#this is that art that was supposed to be nothing more than a quick sketch

[luffysprincess]

Mr. And Mrs. Midoriya go on a fall date!! ᡣ𐭩

+ a photographer though we looked adorable together so they came up to us and asked if they could capture some sweet moments between us ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

[melancholyhigh]

ARTWORK

ft. leon x artist!reader

synopsis. you're an artist, and leon's your muse.

content. 1.5k words. fluff, smut. nude painting, leon's pov, needy leon, praise kink, masturbation, handjob.

note. this was j supposed to be fluff but i got ahead of myself.

masterlist. i love your guy's feedback :3

“Paint me like one of your French girls.”

You laugh at Leon’s statement. He’s perched on the small, green couch in your home art studio, wearing nothing but his pink, fluffy robe as you prepare your oil paints. 

“You’re my first French girl, Leon.”

–-

You had suggested painting him nude while you were both in bed, lazing around. You’re in each other’s hold, Leon’s arms around your waist and face on your chest when he asks about any new projects you had in mind. 

He loves hearing about what art piece you were doing or planned to do. It was how you expressed yourself, whether there was a deeper meaning or none at all. He found it beautiful. Every work you do it had a bit of your personality in it. He could tell your work from thousands by the intricate details they carry. 

When you told Leon you wanted to paint him, he wasn’t too surprised. You mentioned he was your favourite thing to draw or think of when you had art block. The admission had left him sputtering, his face red as he tried to get his words out.

On the third date, you showed him your sketchbook, pages littered with drawings and portraits of him. Some were quick sketches, while other’s looked like you took time to get every detail of him. 

You’re always on my mind, Leon. You had confessed. Was it a little creepy? At that moment, flipping through the drawings of him, the attention to detail they held, he’d say it was romantic.

People have always said he was pretty as a picture, yet you’re the only one that makes his heart beat faster and his tummy fill with butterflies when you say he’s the type of gorgeous you’d find in a painting. 

“A nude painting,” you specify. It was as if you told Leon he was the object of your affection for the first time again. His head buries into your chest, trying to hide his flushed face. You smile at his sudden bashfulness. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, baby.” You run your fingers through his soft hair. “I want to try something new, but it’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“‘S fine, angel. But can’t you use a picture?”

“Where’s the fun in that, pretty boy.”

He groans, muffled by your shirt, and you giggle. 

He loves to please you — in more ways than one — and nothing compares to the smile that graces your face, so he agrees. It’s not like Leon’s uncomfortable with you looking at him bare and vulnerable. There were other problems he was worried would interrupt your craftwork. 

–-

Leon leans back into the couch, doing just as you instructed. His bare back hits the soft cushioning, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. 

His robe is off, on the floor next to your easel. He rests his chin on his hand, supported on the arm of the couch.

He’s nervous. You said it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but this almost feels more intimate than being intertwined with you in bed.

Maybe it’s the gaze you hold when you’re analysing him, grasping the compositions and layering basic shapes onto the canvas. 

He can’t help but think of when you told him he’s your favourite canvas to mark up. Sucking the reddish marks into his skin which turn the prettiest shade of purple, as you like to put it. Or when you said the colour on his cheek was your favourite shade of pink.

You always did like to rile him up, muttering the filthiest things to him in the most mundane setting, just like right now. 

“Spread your legs wider, Leon.” You mumble in a casual tone as if you don’t know the implications of your own words. You’re so engrossed with getting your work right you probably don’t.

It’s so fucking sexy seeing you in your element. Your brows pinched together, and your face serious with concentration. 

He obediently listens to you, parting his legs wide, and the problem he wishes wouldn’t happen is currently hardening between his thighs. You don’t notice, mixing paints to ensure it's the correct shade. 

You’re probably 30 minutes into painting, and he’s already hard. You said you’d take a while to finish, and he could tap out whenever he wants to, but he doesn’t want to disappoint. 

Finally, you’re looking up from the canvas and towards Leon. Your brows quirked up in surprise when trying to examine his features, studying the curve of his nose and the sharpness of his jawline to imitate on the canvas. His face is pink, the shade you know and adore so much. 

Your eyes trail down his body, his dick fully erect, slapping against his stomach. Your gaze is on his face again with a smirk on your lips.

He knows, you know, he’s rock-hard simply from the glances you take at him and the words you mutter. His lashes flutter, and he moves his hand to cover his face while the other is shamefully obscuring his cock.

“Be a good boy, and don’t move, Leon. I want to make sure everything looks good.” You say, and he thinks you aren’t going to acknowledge his 7-inch problem.  

“Oh, and make sure your pretty dick is hard for me, okay, baby?” You go back to your painting, trying to hide your smug expression.  

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows his nerves, but he relents, going into position, not before giving his cock a firm squeeze. 

“Don’t cum too, okay? I want to be the one making you cry.”

A few hours pass, and Leon is on the verge of tears. He listened to what you said, only providing himself with enough stimulation to keep his cock hard but not enough to tip him over the edge into bliss. 

Precum leaks from the head down to the shaft. His dick is red and spent. He wants nothing more than for you to stop painting and make him cum.

“I’m almost done. You’ve been such a good boy for me, baby.” 

Your words are almost enough to make him spill his cum over the expensive fabric of your eccentric couch. 

You’re adding the finishing touches to the painting with each stroke, making sure you get the placement of each mole or freckle correct and each vein of his cock following to the tip right. 

You swear he belongs in a museum. No art can replicate how beautiful he truly is.

“I’m done.” You sigh, moving to get up to rid your skin of paint. 

After rinsing yourself off the paint, you make your way to Leon. You get comfortable in a seat on the couch right next to him. He’s breathing heavily in anticipation, looking up at you through his long lashes. Pretty, pink lips parted as pretty gasps left him. 

You cup his face, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft as you move your lips slowly in unison. He breathes out your name when you pull away. One of your hands moves to his throat, softly squeezing. Leon whimpers, his hands moving to hold your waist.

“Good job, baby. You didn’t cum once. I know it hurts, but I'm going to make you feel better,” you whisper, softly kissing his flushed forehead. 

Your hand moves to his pulsing cock, and gives it a soft squeeze, relishing the whine Leon lets out. Your touch sends goosebumps along his skin, and he plants his head into the crook of your neck. 

His hips eagerly buck into your hold. He’s practically sobbing into your neck, his soft hair tickling the underside of your jaw. You rest your chin on top of his head, smelling the fragrance of his shampoo. 

You thumb the slit on the tip of his cock, using his precum as a lubricant to start moving your hand back and forth on his shaft. 

You start at a slow pace. You don’t want Leon cumming quickly, wanting to enjoy every cry and whimper. 

The soft shlick noise of you jerking Leon’s cock fills the room with his desperate cries. He pulls back away from the crook of your neck, tears flowing down his blushing face.

“Please, please, please, g– go faster, angel. I’ve been such a good boy for you. Let me cum, please.”  He pleads, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes. His hips rutted frantically into your palm. How could you deny your boy?

“Okay, pretty baby. Cum for me.” You say softly, picking up the pace of jerking him off.

He whimpers loudly, thighs quivering lightly as his orgasm crashes and hot spurts of his cum spill onto your hand. He’s panting, dazed with lust and staring at you with what seems like hearts in his eyes. 

“T- thank you, thank you, s’much.” Leon gasps like a broken record, and you think he’s fucked himself dumb with your hand.

You peck his lips, effectively shutting him up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up so I can show you my favourite artwork yet.”

[hools]

Sorry if this is a weird question, but how do you come up with your drawings? What does through your mind while making them? I find your compositions so gorgeous and intriguing but I can't really figure out how you approach things since everything's very shifty and abstract. It's really gorgeous work, I'm so glad I discovered your art :,)

hey first of all this isnt a weird question at all & i'm really glad you enjoy my art heheheheheehe. there's an incoming large largely unformatted block of text that i hope you dont mind!

Honestly there are a billion things going through my mind at a time while I'm drawing and they all sort of bump into each other and cancel each other out like opposing particles. If you've seen any of my streams i'm usually very fast and iterative in a lot of my process and i rarely ever slow down even past the early parts like thumbnailing and sketching. i kind of let my hands do the talking more, yknow? but even then theyre never talking about a single thing at a time. everything interacts with everything, which is probably why i always end up getting lost and meandering. composition is not independent from color & value and neither are they from texture and perspective. its hard thinking of all of the ways they mesh and react to one another so i spend less of my energy thinking and more of it doing, and then assessing once something interesting comes about it. i guess then i prioritize my Hand Movement Actioning and Eye Vision Seeing over my Brain Neuron Assessing. but even though iterations can come and go quick this kind of informed throwing-against-the-wall isn't really the Fastest. but its fun. and you get to stuff all the unused ideas in your pocket for later.

even though i did say how connected everything is i always seem to start with composition. it kind of affects and informs everything the most at least on an individual piece level. with thumbnails & composition in general i think youre supposed to think huge right. so i Always think huge. push everything as much as you can. start with a crazy angle (not necessarily angle meaning "perspective" but like an angle between two lines) and border your scene within it. take an already steep foreshortening and steepen it further with the transform tool & see what shapes form from the empty & filled space. shrink your subject to only fit 3/4ths of the canvas and build around it to make it work. blow things up (enlargen) and blow things up (remove & obliterate). with composition you have so much room for fuckery if you give yourself the grace to accept the fuckiness.

and i guess this freedom to fuck around and iterate and build and build and build upon comes from how most of the time my initial ideas are very. vague? abstract like you've said. sometimes its Just a song or a song lyric and nothing else (no characters to attach to just the feel and my gut). sometimes its a less than 5 word phrase i felt strongly about throughout the day. in my me-only discord server i have messages in #to-draw channel that just say shit like "something about guitar straps" "thanks for knowing me!" "angel don't look at me" "DITHER QUEEN" (<-been meaning to make something with that). for things that have specific guidelines i spend more time thinking conceptually (the "rare animal" coelacanth drawing being an example) but otherwise it mostly comes out after. again. the first strokes. after you put the meat and bones on the canvas. an artist at a workshop i was at last year when i was in my own head about Needing to have a fleshed tangible Profound concept before being able to start something told me not to underestimate the stories that can be told just by your hands. and i think thats what stuck with me the most.

& one last thing i wanna mention is how despite how much i revel in the chaos of the process ive found how important limits are. i don't like cutting back on everything but i like cutting back on some things. sometimes i cut out backgrounds for solid fills and i love them that much more. sometimes i have little subconscious rules in a piece that i try not to break to keep a little level of consistency. if somethings a big wonderful mess already then i love a limited pallet and i love keeping parts empty and i love being able to breathe a little. yknow. but still go over the top in the other parts you have so much permission to. less is more but have a little more in your art than less. YKNOW?

but yeah thanks again for your kind words and wanting to listen to me talk. i havent been drawing much at all so these arent too fresh on the mind but i think i got a lot of what i wanted to say out. i hope u and others can get things out of this! if i made any sense <3

[deletarius-draws]

A sketch composition of Solus Aximand (one of Tavs) during his time as a mercenary and gladiator. Nicknamed "Mountain Dog of the Pits".

Everyone else are faces he used to work with at the stage of his life as a "Critmin" Gladiator and Mercenary.

It’s a quick concept art piece that’s meant peek into Solus’ more chaotic lifestyle, to serve as imagery for a section of his backstory. I wanted to provide quickly sketched imagery along with some character lore and bios, so it’s not just words. That aside I’ll go ahead and get into a condensed version of Solus Aximand’s background, more so his Mercenary arc, before his joining into the Monk Monastery.

Solus' time as a mercenary was miserably grueling and filled with perpetual battles. He would push himself to his limits, spurred by the desire to never feel weak or vulnerable again. His survival guilt and determination to become a capable warrior would fuel his relentless training and combat efforts.

Solus struggled with the immoral actions of the mercenary group. Often finding himself at odds with their ruthless methods, leading to internal conflict and a sense of isolation.

Due to their moral and personality differences Solus would maintain a professional distance from his fellow mercenaries, seeing them as nothing more than necessary allies rather than friends. He would avoid forming close bonds, fearing betrayal and further emotional pain.

