, and really like a brother. He was very kind to me, but tough too. He taught me a lot, and helped me start to develop some sense of myself as a writer. At the same time he introduced me to a world that I hadn't been privy to. He introduced me to all kinds of people – Janis Joplin, the Grateful Dead – and introduced me in a way that they treated me respectfully.

After that I met Sam Shepard and he was the same way. He really felt that I was a good writer. He encouraged me to the point of conceit, nearly. He really made me feel good about myself, and made it seem important that I keep writing. He and Bobby did a lot to instill in me not only the desire to keep writing, but they made me feel that I was a writer. That's an important step. I had always felt different from other people, a misfit and an alien, but I never really gleaned myself as being special. Other people seemed to pull it out of me, whether it was Robert Mapplethorpe, Sam Shepard or Bobby Neuwirth. I've been very lucky in my life to have people perceive something in me that I didn't always perceive in myself.

When I called your hotel in San Francisco, you were out and they told me that Todd Rundgren had come by with his kids to pick up yours. That seemed like another nice full circle.

Yes. He was very important to me in those early New York days too. I think it was Bobby Neuwirth who introduced me to Todd. And Todd had been so good to Jackson. He let Jack play this beautiful Gibson of his on stage, and then let him take it on the rest of the tour. Todd's another person who really encouraged me. Todd actually thought I had a future as a comedian. I did too.

You mean we almost had Patti Lee Smith in stand-up comedy?

I had that daydream for years. I used to pretend that I went on the Johnny Carson show. He really liked me, and then he got sick and asked me to take over the show until he got better. And I did so well that when Johnny retired he gave me his show. It was one of my favourite daydreams. I still make use of my Johnny Carson studies, as you've probably realised. All the sparring I do, being able to take what hecklers dish out and one-up them, is from years of studying Johnny.

I wasn't really a '60s person. I had lived a fairly sheltered life in South Jersey. I came to New York in 1967, but I lived with Robert Mapplethorpe in Brooklyn. I spent that time working to be an artist or supporting Robert, and I really didn't go through all those '60s changes. I wasn't really involved in the political scene. I was frightened by the '60s, really. The masses of people and all the assassinations and the drug culture and the war in Vietnam...I found all of this overwhelming.

The one positive thing is that I did get a sense of the collective, that there was some sort of unspoken unity thing happening. Even though I was chronologically the same age, I felt younger because I was a bit behind. So I observed it from a slightly different perspective. What I like about it was how it produced its own networking tools, whether publications like Crawdaddy, Creem and Rolling Stone, or underground radio. Number one, of course, was the music itself, which was something new. Generations before us went wild over Benny Goodman or Frank Sinatra, but they didn't necessarily say anything. But our music was in concert with who we were.

So I did learn some good lessons from the '60s. I looked at the best of it, and what I thought would happen is that the '70s would come along and be even better. But then what I saw was the people losing interest, becoming more self-oriented, and I was very concerned. I was sort of disappointed with my own people. I didn't like what I saw, and that inspired me to do the kind of work that I did.

I understand it was Lenny and your brother Todd who helped you through the desolate time after Fred passed away.

Between Lenny and my brother, they wouldn't let me get too deep down. The minute Fred passed away, my brother got on a plane and came out. He devoted the rest of his life – which only turned out to be one month – to getting me back on my feet. Todd was one of those workaholic types who work around the clock and never take vacations, but he left work immediately and came and stayed with me.

Then at Thanksgiving we all went back to my parents', and I was having an extremely difficult time. We always went back to New Jersey for Thanksgiving, and this was the first time without Fred in 16 years. I could hardly even rise in the morning. So Toddie came in and said, "C'mon babe, get dressed," and he made me get in the car. He rolled down the windows – he actually had a car where you had to roll down the windows! –and put on a cassette of the Natural Born Killers soundtrack. Our song ‘Rock'n'Roll Nigger’ is on that, and he turned it up as loud as he could get it, and we drove around to all our old hangouts and the places we used to play when we were kids.

Todd really loved that song, and he played it over and over, singing at the top of his lungs. He was going, "You're gonna be all right. You're gonna get back to work. Fred wanted you to and you're gonna do it and I'm gonna help you do it. Even if I have to quit my job to go on the road with ya, we're gonna pull everything up." He was so full of energy and love and enthusiasm that he made it difficult to disbelieve him. I wasn't familiar with that soundtrack, and he said, "There's another little song on it you'll like." So we parked in front of Hoedown Hall and Thomas's Field where we used to play, and this song came on. It was Bob Dylan singing "See the pyramids along the Nile..." [‘You Belong To Me’]. Fred used to sing that song to me, and I sat there and cried listening to Bob sing it. We had been talking about Dylan and how great he was; again, Toddie would have loved being a part of that tour.

We talked and talked, and he stayed for another couple of days. He wouldn't let me not feel good; it was his mission. He said, "We're gonna spend Christmas together and we're gonna get back on our feet." Todd went back to Virginia, and right after that he suffered a stroke and passed away. Which isn't at all uncommon on my side of the family. It was really terrible, but after the shock of losing him I found that he had made me feel so good, and had brought up my spirits so much, that I made a decision. Since his last mission in life had been to get me feeling good, I wasn't going to have his mission be in vain. So even now when I feel... you know... I just think about that.

You have to let your loved ones go, even as you cherish their spirit as you move forward. Which is difficult, but very important. Then, because of the kind of person I am, I also feel it is my mission to do something in their honour. Like I keep working and collaborating with Robert. [The Coral Sea, her tribute to Mapplethorpe featuring many of his photographs, will soon be published by W.W. Norton.] I have many things to do for Fred, not only in terms of work but of course the lifelong mission of watching over our children. With my brother, my mission is to feel good, be happy and do my work. So in those ways…as deeply as I miss all of their earthly presences, they're still around. Very much around.

"Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine" is a line that will forever be associated with you. How do you view it now?

I wrote that line when I was 20 years old. A lot of people misinterpreted it as the statement of an atheist, somebody who doesn't believe in anything. I happen to believe in Jesus. I never said he didn't exist. I only said that I didn't want him to take responsibility for my actions. Because I was young, I perceived myself as an artist, and the artist as a sort of cerebral criminal. I wanted the freedom to pursue all the things I imagined. Things within my art, not in life. In my art, I wanted the right to be misguided, misdirected, slightly criminal, utterly promiscuous, even a murderer. Within the realm of my work. I didn't want to be weighed down with such a conscience that I couldn't trample the earth, every junkyard and every cloud. I wanted to be free of conscience. I wanted free rein.

Over the years I got into studying Christ, reconsidering Him in Pasolini terms: Christ as revolutionary, a person who felt akin to our people. I found, as I got older and studied deeper, His roles, His ideals, His philosophies a lot more interesting. To the point that at our last show in Florence in '79, which was the last time I did that version of ‘Gloria’, I sang, "Jesus died for somebody's sins, why not mine?" I probably would not sing that original line now. Not because I think there's anything wrong with it, just because I don't identify with it now.

You always operated from the belief that rock'n'roll was a force for good. With all that's happened in the culture, do you still think that? Or has this belief in some way been perverted?

Well... I think everything gets perverted. But I'm not really concerned with how it gets perverted up in the mainstream, because that's business. I don't have the time or energy to pioneer against big business at this point in my life. Young people can do that.

I like the way young people are interacting globally. I like the alternative networking they're doing. I'd like to see them develop that, and start seeing what they can do collectively to better our situation on the planet. This planet is in deep trouble. What are we seeing? A resurgence of communicable diseases like tuberculosis, we have AIDS; the whole planet is becoming very viral. I'm not saying we can stop it, but only we can reduce all of these things.

Is music the same energy source for kids today that it was for us, or is it even possible that it can be?

I think there's so much stuff now. Look when we grew up. When I was a kid TV was black and white and there were three stations. They only had cartoons on Saturday morning. The records would come out, it's a big album, you have a big record player, you go home and put it on the record player, you sit and listen to it and really digest what the music’s saying. It was its own experience.

Music is still a powerful force – if you have a powerful individual – but I think it's a lot more convoluted now, if that's the right word.

You and Fred talked about not doing anything for personal gain, that it would have to benefit someone else. How do you reconcile that with everything that's happening now?

With this little tour we're not making any money; we're pretty much breaking even. We did a benefit for an AIDS hospice in San Francisco, and benefits will continue to be a big part of our agenda. I have to get back on my feet, truthfully. If it starts building and things go well, I look forward to a time where I never have to take a cent for hitting the stage. I'm watching people in rock'n'roll make millions and millions of dollars. I see a lot of my friends who've gotten extremely prosperous, and I think they should be doing a lot more. I don't mean giving an autographed guitar to charity. I mean, if you already have $20 million in the bank, take 10 million and find the people that are doing the strongest AIDS research and just give it to 'em. I would encourage performers to take the money they make on stage and give it to the people who need it.

When you first came around the mission was to keep alive and free a certain rock'n'roll spirit. Is the mission this time about this different, though related, spirit? The responsibility that comes with freedom?

I think so. A lot of the things we attempted to do in the '70s were accomplished. Like T.S. Eliot said, each generation translates for itself. I done what I was supposed to do when I done it. It's not my place to do it now. I wouldn't even know how to. All I know is that the planet is full of hands needing to be helped, and I'm trying to see what I can do to get things motivated in a new way. I still think it has to be revolutionary. We still need to redesign stuff.

People are making comeback tours and farewell tours, they're going on Unplugged and they're picking up their lifetime achievement awards. But what are they really doing? I think we've gotten way too cute with all these tons of awards we're giving to each other. Too much bullshit, too much cute stuff. The Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame. It's another money machine. I did appear at one of those to induct the Velvet Underground. I did that out of respect to the Velvets, and because that recognition meant something to them. But I feel about the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame pretty much the way Fred did: that we should be ashamed. The spirit should be the museum.

‘Piss Factory’ is still one of your more resonant works. But those women you described with such disdain – "these bitches are just too lame to understand/too God damn grateful to get this job to know they're getting screwed up the ass" –with all you've lived since, I'm wondering how you'd regard them now?

Oh, I'd be a lot more compassionate now. Not necessarily for their stupidity, because some of their rules and codes I would still rail against. But being hard-working women... maybe their husband's dead, or their husband took off and they've got six kids to look after. So yes, much more empathy, compassion. Much more respect.

When I was younger, I really felt completely there for the misfit, the person outside society. Artists, and people on the fringes, whether because of their philosophies or sexual persuasion or politics. And I still feel akin to those people, 'cos I'm still one of them. But I've been through so much... life – being a mother, being a widow, being a laundress, all the things I do – that I definitely feel more empathy, a more common bond with people. When I was younger I had so much intensity that it got to the point where I felt I was in a whole other realm. I don't feel that so much – I feel a lot more human these days.

