#her splash art was too pretty to not draw
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More Star Guardian Art.
#my art#star guardian orianna#star guardian#tocker#he's just a leedol lad#league of legends fanart#sg orianna#sg tocker#league of legends orianna#her splash art was too pretty to not draw#I am lowkey proud of how this turned out#I've been working on it for about three weeks#aaahhhh#time for a nap#lol fanart
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Midnight Muse (Part 5)
Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]
Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 4,069
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Masterlist]
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“All I’m saying is that I think he’s pretty cute,” Feyre scoffs, defensively.
Since you’d moved in, it seems as though your entire life revolves around the boys living next door.
While you’d finally gotten the sleep you deserved last night, something had felt…off. The other side of the wall was almost too quiet as you lay in the darkness, still awaiting sleep to take you in its hold, even though your body had been aching for sleep for so long. All night, there wasn’t a peep from the asshole sharing the wall. You knew it had to be Az living on the other side, there was no way in fucking hell that it wasn’t, but the lack of music blaring through the walls felt like a dream, almost.
You shoved the thoughts from your mind in the early hours of the morning, hastily getting ready for your day. Your first day of classes, and you wouldn’t let him ruin even that. Now, the sun shines brightly on you and Feyre as you walk to your first class of the day, Drawing 201.
You had made your schedules match up as much as they could. With Feyre being an art student as well, she had declared her major in oil painting, whereas you aren’t sure what medium you’d like to get into. All you know is that there’s something drawing you towards the arts, and thankfully, you still have time to take electives and try new classes to see if anything sticks.
The only classes you hadn’t been able to take together were your non-art related ones. Feyre seems to know exactly what her path is in life, minoring in business because she wants to open a gallery one day and figured having an understanding of what goes into owning her own business would be helpful.
You, on the other hand, had opted for a creative writing class to fulfill that requirement for your college degree. It is a semester filled with imagination and artistry, searching for that missing piece of your soul, trying to find it along the way.
Feyre has her drawing pad tucked under an arm as she walks. Yours is held in a similar fashion, the obnoxiously large pad of paper bigger than your torso. Her golden-brown hair is tied back into a loose bun that she makes look effortless. If you were to try and recreate the same hairstyle, you’d look like a rat. She’s clad in a plain t-shirt and jeans, simple for the balmy weather, not wanting to wear something nicer only to have charcoal and paints splashed over it by the end of the day.
The two of you had been talking about your neighbors, having seen one of them driving off in his vintage car that somehow always seemed to be parked outside of the building. Its paint was red and rusted, metal rotting through. You weren’t even sure that the car was in running condition, but it gave a splutter of black smoke as he rolled away and you wondered if it would make it the few blocks down to campus.
It was the last roommate, the one you don’t know the name of. He’s large and bulky, muscles seeming to nearly split the seams of any shirt he covered his torso with. The one who had seemed to be the least volatile, that is, until he shut the door in your face for the final time that dreadful night.
The building is old, but the classroom is spacious and drab. Concrete floors adorned with paint that hadn’t come off, dried clay chipping into dust, the room shared with many different classes working with many different mediums. The white walls brighten the room, the sun casting through the windows bouncing off of it and creating intriguing lighting to work with. Art horses are lined up in a circle, surrounding a mattress with a navy blue sheet spread across its lumpy surface. It smells of both paint and graphite, the scent comforting as a part of you settles, shoulders relaxing as you revel in it.
Accustomed to the setup, you realize that you’re going to be jumping right into the class and will be drawing today. Last year, the most memorable moment in your first life drawing class ever was the oldest man you’ve ever seen being the nude model. Of course, that was the day that your professor had each student drawing a close-up of a specific part of the model’s body, and you’d so luckily gotten to draw his low-hanging, wrinkly balls. Lovely.
You shudder as the memory resurfaces, following Feyre to a seat. You drop your bag to the floor, setting up your own sketchpad, before pulling out the necessary materials you’ll be needing for class.
You roll your eyes in response to her statement. “I didn’t say they weren’t cute, I said that they’re assholes.” Despite your quiet night, you can’t help but wonder about Az, thinking about his brooding nature and stupidly charming face as you drifted off to sleep in the loud quiet of your room.
Students trickle in one by one. A group of girls stride in, laughing about something that happened at a bar over their weekend. Another girl follows, but it’s clear that she isn’t in their group. She’s pretty, with chic, ice blue glasses perched on her button nose, her striking white hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
Your attention shifts to the boy that follows her in, and your jaw almost drops.
He’s handsome—no, he’s much more than that, you just can’t formulate the words twisting your thoughts and tongue into knots. Maybe after your creative writing class you’d be able to describe his sheer beauty. He has the most luxurious copper hair you’ve ever seen. It cascades across his broad shoulders, a braid on either side, caressing his face. He’s tall, too, an entire head—maybe even more—taller than the white-haired girl he’s bounding behind. His straight nose is flecked with freckles and his fox-shaped face is utterly devastating.
When his gaze finds yours, you feel as though you’re pinned to the art horse beneath you. He has one russet eye, and the other is golden. You want to commit it to memory, curse yourself for not bringing your colored pencils, stare right into those very eyes until you’ve gotten each stroke of his iris’ perfect. He’s mesmerizing, and the closer he moves, you start to make out the fine scar that slashes through that gold eye and his eyebrow above. It’s his only flaw, but only adds to his intimidating aura.
“Hi,” he greets, sliding into the empty seat next to you. You have to look up at him, even sitting, and something in your stomach stirs. “I’m Lucien.”
“(Y/N),” you respond numbly, thrown by his beauty. He’s wearing a loose button-up in the color moss, dark trousers, and even nicer shoes. He doesn’t look anything like an art student. Law, maybe. “Nice to meet you.”
You fumble with your art case as he holds out his hand for you to shake. Cheeks heating, you give him a bashful smile, sliding your hand into his. It’s warm, encapsulating the entirety of your own, and the longer your hand sits in his, the wider his pleasant smile becomes. “You as well,” he responds, then leans over to introduce himself to Feyre. With your back to him, you give her an ‘oh my gods, look how gorgeous he is’ look, and she responds with an elbow to your side, acknowledging that she sees just how gorgeous he is.
This year is determined to kill you, with all of the handsome men you’ve seen so far. Lucien maybe even more so, with how delightful he already is.
You can hardly even remember what you were conversing with Feyre about now that Lucien has entered the room. You couldn’t even remember if one of your neighbors waltzed right into the roo—
Fuck.
Of fucking course.
It’s the one roommate you don’t know the name of. The one who’d been driving away when you and your roommate left for campus this morning, waltzing into the room as if he owns the place.
His frame takes up the entire doorway, and you find yourself wondering if that’s his thing. Precious Azzy’s is being loud, Rhys’ is that forked tongue of his, and this one’s is filling any space with his massive body.
He enters the room with a swagger that has all of the girls swooning, carefree and confident. He oozes masculinity, barrel chested and tall. You didn’t know that he was in this class, though. When Rhys has said that they were juniors, you thought they’d be in the 300 classes, not 200s.