Solus' intensive militaristic training by his uncle Nemeus and determination would earn him respect, but his reluctance to fully embrace the ways of The Critmin Mercenaries made him a target of suspicion and distrust.

Solus' develops feelings for Kharmine. The female human barbarian that found him. He would be drawn to her strength and resilience, seeing her as a beacon of hope and stability in his chaotic life. But this is an unrequited Love.

Despite his deep affection, Kharmine would not reciprocate Solus' feelings. Kharmine only sees him as a useful asset and a loyal companion but would remain emotionally distant and unattainable.

Kharmine's Manipulation: Kharmine often exploits Solus' feelings to her advantage, using his loyalty and devotion to further her own goals and those of The Critmin organization. This manipulation would deepen Solus' emotional turmoil, leaving him feeling used and betrayed. Her only intent was making him a loyal attack dog, she knew no matter how dire the heat of combat escalated, he'd be willing to take risky and reckless actions to ensure her and The Critmin's victory. Kharmine's only focus was The Critmin Mercenary organization's well-being and the ambition of their fanatic leader.

**Psychological Effects on Solus:**

The combination of unrequited love, moral conflict, and the trauma of Solus' past would leave Solus in a state of constant emotional turmoil. He is haunted by feelings of guilt, anger, and grief, struggling to find a sense of purpose and belonging.

Despite his inner struggles and conflicts, Solus' experiences forged a deep resilience and hardening resolve within him. Driven by a desire to avenge his loved ones and prove his worth, using his pain as fuel for his relentless pursuit of what he'd consider justice.

The revelation of the supposed purpose of his Aximandian lineage and the betrayal by his uncle would leave Solus questioning his own identity and worth. Aximand and/or Axia are forged and destined for war and attrition, something his Uncle tried to deeply conditon into him. However, this would conflict with the heroic tales and stories read to him by his mother. He wanted to be a hero, not a soldier fighting an eternal war of any kind. He would come to realize that certain compromises must be made in order to survive. Even if that results his moral integrity, but he refuses to give in to needless abhorrent acts that his fellow mercenary and gladiatorial members would take part in.

Solus would occasionally grapple with feelings of internal self-doubt and insecurity, constantly seeking some form of validation and redemption. This caused Solus to take on dangerous quests or risky ventures to distract himself from his internal conflicts or other jobs that help distract him.

Solus' inability to form meaningful connections with his new companions and the unrequited love for Kharmine would leave him feeling profoundly lonely. This loneliness would be a constant companion, shaping his actions and decisions as he navigates his new life as a mercenary.

Solus is plagued by survival guilt, constantly questioning why he survived when so many others did not. This guilt would drive him to push himself harder, striving to become a powerful warrior capable of protecting his allies.

The constant exposure to violence and brutality would further desensitize Solus, hardening him emotionally. Kharmine's Manipulation and harsh training would push Solus to become more ruthless and efficient in combat, but at the cost of his empathy and compassion. The immoral actions of the mercenary group would gradually erode Solus's own moral compass. He would find himself making compromises and engaging in actions he once would have condemned.

Despite his hardened exterior, Solus would continue to struggle with inner conflict. The disparity between his actions and his sense of honor would create a deep-seated tension within him, leading to moments of doubt and self-reflection.

---‐---------

[ Here's a Part of Solus' origin after his home town was in ruin, I'll post the full synopsis separately, this post is solely Mercenary/Gladiator Solus info. How Solus met the Critmin mercenary group. ]

(This section starts off upon Solus' defeat against his uncle Nemeus and the eldritch-looking cambions. Everything prior will be in a seperate post.)

Solus declared his Uncle Nemeus a traitor, saying that he would avenge his mother, friends, and other family members. Solus' body is broken and worn, the demon soldiers that relentlessly battered him, mock him as he lies there with half his face in a puddle of blood and mud. His right eye above puddle level, still fixated on Nemeus.

Solus, disoriented and on the brink of passing out, hears garbled noises, prompting the cambions and Solus' uncle Nemeus to leave him there, figuring Solus' wounds would undoubtedly kill him. Nemeus unfolds his arms and orders the oddly eldritch appearing cambions to retreat, the figures walk out of Solus' line of sight before Solus' vision grows dark and he inevitably loses consciousness.

Despite his deadly wounds, Solus survives and awakens hours later, attempting to rise to his feet.

Solus looks around, only to be reminded that his visceral nightmare was real; in deep sadness, he spends his time burying the remains of his loved ones. In the pouring rain, he salvaged everything he could from their broken bodies. He would gather what remembrances he could as well as pictures and trinkets in his backpack before leaving his eradicated home town.

Solus becomes a wandering hermit for months after leaving his ruined hamlet grieving, where he had served as a watchman. A Barbarian mercenary woman and her companions discover him. Solus was curled up in a small crevasse he had made his own in a mountain. His ears twitch as he hears footsteps approaching him, his head tucked behind his bruised and bloodied knees.

Peering down at Solus, She laughs at his vulnerability before ordering Solus to get up. "Well well, look at the size of you, yet so pitiable." She raises her large axe adorned with extravagant gems crested within bands on the handle and points it at Solus' unkempt, coiled hair. Solus flinched with his palms jittery facing forward helplessly. "Rise. You're coming with us, consider yourself a recruit." Solus glances up at her, a large woman with years of battle defining her musculature and posture.

She stood proud and firm in the sunlight that gleamed over and through her tousled hair. Solus could've sworn he saw a halo behind the silhouette of her head. Her face in shade, revealing the intense battle scarring of her face, yet there was still a sense of grace, elegance and allure to her. She snaps Solus out of his trance with her imperious voice, "Do you intend on rotting there in decay...If so, I'll leave you to the wilds then."

She turns to walk away, but Solus mutters short in desperation and struggles to hoist himself up, his wounds not yet healed and his muscles and bones trembling. His curly, kinked hair obscuring his eyes. The Barbarian woman looks him up and down, surprised by his stature, and then cracks a smile "About time. You will call me Kharmine. Come on, lets get some food in you; you're beginning to resemble a 'bagman'." Solus limps as one of the mercenaries approaches cautiously to assist him.

Solus begins a new life as a mercenary and gladiator at age 21 to 24. The mercenary group called themselves "The Critmin". Solus still feels great sorrow and survival guilt as the sole survivor of his uncle Nemeus' betrayal and treachery.

Solus realizes that he must push himself from now on in order to become a skilled warrior capable of protecting and assisting his comerades in the heat of combat and attrition. Solus was a skilled fighter and showed great promise as a child in training, but at a certain point in his late teens (17 -19) he became complacent in his skills. His uncle Nemeus and Town gaurdsman mentors would strongly advise he continues his intensive training. But Solus at the time felt that he didn't have to train as hard since he wasn't an actual soldier. Solus strongly feels that his complacency is why he was ill prepared to save anyone from his hometown.

Solus' only desire is never to feel weak or vulnerable again, and is insecure about seeming inadequate, becoming increasingly terrified of failure.

Solus begins working jobs under The Critmin's name and is involved in an intense yet complicated intimate relationship with Kharmine.

Due to the Mercenaries' unethical behavior and their growing discontent of Solus. He would suffer from impostor syndrome as a result of the abhorrent crimes committed by the "Critmin" organization. Solus would eventually abandon the The Critmin mercenaries at the age of 24, taking with him any recollections and meaningful trinkets he kept close from his hometown.

Although, this wasn't a peaceful departure, Kharmine and other Critmin mercenaries he once deemed comrades would catch on to his attempt to abandon the organization. He was valuable, if a bit merciful when it came to specific circumstances. Solus' abilities and battle experience were beneficial.

They needed him nonetheless, and they don't allow individuals who quit the organization go without a lethal parting mark, or live at all. Kharmine and the others waited for him at a checkpoint he arranged to abandon the Critmin organization. Solus would confront Kharmine and the mercenaries she brought with her. She was tasked with bringing Solus back, but Solus refused to be chained any longer, being used as an instrument for the Critmin's wicked aspirations.

Solus needed a new stable structure, to find another way of achieving his own goals and vengence against Nemeus. Working under The Critmins wouldn't benefit him in any way, they only further damaged and stagnated him. Solus would conclude this arc of his life by battling Kharmine and the other Mercenaries to the death in order to continue his journey. It was a savage struggle in which Solus finally unleashed all of his suppressed rage, bitterness and vengeance. Even yet, it was merely a taste of the High Wood Elf hybrids' 'golden green ire'.

After becoming a vagabond hunting beasts and aiding locals for several months, in search of a new purpose, still grieving and bent on a rage that continues to consume him. He would eventually reach a Warrior Monk Monastery at the age of 25. (Unsure on which Monastery our buddy Solus joins at the moment. Haven't made up my mind on that yet. lol)

A peaceful place, a place that would provide Solus routine, structure, mindful meditations, proper sleep, calming exercises further increasing his strength and mental fortitude. Solus sought some form of peace, however this wanting of peace being what was left of his old self, would perpetually conflict with his deeper feelings of regret, loss and vengence that would also encourage him to seek power. Enduring pain, allowing it to swallow him whole, while ignoring most pleasures. He felt it was the only way he'd stand any chance against his traitorous uncle.

This broiling golden green flame within Solus needed control, the bloodlust of his war addicted Aximandian lineage would need to be quelled for focus and enjoy moments of true prolonged peace and his body needed to be further disciplined. Sculpted into something immovable yet mobile, a tempered weapon beyond that of a blade, axe or hammer.

Meditations would allow Solus to cultivate and focus his golden green ire, increasing focus, calming his Aximandian bloodlust and sharpening his vengeful intent. Solus is less reckless, more in tune and mindful of his emotions. Becoming and remaining calm and unperturbed. Of course the down side to this is that his vengeful intent and latent rage is laid dormant by the Monastery's teachings and training. Solus was growing numb, passion beginning to die...

- To be continued. I'll go in depth further once I've fleshed out his short time as a warrior monk, trying to reignite what had been dimmed, though not fully extinguished. Solus Aximand isn't a typical High Elf and carries a mysterious genetic essence that lies within Aximandian warrior blood. (Somthing Solus has very little knowledge of, and kinda doesn't care much for since it has to do with his Uncle Nemeus' mental conditioning, or anything to with Nemeus for that matter... he hates that man. Lol)

- You've my absolute and humblest gratitude for reading this far. It means a lot, greatly. :)

Any questions, thoughts or feedback is most welcome and appreciated. I'll probably be editing around and added little things to this while working on other information, bios and characters that connect to this.

Also please forgive me if it jumps around a bit. I've been adding different sections over time. It's more of an about Solus during this time rather than a well segmented bio as for right now.

[silverofthunder]

☆ heart's desires ☆

Papa Emeritus IV x GN Reader

summary: You could feel it, the desire in him. Desire for you, your blood. But that desire wasn’t all you could feel. There was something else – something more gentle, pure but delicate somehow.

content: 2.6k words, mystery (kind of), drama, fantasy, romance, SFW (i think?)

♡♡ part 1 ♡♡ part 2 ♡♡

!! mentions of blood !!

Finally the third part! This took a bit longer than I thought but as I have no proper plan for this, anything can happen. Things start progressing, slowly but surely. It's been fun writing this as I don't really know where this is going. Hope you enjoy!

Your workshift had ended earlier and after grabbing a coffee from the nearest cafe, you decided to head to the Hunter’s Moon. The club wasn’t opened yet and you weren’t sure if there was anyone present but it wouldn’t hurt to try your luck. You went to the back door that was for staff only and knocked the door.

Nothing happened for a while so you knocked again, harder this time and waited, kicking some cigarette butts with your feet. Just as you sighed disappointed and were about to leave, someone opened the door, the metal hinges creaking slightly.

You didn’t recognize the woman who had opened the door and she looked at you with raised brows and you didn’t miss the way her nose twitched. You offered her a polite smile, stepping forward.

”Is Copia there? I was hoping to meet him…”

”Oh, I see…” she said, moving away from the doorway and nodding. ”Copia is not here yet but you can come inside to wait.”

You thanked the woman and walked past her into the narrow corridoor and heard her following you soon after as she had closed the door. She didn’t say another word to you as she hurried past you and disappeared from your sight. You found your way to the bar side and wasn’t surprised to see Secondo there, leaning against the bar counter, apparently reading some papers. He had no his face paints on and he was wearing a casual suit that made him appear more like human.