© Ben Edmonds 1996

Michael Stipe on Patti

UNLIKE THE OTHER GUYS IN THE BAND, WHEN WE started I didn't have any particular understanding of the standard history of the pop format, so I pretty much learned as I went along. I had virtually no musical background. I pretty much ignored music until I was about 15 years old, and at the high school that I went to – which was in Illinois in the very heart of middle America – heavy metal ruled. My parents listened to Gershwin, Mancini, Wanda Jackson and the soundtrack to Dr Zhivago. That's all I heard.

I accidentally got a subscription to the Village Voice when I was 15. Right about that time – middle to late 1975 – they were talking about this thing that was going on in New York with Television and Patti Smith and the Ramones and CBGB's. I distinctly remember the November 1975 issue of Creem magazine. Someone had left a copy in study hall under a chair. It had a picture of Patti Smith, and she was terrifying looking. She looked like Morticia Addams. And I think it was Lester Bangs or Lisa Robinson writing about punk rock in New York and how all the other music was like watching colour movies, but this is like watching static-y black and white TV. And that made incredible sense to me. I read about those bands before I ever heard them, and it just sounded so amazing.

Horses, the first Patti Smith album, came out soon afterwards and it pretty much tore my limbs off and put them back on in a different way. I was 15 when I heard it, and that's pretty strong stuff for a 15-year-old American middle-class white boy, sitting in his parents' living room with the headphones on so they wouldn't hear it. It was like the first time you went into the ocean and got knocked down by a wave. It killed. It was so completely liberating. I had my parents' crappy headphones and I sat up all night with a huge bowl of cherries listening to Patti Smith, eating those cherries and going. Oh, my God!... Holy shit!... Fuck!... Then I was sick.

© Michael Stipe 1996

[numerousbees1106]

Ecesis

Ecesis - The process of establishing and growing base/pioneer species during ecological primary succession

Read on Ao3:

The twilight sky above shone a velvety cobalt-violet, textured by wispy clouds so high up in the atmosphere that they still shone hypnotic shades of pale blue and silver, gleaming in an elusive sunlight that no longer graced the small cafe Piett currently sat at. All around him, the bustling yet quiet din of conversation murmured like a stream, a burbling brook of words he, admittedly, would eagerly eavesdrop on had he not been in such a foul mood.

Indeed, Piett grumbled to himself, he was positively gloomy that evening. 

By all accounts, he should have been enjoying himself - he was in a fancy cafe-bar-hybrid decorated with one of his favored aesthetics. The moderately sized area was bedecked with elegantly carved wooden tables and chairs near the front, and gorgeous bookshelves stocked with real books all along the sides, books that he was free to simply pick up and read to his heart’s content. Live plants tucked in every nook and cranny gave the impression of the area being full, but not crowded, a splash of unassuming, subtle wilderness that Piett found oddly comforting. Lights hung on rose-gold wires, twisting around vintage wood beams running along the ceiling that Piett suspected were more for decoration than for structural support, casting the room in a warm glow that added to the cozy atmosphere. Near the back, where he was, a bar with fern-like ivy tenderly cascading down from above served simple yet deluxe drinks, one of which he was currently nursing.

Despite being in the midst of a bustling city, the cafe honestly felt more like a garden, an oasis of life reserved for those of higher class - which, Rilla had pointed out with a grin as she had shoved him out the door earlier that night, pressing a card with the directions to the cafe into his hand, he now counted as. 

He scowled as he recalled the subject of his ire and the reason for his current bad mood. 

‘Go out and have fun,’ she said. ‘You can’t just sulk around the house until your boyfriend gets back,’ she said. 

Piett scoffed to himself.

Well, now I’m just sulking around here instead!

Begrudgingly, he would admit that the soothing atmosphere did make him feel slightly better, but true to the infamous Piett stubbornness, he would literally rather get shot than tell her that. 

A wave of concern that wasn’t his washed over him. 

Love-shot-hurt? The faint impression came across their bond. This far away from each other, it was all his lover could manage, but it still had Piett startling slightly where he sat slumped over the countertop, a stray leaf tickling his arm as he did so.

Clearing his throat awkwardly as the person behind the counter gave him an odd look, he straightened in his seat and allowed his lover to feel the sense of security and safety and calm that his surroundings inspired in him. After a moment or two, during which Piett gently batted the plant away absent-mindedly, his lover completed whatever inspection he had set his mind to, and purred out a soft noise of satisfaction. 

Love-dramatic-stubborn, he noted with amusement, and Piett sent back a wave of embarrassment and what he hoped translated to a mental apology. Although, really, Piett thought, that was rather rich coming from him. Another purr-like sensation, along with a sense of mock-offense came from his lover to show that he had overheard that last thought, and Piett was alone once more.

For about five seconds. 

Once again Piett found himself startling in his seat as his peripheral vision was suddenly overwhelmed by the visage of all six-foot three-inches worth of army general. 

“Ah, Prince Consort Piett! A pleasure as always, Your Grace,” Veers exclaimed as he sat down unreasonably close to him. 

“Stop calling me that,” Piett said, glaring at the man who, in Piett’s experience, was like most of the army-folk in that he lacked any and all sense of personal space. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Veers clucked, raising his hand to catch the attention of the bartender. “It really should be Your Majesty, shouldn’t it?” 

Piett simply gave a long-suffering sigh, ignoring Veers as he chuckled to himself as he ordered his drink. 

“Did Rilla put you up to this?” Piett asked as soon as Veers was finished. 

The man shot him an over-the-top injured look, putting on his best wounded expression. 

“Is a man not allowed to simply visit his best friend?” Veers asked, voice full of faux hurt. “You wound me, Firmus, truly.”

Piett simply stared at his friend for a few long moments in silence.

“…But yes, your sister did send me,” Veers relented. 

“Hm. Thought so,” Piett said, raising the drink he’d ordered what felt like hours earlier to his lips to take a pointed sip. 

Veers huffed, taking a sip of his own drink, before rolling his eyes fondly. 

“Firmus, you’ve been moping for, like, a week now! Of course she’s gonna call me to come make you stop sulking!”

“I have not been sulking,” Piett huffed with a scowl. “And it’s been two days, Max. Hardly a week.”

“And besides!” Max continued, ignoring Piett completely. “You have a week to plan your guys’ celebration! You should be taking this opportunity and running with it, not- not slugging about your sister’s apartment!”

“Slugging about-” Piett spluttered in mock outrage, before the rest of that sentence registered. “Wait. Celebration?”

Veers looked at him with wide eyes. 

“Firmus,” he said, aghast. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Piett squawked, desperately running through all the important dates he had memorized. 

Veers gaped at him, his joking demeanor replaced by one of horror.

“Firmus. Fir. Your anniversary.” 

Piett blinked at him once, twice. 

“…Shit.”

Veers barked out a laugh at his expense, though tension lingered in his shoulders before the man shook himself, seemingly deciding on something as he did so. 

“Yeah, I’d say so, buddy,” the man said with a grin. “Not to worry, though - you’ve got me to help!”

“Joy,” Piett muttered joylessly, then shook his head. “Has it really been a year? Already?”

“It has! In fact, I think today marks the day of the Bridge Incident!”

Piett shot Veers a glare. 

“Veers, I swear to fuck, if you bring up the Bridge Incident one more time-”

“You’ll what?” Veers interrupted. “Smack your head against the counter, throw up, and proclaim your undying love for Darth Vader?” 

Blushing a scarlet red and acutely aware of the way the bartender froze and nearly dropped the glass they were holding upon hearing his lover’s name, Piett hastily slapped down what he sincerely hoped were enough credits, grabbed Max’s arm in an iron grip, and stormed out of the cafe. 

“Ack! Firmus, my drink- Firmus!”

Ignoring Veers’ protests, Piett continued down the street towards the city’s market center. 

“What should I get him?” He asked Veers, who was still loudly complaining.

“What- how should I know? You’re the one dating him!” Max retorted, which, yes, Piett would admit, that was fair. 

“You’ve had anniversaries before! What did you do then?” Piett questioned as he released his grip on Veers.

“Uh, mostly just got them a heartfelt gift, took them on a special date, and followed that up with some mind blowing sex?” Veers replied, rubbing his arm tenderly. “Kriff, Firmus, how are you so strong? You’re like, half my size!”

The rest of Veers’ complaints faded away as Piett’s brain stuttered and shut down at the idea of him and his lover doing… that.

“-Uh, you alright there, Fir?” 

Piett attempted to answer but instead of words, all he managed was a very undignified squeak. 

“Firmus, are you seriously blushing bright red at the mere mention of sex? You are two grown men who are also dating, no one is surprised that you two do that! It’s nothing to get all bent up over,” Veers huffed.

Piett shook his head, his cheeks feeling as though they were on fire.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just- uh, I- I hadn’treallythoughtofhimlikethatbefore…?”

Veers stopped walking and blinked at him.

“You… haven’t thought of him like that before,” Veers repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes in contemplation at Piett. “Are you… oh, what’s the term… er, ace-sexual?” 

“Um, not as far as I’m aware,” Piett squeaked, still blushing, trying his best not to fidget where he stood. “I mean, my exes and I were… active. It’s just that… I don’t know! It’s just different, with him, but as soon as you said it, the thought entered my mind, and…”

“And now you want it?” Veers finished for him, managing to sound only mildly disgusted.

Piett shrugged.

“I’ve been happy just, doing my own thing, you know? I guess I just figured that he’d show interest when he’s ready.”

“Well, I mean, he might be waiting for you to come onto him,” Veers suggested. “With the power imbalance between you two, it might just be that he didn’t want to pressure you.” 

“Maybe,” Piett mused, mulling it over in his head. It certainly seemed like something his conundrum of a lover would do, being as oddly sweet and considerate as he was.

“Well, if I’m right, then I think you know your anniversary gift already,” Max said with a sly, mischievous grin. 

“Oh, stop it,” Piett grumbled, smacking the other man’s arm, then paused.

“I still want to get another gift. Just in case, you know?”

Veers nodded. 

“Makes sense. What were you thinking?”

“That’s the issue,” Piett said with a sigh, continuing his trek towards the markets, the noctilucent clouds fading as the last vestiges of sunlight fled from even the upper atmosphere. “He loves speeders and ships, but…” 

“But that’s kinda a huge gift, even for an anniversary?” Veers supplied, nodding in understanding.

“Exactly. Plus, it’s a bit out of my budget.” 

Veers winced in sympathy, then elbowed him playfully.

“What, being third in line for the throne doesn’t pay well?” The menace of a man teased.

Piett simply shot him a caustic glare, earning a self-satisfied chuckle before the general shook himself.

“Well, what else does he enjoy? Mechanics, right?” He inquired, to which Piett nodded, mentally mulling over any potential mechanical gifts he could give.

“The issue with that is that he has essentially everything he could ever want, what with his position, and all,” he eventually sighed. 

“I agree, but also, I think it would be less of what the gift is and more the idea that it’s a gift from you,” Veers replied, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. 