Now might be as good a time as ever to ask, though, because his hazel gaze sparks in recognition when he glances your way, and he beelines over to you.
“Well, hello there ladies,” he greets with a seemingly genuine smile. He had been the nicest of the three when you and Feyre had almost knocked their door clean from its hinges, but he had also shut the door on you. Plus, with your not-so-great experiences with his roommates, your body is tense, prepared for the worst. “You’re taking this class?”
Feyre takes the bait on this one, and you’re well aware that Lucien is listening in, despite the fact that he’s pulled his satchel into his lap and is unloading his own supplies. “Yeah, it’s required for sophomores. Are you in it as well?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a sinful smile. Wolfish, almost. “You could say that.” You open your mouth to speak but he’s turning towards Lucien, smile broadening into something practically wicked, sticking his hand out to introduce himself. “I’m Cassian, man. Nice to meet you.”
“Lucien,” he replies politely, though you don’t miss the slight grimace on his face when Cassian clenches his fingers in his own. You smother a laugh because Cassian looks like he could break all of the bones in Lucien’s hand with just a little more pressure if he wanted to.
The trifecta is complete. You finally have all three names, though you only know Az through his nicknames alone. Or maybe his name is Azzy. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy all of the time.
Whatever. You don’t care.
After introducing yourself and Feyre to Cassian, he leans in closer. He smells earthy, like freshly turned dirt and smoked wood. It reaches out to you like roots in the ground, and it’s refreshing, to say the least.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” he starts, and you nearly recoil. You were expecting him to come in here with the arrogance his roommates seem to share, not this sincere politeness dripping from his words. His hazel eyes are earnest as you inspect him, his soft smile a touch guilty, if anything. “It’s just that I’ve got to side with my roommates. You can understand that, right?”
“You don’t even know what he did,” you answer, trying not to grumble. Your brows are pinched and you watch Cassian take note of that. Az had been a complete prick for no reason, and that’s just not cool in your books.
Cassian winces, dropping back an inch or two. His voice is low, more of a whisper than you thought someone of his size would be able to make. “It’s not really my place to say, but Azriel had had a rough day. And no, that doesn’t excuse his actions, but you did threaten to tow his bike, and he doesn’t take that lightly. But hey, it had nothing really to do with me, so I’m willing to look past it if you are.”
Azriel. Aa full name to a face and well, it kind of suits him. The angel of death. A shiver wracks your spine.
With that permanent scowl, he certainly looks the part.
And, this isn’t the apology you expected, but it’s a truce, a peace offering between neighbors. Maybe, if you accept, Cassian will be able to pass along the message of ‘shut the fuck up after midnight’ to Azriel.
You share a look with Feyre, contemplating. It seems as though she’s thinking similarly to you because she smiles up at Cassian, agreeing. “We’d love that.”
Cassian beams, straightening to his full height. Fuck, he’s huge.
He looks as if he may say something more, but the professor enters the room and calls his name. He shoots you and Feyre a cheeky grin. “That’s me,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll come get your numbers after class. Try not to enjoy it too much, ladies.” With a wink, he turns, gliding across the room with an ease someone built like a brick wall should have.
Your eyes follow him as he stalks towards the teacher, all grins and positivity. Maybe he isn’t like his broody, rude roommates. The teacher asks him something and he’s nodding along as if he’s done this before and is being reminded of what’s expected of him for this class. He roots around in the bag slung over his shoulder and pulls something out as he makes his way towards the door. Maybe he’s not enrolled in your class and only needed to speak to the professor?
“Welcome to Drawing 201,” the professor greets, clapping her hands together to gain the attention of the room. The murmurs soften as she speaks, students ready to have their talents molded by her intelligence. “My name is Ms. Woods, but you can call me Alis.”
You don’t miss Cassain slipping back into the room as Alis walks you through warm up exercises and best practices for the class. Your fingers are already coated with charcoal from where you’d roughly outlined shapes of Feyre’s body for warm ups. The curves on your paper become more and more fluid as you get into the familiar motions of drawing.
“What do you think he’s doing here?” you murmur to Feyre, still watching where Cassian is crouched low as if he wouldn’t be able to hear the professor from his full height. While you’re turned this way, you catch Lucien peeking at you over his shoulder for a fleeting moment, and before your gaze can snag his, he’s turning back to his own work.
Feyre shrugs, studying the lines of your face. “You don’t think he’s the—”
“This is Cassian,” Alis interrupts, stealing your attention from your roommate and your drawing. It’s nothing more than a mess of rough shapes, looking nothing like her at all, but you’re trusting the process. Only a minute's time isn’t long enough for more than that.
Cassian is no longer wearing his loose jeans and tight t-shirt. Instead, he dons a thick, gray robe. The fabric doesn’t nearly drape far enough down, his gloriously tanned and muscular legs on full display, showing off an intricate tattoo from his knees, creeping up underneath the fabric. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, following the lines of muscle all the way up as Alis continues, “He’s going to be our model for the day.”
You’re not the only one who chokes at the news. Girls and guys alike are blushing in their seats, and Cassian can hardly contain the smug smirk threatening to split his face in two. He winks over at you and Feyre who share a wide-eyed look. Lucien scoffs lightly, and your jaw snaps shut, pink heating your cheeks as well.
You busy yourself by flipping to a new page in your pad. It’s crisp and white, not at all as interesting as you’re trying to make it seem as you avoid Cassian’s mirth-filled stare. You smooth the paper with your hand, and it’s shaking slightly with anticipation. Your new neighbor who’s just offered a truce, and you’re already going to be seeing him naked.
Would it have been weirder to be mad at him and stare at his naked form, or now, when a ceasefire has been declared and you’re somewhat on the road to becoming friends?
You don’t have the chance to think further on it because Cassian moves into the circle towards the lone mattress on the floor as Alis explains how the time spent in class is going to be divided. There will be a few three minute sketching sessions where you are to get down as much of his form as you can, while Cassian continuously changes poses. Following that, there will be two fifteen minute sessions, a break, and a final longer session where you’ll focus more on detail than form.
He slides out of his shoes, and you swallow roughly as he undoes the ties to his robe. Thankfully, he’s not looking at you, watching your intent gaze pinned to his tanned skin. The fabric slides from his broad shoulders, down, exposing the muscles of his back. The less fabric that shows, the more tattoos you see, covering both arms and licking across his chest. His waist pulls in tight and you have to bite your lip to hold back a noise in the completely silent room. Rippling muscles line his body, corded and thick in all of the right places. You can’t help it, staring unabashed because he’s turned away from you, your eyes falling from the inky whorls of tattoos across his shoulders, down through the cavern of the muscle lining his spine, all the way down to his tight ass.
All of the students are entrapped by his beauty, as if he’s aphrodite reincarnated. Two dimples poke in the base of his spine that you want to lean forward and dip your tongue into, but then he’s shifting a little and his cock is on full display.
The stick of charcoal in your fingers snaps in half.
You hope you get that facing you for the few hours you’ll be here.
Next to you, Lucien tuts under his breath, but even he can’t seem to look away from the Greek God standing before you.