”I suppose you’re looking for Copia,” he said, not moving his gaze up as you walked towards him. ”He should be here soon.”

”Yeah…” you mumbled, sitting on one of the bar stool. ”I was told I could wait here.”

Secondo hummed and it was all you got from him. With a sigh you set your bag on the counter and took a pen and notebook out, deciding to do something useful while you waited for Copia. You started to scribble down on a start of a poem that had come to your earlier that day while you had been at work. After reaching a point where you weren’t sure how to continue it, you moved your gaze up, studying Secondo for a while.

Then you turned a page on your notebook and started sketching, moving the pen across the page with a precise skill. You didn’t know how much time had passed until Secondo’s voice broke you out of your trance.

”Can I see it?”

Your gaze moved up and Secondo was now closer, pointing at your notebook, a curious look on his face. You blinked, glacing at your sketch and then turned the notebook around, sliding it towards Secondo on the counter.

”It’s nothing fancy…” you mumbled as Secondo was studying your work.

”You’re talented,” he commented, lips curving into a small smile. Your brows rose in surprise as you hadn’t really expected Secondo to be someone who would appreciate art.

”Oh, thank you,” you said, offering Secondo a warm smile. Then Secondo turned his head towards the entrance, giving a slight nod to someone and your gaze immediately moved to see Copia walking towards you.

”Hey,” he greeted you cheerfully and something moved in the bottom of your stomach pleasantly. You gave him a little wave of a hand, smiling.

”How long have you waited here?” Copia asked, hopping onto the bar stool next to you.

”Not very long,” you said and took a quick glance at Secondo who shook his head a bit, amusement evident on his face. Copia raised his brow, gaze moving between you and his brother.

”I hope he has been good company.”

”He has,” you said, picking up your notebook and showing Copia your sketch. ”Otherwise I wouldn’t have done this.”

Copia looked a bit surprised, taking then a look at your sketch, his expression changing into the usual admiration you had witnessed several times before when you had showed your works to him.

”Great work, isn’t it, brother?” Secondo asked and Copia nodded.

”It is, as always.”

Secondo looked at his brother, amused and shook his head a bit, tapping then the counter with his fingers.

”Alright, you two should go now.”

Copia took you to park and you sat down on the bench under a large tree where you could see your surroundings well. The evening was quite chilly and you zipped up your coat, tightening the scarf around your neck as you looked around. There was still some families present in the park, kids playing while the parents or quardians followed their antics. A group of teenagers were laughing loud near one of the statues, kicking dirt and teasing each other.

Copia’s hand came to rest on top yours and you kind of missed the skin contact as your hands were warmed by mittens and Copia had his leather gloves on. Your gaze fell on your joined hands, smile spreading onto your lips. The moment was completely ordinary – if you ignored the fact that the man sitting beside you was a vampire – and yet it was so inspiring. You had to fight the will to draw out your pen and notebook from your bag, though you were sure Copia wouldn’t have minded if you had done so.

”Sorry if this is too personal but I’m curious. What do you miss the most about being a human?”

The question had been circling in your head for a while but you just hadn’t dared to ask it until now. Slowly you lifted your gaze up, seeing how Copia was now looking at the families, wistful expression on his face.

”It’s not just a one thing…” he started, sighing. ”The warmth, beating heart, breathing, eating normal food, maybe having a family of my own,” he continued, nodding towards the kids.

You turned your hand, giving a light squeeze to Copia’s own, thinking your next words.

”But technically, you can still have that, a family I mean.”

Copia’s eyes settled on you, a reflection of sadness shining in them.

”We can’t have children,” Copia said, voice quiet. ”And I could never turn a child into a vampire.”

”What about an adult, then?” you asked, your curiousity getting the better of you.

Something flashed in Copia’s eyes, a slight twitch of his lips telling you that the thought had certainly passed his mind on more than one occasion.

”Yes if they really wanted it,” he answered. ”And yes, I have done so in the past. Several times.”

That didn’t surprise you – the more you got to know about these vampire things, the more their world intrigued you. And you had started to think how it would feel like to be a vampire. For some reason you always had felt like you didn’t belong in the world like you should. Something was just off. But ever since you had met Copia that feeling had started to fade. You wanted to be with Copia that much was clear, you just didn’t know in what way, yet.

Or maybe you did know, deep down in your heart. Friendship was there surely but maybe there was more, too. As your gaze fell to Copia’s lips, there were a small tuck at the bottom of your stomach, and the thought of how it would feel if those lips pressed against your own came to your mind. Would you be able to feel those fangs, sharp, ready to pierce the delicate skin and draw out blood?

A series of curses broke you out of your thoughts and you blinked, realizing that Copia’s face was now closer to yours, his other eye glowing red, the other still white as usual.

”Your scent got so strong,” he explained, watching you, and you could see the fangs peeking through as he spoke. ”So delicious, so distracting. I usually have a good control but sometimes you make this hard.”

”I’m sorry,” you breathed out, not really knowing what else you could say. The look in Copia’s eyes softened and he brought his hand up to cup the side of your face, the leather of his glove feeling cool against your skin, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

”No need to be sorry,” Copia said, voice sounding velvety. ”I know you’re not doing it to tease me.”

Something moved within you, then, and a grin passed your lips.

”What if I was teasing you? Or should I say tempting you?”

Now there was a good flash of fangs as Copia let out a hiss-like sound as his face came closer to yours. The red color sharpened, making the white stand out even more and it wasn’t fully beastly but you could sense the danger the underneath. You weren’t scared, though your heart was beating now faster in your chest.

”That wouldn’t be so nice, right?” Copia’s voice seemed to get right into you, melting some parts within you that you thought would never be reached.

”No, but I want to see you like this,” you said with a grin, taking your other mitten off and moving your hand up to run your fingers over Copia’s lips. His eyes closed for a moment and you could see some faint, darker lines forming around them, his lips quivering just a bit as he drew in the scent of you.

”Cazzo,” he growled, his hold of your face tightening. ”I want to…”

”What?” you asked, fully knowing that your teasing was hanging on thin threads. ”To bite me?”

In the next moment you were dragged behind the tree and pushed against it, hands grabbing a fistful of your coat and then lips smashed against yours. The dizzying feeling hit you like a tidal wave and you had to take a hold of Copia’s sides, squeeze the fabric of his coat hard. Copia was all you could feel, sense, the coolness of him meeting your warmth, sending the butterflies in your stomach flying around rapidly. Your mouths danced together like they were meant to do so and you gasped as you felt something sharp poking your lower lip.

His fangs.

And you could feel it, the desire in him. Desire for you, your blood. And maybe it was the powers affecting you but you wanted to give him it all. Yourself, wholly. You felt complete, no matter how strange it might sound. But that desire wasn’t all you could feel. There was something else – something more gentle, pure but delicate somehow. It was hidden deep, felt like it had been asleep for a long time. A power that might have been considered to be one of the strongest in the world – in romance novels at least.

Love.

Or more like yearning for it.

And then it was gone, you were left blinking your haze away, breathing hard. Copia was standing before you, mouth hanging open, and as your vision sharpened you could see a mix of emotions passing his face. Then his eyes widened, the red now gone, and he seemed scared.

”I’m sorry, I…” he started, shaking his head. ”I didn’t mean to…”

You placed a hand on his mouth, fast, interrupting him.

”It’s okay,” you spoke softly, sliding your hand to his cheek. ”I was basically asking for it.”

Copia leaned into your touch and you smiled at him.

”I’m glad I got to see more of you. Feel more of you.”

Copia’s eyes seemed to glisten in the dimness of evening as his lips curved into a small smile. A moment of silence fell between you and you used it to caress Copia’s face, running your fingers gently along his jawline, the paint feeling a bit rough. It was a bit smudged around his lips, you noticed now, and wondered if a part of it was now on your lips. You wanted so badly to kiss him again but pushed that want away, focusing on the moment just as it was.

When your fingers traveled closer to his eye, to where the darker lines had been some moments ago, Copia’s gaze reached sadness that made your heart sting.

”Do you know what you’re getting into?” he asked and you weren’t sure what he meant by that.

”Yeah, I think I know,” you still answered, and Copia closed his eyes for a second, seeming to let out a sigh even though he didn’t need to.

”It’s not that simple,” Copia continued. ”Romance with a vampire is not easy. In the end… It will never work.”

You tilted your head, pondering his words. You hadn’t really gone that far with your thoughts. And now that you thought about it… Yes, it seemed crazy but not impossible.

”Who says it can’t work?” you had to ask, though you had a good hunch of why it would be hard.

”I don’t age, you do and eventually… Well, you know how it goes,” Copia explained, placing his hand under your chin, sadness now deepening in his eyes. ”I have gone through that once and I don’t want to do that again.”

Oh... You knew there had been someone in Copia’s life – someone he had cared about deeply, but you had never asked about the details.

”But… What if the other wants to turn into a vampire? What if I wanted that?”

Copia shifted, staring right into your eyes, his hand sliding to your neck, fingers tucking the scarf to reveal some skin.

”I could consider it…” he said, slowly drawing some patterns on your neck and you beathed slowly in and out, the touch sending a pleasant tingle coursing through your body.

”But?”

”This is a curse, not a blessing. A burden you carry with yourself for eternity,” Copia told, stepping closer to you. ”And being a newborn is hard. You basically have no control over yourself and… a lot of bad things can happen.”

”I think I could manage it if I have you by my side.”

You didn’t know where this odd confidence or something akin to it came but you had to be honest. The look in Copia’s eyes softened as he leaned closer.

”I could never leave you after that,” he spoke, voice thick with emotion. ”Nor now.”

Your heart jolted in your chest, warmth spreading within you, and the urge to just kiss the vampire before you grew out of the scale. So that’s what you did, you closed the gap between you, tasting the slight bitterness of the paints. The dizziness reached you again, this time a bit less powerful but you embraced it, letting it make you sway a bit. Copia’s hands found their way around you, pulling you flush against him as your mouths explored each other, slowly in a slightly fumbling sync.

It was easy to lose a track of time, to revel in the moment, the feeling of Copia’s lips against yours, the way his fangs ever so slightly poked your bottom lip when you changed the angle. Eventually air became needed for you, forcing you to pull back and meet Copia’s gaze with a smitten smile. He returned the smile, red-white pair of eyes shining tenderly. The sigh that left from you was a long one, happy one, and it felt like you were floating.

Everything seemed to go forward fast yet it didn’t feel like you were rushing into this new stage of your relationship.

”Could we keep things like this for a while?” Copia then asked, leaning his forehead against yours. ”We still have time to see where this will go.”

You hummed in agreement.

”Of course.”