“Do you really think so?” Piett questioned with a frown, a warm and pleasant feeling fizzing in his chest at the thought. 

“Firmus, I practically know so,” Veers crowed.

“I suppose I could get him some new tools,” he decided after a moment’s contemplation, brightening. Veers, however, didn’t seem to be listening.

“I wonder…” the man murmured quietly, his demeanor suddenly somber. “Do- Do you think I should get Zev something? I know he’s older now, but…”

Piett winced. Veers and his son had been getting into more and more spats in the recent years, and though Piett tried his best to help, it was honestly all out of his experience. 

“I’m sure he’d like that,” Piett said softly, hoping desperately that that was true - he’d be devastated if he accidentally made the riff between his best friend and the boy he practically considered a nephew deeper. “What’s he into, these days?”

“Literature, mostly,” Veers replied. “Especially this series about talking dragons - Fiery Wings, I think?”

Piett frowned, tilting his head before he realized what Max was talking about.

“Ah, I think you mean Winged Fire,” Piett corrected, recalling briefly delving into the series during one of his late-night searches for something to read in his youth. “That series is still going?” 

Veers shrugged. 

“No idea. Zevulon absolutely adores it, though. I wonder if the stores will have anything…?”

Now it was Piett’s turn to shrug. 

“Perhaps one of the arts & crafts stalls will have something, or maybe even be willing to custom-make something for you,” he suggested.

Veers froze mid-step, face scrunching up in confusion.

“Stalls?” He questioned, sounding bewildered. 

“Well, yes?” Piett gave him an odd look. “Max, we’re on Axilla. While we can certainly go to a store, you’ll likely find better wares in the marketplaces. Plus, in the market you can barter.” 

He paused. 

“Well, I can barter,” he amended. 

Veers gave him a glare of mock-offense, but his shoulders slumped in relief at the words. 

“Right,” the general said with a sniff. “Lead on, then.”

“It’s quite literally right around this corner,” Piett told him, amusement only increasing at the incredulous look his best friend gave him. “Can’t you smell the food?”

“Is that what that is?” Veers asked, seeming both curious and cautious.

“For me, it is,” Piett replied, taking the last few steps needed to round the corner. “For you, I think it’d probably give you some serious food poisoning, at least until you’ve built up a tolerance.”

“I’m 90% sure that is not how food poisoning works,” Veers said, doubtfully. 

“Are you willing to risk that?” Piett questioned, pointedly raising a brow. 

“No,” Veers said, then blinked as they passed by an admittedly delicious smelling pastry stall. “Maybe.”

Piett simply snorted, tucking his belongings closer to his person and motioning for Veers to do the same. This was the nicer part of Axilla, sure, but it was still Axilla. 

The two walked in comfortable silence for a while, quietly browsing the stalls as they went and basking in each other’s company - it had been far too long since the two of them had simply hung out. In fact, Piett mused, he’d reckon the last time had to have been during the Imperial introduction ceremony of Jelucan, back when Piett had been a junior officer under Grand Moff Tarkin and Veers had been a lieutenant. 

They’d been in close contact since, of course, either keeping up a long-distance friendship or, in more recent years, serving side-by-side with each other aboard the Lady. 

Piett was snapped out of his quiet contemplations as he realized Veers had wandered a bit farther away, the man speaking to a younger artist who seemed quite enthused. As Piett subtly moved closer to the two, not trusting his friend to see past the youthful, innocent face of the artist to any potential scams, he listened as a rather confused-sounding Veers was trying to describe something. 

“Er, and then I think he said the- what did you call it? A Bug Dragon?” 

“A Hive Dragon!” The teen chirped excitedly.

“Yes, that,” Veers said with a nod. “He said his favorite scene was when the Hive Dragon first met the butterfly guy, the one who was being chased, or something.”

Ah. Veers was seeking a commission for his son.

“He said he really loved how she had gone against all she had known to help a stranger in need? I’m not quite sure, he was rambling at that point.” The general shrugged, his demeanor almost awkward in the face of the young artist who was so excited they were practically vibrating with energy. 

“That’s an excellent scene!” They exclaimed, grinning widely, eyes shining.

Piett tuned them out as the teen began explaining the intricacies of the scene to a bemused Veers, rolling his eyes with amusement at his friend’s predicament. There was nothing but genuine artistic passion in the teen’s demeanor - he felt secure leaving Veers to his own devices.

Turning away, Piett began browsing the stalls once more, humming softly to himself as a street musician played a familiar tune a few stalls down, making a note to give whoever it was a tip when he passed them - they were quite talented. 

“Lookin’ for something special?” A raspy voice called. 

Head snapping up, Piett met the gaze of an old woman, her gray hair appearing almost tawny in the warm lighting of the market, her pale eyes staring intently into his own. In her hands, clasped between fingers gnarled by age and palms calloused by a life of labor, was a block of wood she was slowly but surely chipping away at, a carving knife held with a smooth sort of steadiness that belied great skill and experience. Piett hummed in agreement as he watched tiny slivers of bark - she was carving from raw wood, interesting - fall to the ground, the woman calmly crafting to a blueprint only she could see.

“Well, young man? See anything that catches your eye?” She asked with a wink. 

Piett blinked at her, confused, before her meaning caught up to him and he flushed a deep red and shook his head.

“Oh! Oh, no, I do apologize-”  he began, but she only cackled, her eyes glinting with mischief as she grinned at him. 

“Relax, young man. I tease, I tease,” she reassured him, before motioning to her wares with a sweeping gesture. “Please, have a look around!”

Wetting his lips, embarrassment still heating his cheeks - and really, what would his mother say, if she caught him staring like that? - he turned to gaze at little rows of beautiful wooden figures. 

Some appeared to have been sanded, while others still had bark on strategic places to act as texture or shading, such as a bantha with bark highlighting its horns and hooves. Some had some sort of finish applied, but most were raw, natural wood, occasionally bedecked with other materials as well. A small flower-shaped wooden plate had streaks of paint for color, and along the bottom waxy leaves had been attached to give the impression of it blooming. A little humanoid figure had clothes made out of wool of some sort covering it, and a gorgeous band could be worn as an adjustable bracelet by tying small loops of twine around one’s wrist. 

But what really grabbed his attention was a smaller figure near the back, hidden by the larger, flashier, more complex pieces it was surrounded by. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the light reflecting off the tiny little gemstone embedded in the figure to act as an eye, he likely wouldn’t have seen it at all. 

Reaching out to tenderly pick it up, he was surprised by the heft of it, as well as the rough sturdiness of the wood. It was a little bird, obviously painstakingly crafted to achieve all the intricate little details that decorated it. Thick, deep lines clearly defined the head, the wings, and the rectrices, while shallower lines carved out the bird’s markings and beak. Looking closer, Piett could see lines so small and thin they were almost invisible in the dim lighting outline all the other little details, from feathers to nostrils to - he noted with delight - tiny little feet on the underside of the figure.

Its eyes were small jewels that Piett didn’t recognize - one was a brilliant sky blue, and one was a bright amber-yellow. 

“Topaz and cobalt,” the woman rasped. 

Piett’s head snapped up to look at her, having forgotten she was there. 

“The eyes,” she said, noting his confused expression. “The left one’s processed cobalt and the other’s honey topaz.” 

“Ah,” Piett murmured, turning the small figure over in his hands. “It’s beautiful.”

“Mmm. Indeed,” the woman replied, though with a distinctly pleased air about her. “That little thing took months to make.”

Piett blinked at her in shock.

“Yes, yes, it’s true! Genuine japor wood, that one. Real pain in the ass to carve. Very sturdy, though!” The woman chuckled. “Step on it, run it over, hell, blow it up! It’ll probably be fine.”

She paused.

“Within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” Piett agreed with a small grin and a shake of his head. “How much for it?” 

“Is it a gift for yourself or someone else?” The woman asked instead of answering.

“Oh, it’s an anniversary gift,” Piett replied. He didn’t know when, exactly, he had decided he would give it to his lover, but it felt right.

“Oh, how exciting!” She crooned as she gently took the bird from his hands and began wrapping it in a little bundle. “How long?”

“One year,” Piett told her, unable and unwilling to hide the smile that rose to his lips. “Since we started dating, that is.”

Technically, they had begun dating a few months after their agreed upon anniversary date, but they had both decided that the whole incident with the rebels counted as a first date.

“Ah, I take it you both like birds?” The woman tied the bundle with a little ribbon. 

Piett flushed. 

“Er, I do, yes,” he explained. “But on our first date, he discovered a new bird species, and it’s become our symbol, in a way.”

“Oh, to be young and spry, birdwatching as a first date,” she sighed dreamily, ringing up his total. 

Piett snorted out a soft laugh at the idea of his lover sitting in a park with a pair of binoculars. 

“Alright, dearie, here you are,” the woman said with a smile, and Piett blinked down at the total in surprise - it was far less than he had expected a piece of this quality to be.

“Ah, who am I to get in the way of young love?” She asked with a shrug and a smile. “Consider your heartwarming tale of romance as part of the payment. Just tell me something.”

Piett nodded, she leaned forwards. 

“What did he name the bird?”

“Oh, ah, he- he named it after me,” Piett admitted sheepishly.

The elderly woman let out a barking laugh, eyes shining with delight, and Piett found himself laughing along too. 

“Yeah, it is rather corny,” Piett said, smiling.

“He’s a keeper!” The woodcarver insisted, nodding in thanks as he passed over the credits, plus a few extra. 

“A tip,” he explained as he gently tucked the bundle against his chest as if it were fragile, despite having been reassured that it could survive a small explosion.

The elderly woman nodded sagely, smiling at him one last time, and with a respectful nod Piett turned and scanned the crowd. 

Max was still talking to the young artist, it seemed, though it rather appeared that the poor man was being talked to, judging by the rather haggard expression he was wearing. 

With a snort of laughter at his best friend’s expense, Piett sauntered over to him with a cheery grin.

“-And that’s why the paint is so important, because it symbolizes how they both wish to be someone they’re not, but by the end of the arc they both grow but also realize that in a sense, they were already who they wanted to be!” The youngster was explaining, pausing only to take a breath. 

Max looked up and, upon catching sight of Piett, practically slumped in relief. 

“Ah, Firmus!” He called, and Piett was tempted to pretend not to know him, if only to get back at him for mentioning the Bridge Incident earlier. Alas, Piett was too good a man for his own good, and he took pity on the poor sod that was the esteemed General Veers confronted with an overeager teenager.

“Max,” he greeted, coming to stand by Veers’ side. “Any luck?”

“Ah, yes!” The teen squeaked, turning back to their stall to quickly fish out a form of some sort - who still uses physical forms, Piett wondered.

“If you could just fill this out, I’ll complete the piece within a few days depending on the size and detail and send it to wherever you want!”

Looking immensely relieved, Veers took the offered form and stylus and began to fill it out. 

“For the piece description, just put ‘Cobalt and Beetle meeting scene’; I’ll know what that means,” the teen chirped. 