Alis instructs Cassian into his first pose and then addresses the class. “Alright, your time begins now.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•
You don’t know how you’re able to focus on anything other than the cock draped so prettily across his abdomen.
Cassian looks as relaxed as ever, splayed out across the blue sheet on the mattress, one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes shut, and breathing even as if he might have actually fallen asleep.
With the late nights you know he and his roommates tend to have, you wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.
You lose yourself in the quiet of the classroom, nothing but the sounds of long strokes or chalk against paper, the scratch of quick sharp lines being drawn. There’s the occasional murmur of advice or comments from Alis as she makes her rounds, weaving through students spread throughout the room.
Drawing the contours of his muscle is no easy feat. Packed layer upon layer from years or hard work spent in the gym, you rub the dark soot into your drawing pad. It’s calming, sweeping the charcoal over the white space to create shadows the lighting paints across his body.
His tattoos take some effort, even though Alis had said not to worry about those, that getting his form down was more important, but you can’t help yourself. You’ve always been interested in people’s tattoos and the stories behind them, the significance or lack thereof for some, despite having none of your own. You draw them with an extra care, trying your best not to make up reasons as to why he might have them. Now that you’re going to be on friendly terms, maybe you can ask him the meaning behind them yourself.
Eventually, Alis’ timer goes off, the ringtone the same as your phone, and for a fleeting moment your body reacts as if it’s your own alarm going off, a slight twist in your stomach as your body locks for a moment. You put down your chunk of charcoal as Cassian sits up, dusting your fingers off and admiring your drawing, comparing it to the model once more before he tugs on his robe.
Feyre stands to stretch, her back popping as she twists around. You wipe the soot from your hands on a cloth and grab your water bottle, the crisp water wetting your parched throat.
Lucien leans over, copper hair cascading over his shoulder and almost brushing your arm in the process. You wouldn’t mind, it looks silky smooth and the smell of his hair oil makes you want to lean in a little closer. He studies your work as you drink and eventually, with a smirk, says, “You have quite an eye for detail.”
You splutter and he bites his pink lip, trying to smother his smile. He gives you the most innocent look he can muster, but he doesn’t know that you have a retort on the tip of your tongue, just as soon as you stop choking.
“You sound a little bit jealous there, Lucien.”
Feyre laughs and he gapes dramatically, “Maybe, a little.”
You can’t help but to chuckle at his antics, the rest of your classmates packing up around you. Cassian’s disappeared from the room already, probably in the restroom changing, and you wonder if he’ll be back for your number like he promised.
In the meantime, you pack your things away, stuffing your extra chalks of charcoal back into your case, along with your cloth and kneaded eraser. You feel confident in the work you’ve done today, so with a last glance at your drawing, you flip your pad shut, taking Feyre’s for her and walking with Lucien to stash them in the assigned drawer you and Feyre share.
“So, are you an art major?” you ask, waiting for the crowd around the shelves to dissipate a little.
He cuts you a suspicious look, but it’s playful. “You didn’t get a glimpse of my drawing, did you? I suppose I can’t blame you with a model looking like that, but it’s entirely awful,” he states, and you stare up at him in disbelief.
“Surely it can’t be that bad,” you argue, and his lips thin a little as he flips open his drawing pad just enough for only you to see. It’s difficult to hold in the laugh trying to burst from your throat.
Lucien winces but a puff of laughter follows that makes your shoulders ease. “I told you it was shit, your face only confirmed it!”
There’s no coming back from this one, so you decide to play into it.
“Okay, it’s not great, but I’ve definitely seen worse. You should’ve seen my stuff from last year.”
Lucien rolls his eyes, stepping forward in line. “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing like the gorgeous drawing you’ve managed to pull out of your ass in two hours today,” he scoffs, and you elbow him in the arm gently. “Your drawing literally looks like a photograph!”
It doesn’t, but your cheeks heat at his compliment anyway.
“I might’ve been doing this a little longer than you have,” you defend. Since you could hold a crayon, to be exact.
He huffs, stuffing his pad into a drawer and offering to help you with yours and Feyres. He pulls your drawer open and you slide the pads inside, stepping out of the way so others can crowd him as he closes up and follows you back to your seats. “Well, then you might have to help me out, because I thought that taking a few drawing classes would help me with my renderings for architecture, but those are all straight lines and circles and this is all curved lines and cock.”
You can’t help but laugh this time, leaning over your horse to pack away the rest of your supplies. Feyre’s all ready to go, face buried in her phone as she texts someone, fingers tapping quickly on the screen.
“You know, if you remove yourself from what you’re looking at, this is all just lines and circles too.”
Lucien slings his satchel over his shoulder, staring down at you with those mesmerizing eyes that shine when he speaks. “Would you want to explain that further sometime, over coffee perhaps?”
You’re a little shocked by his bluntness, but you grin and nod nonetheless. “I’d like that.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•
Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @acourtofbatboydreams @hannzoaks @judig92 @ilikefictionalmen @harrystylesfan2686 @dr4g0ngirl @vellichor01 @hirah-yummar @girl-who-writes-stuff @lees-chaotic-brain @konaanaria13 @emiler-love @yourdorkiness @azrielsstarlight
#azriel#azriel x reader#acotar#azsazz#acomaf#acowar#midnight muse#art school au#azriel au#tattoo arstist!azriel
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Auburn Thoughts (Pt.2)
Pairing: Reader x Ellie Williams
Summary: When plans to meet up go awry, you flee. Unsure of your feelings, and convinced they are one sided, you are contacted by an old friend. You decide to do something out of character. Anything to get your mind off of her.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Minors do not interact. Jealousy, Angst, Alcohol, Drinking, Alcohol Abuse, Smoking Weed, vague mentions of SA, creepy guy, Anxiety (please let me know if there's any I forgot)
Author's Notes: Jealous Ellie!! Jealous Reader!! Protective Ellie!! I'm obsessed. I love jealous Ellie with my whole heart. Actively reminding myself to take this story slow… anyways I'm very excited to see where this story goes. hope you enjoy this chapter :)
Part 1
Part 3 (With Audio)
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Back at my dorm, I find myself doodling the image of her bitten lips. Auburn thoughts.
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I wake up the next morning, tired. I stayed up too late again. Drawing. I stretch my arms above my head and squint my eyes at the light coming through my windows. Class. I have class. My brain talks but my body does not move. I’m so tired. I reach over and grab my phone, checking the time. I bolt up in my bed. Fuck, I'm going to be so late.
I rush to my closet and pull on a light green oversized sweatshirt I thrifted forever ago, and throw on some light wash jeans. They have light paint splatters on them but honestly most of my clothes do. Shoving socks on my feet I slip them into my white tennis shoes. On my way out I stop in the mirror and assess the damage. Bed head and bags under my eyes. I grab a hair tie and rushedly pull it up into a messy high ponytail. I poke the dark circles under my exhausted eyes but decide there's nothing I can do in the time I have, so I head out the door, turning off the lights and locking it behind me.