Copia fell to his human traits again, releasing a breath that gently ghosted over your face, and you shivered, your heart swelling of warmth. He was right. You still had time to figure out everything. The last thing you wanted was to do some hastic decisions and end up regretting them for the rest of your life.

taglist: @nijiru

[master-of-the-game]

seeing you make oil paintings of elim garak has changed something about the way i perceive art, both in what others make but also in what i am capable of making.

it’s probably due to learning mostly euro-centric art history, but i’ve always thought of oil paintings as like the peak of painting ability? like, it’s fancy and it takes a while so i thought that it must be the best (ignoring the fact that my artistic field is mostly in acrylic paints and 3D sculpting and yet i still consider it very good). and i’m still working on disproving this sort of mentality that there are mediums inherently better than others, because it’s incredibly limiting to my creativity to impose a higharchy, and also it feels kind of xenophobic.

i digress a bit. point is, i’ve viewed oil paintings as a medium only deserving of gallery-type realistic portrait stuff, which is very much not what i do. i don’t make the sorts of fancy art rich people would pay for- the type of art i thought oils were for. i make paintings of comic book characters and sculptures of my personal heroes, i make jewelry and clothes and stuffed animals. stuff that i enjoy. which is good!

but still somewhere lurking in my brain was this voice telling me that on some level my works weren’t as meaningful or creative because they were fan works or made from materials i’m not an expert in or because the only people i draw and paint and sculpt are queer and trans, like me. that because my art was self-indulgent, on some level i suppose i thought it lesser.

but then i see your art. and holy shit! you’re work is INCREDIBLE! at first i was excited because, hey, i’m a big star trek fan, and garak is one of my favorite characters. i love coming across fan art of him, and it always manages to strike a chord with me. but then. as i looked at it closer, i realized it was on canvas. as i scrolled down i realize it was oil on canvas.

before, i’d pretty much only seen fanart as sketches on paper or digital drawings. one that is really only meant art-wise for quick sketches or planning of what will become “real” works, and one that doesn’t actually take up any physical space in our world, and is stored away in a little digital file.

but oil on canvas? that’s not meant to be thrown away, it’s meant to be held in gloved hands, as it is precious, and it’s not meant to be hidden away in the “files” on a laptop. no, those hang on the walls of museums or houses, meant to be displayed with pride for all to see.

and with those too colliding thoughts, that of fan works as some lesser form of art but oil paintings being the art of the rich and talented… well i realized that both were wrong. fan works are not in any way shape or form lesser than original works. what makes my layered ink painting of dream of the endless any less important than my painting of the ocean during a storm? nothing! they’re both good works. and on the other side, there is nothing that makes my oil paintings more important than my acrylic paintings or my sculpture or my knitting. it’s all art, lovely art, in the end. and the only thing that really matters is that i enjoy it.

seeing your art has helped me break some (minor) yet harmful thoughts i didn’t really even realize i had. so thank you for that. also your garak art is fucking good, and it really makes me think about what sort of life he would have after ds9. anyways, thank you. that’s what i’ve been meaning to say (that’s what this whole thing is). thanks for changing my vision for the better.

Oh wow! You know, it is very important and gratifying to know that results of your work make person rearrange their thoughts and views on something. Thank you for your sincerity! Now back to subject. I personally believe that fan work can be something fine and vice versa something fine can be a fan work. One thing that is very important to remember and remind yourself is that most of fine art that you've mentioned - gallery and most famous works (at least in european tradition) - are, well, derivative. Of Bible, of ancient myths. Yes. All this stuff can be considered maybe not fanart - but it is a subject for discussion - but illustration at least. And it is still fine art. Book illustrations - oh well. Sometimes I want to hang them on the wall, especially old ones. So - why not? Fan work always has a connotation of something derivative, and it certainly is... But just as well as most of the most prominent works. Dixi :D So that's the matter. Medium of course matters but medium does not always define the subject of art (except for common sense), as you've said. It's just maybe the cost of medium (some watercolor brushes for some reason cost... ehm. Too much :D) that defines its price, but not necessarily. I like thinking about this issue and discussing it... Plenty room for ideas. Thank you!

[timexticksxby]

drew starkey, homosexual, cis male + he/him, fighter «—◦—→ well met, calvin fitzhenry! the godling born child of cronus. it’s been twenty-nine years and now they have answered the song in their veins. can he change the course of history with their persistence, idealism, and flexibility? or will their impulsiveness, destructive, and insecurity hinder them? only time will tell before this godling’s name is sung into myth and legend!

name: calvin hitchcock fitzhenry. nicknames: cal, vin, fitz date of birth: may 23rd, 1994. age: 32. (two years claimed by atropos) face claim: drew starkey. godly parent: cronus. height: 6'2. dominant hand: right. education level: masters degree in finance. occupation: something he's avidly forgetting at camp.

parents: cronus, william fitzhenry, helen fitzhenry siblings: elizabeth fitzhenry, younger half-sister pets: milo, a dachshund puppy.

sexual orientation. homosexual. sexual position. verse.

clothing style: honestly the freedom of camp has led to so many wardrobe changes it's hard to put a specific style to him. it used to be suits. far too many suits.

what were they doing when they hear the song of their godling blood? asleep in his home office, part way through a sketch when the weariness of the day took him off to sleep.

class: fighter. inspirations: the inevitability of the passage of time, and the desperate attempts to change it's outcome. holding on to remnants of the past in the hopes to brighten the future.

bio:

he grew up on stories of super heroes, dashing and daring and brave in the face of adversity. life and home was simple, nothing special, but nothing to be disappointed at either. parents that cared for him, schoolwork that was maybe above average, but nothing to really write home about, and a head for art. he grew up dreaming of comic books, of life being something so much more than the day to day, of finding a job with a creative outlet.

but life decided for him that no, dreams come crashing down, and responsibility falls upon your shoulders too quick to get from beneath it's weight. life decided that as he aged, those childhood dreams were necessary to be set aside, and for that he at least held true to them in is time. he attended university, got a job, made a life for himself like he was supposed to. and time went on.

and on.

and then it didn't. then there was magic in the world. mystery. myth. legend.

and time was suddenly flowing entirely differently, and the future seems so much scarier. but so much more exciting than days spent with time tick tocking along.

[vindersdraws]

u live

A very quick sketch, but guess what? Your boy survived a car crash. Last night at 4 am I decided to test my car's might against the bridge fence and lost! (or win, since I’m still alive?) I was supposed to attend my third-ever artist alley when my wheel hit something on the road and I lost control of my vehicle leading to a crash. The car is totaled and I’m in pain due to a broken rib, but I’m alive.

It wasn’t really something I wanted to have a life experience in, but I guess it’s something. Not yet sure, how I need to deal with this stuff. Losing that car means I can’t take the job offer I got and I have no idea how long my healing will take. I’m still kinda in a haze about the whole incident. I suppose this whole thing was very fitting how things have gone in my life lately. I feel really sorry for the driver who had to dodge me, but I think nothing happened to them or their car. Even the bridge fence survived, which I’m very happy about since that would been a long fall into very cold water.

The police who arrived on the scene were not very helpful, but the tow truck driver & emergency service were. After the incident I had to wait a full hour in a cold totaled car to get myself anywhere warm and when the initial shock wore off, I realized I had hurt myself pretty badly and from there it took over 4 hours to get to a hospital. Now I need to deal with even more stuff & bills, but I’ll take things one step at a time.

Who knew trying to make a career in arts could be this dangerous? My apologies to anyone who might have wanted to buy stuff from me at the con and idk, to everyone? Still waiting for my near-death experience to give me some life-altering realization. Not yet sure if losing that lovely car feels worse than the pain I’m currently feeling through strong painkillers.

[lizxmorgrave]

And in its flames our hope expires || Self-para

Summary: The source of Elizabeth's terror of fire and why she's even more wary of hunters than most. Word count: 2135 words Trigger warnings: Burns, burning, entrapment, mood board which fits the story, so see warnings! Note: Using an actual historical fire - but the rest is mine

Elizabeth hummed to herself as she hung up some of her clothes in her new closet . . . well, one of them anyway. This one happened to be in Noah’s home, and she’d picked a room in the rear for the view out the window. Also, just for the window – she loved the window seat with the gorgeous view. She’d be able to sit here and sketch to her heart’s content. Her room at Victor’s didn’t have this kind of seat and a different view, but it had an entire area for her to spread out her own private studio. She’d be drifting back and forth so often depending on her mood . . . plus she could always go sit out in the vineyards or . . .

Giving herself a good shake as she realized she’d been standing in her closet door for several minutes making plans, Elizabeth laughed and finally turned away to go decide which of her paintings she should hang on the wall.

She began to spread them out, wanting to pick the perfect ones for this room. They needed to really capture the essence of both herself and – in their own way – of Noah. Perhaps the mountains, all covered by storm clouds? While Elizabeth supposed some people might consider the storm representative of her brother – the broody darkness with its thundering potential, she didn’t share their opinion. No, to her, the mountains themselves represented her eldest brother. That strength and the steady support reminded her more of him, while she herself – with her emotions, distractions, and wandering feet – seemed more suited to the storm.

The paintings at Victor’s would be more abstract, showcasing her attempts to capture the whirlwinds of creativity on canvas.

Painting almost always tended to bring Elizabeth the most peace, though she loved all of the various mediums of art. But she could get lost in painting, fixating so strongly on trying to get her pictures and emotions on canvas that she could block out the rest of the world until nothing existed for her but the painting.

Or, well . . . it used to work that way . . .

A flash of memory . . . a scent of smoke . . .

Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to push it all away as her lips trembled. Would she never be free of that night? Would it always be waiting for her? It might be a word, a scent, even a sound, and she found herself back at that night. Would she forever be haunted by that night in Venice?

Standing in the middle of her room, looking towards the window but staring into nothingness, her mind tumbled into the past . . .

Venice, 1996

“Such a beautiful night,” Elizabeth murmured to her companion as she helped them sit down in front of their hotel. She put a touch more of the compulsion in her voice. “I’ll be walking away, and as soon as you cannot see my face, you’re going to come back to yourself and go inside. You won’t remember any specifics about my face or our conversation, but you simply know you had a lovely time. Perhaps too lovely as you feel quite tipsy and embarrassed about the mark on your throat. A long nap will do you some good, and don’t forget to keep your throat covered for a few days.” Brushing a kiss over their cheek, she strolled away.

She glanced back only once to be sure they’d gotten indoors safely enough before her smile broadened. A quick check of the corners of her mouth assured that no blood remained to draw attention, and Elizabeth turned to continue her own stroll towards the opera house.

Now that she’d dealt with her hunger, she wanted to get back to finish her painting of the stage so she could add the image of Carolina Unger, the contralto who once sang in this very theater as Antonina in Donizetti’s Belisario.

Elizabeth didn’t enjoy the opera itself, but she had found the singer quite distinctive and certainly talented. “Quite the artist,” she murmured as she saw the theater ahead of her.

A shadow of something darkened her mind as she paused, glancing around.

Nothing.

And yet . . . she couldn’t shake the thought that she was being watched.

But when nothing appeared after several moments of stillness, Elizabeth decided to continue to the theater. Not that anyone would be there, and it would be locked tight. But since when had such pedestrian worries bothered her? No, she would simply compel the guard to allow her entrance before making her way up to the little room where she’d taken up temporary residence.

She would paint to her heart’s content in the silence of the night.

Her moment’s anxiety forgotten, Elizabeth allowed herself to get caught up in her painting, the colors and the details coming together in a beautiful rendition of the opera house.

“La Fenice,” she murmured, her brushstrokes almost loving as she stoked over the canvas. ‘The Phoenix’ . . . so named because the theater had risen from the ashes of a devastating fire centuries before. Her nose twitched, something a little off about the air, but she’d gotten so focused on her painting, on creating the image in her mind, that she dismissed the thought with little concern. It could be some of her chemicals, or something coming off the canals.

Whatever it might be, what did it concern her?

Seconds, minutes, hours . . . Elizabeth couldn’t tell how long had passed before a new sound penetrated her fixation and she looked up, blinking as she tried to bring her surroundings into focus. Everything looked hazy, dark . . . then she coughed as she finally began to register the temperature of the air.

Hot.

Very hot.

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, her eyes going wide in sudden fear as her mind cleared and she realized exactly what she was seeing, hearing, scenting . . .

Fire.

The opera house was on fire.

Darting to the door, she touched the doorknob only to pull back with a cry as the metal burned her hand. The fire must be in the hall outside of this room. She spun in place, the primal fear of fire rising up in her throat to strangle her. No windows. It had been a deliberate choice – no windows to show light or give her presence away. Now it has become a prison.

Crouching low, Elizabeth tried to think. Would she be able to survive running through the fire? Surely she could force herself past the pain and get out? Better to try than to stay here and burn.

Something creaked, an ominous sound of wood bending and flexing in the heat. The building would collapse before too long, and she needed to get out. She didn’t know if it would actually be able to kill her, the curse keeping her alive despite all of the attempts which had been made on her life. None of the Originals had died in all these centuries, and God only knew there had been many attempts to destroy them.

But she’d never heard of any of them being burned to dust . . .

Fire licked under the door, and Elizabeth backed away.

As she looked around, the movement more and more frantic, she focused on the ceiling. Could she break through? Get to the attic and maybe get out that way?

Then, with a roar like a demon blasting free from hell, fire flashed through the room and all but rolled across the ceiling. The force of it sent her sprawling to the ground, screaming in terror as she felt the flames licking at her, smelled them feeding on her paints.

Death seemed to be laughing at her behind the crackle and snap as acrid smoke filled her lungs.

