#also i did like eight or more different sketches before finally getting to this one i Struggled

[sualne]

reflections

#toh spoilers #the owl house #hunter toh #golden guards toh #cw corpse #ask to tag? #my art #you cant give me a character who's haunted in some way and expect me to be normal about them #ive been wanting to draw hunter casually going through his daily life while surrounded with the ghosts of the previous golden guards #but havent done it cause idk how to go about it yknow. but this scene inspired me. more drama than casual here tho #also i did like eight or more different sketches before finally getting to this one i Struggled

[baek-at-it-again95]

Walk The Plank (KHJ x fem reader)

Chapter 17: Desire

You had grown up hearing tales about the infamous pirate crew ATEEZ—the fearless, power-hungry men that roamed the seas in search of the most valuable treasure they could lay their hands on. You almost didn’t believe the stories your mother had told you as a child...not until you wound up on their ship  

Warnings for this chapter: None? A lot of vulnerability? Some kissing and some crying...I couldn’t hold myself back lol

A/N: We are approaching the end! 🥹😭 I'm so attached...I wish I could just continue this story forever. I've been writing this one for a long time now! I have a Seonghwa fic in the works so hopefully that will be out soon <3 🤧 I love you all so much and I am truly so grateful! Also, happy San day!!!

Previous: Chapter 16, Masterlist

Chapter 17: Desire

How are you going to tell them that you need to destroy it...

You hadn't noticed until now how well you handled the jump back to your universe. You had not experienced difficulty breathing or feelings of overwhelming panic. Perhaps you've finally adapted to using your ability. You have used the Cromer frequently enough to begin understanding it. Unfortunately, now that you've accomplished that, you have to get rid of it.

You sigh as Jongho places his hand on your shoulder, tearing your gaze away from the Cromer. You'll tell them soon...you just want to enjoy your moment with your crewmates.   

"Y/N, I am so happy to see you," Jongho says.

"I am happy to see you too, Jong." You smile, nudging him. "I was only away for two days, but it felt like an eternity without you all." Jongho's eyebrows scrunch together.

"Two days?"

"What, was it three?" you question.

"Y/N, you were gone for eight dreadful days and nights," Yunho says.

"What?" you exclaim.

"Time must move a bit differently in the world you were in. Fascinating," Seonghwa says.

"Not fascinating. Dreadful," Yunho repeats.

"That did not happen the first time, did it?" 

"No, you were gone for mere minutes the first time," Seonghwa states.

"Y/N, may I have a word with you?" Hongjoong interrupts.

"Yes, actually there was something I needed to discuss with you as well." He nods, placing his right hand at the small of your back to guide you. You enter his cabin and carefully shut the door behind you. It has become your safe place, really.

"Joong I—"

"Y/N." He takes your face in his hands again, the side of his cool metal hook pressing into your soft cheek. "I just needed a moment with you. I cannot even begin to imagine what you have been through. It must be overwhelming."

"You know I can handle myself, Joong." You give him an assuring smile. He pulls you into a hug, this time much calmer than before. You melt into his arms, your hands grabbing the fur of his coat tightly. As turn your head to the side in your embrace, you catch a glimpse of the absolute chaos on his desk.

It was bad before, but this? More papers and maps than you have seen in your lifetime are sprawled across the table, journals and pens and navigation tools littered everywhere. "Oh my," you say quietly, leaving his hold to get closer to the desk.

"It was difficult trying to research a way to get to you," he explains. "We are so relieved you were able to get back here yourself." You pick up a familiar journal opened on the desk. As you scan over it, you notice it's the story you had written detailing how you ended up on their ship. A small piece of paper falls from the journal and back onto the desk. In black ink, there are sketches of you. One is a picture of you reading a book, and another smaller one is of you with your hair ribbon. 

"Did you draw these?" you ask him, taking the paper to examine it closer.

"Yes," he mumbles. "You were all I could think about, Y/N." You blink back some sudden tears and quickly set down the paper before you can ruin it. "I will not let you out of my sight again." This time, you take his face in your hands. 

"I know, Joong," you whisper. "I know." You pull him into a quick, gentle kiss. 

As you pull away, you see his eyebrows are scrunched with worry, and you trace your fingers over his features. Your fingertips caress his chin, his cheek bone, and eventually, his eye patch. The tips of your fingers trace the band above his ear, where you slide your finger beneath it. Hongjoong's jaw seems to clench at this, but he does not stop you. Still, you don't wish to pressure him. You love him, whether you see all of him or not. You begin to lower your hand, but he takes it, placing it right back where it was. He nods as you look at him with surprise. With a small smile, you pull at the strap and lift it ever so carefully. 

Once you remove the leather and set it aside, you take in his face. You had been expecting some kind of scar...perhaps even no eye at all. But what you find is that his iris and pupil are clouded. Hongjoong avoids looking at you for the first time ever. 

"You are beautiful, Hongjoong." He meets your eyes, surprise etched across his features. You give him an assuring smile.

"I have never thought so. I was cursed a long time ago, after making a foolish deal with someone I thought I could trust. They took my sight." He sighs, pausing. "It is rare to encounter those that use magic for good anymore." 

"You are still you, Hongjoong. Nothing less. You are beautiful, regardless." The man in front of you suddenly closes the small distance between you, desperately kissing you as if you would be swept away any moment. You place your arms behind his neck and his strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you protectively. You feel safe and warm in his embrace. The moment is blissful, and you wish he would never let go. But when you break for air, you remember why you agreed to have a word with him in the first place. 

"Hongjoong, perhaps it is not the right time," you say breathlessly. "Not that I wish to stop this...just remember that I have something to tell you."

"Yes, darling. What is it?" You bite the inside of your cheek, nervous about how he might react.

"It is about the Cromer," you start. He tilts his head.

"What about it, Y/N? You can tell me." 

"I was told that we should destroy it."

"Destroy it?" Hongjoong repeats, looking at you as if you are not quite serious. "Who told you that?"

"You—the other Hongjoong. He explained that once we rid ourselves of it, the Guardians will not be able to locate us as easily, if at all. It was upsetting to hear, but it does seem like the best thing to do to keep each of us safe. We have all experienced some kind of danger with it, Joong." Hongjoong looks at you with an unreadable expression, and you shift nervously. "Please say something," you whisper. 

"Y/N, think about what you are saying. We have put infinite time, energy, and resources towards getting this artifact. To give it up is mad!"

"But if we do not have it, the Guardians cannot find us. They cannot take anyone. They cannot take me!" Your voice cracks, and your vision becomes blurry as tears well in your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time that night. "I just want to be with you, Joong. It is difficult to give up something that we searched so hard for but you are more important to me." You're crying harder now, your hands trembling at your sides as you grip the fabric of your skirt tightly. "I do not care about magic. I do not care about treasure. I found what I want and it is you!" you exclaim. You lower your gaze, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand and watching as your tear drops hit the floor pitifully. 

Hongjoong is then right in front of you, lifting your chin gently. "I love you, Y/N." You look at him in awe, a bit taken back. "I ask that you forgive me for not understanding at first. I see why this decision must be made." He wipes your tears with his thumb, looking at you with all the care in the world. "Do not cry, darling. It will be alright." You can't bring yourself to speak, only nod at him. 

Hongjoong places a kiss to your forehead before turning to his desk. You watch as he picks up his eyepatch and you hurry over, taking it from him to help him put it back on. 

"I love you too, Hongjoong."

*** 

You stay in the cabin until the captain is done explaining the situation to the crew. Not wanting to witness their reactions to the news, you pace around in circles until they are done. You are feeling a bit tired, but you'll manage. "Y/N!" Mingi's deep voice calls you from outside.

You take a deep breath and step out into the moonlight, your favorite people gathered closely.

"Yes?"

Yeosang hands you the Cromer. "Will you do the honors, my lady?" 

"Are you sure we should not just toss it overboard?" Yunho asks. 

"We could, but think about the suffering of those who might find it in the future," Jongho says. 

"I could live with that," Wooyoung chimes in. 

"Silence," Hongjoong demands. "Go ahead, Y/N." You stare at the hourglass, the gold gleaming under the bright full moon. This is it. This is a decision for the better. With a heavy heart, you raise the fragile object above your head and drop it to the ground. Fragments of glass shoot outward like stars across the deck. Your father's entire life of research, shattered at your feet. Your captain's research. The guilt hurts, but the thought of being separated again from everyone that you have come to love in this world...that hurts more.

You watch in silence as Hongjoong pulls his hook through the dented gold frame and swings it overboard. Seeing it feels unreal. It makes you think of the other Hongjoong, and what he must be doing. Is he safe too? You hope everything works out for him. 

Exhaustion hits you hard out of nowhere, and you reach out to San beside you. It seems like your travel did have an effect on you, just not immediately. 

"Woah there." San picks you up, his arm tucked behind your knees.

"Tired already, princess?" Wooyoung asks, heading for the crew's quarters and motioning for San to follow. "You're out before we even got to start drinking." He giggles. Your eyelids feel heavy, closing before you can manage a response.

"Be careful with her," you hear Hongjoong warn.

"Got it, Captain!" San says, his footsteps heavy on the steps leading below deck. 

Taglist: @foxinnie8 <3

#kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong x reader #ateez x reader #ateez reader insert #ateez au #ateez pirate au #hongjoong x reader #ateez #ateez fanfic #halateez #ateez fic #happy san day

[esthermitchell-author]

Just had a totally depressing, but potentially accurate, thought while I was making my tea...

What if the reason Crowley doesn't have any friends outside of Azi, and seems to expend so much energy deliberately not remembering people's names or faces is because he's tired of losing friends?

Hear me out...

Aside from Azi, who's been a large part of his life since even before Eden, Crowley doesn't make many close, personal connections. I think that may be a choice, and not the "oh, I'm a big, bad demon" type of choice either... A real fear of letting people get close to him for fear of losing them.

In the minisodes that predate Golgotha, we see a different Crowley. He knows who Shem is, at the Ark, indicating that he might have been friendly with at least one of Noah's sons. As Bildad the Shuite, he not only addressed both Job and Citis by name, but he also referred to Ennon with "he seems nice" and told Jemima "you haven't annoyed me yet" and seemed particularly impressed with Job's younger daughter.

Then Golgotha rolls around, and we encounter a much more somber Crowley, who's so suspicious of Heaven suddenly that he can't even trust Azi to not be there "to gloat." Crowley's hurting. He's watching Romans -- through Heaven's machinations -- kill his closest human friend.

Eight years later, in Rome, Crowley is bitter, and snarky, and easily annoyed. He lashes out at Azi (yes, it was a dumb question, but he'd never lashed out directly at Azi like that, before).

Skip a few hundred years (during which there seems to be no indication he's tried to make friends with anyone except Azi). Edinburgh. Crowley slips up, lets himself care enough about Elspeth and wee Moraig to refer to them by name, and even joke around a bit with Elspeth, at Azi's expense. Then, wee Moraig is killed, and Elspeth tries to take her own life. I maintain that the idea of watching someone else he's come to care about DELIBERATELY take their own life rattled Crowley more than the Laudanum alone. And he realized one way or another, Elspeth would eventually die, so he set out to get her on the "properly good" path, so he could be sure she didn't go to Hell whenever she might die.

But I think the incident with wee Moraig and Elspeth was the end, for Crowley. I think that's when he really started to develop his "alt names" for everyone he met. "Antichrist" (Adam... he only used his actual name I think once), "Book Girl" (Anathema. Admittedly, she never gave them her name, but Crowley never asked, either. Azi didn't either, but I think he was too wound up in the healing and the bike and all that to pay attention at the time)

He doesn't refer to any human by name, again, until Maggie and Nina. I think he kind of adopted them by proxy (Azi adopted them, so Crowley paid attention). But there was still a certain amount of distance, right up until the angels were threatening to turn Maggie and Nina into pillars of salt. Crowley immediately jumps in. These humans are friends, and he refuses to let Heaven or Hell hurt them.

Then AZI, of all people, gets (temporarily, I'm sure) removed from his life. It makes that final glance he gives the cafe and then the record shop, extra meaning. Without Azi, they've now become his only friends in the entire world. And he already knows how fragile human life is.

PS -- I did leave out one connection, with Leonardo da Vinci, whom we know from canon gave Crowley a sketch of the Mona Lisa signed "to my friend Anthony"... I did so deliberately, because while I have lots of headcanon regarding that friendship (get your mind out of the gutter... not THAT kind of headcanon), the truth is, we don't know enough of the REAL canon to know just how well they knew one another.

#my poor heart can't handle this #my poor little baby Crowley #good omens fandom #good omens #azicrow #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable spouses #crowley #good omens s2

[superfallingstars]

I love your Snape art! The way you draw him is *perfect*! I like how you can pull both a cozy soft vibe in a drawing and a creepy one in another and your Snapetober entries are very interesting (I'm thinking about the masks one and the one where Severus is surrounded by eyes)

first of all sorry it took me one million years to answer this. second of all THANK YOU!!! this is SO nice and makes me SO happy you have no idea <3

i meant to actually post a reflection about snapetober because it was such an interesting experience. it's been a long time since i've drawn so consistently (i used to draw every day as a kid but some time in high school i just sort of stopped and have been drawing weekly-to-monthly ever since) and i didn't realize how much i missed it! it was definitely hard to keep up with, but i'm really proud of what i was able to accomplish.

it was also a huge challenge for me to do more conceptual pieces (like the eyes and masks ones) and push through to finish them. i tend to get bogged down in character design and capturing someone's exact likeness (something i did with snape for a few months before even starting to post on here lol – it took a long time to get him to look the way i wanted!), and although i really enjoy doing that, i had been left feeling kind of disappointed with my art. most of my creations were just sketches and references, with no thought to composition or concept, to the point that i hadn't really "finished" a piece of art in probably years. so the pressure of the prompts and also having to post the results was actually really good for me.

i also really appreciate you saying that i can do both cozy and creepy types of drawings. i've always felt that my art style is kind of inconsistent, and especially when i first starting posting online (on deviantArt, eight years ago.... EIGHT YEARS AGO?!!!!), i thought that was a bad thing and that i should really just pick one style and stick with it. however i think i've finally accepted that i simply like a lot of different styles, and so i will incorporate them into my art as needed to achieve different effects. (hello that sketchbook page where i drew a hand squishing snape's cheeks with the caption "squish the snep" and then an inch away i drew him bleeding out.) and that's just kind of my thing, lol.

sorry i wrote a whole essay omg. but snapetober was so challenging and fun, and the people i've connected with and the interactions i've had on here because of it are something i'm really grateful for.

thank you again for your kind words :-)

#neglected to mention how much schoolwork i pushed off because of snapetober lmfao. it was a choice (a bad choice) but i remained unpunished #srsly tho i think snapetober in no small part is responsible for rekindling my love of drawing #like it actually had such a huge personal impact on me as an artist. crazy #asks #my posts #hp #snape #snapetober

[theerrorofmylife]

The Sketch Artist

Yes this is a battinson fic. I definitely did not go see it twice just to write this. hah. I’ve been practicing quite a bit to write in a gender neutral tone so I hope that turned out ok. Also, I did change a few things but nothing too major. Enjoy.

 ~ Error

    When the sun rose in Gotham, it was as if the whole city held its breath, waiting for something to tell them that yes, another night was over, the dawn had come once again. One such morning, when the city woke up and the criminals that ran rampant among the civilians finally went back into hiding, I woke to find my alarm clock going off. 7 am, the time for workers to get ready, for children to be off to the busses, for those last-minute essays and tranquil cups of coffee. For 6 months, I couldn’t remember a time I had woken up before 10, but this was different. I had an art degree, and while I loved painting and drawing, neither paid the bills, especially not in Gotham. The police station, however, was in desperate need of a sketch artist these days, and I was happy to oblige. $10 an hour for a regular 9-5, plus I got to hang out with Gordon and the other cops who weren’t absolute sleazebags. It was an ok gig, it was a paycheck, and with the art, I did on the side occasionally, it made rent with a little extra for groceries…sometimes. But that was fine, it was just me and I didn’t have to eat every day… right? Whatever, it doesn't matter, the point was I had a job. And my alarm was still going. Rolling over in bed, I tapped my nightstand blindly in search of the beeping monstrosity. Finally, the sound stopped with the slam of a button, and I stumbled out of bed to get coffee. Coffee first, then brush teeth, then maybe shower if the water bill was worth it. By the time I left the apartment, it was 8:15, and I was hightailing it upstate to the police station. 8:15 seems like a reasonable time to leave but it’s not when you live on the other side of the city. Rushing inside the backdoor of the station, I waved to the cops and detectives as I made my way to Gordon’s desk. I could sit at my own desk, but why bother.