Sitting in my second class of the day I remember my evening plans. Suddenly I wish I had gotten a bit more ready. After class is over I rush to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, hoping it would bring down some of the puffiness that my restless night lended me. I look at my reflection. “Fuck,” I say under my breath as I lean on the counter looking down at the running water. What is this? Don’t think too much about it. I look at myself and practice a smile, turning my face to observe. My face drops. “Shit. What is wrong with me?” I turn the faucet off and walk out of the bathroom, to my next class.
4:30, I’m early. That's okay, god knows my project could use some work. I put my headphones in and tuck my knee up to my chest resuming the apple from yesterday. I find myself checking the time regularly, and it feels like it's passing abnormally slow.
The door opens and I turn expecting to see Ellie, but another girl walks in. I recognize her from the halls. Slender and feminine, pretty features and short dark hair. Striking honestly, especially in comparison to my drained appearance. A subtle shade of insecurity settles over me. I overlook it. She must be in a different class time than Ellie and I. Turning back to my work she sits a couple seats to the left of me. She doesn't acknowledge me, I don't think much about it. People in the art department tend to be more introverted, so this is a typical encounter.
Shortly after resuming my work the door opens again, I turn. Green eyes. Wearing a thick flannel, jeans, and her same old sneakers. Her hair is half down today, the other half in a bun. Loose strands framing her face. I notice her freckles a bit extra today, small constellations littering her cheeks. I smile and she returns it.
“So you decided to show up!” I say, turning back to my canvas a bit flushed.
“What? Did you think I was gonna stand you up or some shit?” she says with a smile in her voice as she makes her way to you.
“Hey you never kn-”
“Ellie!” A voice cuts me off. “I didn't know you were coming today!” I look to the girl sitting on my left, she's craned her head around to face Ellie beaming at her.
“Oh!” she sounded startled. “Hi Cat.” Ellie says with a courteous smile that doesn't meet her eyes. The girl gets up and basically prances up to her, wrapping her arms around Ellies neck. Ellie's eyes meet mine as I dart back to my work. Staring past my canvas. I'm face to face with an unfamiliar pit in my stomach. I try not to listen to their conversation, my heartbeat building in my ears is loud enough to drone most of it out. Most of it.
“It's been so long,” Cat…
“You're normally not here this late” Ellie…
“Yeah, I’ll have to start coming more often!” Cat..
Heartbeat thudding.
“Well you should call me later! We could catch dinner when you're done here.” I feel eyes on me. “Catch up a bit.” Cat…
Louder pulsing in my ears.
Next thing I hear is the seat to my right creaks and snaps me out of it. I glance over at Ellie and can't get out of my head fast enough to say anything. I look back to my painting. She looks at me, then my painting.
“It looks good.” Her voice comes out awkward. I notice her fidgeting with her hands.
“Thanks.” I say without looking her way.
“Umm, well should i grab my stuff?” she suggests.
“Actually, I didn't sleep well last night.” I say looking down at my hands in my lap. Gripping each other to keep from shaking. What is wrong with me? “I'm pretty tired.” I glimpse at her quickly then back to my hands. “I’m gonna head out.” I say standing up and start walking to the sink to rinse my brushes. Ellie gets up and tries to follow me but is stopped by Cat. Cat.
“You can hang with me El’s,” a pang in my gut at the familiarity in the nickname. “I've got another 30 minutes or so of work to do here!” her voice reignites the thudding. All I hear is mumbles behind my own spiraling thoughts. I wash my brushes fast and carelessly, then load them, still wet, into my case. I haul my canvas away and walk out the door. I walk fast down the halls, my throat feels dry, my chest feels tight. My eyes feel prickly. I hit the wall of cold air past the front doors. What the fuck. I take a gasp of the icy air. Then head in the direction of my dorm. Heartbeat heavy.
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My phone rings. I lay on my bed staring into the ceiling. Seeing arms around her. The ringing stops. Then it starts again. I groan and reach my arm over to grab it. Chloe, my friend who I'd rather neglected over the past art filled days. I put my phone to my ear,
“Hey chlo.”
“Hey bitch. Where the fuck have you been?” I smile at her voice, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I have this gnarly realism project in my painting class. It's taking all of the little mental capacity I have” I say, mind on Ellie. Ellie and Cat. my smile fades.
“Oh, yeah. That's shit. Well it's Saturday, and since you owe me for being MIA, you are coming out with me tonight.” To be honest, a drink sounded pretty nice right now.
“Sure, what time?”
“Wait really? You’re down?”
“Yeah, I could use a distraction.” From her.
“Period! I'll pick you up at 9! We are going for… slutty chic.” I smile down at my legs.
“We’ll see.”
“I swear to god if you don't dress up im gonna-”
“Bye Chlo! See you at 9!” I say with a forced laugh, hanging up the phone. I throw myself back on the bed and lay there for a moment before I finally force myself to sit up and make my way to my closet.
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[here!] My phone dings. I take one last look in my mirror, evaluating. A fitted black racer-back cropped to my upper stomach, a large key hole at the neck exposing some of my cleavage, I pull it up a bit self consciously. My skirt, a matching set to the top sits a couple inches beneath, exposing a sliver of my stomach. The fitted black skirt ends before my resting hands do. I tug at it, too short. I grab a cropped fluffy black jacket from the rack behind me and slouch it over my shoulders, then I’m bending over to pull on some black heels over my dark tights. Looking back to my reflection I look taller, elongated.
I lean in and double check my makeup. A soft smokey eye, with a thin line of dark eyeliner. Blush and highlighter shape my nose a bit more than normal. My eyes shift to my hair, slicked back in a high ponytail, I lean my head to the side grabbing my pony and pulling it over my shoulder sighing at my reflection before I grab my black bag and head out to Chloe's car.
I hear her before I see her, music blaring. She's applying lip gloss in her visor mirror. I climb into the passenger seat, holding my skirt down while I do so. She glances at me, “Oh my god. you look so hot.” she says, eyes boggling jokingly at me.
“Oh shut up,” I roll my eyes at her reaching my hand out to borrow her gloss, she hands it over and I apply it in the mirror of my visor just like she had done.
The drive consists of her updating me on her sexual escapades. I smile, laugh, and gasp at her stories as we wind through the streets. This girl is wild. God, I love her.
We pull up to a house and try to find parking among the cars lining the street. Finally finding an empty spot, she does her best attempt at parallel parking. I laugh at her focused face and multiple failed attempts. She tells me to fuck off.
Walking up to the house We pass a group of guys, they eye us up grinning. Chloe smiles at them, I cross my arms across my chest and look at the pathway to the front door. As we get closer the music pounds in my ears getting louder until we are inside. There's a lot of people here, energy pulsing through the thick air. I feel a bit overwhelmed. Chloe, reading my face, grabs my hands.
“Drinks!” she exclaimes with a wide warm smile. Her blonde hair bouncing behind her as she turned and pulled me by the hand to a table in the living room. She pours us a shot of something clear, tapping our glasses together then on the table. The liquor going down my throat is warm and stinging. We cringe at each other and laugh at our sour faces. After another shot, this time a bit easier, I pour myself a mixed drink and sip it to get the taste out of my mouth. It's not much better, too strong, but I sip away at it.