With a burst of adrenaline, Elizabeth surged up and out of the room, blind to all but the need to escape the flames. Fire trailed her, pursued her . . . she could smell her own hair beginning to burn, feel her skin begin to peel . . .

Sobbing, screaming, she fled seeking a way to get out of the building, to hide from the fire.

Finally, after how long she couldn’t say, Elizabeth spotted a window and sprinted towards it, all thoughts of her abilities completely gone from her mind as only the thought of escape mattered. Breaking through the glass, clawing her way to the outside of the building, Elizabeth clung to the side of the theater.

Was she still burning?

In the shocking coolness of the outside air, Elizabeth mewed and whimpered in pain, wanting comfort, wanting help.

Wanting home.

And her body demanded blood. Lots and lots of blood. Healing would be long and arduous, and it required fuel for that.

Sleep . . .

Blood . . .

Sleep . . .

She needed to catch her bearing, focus through the pain to find nourishment, or the fire might destroy her yet. It would leave her helpless and easily caught by humans – something she could never allow to happen. Listening, desperately listening for the sound she most desperately needed to hear - a heartbeat . . . she needed to find a heartbeat.

She needed blood.

Then, over the roar of the infernal fire, she heard something else. Laughter – rough, mocking, triumphant laughter – and dark voices . . .

“Good hunting! That’s another vampire sent to hell!”

Hunting . . .

Hunters . . .

They’d come for her.

Tried to kill her.

Elizabeth felt the ferocity building in her, felt her eyes burning red even as her fangs dropped and the burned, cracked lips peeled back. Already all but feral with pain, hunger, and terror, her fury tripped her that last step into pure animal survival.

“Let’s go have a drink, my friends!” one voice called out, giving her a sense of direction this time. Her senses focused on that voice, pinpointing it to the other side of the building, on the other side of the inferno. They had no idea she’d escaped and now listened in on their terrible words. “We can celebrate our victory!”

“You lot go ahead,” another called back. “I’ll keep watch and make sure the whole thing burns. No point in letting the monster escape.”

Monster . . .

Well, if he wanted a monster, then a monster she would be.

Wrath and hunger swirled through her, pushing away all rational thought as Elizabeth let herself half fly, half fall to the concrete below. Instinct kept her in the shadows as she stalked her target, the foolish hunter who’d stayed behind – alone – to watch her supposed funeral pyre. She needed blood, and she could hear the heartbeat as it pounded with its delight while the fire burned. His blood would do nicely.

He spotted her, no doubt a horrifying sight as she rushed out of the darkness, but he had no time to so much as scream before she pounced on him, her fangs sinking into his neck.

And the hunter became the prey.

Everything went black.

When Elizabeth opened her eyes, she found herself standing in her bedroom – the pretty one in Noah’s house in Raven’s Peak. Something wet and salty coated her lips, and she licked them, half expecting to taste the hunter’s blood. Instead, she tasted her own tears. Lifting trembling hands, she wiped them away as her mind still seemed caught half in her memory and half in reality.

Slowly, so very slowly, as if sleepwalking, she made her way over to the window seat and curled up on the cushions there. She pulled up her legs until she became the tiniest of figures in the corner of the window as she stared out of it.

Elizabeth wanted to go find someone, anyone she could trust to hold her and tell her everything would be all right, that she would be safe, but she didn’t know if her legs would carry her. So, instead, she decided she would wait – wait in her brother’s house until someone she trusted came or she finally felt like she could walk without collapsing.

She’d forgotten . . . forgotten there had been more than one hunter.

How could she have forgotten? Did any of them survive? Elizabeth knew she’d gone to ground after killing the hunter who’d remained behind, finding somewhere safe to sleep and heal, hiding until she’d recovered from the terrible burns. Now, only her mind bore the deep scars of that terrifying night.

But the hunters . . . were any of them alive? Did they remember her?

How many new hunters now walked the streets of Raven’s Peak?

Burying her face in her hands, she curled into an even tighter ball as she did her best to lock the memories away again. She didn’t want to remember all of it. Didn’t want to remember the feel of her own skin beginning to burn, or to smell the scent of her hair catching fire. Above all else, she didn’t want to remember the triumphant, mocking laughter of the hunters.

And Elizabeth feared she would never be able to forget.

[beevean]

Actually if anything the worst part about Netflixvania is the fact that it’s unfortunately a billion times more popular than the games so you constantly see really cool, unbelievably amazing, downright gorgeous, all natural, no added preservatives fanart… For Netflixvania and you just stare at it like >:[ because it’s so fucking good why did it have to be fore the show?! And then you can’t even FIND Castlevania fanart because it’s less popular and whatever is out there it’s buried under a hundred other Netflixvania fanarts

I knowwwwwwwwwwww

Nothing worse than playing "spot the differences" with fanart I find splendid 😭

"Oh look at this Alucard, look how luscious his hair is, how ethereal he looks! ... does he have the stupid scar GODDAMNIT he has the stupid scar that's not my Alucard shoo shoo you imposter"

"Yay, Hector! Some good fanart of Hector! ... does the hair look like a badly cropped wig YEP IT DOES oh wait the fanartist also called him a sad little puppy yeah no get this shit away from me"

I suppose that now I'll have to learn how to do the same with Richter and Maria :\ eh with maria it's easier: does she look like someone who'd call richter a wanker? yeah that's not my girl

And then there are just the absolutely wonderful fanarts with the characters who are more obviously from the show, like detailed gothic art of Trevor vs. Dracula, or loving studies of Isaac, and then there you are, digging through literally 10 year old trash to find some quick sketches taken from Pixiv if you want to find fanart of the games.

the pain. it is immense.

(and then there are the horny fanart of Lenore and Drolta on main who give me another kind of psychic damage 🙃)

[timpac-capstone]

Week 10

I finally did another digital drawing, this time using Adobe Fresco on an iPad Air 2. This piece was actually way more relaxing to draw than the last time I tried drawing digitally on Krita using my roommate's touchscreen laptop because nothing was glitching out. Everything worked perfectly this time and the Apple pencil felt very intuitive in my hand. I still struggled to get my line work to look nice and I'm not sure if the process in which I colored and shaded my drawing was the way most people do it but after finishing this piece I walked away wanting to do more digital art which is a victory in itself.

When I walked out of Manga in New York I finally understood the importance of how the presentation of an art piece can add to the overall experience of the audience member. This was a quick sketch I did in Adobe Fresco of how I was planning to display my animation. I'm thinking of getting one of those old TV carts that I would often see in elementary school where it had a big CRT TV that was hooked up to a VCR. The VCR is just for display because I'm not sure how to put my animation onto a VHS tape and even if I did it doesn't really add anything but I was planning on displaying my animation on the CRT TV. The reason the setup is like this is because this is the same setup that the two brain cells have when they are watching Dillon's embarrassing memories. I will also have two bags that will be labeled Embarasing Memories and Good Memories, after the audience member is done watching my animation they will write one happy memory and one embarrassing memory on an index card/cassette tape and throw them into their respective bag. I'm not 100% sold on this idea but it is a good start.

My professor recommended that I watch more animated short films that weren't just from previous alumni to broaden my horizons in terms of storytelling in a short animation and the way animation is used as well as its quality. I saw 10 animated short films but I'll only talk about the ones that stood out to me starting with This Actually Happens A Lot by Tom Law. I remember my professor asked me to explain why I love animation so much and I showed her the transformation sequences from Ben 10 (2005) and I just said "I mean just look at that". But she didn't see the same thing I did and said I needed to look deeper for the reason and I feel this short gave me that answer. Animation makes the unnatural feel natural without needing to explain why it is the way it is. In this short, we see that the male character's social anxiety is causing him to stick from wall to wall and be suspended in thin air. Obviously, this doesn't happen in real life but I didn't question it, I accepted immediately that this is how this world works and because of that I'm more in tune with the author's message instead of fighting the way he presented it, creating a much more enjoyable watch. If this was live-action I would be more interested in how they did the effect rather than what the point of this character being suspended in mid-air is supposed to represent in the first place.

Resilience by Yunie Choi gave me a new perspective on the horrors of war and life after death. They used animation to do a timelapse of a decaying corpse over the course of several hundred years and it is quite beautiful to see how life moves on without you. The use of colors and interesting animal designs really add to the beauty of this animation.

This guy, Manu Mercurial, does a lot of YouTube tutorials for animation but I haven't seen his animated projects in full before. I thought it would be topical for me since we are both interested in the subject of memories. He very much took a very different approach from what I was thinking of doing but I still think it was a good watch to see how people visualize revisiting their old memories

I like Afternoon Class by Osro for the same reason I like This Actually Happens A Lot, I don't question why this kid's head turns into several heavy objects but I have an immediate connection to it because I understand the feeling of trying to stay awake in class. Also, the use of sound effects is excellent in this short.

I put Forget Me Not by The Lonely Star Studio on here because it shows that even with terrible voice acting and mic quality I can still appreciate the animation of this short which has also been a huge stressor.

Bounty by Arrowmi is on here because it has the opposite problem of Forget Me Not it has amazing voice acting but the art style and animation are pretty rough. It's not bad but it's not super pretty to look at either. However, it was still able to tell an intense story of an ex-bounty hunter and suck me into the world despite its noticeable drawbacks.

Going back through my old script ideas, I had this one part where at the climax of the story the main character would wake up in a car sitting next to his dad. He's in shock because his dad is supposed to be dead and yet here he is just driving nonchalantly, the main character knows this is a memory but he decides to ask his dad a bunch of questions to see if his dad would still be proud of him if he were to meet him as an adult. I feel that this entire scene I made was inspired by this Spiderman story I found 2 years ago on Instagram in which Peter gets 5 minutes to talk to Uncle Ben after years of being Spiderman, this story really connected with me when I first found it because what I want the most in life is to just ask my dad "am I doing good". There are a lot of things that I struggle with; not being masculine enough, I'm almost 23 and still haven't had a girlfriend, and I constantly wonder if I picked the right career choice. I don't know if my dad struggled with the same things but I assume that he didn't and I often feel that if he were to meet me as an adult he would be disappointed. I know that most likely he would say that he is proud of me despite all my shortcomings because that is what parents are supposed to do but the fact that I will never get that answer kills me. I decided to read all 3 parts of this story to get a better idea as to what led up to this Uncle Ben interaction and it was pretty good, if you watched Spider-Man 2 it hits the same story beats. Lately, I've been thinking of scrapping the two-brain cell idea and instead animating the car scene I described earlier on its own.

REFLECTION:

I'm really happy that I finally found a groove into digital art and I'm hoping this will finally jumpstart some animation this week. I'm also glad that I watched all those animated short films, they all had their unique quirks and drawbacks that you don't normally get to see in professionally animated TV shows. I also want to explore the idea of being able to talk to a dead relative for a brief period of time before you never see them again.

[backwards-readings]

The Door that was Never Supposed to be Opened.

Chapter 4: A Bird in a Cage

{Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3}

{A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, if you would like to read it there you can find it HERE. I'm going to be straight up with you and tell you that this is pretty much a self-indulgent self-insert fic. I'm not gonna lie. If you don't like that, that's cool, have a good day. But if you're DTF with it, let's get right into the story.}

{Art Credit: this lovely artist

++TW: There are depictions of Suicide. Please, if it is a sensitive topic for you, skip this chapter. I'll add notes on the next chapter a quick summary of what happened without going into detail. I want you to be safe more than I want you to read my writing. If you're struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to someone you trust. If you're in the US, you can call 988 to talk with someone, or text HOME to 741741. There's help. There's hope. Be safe, please.++

The next few days I am consumed by anger. I scribble more sketches in my book, but the strokes are dark, and in places the lead of my pencil rips the paper. I tear the pieces of the ruined paper out of the book in strips, balling each strip up and throwing it into the unlit fireplace. I sit on the floor for a bit, staring at the torn pieces of paper sitting in the soot. Tears begin to form in my eyes and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. All this just because I wanted to help someone. I pick the journal back up and begin drawing again, this time taking time to carefully sketch out the face of the man in the basement.