“5 minutes to spare. You’re getting good at this.” I hear him tease me. I look behind me to see him lounging on the banister. 

“You act as if I haven’t done this before.” I had known Gordon for years, all the way back to my mom’s homicide case when I was seven. He came around the house to help my dad, and about 3 years later when my dad passed away in a car accident Gordon stepped up and took care of me. He buddied up to a Lawyer named Dent and got emergency custody of me that way he could take care of me legally, and from there he was always surrogate dad #1. I was ten then. Now, sitting comfy at 23, I couldn’t remember a time when Gordon wasn’t a guiding light in my life.

“Well, now that you’re here, we’ve got four people who need to see you. There was a homicide last night, as well as a robbery.” Wow. I jumped up and hopped over to my desk, grabbing the extra-large sketch pad and the small bag of coal pencils and mega erasers. This was gonna be a long morning. 

~

By lunch, I had finished all the sketches, sat with a woman during a line-up purely for emotional support, and even took some time to entertain a kid while his dad was giving a statement. Overall, it was very productive and enjoyable. I left the station at about eight, staying a while longer so I could bug Gordon while he did the paperwork, but eventually, I was making my way back to my apartment. Gotham’s abyssal night had covered the city, and the endless rain was especially cold tonight. A breeze carried the chill beneath my clothes and made me shudder. I should have been watching where I was going, I should have been more careful because as soon as I stepped onto the subway platform, two rough hands took hold of my arms and threw me forwards to the ground. My hands didn’t catch my fall and my forehead hit the grimy pavement, pain coming in waves from behind and under my eyes. My eyes were so heavy, I almost didn’t realize my watch was being harshly tugged off my wrist. My bag had been tossed, and I could hear the contents being tossed about. My senses seemed to come back all at once and I ripped my hands away and began pushing myself away from whoever was near me. I kept crawling away till my back was pressed against the wall. Four to five men, all wearing different variations of sweaters, hoodies, leather jackets, and all looking in some way terribly threatening. The one who was trying to take my ring reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a switchblade that must have been the length of his forearm when brandished. I couldn’t fight against a knife like that, I had minimal combat training, I… I was going to die… suddenly everything went quiet. Deathly quiet, as if all of our hearts stopped at once. Footsteps echoed against the pavement steps, each one making my stomach tighten and my throat close. A fear I didn’t know I could feel settled over me as a man slowly approached from the darkness. Batman. Quite literally the most terrifying person in Gotham, the only one that every and any criminal ran from without shame. He was vengeance. My body was beginning to feel heavy, my arms feeling like any strength I once had was quickly drained, and my head felt… hot. Warmth had spread across my forehead and down my eyes and cheekbones. I was losing my ability to see, the visible area becoming hazy and foggy. I could hear fighting, sounds of the men yelling, the sounds of violence. Then a gun going off. Then nothing. No fighting, no footsteps, nothing. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore, my head felt like it was spinning, and I couldn’t make out who exactly was now beside me, so like any sane person moved to push myself as far away, but my arms couldn’t lift me anymore, and the hands holding my arms still wouldn’t let me.

“I’m gonna need you to stay still, ok?” a voice rumbled deep in my mind. I couldn’t describe it without sounding horribly attracted to it, but in truth, I was. It was deep, a lovely sound that might strike fear into someone who wasn’t close to unconsciousness and actually losing blood. In truth, even without the blood loss, I would probably still find him horribly attractive.

“No... what...?” I was sat back against the wall a large hand holding my head as it was gently placed back to rest. Whoever this was, they couldn’t be the same dark entity that beat criminals to a pulp. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and for the first time in the past 5 minutes, I could see clearly. The Bat himself, an extremely large man, towering over everything, imposing even in the darkness, was the one situating me to lean against the wall. He put his gloved hand up to his hood and spoke very quickly.

“There’s been a mugging, someone’s been injured… 51st street, subway entrance.” He took his hand off and I realized he hung up. It felt as if my back was slowly melting into the wall behind me, my head was so fuzzy, and it felt like someone was taking a hammer to the space behind my eyes. “I’ve called the EMTs…I’ll stay till they get here.” I nodded but it felt more like a whole-body jostle than an actual nod. My head was lolling to one side and my eyes were drooping. He was staying with me. It was a kindness I didn’t expect from him, the most dangerous man in Gotham. He sat there, hand on my knee, simply making sure I didn’t actually fall out of consciousness with a likely concussion. The heat from his covered hand bled through the leather and denim of my jeans, giving me chills all over as every nerve focused on the spot where his hand was. When I had the strength to lift my head, I caught sight of the most ice-like pair of eyes I’d ever seen. It was like stepping into an ice bath during summer, his eyes were in such high contrast with the dark kohl around his eyes and his dark armor. They were beautiful, in a way, and I found it unable to look away as I got a glimpse of the human behind the mask. I held his gaze for what seemed like forever, locking eyes with the apex predator of Gotham’s underworld. A shock went through both of us when the sirens were finally audible. I began shoving his hand off my knee with very little effort. He seemed so confused, reaching to stop me from moving too much.

“Go.” Was all I could really say, still trying to push him away, and all I got in return was a nod. Watching him leave, I saw him turn one last time, and then he was gone. It was almost like he was never there. Police swarmed the subway and immediately paramedics were crowding around me. 

~

The next morning, I woke up in the hospital. Gordon was sitting next to me, asleep in the chair, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake him. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the edges of the tiles as I tried to make sense of last nights events. The Bat saved me. It was weird, recalling all of it. It seemed so… fake… like he didn’t actually save me, because why would the Bat have time to save me from a mugging when there were worse things going on in the city? But the more I laid there, replaying it over and over, seeing him sitting with me in the tunnel again and again, it became more tangible. Something about him, something only found in books and in comics, something wonderfully terrifying that made my mind stall. Where even was he now? Where does the Bat go when the sun purges Gotham for another day? If I walk the streets in the darkness, would I find him again? - Why the hell would I want to find him again? Why the hell would I go out after dark ever again, especially after last night? But the more I thought about it, the more useless feeling scared seemed and the more seeing him again seemed… mandatory in a way. I have to see the Bat again; I just have to. It would be about 30 more minutes of studying the ceiling before Gordon woke, then another 45 minutes before I was discharged with only minor head trauma and some cuts on my head that needed stitching. Overall, not horrible.

“Please!!”

“Absolutely not! You just got out of the hospital, you’re not going back to work after last night, you’re going back to your place to sleep and recover.” I don’t want to go home though, if I do, I’ll never leave, I’ll simply curl up in bed and stay there until I decay. Better I go back to work and do something than decay, right?

“Gordon I’m going back to work.” I say with falsified finality and the glare I received was murderous.

“Kid. Go home.” Eventually I gave up. The ride back to my apartment was tense, I could tell Gordon was still frustrated with me. When he dropped me off, I didn’t say anything, I just walked inside and left Gordon in the car. It wasn’t that I was mad at him, I just didn’t want to prove him right by going to work and potentially passing out. I placed my bag and jacket on the rack by my door and slinked farther into my apartment studio. I slept till the next day, waking up to a text from Gordon telling me not to bother coming in. Great. The other night was still swimming in my head, the bat… Getting up, I shook off any soreness and made my way around the room like some old Victorian lady. Nothing to do, no one to be with, alone with my thoughts. How wonderful… He still stalked around in my mind, his movements last night replaying over and over on its own little movie screen behind my eyes. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Marching through my apartment, I cornered a large 6ftx6ft canvas near the far window in the living room. Better to remove the thought altogether rather than continue to let it torture me.

It would be hours before I leave the living room, my stomach giving me a horrible pain, and I waddled off to the mini kitchen for food. From the living room, the news was going on about the attack at the late mayor’s funeral, how Batman had shown up, but the Riddler killed that guy anyways. This whole Riddle business was insane. I knew I was safe, I never dealt with the kind of stuff that the mayor or the DA ever did, but the idea didn’t cease to bother me. Sandwich in hand, as I walked back into the living room, the eyes of the cursed guardian stared back at me from the canvas. Black and bright blue stared off into the distance at an imagined object…or person. I had tried to mimic the khol around his eyes but that only made the mask harder to define, and the background was better black, making the whole situation too abstract for my nature, but perhaps it was better like that? I mean, it was the Batman after all, maybe abstract was fitting for who he is. To stare at the piece made me feel stupid; it didn’t do the real thing justice. The more I stared, the angrier I got at myself and the picture I had fabricated. My feet moved faster than my mind and before I could really think through my actions. I hated the picture so much, maybe because no matter how real I tried to make it; it wasn’t the real thing. Marching up to the canvas, sandwich forgotten, I reached out to sink my nails into the fabric only to have a strong hand grab my arm. The familiar warmth sunk into my skin, even through the glove. In a panic I threw my arm from his grasp and nearly jumped clear off the ground, hopping away. There, the B-Man himself, in all his vigilante-batshit-glory. Suddenly an indignant frustration came over me.

“Seriously?! Knocking is a thing, you know?” Forget the Batman being in my living room, this was an intrusion, and worse I felt completely stupid for having a giant picture of him in my apartment now. He didn’t answer though, he seemed to be completely focused on the painting. He blinked rapidly before moving his gaze towards me. All at once I felt ashamed. Those same ice-blue eyes; I’m a mess.

“Did you make this?” I nodded. His voice sounded the same as it had that night. Wonderfully horrible. “Its good.”

“Thanks…” He’s so weird!!!

“I need to ask; did you know any of those men who attacked you the other night?” The other night? Those men… I didn’t.

“No… why? They didn’t seem to be part of any group or organization.” I was trying to think ahead but even that wasn’t leading me to any conclusion.

“They were, they were going through your bag hoping you had police files on your person. They didn’t know you were a sketch artist with no real clearance to the kind of case they were going for.” Oh. Police files… I’ve never carried those with me, never even allowed to look at those by myself so I usually spy on them over Gordon’s shoulder, but I’d never carried one with me. “Your head, how is it?”

“Better than Gordon would believe.” His shoulders shook only once, as if he were huffing a laugh, but I refuse to believe the Batman would ever laugh at something.

“I have to go; I’m still tracking that group. You’d be safer at the precinct you know.”

“I do know. However, Gordon won’t allow me to go back to work, says I have this made-up thing called a concussion.” Again, his shoulders shook, and this time I can’t deny that that was something like a laugh. He laughed. Turning towards the window, he opened it all the way and stepped out, careful not to knock over the tiny pots and jars I had sat there.

“You know, maybe next time I’ll knock.” He jumped up the fire escape and we gone in seconds. What the absolute fuck……. wait.

“Next time?!”

~

 The next morning, I left for work early in order to corner the commissioner and see if I could return to work. When I got there, Gordon was waiting.

“No.”

“You really can’t stop me, you know. I need the work G, I can’t be cooped up like that!” Dashing past him, I ignored him yelling after me to go home and slipped into the commissioner’s office. Sara Essen, a wonderful friend of Gordon and I, and probably the only person I’d listen to in this who precinct.

“Commissioner! Commissioner Essen, how wonderful to see you today, you look absolutely radiant, as always Ma’am!!” I’m such a kiss-up, it would be pathetic if it weren’t so fun. Sitting at her desk, she me an accusatory glare before reaching into her desk, pulling my sketchpad and pencil bag out of her top drawer.

“Gordon said to keep these from you. Said you had a concussion.” I rolled my eyes animatedly.

“C’mooooon! Those are made up and you know it! Please, Sara, you know this isn’t going to affect my work, I sit all day and draw! Please don’t send me home…” I was begging, which was somehow worse than being a kiss-up. She sighed but had a small smile on her face none-the-less. Holding out the paper with the pouch balanced on top, I grinned widely and took them gratefully. Saying a quick thank you I ran out to wave my triumph in Gordon’s face. I love him, I really do, he’s like a father to me, but trying to keep me home was just cruel. The day went smoothly, no issues whatsoever. That was, until Gordon and a few other officers came over.

“Hey, don’t freak out, but Bruce Wayne is here to talk to you.” I’m sorry, what.

“Bruce Wayne? Why?”

“He was at the mayor’s funeral, his friend there says he got a look at the guy in the crowd, came in to give a description.” Right… that whole Riddler business, and then the attack at the mayor’s funeral. I didn’t know Bruce Wayne was even there, but it makes sense, I guess. Even recluses need to pay respect to the dead.

“Send him over then, what are you guys waiting for?” Gordon shook his head and motioned someone over. A man, very tall but slouched approached. He had dark hair that hung in his face and his coloring was abnormally pale, like he lived inside all of his life. Despite that, his eyes were minimally sunken in. His eyes, such a light blue, almost like… ice. “Hello Mr. Wayne.” Immediately his eyes shot to my face and a look of recognition passed between the two of us.

“Hello again. I suppose I should have knocked, hm?” My face flushed. It was him.

“You shouldn’t have risked coming here, do you even have a statement??” Are all vigilante-billionaires this careless? Then again who would ever suspect Bruce Wayne? Billionaire shut-in who is so traumatized by his parent’s murder that he can’t stand being in public, who would ever think that such a vulnerable, terrified man could be the most brave and lethal man in the entire city. Hell, it stands to reason that if the public’s version of Bruce Wayne ever met the Batman, he’d collapse on sight. But that was the public’s view, and that made all the difference, didn’t it?

“Yes, I do, don’t worry about me right now. I saw the Riddler at the funeral, in the banister above. He was there to see what would happen.” I nodded as I shuffled my papers around, digging out a clean one along with a new pencil and eraser.

“Ok. Give me his face structure first, then we’ll move to details.” He nodded and I saw beneath the shadow his hair cast a small smile. Huh. About an hour or two later we had finished the description and I had created a decent image of the man Bruce had described. He left shortly after, saying he had business to attend to, but also extending an invitation to the Wayne Tower. He left the precinct with what only very few would come to know as a smile.

#batman #battison #battinson #batman 2022 #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman x y/n #bruce wayne x reader #gotham #vengence #pfft

[archduchessofnowhere]

How do I make my family trees, part 1

Hello, today I bring you my very first attempt at a tutorial. Time ago I made a couple of family trees that showed how different royal couples were related. While I only posted two of these trees (on two different blogs) and then abandoned the project, I always wanted to go back to it, specially since there are a some that I did but never posted.

The trees in question.

The other day I was asked how did I make them, so I thought that this was a great chance to go back to this forgotten project. So more trees are coming. But first, a tutorial of how I made them!

First a disclaimer: while I enjoy making edits I'm not actually super skilled on the art and just managed with the bare minimum edit tools of Pixlr. So this is just how I do it, which is probably not the best way to make these trees. Also I'm not even sure if it is the easiest way lol, but I like making them like this because it gives me a lot of control on how the tree will look like, which genealogy websites do not. Because of Tumblr's image limit this tutorial will be done in two parts.

For this tutorial I'll use a simple first cousins marriage as an example, since this kind of trees only have eight people and therefore are easier to draw. So I'll work with Duke Karl Theodor in Bavaria and his first wife, Princess Sophie of Saxony, who were maternal first cousins.

Let's begin!

1. Do your reasearch.

An obvious first step, I know, but this is absolutely necessary. If you're doing a tree that shows intermarriages then you need to make sure that know exactly how many people will be in your tree, and how they are related to each other. It has happened me that I made the tree and then realized that I missed that two people that were on opposite extremes of the tree were second cousins once removed and now I have to start all over. Almost every royal on Wikipedia has an "Ancestry" section with a mini family tree that goes back like four or five generations, I normally base my trees on that info (because the genealogy enthusiast on the Internet will never let any mistake slide, unlike actual published books). Also a tip: the Spanish version of the Wikipedia articles tend to have bigger trees than the English version. Once you are done, we can move to the next step.