Chloe has drifted to the kitchen, giving eyes to some guy. I watch her touch his shoulder laughing at something he said and I smile at my now empty drink. Man, she's got game. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as the drink combines with the body heat of all these strangers. It's nice. For a moment I didnt even think about her.
Fuck.
Smile gone, I sigh and walk to the drink table, a bit wobblier than when I arrived, pouring myself another tall glass. Maybe another drink will get the images of her out of my head. I sip at my new concoction, barely tasting it as I stumble to find a bathroom. I knock. Met with no response, I walk in and lock the door behind me. I look in the mirror and my hooded eyes look back at me. I smile at myself. I do look pretty good, I thought. I turn on the tap and run cold water over my hands, I indulge in the drunken sensation of it.
I head back out into the crowded hall, people scattered along the wells leaning, chatting, even a couple messily making out. I subtly blanch at the boldness of it. Walking past them, eyes drifting over strangers, observing. Suddenly my eyes freeze, locked onto green. No , no, no. An exhale deepens her chest releasing a large puff of smoke from her lips. Her lips. She's sat with knees up on the couch, leaning against the arm. A blunt resting in between her fingers. Her eyes are locked on me, a look of shock shining over her already glazed eyes. Her eyes wander down my body, evaluating my every detail. Her brows furrowed a bit and I swear I saw her chew the inside of her cheek, before her eyes snaped back to mine. My eyes shift to the girl on the couch next to her. Short dark hair. My eyes trace her hand resting on Ellie’s thigh. My stomach twists. I turn sharply and walk to the kitchen, seeing everything through a tinge of green.
I approach Chloe. She smiles at me and asks how I'm feeling. “Drunk” I respond with a small empty smile.
“Drunk enough to dance?” she asks. Not sure if it was the liquid courage or a vengeful spirit possessing my body, I put my cup to my lips, downing the drink. I grabbed her hand and led her to the living room. Spinning her to face me, we begin swaying quickly to the beat of the music in the mass of dancing people. My hands skim up the curves of my body as we smile at each other. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, Ellie is in the darkness behind my eyelids. Then my hands are on Chloes waist turning her against me, we dance together. She’s pressed against me, my hands following the rhythm of her hips. When the song ends and transitions to another she laughs drunkenly, turning back to me and locking her hands around my neck.
“Okay, keep dancing.” I obliged. “See that guy behind me. Dark hair, tall. Definitely looking at my ass.” She looks at me with a smirk. I scan the faces in the kitchen, and locate the guy she's talking about. He was indeed staring at her ass. “Im gonna fuck him tonight. I bet you a million dollars.”
“That's a losing horse man, I see how he's looking at you, I'm not taking those odds.” I laugh at her, shifting my eyes as we sway together, my hands resting on her waist. Images begin blurring together, until my vision locks in on the girl leaning against the entryway. Arms crossed against her chest, one hand holding her still lit blunt. Eyes pinned to mine. Darkened green. The haze of people seems to blur around her. I see her suck against her teeth, she doesn't look away. I hold her gaze while I turn and begin dancing on Chloe, now her hands roam my waist. I watch as Ellie takes a long drag. Ellie. Chloe laughs into my neck.
“Jeez. you're putting on a show! Who are you performing for?” she says over the music scanning the crowd. My eyes are on green. I feel my face flush as I see Ellie turn on her heels and head back into the hall. Could she hear us? I turn back to Chloe.
“I'm gonna take a breather.” I say with a smile. She boos me as I walk away into the kitchen, “you're up,” I nod to the guy eyeing her. He heads her way. My vision sways, and I lean against the counter. I drop my head, I feel heavy. My body feels all the gravity of the world at this moment. What the fuck did I just do.
I stand up. Turning to walk to the bathroom, suddenly too drunk. I take staggered steps down the hall, my eyes looking over the couch, once occupied. Now only the black haired girl sat there chatting with someone, I didn't care enough to see who. She probably left, my thoughts told me. Not sure if I was reassured or upset by the idea. I stumble into the door. It sways open and I follow its momentum until my hips hit the counter and my hands fall next to the sink. I look at them.
Click.
My head shot up in the mirror, Ellie was leaning against the door watching my reflection.
“Your friend’s right, that was quite the show.” she says in a dry voice, looking at me emotionless.
“Where's your girlfriend?” My voice slurs at her, a bit harsher than I intended. The wrinkle between her brows deepen at this.
“Is that what this is over,” she said, rolling her blood shot eyes to the ceiling. I turn to her, leaning back against the counter.
“This isn't over anything.” I know I'm lying. I wonder if she does too. What's your problem?” I say through squinted eyes.
“My problem?”
“Yeah, whats your fucking deal? Looking at me like that, with your girl basically on your lap.” I was too far into my drinking to be shocked by my bluntness. My green was showing. I didn't have enough sense to care. Her eyes were dark.
“She's not my girl.”
“Okay,” I let out a mean laugh looking up, then back to her. “Sure.”
She steps towards me, my breath catches in my throat. “What about your girl?” She scowls at me, “The one you were dancing on,” she looks down to my hands “touching.” Her head still angled down but her eyes dart up to meet mine again. She looks angry. Her eyes stir something in my stomach. This is so unlike that calm and collected sarcastic girl from class.
“What about it?” I say to her with a rude smirk, my tongue poking the inside of my cheek as I glare into her. She stares into me, her eyes drift to my lips, then back to me. Piercing me. I feel myself go pale. “Stop looking at me like that,” my voice is softer than I anticipated. A harsh contrast to my aggressive tone. “I can't handle...” my voice trails off.
She looks at me for a second, softening the slightest amount. Contemplating. “You’re drunk.” She resigns. “Who's your ride? I think it’s time you head out.”
“Ellie, im not your fucking responsibility. I can handle myself.” My confidence fluctuates again. I try to pass her to get to the door, stumbling over my own feet. Her hand slams against the door, holding it shut. She turns, keeping her hand on the door.
“Dont be fucking stupid.” I gape at her. “Don't act like you didn't see all the guys watching you.” I didn't. Honestly. I only saw her. “You go out there like this and your easy fucking picking. Do you know how easy it would be for a guy to..” her voice stops. Her hand on the door squeezes into a fist, white knuckles. “I mean shit you left the door open when you came in here, what if it wasn't me that came in?” Her eyes are angry again, protective. My head pounds realizing she's right. I sigh and look down at my hands now clasped together. My liquid confidence faltered by the reminder of my fragility.
“Fine.” I say barely above a whisper. Her eyes hesitated on me. Softening a bit more.
“Come on,” she says, opening the door letting me out first. She trails behind me, an overwhelming presence. I walk to the living room, peering around for Chloe. She's not there. I pull my phone out and squint my eyes to keep the words from blurring together. I finally found her contact and pressed call. I hold it to my ear plugging the other one trying to hear over the music. Sent to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. I press call again. It rings a bit longer this time, then voicemail. I turn to look at Ellie, she's closer than I expected. My heart thuds. I look up slightly to meet her eyes. I'm sure she would have stepped away if it weren't for the people surrounding us. “She's not picking up.” I say looking down to the phone in my hands then back to her. I don't know what to do, I’m nervous, too far gone to have a poker face of any kind. She looks at me with a tinge of concern in her eyes, then scans over the crowd, before redirecting her gaze to me.