My tears stain the page around the drawing as his face takes shape. I stop when I get to the hair and set down the journal, leaving the drawing unfinished. His face already haunts me, the hopeless look follows me when I close my eyes. The hopeless look that I’ll soon have as well. I stay sitting on the floor, numbness creeping across my body. A numbness that starts in my hands starts spreading across my body, taking hold of me. A tightness creeps into my chest and something tells me it’s here to stay for a while.

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The next few days I don’t even bother getting out of bed unless it’s to use the bathroom. What’s the point of putting in an effort to eat and drink water if you’re just going to be stuck in the same room for possibly the rest of your life? Ms Downard comes in a few times and clicks her tongue at the untouched food, taking it away and replacing it with fresh food, but she never says anything to me.

The first two days my stomach grumbles, and on the third day my stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots, but I don’t care. Better to starve to death than to live out my years in this god-forsaken place. After five days of staying in bed and not eating, Ms Downard finally addresses me.

“Honestly, you think a hunger strike is going to do anything for you? Eat, don’t eat, Master Burgess doesn’t care. It would just be one less thing for him to worry about. One less thing for me to worry about, too. Lord knows I don’t have to bring you fresh food every day. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, not asking for anything in return.” She lectures me but I don’t respond. If this is her idea of kindness then I don’t want it.

“Nothing?” She huffs “Fine. I don’t care. Have fun sulking in bed until you wither away into nothing. I don’t care.” She leaves a tray of food on the table and leaves, the click of the lock a bitter reminder. That night I take a few bites of the bread that she left, but I throw it up as soon as I get it down. I crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blankets, a chill clinging to my bones that I just can't shake.

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I’m so tired but can’t sleep. I try again and again to eat, but only a few bites make me sick to my stomach, no matter what it is. I drink the water left for me but it doesn’t seem to stay my thirst. I run a bath and sink into the water, the sting of the cold water doing nothing to wake me up. I wash up slowly, letting my hands and feet get wrinkly in the water. After my bath I sit wrapped in a towel on the bed, not waiting to put on the dirty clothes I’ve been in since getting imprisoned. I’m clean, but I don’t feel like it. My chest is still tight and my skin crawls with invisible dirt and bugs. I try to eat a bit of bread again and this time it stays down, feeling like lead in my stomach.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The next morning, there are clean clothes laid out for me on the table next to my tray of food. It’s a servant's uniform just like my old clothes were. They’re ill-fitting, probably left over from one of the girls who left. The sleeves cover my hands, and I trip over the skirt. There’s no apron to put over the plain dress, but I don’t think I would put it on if there was. I have no need for one as a prisoner. I sit down at the table and eat a few bites of cured meat that sits on the tray, the salty flavour causing me to nearly gag. I eat a little of the bread, hoping that it will calm my stomach, and sit on the bed with my journal and draw.

Once again, my drawings turn from inanimate objects to him. No matter what I do, I can’t get him out of my head. I hate him for it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be locked up. But instead of minding my own, I had to try and become his saviour. I scribble him over and over again, his features flooding my mind. As I create him over and over again, anger begins to bubble. He haunted me when I was free, and now that I am captive he is all I can think about.

He may not have actually been a devil, but he tricked me just the same. If he is such a powerful being, why didn’t he warn me this would happen? Why didn’t he tell me? He let me try to help him when he probably knew the outcome. That bastard might have even wanted this, envious of my freedom. I get up and throw my book across the room, sick of drawing. Sick of everything turning back into him. It hits the wall and falls with a loud thunk, but does nothing but make me more angry. I begin to see red and next throw the tray of food that has been given to me, and then push the vanity in the room to its side and let out a yell filled with anger.

I stand there, seething for a moment before my seething hot anger is replaced with ice-cold sorrow. Tears fall from my eyes faster than I can wipe them away and I sink to the floor, unable to stop the convulsions of cries. I curl up on myself, my sabs raking through my body like waves crashing into rocks. I don’t know how long I lay there for, but eventually my ragged breaths even out and I lay on the floor in silence. My eyes wander around the room, taking in the destruction of my fit, and they fall on the broken mirror of the vanity, shards of the silver-backed glass strewn across the floor.

I drag myself towards the broken glass, grabbing a shard that fits perfectly into my hand- as if it was meant to be. My head throbs with every heartbeat as I palm the glass, feeling the sharp edges. They may have taken away my freedom, but I am not helpless. I don’t want to live caged like an animal. I can’t. I won’t. I hold the shard in my hand, shaking as I sit up and press the jagged edge into my wrist, a hiss of pain coming from my lips as it bites into my skin. Tears well in my eyes again as I watch a stream of blood trickle down my arm, landing in my lap. I dig deeper, pain clouding my vision before I remove the shard and move it to my other arm, my hands shaking more and more. I repeat the process, digging into my flesh until I have to bite back a scream. I remove the makeshift blade and drop it in my lap, holding my bloody arms out in front of me. My eyes begin to feel heavy, and I lay down, not caring about the shards of glass on the carpet that dig into my skin.

Despite the pain, a small smile graces my lips as I lay there. My eyes land on the book I had been drawing in it, the pained stare of my drawing subject meeting my eyes. I don’t remember drawing him looking like he was pitying me, but then again, I had drawn him so many times, that I probably just forgot. I close my eyes, ready to let the darkness take me, to embrace death like an old friend, but instead, I hear a voice. Soft and comforting, like a warm breeze on a summer evening.

“Oh, you poor little thing.” The voice says, and I use what little strength I have left to open my eyes. A woman kneels in front of me and gently brushes a bit of my hair from my face. The woman has dark skin, and her beautiful curly hair hangs around her face. Her eyes are soft and kind, like she knows every hardship you’ve ever been through, but wouldn’t dare judge you for them. She smiles at me kindly, and I blink slowly, trying to figure out if my loss of blood is causing me to hallucinate.

“I’m so sorry for what they’ve done to you.” She says, cupping my cheek with one hand as she brings her other hand down to my arm, gripping my wrist. But I don’t feel any pain. Instead, it feels like warm water is being poured over my wrist, and I feel a bit stronger, but nauseous.

“I did this…” I say, my voice cracking as hot tears roll down my face.

“No, dear. You are not at fault for your death. You saw the only possible way out and you took it.” She says, moving her hand to my other wrist. I feel the same feeling of water running down my arm and I gag, rolling a bit more onto my side as I dry heave.

“I know, I know. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The woman says, gently stroking my back. “You fought a battle that was stacked against you from the start, and you should be proud of how long you held up against it.” She says softly, gently pulling me upright.

“But I’m not ready to take you yet, Patricia Everly.”

[elendsessor]

pictured here is a comment i got on a post i made on one of my sideblogs. now this actually kinda motivated me to go and look into something for no other reason than “yeah sure why the hell not.”

and thus i went down a mini rabbit hole.

this is referring to a post about smt 4, but i think they just mistyped smtv instead of iv—

the picture in question shown is this concept art for blasted tokyo:

now this pic mirrors that of where jonathan is in all the little dream/vision/whatever you wanna call them sequences prior to choosing a route. however…

the head of what i believe is supposed to be the statue of aquila or some other structure is different. blasted tokyo is full of rubble on the surface but none match the head from what i can remember (i may be wrong). even then, the guy pictured isn’t jonathan. next thing to question is “what if it’s jonathan’s beta design?” or if any other art for blasted tokyo matched the mystery man.

to the left is beta jonathan and to the right ends up being for the remaining underground districts and for pluto castle (home of the best boss in the game) + weird shadowy figures. again nothing matches up. there’s a really cool exterior shot that i don’t think is ever in the game tho. closest other character i could think of is kiyoharu.

originally though he was intended to wear the same outfit everyone else does (which contextually makes more sense and is something they should’ve stuck with).

so who is this guy? the answer is god knows. best guess i have at this point is an original design for either 1. a law hero similar to 1 and 2, since 4 was a bit back to basics compared to the previous two mainline entries or 2. one of the original concept designs for flynn/the mc. in a lot of the concept artwork displaying what represented the player, they mostly never resemble flynn. some end up just being random designs meant for npcs, armor, or were scraped concepts altogether. a good portion of them are just area concepts. 4 has a ton of world building and i would argue is more based in that than any of the other games.

in just the concepts for tokyo alone that’s the case. mikado concept art isn’t any different.

a lot of background concept art (such as for the weapons dealer, exterior shots of a few dungeons, rooms with npcs in them, etc) end up getting used for locations you can’t walk around in, since the free roam stuff is 3d modeled save for a couple assets. there’s no rough sketches available for most of the areas even in the art book, and that can definitely be the case for character concepts too. sometimes it’s easy to forget that an entire team works on art and not just a couple people, especially in 4’s case given how there’s a few guest artists. there are likely many concepts and pieces of art that have never been seen or are completely lost. any unnamed unknown character shown in these bits of art were likely meant to exist at some point and yet never did.

though gonna be honest this was just the perfect excuse to go looking through concept art again. (quick shoutout to veskscans since she’s uploaded scans of 4’s art book to a google drive (which is linked on her blog). many of the area concept artwork and early character designs are easy to find but smaller scale scenery not so much. she’s a goddamn hero.)

[dorothyxpalmerx]

School

I was inspired to write this down by a dream I had today. I dreamt I was back in school, sitting in art class. I was looking through a torn-up, beat-up notebook that I used for this class, and I found it had this entire graphic novel in it. I don’t remember what it was about, but it looked absolutely amazing. In reality, I never did anything like that, never felt compelled to try my hand at a comic book, but this thing was gorgeous, bursting with life and creativity. I figured I must’ve made it in my own time. But now, it was time for art class.

We were asked to divide the pages of the notebook into four sections on one side and do some visual interpretation of "the four seasons" on the other. I felt confused as to what that even meant. It didn’t make any sense, and it seemed incredibly tedious and boring. Instead of doing the task, I decided to roam through the school hallways, going on a more interesting, surreal dream adventure.

I went back to class after a while. It was break time, and everyone seemed to have finished their work. The teacher started yelling at me as soon as she saw me, asking why I hadn’t finished mine. I couldn’t tell her why. I didn’t really know. The teacher (an older woman, reminiscent of a neurotic and rude doctor I’d recently visited) was yelling something about never letting me finish the semester unless I learned to comply. Woken up by an urgent need to take a piss, I felt infuriated by what just happened. I instantly started ranting to myself: “This is so incredibly stupid. This has absolutely nothing to do with art and creativity. Making art is not supposed to be dreadful. It’s not about following instructions. None of this is about art, it’s about following orders. It’s complete and utter bullshit.”

I’ve had these dreams every now and then ever since I´ve graduated and left my student life behind for good. They’re almost always defined by feelings of emptiness, a heavy, gloomy dread in my chest, fear, and anxiety. Dreams about having to go back to school for some reason, to endure another decade of difficult, stupid and, worst of all, so obviously pointless struggle, have haunted me for years now, every couple of months or so.

My actual school experience was my own private personal hell. I hated school with a passion. It went far beyond the childish, Bart Simpson-esque cries of “ScHOoL sUckS, I hAtE dOINg mY hOMEwoRk”. it went far deeper than that. I hated school the way I imagine the more enlightened citizens of North Korea must hate their government.

It started on my very first day in school. I remember I was pretty excited about it at first. It only took a few hours to realize that this place was not what I had imagined it to be. I was in math class, where the teacher had us do a mock test to demonstrate what a real one would look like. I finished early and decided to spend the rest of my time doodling on the other side of that test paper. The teacher collected everyone’s papers to evaluate the results. She sat down to go through everybody’s answers, but after a while, she got up and spoke to the class with a tone reminiscent of a mad, disappointed parent. “Who did this?” she asked, waving around my test paper with sketches on the other side. I don’t remember whether I owned up to it or not. I only remember feeling very confused. I couldn’t wrap my head around why she, or anyone else for that matter, would have a problem with me doing this. I finished early, I did the task. Did she want me to sit there and be bored on purpose? Was this some kind of punishment for being...quick? That teacher, in particular, turned out to be completely out of whack, even my mother thought so. She had so many conflicts with her over my "inappropriate behavior" that she ended up transferring me to a different school halfway through the first semester. Now, I don’t think the teacher was completely in the wrong. I’m sure I was a pain in the ass to deal with, as I really didn’t want to be there in the first place and was happy to say so. But her stupid, blindly authoritarian rhetoric of "We’re the best school in this town, our students are the brightest of the brightest, and you need to behave or else!" surprisingly didn’t do much to fix the problem.