“Should I send this directly to Zev, do you think?” Veers turned to ask him. “Or should I just give it to him?”

Piett frowned. 

“Is he on planet?” He asked.

Veers gave him an odd look.

“Did your sister not tell you? He’s staying with her to help babysit Sarkli for the week, for some extra credits. Not much!” Veers was quick to add. “Just enough to get himself a book and some snacks at the end of it.”

Piett sighed. 

“I’m beginning to think she doesn’t tell me anything at all,” he grumbled, then nodded. “Give it to him in person - I think it’d mean a lot to him.”

With a nod, Veers finished filling out the form and returned it to the still-eager teen, who quickly stored the flimsi safely in a folder of what Piett assumed were similar commission forms. 

“Pleasure doing business with you!” The kid squeaked, grinning at them as Veers handed over his credit chip. “Half upfront, half once it’s delivered! Have a great night!”

With a smile and a nod, Veers turned so fast that Piett briefly worried for the man’s neck before power walking away. Piett tried not to laugh at his six-foot-three hardened army general of a friend blatantly running away from a scrappy, lanky 15-or-so-year-old.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Veers asked once they were some distance away. 

“I haven’t gotten any tools, no,” Piett replied. “I’d probably be better off getting those from an actual distributor. But,” he held up the bundle, “I did get something I think he’ll like.”

“Speaking of something I think he’ll like,” Veers said with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, nodding his head to where the stalls became farther and farther apart, eventually marking the end of the market altogether, with-

With a sex shop squarely at the end of the street.

“Absolutely not!” Piett squeaked, flushing. 

“Firmus, we literally share a mindlink,” Veers huffed. “And besides, you once had me pick up your lingerie for you that one time!” 

“That was different!” Piett squawked, his face feeling as though it were on fire. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll stay outside if it bothers you so much! But, Firmus,” Veers continued, suddenly serious. “I’m your best friend, your wingman, remember? I’m trying to get you laid, and I don’t know how that might work with your, er, partner of choice.”

“Since when have you been my wingman?” Piett demanded to know, still-burning brow scrunching up in confusion.

Veers rubbed his hand down his face.

“You,” he accused, pointing at Piett in a manner that was oddly similar to what Piett’s lover frequently did, “-are missing the point.”

Piett sighed. “You’re right,” he begrudgingly admitted. “I’ll probably need some specialty bacta lube, or something.” 

Veers made a face at that, but really, it was on him for insisting he be Piett’s wingman. 

Setting his face, expression as blank and stoic as if he were on shift aboard the Executor before he and his lover met, Piett handed Veers the little bundle and strode into the shop. 

A cheery little ding! rang out as he entered, eyes subtly darting around as he stiffly returned the nod the tired-looking togruta working the counter gave him. 

Ducking into the closest aisle, his gaze quickly scanned over the shelves lined with what appeared to be boxes containing strap-ons for virtually any species Piett could think of. There were a couple different human, twi'lek, and togruta models of various lengths, girths, and styles, but surprisingly there were also models for wookies, besalisks, and even one for chiss. 

Piett tilted his head. He had never really considered it, but it suddenly occurred to Piett that his lover may be lacking the, er… equipment usually possessed by biological human males, which Piett presumed his lover to be. Although, now that he thought about it, he realized he didn’t actually know his lover’s species and birth-sex for absolute certainty. 

Deciding that it didn’t much matter, and that Piett would deal with that issue if and when it arose, he quickly strode past the various displays, still keeping that stone-faced expression he had long-since mastered. 

Turning into the next aisle, he saw rows upon rows of various dildos, vibrators, and stimulators, along with a myriad of fleshlights and cockrings and other such toys. Very quickly deciding that he didn’t need anything of the sort, Piett skipped the aisle entirely, and the one after that too.

Who still buys porn? Piett thought as he moved onto the final aisle which, thankfully, seemed much more promising. That shit’s been available on the holonet for literal centuries now. 

Breathing out a little huff of relief, Piett eyed the various tubes and bottles of lube available for sale. Most of it was the typical type one would find in pretty much any couple’s bedside drawer, though there were quite a few that were admittedly of greater quality than that commonly sold in convenience stores and pharmacies. 

Ah, here we are, Piett inwardly sighed with relief.

“Medicated Lube” the package read. “Bacta-infused lubrication for human and human-adjacent use.” 

Piett scanned the back of the box.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10% bacta lubrication for any and all penetrative purposes. Perfect for those with sensitivities, autoimmune disorders, bacta-treatable STDs, and for post-birth intercourse or masterbation.*

*The Health Overview and Treatment Committee Of Collective Knowledge (HOTCOCK) recommends abstaining from any sort of sexual activity for at least 1 to 3 months post-birth. Please consult with a doctor or healthcare official before use if you or your partner have recently given birth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Perfect,” Piett muttered, tucking the small box under his arm and wincing only a little at the price. 

Avoiding the cashier’s eyes and instead focusing on fishing out his credit chip, Piett placed the box on the counter and tried to ignore the slight awkwardness that clung to him like strangler vines. 

With an impassive nod, the bored-looking cashier handed him back the credit chip and went back to scrolling the holonet, Piett quickly scuttling out of the store with his - thankfully, very discreetly packaged - purchase in hand. 

Veers looked up as he approached, an odd, almost bittersweet smile on the man’s face.

“Your sister just sent me a photo,” he said, seeming almost sorrowful.

Piett realized why his friend sounded so morose as soon as Veers showed him the image - it was a slightly-blurry, very candid photo of Zevulon sitting at the table, Sarkli in his high chair next to him, the two of them finger painting. Sarkli’s picture was a mess of random colors and shapes, nonsensical streaks and smears decorating both the paper and seemingly everything else, too, up to and including Sarkli himself. Zev had one hand on his own painting, which seemed to be of a coppery red dragon with blue eyes, and the other hand gently grasping Sarkli’s tiny, furled fist as the baby tried to shove his own paint-covered fingers into his mouth. Zev wore an exasperated yet amused expression, grinning even as he tried to look annoyed. 

“How did he grow up so fast?” Max asked, sighing softly, startling Piett out of his examination of the image. 

“He’s thirteen, Max, not thirty,” Piett reminded his friend playfully, smiling as his friend gave him an faux-annoyed expression shockingly similar to the one Zev wore in the image.

“I should probably get back to the hotel,” Veers sighed as he tucked his com away. 

“Hotel?” Piett questioned with a frown.

“Yeah, the Empire partners with it to house army officials during leave for a reduced price,” Veers explained with a shrug. 

“Max, you’re on my home world, literally just a shuttle ride away from my sister’s house. Why not stay with us? Hells, Zev already is!” Piett playfully berated, crossing his arms. 

“That defeats the whole purpose of having Zev babysit, if I’m hovering around him all the time!” Veers protested. 

“Don’t hover, then! Just hang out, relax, spend some quality time with your son when he’s not busy,” Piett huffed. “And you could help out with the finer parts of babysitting. Show him how to parent, and all that.” 

Max’s eyes went wide.

“Wouldn't that be, I don’t know, stepping on Rilla’s toes? I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said. 

Core-Worlders, Piett internally scoffed. Always so prickly about the oddest things.

“Veers, she’s known you for the better half of a decade now. She helped with Zev, for stars’ sake! I can assure you, you would not be intruding,” Piett assured him, then smirked teasingly at his best friend. “Besides, you’re practically an uncle to Sarkli, and unlike Sarkli’s other uncle, you actually know how to deal with babies.” 

“I sure hope I do, considering I work with them all day,” Veers deflected, though his eyes were wide and misty with wonder, appearing for all the world to be deeply touched even as he joked around.

“I’m telling You-Know-Who you said that about him,” Piett teased, watching in delight as Veers’ eyes widened with horror and mild panic before turning and beginning to walk.

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Veers squawked, stumbling into motion until they were side-by-side once more. “I’ve only just now convinced myself he won’t kill me! Don’t you dare tempt him!” 

Snorting, Piett let his shoulders shake with silent laughter, a laughter which only deepened as Veers’ composure began to break, the man’s face splitting with a wide smile as he chuckled along. 

“Here’s your gift back, by the way,” he said as he handed Piett the small bundle containing the figurine, to which Piett nodded in thanks.

“Home, then?” Piett questioned lightly, tilting his head slightly in silent question. 

Veers only gave him another smile, this one far softer and brimming with genuine happiness. 

“Home,” he agreed. 

And with that, they began walking towards the shuttle station to take them back to Rilla’s house, a small bundle in Piett’s hands and a large bundle of contentment in their hearts.

It would seem, much to his visceral dread, that his Master’s morbid intrigue in Vader’s newfound abilities was not, in fact, a passing interest. To be fair, he never truly believed that it was. 

He knew better than to do anything but what his Master demanded. Resistance was pointless, and persuasion was fruitless. Sidious would do what Sidious wished, and Vader could only play along to minimize the damage. 

The droids buzzed around him like blowflies to a carcass, removing his sepulchral armor with harsh efficiency and liquid-smooth cruelty. The foul stench of blood, both fresh and stale, mixed with that of skin that was either rotted or rotting, the sickly-sweet odor of infection strong enough that even he could smell it with his fire-damaged, limited olfactory capabilities. Lights, so uncomfortably bright they made his head pulse with dull agony, shone down upon him, almost making the pale, discolored flesh that now lay exposed to the cold, sterile, stinging air seem to glow. Trilling machines and beeping droids buzzed around him, a cacophony of noise in the enclosed room, thrumming in time with his rising panic. 

One of the droids injected him with something that made his veins burn, and Vader felt himself begin to retreat back into the Mindscape - no. He could not, not with his Master so close - the man would surely discover it if he did so, and Vader’s only safespace, the only place he felt like himself, felt comfortable, would no longer be so. 

And, Vader thought with a sickening lurch, who knew what his Master would do if he found Piett, Veers, and the little Jedi Padawan lurking within his manifested realm? 

And maybe it was odd, that Vader had grown a strange sense of- of- of something he didn’t quite know the word for, for the young rebel. But he could not help it. Perhaps it was because the child had infiltrated his psyche, loitering around the vestiges of Vader’s mind, slowly becoming a part of it. Maybe it was that, despite being his enemy, the rebel had shown him nothing but amicable respect, and to the other two something Vader could almost call friendliness. And Vader saw the way Piett and Bridger interacted - less like soldiers on opposite sides of a war and more like a mentor advising and looking after an apprentice, Piett imposing life lessons and morals onto the young Jedi any chance he got. Veers, too, had taken to teaching the Padawan various combat moves and styles, which Vader had initially opposed, but… But, he supposed he, too, had developed a soft spot for the teen. 

Vader’s musings were cut short by the screen next to the operating table he was strapped to blinking to life, Sidious’ sharp yellow gaze suddenly on him. It made his skin crawl, the way those putrid, sulfurous eyes raked over him like a butcher assessing a peculiar cut of meat, vivisecting him where he lay, giving no mind to Vader’s still-racing heart.