“Okay, follow me. She says as she turns and carves her way through the crowd. I follow behind her watching my feet to make sure I don’t trip when my body thuds against something.
I look up and see a man looking down at me. “Sorry sweetheart.” he smiles a toothy grin at me, scanning down my body as I back away from him.
I go to step around him, mumbling a small “excuse me,” but he steps in my path.
“Where ya going?” he leans his head down by me, “Can I come with?” he breathes moist air onto me, the smell of alcohol hot on his breath. The sound of blood rushes in my ears.
Suddenly, a hand on my waist. “Hey man, back the fuck up.” an aggressive voice rings. Eyes jump to see Ellie standing next to me. She's staring at him with narrow eyes, then looks at me. Her eyes are a statement. I got you. I look down to the floor. I feel her hand pulling me with her.
“Woah, dude.” he throws his hands up mockingly. “We were in the middle of something!” He called after us laughing. Her grip on me tightens, and I focus on the feel of it to drown out my anxiety.
Leading me out of the house, we get outside and my distraction disappears as she drops her hand. Mumbling profanities under her breath, walking fast. I follow behind her and she turns to check I’m still with her.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to keep up with her.
“I'm taking you home.”
#ellie williams fluff#ellie smut#ellie williams tlou#ellie x reader#ellie williams#ellie tlou#ellie x fem reader#ellie x y/n#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams x you
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Hello, I hope you don't mind if I share a weird headcanon of mine 👉👈
I normally see people talking about Kakyoin make drawing about you but what if Jotaro does that too? The reason I have this headcanon because I remember the scene when Jotaro using Star Platinum drawing the fly he saw in the picture, and he draw it so well. It makes me think that maybe Jotaro has talent in art too. Jotaro's style will be realistic style while Kakyoin will be more like cartoon/anime style.
Imagine their sketchbook filling with so many drawing of you 💕 Jotaro will watching you from afar, sketching you with your cute smile, your beautiful eyes, he captured it all. For Kakyoin, I think he will even make up characters (oc) that look like you and him and ship them together lol (this headcanon inspried by my friend, she actually do that with her crush).
Thank you for reading my ramble, glad to talk with you :D I would love to hear your thoughts about my weird headcanon
P/s: Love you writing so muchhhh 💝
This is fun stuff, I could eat it up all day. Thanks for sending it in, so I can blabber my mouth about it
This always internally bugged me so I’m very thrilled that someone brought up how well Star Platinum drew that fly. I suppose it’s kind of easy to gloss over for a lot of people compared to Kakyoin’s scene of painting on that canvas. (Then again that fly was kind of important to identify to figure out where Dio was so then again it’s “???” for an explanation)
Anywho, I’d say signs point to Jotaro being able to draw, and I think it’s a hobby he prefers keeping to himself. Like you said of him having a sketchbook, almost no one sees what he draws in it and he doesn’t want anyone else to see it especially if it’s various sketches of you. So more than likely when he does do so, he’s somewhere where he won’t be pestered by school girls, or whatever punk tries to start a fight with him.
I’d also like to think he goes back and lingers on prior stuff, just staring at it for a little while. This applies usually when you’re out of school sick (which he’ll probably stop by later anyway with or without your knowledge). But there’s something comforting about seeing every piece of your visage in his sketchbook. Literally no one else knows about this sketchbook aside from maybe Kakyoin (Holly has her suspicions he takes a sketchbook around but she smiles not pestering her son on his hobbies as she thinks it’s adorable).
For the most part art wise I think Jotaro sticks to traditional art, maybe a dabble of charcoal but he prefers pencils. Maybe watercolor if he ever went beyond, but traditional with pencil/pen is the easiest way for him to pull something out at his leisure. Would he let you see? Maybe eventually when he gets you where he wants you, or if the cat is out of the bag early and you see it and you’re not quite with him yet. Let’s just say seeing that may speed up him taking you.
Kakyoin I could definitely see diving into the oc type of thing, he’d certainly reference an artstyle of a manga you like. (Don’t ask how he figured that out so quickly). Though he definitely loves putting some passion into his artwork and occasionally shamelessly make sultry artwork of you and himself. He loves painting the most as he spreads colors, mixing them into the wondrous hues that is your skin tone. Or splashing watercolors in a notebook, that looks something out of a fairytale. Soft and warm lighting….oops he’s getting a tad bit excited.
He definitely presents pieces that are obviously meant to be stand ins for the two of you. That no one else would ever be wiser too, yeah you might have this odd feeling something’s not quite right, but there’s nothing there you could really prove other than observe just how pretty the composition is. If you compliment it, that just fuels this man’s desire further.
Biggest takeaway here is Jotaro and Kakyoin very blatantly have their own styles whether sticking with black/white/grey, or full on color. Both would be pretty in their own right, and their style choices speak of their personalities without saying a single word.
#yandere imagines#yandere jjba#yandere jjba imagines#chitchatwithcrazyyandere#yandere headcanons#yandere kakyoin#yandere jotaro
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the hungering hearts
circle IV: heresy
It’s an addictive thing. Not the blood, not the sex. But to be trusted so deeply.
kanej vampire au/ read on ao3
*
People on the corridors and stairs of the Slat exchange knowing looks above Inej’s head when she passes them and think she cannot see it. They are inherently wrong about that; they are also wrong in thinking she cares about their opinions in the first place.
All these dirty thugs and petty thieves holding themselves above her because she used to earn her wages on her back. It’s pathetic, really. It’s even more pathetic that they consider her a whore still, just something to warm their bosses’ bed, a canary he keeps for his amusement.
And what about her amusement?
She opens the door to the office that used to be Per Haskell’s without knocking and closes it firmly behind herself, thinking, with a surge of sweet satisfaction, that she’s the only one who can get away with it.
Kaz, seated on a low chair in front of an easel, spares her a glance and a half-smile, before turning back to the painting in front of him. He has a brush in his hand, its bristles thin like a strand of hair. His gloves are nearly laid out on the desk.
And he shrugged off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. For Kaz, it’s a close thing to being naked.
She leans against the wall, watching him work for a moment. The afternoon light, weak enough that it doesn’t hurt him, falls inside the room through the window and basks him in pale yellow. His hair, overdue for a cut, gets into his eyes now and then and he brushes it off with his wrist; a distracting gesture, drawing her attention to wry muscles flexing in his forearm, to the graceful line of his shoulders. And it’s a spectacle in itself, his face; the way concentration carves the furrow of his brow, the lines in his forehead, the tight-pressed curl of his lips. His eyes are the color of the Suli tea, spiced with nutmeg and cloves, served with honey. In between each movement, he is so still that it tugs on something animalistic within her brain, a long-forgotten instinct to flee or fight. She swallows it down with an ease.
He could’ve been a painting himself. Just something to watch and admire.
But, she thinks, her eyes set on his thighs, his chest, the line of his neck, I’m not here for window shopping.