2. Draw your tree (on paper).

This step won't be necessary in our example since it's just an eight persons tree, but if you're doing a bigger one (like the H7 and EoY one) then this step is pretty important. Because trees with a lot of intermarriages are an absolute nightmare to put together if you don't want any lines crossing. So you need to figure out how it will look like before you start editing on Pixlr, otherwise you'll likely end up redoing it many times until you get it right.

Currently I'm working on a big tree that covers tons of marriage, and figuring out how to put it together was legit the hardest part of it. Here is a peak to the last of the many trees I drew, in which I finally managed to make sure no lines crossed (can you guess what is it about?)

As you can see this is just a rough sketch drawn with a pencil on a page of my French notebook. I don't even bother writing the names, this is just to figure out how I'm going to organize these people on the tree. Of course if you don't find this necessary you can skip this step and plan the tree however you like, this is just how I do it.

3. Get the pictures for your tree

I usually just download the person's default profile picture on their Wikipedia page and call it a day lol; but if I can choose I try to choose pictures that depict the people around the time they got married (that's why I chose Ludovika and Max's portraits from their twenties instead of photographs of them at an older age). If the spouses pictures face each other the better, but I don't bother too much if they don't.

My advice is that you download all the pictures you'll use before we can move to the final step of part 1 of this tutorial.

4. Crop the pictures and turn them into PNGs.

Finally, we can start working on Pixlr! Open pixlr.com, the website will give you three different options of editors. I use the simple version, Pixlr X, since these trees don't require many tools.

Now open one of the picture you chose. I chose this photography of Sophie of Saxony, which is both her default Wikipedia profile picture and my favorite picture of her. The first tool we'll need from the side bar is the "Crop & rotate"

Once in there, crop the photo to show only the person's head:

Now with the photo cropped, we can move unto the next tool we'll use: the "Cutout". What this tool basically do is cutting out the background of your picture and leaving only the shape you chose, I use the circle shape.

This is the end result! Now the picture has an oval shape with transparent background. I usually go back to the "crop & rotate" tool and crop the photo again, so it doesn't have that extra empty space.

Save it as a transparent png and it's done! Now you do that with all the pictures you'll use for your tree. I chose a circle shape, but you can use whatever of the other options you want.

Tomorrow, the second and final part of this tutorial in which I actually will show you the trickiest part of the tree making: drawing the tree on Pixlr!

#sorry that I do not actually tell you how I make the trees in this part of the tutorial #second part will be better #tutorial

[coles-scythe]

Very very rough WIP of my man 2D for a redraw of a redraw of a screenshot of a virtual live performance. Sharing on here bc I don't want this to get much attention and I wanna gush about him a lil. Old art + screenshot and f/o gushing under the cut.

AAAA the improvement from the sketch alone holy cowwww. The drawing is August of 2019, so nearly 4 years ago. Very excited to finish this one, hopefully I can tomorrow.

Anyways-- I wanna talk about my history of listening to Gorillaz and my slowburn crush on 2D. Plus a little of what I've figured out about my S/I.

2D is one of my older F/Os by technicality. I never actively self shipped with him until recently, but I've had that big crush on him since I was a freshman in high school. So around 2016/17. I was vaguely aware of Gorillaz before then, but only because my cousins had shown me two different music videos. One of Clint Eastwood, and the other of Devil Inside by Slipknot. Watching those back-to-back + having a phobia of eyes did not turn out well and for the longest time I was terrified of 2D because my cousins told me he didn't have eyes at all. I later learned from a friend I met in my freshman year that isn't entirely true, his eyes just have eight ball fractures and are drawn to look like they're gone. I had also apparently confused the Slipknot music I had heard for the Clint Eastwood video, so that friend made me watch the video again with them and I realized I actually really like the song lol. From there I fell down the whole rabbit whole for Gorillaz and 2D quickly became one of my favs. Russell is sorta still my fav because I'm biased towards drummers, but Stu is a very close second LOL. I read a bunch of fanfiction, mainly X Readers of him on Wattpad. Fun fact, this is also around the time I started seriously questioning my gender, and started reading/writing male readers to explore those feelings lol.

So then I listened to their music and doodled them occasionaly when I was first starting art in my sophomore year, but I didn't really get involved in the fandom or anything besides reading fanfiction on Wattpad. 2017 was peak for me since they dropped Saturnz Barz after years of silence from Plastic Beach. Despite all the new music I was constantly listening to, my mini-hyperfixation on the bad quickly faded. Two years passed before I realized it, it was suddenly 2019 and I was a fresh high school graduate with a massive hyperfixation on Splatoon. Phase 5 had concluded a few months prior and my brain decided it was a great time to have a little redux of my Gorillaz hyperfixation.

I started drawing them, mainly 2D, more often and got very into the fandom on Insta and Tumblr. Met some pretty chill people, a few of whom I'm still mutuals with on my main :D!! But the entire time, I was still in my "self ship is cringe" phase and kinda ignored anything I was feeling towards 2D. I was still reading and contemplating making my own X Reader fics of him on Wattpad, but that was all irrelevant to me I guess. Eventually that hyperifxation on them passed and I returned to my regularly scheduled Splatoon hyperfix.

Fast forward to another year later in 2020 and into 2021, I finally embraced my cringe and started self shipping again for the first time since I was like 9. First with Erik from Dragon Quest, then several Persona characters (most importantly Adachi lol), then Happy Chaos, and I've been jumping around from crush to crush I've had since I was a kid. Very good for the soul, 10/10 would reccomend reconnecting with childhood F/Os lol. As of a few months ago I starting thinking of 2D as a potential F/O before officially naming him a romantic F/O!!

All this time I've been tossing around different ideas for a self insert, but haven't really explored it until I named him my F/O. I'm still figuring that stuff out, but I at least know they knew each other before D-Day! Not too sure about Phase 1 stuff, but I do know they'll reappear in Stu's life during the band's break between Phases 1 and 2 and maybe they start dating each other by the time Phase 2 does roll around OwO. And then my insert also gets kidnapped by Murdoc and gets shipped off to Plastic Beach with 2D. They become the stand-in drummer for the band while Russ is MIA. Then for Phase 4 and beyond? I have no idea lol.

Sorry for just rambling about this, but I like sharing the origin stories for my F/Os and 2D is one of those that has a very long and somewhat complicated story. I've liked him a lot since I really got into the band's music, but I was so absorbed into cringe culture and avoiding being called cringe that I just ignored any potential story I could tell between us. Plus all the gender dysphoria and less than stellar reactions I got from my friends didn't exactly help matters lol. But I'm no longer an egg, those unsupportive friends are out of my life, and I am cringe and I am free babey!!!

#self ship #my art #my wips #not censoring names bc im too tired aaaa #so if this breaks containment then DO NOT PERCIEVE ME PLEASE #also if this has any spelling or grammar errors i donut care im too tired #💙 Revolving Doors

[eunnieboo]

XP-PEN Artist 12 Pro Review!

hello! XP-PEN was kind enough to send me their Artist 12 Pro: LINE FRIENDS Edition for an honest review. i currently use a Wacom Cintiq 13HD, but i’m always interested in affordable alternatives, so i wanted to check it out!

in this review, i will be comparing the Artist 12 Pro to the tablet that i have - keep in mind it is an older version of the Cintiq 13HD, so i’m not sure what they’ve changed recently. but because Wacom is pretty consistent in terms of tablet quality, i believe this is a fair comparison.

so right out of the box, there’s a lot of fun, cute accessories that come with this particular collab. part of this tablet’s selling point is its portability, and i can definitely see why! it feels very light and slim (note: this is a display tablet, like the Cintiq 13HD, so it must be connected to a computer). i was also pleasantly surprised to see all the different adapters it came with!

the pen comes with eight additional nib replacements - my Cintiq originally came with five. i personally have a very light touch, so i’ve never had to replace my nibs before, but i think having extra is helpful for those who have a heavy hand. the portable stand also has one level compared to the Cintiq’s three, but i found the angle just fine.

this might be a personal preference, but i really appreciate how the cable plugs into the Artist 12 Pro. it’s something i wish i could change about my Cintiq - one wrong nudge will send my tablet screen flickering to black before booting up again.

i also love the 3-in-1 cable that the Artist Pro has, because it cuts down on the multiple cords i have running under my desk.

this tablet comes with eight buttons and a scroll wheel on the side. some people prefer using their keyboard, but i like using express keys because i don’t have to move my hand from the tablet at all. so this was a point in its favor for me! these are my shortcuts, for those who are curious:

the driver set-up and installation also went smoothly. i first tested the tablet on a MacBook Air before switching over to a desktop PC, so i got to experience the set-up on both MacOS and Windows. in my opinion, it's easier on a Windows device. it feels a lot more straightforward. while i was also able to successfully install the tablet driver on MacOS, it required a little more tinkering and some additional steps. i wouldn’t consider this enough to dissuade Mac users, i just personally enjoyed my experience on the PC more!

(full disclosure: i had some screen troubles when the tablet was connected to my MacBook, but this was because i had to hook it up via an adapter of my own. i didn’t want to pay $70 for the official Apple product so i got a cheaper one, which ended up being a clown move LOL :’) once i removed the adapter and connected the tablet to a PC, i no longer had any of these problems. just something to look out for if you’re considering using any usb-c adapters!)

now for the most important part: drawing on the tablet! first off, the laminated screen feels very nice. i personally dislike drawing on slippery glass screens (this is part of the reason why i struggle to draw on iPads without a textured screen protector), so the matte, non-glare finish is really satisfying. the active draw space is slightly smaller than my Cintiq (10.09″ x 5.67″ vs 11.75″ x 6.75″), but i personally like small to medium screens so that didn’t bother me.

i do believe the Cintiq 13HD is more precise when it comes to pen sensitivity and responsiveness - however, i feel like the Artist 12 Pro holds its own very well. i’ve been using my Cintiq for years, so i’m very used to how it feels. despite working on an unfamiliar tablet, i was able to sketch, ink, and color quite comfortably on the Artist Pro. while i noticed slight differences in pen precision, it simply resulted in me redoing some lines now and then, and that ended up being my only complaint. the colors looked just as vivid as they did on my Cintiq, and i was able to adjust the pressure settings in order to compensate for my light pen strokes.

in terms of cost effectiveness, my Cintiq 13HD was $700, while the Artist 12 Pro is $300. although the Cintiq moderately outperforms the Artist Pro in pen sensitivity, whether or not that warrants its price tag is up for debate. ultimately, it’s up to the individual to decide what’s more important to them: performance or value. you could go for a tablet that’s affordable, but has some room for improvement, or a tablet that performs slightly better, but is considerably more pricey.

though the Cintiq is twice as expensive, i wouldn’t consider it twice as good. but again, it really comes down to what’s most important for your workflow, and what guarantees you get your money’s worth. i’ve found that huge ranges of pen sensitivity or pen tilt are totally unnecessary for my art, but for some, that may be a deal breaker. personally, i was able to use both tablets well, and neither impeded my ability to draw.

my final verdict: if you are a hobbyist, looking to upgrade to a screen tablet, or trying to get into digital art, the Artist 12 Pro is definitely an option to consider! i think it’s a really solid display tablet, especially for its price point. though i can only speak for myself, my experience with the Artist Pro has been a positive one! XP-PEN seems to be a strong competitor for Wacom and its products, and i’m very eager to see how they grow from here.

⭐️ XP-PEN Official Website ⭐️ 🌱 Artist 12 Pro LINE FRIENDS Edition 🌱

#xp-pen #line friends #tablet review

[searchingwardrobes]

Ivory Runs Red: 5/6

First off, massive thanks to the @cssns​, my beta @demisexualemmaswan​, and my artist @cocohook38​. Cocohook created this amazing cover art, and she is working on something else too to go with this story. The rough sketch made my jaw drop, so I can’t wait for ya’ll to see it!

This part  is going to be a little long, but I need to address something that I got multiple comments about. Just bear with me; this is the only way I can think to clear things up. I was really surprised to see that some people were angry at David and Mary Margaret for not doing anything to find Emma and/or "allowing" her relationship with Neal. Others simply expressed things along the lines of "I hope you explain what David and Mary Margaret did about all this." The reason this reaction surprised me so much is because I thought it was clear that they HAD done something. Why would the Golds need to get rid of police files if the Swans never reported Emma missing? Why would issues of the newspaper be missing from the library if Emma's disappearance wasn't reported on? Obviously, David and Mary Margaret did something! As for Neal, they had no idea Emma was seeing him. If you'll recall, in a previous chapter, Emma told Killian she had to sneak out at night to meet Neal. So that wasn't Snowing's fault either. Also, how would any of these characters know what David and Mary Margaret did or didn't do for their daughter? This is almost a hundred years later, and Emma's memories are dulled from being a ghost for so long. The only way I could spell out clearly how Snowing handled their daughter's disappearance would be some sort of convoluted info-dump, and I didn't want to destroy the tone and mood of the story to do that. But just so everyone knows: Yes, Emma's parents were devastated. They did everything in their power to find her, never giving up hope (which is so in character for them!). They died still believing she was either still out there or that crimes against her had gone unpunished. It broke their hearts. The Golds spread rumors that Emma was some kind of slut who ran away with a guy, and the people of Storybrooke overall thought the Swans had gone crazy. So there it is, that's the back story that I just couldn't figure out how to fit in the story, lol.

I'm not mad at the questions, to be clear. I was just surprised by them. I guess I blame the show for ruining these two as parents the last couple of seasons. Maybe that's why everyone jumped on them so fast. I was also honestly worried that ya'll would be upset with me for not addressing the topic, hence this long explanation! No one was rude by any means, so don't go trying to defend me from nonexistent trolls, lol! My feelings have NOT been hurt. I simply wanted to address the questions that were asked and the misplaced anger toward Snowing. (Not anger towards me - but fictional characters!)

Okay, now that I've cleared all THAT up, let's get on with the next chapter, shall we? And I'll go ahead and warn you: this is gonna hurt . . .

Summary: When ebony flashes gold, blood runs cold. When ivory runs red, you’ll be dead. Killian Jones had heard the old rhyme his entire life. Every child did in Storybrooke, Maine. They heard it whispered in the dark at sleepovers as children; taunted as a challenge as teenagers. Killian never believed it was actually true. Until that fateful night …

Rated M for graphic depictions of violence, abusive relationships, and major character death (I mean, it’s a ghost story ya’ll, people are dead. BUT I promise, there is a happy ending. Trust me? *peeks from around a corner*)

Length: 6 chapters, complete, updated every Friday

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @kmomof4​ @xhookswenchx​ @let-it-raines​ @bethacaciakay​ @tiganasummertree​ @shireness-says​ @stahlop​ @scientificapricot​ @spartanguard​ @welllpthisishappening​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @thislassishooked​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @kday426​ @ekr032-blog-blog​ @lfh1226-linda​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @nikkiemms @optomisticgirl​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @ohmakemeahercules​ @carpedzem​ @branlovestowrite​ @superchocovian​ @hollyethecurious​ @vvbooklady1256​ @winterbaby89​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​ @jennjenn615​ @snidgetsafan​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @lassluna​ @distant-rose​ @courtorderedcake​ @winterbythesea​ @thesschesthair​ @killian-whump​ @thisonesatellite​ @batana54​ @it-meant-something​ @xsajx​ @therooksshiningknight​ @gingerchangeling​​

Chapter Five: Run

“You’ve got to tell them what you saw - what you’ve learned,” Killian pleaded. 

Graham shook his head, his curly hair falling in his eyes as he stared at the slender hands he clasped in his. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw sported far more facial hair than it normally did, and Killian didn’t have to ask if he’d slept in the past forty-eight hours. 

“They won’t believe me.”

Killian’s jaw clenched in frustration. “But if I saw Emma, and you saw her, then maybe they’ll believe -”

“That Belle saw a ghost push Mike Gaston off the troll bridge? They’ll believe that? Really?” Graham let out a sarcastic, bitter laugh. “You really are just a naive kid if that’s what you're thinking.”

“But you’re a cop!”