“Ah, Lord Vader,” the Sith Master began, voice deceptively friendly.

It was for him, he could almost convince himself. He still cares.

“I hear your abilities have only gotten stronger, though your control still seems to be an issue, if this latest… incident is indicative of anything.”

Vader flinched, slightly. He knew exactly which ‘incident’ his Master was referring to - memories that weren’t his, experiences that he had stolen, still flashed through his head.

And yet, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to feel remorse. They had been rebels, enemies of the Empire, enemies of his Master, and as such Vader had been ordered to destroy them. And when Vader had come across them, a small battalion eating at their temporary camp in the woods, a hunger and a jealousy so intense and mind-consuming he had no name for it took him over. 

He didn’t remember reaching out in the Force, didn’t remember how he did what he did. All he remembered was the way a hundred thousand forgotten sensations had flooded through him the moment he connected with the first mind, the agonizing yet addicting influx of tastes and smells and textures and sights that he had been starved of for so long, stirring something deep within him, an awakening, a revolution, an internal apocalypse-

He didn’t remember how it had happened. Only that, at the end of it all, every single rebel and a couple of his own men lay unresponsive, their minds completely robbed of every memory, thought, and idea, everything, anything they had ever had. All of it was his, now, and for the first time, the very first time in all the time he could remember, he felt alive. 

The rebels were not dead, but they were hardly alive, either. Not only had Vader scraped out every aspect of what made them, them - but even as they lay there, he was still leeching off of them, parasitizing every new sensation and thought as they formed, and he knew that even if he left, he had done far too much damage.

The men would lie there until they died. Until they starved, or were overcome by the elements, or were dragged off by wildlife. 

He had killed them without thought, on impulse and instinct that felt far too ancient and impossible and ethereal to be his own, all without conscious decision on his part, and he could not bring himself to regret it.

Even as the rest of his troops doubled over, some with searing pain as they were caught in the fringes of his feeding frenzy, and others with horror and shock at the sight of a hundred men all silently and suddenly doubling over at the exact same moment, without any warning, laying catatonic where they fell, never to move again - even as he regained his senses, he had felt nothing but that still-raging emptiness deep within him. In mere moments he had lived a hundred lives that weren’t his own, loving and hating strangers with all his heart, singing, laughing, crying, cursing, fighting, dancing, grieving, breathing, being, and all the tyrannies and treasures of being alive-

But it had not been his. A hundred lifetimes in a hundred heartbeats. None of it was his. He had been alive only as long as they had been. 

He had never truly realized how hollow he was until he had gotten a taste of what they had. 

He wanted more.

No. He needed more.

He needed it with every fiber of his being, every cell in his body screaming out for it, every neuron and molecule and atom all crying out in unison, demanding to have that addictive sensation back, even if just for a moment-

His Master pulled back in the Force, and Vader recognized that the Sith Lord had been watching, peering through Vader’s eyes as the memory unfolded, observing.

“Fascinating,” the Sith Master breathed, eyes alight with interest and gleaming with that horrid look Vader had learned to associate with the painful, torturous experiments his Master was fond of. 

If Sidious saw the way his apprentice shrank in on himself, he didn’t comment, and instead the Emperor turned to the droids hovering around the room.

“Status report?” He prompted.

“Patient is functional,” the lead droid beeped. “Multiple skin lesions have become infected, but are responding well to antibiotics. No injuries were obtained during the latest mission.” The droid’s processors blinked for a moment.

“Debridement is necessary,” it said, sending Vader’s heart plummeting to his stomach as it skipped a beat, then began racing. His blood turned to ice in his veins as, unbidden, a whimper of fear escaped him. 

“Very well,” his Master said with a wave of his hand. “Perform the procedure.”

Then turning to Vader, Sidious tilted his head slightly, that ominous gleam still in his eyes.

“I will call you again once I have need of you,” he said, before the call cut out, leaving Vader alone with the droids as they began to prep the area for the procedure.

Breath coming in fast, shallow pants, his rapidly beating heart hammering in his chest, Vader began to struggle against the restraints. It was futile, he knew - he had struggled against these same binds countless times before. They partially cut off his access to the Force, and even if he could destroy the droids like his instincts screamed at him to do, he knew his Master would punish him and then supervise the procedure himself. 

He knew the old, fetid, putrid, necrose skin had to be removed - already, it had caused several infections, and every movement tugged at the sloughing skin which, while it itself could no longer feel pain, it tore at the still-living skin and flesh underneath. And yet, the way the droids did it was agonizing, and it always left him feeling tender and sore for days after. 

So, as the whirring of vibroscalpels reached its crescendo, Vader began to retreat. He called upon that Lonely Ghost, reaching deep within his psyche, and silently slipped into the Mindscape, ignoring the tortured screams that were no longer his own. 

Blinking open his draconic eyes, he was immediately greeted by the sight of a mop of grayish fur sprawled across the tip of his snout. 

With a low rumble of greeting, Vader eyed the disheveled feline figure, noting the ash and soot that coated the poor teen. Carefully reaching out with the Force, a surprisingly difficult feat in the Mindscape that he was gradually getting better at, he gently combed through the matted fur, removing all the soot and dust from every hair and inch of skin until the small form was back to the fluffy, pristine white it was supposed to be. 

“Thanks,” Bridger muttered sleepily, yawning as he blinked up at the slowly-rotating cloud of ash above his head, the ash that Vader had removed from his fur and now softly spun with the Force, a miniature nebulae that the tooka gazed up at in wonder, as of he really were staring at the birthplace of stars and not merely the debris Vader had removed from him.

“What have you done to get so filthy?” He chided, dispersing the cloud with a flick of his tail-tip, turning his attention back to the tooka still perched precariously on his snout, who seemed almost disappointed at the cloud’s absence, though the expression didn't linger for long.

“It’s not my fault!” Bridger protested as he rose to his feet, stretching in the way that cats did. “This is literally a volcanic hellscape, it’s impossible not to get dirty!” 

Vader exhaled through his nose, rousing puffs of cinders and soot that hovered in the air before finally settling once more.

Bridger turned to stare at the cloud of particles, then turned back to him as if to say see?

Perhaps the young rebel had a point, Vader could concede.

“Why are you on my nose?” He asked instead.

Ducking his head in a manner that Vader could only describe as embarrassment, the cat sniffed and began scratching at his ear. 

“Felt like it,” he muttered crossly. “It’s the least dusty area here.” 

The lie rang out like a bell, but Vader decided not to mention it. Ultimately, Bridger’s eccentricities mattered not, and Vader had more important things to do.

Like find Piett.

“Where-”

“Is Firmus? Dunno,” the tooka said with a yawn.

Vader narrowed his eyes at him.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with Piett?” He growled. 

“Why do you call your boyfriend by his last name?” The cat retorted, avoiding the question. 

“It is the name he prefers,” Vader retorted. “Therefore, it is the name I call him. It is the same with Veers, though he does not mind his first name nearly as much as Piett.”

“You never asked me which name I prefer,” Bridger said sullenly, hunched over in unhappiness.

Vader paused, ears flicking up in thought. 

“No, I suppose I haven’t,” he said slowly, contemplating and resisting the urge to tilt his head as he did so, lest he dislodge the sulking rebel who had chosen Vader’s snout as a bed.

He ignored the small flash of something that the notion inspired in him. He refused to show affection for a rebel, least of all a Jedi padawan rebel. 

“And what would your preferred name be?” He asked, merely out of curiosity, and nothing else. 

Absolutely nothing else.

The cat’s eyes brightened as their ears perked up, gazing at him with a surprised, yet pleased expression, and Vader once more resolutely ignored how he had to resist the urge to chitter encouragingly at the sight. 

“It’s Ezra,” the rebel, Ezra, said. “I prefer Ezra.”

“Very well,” Vader acquiesced, promising himself that it was a one-time thing, and that it was only because the rebel made Piett happy, and for no other reason did he agree. And, even if there were, hypothetically, another reason, it was most certainly not because the unhappy slump of the tooka’s shoulders twisted a part of Vader’s soul in a way he hadn’t thought possible. 

Absolutely not.

Vader let out a long sigh, closing his eyes, ignoring Ezra as he purred happily, turning in a tight circle before plopping back down on Vader’s snout with a contented mrrp!

He didn’t know how long the two of them simply lay there, listening to the sound of the wind blow through the rocky canyons and hills, and to the waves crash like thunder off in the distance. He wasn’t quite sure why the inky black ocean was there - there certainly weren’t any oceans on Mustafar, as far as he was aware - but the sound of the hissing, spitting tides as they raged against the stony shore was soothing nonetheless. 

The sound of pebbles skittering across rock had him peeling open his eyes to see Piett approaching, the ground-mouse exuding an air of joy and excitement. As if the eager anticipation were infectious, Vader found himself lifting his head and sitting up slightly, ears pricked, tucking his forelegs closer to his body. 

“Firmus!” Ezra meowed happily, raising his tail in greeting as he scrambled up Vader’s head, across his neck, down his shoulders, and then leaping off of his back onto the ground, another cloud of soot rising and enveloping the rebel. 

Vader huffed in annoyance as he saw that the tooka was, once again, more gray than white.

“Ezra,” Piett greeted, though he sounded less formal than usual - he seemed, in fact, to be in quite the good mood, as he even stopped to playfully bat at the tooka, to which Ezra excitedly began to play back. The two of them roughhoused in the ash, and Vader sighed once more as Ezra’s fur became dirtier and more tangled as they tussled. Not that he would do anything to stop them - they were having far too much fun for him to do that.

Eventually, the two broke off from each other, both of their pelts ruffled and coated in soot, but an air of exuberance around them.

“Piett,” Vader rumbled fondly, laying his head down to get closer to the small ground-mouse. As his powers grew, it seemed that his dragon form grew, too. Already, he was a good bit larger than he had been a year ago - where Piett had been the size of his eye, now he was the size of his nostril, and Vader was growing larger still.

“Love,” Piett greeted warmly, pressing himself against the soft scales of Vader’s snout. 

They basked in the contact for a long moment, Ezra wandering off to give them some privacy. 

“Where are you, right now?” Piett eventually asked. 

Frowning, Vader sunk into the Force, reaching back into the real world hesitantly. The Lonely Ghost was no longer screaming, but was that due to exhaustion, he wondered, or had the debridement finished?

Reaching farther, the sensation of warm bacta encompassed him - the procedure had finished, then, and he had been placed in his bacta tank to soak. 

“I am in my chambers, soaking,” he told his lover as he retreated back into the Mindscape, the phantom sensation of stinging pain lingering. “Death Squadron is on its way back to Axilla as we speak.”

Piett perked up at that. 

“You'll be here soon?” He breathed, his earlier excitement returning. 

“Within a few days,” Vader replied. “And, barring any sudden emergencies, I have reason to believe we shall have some downtime for the days after.”