I’ve only recently recalled how my first day at this new school actually went down. My new teacher (who, thankfully, turned out to be much kinder and more understanding this time around) introduced me to the class, sat me down, and then left the room as the kids were in the middle of a test. I don’t remember why, but I started insulting my new classmates, mocking them and calling them all kinds of nasty things. It must’ve been because the culture of my former class was all about wrestling with each other, insulting each other, and forming cliques against the other guy. A sort of kindergarten Neanderthal tribalism. I don’t believe these were ever my natural instincts, but I was young, my brain wasn’t exactly fully functional, and I just did what I thought I had to do to fit in. Needless to say, nobody in my new class liked me. That was the start of nine years of debilitating social alienation, an ever-present feeling of otherness and struggling to truly befriend a single person in that classroom. As the years went by, I managed to hang out with a few of them. I formed a couple of "friendships" based on our mutual interests in drawing or video games, but they never felt secure or even very genuine.

On top of this terrible first impression, I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of my classmates processed the outside world the way I did. It felt like my brain was simply working differently than everyone else’s. I couldn’t articulate or even conceptualize any of this, I just started to think of myself as "different." It was so apparent to me that I was "different" wherever I went, no matter who I was talking to. This became a core part of my identity for a long time. I remember how badly I wanted to belong somewhere, but it just wasn’t happening. It would take many years before I found a friend I felt was on the same wavelength as me. I must’ve been around 11, I think.

Looking back, I think this was largely due to my emotional and sensitive nature. I have always been a naturally artistic person. One of my earliest memories is of standing in front of a dozen messy, asbtract paintings scattered on the floor, waiting for them to dry. Unfortunately, the schools I attended were, by design, hostile to people like me. From day one, I was incompatible with this environment, this system, this way of running things. I’m an adult now, and I don’t like to paint myself as a victim. I try to take responsibility for everything that happens to me and focus on what I can do to change things for the better in any challenging situations that may arise. I have essentially reframed the way I see things to put the power over my life into my own hands. But back then, that’s just not how life worked.

Everything I have described thus far has a lot more to do with my own personal emotional issues and social retardation rather than any issues implicit in our educational system, but the vast majority of my anguish during this time was caused by exactly that: the educational system itself.

The way our schools are built, the way they function, the way they treat the students, it all feels strangely anti-human. You can tell the whole concept had been engineered by someone who knew they would never have to make it through one. It wasn’t in my nature to sit in a chair calmly for hours and hours on end. I was a 6-year-old boy, exploding with life, energy, and curiosity, forced to spend my time like a dying man in a wheelchair, a wheelchair that wouldn’t even move, mind you.

This alone was excruciating. Never mind the fact that I was indeed naturally curious about life and all its mysteries, just like any child, but the way my natural desire to learn and explore had now been turned into scoring points in a stressful competition I didn’t ask to participate in somehow made it lose most of its appeal. After a while, learning just seemed absolutely fucking lame. Why? Because I was forced to do it. Because someone, somewhere, who I had never met, and never heard of, decided what I need to know, and who I need to be to deserve a chance at a decent life.

There were many things I was naturally much better at than the other kids, and many things I was much worse at, none of which mattered to the curriculum our teachers were following. It didn’t matter whether you were really smart or really dumb. It didn’t matter if you were terrible with languages but brilliant at math and geography. It didn’t even matter what you were or weren’t interested in. You simply had to be "good enough" at everything this mysterious, nameless, dark figure with a question mark on their face decided you had to be good enough at. Simply put, in school, in many ways it just didn’t matter who you were. And that seems, frankly, absolutely insane to me, still.

School made me feel stupid, useless, unheard, and unseen. It felt like, instead of building me up, it was doing everything it could to beat me into the ground. And it absolutely did not give a shit. My brain didn’t do "good enough" at everything. It excelled at some things and performed terribly in others. I struggled especially with math. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself do math quickly enough. There’s a case to be made that the knowledge and ability to practice basic math is important and essential for daily life. A valid argument, perhaps, for the first four or five years of math classes. But as time went on, our futures began to hinge on our ability to grasp complex and often completely irrelevant math concepts that none of us ever needed to know about. Unfortunately for us, this nameless, mysterious figure decided that if we didn’t comply, we were doomed to a life of endless struggle and poverty. A sentiment echoed and resented by many of my peers, althought never corrected by anyone.

I remember the days in school that simply felt like they lasted forever, every second stretching into infinity. I remember the many, many mornings I pretended to be ill so I wouldn’t have to go. I remember sitting in class and marveling at the absurdity of my predicament. "Absolutely none of this is necessary. I didn’t choose this, someone else did, and whoever they are, I hate their guts." I remember looking at my classmates and thinking, "How come they don’t mind? I mean, they’re clearly not loving it, but they accept it. Am I the only one who feels the jaws closing in on my sense of personal autonomy with every second I spend sitting here?" I felt like a humiliated, molested slave. I remember sitting in computer class and fantasizing about shooting up my high school. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone, I just wanted someone else to understand JUST. HOW. MUCH. I. HATE. THIS.

There have been many times throughout my school years when I voiced my dissatisfaction with our educational system. These were most often met with poorly thought-out responses, something along the lines of, "Well, everybody had to go through it, so maybe you should just stop complaining and suck it up." or my absolute personal favorite, "That’s just the way things are." While I have always found these responses fairly infuriating, what else were they to say? "You’re right, this is actually, admittedly, a terrible crime against humanity, and we need to start a blood bath of a revolution to make the people in the government care about our lives, about our collective health and evolution!" yeah, right.

More recently, I've started getting over how much school fucked me over, and I've started to notice how badly it fucked over almost everyone else. I know so many people incapable of critical thought, incapable of having healthy relationships with anyone at all. People struggling with addiction. People who’ve completely lost touch with their own intuition, intelligence, and creativity. I don’t have a sliver of doubt that our educational system plays a gigantic part in this. Some children simply don’t receive the support and leadership they need in order to flourish within this system. They are not treated as the unique individuals they are, and they are not encouraged to lean into their natural strengths and abilities. In my humble opinion, about 50% of what they teach you in school is useless filler, garbage filler you could learn from a much more entertaining documentary or two in your own time, if you actually have an interest in the subject. All that crap could be, and should be, replaced by truly valuable life skills.

Such as: Self-reflection: The art and skill of investigating your thoughts, reflecting on your feelings, being able to admit uncomfortable truths, and being honest about them with yourself and others.

Proper financial education: When and how do I actually have to pay extra taxes? What if I want to start a business? How do I acquire enough self-control not to spend all of my money on lottery tickets or alcohol?

Interpersonal relationships: Communication skills and the importance of community. How do I actively empathize with someone else’s suffering? How do I support a friend who’s going through a tough time?

The importance of awareness and acting with intention: How to figure out what your priorities are. How to effectively plan and execute the things you've planned out. How to slowly build things that take a long time to build. How to keep reasonable expectations for everything in life and how to deal with its ups and downs.

And many more important currently non-existent subjects, some of which you can probably think of yourself. I don’t understand why we have so many damaged, confused people running around, searching for answers in therapy and self-help books when they could have learned these lessons in school. It’s absurd. I hate that I had to endure school the way it is today, and I hate that young children all over the world still have to. I sincerely hope I’ll see positive changes in this regard within my lifetime. For now, I just wanted to rant, take all my thoughts and feelings around this topic and vomit them onto a single page so I hopefully don´t have to think about it as much and dream some cooler dreams. Like wandering through crazy surrealist landscapes and hooking up with supermodels.

Thank you for your time and attention.

[cb-works13]

A Character Info Dump, Featuring Oliver

Wanna feel good about your OC drawing/writing abilities? Redraw something.

(This is mostly just me dumping information about my characters, so if you like reading random things about people you’ve never heard of, you’re at the right place!)

In January, I drew the opinions my characters had about the others. They were quick sketches to just get general ideas on paper, stylized like it was a cutaway interview from a show like The Office. I was extremely proud of them. Just a couple of days ago, I was looking back on those and, in classic “my old art looks terrible” fashion, realized just how much I’ve developed them since, so I decided to take another stab and redo the idea. I started with Oliver.

Oliver used to be an extremely static, almost always chipper person. He was diving hard into the whole “my character flaw is that I care too much!” UGH. As I began digging deep into what he might stand for and how his past would shape his present, I realized that Oliver would have way more to say than just “I love X person! Y person seems like a jerk but he’s okay! Why does Z hate me???” Let’s dig in!

Oliver’s Opinion on Holly:

Take the first set of pictures above the intro. Oliver is talking about his little sister, Holly.

(Note: I’m typing out the paragraphs instead of just posting the pictures with the text because I can have bad handwriting and spelling, so doing this mitigates the number of potential mistakes I can/will make)

Originally, Oliver says, “What am I supposed to say? She’s my little sister! I love her. She’s adventurous and wide-eyed. I want to keep up with her energy, but I also have to protect her, you know?”

Great… what does that mean, exactly? It’s so straight forward and yet it tells me nothing. There’s no relationship Oliver has with his OWN SISTER other than “I love her and I’m a big brother!”

When I redrew it, I really wanted to hint at the underlying reasons why Oliver feels the way he does about his sister. He says, “Holly’s my little sister. She’s been a bundle of joy ever since she was born, and I love her to the moon and back. She’s curious, adventurous, and bubbly, and I hope I never have to see that change in her.”

Ooh, what does Oliver mean by not wanting “to see that change in her”? That sounds way more interesting than “I have to protect her!” Instead of Oliver being all about “protection” in the general, vague sense that most older siblings have for their younger siblings, there’s this idea that Oliver wants to preserve Holly the way she is right now- innocent, joyful, and happy.

Oliver’s Opinion on Roxanne:

Here is Oliver talking about Roxanne.

In the first one, Oliver says “Roxanne is one of the first close friends I ever made! She’s resourceful and smart. If there’s anyone I trust with not letting this mission collapse, it’s her.”

Very sweet. One issue. Roxanne is unbelievably stubborn, and she views her ideas as superior to everyone else because of the extreme amounts of planning she does for any situation she can think of. She’s incredibly smart, don’t get that mistaken, but her ideas are often outlandishly complicated and insane. Anyone should see that, including Oliver- especially when he’s known her for so long.

Oliver, while he can see the idea of being prepared for a lot as a good thing, cannot comprehend the concept that Roxanne can be ready for everything because of how his own life went. Oliver sees his powers as a hindrance- they are completely contingent on his emotions, meaning they will activate freely when he feels any particular way, and as an emotional person, that’s a pretty big issue that can affect him any time, anywhere. There’s little he can do about the “be prepared” aspect, because his day can dramatically change if his crush walks into the room, if he hears a sad story, or if someone tells him a joke.

In addition, since Roxanne is a lifelong friend of Oliver, he’d be much less likely to sugarcoat things when it comes to talking about her, especially since there’s no romantic feelings between them, something that would usually cause someone to elevate the other person through rose-tinted glasses.

In the new drawing, Oliver says, “I REALLLY don’t think I can put this lightly, but she’s crazy. I know, I know, she’s a close friend. But as one of HER close friends, I can say that. I mean, she’s always crafting some new projects and plans for, I dunno, if an alien steals her microwave or something, but there’s no way she can be prepared for absolutely EVERYTHING. She’s crazy.”

Oliver’s Opinion on Flint:

Then there’s Oliver’s opinion on Flint.

The original drawing reads “Well, he’s not so bad, if you can get past the pretentious, obnoxious, and rude side of him. He can crack a few jokes. Occasionally.”

Flint probably has more of a superior complex than Roxanne, but his selfishness is rooted in the fact that he is both an extremely powerful rock alter (alters are the name for people born with abilities/powers) AND a child in an extremely rich and famous family. He believes he’s the best and expects everyone to believe as much.

Oliver can see how much Flint adds to the group and how much it means to have someone like him butt in- I mean, join the group, but he’s not star-struck like Flint’s adoring fans. Oliver wouldn’t say “oh he’s not so bad,” Flint’s a celebrity. The general public, including Oliver, is much more okay with speaking negatively about celebrities. Besides, he’s seen Flint’s reality TV show. It’s stupid.