“I’m still only nineteen! They’ll think we’re just over-imaginative teenagers.” Graham paused, reaching up with one hand to trace the curve of Belle’s cheek as she slept in her drug-induced prison. “That will land us in rooms just down the hall with our own IV full of an antipsychotic cocktail. How will I help her then?”

“You’ve fallen in love with her.” It wasn’t a question. 

Graham sighed. “How could I not? And how could he -” He broke off, his blue eyes flashing. “I’m not sorry he’s dead. If I’d been there and saw him hurt her -”

“Shh, I wouldn’t say things like that. Not here.”

Killian’s gaze fell to the bruises around Belle’s neck, and he didn’t blame Graham at all. It terrified him to think what could have happened if Emma hadn’t shown up.

“History repeats itself,” he murmured under his breath. 

*************************************************

Killian had scarcely arrived at the bridge when headlights blinded him. He turned away, blinking, stumbling, refusing to be stopped. 

“Emma! Emma!” he shouted. He tripped and dropped his flashlight. It broke as it hit the ground, rolling to the edge of the bridge. Now all he could see was ebony before him and radiant luminescence behind him. 

His palms scraped against the asphalt as Liam hauled him to his feet. His brother gripped his upper arms so tightly it was almost painful, and he gave him a brief shake. 

“You’ve got to stop this!”

Killian fought him. “I have to see her!”

Liam had always been broader than Killian with an unfair advantage in all their childhood tussles. Even now, Killian was no match for him as he lifted him bodily with one arm and hauled him over to his car. 

“You need help!” Liam literally tossed him into the backseat. 

“I’m not going home!” Killian tried to scramble out, but Liam just shoved him back inside. 

“Good, because I’m not taking you home.”

*******************************************************

“Why won’t you be straight with us, kid?”

Killian glared at the detective with a cynical sneer. The psychiatrist on the cop’s left frowned at Killian’s attitude. The choice of words was cruel considering he was in a literal straightjacket. His vision of the two men was obscured by the long strands of dark hair before his eyes. Haircuts were apparently seen as a luxury on the psych ward. 

“I’ve answered all your questions,” Killian finally told them wearily, “you just don’t like what I had to say.”

“Because we want the truth,” the psychiatrist, Dr. Archie Hopper, said gently. He was clearly playing the part of “good cop.” Or “good doctor.” Whatever.

“I told you the truth.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Killian snorted a laugh. “Tell that to Mike Gaston.”

The detective’s voice took on a harsh, warning tone. “Mike Gaston was the victim of murder.”

“The victim!” Killian cried, his voice snapping up. “What about the bruises he put on Belle? Or the fact that I nearly died when he tied me to that bridge!”

The detective’s lips curled up in a lewd sneer as he lit a cigarette. “If some horny teenager likes it a bit rough, that’s none of my business.”

Killian fought his bonds, his jaw clenching at the detective’s insinuation. He was as bad as Neal Gold, maybe worse. He had to be pushing fifty at least, and a pot belly strained at his button up shirt. His eyes widened as Killian raged.

“Bothers you though, I see.” He leaned forward. “Nobody blames you for wanting her, kid. Nobody blames you for being jealous. But murder? That’s a different story.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with that!”

The detective glanced at Dr. Hopper, and the soft spoken psychiatrist took over. “Killian, start at the beginning for us. What did Belle say when she called you that night?”

“I’m telling you, she didn’t call me, she didn’t come to my house. I saw her early that afternoon at the library. That was it. Then my brother got a phone call that there had been an accident, and we came to the hospital.”

“You and Belle were at the library together a lot,” Hopper said softly, “what did you two do there?”

Killian rolled his eyes. He hated the patronizing way the man asked the question. “We studied. Did our homework. We were friends.”

The detective snorted again, and Killian wanted to scream. “Drop the act, kid. You really expect us to believe that you spent all that time with her, all that time with a hot chick, and you never fucked her?”

Dr. Hopper recoiled at the foul language, and Killian thought his own jaw might actually break. 

“You’re just as much a misogynistic, narrow-minded, neanderthal as Mike Gaston.”

The detective grinned and slapped Dr. Hopper on the knee. “You were right, shrink, this kid’s smart.” He took another puff of his cigarette as he eyed Killian. “Smart enough to plan an elaborate murder with your knocked-up girlfriend?”

“That’s the most ridiculous - wait - did you say knocked up?”

“Hm,” the detective mused, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his five o’clock shadow. “You didn’t know?”

Killian was horrified when a laugh slipped past his lips. Another bitter laugh followed, then another, until before he knew it, he was shaking with them. He was laughing hysterically while wearing a straightjacket. That thought made him laugh even more, and if he didn’t seem like a lunatic before, he sure as hell did now. 

“What the hell is so funny?” thundered the detective.

Killian’s laughter stopped abruptly and he leveled the man with an intense stare. “History repeating itself. That’s what’s so funny.”

A smile that he knew bordered on manic curled his lips. Yes, history had repeated itself, and this time, Emma Swan had won. 

************************************************************

They didn’t have enough to charge him, or Belle, or anyone else really with Gaston’s murder. It was officially declared an accident, and theoretically, Belle French and Killian Jones were free to move on. 

Killian wouldn’t say it was easy for Belle. She had severe trauma from that terrifying night, and she ended up losing the baby because of it. Nevertheless, she had Dr. Hopper’s patient help, her father’s support, and Graham’s unwavering devotion. Soon, though it would be a long time before she was truly healed, she was able to go home. 

Killian, on the other hand, didn’t really want to go home. For one, he, unlike Belle and Graham, refused to stop talking about Emma - refused to lie and say he made it up. He didn’t fault his friends for it; didn’t take it as a betrayal. He even understood their reasoning when they begged him to do the same and just play along, damn it. He simply couldn’t do it. Emma was too real, too precious. He knew her in a way they never would. He knew the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - let that go.

The psych ward wasn’t so bad. The drugs numbed him to the point that he sailed on a sea of oblivion half the time. He’d stopped fighting, so there was no more straight jacket, no more bed straps. 

And she came to him. Sometimes the drugs meant he wasn’t lucid enough to really carry on a conversation. On those nights, she curled up next to him on the bed. She ran her fingers through his hair and caressed his cheeks. She pressed kisses to his lips, and sometimes he could respond in kind. 

Other times, though admittedly rare, they would talk. About everything and nothing at all. One night, they talked about their dreams for later, after high school, and suddenly Emma began to weep. 

“I know,” he soothed, brushing her forehead with a kiss, “you fear you can never have that. But maybe we can figure it out. If we somehow get the truth out. About your murder -”

Emma silenced him with a finger to his lips. “That isn’t it, Killian. It’s you. I have no more tomorrows but you can.”

His brow furrowed, and she sighed and soothed the lines away with the pad of her thumb. 

“But not if you keep holding onto me.”

His arms instinctively pulled her closer. “I’ll never let you go.”

She sighed, and sadness filled her eyes. She slipped out of his embrace and rose from the bed. Her skin grew white, her gown floated in an ethereal way at her feet. He frowned and scrambled to a sitting position. 

“I have to say goodbye,” she told him. She said it with an edge of discovery in her voice. Her lips turned up in a soft smile even as a tear slipped down her cheek. 

He shook his head and tried to reach for her, to leave the bed, but he had just enough drugs in his system to make his movements sluggish and ineffectual. 

“I won’t let you see me again.”

“No, Emma, please! I love you!”

“And I love you. That’s why I have to do this.” 

She was already fading away. Killian made a fist and slammed it into his thigh. Tears stung his eyes. 

“Be happy,” she told him, “for me.”

Then she was gone.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns21 #captain swan supernatural summer #ghost story #horror #strange lieutenant duckling #lol trust me #happy ending of sorts

[path-of-my-childhood]

Aaron Dessner on How His Collaborative Chemistry With Taylor Swift Led to “Evermore”

By: Claire Shaffer for Rolling Stone Date: December 18th 2020

Taylor Swift and Aaron Dessner didn’t expect to make another record so soon after Folklore. As they were putting the final touches on Swift’s album this past summer, the two artists had been collaborating remotely on possible songs for Big Red Machine, Dessner’s music project with Justin Vernon of Bon Iver (who also dueted with Swift on the Folklore track “Exile”). Dessner recalls:

“I think I’d written around 30 of those instrumentals in total. So when I started sharing them with Taylor over the months that we were working on Folklore, she got really into it, and she wrote two songs to some of that music.”

One was “Closure,” an experimental electronic track in 5/4 time signature that was built over a staccato drum kit. The other song was “Dorothea,” a rollicking, Americana piano tune. The more Dessner listened to them, the more he realized that they were continuations of Folklore‘s characters and stories. But the real turning point came soon after Folklore‘s surprise release in late July, when Dessner wrote a musical sketch and named it “Westerly,” after the town in Rhode Island where Swift owns the house previously occupied by Rebekah Harkness.

“I didn’t really think she would write something to it — sometimes I’ll name songs after my friends’ hometowns or their babies, just because I write a lot of music and you have to call it something, and then I’ll send it to them. But, anyway, I sent it to her, and not long after she wrote ‘Willow’ to that song and sent it back.”

It was a moment not unlike when Swift first sent him the song “Cardigan” back in the spring, where both she and Dessner felt an instant creative spark — and then just kept writing. Before long, they were creating even more songs with Vernon, Jack Antonoff, Dessner’s brother Bryce, and “William Bowery” (the pseudonym of Swift’s boyfriend Joe Alwyn) for what would eventually lead to Folklore‘s wintry sister record, Evermore.

Even more spontaneous than the album that preceded it, Evermore features more eclectic production alongside Swift’s continued project of character-driven songwriting, and includes an even wider group of collaborators, like Haim and Dessner’s own band the National. Dessner spoke to Rolling Stone about the album’s experimentation, how it was recorded during the making of the doc The Long Pond Studio Sessions, and how he sees his collaboration with Swift continuing in the future.

When did you realize this was going to end up being another album?

It was after we’d written several songs, seven or eight or nine. Each one would happen, and we would both be in this sort of disbelief of this weird alchemy that we had unleashed. The ideas were coming fast and furiously and were just as compelling as anything on Folklore, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. At some point, Taylor wrote “Evermore” with William Bowery, and then we sent it to Justin, who wrote the bridge, and all of a sudden, that’s when it started to become clear that there was a sister record. Historically, there are examples of this, of records which came in close succession that I love — certain Dylan records, Kid A and Amnesiac. I secretly fell in love with the idea that this was part of the same current, and that these were two manifestations that were interrelated. And with Taylor, I think it just became clear to her what was happening. It really picked up steam, and at some point, there were 17 songs — because there are two bonus tracks, which I love just as much.

Evermore definitely sounds more experimental than Folklore, and has more variety — you have these electronic songs that sound like Bon Iver or Big Red Machine, but you also have the closest thing Taylor has written to country songs in the last decade. Was there a conscious effort on her part to branch out more with this album?

Sonically, the ideas were coming from me more. But I remember when I wrote the piano track to “Tolerate It,” right before I sent it to her, I thought, This song is intense. It’s in 10/8, which is an odd time signature. And I did think for a second, “Maybe I shouldn’t send it to her, she won’t be into it.” But I sent it to her, and it conjured a scene in her mind, and she wrote this crushingly beautiful song to it and sent it back. I think I cried when I first heard it. But it just felt like the most natural thing, you know? There weren’t limitations to the process. And in these places where we were pushing into more experimental sounds or odd time signatures, that just felt like part of the work.

It was really impressive to me that she could tell these stories as easily in something like “Closure” as she could in a country song like “Cowboy Like Me.” Obviously, “Cowboy Like Me” is much more familiar, musically. But to me, she’s just as sharp and just as masterful in her craft in either of those situations. And also, just in terms of what we were interested in, there is a wintry nostalgia to a lot of the music that was intentional on my part. I was leaning into the idea that this was fall and winter, and she’s talked about that as well, that Folklore feels like spring and summer to her and Evermore is fall and winter. So that’s why you hear sleigh bells on “Ivy,” or why some of the imagery in the songs is wintery.

I can hear that in the guitar on “‘Tis the Damn Season,” too. It almost sounds like the National with that very icy guitar line.

I mean, that is literally like, me in my most natural state. [laughs] If you hand me a guitar, that’s what it sounds like when I start playing it. People associate that sound with the National, but that’s just because I finger-pick an electric guitar like that a lot — if you solo the guitar on “Mr. November,” it’s not unlike that.

That song, to me, has always felt nostalgic or like some sort of longing. And the song that Taylor wrote is so instantly relatable, you know, “There’s an ache in you put there by the ache in me.” I remember when she sang that to me in my kitchen — she had written it overnight during The Long Pond Studio Sessions, actually.

Did she record all her Evermore vocals at Long Pond while you were filming the Studio Sessions documentary?

Not all of them, but most of them. She stayed after we were done filming and then we recorded a lot. It was crazy because we were getting ready to make that film, but at the same time, these songs were accumulating. And so we thought, “Hmm, I guess we should just stay and work.”

On “Closure,” there are parts where Taylor’s vocals are filtered through the Messina, which is this vocal modifier that Justin Vernon uses a lot in his work with Bon Iver. How were you able to modify her vocals with it, if she was never in the same room as Justin?

I went to see Justin at one point — that’s the one trip I’ve made — and we worked together at his place on stuff. He plays the drums on “Cowboy Like Me” and “Closure,” and he plays guitar and banjo and sings on “Ivy,” and sings on “Marjorie” and “Evermore.” And then we processed Taylor’s vocals through his Messina chain together. He was really deeply involved in this record, even more so than the last record. He’s always been such a huge help to me, and not just by getting him to play stuff or sing stuff — I can also send him things and get his feedback. We’ve done a ton of work together, but we have different perspectives and different harmonic brains. He obviously has his own studio set up at home, but it was nice to be able to see him and work on this stuff.

“No Body, No Crime” is also really interesting, just because I don’t think I’ve ever heard you produce a song like that. How did this country murder ballad featuring Haim end up on the record?

Taylor wrote that one alone and sent me a voice memo of her playing guitar — she wrote it on this rubber-bridge guitar that I got for her. It’s the same kind I play on “Invisible String.” So she wrote “No Body, No Crime” and sent me a voice memo of it, and then I started building on that. It’s funny, because the music I’ve listened to the most in my life are things that are more like that — roots music, folk music, country music, old-school rock & roll, the Grateful Dead. It’s not really the sound of the National or other things I’ve done, but it feels like a warm blanket.

That song also had a lot of my friends on it — Josh Kaufman, who played harmonica on “Betty,” also plays harmonica on this one and some guitar. JT Bates plays the drums on that song — he’s an amazing jazz guitarist, but he also has an incredible feel [for rhythm] when it comes to a song like that. He also played the drums on “Dorothea.” And then Taylor had specific ideas from the beginning about references and how she wanted it to feel, and that she wanted the Haim sisters to sing on it. We had them record the song with Ariel Reichshaid, they sent that from L.A., and then we put it together when Taylor was here [at Long Pond]. They’re an incredible band, and it was another situation where we were like, “Well, this happened.” It felt like this weird little rock & roll history anecdote.

You also brought on the National to record “Coney Island.” What was that process like, where you’re recording a song with your band that’s for a different artist?

I had been working on a bunch of music with my brother [Bryce Dessner], some of which we were sending to Taylor also. At that stage, “Coney Island” was all the music except the drums. And as I was writing it, I don’t think I was ever thinking, “This sounds like the National or this sounds like Big Red Machine or this sounds like something totally different.” But Taylor and William Bowery wrote this incredible song, and we first recorded it with just her vocals. It has this really beautiful arc to the story, and I think it’s one of the strongest, lyrically and musically. But listening to the words, we all collectively realized that this does feel like the most related to the National — it almost feels like a story Matt [Berninger] might tell, or I could hear Bryan [Devendorf] playing the drum part.

So we started talking about how it would be cool to get the band, and I called Matt and he was excited for it. We got Bryan to play drums and we got Scott [Devendorf] to play bass and a pocket piano, and Bryce helped produce it. It’s weird, because it does really feel like Taylor, obviously, since she and William Bowery wrote all the words, but it also feels like a National song in a good way. I love how Matt and Taylor sound together. And it was nice because we haven’t played a show in a year, and I don’t know when we will again. You kind of lose track of each other, so in a way, it was nice to reconnect.