The excitement Piett was radiating suddenly crescendoed, along with something that Vader couldn't quite place, but felt similar to exuberance nonetheless. 

“You seem rather excited about something,” Vader noted when his lover didn't respond.

“Ah, yes!” Piett squeaked, snapping out of whatever daze or daydream he had been in. “Love, it has come to my attention that a very important date is approaching.”

Vader froze, his mind racing as he frantically tried to figure out what Piett was talking about. 

Empire Day? No, that was in a few months. 

Piett’s birthday? No, that had been half a year ago.

Veers’ birthday? He didn’t even know when that was, so maybe-

Piett slumped, and Vader nearly flinched as guilt flooded him, but Piett only sighed in relief.

“Oh, thank the stars, I wasn't the only one who had forgotten,” Piett breathed out a laugh, and Vader relaxed at the realization that Piett was relieved rather than enraged.

“I'm afraid you will have to remind me,” Vader rumbled, wanting nothing more than to hear his lover’s voice.

“Our one-year anniversary,” Piett told him, his voice breathless with awe. 

His eyes widened.

“Has it truly been a year already?” Vader remarked, surprise coloring his tone.

“That's what I said, too, when Veers reminded me,” Piett chortled, wiping at his face with his paws. “And, I have something very special for you.”

A sudden jolt of panic electrified his veins with adrenaline and his head shot up, eyes widening.

“A gift- I did not get you anything,” he worried, tail beginning to lash, leaving deep scores in the blanket of ash where it dragged across the ground. 

“That's alright, love, truly - just being able to spend time with you is gift enough,” Piett tried to reassure, but Vader shook his head. 

“Unacceptable,” he growled. “You have deemed me worthy of a gift of some sort - therefore, I shall give you one as well. It is only fair.”

Piett seemed to sigh, though only an exasperated sort of fondness emanated from his presence. 

“I suppose you'll be busy with that, for a bit,” Piett said mildly, and Vader blinked down at him apologetically.

“We will see each other again soon,” he replies but it was a cold comfort - even as his mind raced with gift ideas, his heart ached at having to separate once more. But this was important. This was their anniversary, and while Vader couldn't quite remember all the nuance as to why that was important, he could recall that it was.

“I would gift you any star in the sky, should you ask,” Vader breathed, suddenly overcome by a rush of love for the figure gazing up at him with that same sense of longing and affection, an oasis of good in the desert of pain that was Vader’s life. 

Piett’s eyes widened comically and he let out a squeak. 

“Oh, please don't!” He cried. “Organizing my visit to my sister’s has been difficult enough, I can't imagine trying to manage an entire solar system!”

His sister's, Vader thought with a hum. That was yet another factor of a relationship that they had been robbed of - meeting each other’s families. Vader, unable to meet Piett’s side, because of who Vader was, and Piett, unable to meet Vader’s, due to his inability to remember who they were in the first place.

Oh, he knew they existed to some extent - on good days, when he felt more like himself, like a person, he could recall distant memories and sensations, words so faint they were unintelligible, garbled fragments of nonsensical conversations with people he did not know but who still haunted him. He'd catch glimpses, sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, glimpses of figures blurred so heavily that he could not make them out, but who carried with them a lingering sense of familiarity that, ironically, made them seem all the stranger.

He had known those people. They had known him. And yet they were no longer with him. Where were they, he wondered? What had happened to them? What had happened to him to make him forget? Were they ever real at all, or were they just fragments of his imagination taking liberties in filling in blanks with gibberish and nonsense? 

“I apologize, love,” Piett murmured softly, sorrowful, snapping Vader out of his ruminations. “I should not have mentioned my family. I know it upsets you.”

Vader shook his head. 

“It matters not,” he said, forcing all thoughts of the phantoms that haunted him out of his mind, focusing on the only thing that truly mattered to him. “The droids shall pull me from the bacta soon. I will heed your advice and attempt to rest.”

“I appreciate that,” Piett told him. “It means a lot to me.” 

Vader let out a low rumble of affection, lowering his head to delicately press his snout against Piett’s small body. 

“I… love you,” he said, warmth blooming in his chest as he felt Piett press against him to the best of his ability.

“I love you, too,” Piett breathed back. 

Reluctantly, Vader pulled away. 

“I shall go now. But, rest assured, next time I see you, I will have the greatest gift to give you,” Vader promised, and already he had an idea in mind - it wasn't the most grandiose, and indeed it was quite humble, but he knew that that was exactly how Piett preferred his things. Vader admired that in him - it was a trait they both shared.

“I know it will be,” Piett said with a smile. “If only because it is you giving me the gift.”

Vader crooned, touched, and with one last loving look at his partner, he pulled out of the Mindlink, already ruminating on the details of his planned gift even as he drifted into unconsciousness.

The days passed by both agonizingly slowly and far too quickly, as the time period Vader had to prepare his gift became ever shorter, yet despite his stress he still found himself wishing the time would pass faster if only so he could see Piett all the sooner. 

Eventually, however, the day arrived when Piett, Veers, and the rest of the personnel aboard the Lady returned from their leave. Vader was already waiting for them there in the hangar when the first shuttle landed and the people on board began to disembark. Most startled when they saw him, rapidly snapping into salutes or scuttling off if they thought he hadn’t noticed them, but he paid them no mind - he was here for one person, and one person only.

Finally, that one person emerged from the shuttle, uniform as pristine as always, posture straight but not rigid, expression stoic and professional. 

Vader tilted his head ever-so-slightly down at the man as he approached, but took care to not react in the way he truly wanted to - they had a façade to uphold, after all, and his Master’s spies were all over the ship. Already, he was risking quite a bit by coming to meet Piett, but it could be dismissed as Vader having an important matter to talk to his assistant about.

Upon seeing him, Piett’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly, and a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth - it was so subtle that Vader doubted anyone who didn’t know the man well would be able to see it. 

“My Lord,” he said politely as he stopped a safe distance away from him, head bowing in greeting - all proper etiquette for a favored officer to greet their superior with, but it still tormented him greatly. He wanted nothing more than to pull Piett into his arms right there and kill everyone who saw.

Alas, not only would such a thing undoubtedly alert his Master that perhaps something was amiss, but it would also likely upset Piett, and Vader despised causing his lover distress.

Vader turned and began walking, not a word uttered through the Mindlink as he moved towards the hangar exit, Piett dutifully falling in step just behind and to the left of him. 

Professional. Distant.

Safe.

He hated it.

The walk to his quarters was painfully slow, made even more so by the fact that he was forced to slow his pace so that Piett could keep up. Finally, after an eternity and a half, they made it, slipping inside with practiced ease, the door closing behind them.

Immediately, Piett relaxed, a wide, warm smile gracing his features, his eyes softening with affection. 

“Love,” he breathed. “I missed you.”

He reached out, a silent request to touch, and Vader moved forwards, allowing the man to lean against his chest. That was something they had been working on - learning that not all touch was meant to hurt him. 

“Is this alright?” Piett asked, his breath fogging up the armor of Vader’s chest. That was another thing they had been working on - consent, and more specifically, Vader learning he could refuse. 

Vader sent a wave of love and adoration over the Mindlink in response, leaning into the touch and radiating contentment in the Force. 

“How was your break?” Vader questioned, to which Piett hummed, eyes half-lidded.

“It was good,” he said. “I stayed with my sister and her nephew, and also spent some time with Veers and his son. Mostly, though, I just relaxed and read.” 

He smiled.

“Finally finished that story I’ve been telling you about,” he added.

Vader cocked his head.

“Whale Heart?” He guessed after a moment’s thought, and was rewarded when Piett’s smile widened as he nodded.

“Yes, it’s an excellent read,” Piett gushed. “The non-traditional layout of the story really made it stand out, and there were some parts that felt more like poetry than a chapter in a book, but that worked really well for it. It made me tear up a few times, too - it’s a very touching story.”

Vader nodded along, listening intently as Piett continued on, describing his favorite parts and aspects of the book, gesturing as he described the scenes he loved the most and his eyes lighting up when Vader asked a question regarding the characters or the plot. 

“-And the transformation is literal, in the story, but of course it’s an allegory for real-world diseases, more specifically cancer,” Piett finished, breathless. “I could go on for hours about this book. Em’ily H. Abeck is truly one of the greatest authors of our time.”

“Perhaps I should look into obtaining a signed copy, for you,” Vader offered. “A late anniversary gift, if you will.”

Piett’s eyes widened, then grew misty.

“You’d do that for me?” He whispered in a choked voice, sounding deeply touched.

“Of course,” Vader rumbled, raising his fist in promise. “I promised you the stars and planets. If you want the book, nothing shall get in my way.” 

He lowered his fist, leaning down slightly to press his forehead against Piett’s.

 “Anything for you,” he promised. 

Piett gave a wet-sounding chuckle, wiping away the tears of gratitude that glistened his eyes. 

“Just please try not to give my favorite author a heart attack,” he said. “I quite like her works and it’d be a shame if you sent her to an early grave.”

Vader nodded, and they simply held each other for a long moment.

“Oh!” Piett said suddenly. “I almost forgot! I have something for you, too.”

He pulled out a small bundle from his pocket, tenderly pressing it into Vader’s large hands. It was wrapped in a cloth bundle, tied with a small ribbon that Vader’s sensors told him was blue. 

With the Force, he gingerly untied the ribbon, undoing the bundle to reveal a small wooden bird figurine with glinting gems for eyes. It was beautiful, and heartfelt, and perfect in every way - Vader would treasure it eternally, if only because Piett deemed him worthy of a gift. He would have felt the same had Piett given him a literal blank scrap of flimsy, but it was obvious that a lot of thought had been put into the gift. 

“It’s japor wood,” Piett explained, shuffling almost nervously, and Vader realized he had simply been staring at the small figure in his hands. “I was told that it should survive a small explosion. I figured that it seemed like something you- you would like.”

Vader exhaled softly, running his thumb across its head and down its back reverently, awe and gratitude swelling within his chest and pricking his eyes with unshed tears.

“It is perfect,” Vader told him, pushing every emotion he felt through the Mindlink along with the words. “Especially because it seems we were of the same thought.”

Without looking away from Piett, Vader used the Force to open one of the drawers of his desk, floating the small metal statue he had crafted in the days prior over to Piett’s hands. 

Letting out a wet laugh, Piett cradled the second, larger bird figurine close to his chest, rubbing his hands across the metal body and wire frame. It had taken Vader many failed attempts to get it right, especially considering his hands no longer had the fine motor control necessary to actually craft the gift, and as such he had relied on the Force. Still, seeing Piett beam at the gift made all the time and effort worth it, as did the careful yet joyous hug Piett gave him after. 

“It’s- It’s wonderful,” Piett breathed, eyes shining. 

“I am… pleased you think so,” was all Vader could think to say. 

Piett remained quiet for a moment, smiling softly down at the gift before he seemed to remember something, his gaze snapping to Vader’s as a wave of something Vader couldn’t quite name flooded the Force.