“Gosh, he makes Roxanne look like a sober-minded scholar. I don’t even understand HOW Flint got on our team, but he does a good job balancing being the most obnoxious, pretentious sixteen year old I’ve ever met and reminding us he’s the most powerful alter in the group often enough so we don’t go insane. It’s nice not having to pay for gas, though…”

Reading the original paragraph, you’d think, “Wow, what a terrible person. Why would anyone keep this jerk around?” With the new paragraph, I wanted to showcase how Flint can have his cake and eat it too, being able to be the selfish jerk in the group and then turn around and remind people why he’s important in the first place. He knows how to talk (or bribe) his way through interactions, as seen in Oliver not understanding how Flint joined the group (the gang originally didn’t want Flint, they just wanted to exploit someone rich at a party for money. Flint overheard the group talking and declared himself part of the group so that he can add it to his resume) and Flint paying for things that would make their mission easier, like gas.

Oliver’s Opinion on Vale:

Lastly, there’s Vale.

This is where I had to remind myself that Oliver’s a dude. Many, many of the guys I know don’t particularly care if someone really likes them or not, especially when it comes to other guys.

Originally, Oliver says, “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I feel like Vale doesn’t like me? He can feel however he wants, but I’d like to know if I did something to start us off on the wrong foot.”

EW. THIS IS SO CRINGE.

I understand people can behave like this (being overly concerned about how someone else feels about them), but Oliver sounds like he’s gushing over Vale like those girls in movies who brush their hair with their fingers as the guy walks past and go nuts if the guy looks at them. Not only is Oliver not interested in Vale (Oliver has a crush on a girl named Priscilla), but I couldn’t even get what I was trying to write about correct: being an introvert.

Both Oliver and Vale are introverted. Oliver tries to live every day as quietly as possible because of how expressive his powers are. He got laughed at by his classmates for years when his powers flared up, so keeping a low profile makes his life a little less stressful and embarrassing.

Vale keeps to himself for more private reasons, and it is true that Vale doesn’t like Oliver, but Oliver should only be able to recognize that Vale’s not big on interacting with anyone, including Oliver. Oliver only knows Vale within the context of this group, which means that Vale being reserved with Oliver is interpreted as a product of Vale’s overall characterization of being introverted, not an indication of how he feels about Oliver.

In the new version, Oliver says, “He’s quiet, and I totally get it. Between Roxanne and Flint constantly arguing, we would all need hearing aids if Vale or I joined in. He keeps to himself, but that doesn’t mean he won’t tell you that whatever you said was stupid- he’s really nailed the ‘disappointed look’… I tend to get those a lot.”

This now highlights Vale’s introversion and Oliver being able to relate to it. It also hints at Vale having more reservations towards Oliver (him getting more disappointed looks from Vale), but it’s mostly taken as a passing thought for Oliver rather than a huge concern.

How Oliver is Drawn:

Turning my focus to the art itself, it’s so incredibly satisfying to see Oliver actually express himself, rather than just standing there, morphing in shape, and having “mouth open” as part of his facial expression. As I get to know my characters more and more, I’m hoping to really refine what each of their mannerisms and expressions would be, and I really like how Oliver turned out in this.

The Conclusion:

Anyways, I hope there was something interesting you learned in there. I intend to do this for all of the main characters, but they shouldn’t be nearly as extensive as this one, simply because I got a bulk of the characterization descriptions for each of them here. But who knows?

Thanks for reading!

[chaosplatypus]

so. Here it is. My first fanfic. No beta we die like the fandom the moment Mizu5 dropped. Enjoy!

The aftermath

Mizuki is gone. Everyone feels the effects.

Two weeks. Ena hasn‘t seen Mizuki for two weeks. No matter how many times she writes to the other on Nightcord, no matter how many times she searches in school, in SEKAI or even goes to Mizuki’s house. Mizuki is no where to be found. Ena hasn’t gotten a good nights rest ever since the school festival. She has spent every waking hour trying to reach Mizuki. She‘s worried sick. But it‘s not just her. One of Mizuki‘s classmates, Toya Aoyagi, the one who help set up the puzzles of their classes escape room has noticed Mizuki‘s absence as well. It wasn’t uncommon for her to skip class but this was just too much. So during the breaks Ena and Toya would meet up and try to figure out where else Mizuki could have gone. But so far: Nothing.

Mafuyu could feel it. They feel the way Ena has become more snappy and irritable, how she hasn’t sent a new sketch of cover art in a while. How ever since Mizuki left no one could bring themselves to make any progress in their music. Mafuyu also felt the guilt weighing their bandmates down. Kanade, despite not knowing the reason behind Mizuki‘s disappearance because Ena couldn’t bring herself to tell them, blamed herself. She felt like she had failed. Ena put the blame on herself as well, always saying how she „Should have said something“. And Mafuyu felt guilty because they didn’t know what to do now. There was no way they could all just go and make songs like before, it wouldn’t be the same without Mizuki- it wouldn’t WORK without Mizuki. Mafuyu didn’t know how to help. 

There was tension. The air in the house was thicker than normal. Akito noticed how out of it his sister was, of course he noticed! Especially how she was clearly neglecting taking care of herself. He tried making some comments about it to get her to spill, even buying her cheesecake as a bribe but she pushed him further and further away with each attempt. And something felt off at school too. There was something missing. 

It clicked.

He hasn’t heard the annoying „little brother-kun“ or „lil bro“ for a while. And now he felt like he was waiting for something that wasn’t coming. And it put him on edge. Every time he heard a voice he answered with a too quick „stop calling me that“ which has lead to many confused people and awkward situations. 

But not only was his sister acting weird. It was Toya too. At practice he seemed unfocused. Now, Akito would be a hypocrite if he said that he had been in top form. Because he hasn’t. As much has he hated to admit it, he was worried for his sister and Akiyama. And as he hated it less to admit it, he was worried about his partner. Seeing Toya zoning out, hearing his sister snap so much more at their father and hearing her sob late at night. It hurt.

And then there was An too!

The „A“ in An stood for „anxious“ at this time. She was pacing any time she was supposed to be still. In her room? Pacing. In the school hall? Pacing. During break at practice? Pacing. Her hair was frizzy with how often she ran her fingers through it. She still tried to reassure Kohane, who had been asking how she was doing any time the two were together (which was almost all the time), that she was fine. But she wasn’t! Mizuki was missing- gone! She hadn’t seen her in school, outside of school, anywhere ever since the school festival and it was driving her crazy with worry! She had tried contacting her friend but she wasn’t always sent to voice message and all her texts were left on „sent“. At this point, An had lost count of how often her phone had been taken away in class while she was trying to write to Mizuki. She felt terrible. Because not only was one of her closest friends missing but she wasn’t doing well at practice. An felt like she was letting down Akito, Toya and especially Kohane. They had all been working so hard, especially recently. Though, she also noticed the boys acting different. They seemed more exhausted than usual.

Nene may not be the most social of people but that didn’t mean that she didn’t get concerned about her peers. Like now. In her class alone two of the students that stood out the most, An and Akito, weren’t like themselves. An was on edge, fidgety and lost in thought, Akito was expectant and had worry lines on his forehead. It was weird seeing them like that.

And Rui. Rui was… He was clearly not okay. Nene had been friends with him for so long that she could tell right away when something was wrong and this time it felt like Rui wasn’t even trying to hide it. His inventions weren’t as grand as usual, his hair was messier, he had dark circles under his eyes- Nene could spend hours listing all the symptoms of Rui not being okay. She had tried talking with him on many occasions but even though Rui didn’t hide his sadness, he didn’t say anything about why he was down. And that worried Nene even more.

These days were everything but WONDAHOY! Emu was getting restless. Nothing she did made Rui-kun smile like before. And whenever she asked about why his inventions weren’t going Bling-bling-boop! and only grr-grr-boo he didn’t give an answer. He couldn’t even look at her! She had told her brothers and sister about it but they didn’t have any answers either. She started feeling helpless.

And Saki noticed too. It was always easy to tell when Emu felt down because of the stark contrast and sudden switch that happened in her personality. So Saki, being her classmate and friend, immediately took notice of Emu‘s highly unusual behavior and asked what was wrong. And once Emu mentioned her friends acting off she remembered too. Tsukasa. He had been more in thought than normal and as far as Saki knew, no show was ahead of them. He must’ve been worried about Rui as well, she thought.

And that he was. Tsukasa didn’t want to push Rui to opening up but he was set on helping him. Because they weren’t going to get anywhere with all their troupe members being so sad! That would bring the quality of their shows way down! So actions had to be taken, starting with Rui, the root of Tsukasa‘s fellow co-stars and his own concern.

So an intervention had to be held. A one on one talk in SEKAI.

Kohane had a similar plan. She actually met up with Tsukasa, hoping he would know more as he is close with Toya or have some kind of advice. But since he knew about as much as she did the two brainstormed ways to help their friends.

This wasn’t one on one but Kohane got MEIKO to call everyone to Street SEKAI to „taste test a new cookie recipe“. But instead An, Toya and Akito were now sat in the cafe in front of a very determined looking Kohane.

„Please. What’s going on?“ Straight to the point, Tsukasa saw no point in beating around the bush. He and Rui stood backstage at the stage in Wonderland SEKAI. Tsukasa had all the plushies leave, making sure that it was only him and his friend.

Rui looked bad, worse. His hair was frizzy and sticking up in all directions, his shirt was crinkled and he looked simply exhausted. And he wasn’t looking at the blond. So Tsukasa put his hands on his shoulders.

„I- I‘m worried!“ Akito scoffed and looked to the side at Kohane‘s words. His arms were crossed over his chest and he sunk deeper into the cushions on the sofa. Toya‘s head followed Akito‘s. And An looked to the ground as if counting each line in the wooden floorboards.

„I am too.“ Toya said. His words seemed directed at his partner, Akito, who turned his head back.

„That’s rich coming from you! You haven’t exactly been acting yourself either.“

„Yes. That is… true.“

Kohane was looking back and forth between the two. Then to An, „But- why? What’s wrong?“

An crumpled. „It’s Mizuki.“

He spoke through a cracking voice. It made Tsukasa flinch, hearing his director‘s voice so… broken.

„Akiyama? What about her? What happened?“ He reached up and began combing his fingers through the mess Rui‘s hair was. The inventors shoulder slumped forward.

„She-” He took an uneasy step forwards. „She- She‘s gone.“

Rui wrapped his arms around Tsukasa and his fingers dug into the back of the troupe leaders sweater. Tsukasa slowly lifted his arms and hugged Rui back. 

„What do you mean She‘s Gone?“

„Just- gone! We can’t find her!“ An‘s eyes were brimming with tears. Akito hid his face by simply turning his head to the side and Toya was looking down now.

Kohane didn’t expect that. She also didn’t expect An to cry. 

„W-what!? I-” She quickly went to An‘s side and hugged her partner.

„She‘s- She left! She‘s not- in school- doesn’t reply to texts-”

Sniffing sounds were heard from the two boys now too. 

„And… you‘ve looked everywhere?“ Tsukasa couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Rui nodded against the star‘s shoulder.

„So… Everywhere? Are you sure? Maybe she‘s just sick!-” Tsukasa felt Rui shake his head. The shoulder of his shirt was getting damp but he didn’t mind.

„Okay… And you haven’t seen her since… the School festival, right?“

Another nod from the troupe directing. His hands trembled against Tsukasa‘s back. He thought back to the first time he had met Akiyama, at the School Festival last year. And all the times after that.

„Oh…“ The reality of it all hit the leader. 

Kohane didn’t know Mizuki all too well but she did know that that girl was important to An, who was sobbing in her arms.

The atmosphere felt… it was hard to describe. Sad, of course, but there was a hint of relief, relief that it was out now, the thing that had been weighing on everyone‘s chests.

MEIKO had been there watching Kohane‘s makeshift intervention and already prepared hot chocolate for them all.

„So… She really is gone…“

„So… she really is gone?…“

got some fic ideas… about mizu5… how everyone reacts… to mizuki… leaving…

someone possibly interested?