When working on Folklore, you had to keep most of your collaborators in the dark about who you were working with. What was the process like this time around, now that everyone knew it was Taylor? How did you keep it a secret?

It was hard. We had to be secretive because of how much people are consuming every shred of information they can find about her, and that’s been an oppressive reality she’s had to deal with. But the fact that no one in the public knew allowed for more freedom of enjoying the process. A lot of the same musicians that played on Folklore played on Evermore. Again, it was a situation where I didn’t tell them what it was, and they couldn’t hear her vocals, but I think a lot of them assumed, especially because of the level of secrecy. [laughs] But as funny as this is, I think everyone who’s been involved has been grateful for these records to play on this year and is proud of them. It kind of just doesn’t happen, to make two great records in such a short period of time. Everyone’s a little bit like, “How did this happen?” and nobody takes it for granted.

Taylor has mentioned that you recorded “Happiness” just a week before the album was released. Was that something you guys wrote, recorded, and produced all at the last minute, or was it something you’d been sitting on for a while before you finally cracked the code?

There were two songs like that. One is a bonus track called “Right Where You Left Me,” and the other one was “Happiness,” which she wrote literally days before we were supposed to master. That’s similar to what happened with Folklore, with “The 1” and “Hoax,” which she wrote days before. We mixed all the tracks here, and it’s a lot to mix 17 songs, it’s like a Herculean task. And it was funny, because I walked into the studio and Jon Low, our engineer here, was mixing and had been working the whole time toward this. And I came in and he’s in the middle of mixing and I was like, “There are two more songs.” And he looked at me like, “…We’re not gonna make it.” Because it does take a lot of time to work out how to finish them.

But she sang those remotely. And the music for “Happiness” is something that I had been working on since last year. I had sang a little bit on it, too — I thought it was a Big Red Machine song, but then she loved the instrumental and ended up writing to it. Same with the other one, “Right Where You Left Me” — it was something I had written right before I went to visit Justin, because I thought, “Maybe we’ll make something when we’re together there.” And Taylor had heard that and wrote this amazing song to it. That is a little bit how she works — she writes a lot of songs, and then at the very end she sometimes writes one or two more, and they often are important ones.

My favorite song on the album is “Marjorie,” and I feel like, for most artists, the instinct would be to present a song like that as a somber piano ballad. But “Marjorie” has this lively electronic beat that runs through it — it literally sounds alive. How did you come up with that?

It’s interesting, because with “Marjorie,” that’s a track that actually existed for a while, and you can hear elements of it behind the song “Peace.” This weird drone that you hear on “Peace,” if you pay attention to the bridge of “Marjorie,” you’ll hear a little bit of that in the distance. Some of what you hear is from my friend Jason Treuting playing percussion, playing these chord sticks, that he actually made for a piece that my brother wrote called “Music for Wooden Strings.” They’re playing these chord sticks, and you can hear those same chord sticks on the National song “Quiet Light.”

I collect a lot of rhythmic elements like that, and all kinds of other sounds, and I give them to my friend Ryan Olson, who’s a producer from Minnesota and has been developing this crazy software called Allovers Hi-Hat Generator. It can take sounds, any sounds, and split them into identifiable sound samples, and then regenerate them in randomized patterns that are weirdly very musical. There’s a lot of new Big Red Machine songs that use those elements. But I’ll go through it and find little parts that I like and loop them. That’s how I made the backing rhythm of “Marjorie.” Then I wrote a song to it, and Taylor wrote to that. In a weird way, it’s one of the most experimental songs on the album — it doesn’t sound that way, but when you pick apart the layers underneath it, it’s pretty interesting.

I do have to ask: How did you come to find out about William Bowery’s real identity as Joe Alwyn? Or did you know all along?

I guess I can say now that I’ve sort of known all along — I was just being careful. Although we never really explicitly talked about it. But I do think it’s been really special to see a number of songs on these albums that they wrote together. William plays the piano on “Evermore,” actually. We recorded that remotely. That was really important to me and to them, to do that, because he also wrote the piano part of “Exile,” but on the record, it’s me playing it because we couldn’t record him easily. But this time, we could. I just think it’s an important and special part of the story.

Do you have a personal favorite song or a moment that you’re proudest of?

“‘Tis the Damn Season” is a really special song to me for a number of reasons. When I wrote the music to it, which was a long time ago, I remember thinking that this is one of my favorite things I’ve ever made, even though it’s an incredibly simple musical sketch. But it has this arc to it, and there’s this simplicity in the minimalism of it and the kind of drum programming in there, and I always loved the tone of that guitar. When Taylor played the track and sang it to me in my kitchen, that was a highlight of this whole time. That track felt like something I have always loved and could have just stayed music, but instead, someone of her incredible storytelling ability and musical ability took it and made something much greater. And it’s something that we can all relate to. It was a really special moment, not unlike how it felt when she wrote “Peace,” but even more so.

Do you see this collaboration with Taylor continuing onward, to more albums or Big Red Machine projects?

It’s kind of the thing where I have so many musicians in my life that I’ve grown close to, and make things with, and are just part of my life. And I’ve rarely had this kind of chemistry with anyone in my life — to be able to write together, to make so many beautiful songs together in such a short period of time. Inevitably, I think we will continue to be in each other’s artistic and personal lives. I don’t know exactly what the next form that will take, but certainly, it will continue.

I do think this story, this era, has concluded, and I think in such a beautiful way with these sister records — it does kind of feel like there’s closure to that. But she’s definitely been very helpful and engaged with Big Red Machine, and just in general. She feels like another incredible musician that I’ve gotten to know and am lucky to have in my life. It’s this whole community that moves forward and takes risks and, hopefully, there will be other records that appear in the future.

#cute #Aaron Dessner #interview #about taylor #taylor swift #Rolling Stone magazine #making of #evermore album #evermore era

[bisexualklausmikaelson]

- fifty ways to kill your lover -

a/n: I have so many feels about this show :'( so it translated into this arumika/eremika/eremin fic, I've watched until aot s4 pt 1 so that's all the info I have to base on for this fic

-

Contrary to popular belief, Eren is not Mikasa's first kiss.

Back in their training days, the group got up to all kinds of mischief. Starting with Sasha stealing whatever food rations she could find, Reiner and Berthlot getting into the top secret liquor cabinets, Ymir sneaking into Historia's bed - they were all such trouble makers.

Of course, Connie is always putting everyone in the most uncomfortable situations.

They're all reluctantly huddled together, playing a game of spin the bottle and suddenly, it's Armin's turn.

"Eh?" He blushes, as there is so much laughter in the air when the bottle is flicked and ends up pointing to Mikasa.

Connie can't help but release a chuckle, "well Armin," he releases, swinging an arm around his shoulder. "You either get beat up by Jean for doing this or Eren - I wonder which fate you'll pick," he scoffs.

Armin avoids Jean's angry gaze and spots Mikasa's rosy cheeks.

He then turns to Eren - who is as red as a cherry. "Can I?" He wonders.

Eren widens his eyes. "You idiot, why the hell are you asking me for?" He asks, turning away .

It's unexpected and yet, it works.

He leans across the circle and softly pecks Mikasa on the cheek.

Strangely, she doesn't feel any discomfort towards this.

Hey, they hear Sasha yell, that's cheating! she wines, wanting a real kiss from them.

Mikasa and Armin don't comply and it's only later they realized that this gives Eren some relief.

-

Mikasa hurts her arm during battle and it is quite surprising that she even let this happen to her in the first place. Even more surprising is the fact that Eren happens to be the one to dress her wounds.

"Armin is much more gentle at this," he says, as Mikasa winces at the slight pain. "His hands are...softer, aren't they?" He looks up at her and it's only then she realizes how similar his eyes are to Armin's.

So youthful and full of hope and emotion.

Nothing like hers.

"It's fine," Mikasa quietly releases, allowing herself to relax her shoulder and unclench her jaw a bit.

Eren is not taken aback by the fact that she is always trying so hard to be so strong.

-

(They are eight when the three of them have their first sleepover.

It's all about Mikasa's hair in his face and Eren's snoring - Armin kind of hates it all, he barely sleeps that night.

It's weird - he's never been invited to a sleepover before, he's never actually had friends before, truth be told. He's not sure if this is how it's supposed to be.

"What's wrong?" Grisha asks, as he stumbles out from his basement with a little candlelight on. "Why are you still awake, Armin?" He asks, placing a kind hand on his shoulder.

Armin meets his gaze, all wonder-eyed and starry-viewed. "It's so noisy here," he murmurs softly, "I'm not used to it."

Grisha laughs, "I've lived in silence for most of my life," he sighs, "one day, you'll see, you won't be able to live without the noise," he says, pointing to Eren and Mikasa as they slept.

It's only years later that Armin is finally able to understand what Grisha actually meant).

-

Eren can be a bit of an airhead, at times.

Armin thinks, Mikasa knows.

They have their talks - one on one, like parents do, about how to take best care of Eren, what is the outcome for Eren, how to help Eren get better.

Eren. Eren. Eren.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Armin suddenly asks, as he's mid-way to flipping a page in his book. "About your feelings for him, I mean," he asks, sincerely.

Mikasa tenses up, biting her bottom lip. "Don't speak such nonsense," she tells him, swallowing hard.

He places a hand on her shoulder and this time, makes direct eye-contact with her. "It's obvious, to everyone, you know?" he says.

"Why are you saying this now?" she wonders, flustered. And then, it hits her like a ton of bricks. "Are you afraid we'll leave you behind?" Mikasa questions.

"I didn't say that," Armin sighs.

Their relationship remains strange - she's able to read him so well sometimes, it's almost scary.

"You don't have to," Mikasa whispers. "You should know, we never would anyway, leave you that is," she offers.

And she pretends not to notice the tremble in his voice.

-

Of all things - it is Eren who comes back first with gifts.

His training with Hange could be better - predictably. But, he still makes the time to sneak a visit or two in-between sessions with Mikasa and Armin.

"I got these for you," He gives Armin a pile of books - some on titan history, others just filled with drawings and sketches done by different members of the squad.

Not everyone knows how to appreciate art but, Armin does. Eren is sure of it.

He offers Mikasa some flowers he picked on his way to see her. "I thought it would match your scarf," he murmurs and she takes a moment before taking them in.

They were devoid of their natural scent since he'd been walking with them for so long - but they still smelled like Eren.

-

It seems that, at night, they tend to have the same dreams.

Playing in the meadow as kids, Carla calling them to get back soon and home-made meals.

Armin always wakes up first.

Only this time, he's holding both their hands. Mikasa on his right, Eren on his left - it must've been an accident, just something he unconsciously did in his sleep, he swears.

(He keeps remembering Grisha's words - he is truly never alone, not even in his sleep, there is always, always noise).

-

Eren is the first to realize he loves them both.

Consequently, he is also the first to leave. But truly, he is always leaving them - when he first died, diving head first into that damn titan and pulling Armin out.

When he was assigned to Levi Squad.

When he left for Marley.

It's always him - first to run, first to be the most afraid, a coward, through and through.

(He wonders if they'll ever forgive him).

-

Mikasa doesn't like to dwell on it, not too much - of how estranged they've become, of how he no longer looks at them with care and affection.

"The real Eren is in there somewhere," Armin tells her, the night they're both thrown in a prison cell together. "I just know it," he says, all beat up by his best friend and full of tears.

"You're always the one to bring him back," she still thinks true. "I believe in you - you always find a way," Mikasa hopes.

Armin doesn't know what to think - Eren just seems so far gone at this point, so beyond his reach.

It's hard to imagine him coming back.

"Ah well," he shrugs. "It's like you said, we won't leave any of us behind," Armin tells her, to comfort her at least.

They're going to be together forever, even if they must come between death.

-

And there once was a time where they were all there - the sea, the usurper and the fawn.

It was her hand in his hair, and his lips reading them bed time stories, and the other's laughter ringing in both their ears. It was a litany of things - of memories between them that they all hold dear, that they'll never forget.

"Eren," that one day, after all is said and done, they'd find him in the ruins, and reach their hands out towards him. "Let's go home," they'd say, in unison.

And he'd smile and follow them both out of the dust.

(Later on, Flock would hover him when he woke up, the Jaegerists not too far behind him).

It's nice to dream about, though.

-

#aot #snk #eremika #arumika #eremin #armin arlert #mikasa ackerman #eren jaeger #armin x eren #mikasa x armin #eren x mikasa #munea writes

[voiceless-terror]

Ink (TMA Fanfic)

For TMA Gerry Week 2021 Day One

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay/Martin Blackwood

Rating: T

Summary: Art’s how Gerry shows his love- a few snippets where he does exactly that. No powers-au, Gerry and Martin own a bookstore. Takes place in this universe but can be read alone!

He’s getting used to having people who want him around.

Gerry’s had friends, sure. Once he left the institute and began working odd jobs, he realized how much he genuinely enjoyed having company. He still isn’t the most social of creatures, but he does enjoy a night out with old coworkers who enjoy his stories and laugh at his jokes. But now, with Jon and Martin, they want him around all the time. Even after they started dating, even after he moved in, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does, though. And Gerry, in spite of himself, begins to relax. Begins to feel at home. 

He’s laying on the couch, scribbling in his notebook when Martin surprises him with a peck to the top of his head. “Whatcha drawing this time?” He was very excited when he heard Gerry liked to draw, immediately asking to see his notebook or anything he’d done. He’d only recently shown him some of his work; he knows Martin would never make him feel embarrassed, but, well. It’s another part of himself no one’s ever been interested in. Until now.

“Jon,” Gerry responds, leaning into the touch. It’s an amateurish attempt in his opinion, just a rough sketch. But he’s got the proportions down and he never forgets a face. Couldn’t forget, in Jon’s case. 

“That’s…” Martin trails off, peering closer at the page. “That’s really good. You’ve even got him smiling!” It’s not that Jon never smiles; he smirks and laughs and snarks. But he’s managed to capture that rare, bright grin that makes Gerry’s heart skip a beat.

“Mhm.” Gerry nods slightly, pen tapping against his sketchpad. He turns around, seeing the naked fondness in Martin’s eyes and has a particularly wicked thought. “Y’know, this is how he looks when he’s watching you.”

Martin sputters, turns a lovely shade of red. “W-What? Really?”

“No,” Gerry smirks. “It’s the way he looks at the Admiral.” A groan and a light smack to the shoulder prove his joke is unappreciated. “Sorry, sorry! I’m sure he also looks at you that way-”

“You’re an ass.” Martin rolls his eyes but oh-so-gently picks up his hand, pausing to inspect the ink-stained fingers. “A very talented ass.” His mind blanks as Martin kisses them one by one.

Thoroughly distracted, he never gets around to finishing that sketch.

_______

Painting, as it turns out, is a lot harder than it looks. Still quite fun, though.

They’ve just found the perfect space- a little out of their price range, but Gerry’s got savings and Jon was willing to part with a bit himself. Martin fretted over his ‘meager contribution,’ as his savings were depleted in the final months of his mother’s care. Ridiculous that he would ever think his contribution meager, considering he’s the one who scouted for locations and did all of the paperwork and stayed up late, agonizing over their finances. Some days, Martin’s the only one keeping them sane. Gerry and Jon are due to remind him of that.

Which is why they’re handling the decorating. Jon claims to have no artistic talent, but he does have a knack for making places seem like home. There are boxes filled with knick knacks and rugs and pictures, all waiting to be hung somewhere once Jon’s finally settled on a layout. Gerry’s left with painting the walls, labeling the different sections in whatever way he sees fit. He’s currently at work on the horror section, painting a stylized eye above the tarp-covered bookshelf when he hears the sound of the bell; Martin must be back from the store. They’d run out of appropriately-sized nails and after a minor freak out, he’d been on his way.

“Find what you were looking for?” he calls, listening as Martin’s footsteps grow closer, the crinkle of bags in his hand. “Here to save the day?”

“I wouldn’t call it saving,” Martin snorted, setting them down on the ground with a thump. “But it’ll certainly help. That looks nice.”