“Oh, there’s one more thing,” he said, gingerly setting the metal bird on Vader’s desk, giving it one last gentle pat on the head before turning towards Vader’s meditation pod. Placing his own gifted bird figurine right next to the other, Vader followed, and blinked in surprise as he saw that the usual seat he used while in the chamber had been replaced with an odd sort of table, though it didn’t resemble any sort of table Vader was familiar with. It appeared cushioned, for one, and it had a dip in the center as well as a dip in the middle of the head cushion. 

“I had Medic Kix help me set this up,” Piett began to explain, shuffling nervously as Vader approached the table. “It’s just temporary - your seat will be put back after we’re done.”

Vader turned to Piett, tilting his head in silent question. Piett only coughed, seeming embarrassed. 

“There’s a special mixture of oxygen in the air right now,” he continued. “Enough so that you can breath with only a supplemental mask, but not too much so that it’d make me sick. We can- We can spend time here, together. With you not in the suit.”

Vader’s heart did an odd flip at the thought, and he found that he liked that idea very much.

“So…” Piett continued, grinning slyly, though Vader could still sense the faint embarrassment his lover was trying to mask. “Would you like a massage?”

He gestured to a large container labeled ‘bacta lotion’, still grinning. 

A nervous sort of anticipation thrummed through Vader’s veins. He had never done such a thing before, at least, not that he could remember. He wasn’t too certain as to what a massage entailed, but he trusted Piett, and he could sense how much Piett wanted to do it. And so, he smiled back, ignoring both the painful tug it caused at the corners of his mouth and the fact that Piett could not see it through the mask. 

“I would love nothing more,” he said.

[noblebluebird]

How to Paint a Stained Glass Window on Canvas.

Ft. Princess Peach

I took a college class on Scene Painting once, and as our final project, we had to apply everything we learned and make a stained glass window out of canvas and paint.

We could copy any design we wanted, and I chose to do the Princess Peach stained glass window from the games.

Since I had a lot of fun making it, let me show you the process.

First, we divided the canvas into squares that are all the same size. 6 vertical squares and 4 horizontal squares. Do the same thing with the reference photo and then copy the lines using charcoal.

Next, you lightly brush off the charcoal, enough to still see the lines lightly and trace over them with Sharpie.

For this art piece, we needed to have a curtain as a part of the piece. What you want to do first is pick the base color you want to use. Then you get it in a shade that is lighter and darker than the original (mixing in white and black, respectively). You want to mimic the texture of curtains through your brush strokes and the shades of colors you use. The only advice I have for this is to follow the lines of the fabric and keep working on it until it feels right. Try alternating between the dark, original, and light paint. That's what I did.

Next is the color for the glass. This part is basically like a paint-by-number but with a twist. Since this is supposed to be a stained glass window, we want to be able to see through the canvas when there is light behind it. So, the paint has to be diluted with water. Also, we are not allowed to use the color white since it will block out the light. So, if you want a lighter color, you need to add a lot more water that paint. And if you want it darker, more paint than water. It is basically watercolors at this stage.

And let me tell you, it is super hard to get the right shade of pink from plain red paint and water. But, I did it.

After painting in color, you will want to go over the sharpie lines with black paint to make them stand out better.

Then, the final thing is to get some heavily diluted dark purple paint to create a shadow between the curtain and the stained glass window. Also, it is a good idea to make some thin shadow lines on the curtains and some gold tassles for decor.

And here is the final product:

This took me weeks of hard work, but it was so much fun and very therapeutic. I am still very proud of the final product.

If someone gave the materials and money for it, I would definitely want to do this again.

Now you can try this at home! Good luck!

[lord-shitbox]

part 2 of this ask

📝Process for hurt mezu drawing 

here are the steps i dug out of an art server's wips channel lol

1. initial sketch

2. refine sketch. thats lines now babey. (omitted "the sleeves are KILLING ME WAHHH" stage that led to this)

3. grayscale, to use with gradient map (this is a more polished grayscale than I started with, i dug the working file out to get better images)

4. find nice gradient map (ended up being the same one I'd used for the piece i made right before. the goal is to make what's essentially an underpainting, not to color the whole thing with one map)

5. tweak and add colors that arent in the map with hard light layers & also sneak in a layer for special effect and atmospheric/ scenic perspective while you're at it

6. shading & more finishing effects. pretty much all of the shading was done with hard light layers! the only non-hard light layers I used for the shading were the particle effect layers & like one faint glow layer to fix some values. blood was done with linear burn

✨Inspiration for hurt mezu drawing 

the coloring method (grayscale -> saturated gradient map underpainting -> additive color adjustments) is something I tried out with the piece i'd made right before (the one where gozu is holding mezu from behind) & turned out really well, so I wanted to keep going with it

I also wanted to draw them angstily again because it'd been a very long time. like half a year at least. angsting them is very enriching for my soul so I try to do it regularly, this one was overdue

subconsciously referenced the poses in the initial sketch from this old thing (feb 2021). i love doing this. all my for-fun works recycle old elements in some way. my favorite game is "what old art reminds me of what im doing rn" im so good at digging stuff out of my archives for it. everyone loves when i do this

the gangi-kozou panel also

i went through a "shade in bold red-orange & dark blue with hard light layers" phase in like..april/may of 2021. i still like that stuff a lot so I wanted to revisit it

💚Things you like about hurt mezu drawing

repasting the link there but the sixth image in the process is essentially the final so you can just look at that

the colors are nice!! I'm real happy with using more saturated colors n I think the warm vs cool balance works really well

the sleeves (man being dramatic on the sand meme)

no like fr look at the 2021 piece's kimono sleeves vs the one I just did 2.5 years later. so satisfying

Gozu's expression came out nice

i think the claws and flash lines successfully added Emphasis to Gozu's expression & the piece overall

the poses … the drama …. the brush textures are also good

⏳Things you’d do differently with hurt mezu drawing

add in a liiitle more contrast...aka use a wider range of values. Some lighter lights and darker darks. I miss my 2021 hard neon lighting

a bit more distinction between the characters and the background also

the composition isn't bad but it could be better. Should've thought more about the way the eye would flow around the image in the drafting stage (solid b&w color block thumbnails are good for this)

Moar Sparkles. (I put a solid amount of large & low opacity light bubbles in there & some finer brighter dots especially around the claw stems, but I think more clusters of tiny bright lights on the characters themselves would've gone hard)

💌Some favourite feedback on art

as the wise man Austin Kleon once said: keep a "praise file" of all the positive feedback you get (if you've never read "Steal Like an Artist," you must). so. i am prepared for this question hold on

tastes like sugar glass

multiple people have told me my art is soft & dreamlike

jayce you reblogged my touchstarved art with nice tags on april 10th ive got that saved love uou

umm theres a lot...anytime someone keysmashes or feels emotional because of my art i get happy ,,, lys messaged me about the hurt mezu piece that made me happy also,,,,,there is so much joy in the world

[vedantsart]

The Creation of Kali Purush: A Battle of Light and Darkness

In the heart of my latest painting lies a vivid narrative, capturing the eternal struggle between good and evil. Titled Kali Purush, this artwork explores the essence of Kalyug's biggest demon, depicting his destructive nature while intertwining themes of hope and spirituality.

Inspiration Behind the Painting

The concept of Kali Purush represents the dark forces that control humanity, embodying negativity and chaos. However, within this dark narrative, I sought to illuminate a glimmer of hope—showing that despite the overwhelming presence of evil, there are still individuals who cling to faith and humanity.

Materials Used

Creating this painting required a variety of materials to convey the depth and complexity of the theme:

Charcoal: The primary medium used for shadows and the ominous figure of Kali Purush. Its rich, dark texture allows for deep contrasts and subtle gradations.

Palette Knife: This tool was essential for creating sharp, defined lines and dramatic highlights, particularly in the depiction of divine light and energy.

Canvas: A sturdy canvas provided a solid foundation for layering the various techniques.

Eraser and Blending Tools: Used to soften edges and create depth, allowing the darkness to flow seamlessly into the brighter elements of the painting.

Methods and Techniques

Sketching the Outline: The process began with a rough sketch of Kali Purush, outlining his form and the surrounding elements. This initial step set the stage for the narrative.

Layering with Charcoal: I layered the charcoal to create depth, emphasizing the shadowy features of Kali Purush. The use of varied pressure allowed for different tonal values, giving him a menacing presence.

Applying Knife Techniques: Using a palette knife, I sculpted the light that breaks through the darkness. The knife allowed for precise application of white and lighter shades, creating a stark contrast against the dark background. This technique not only defined the light but also symbolized the divine energy protecting humanity.

Focusing on Humanity: In the foreground, I depicted a few hopeful figures standing together, representing those who maintain their faith. I used lighter hues and softer strokes to highlight their resilience against the overpowering darkness.

Creating the Balance of Light and Darkness: The final touches involved balancing the chaotic energy of Kali Purush with the serene hope of the light. This was achieved through strategic placement of both elements, ensuring that the viewer’s eye is drawn to the struggle and the faint glimmer of hope.

Final Thoughts

The painting Kali Purush is not just a visual representation of mythological themes; it is a reflection of our own reality, where darkness often looms large but is countered by the enduring light of hope and spirituality.

Creating this piece was an enriching experience, blending traditional techniques with a modern interpretation of ancient themes. The struggle depicted serves as a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, the light of humanity and faith can guide us through.

Through this artwork, I invite viewers to reflect on their own battles between light and darkness and to recognize the divine strength that resides within us all.

[poeblissorton]

Book cover trial process

These were the brush settings I used for the pen tool and the smudge tool. I prefer to use textured brushes, and having more texture would suit the style of this drawing. It adds grit and depth, rather than the surface looking smooth and shiny. Compared to my parrot mascot, the style is very different, so I changed my rendering style to match this.

The smudge tool was very useful for this piece and created most of the effects I was aiming for. It has many different settings to change its impact on the lines put down. I mainly changed the strength, keeping it between 50-100%. The strength changed how much it would pull or push the colour. Since it is a smudge tool, it pulls and pushes the colour around as if it were being smeared by a finger. Unlike a blend or blurring tool, which mixes colours together. However, I chose a wet brush setting so that the colours will still mix together with the smear tool. You can also change the angle of the brush, but I didn’t find this tool necessary and I didnt understand it well enough to change the settings.

To start, I painted a sky background with the moon in the sky. I wanted there to be the moon directly behind the parrot model, to direct interest to it. Since the contrast between the bright light of the moon and the shadows casted on the model will create more direction from the viewer’s eyes towards it, as it stands out from the background.

I added the ocean in the background. I wanted to highlight that the parrot is further away than Mariela thinks, so adding the ocean in teh background whilst the flying ship is in the sky highlights the distance between Mariela and her goal. This foreshadows the story very slightly, whilst also looking more interesting. I used it to accentuate the bright light emitted by the moon, which would be casted on the parrot model. Having the moonlight be casted on the ocean shows how vibrant the light is.