He adds some more greens to the dress of a woman on a portrait and she asks:
“Why are you doing it? Wylan’s busy?”
The lines on Kaz’s forehead get deeper.
“He’s too good to slum in with us now, I’m afraid. Our little merchling has grown up.”
Now, a splash of white, just a bit of it.
“Just admit you didn’t even ask him,” she says, crossing the room on soft feet. “You are allowed to enjoy painting, Kaz. You don’t have to find justifications to do it.”
She stands right behind him now, carefully wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He smells like he always does; like ink, and soap, and metal.
The painting is a pretty perfect copy of The Portrait of Cecelia De Groot, painted by a Ketterdam-born Jan Van Rijk some hundred years ago. The original hangs in the portrait gallery of Councilman Lievens, but Inej suspects it won’t hang there for too long. Art thefts are Kaz’s favorite hobby, and she has to call them a hobby because she knows for a fact that they take more work than they are worth and that the paintings themselves are hard to liquidate. Usually, he has a buyer for the lifted originals, but sometimes he just keeps them under his bed, like a dragon’s hoard. Shows them to her, talks about the lights and shadows, and the technique, and she listens, her heart softening at the rare enthusiasm in his voice.
“It’s for a job,” Kaz said, predictably, adding some more white to the lace collar around the woman’s neck. Inej scoffs.
“As I said,” she tilts her head and leans down, just a bit more, to press a kiss behind his ear. “You are allowed to enjoy things.”
She hears his soft exhale. His hand, with a brush between his fingers, falls on his knee.
“I see,” he sounds stoic enough but she can hear a hint of quiet amusement in his voice. “Is that why you’re here, Inej? Looking for some enjoyment?”
“Maybe.”
*******read more on ao3********
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would you consider dropping some tips on how you color? your art always has such a nice feeling to it
Thank you so much, and yes, absolutely!
So... I have been agonizing over how to answer this question for over a week because I tend to make a lot of my major decisions based on what looks and feels good to me in the moment. It’s sort of hard to explain. Then I started getting philosophical with it (“how does one color? How do I explain aesthetic?”), and I started rambling, and had to cut the answer way, way, way down lol.
But here’s what I can help with right now. I think the most important part of how I color is my tools and what they allow me to do. These are currently my favorite brushes to use:
From top to bottom, I use Kyle T’s Gouache for just about everything. A lot of my recent pieces are done entirely in that– I love the chunky texture and how the pressure mimics traditional gouache. It’s great for children’s book illustrations, and filling linework, and realistic portraits. She is my soft wife and I love her.
I practically never use the default hard round. Ignore that.
The roller brush is another one I use for painting. It was my go-to before KT’s gouache, so you’ll find it a lot in my older work (and as a big texture thing in my current works). The “Sampled Tip” below that one I usually use for children’s book styled illustrations. It’s like a really dense, waxy crayon, so it’s fun for textured lines and details.
I always paint in my own shadows and highlights, but I like to use the soft round if I want to blow the shadow or highlight out. It’s for extra large areas.
And finally my pencil. I use it for sketching as well as linework, if I plan on doing a linework-centric piece. I don’t think there’s much of a difference between the two there… one is probably smoother than the other.
______________
The reason why I like textured, pressure-sensitive brushes so much is because they’re important to how I paint. When I blend, I don’t use a blender brush or a smudge tool. What I do is layer two colors– lightly– then use the eyedropper to select the color between them and continue painting with it. That’s probably the key to most of my work. I’ve gotten pretty fast at it, so I’m constantly selecting colors from the painting and reusing it throughout my painting.
I still use the color-wheel to hand-pick what I think will look best, though. This is probably going to be a really frustrating answer, but I choose color palettes based on basic color/lighting theory combined with personal aesthetic preference. It can take some studying (of both theory and other artists’ work). If you’re ever looking for a really great reference on the former subjects, I highly recommend Color and Light by James Gurny. Even if you’re not into watercolor or dinosaurs or realism, the guy is a master at explaining all that different stuff in depth.
Shape and negative space are also pretty important to me, but that's a whole other thing. And as a side-note, I recommend following more children’s book illustrators. Their work may look simple, but a lot of intention goes into how they use color, shape, space, and texture.
Also, on texture, I hand-draw most of mine. I love to add little scratches and drops and splashes when the painting is almost over. It's one of my favorite things to do :')
____
Now, the other most important tip:
Once I’m happy with the sketch/linework, and once I’ve laid down the basic colors of my piece, I do a Really Terrible Thing. I become a graphic designer’s worst nightmare and collapse everything onto one layer.
Then I paint directly on top of it, linework and all.
I do this for a lot of reasons, but mostly because 1) my tiny brain is overwhelmed by the clutter of too many layers, and 2) it forces me to approach a piece as if it was traditional media– a process which I find a lot more comfortable and rewarding. I paint right on top of the base colors, and right on top of the linework, effectively redoing and cleaning up what I already have there. Even if I'm working with a blank background, I'll paint a new blank one on top because it gives the feeling of a more unified piece, if that makes sense.
Basically, I approach my drawings as if I’m using traditional media. I like chunky brushes, utilizing (what I personally think are) interesting color combinations and textures, and smashing everything down onto one page so I can just paint.
Anyway, please let me know if there’s anything specific you’d like me to go into detail on, any pieces of mine you’d like to know how exactly I went about it, etc etc etc. I’m happy to answer ^^
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doodles of some of my favourite amber skin submissions from the summer of fire & ice campaign !! (sorry mr p, i prommy i will draw u soon too)
theyve all hit the 400 votes threshold to become finalists since i completed these, but here's the links to them anyway if u still wanna vote or just look at them (bc theyre all v pretty !! and also u should peep some of the attack & super animation ideas bc i LOVE them)
cuttlefish amber by The 92 (this one has my absolute fav thumbnail art and u should check it out for that reason alone)
summer festival amber by snippydoodl (i have a soft spot for this one bc the hair reminds me of persephone from hades ,,)
amber's fireworks festival by VKAS (big shoutout to the attack animation for this one bc i LOOOOOVE koi fish)
summer shell amber by KALATOR (this one has a super cute splash art)
roller skater amber by Artdrei_14 (this one has by far my fav colour palette... im weak for retro / vaporwave stuff okay)
jellyfish amber by JY Jacky (this one is just, adorable... i love her)
#genuinely theres so many good designs in this campaign that i love#i noticed on the brawl stars subreddit that whenever theres a new make campaign#ppl will pick out a random edgy skin or one which doesnt follow the theme#and use it to make a post complaining about all the bad designs which get submitted to the make campaigns#and aside from the fact theyre just choosing a random person to flame and using them to generalise all the bad skins#its just like.... i feel like the subreddit is so negative?#like why focus on the bad designs when theres so many good ones?#it happened with the sandy & gene campaign too...#idk. i guess thats why i spend more time on tumblr than on reddit lol#brawl stars#brawl stars fanart#brawl stars art#brawl stars amber
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Newish Comics:
The Flash #7: The Linear Men? The Linear Men??? Si Spurrier, what is cooking in your brain and can you keep giving me a direct line to it? (I mean bringing the Linear Men in a series that also gave us Gold Beetle makes perfect sense because Rip would be so into her but wow. It looks like they've barely been used since Flashpoint too). Also it's fascinating watching the re-establishment of Max and Bart's relationship.