Gerry pauses, considering his work. He really needs a darker green for this. “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

“I’m sure it’ll turn out great,” he murmurs distractedly, and Gerry turns to look back at him. The lines of his face are more pronounced than usual, as are the shadows under his eyes. A sure sign that the stress is getting to him. Gerry understands, and he’s not much for being particularly sappy but he does what he can to help.

“Hey,” he calls down to him from his ladder. “C’mere. Need your opinion on something.”

Martin sighs, but heeds the call. “What is it? You know I’m rubbish with this art stuff-”

“It’ll only take a second. Come closer.”

“What am I supposed to be looking at-”

“Closer.”

As Martin huffs and leans towards him, Gerry darts his paintbrush out, drawing the quickest of hearts on Martin’s cheek before he can pull away. 

“Gerry!” Martin startles and his hand reaches up to wipe at his cheek.

“Don’t smear it, it’s a heart.” He pauses, going for his gravest voice. “Because I love you so much. I’ll be devastated if you ruin it.”

“I don’t appreciate that.” Martin sighs but drops his hand, his face softening already. Exasperation has never been paired with fondness, not when it’s aimed at Gerry. Another thing he’s starting to get used to.

“Shame. It looks good.”

Martin goes home with a heart on his other cheek as well. He looks ridiculous. Gerry loves it.

_________

When Jon’s particularly stressed, Gerry leaves him post-it notes.

Often he leaves before Gerry even wakes, so he’s got to do them the night before. A little cat here, a little caricature of Bouchard there. He leaves a variety, depending on his mood. Jon always gives him a kiss when he gets home, a soft ‘thank you for the note,’ and that’s all he needs, really, to keep doing it. He likes making Jon smile.

Martin’s gone grocery shopping and Jon’s pulling a late night again, so Gerry’s alone in the flat looking for something to do. There’s nothing on Netflix worth watching (or at least, worth watching by himself) and he’s not in the mood for his latest novel, so he decides he’s going to be productive, make a list of all the things he has to do this week. Jon’s always going on about lists, though he leaves them everywhere and never seems to accomplish everything on them. Maybe it’s the act of making them that’s relaxing. It’s worth a try.

He makes his way over to the second bedroom they (mostly Jon) use as an office. He’s sure Jon’s got a little notepad here that he can use, and he wants it to look as official as possible. He opens the left hand drawer but only finds Martin’s receipts, and on the right he finds a plain-looking notebook, a little worn with use. Maybe that’s what he uses-

Gerry opens it. Pauses. Blinks. Feels something heavy and thick form in his throat.

It’s his notes- his stupid little sketches, his ‘have a good day at work’s, his smiley-faces and little hearts. Each carefully placed on page after page with an accompanying date, neat and tidy, like a little scrapbook. Mum used to throw out his ‘doodles,’ as she called them, told him his time was better spent on actual art, but Jon’s kept all of them. Like they mattered. Like they were important. He sets it back down on the desk and just stands there, heart beating hard in his chest.

Gerry’s tearing up like some sort of moron so he’s distracted and doesn’t hear Jon come home, doesn’t hear his usual grumblings and sighs. Doesn’t hear him until Jon’s right behind him, startling him with a hand on his arm. “Sorry, I was just- Gerry, are you alright?”

Alright. Alright. It’s a word that doesn’t encompass everything he’s feeling. Wanted, embarrassed, a little overwhelmed. And so, so happy. 

He turns around and grabs Jon in a fierce hug, overcome with affection and eager to hide his stupid tears as he squeezes Jon to his chest. “You’re adorable, you know that?” he says, peppering kisses to the top of his head despite Jon’s weak protestations. “Real fuckin’ cute.”

Jon melts into his embrace, even as he complains. “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, Gerry,” he says into his chest, the words muffled. “You’re being absurd.” Jon’s just about the only person he knows that uses ‘absurd’ on a daily basis. It’s insufferable. Gerry loves it.

“Just let me hug you, you little ogre.”

_________

Sometimes, Gerry’s the one who’s got to be up early. Doctors appointments are a bitch, and after a brief scare last year, it’s important that he keep up with them. Martin helps him schedule, marking the appointments on the calendar with a bold black marker that can’t be missed.

This morning’s particularly brutal, with an eight o’clock appointment an hour’s commute away. Jon went to sleep at a reasonable hour last night and he needs the rest; Gerry knows if he wakes Martin, he wakes them both. Jon’s never been good at sleeping alone. 

He’s stumbling blearily around the kitchen, about to put the kettle on when he notices it. On the table is a post-it note; he doesn’t remember leaving one for Jon last night, but he’d been rather tired, so who knows? Gerry putters around, fixing his tea and nibbling at toast when he finally spares it a glance. 

It’s not for Jon. It’s for him.

Good luck at your appointment! It reads in Martin’s familiar, neat script. Accompanying it is a small doodle that has to be Jon’s; it’s not particularly good, but it clearly shows a little Gerry, makeup and all, with a plaster on his cheek and a heart over his head. It looks like Jon spent time on it. Spent time on some stupid little post it note to make Gerry smile. 

He puts it in his pocket. Takes it out a few times in the waiting room, stares at it. Everything looks fine, the doctor says at the end of the appointment. He’s so lucky.

He’s so lucky.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29635833

#tma #the magnus archives #tmagerryweek2021 #gerry keay #gerard keay #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jongerrymartin #my writing

[crazy4dragons]

Fifteen (Part 1)

Hiccup struggles to come up with the perfect gift for Astrid’s fifteenth birthday. Hiccup-centric for now, with a bit of subtle Hiccstrid coming in Part 2. Rating: G. Prompt sent by @drakaina-amore64 (thank you!).

Hiccup sighed as he glanced at the collection of half-finished projects around him. Astrid’s fifteenth birthday was in a week, and he still had nothing good enough to give her. Or so it seemed that he didn’t.

A Viking’s fifteenth birthday was a big deal. Fifteen was the year children were finally allowed to take the lead on patrols, participate in battle, and most importantly, learn to fight dragons. For those reasons, fifteenth birthdays weren’t just a family affair—the whole island celebrated them.

And Astrid’s fifteenth birthday was an especially big deal, at least to Hiccup. She’d been his best friend growing up. With his mother gone, he often ended up staying with either the Jorgensons or the Hoffersons when Stoick was away and Gobber was busy running the island. On the weekends Hiccup spent with the Hoffersons, he and Astrid would play all day, then innocently cuddle up together for bed to help calm her fear of the dark, and his fear that a dragon would crash through the walls and eat them both alive.

They hadn’t been close like that in years; not since Astrid started basic battle training at eight years old and slowly latched onto a new group of friends. The last time they’d hung out was at Hiccup’s tenth birthday party, and he suspected that was only because Astrid’s parents made her go, just to be polite.

Gods, he missed the days when they were friends, always laughing and making up stories about defeating dragons together. Maybe if they were still close, he wouldn’t be having such a hard time thinking of a gift for her.

“Axe? She has one already,” he mumbled. “Mace? Has it. Sword? Has that, too.” He gathered the partially-finished weapons and put them in a box.

“What are ye working on, lad?”

Hiccup turned to see Gobber entering the forge. “Oh, nothing. Just uh…brainstorming some gifts for Astrid’s birthday.”

“Oh, I see. What ideas do ye have?” Gobber hobbled over to his desk and grabbed a piece of metal.

“I thought about an axe, or a mace, or a sword, some kind of weapon,” Hiccup began. “But I can’t seem to come up with anything she doesn’t already own.”

“Ye know, Hiccup, a Viking can niver have too many weapons.”

Sighing, the boy ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, yeah, but I just thought I could do something different. Maybe even something special.”

“Aye, I see.” Gobber raised an eyebrow. “Ye like her.”

A light blush covered Hiccup’s cheeks. “Well, uh…I…” he stammered. He’d always liked Astrid, but now that she was slowly transforming into a fiercely beautiful young woman, he couldn’t help but like her, like her.

“Ye don’t need to hide it, lad. I ain’t gonna tell anyone, ‘cept maybe yer father,” laughed Gobber. “Ye know, in a few years, yer gonna have to start settling down, anyway. And Astrid is just the kind o’ strong lass who could give ye a nice, strong heir.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, an heir,” he mumbled. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be the heir, let alone father the next one. He also wasn’t sure he could even find anyone desperate enough to birth his heir. Yes, he was the next in line for Chief, but there were other more attractive, more successful men from neighboring islands who would offer the same social status—plus the added advantage of a tribal alliance.

“It’s gotta happen someday, Hiccup,” Gobber said cheerfully. “Yer father’s not goin’ to be around forever, and—”

Before he could finish, Hiccup was gone. He needed to focus on Astrid’s gift, not becoming Chief, and if he was being quite honest, he was rather tired of everyone talking about it. And by everyone, he meant Stoick and Gobber.

As he trudged home, Hiccup made a mental list in his head of everything he thought Astrid might need, only to cross off all of it by the time he walked through the door. Not only did she already have every weapon he could imagine, she also owned more than enough armor and other battle accessories. Clothes were always practical, and he could easily sew some leggings or knit a pair of cozy socks, but giving Astrid clothing seemed a little too intimate, even if it was just leggings and socks.

Not feeling up to waiting for Stoick to arrive, Hiccup cooked and ate dinner alone, then took his evening bath and headed to his room. Finding a piece of charcoal, he grabbed his sketchbook and opened it to a blank page. He always drew before bed, but this time, he was on a mission to draw until struck by inspiration for Astrid’s gift.

He began by sketching a portrait of her, paying special attention to her big blue eyes and toned muscles. As she grew up, her eyes were gradually losing their glow from childhood, instead becoming fierce and icy. However, Hiccup still thought they were gorgeous. And her muscles he both admired and envied. Gods, she would never feel attracted to him the same way he felt attracted to her, not with his delicate body.

A talking fishbone, that’s what Stoick called him.

Sighing, he put down his charcoal and flipped through his finished drawings, hoping that ideas for his next sketch of the night would come to him.

“I’m home, son!”

Stoick’s booming voice shook Hiccup out of his thoughts. “I’m busy, Dad!” he called, turning another page of his sketchbook. It landed on an image of a Deadly Nadder, Astrid’s favorite dragon. When they were little, she’d always talked about them. She even had a plush one that she took to bed each night, thinking it would protect her from fiercer, scarier dragons, like Night Furies and Monstrous Nightmares.

It was then that it hit him. He would make Astrid her own book, filled with drawings of all the things she’d loved growing up, from the stream they used to swim in together, to the axe her parents gave her for Snoggletog a few years ago, to the little plush Nadder he was almost certain she still kept in her room.

“Are ye so busy ye can’t clean up after yerself?” Stoick bellowed from downstairs.

Hiccup groaned as he remembered that, in his preoccupation with Astrid’s gift, he’d left his dishes on the kitchen table. He knew that if he left his room, he’d end up getting caught in an unwanted conversation with his father, and that definitely wasn’t what he wanted, not with all the drawing he needed to do in order to finish his project on time.

“Hiccup? Do ye hear me?” Stoick prompted.

“Coming, Dad,” the boy said, half-mumbling.

“I don’t know why yer always hiding out in yer room,” the chief remarked as Hiccup descended the stairs. “Can’t a son spend time with his father?”

Hiccup sighed. “Well, Dad, if you must know, I’m uh…I’m working on a birthday gift for Astrid.” He blushed while saying her name.

“Trying to impress her, eh?” Stoick raised an eyebrow.

“No! Of course not. I just…we used to be friends, and I want to do something nice for her.”

“Mmm-hmm. I see how ye look at ‘er.”

Hiccup covered his face in embarrassment. “Dad!”

“Remember, Hiccup, nothing happens on this island without me hearing about it.”

“Sure,” the boy sighed, shuffling to the table and grabbing his dishes. After washing them, he quietly slipped back upstairs before Stoick, who was preoccupied with warming his dinner, noticed he was gone.

“Alright,” he said aloud to himself. “Let’s get these drawings started.”

#hiccup #fanfic #my writing #httyd

[ead13]

Elder Scrolls Summer Fest Prompt: Dragons (F!Nord Dragonborn x Quintus Navale)

“I want to show you something,” she admitted, setting down the oversized knapsack on the table. It nearly collapsed the rickety wooden piece of furniture under its immense weight. Quintus couldn’t help but stare, realizing she had been hauling such a burden around Skyrim this entire time. Small wonder she was so strong…

“What in Mundus do you have in there?!” he exclaimed as he set aside the paring knife and wiped his hands. “More Dwemer loot? It looks heavy enough to be a couple of struts.”

Fjori smiled. “No, quite different. Think of something even older.”

He blinked. “Older than the Dwemer? That’s impossible, that would have to be something…Merethic. Then again, the Dwemer lived in the late Merethic era as well…”

“Did they? Well, if they did, there is no mention of them in our legends until Ysgramor arrived and drove the Snow Elves underground.”

“So before Ysgramor is what you’re telling me.” The alchemist frowned, wracking his brain. “Well, I admit, I don’t know much about Merethic history unless it involves Ayleids. What WAS happening in Skyrim before Ysgramor?”

Instead of responding, Fjori opened the knapsack and slid a massive skull onto the table, one replete with razor-sharp teeth and horns. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the gaping maw snapping off a man’s entire arm in one violent chomp. To see such an exotic sight, Quintus’s mouth gaped in shock. “Ta-da!”

“Fjori, is that a…dragon skull?!”

“That’s right.” She looked well-pleased with herself.

“Where in Oblivion did you manage to get such a thing?!”

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Think about it for a second, Quintus.”

He paused, then his brow furrowed in understanding. “You killed it.”

“As is the job of the Dragonborn.”

“Divines, I know it’s what you do, but…how to explain…” He paused, tapping his foot as he thought but never taking his eyes off of the skull. “It was always something abstract, I suppose. You kill dragons. I do a quick mental sketch of you lopping the head off some giant lizard. Seeing this, though…” He reached out to touch the skull, but decided against it halfway there, as if suddenly feeling it might take a finger despite being severed from the rest of the dragon. “It’s hard to imagine any human killing something this terrible.”

Fjori scratched the back of her head. “This is actually dragon number…let’s see here…eight, I believe.”

He couldn’t help it. He looked at her with something akin to awe and reverence. “It’s stupid, I know that, but seeing this puts it all in perspective for me even though I acknowledged what you do. You really are incredible, Fjori.”

“Hey now, none of that. Don’t make me regret showing you this.” Fjori was blushing as she picked up the skull. This time, it was clear just how much it weighed, because he could see the way her well-developed muscles strained. “I just figured, seeing as I’m the Dragonborn, I ought to show you a trophy. Killing them is a part of my reality after all, and you don’t really get a chance to be involved in that. When I head out for a week or two to find new shouts, I have a tendency of dispatching a dragon here and there.”

Funny, she seemed like a cat that left its human a rat on the doorstep, though on a much grander scale. As with so many things, he found this rather heavy-handed attempt at sharing to be endearing, and he felt his heart flutter. “So what will you do with it? Come to think of it, what did you do with the other seven?”

“Well, I mostly let the others that participated in battle with me keep the bones and scales as trophies. The Whiterun guard has a skull in their barracks, for example, from that first dragon we dispatched at the watchtower. Of course, Lydia also has one, a sort of badge of honor for her service. I just thought it was about time I had a trophy of my own, one just like the Jarl of Whiterun has in his keep from Olaf One-Eye’s duel with Numinex in the old tales.”

“While it would be fitting, please tell me you are NOT planning on hanging it in the bedroom?”

The very thought made the warrior burst into laughter. “Shor’s bones, no way! It would be impossible to sleep with that thing watching you all night!”

“Ah, good.” Quintus looked visibly relieved. “It is rather unsettling to look at, to be honest.”

Fjori set the skull back down. “Even more so when it still has the beady eyes, which are thankfully no longer glaring at me. It’s always such a cold look they have, as though I’m little more than an insect to them. Cruel. Filled with disdain.”

When Quintus noticed the way she shivered, he quickly moved in to wrap his arms around her. “It certainly paid the price for underestimating you, didn’t it? In fact, perhaps that arrogance hastens their downfall in general.”

“I suppose so.” She paused in thought, basking in the warmth of his embrace and letting herself relax in his arms. “Do you know the old legend about Kyne and the Voice?”