Looking back on this, I should have used a reference. Not that it is particularly inaccurate, however it would’ve sped up the process and I would have gotten colours more accurate.

I also added ‘TREASURE ISLAND’ written with the pen tool as a placeholder for the text, to gauge where I would place it. I was somewhat conflicted on this, since I think the text is still too small compared to the subject, making it less readable from further away. This would quickly lose the attention of the audience.

i need to add more photos of this painting uugughghhh

I finished the lineart from the previous drawing, and filled in the colours. I used this linework because we were advised to use work we had already created, rather than creating new drawings. I was grateful for this objective since it meant I could use something I had already been actively working on and put it to use instead of being extra artwork. I have done this in previous projects such as my Year 1 FMP, and it was very useful.

I started to shade the parrot. I used a desaturated dark blue to shade, and I used a multiply layer to create the desired shadow colours. Additionally, in the face area, I used a dark red rather than blue. I preferred how the warmth in the face looks compared to the blue. As well as this, the face includes the darkest tones of the model, and the blue would muddy these colours and make the features unreadable. Using a warm red still keeps the shadows, but compliments the warmth of the brown so that it doesn’t overpower it.

I used the pen tool to draw where the shadows would be, and the harsh edges were feathered with the smudge tool to create the look of realistic shadow being casted across the surface. I really like the textured edge this gives.

Here, I added another layer of shading with the same blue colour on a multiply layer. On this layer, I kept the opacity higher to make sure it was darker. I used this in areas in which light hit less, to create more depth. I also used it to highlight the curves of the metal and create a more three dimensional look.

I added some highlights with a light yellow on an add layer. I kept the opacity of this low, since I wanted the main light source to come from the moon. But I used this yellow to again accentuate the shapes and curves of the metal.

Additionally, I used a light blue on an overlay layer to create some darkness on the model. The very warm blue makes the model look like it doesn’t belong in the scene, so adding this darkness makes it fit in against the background since the hues are more desaturated, matching the night sky.

I added another multiply layer, but I regret doing this. On desktop, because of the slight glare on the screen, the colours appear different and might lighter. Therefore, on an iPad screen which can be directed away from the sun, the colours look much darker, which was not my intent.

I created a loose amount of bounce light. Bounce light is different reflections of light that come from the colours of our surroundings. Due to being near the ocean and under the night sky, I added some blue bounce light. However I didnt want this to be too harsh since the scene takes place at night.

I started to add the light coming from the moon, but I could have done this more effectively. I could have made it more obvious as bright light, using a less soft edge for the light.

[ai-pencil-sketch]

Free Online Platform to Instantly Generate Pencil Sketch

Generating a pencil sketch is an intricate process that merges technical skill with artistic intuition. This form of drawing, grounded in the fundamental principles of line, form, and shading, enables artists to capture the essence of their subjects with a simple yet profound medium. The creation of a pencil sketch involves several key stages: preparation, sketching, detailing, shading, and final touches. Each stage is essential to developing a compelling and lifelike representation.

1. Preparation and Material Selection:

The journey of creating a pencil sketch begins with preparation and selecting the right materials. High-quality sketching paper, often textured and slightly rough, provides a good surface for pencil work, allowing for smooth strokes and effective shading. Graphite pencils come in a range of hardness levels, from H (hard) to B (soft). Hard pencils like 2H or 4H produce lighter, finer lines suitable for initial outlines, while softer pencils like 2B or 6B create darker, richer lines ideal for shading and detail. Additionally, an eraser, blending stump, and a pencil sharpener are essential tools that facilitate refinement and correction throughout the process.

2. Initial Sketching:

With materials in hand, the first step is to create a basic sketch. This involves lightly drawing the subject using a hard pencil. The goal is to outline the fundamental shapes and structure of the subject, whether it’s a portrait, still life, or landscape. The initial sketch should be kept light and loose to allow for adjustments and corrections. Focus on proportions and spatial relationships, establishing a framework that guides the subsequent detailing. This phase is crucial as it sets the foundation for the entire sketch, and accuracy here ensures a well-composed final result.

3. Adding Details:

Once the basic outline is established, the next step is to refine and add details. This involves switching to softer pencils, which are better suited for capturing intricate textures and features. At this stage, observe the subject closely to incorporate key details such as facial expressions, textures of surfaces, and distinct patterns. Pay attention to the finer aspects, such as the subtle variations in light and shadow, which contribute to the overall realism of the sketch. Detailing requires patience and precision, as these nuances bring depth and character to the drawing.

4. Shading and Tonal Value:

Shading is a critical element in pencil sketching that adds dimension and depth. Start by applying light, even strokes to build up the basic tonal values. Gradually increase the pressure and use softer pencils to develop deeper shadows and contrast. Effective shading involves creating smooth transitions between light and dark areas, which is achieved through blending. Use a blending stump, tissue, or even your fingers to blend graphite smoothly, ensuring that the tonal gradients are seamless. The direction of your shading strokes should align with the light source to accurately reflect how light interacts with the subject.

5. Final Touches and Refinement:

As the sketch nears completion, step back to assess the overall composition and make any necessary adjustments. Enhance contrasts where needed to improve the visual impact of the sketch. Refine edges to sharpen details and clean up any stray marks or smudges. An eraser can be used not only to correct mistakes but also to create highlights and bring out finer details by lifting graphite from the paper.

6. Preservation:

To preserve the integrity of your pencil sketch, consider using a fixative spray to prevent smudging and protect the artwork from environmental damage. Store the sketch in a protective sleeve or frame it behind glass to ensure it remains in pristine condition.

[yuandgames]

pt. 1: managing lighting

The Volcano project in UE5 is finally done and I want to share some details.

My biggest excitement (as well as difficulty) happen to be lighting. The day cycle, to be precise.

The idea behind this was pretty simple: the Sun goes down fast and you have to be faster as you never know what happens in the dark.

Most of the location is an open space island. It's easy to light everything. But there's also a cave inside old volcano that has to have some additional lighting.

So there're some things I did to find the solution.

Directional light rotation Blueprint.

I went for a simple yet effective way to rotate Sun without any additional plugins. I know that adding night sky would be great, but in this project I needed night to be the darkest. Also, I used delta seconds bc my Mac Studio would make Day eternally long with its 18 fps (yeah, cool, right).

2. Adding Volumetric fog using Niagara VFX.

The volcano crater is the key for the softer are more game-like lighting in the cave. The fog not only provides shade but also makes the space look more pretty and limited as you still can't see the outside.

Here's a small time-lapse. (also! take a closer look to find water drops falling from the crater also made with Niagara VFX).

View from the outside:

3. Using Post-process volume

I turned autoexposure off and added Post-process volume with exposure compensation. This has two main purposes: firstly, the room slowly gets brighter as you enter it and secondly, the central part of the cave that is always more or less lighted doesn't look overexposed.

I experimented with blend weight and radius finding perfect solution.

4. Decals and Light functions

I was so curious how to lighten a room without adding ‘artificial’ lighting as my setting is an inhabited island. I knew I needed some light but it has to be very delicate.

I went for decals with emissive color material. At first it looked a bit messy but then appeared pretty and very much similar to my “glowing in the dark moss” reference. I put several decals variating size and rotation on the 'ceiling' so it's not accessible to the player.

I made texture in Photoshop and it's basically just a number of dots. And I chose electric blue color.

This is the final result:

Then caustics. I added them at first solely for more lively atmosphere but then they turned out to be a great lighting solution. The vegetation that received caustics looked more life-like.

I made a light function applied to a spotlight. For the material I took a simple caustics texture and added some movement with paner. And I did it three times. Here's how it looks like:

And the result (it looks greater in the timelapse above):

So, here it is. I think I'll be writing part two soon as it's very helpful for me as an author because turning your ideas into visual project and then describing it with text helps to concentrate more on details and also fights with my severe impostor syndrome helps me appreciate my own work.

Thanks everyone who reads this <3

[lesbiantalks]

Beginners problems in art

I am looking for courses to improve my drawings, I am browsing through books. One of the books I liked is pretty basic and it feels that it was written for the beginner, but by a person who is very proficient in the profession, so advice placed on the page are basically: “Draw that like me, put a shadow here, sketch everything you see, you got this”.

What would I appreciate more:

- How to frame the view around me, so sketch will be composed better. Cause it is a misconception that reality is composed well. Even when you are taking photos, you need to find a good shot and of course, you need to clean it a bit, erase some stuff from background.

- Some angles are more common in drawing than others, and it is not easy to get at first. If you really look on still lifes, for example vases are usually placed straight and you can’t see the inside of them, but coffee cups are quite often are drawn a little from top, so you can actually see the beverage inside.

- To find good references that push you forward, you need to collect a lot of them and systematize them to doable and undoable. Then you need to select a good proportion of different topics - shapes, light and shadows, work with color (how in eerie and dark images you need to distinguish between a lot of shades of gray, for example), anatomy, animals, plot and composition. I would be glad to have assistance in that process, and usually teachers provide that, they help you to develop a versatile overview of techniques and forms. When you are self-taught by books, you need to rely on your own background. I have some of that, but I can’t find a book that dives in into that. Honestly, most of them just go “Draw everything around you!”.

- “Just draw everything you want” is good when you are surrounded by art for a valid chunk of time. And it is not about museums. I did a lot of that, but you need to actually redraw these paintings to really understand them. And also, you need a lot more than that - you need to know the story behind, the techniques, the limitations of time. So you logically turn to modern artists, you try to find different approaches, you start searching for travelers, for less known artists, for photo reports from galleries, and then - then your mind really start giving you ideas. You can’t generate ideas out of plain air. You need to know it beforehand, to be familiar with it.

- The reason though why they insist to turn to your life is that from some level of skill, the main thing is your own vision. Vision is everything, your experience is unique and your sensing of world around is what every other artist wants to know about. You want to see your colleagues to share more that inner magic and inner self and therefore, this advice is a constant component of every guide. Funny, that in writing where I am not so focused on my skills, cause I am somewhere on intermediate stages, I really take inspiration from that advice and I am pretty sure that I said it a lot of time to a lot of beginners. :) When they just needed some help with literally descriptions or character introducing, I would be like “Be yourself!” >) Cause really, the technicalities will come in time, yes.

- How hard should it be? How much do I need to push myself? Should I get every drawing to perfection? Should I try to do complex works? Should I try to mix materials and approaches? Should I try to draw people everyday? No one can tell you that. You need to rely on your instincts. Or on study group. But it is confusing, I can tell. I want to draw everything - a fantasy about mouse family tucked in their beds, a serious sketch with dreamlike dark forest, a replica of portraits of one of the artists I love, I want to try the textures of shells, I want to draw the slices of fruit in watercolor, I want to fill in my sketchbook with doodles and comics, with citations from songs, with random sketch on the train. I want all of that and I am just sorry I can’t do it all simultaneously. I haven't found a book yet that encourages that passion.