“The Voice being the way you shout words in the dragon tongue?” She nodded in affirmation. “I’m afraid all I know is that the power exists, that the Nords used it in battle long ago, and that Talos was the last one with the ability before you.”

“Mankind didn’t always have the ability to shout as the dragons do. They were dominated by the dragons, who viewed themselves as far superior beings. Humans built temples and offered sacrifices to appease the strongest of the totem animals, but they and their chosen dragon priests were cruel overlords. Finally, the people prayed to Kyne for deliverance, and the Goddess of the Storm had pity on us. She taught us how to shout as the dragons did so that we could fight back and win our freedom. An entire war was fought, with mankind emerging the victors.” In the back of her mind, she also recalled that they hadn’t actually defeated Alduin, only pushed the problem back into her era for her to deal with, but she said nothing about it. Quintus didn’t need that worry.

“That’s…wow! Why don’t more people talk about that? It seems like a very important event, on par with the overthrow of the Ayleids or the Exodus of the Chimer.”

Fjori sighed. “Without written records, people dismiss the old legends as mere stories. My own people let the memories fade, and the evidence of this era is scattered all around Skyrim! Even the bards do not sing of history that ancient, only of stories recent enough to be handed down from eyewitnesses. Now the dragons are back, and we know nothing of how our ancestors fought them or the role they used to play in our culture.”

“A cruel trick of fate, that is.”

“And worse, the only ones that do know anything about dragons are outsiders, an organization with roots in Akavir of all places! We fought an entire war against the dragons, but have no knowledge to show for it. How could we have let it all disappear?”

Quintus did not like the melancholy overtaking her features. “You should write down what you learn as you fight the dragons and defeat Alduin, or have someone transcribe your stories as you tell them. Then, there will be records for the future generations.” Assuming she survived the ordeal and the world didn’t end, rendering that a moot point. Damn, he was supposed to be cheering her up, not bringing himself down!

She didn’t give him a chance to sink too far into those pessimistic thoughts. “You really think so? I’m not much of a scholar, as you are well aware.”

“I do. You are a great storyteller. Plus…” He smirked. “You have a perfect paperweight for your documents.” Finally, feeling slightly braver, he reached out and patted the skull on the table.

Her smile reached her eyes as she hugged him tight. “Okay, I think I can do that. We fear what we do not know, so let’s weaken their grip on us with learning.”

#tesfest21 #skyrim #quintusnavale #elderscrolls #modern Nord's interpretation of ancient history

[softlighter]

Blake feels haggard, and world-weary, but a passing painter asks her to pose for her a few times and the resulting painting is a masterpiece. Blake doesn't understand how Yang sees her as anything but weather-beaten, while Yang doesn't understand Blake's inability to see her own beauty or self-worth.

I hope you know how much I adored this prompt, nonny friend!  I hope it was worth the wait.  Also posted as “sketch of hope” on Ao3!

~~~

Blake takes a drink of her tea.  It’s over-seeped and bitter, something no amount of milk or honey will fix, but it’s tea, and it’s warm going down.  Still, she squeezes more honey into the chipped ceramic mug and stirs it in.  Her eyes feel heavy, but she flips open her book once more and begins reading where she left off.  It’s something she’s read before but it’s as worn and familiar as her sweater; just what she needs right now.

Another sip of tea, her nose crinkling as she’s hit with the sour and sweet syrupy taste, but she still downs half the cup.  She would normally go to her favorite cafe, a ten minute’s walk away from her apartment, but it’s too much effort to exert right now.  Everything is too much effort right now, hell, she’s just happy she managed to leave the apartment today.   It’s something, it’s an improvement, even if this tea is awful and she wants to crawl back to her bed.

She puts her book down and sighs, rubbing her forehead.  It’s a beautiful day.  The sky is a crisp blue with fluffy clouds like cotton candy, and the spring wind is sweet with florals.  Blake is at an outdoor cafe, and it’s a beautiful day.  It’s a beautiful day, and she should be grateful.  

But she’s not, and she’s tired.  

Blake leans back in her chair, picking apart her croissant with her fingers and popping a bite in her mouth.  At least their croissants are decent.  She takes another bite, directly from the pastry this time, and casually brushes the crumbs off her sweater.  Blake scans her surroundings and the few other occupied tables at the cafe.  It’s still relatively cold, and not many are apparently wanting to brave the sharp nip of the rickety metal table and chairs.

But there’s a couple speaking in hushed tones and giggling every few minutes, even if their noses and cheeks are pink.  There’s a group of boys across the patio playing some kind of game with dice and they shout loudly every once in a while, even with the couple sending them dirty looks.  There’s another woman across from her, also sitting alone, but she is scribbling in a notebook.  

She drifts back to her tea and croissant, but the back of her neck prickles, and her ears instinctively stiffen.  Blake looks up once more, and she meets eyes of bright lilac.  Her cheeks feel hot, but she doesn’t look away, despite herself.  The other woman is blushing too, though, and she smiles sheepishly at Blake.  “Guess I should’ve known better,” the woman says.

Blake’s brow furrows.  “Pardon?” she says, more on instinct than anything else.  

The woman’s face turns a deeper red, and she gestures toward her notebook.  “I know I should’ve asked permission, but-”

“Were you drawing me?”  

The woman nods sheepishly.  “Sorry.  It’s a bad habit.  One of my old art teachers always encouraged it, said we got more natural looking sketches that way, but people don’t exactly like it.  But, well, I couldn’t help myself.  Hard habit to break, and you’re a perfect study.”

“I am?”  Blake snorts.  “Hardly.”

The woman frowns, her pink mouth curling downward.  “Well, I say you are.”  The woman hesitates before scooting closer to Blake’s chair.  “You’re not upset?”

Blake shrugs.  She doesn’t feel much beyond the heat in her cheeks and curling in her stomach, doesn’t feel much at all these days.  Her eyes drop down to the notebook before looking back up at the woman.  “I feel like there’s a compliment in there.  Somewhere.”

The woman smiles, and she looks over her shoulder before getting up and taking the seat across from Blake at her table.  Blake raises her brows, but she says nothing as the woman slides  her notebook to her.  “What do you think?” she asks.

Blake studies the dark lines, the way they curve and dance across the page in sketches and hatches.  It’s obviously just a sketch, but the word just demeans the art before her, ignores the simplistic beauty of something in progres.  The woman is talented, obviously so, but Blake still frowns.  “That’s not what I look like,” she says finally, even though it, obviously, her.  

“Maybe it’s not how you see you, but it’s how I see you,” the woman says.

Blake scoffs, but her eyes linger over the page before she forces herself to slide the notebook back.  “You don’t know me.”

“I’m a good sense of character.”  The woman closes the notebook and smiles at her, tucking a long blonde strand of her back behind her ear and underneath a purple hat the same color as her eyes, but even the electric lilac of the wool dulls in comparison to her eyes.  “Can I ask a favor?”

“You can ask whatever you want, doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Would you consider posing for me?”

Blake blinks.  “What?”

The woman nods brightly.  “Come to my studio, with proper lighting and stuff like that.”

“Again, what?”  Her brows knit together, and she’s not sure if she’s amused or concerned.  “I don’t know you.”  And you’re not going to want to know me.

The woman shrugs.  “Are you a serial killer?”

“No, but-”

“We can stay here if you’re more comfortable with that,” the woman presses.  “You’re just- well, you’re exactly who I’ve been looking for.”  Blake’s stomach turns, but the woman quickly adds, “I mean, just, wow, that sounds so creepy, but seriously.  You’re a delight to draw.”  The woman laughs.  “That’s not much better, is it?”

Despite herself, she smiles.  “No,” she agrees.  “It’s not.”  She considers and tilts her head, her fingers tapping against the cool metal of the table.  “If you want to, I’ll be here for a bit longer.  So do whatever you like.”

The woman’s face breaks out into a bright grin.  “Thanks!”  She laughs, scratching the back of her neck.  “I’m Yang, by the way.”  

“Blake.”  Yang extends her hand, and Blake nearly gasps when she sees Yang’s arm.  Yang’s smile fades.  Blake stumbles for her words, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy.  “That’s beautiful,” Blake says finally, taking her hand in her own.  The metal is cold in her hands, but smooth.  “I take it you designed it?”  

That warm smile returns.  “Yeah, I did,” Yang admits, and she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow.  The prosthetic is sleek, but there’s a thousand images all painted onto the metal.  Sunflowers, roses, and lilacs all creep up and over her fingers to her palms, bright and abundant, before the blooms swirl into gleaming golden scales and, finally, crackling flames.  She’s never seen anything like it, and she can’t help but stare.  “Painting with my left hand is hell, though.”

“Well, you did an amazing job,” Blake says, forcing herself to wrench her eyes away from the breathing art to meet Yang’s eyes.

“I mean, if I’m gonna be wearing it all the time, it better be, you know?”  Yang shrugs, but she opens the notebook once more.  Her pencil appears from nowhere, and Yang starts sketching, her eyes on the page.  She looks up at Blake and smiles.  “You can keep reading, if you’d like.”

And she would’ve, but instead she says, “I thought you wanted me to pose for you.”  Yang’s jaw slackens, and Blake smiles to herself.  “Tell me what to do, artiste.”  

Yang laughs.  “Pick something comfortable for you,” Yang says.  “This can be my proper warm up.”  

Blake straightens her shoulders and leans her elbow onto the table before resting her chin on her hand.  She’s staring at Yang in this position, she realizes, but Yang just smiles again and resumes sketching.  Her pencil flies across the paper, sure and steady but light, and Yang looks up at her, but it’s different.  Her eyes are appraising now, still warm, but studying her.  Studying her like she’s a piece of art, like she’s something beautiful.

“I thought you said this was your warm up,” Blake says a few minutes later.  “This looks pretty intense to me.”

Yang shrugs, still looking down at her paper.  “You speak to me,” Yang says simply.  Blake’s stomach clenches.  “Maybe I’ve found my muse in you.”

“I’ve never believed in muses.”

The corner of Yang’s lip quirks up.  She’s so quick to smile.  “Well, I do,” Yang says.  Yang checks her watch, frowns, and looks up at her, and her eyes are soft.  “I gotta go, but if you’re ever around Sixth Street, I work on thirty-eighth.  You’ll know it when you see it.  Feel free to drop by to see the finished product.”

“Alright.”  She doesn’t address the offer, just lets it sit between them as Yang packs up.  “Have a nice day, Yang.”

But Yang rips out the first drawing and hands it to her with that bright smile.  “Just so you remember how I see you, Blake.”  Yang winks, and then she’s gone.  Blake swallows hard, her eyes unexpectedly hot, and she stares at the sketch.

When she gets home, she tapes it to the wall next to her bed before burrowing back under the covers and letting oblivion take her.

~~~

Blake tells herself that the bakery on Sixth is why she’s there, that she’s had a craving for their challah bread and the bakery’s bread closer to her apartment isn’t what she’s craving.  She tells herself that, but she still takes the long way to Sixth and walks around so she’s on the higher end of stress addresses.  The apartments here are nice and made of bricks, colorful and inviting.  Perfect for Yang.

But thirty-eight takes the cake.  There’s a mural on the bricks, and it’s a collision of paint and color and wonder.  Even in the overcast day, Blake’s eyes can’t get enough of it.  She instinctively knows Yang did it, and a smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.  

She bites her lip, but she can’t stop herself from walking up the stairs to the door.  Blake knocks, and she hears a voice within call, “One sec!”  Her heart skips a beat, and her hands bunch into fists.  This was a bad idea.  This was a very, very bad idea.

But the door opens, and Yang is there.  She’s in a tank top and paint-speckled jeans and her long blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail.  Blake weakly waves, and Yang just grins at her.  “I’m happy you’re here,” Yang says, holding the door open.  “Wanna come in?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she says, trailing off, but she still steps through the door.  “Should I take my shoes off?”

“Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Blake looks down to Yang’s bare feet and slips out of her shoes, all too aware of her pastel lemon-patterned socks.  But Yang doesn’t even give her or her feet a second glance before ducking deeper into the apartment, and Blake’s stomach clenches.  

This is a bad idea.  This is a very, very bad idea.

But she follows Yang deeper into the house, and with every step she has to stop and stare.  Art is everywhere, but she can tell it’s not just Yang’s.  There’s monochrome paintings and stunning glossy photographs and sketches done in smeared charcoal over every square inch, and Blake wonders what it must be like in Yang’s mind, what it’s like to see beauty everywhere she looks.  

Yang leads her through a small kitchenette and into the real show.  There’s canvases everywhere, leaning against the walls and blank and ready to be painted, in all sizes.  The easel is already set up with wet paint.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Blake says, biting her lip.

Yang waves her off and tosses her a bottle of water, which Blake manages to catch somehow.  “You’re not, trust me,” Yang says.  “This can wait.”  Yang takes the canvas off the easel and smiles at her.  “So, you here to pose or to see what I did with the sketches?”

“Both, I guess.”

Yang laughs and grabs a smaller canvas, carefully handing it over to her.  “Take a look.”

It’s of Blake’s hands, the paint thick and chunky but somehow creates an incredibly smooth picture despite the obvious physical texture.  Her hands seem delicate but sturdy, like Yang had snapped a photo of her in movement, acting with purpose and surety and certainty.  Her hands have been painted with light haloing around them, a soft buttery gold that warms the icy blue background.  Like she’s a saint.  Like she’s capable of being a blessing, of blessing someone.  Like she’s good.  

Her fingers hover over the smooth whirls of paint that seem to arch off the canvas and beg her to touch them, to feel what she imagines is silky soft.  But she pulls her hand back, even if she doesn’t dare wrench her gaze away.  “Beautiful,” she whispers, her throat thick.  Yang even noticed the small scar on her right ring finger from a papercut that somehow left a pale scar and the freckle on the inside of her left index finger.  

“Thank you,” Yang says, and when Blake looks up, Yang is smiling.  “But this is just the start.”  Yang takes the painting from her hands and sets it back down before gesturing Blake over to a chair by the window.  “Here, just sit down here and look up or down, your choice!”  

Blake gives her a quizzical look, but she still sits down.  Yang’s hands hover around her but don’t ever touch her, something she appreciates.  The stool isn’t the most comfortable, but she quickly settles in a position.  “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asks as Yang settles behind her canvas.  She’s looking at the feet of the easel, but when she raises her eyes she can make eye contact with Yang.  

“You’re perfect.”  

~~~

Blake comes back the next day.  And the next day.  And the next day, and the next day, until she’s been by Yang’s every day for two weeks.

“You know, I need to pay you,” Yang says suddenly one afternoon.

“What?  Why?”

“I mean, you’re spending hours sitting in the same position.  You’re providing a service, the least I can do is pay you for it.”  

Blake shakes her head, her mouth dry.  “No,” she says.  “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Yang asks, her brow furrowing.  “I mean, like, I’m pretty sure it’s unethical to not compensate you for doing this.”

Blake doesn’t say that she doesn’t have anything else to do, doesn’t say that she enjoys Yang’s quiet and loud company, doesn’t say that this is better than laying in bed and gives her a reason to shower.  Instead, she says, “I don’t need the money.”  It’s true, she doesn’t.  When she sold the publishing house, she knew she would never have to work again, but, until a few months ago, she had still worked as an editor.  Coco sometimes still texted her asking if she wanted to read manuscripts, but Blake usually gave her a noncommittal response.  “And you buy me lunch, so call it even.”

Yang snorts.  “Lunch is the least I can do,” she says, but she’s picked up her paintbrush once more and resumed.  “Let me make you dinner one night.”  Blake opens her mouth to respond, but Yang keeps going before she can.  “I make a mean lasagna, and I always make too much, so you’d be doing me the favor.”

“Are you sure?” Blake asks.  She’s barely eaten anything besides pastries and readied meals for months, and the sound of a home-cooked meal makes her stomach rumble.  

“Yeah,” Yang says.  “Least I can do.”

“It’s really not,” Blake says.  Yang raises a brow, but she keeps painting, so Blake continues.  “You’re just nice, Yang.  Not everyone is as nice as you.”

“Well, I just want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”  Yang shrugs.  “And maybe a little better than that if I can, but seriously, Blake.  I don’t know who you hang out with, but you deserve nice things, and, dare I say, good things?”  Yang winks at her.  “You’re my muse.  I think I’m allowed to give you as much as you give me.”

“I just sit here,” Blake says, but Yang is already shaking her head.

“No, Blake.  You do so much more than that.”

~~~

Yang doesn’t show her any of the finished paintings after she sees the hands, but Blake knows she’s made several.  She doesn’t mind not knowing, even if it makes her stomach twist.  She wants to know what Yang sees, even if she doesn’t understand her perspective.  How Yang can see her as anything good.

“So, uh, I have to tell you something,” Yang says one night after dinner, scratching the back of her neck.

Blake freezes up, but she nods.  “Shoot.”  She’s sick of you, she doesn’t want you, she’s done with you.

“Well, um, tomorrow is my mom’s birthday, and I won’t be around until after lunch.”

“Yeah, of course,” Blake says, her shoulders sagging.  She’s washing the dishes, which Yang always protests her doing, but she still manages to get in there before Yang can.  It’s the least she can do.  “Is your family doing anything?”

“Not really.  My, well, my mom died a couple years ago.”  Blake stills, but Yang keeps talking.  “And my sister is with my dad, but I got class in the morning, and I didn’t want to cancel.”

Blake pauses, setting the dish down on the drying rack.  “Do you want to do something?” she asks.  “Something for her?”

“Well, I usually get dinner at her old favorite restaurant here with my family or some friends, but I was thinking we can meet here and-”

“You should do that.  Go out to dinner, I mean.  Don’t- don’t feel obligated to hang out with me.”

“Obligated?” Yang repeats.  “Blake, I do this because I want to.  I want to be around you.”  Yang’s voice wavers.  “Do you not want to be around me?”

“No, I do, I just-”  Blake sighs, rubbing her forehead.  “I don’t want to be a burden for you on a day like that.  And you should see your friends.”

Yang is quiet for a moment.  “Well, maybe I am,” she says carefully.

Blake turns around.  “We’re friends?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.”  Yang shrugs.  “Unless you don’t wanna be friends, I mean.”

“No, I do!  I really do, Yang.”  She clears her throat and averts her gaze.  “How about we go out to dinner?  Celebrate her life and her wonderful daughter.”

Yang laughs, but the sound cracks briefly.  “I’d like that.”

“Then tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

~~~

“No painting today?” Blake asks, slipping off her shoes as she enters Yang’s.  Yang is wearing a jumpsuit the same color as her eyes, and there’s golden earrings cascading down onto her shoulders.  She looks fancy.  She looks good, and Blake can’t take her eyes off of her.

“Nope,” Yang says, smiling.  “I wanna show you something.”

“Alright?”

Yang leads her to the upstairs with the actual kitchen and living room, spaces she’s practically lived in for the past few months.  There’s a laptop open, which Yang silently slides to her.  Blake raises her brows, but she reads the article title, and her heart stops.

“It’s not published yet,” Yang says, the words distant.  “I wanted to surprise you but show you first.”

XIAO LONG’S ANGEL the title reads, and Blake silently scrolls through the unpublished article.  There’s pictures of paintings, and she instantly knows they’re the paintings Yang did of her.  

There’s none of her face.  Nothing that could identify her.  But there’s more of her hands, reaching and praying and receiving.  There’s her silhouette in golden light, and she seems to be breathing and moving.  There’s her bare shoulders and back, and there’s sharp golden shards of wings growing from her body.  There’s her mouth curled in a smile and soft and shining, pink and rosy.  There’s her dark hair cascading down her back as she reaches for something out of frame.

Pieces of her, and not.  This isn’t her.  She’s too broken to be this beautiful.

“Blake?” Yang asks, and that bright smile fades.  

Blake wrenches her gaze from the laptop and stares down at her hands, her eyes hot.  She’s not that, she can never be that.  “That’s not me,” she says hoarsely, her voice shaking.  “That’s not me, Yang.”

“It’s how I see you,” Yang says, her words a burning balm.  “It’s you, Blake.”

Her throat closes up.  “I’m not-”

“You are beautiful,” Yang says firmly.  “You are beautiful and kind and amazing.  And this is how I see you.”  Yang hesitates, but she hands Blake a wrapped box.  Her stomach turns, but she can’t stop herself from opening it with shaking hands.

A broken sob leaves her mouth.  It’s her eyes.  

Blake sets the canvas on the counter and closes her eyes, trying to breathe.  “You don’t know me,” she says, and her voice cracks.  “I’m not this person you see.”

Yang cups her face and leans down to look her in the eyes.  “You are,” she says.  “You are.”  Her eyes dart to her lips, and Blake’s face flushes.  “You are beautiful, and kind, and amazing,” Yang repeats.  Her mouth parts.  “And you are worthy, Blake.”  Yang thumbs away a tear on her face and smiles sadly.  “I just want you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“Yang-”  She cuts herself off with a shaky breath.  Instead of speaking, she leans into Yang’s touch.  Her hands are soft but calloused with her work, but, most importantly, they’re Yang’s hands.  “I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, but she still reaches back for Yang.

Yang smiles, and there’s tears in her lilac eyes too.  “Yes, you do.”

She isn’t sure which one of them leans forward, if one or both of them do, but Yang’s mouth is on hers, and she can’t think.  She doesn’t want to think beyond Yang.  So Blake keeps her eyes closed and kisses her back, her hands grabbing onto Yang and not letting go.

Blake doesn’t deserve Yang.  But Yang thinks she does, and maybe that can be enough.  Maybe that will be enough, and Blake can love her.  She doesn’t know, and there’s no way to know.  But for the first time in months, in almost a year, she feels hope being sketched into her chest.  

#rwby #bumbleby #my writing #answered prompt

[clonewarsarchives]

Inside 'Star Wars: The Clone Wars'

By: Gerri Miller  (original article link on howstuffworks)

Sources

George Lucas interviewed August 4, 2008

Dave Filoni interviewed September 11, 2008

The sci-fi phenomenon that began more than 30 years ago with a movie about a galaxy long ago and far, far away has expanded exponentially ever since with sequels, prequels, books, games and animated spinoffs. Although the animated "Star Wars: The Clone Wars" movie, released this summer, has to date grossed a less than stellar $34 million, it was an offshoot of creator George Lucas' mission to create a TV series, and it served its purpose as a promotional tool for the weekly "Clone Wars" episodes that premiere on Cartoon Network Oct. 3, 2008.

Focused on the conflict briefly referred to in the original "Star Wars," the galactic civil war takes place in the period between "Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones" and "Episode III: Revenge of the Sith." The Clone Wars pit the Grand Army of the Republic led by the Jedi Knights against the Separatists and their Droid Army, led by Count Dooku, a Jedi turned Sith Lord aligned with the evil Darth Sidious. Many of the characters from the "Star Wars" universe are involved, including Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi and young Anakin Skywalker, before he was tempted to the Dark Side and became Darth Vader.

"I was lamenting the fact that in 'Episode II,' I started the Clone Wars, and in 'Episode III,' I ended the Clone Wars, and I never actually got to do anything on the Clone Wars," says Lucas. "It's like skipping over World War II."

To remedy that omission, he tapped Dave Filoni, an animator (Nickelodeon's "Avatar: the Last Airbender" series) and passionate "Star Wars" fan, to bring "The Clone Wars" to TV.

Ensconced at Big Rock Ranch, near Lucas' Skywalker Ranch headquarters in Marin County, Cali., Filoni and his team of artists and computer animators are making 22 episodes in season one and have nearly two more seasons written.

"We're way ahead. We've been doing this ever since I finished 'Revenge of the Sith,'" says Lucas, who hopes to do at least 100 installments.

He and Filoni collaborate on everything from story to design to execution in translating the "Star Wars" universe for television. It's a daunting creative, technical and logistic task, as we'll explain in the following sections.

Building the Universe

How do you scale down an IMAX-size spectacle for television and still have it make an impact, especially on a small screen budget? That's just one of the problems Dave Filoni has to solve.

"'Star Wars' is very famous for the scale of it, and how convincing it looks. So when you're doing a weekly television series, you have to figure out how to do things on that level," he notes. "Sometimes it forces you to be creative and come up with solutions that are better than if you can shoot everything you want," he continues, preferring to consider budgetary constraints a creative incentive rather than a limitation. "The team here is challenged to come up with these giant battles. We haven't shied away from anything."

While he did some of the initial character design, subsequently, Filoni has spent most of his time supervising other artists and animators, who number around 70 in-house and another 80 or so at facilities in Singapore and Taipei.

"Everything is written here, and the story and design and editing are all done here. The animation and lighting are done overseas, and sometimes some modeling as well," he outlines.

­"I meet with George to talk about the episodes and he hands out a lot of the storylines and main ideas for the stories. I'll draw while he's talking and show him the sketch," Filoni continues. "That way we communicate right off the bat about what something might look like."

At any given time, the director notes, episodes are in various stages of completion, "from designing to working on a final cut, or adding sound and color-correction. I have four episodic directors to help me, who each have an episode they're managing."

Rather than use computer animation to duplicate the live-action films' characters or continue in the very stylized vein of the 2004-2005 "Clone Wars" micro-series, "We kind of shot for the middle," says Filoni, who endeavored to blend a 2-D esthetic with 3-D technology.

"The 3-D model makers and riggers who worked on the prequels dealt with the height of realism to create convincing digital characters. I knew that we weren't going to be able to do that for the series. And we wanted it to be different than a live-action feature, to get away from photo-realism. It was a choice to simplify something in the character models, the same way we would do things in a 2-D show."

So how did Filoni stay true to the "Star Wars" legacy in this newest installment? Read on to find out.

Clone Style

Taking some inspiration from the earlier cartoon series, Filoni

approached the characters as a 2-D animator would, "but stylized the face a little more. If you look at Anakin, he has certain edges and lines in his face. I would draw an edge or a line that might be unnaturally straight or curved, and that would play into the lighting of it. I tried to sculpt in 3-D the way I would draw or sculpt an image in 2-D, with shadow and light. I wanted it to look like a painting -- you see a textured, hand-painted style on every character. I have texture artists who literally paint every single character right down to their eyeball, because I wanted that human touch on everything."

Advances in computer animation have allowed Filoni to accomplish much more than he would have been able to in traditional 2-D. "For eight years I worked just with a pencil. I never touched a computer. But working with George, we try to look at computers as an incredibly advanced pencil. The technical side helps the creative, artistic side," he says.

Battles filled with huge numbers of soldiers can be rendered faster than ever before, but they still have to be created, along with every other prop and character in an enormous universe. "'Star Wars' is so complex in that you're building a whole galaxy. We go to many different planets," Filoni reminds. "So every rock, tree, blade of grass, native vehicle -- every asset -- needs design. We had to create a whole bunch of assets for each episode, and the budget goes up for each element you have. Once you build it, you have it, but we can't go to a different planet and have the same chair there," he laughs. "On a schedule where we need those things right away, it's difficult to get it all built."

Since "The Clone Wars" is chronologically sandwiched between "Clone Wars" and "Revenge of the Sith," it has been a mandate for the creators to stay consistent with the mythology. "That's probably one of the trickiest things," admits Filoni. "We always have to keep in mind what the characters are thinking and feeling at the beginning of this and at the end. You have a lot of room to play with when you're in the middle, but you have to remember what people say in the third movie. With characters like Obi-Wan or Anakin or Padme, I have to pay very careful attention that it will hook up. And then there's the expanded universe of "Star Wars" novels and video games. I try to be aware of it all and work it in, because fans really appreciate it."

Filoni hopes to attract existing fans and create new ones, especially among the younger generation, but admits doing the latter may be easier. "One thing we have that's different from any movie that came before is we're an animated series. But there's an instant reaction to the word animation that it's for kids. How you get around that is with the stories you tell. We'll have our snow battles and we'll also have our lighter 'Return of the Jedi' moments. Some episodes lean older, some younger. But in the end it has a broad appeal," he believes.

The recent "Clone Wars" movie (out on DVD Nov. 11 ) served as a stand-alone prequel to introduce the characters at this point in time. In contrast, "The series has its small arcs and shows you the war from across a broad spectrum of episodes. It's not just Anakin Skywalker's story," Filoni underlines. "We can go left or right of that plot and deal with characters we have never seen. There's a lot of material. It's a three-year period in the history of the 'Star Wars' Universe, and there are so many stories to tell. The longer it goes, the more chance we get to tell fascinating stories in that galaxy."

Character Study

"The Clone Wars" shows a different side of some of the film franchise's most iconic characters. "In a series, you can do a whole episode about a character and learn more about what they were like, which makes what happens to them a lot more poignant," explains Filoni. "We know Yoda is powerful, but how does that power develop? How does he use it? We get to go into more detail that you just couldn't do in the live action films, because they're mainly focused on Anakin."

While few of the actors from the live action movies agreed to reprise their roles in voice over for "The Clone Wars," Anthony Daniels, the original C-3PO, is the exception. "One of the special moments for me was hearing Anthony on the telephone, discussing C-3PO with me and his experiences. That really helps us round out the characters," says the director, who enjoyed similar input from Rob Coleman, the animation supervisor who worked on Yoda on the prequels.

Of the new characters not seen in the live action series, there's the alluring but venomous Asajj Ventress, a disciple of Count Dooku. "She is, of course, a villain, and fits into the structure of the Sith," Filoni elaborates. "Darth Sidious -- Senator Palpatine -- is the main bad guy, and his apprentice is Count Dooku. Dooku is training Ventress in the Dark Side. She's getting more powerful. I wanted to make her intelligent, deceptive and also kind of sexual. She's kind of a forbidden fruit -- Jedi are not supposed to get involved with the more lustful aspects of life. She adds another dynamic to the series."

On the other side of the good/evil coin is newcomer Ahsoka Tano, Anakin's teenage pad­awan, or apprentice. "She's Anakin's student and helps us see him as more of a hero," says Filoni. "Once he gets over his initial reaction, he takes pride in her. He's unpredictable and the Jedi know that, but he has compassion and that is used against him and it later brings him to the Dark Side."

Ahsoka was created, says Lucas, "Because I needed to mature Anakin. The best way to get somebody to become responsible and mature is to have them become a parent or a teacher. You have to think about what you're doing and set an example. You look at your behavior and the way you do things much differently. The idea was to use her to make Anakin become more mature. We've made her a more extreme version of what Anakin was- - a little out there, independent, vital and full of life, but even more so. He gets a little dose of his own medicine."

"She's been a really fun character to develop," adds Filoni, who likes Ahsoka but admits that his character tastes tend to run a bit more obscure -- his favorite is Plo Koon, "a bizarre Jedi Master. It's been fun to develop him and show his personality beyond the fact that he's bizarre looking and carries a lightsaber."

Fan Fare

Just three years ago, Filoni dressed up as Plo Koon to see an opening night showing of "Revenge of the Sith," so it's not surprising that the 34-year-old fan is still pinching himself that he has this job. "It's a very creative atmosphere," he says of Big Rock Ranch, where the lakeside setting is "meant to inspire us artistically and definitely does. A lot of the people I work with grew up with 'Star Wars,' so we have a great time. It's hard, intense work, but George is very engaged in what we're doing. What more could you ask for? I have the guy who created the 'Star Wars' universe excited and interested in what we're doing. We couldn't be happier about that."

Asked why he thinks "Star Wars" remains a fan favorite today, three decades later, Lucas says diversification is the key. "We were always able to deal with different aspects of the story in various forms and I think that keeps it alive. It is a lot of fun and it's a universe that has been created to inspire young people to exercise their imagination and inspire them to be creative, and I think that always works."

"The original 'Star Wars' had broad appeal to everybody, and it holds up so well," adds Filoni. "I think there's a timelessness to it, even though Luke looks like a kid from the '70s with that haircut. Luke is a farmer boy and Han is a cowboy. Jedi Knights are like the samurai of Japan or the knights of Europe. Those archetypes work the globe over. It's a world phenomenon that speaks to everyone. There will always be a character you can relate to."

#interview #crew #George Lucas #Dave Filoni #the first part is useless read the stuff about design and characters under cut #highlights bit for own reference