Barry seems to finally have risen out of his ennui a bit, only to notice Something Is Wrong With Linda and then immediately suspect (wrongly) it's Hartley. Still pretty sure Linda's main issue is PPD but it being imposed by an external source is certainly something.
Green Arrow #10: this is another issue that mostly exists for people to hug each other, while Williamson goes 'remember that these people had relationships?' Sean Izaakse's art is just so good in terms of drawing the memory backgrounds so well I can pick out the specific issues and storylines he used as references (Batman + Arsenal shoutout!)
Also, remember when Amanda Waller didn't put bombs in people's heads, she just very occasionally put explosive collars or wristbands on the most dangerous and/or irritating Suicide Squad members? (Like Captain Boomerang?) Because I do. I remember Suicide Squad 1987.
Batman: The Brave and the Bold #11: part of this is me just being contrary, I know, but I am extremely not convinced we are going to see Maps as an active Robin in a main title, given Kerschl is a Gotham Academy creator anyway, and she's currently getting appearances as Meridian over in Birds of Prey. Gotham Academy continuity is only about 1/4 linked to main book continuity. (Someone is going to try and point out 'they appeared in Robin War' or something but it was an active and new title then, and honestly, nobody writing most Bat titles cares about them. It's its own sub universe. Also this story has Bruce dating Isla MacPherson, something I guarantee will not be followed up anywhere else)
Also imagine being called Karl Kerschl and coming to DC to write? How much time does this poor man spend saying "no, not Kesel".
The Artemis story remains amazing and I am fully supportive of it retconning whatever character crimes it is currently trying to excuse as weird.
Also how did we get so unlucky as to have both a Bat Lash AND a Sgt Rock story in this issue?
Amazons Attack #6: and this tied things off nicely! Honestly for an event that didn't need to happen, Josie Campbell did well with it, featured a whole host of Wonder Woman characters that Tom King's barely interacting with, and added to some relationships between characters that needed additional work.
Alan Scott: The Green Lantern #5: I am sure this is a far more meaningful issue if you care deeply about Green Lantern lore. Also DELIGHTED that the JSA team up in this series actually happens on page rather than in the final splash like in Wesley Dodds: The Sandman. (Wesley Dodds is still the best of the three minis to me, but I'm happy here that we're going to get JSA backup).
The Warlord #45: Previously on Lost World of the Warlord (I said I would) Travis set out to find out what had happened to his daughter Jennifer. He goes back to the village of dwarfs and gets his old sword back (since he chucked Hellfire into a lake), and ends up fighting some Cyclops' that took several of the dwarves to eat. Tragically nothing particularly fun happens here (though a skeleton IS tied to a cross, the bondage isn't involving any characters I care about AND it's just a warning threat)
Also something weird went on with the lettering this issue where what I think were script directions ended up as text boxes for all the scene transitions. If it was a stylistic choice on Grell's part it's a particularly odd one.
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(reblogs appreciated 🫶)
and this is my girlfriend. everyday she comes home from work and i’ve done the cooking and the cleaning and i kiss the very ground she walks on. if she gets mad at me i just straight up die.
process discussion utc
it’s the matching one to my lyney drawing 👍
as much as i like the lyney drawing, i have a lot of problems with it, namely the anatomy and how flat all the shapes felt.
the problem is specifically around the pelvis and i think it’s cause he wears a skin tight suit and i didn’t want to have to draw..
well you know what i mean.
it’s gonna be a problem i’ll have to find a solution to somehow 😭
so, for this lynette piece, my focus was to make sure the shapes felt more 3-dimensional and had actual depth to them, taking care to specifically target the torso area so she didn’t just look like a flat shape
i also wanted to make sure i actually rendered the latex properly 😭 i don’t know why it didn’t really register to me that that’s what the material is in lyney’s drawing, but i took the extra time to make it shiny!!
these two drawings have been a lot of experiment with strong shadows and light simultaneously, and i think in those areas i’ve definitely improved!
i wanna talk about the composition of this piece since i had a lot of thoughts when making it
similar to lyney’s, i went through many iterations of the composition, most of which aren’t shown in this post. however unlike his, i had more restrictions in mind when deciding the pose and angle.
i wanted to accurately portray lynette’s personality with her pose, but i also wanted to push it a bit to add more movement to the piece, since i felt lyney’s was a bit stiff in comparison to the thumbnail. i wanted to make sure the energy in the thumbnail translated to the final piece, and i think i did pretty well?
however, i had 2 rules in mind when trying to create said thumbnail:
1) avoid making anything too similar to her splash art
2) avoid posing her in such a way it could be read as sexualization
my problem with drawing girls is always that i want to keep pushing their poses as far as i can, but i stopped to ask myself why when drawing lynette. well, thinking back to media such as Marvel posters and other female character splash arts (both genshin and non-genshin) it’s usually to show off her body..
but since i’ve been surrounded by art like that all my life, that became my instinct. it was natural because that’s what my brain pulled from previous media i’ve seen before.
i almost went with the backward angle for this drawing (as seen by the bigger iteration in the 2nd image) but after considering lynette’s design and the proper anatomy to complete said sketch, i scrapped it.
and of course, not all drawings of female characters are inherently sexual, but given the type of media i was drawing for, it would most certainly be read that way
i wanted lynette’s drawing to mirror lyney’s, but to also be able to function as a standalone piece. lynette, of course, exists outside of her job/her connection with her brother, so i tried to portray that individuality while also acknowledging their similarities (e.g the round framing shape, stepping out of the background, the cat companion)
in the initial iteration (left), her left hand is almost covering her face. lynette’s role is a “low-profile magic assistant,” so i thought having her try to hide her face would be an accurate portrayal.
however, i decided to go with the second iteration (right), in which she’s using her hand to direct attention towards the cat as she uncovers it with the cloth. as a magician in the spotlight, trying to hide herself away would be redundant, and it would be more professional to divert the audiences gaze rather than hope it isn’t on her.
both a storytelling element and another bit of framing!
i chose to have her other hand behind her back since
1) the composition would be too crowded if it was more visible
2) back to the “hiding away” idea, having her arm visible would just be another piece to potentially have attention on rather than the actual trick. her eyes are also looking down towards the cat rather than at the camera, unlike in lyney’s piece. the attention is all on him, she simply serves to help divert it
and yeah!! that’s all i have to say for this piece. i like writing these discussions, and i’m glad people like reading them! it’s nice to have a place to write about my thoughts behind a drawing, so as long as people are enjoying them, i’ll keep talking 👍
thank you for reading!! 🫶🫶
#my art#fanart#genshin impact#genshin fanart#illustration#digital art#artists on tumblr#art#digital painting#lynette#genshin lynette#genshin fontaine
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I didn’t originally draw this for Valentine’s Day, but it fit’s so here’s a silly little redraw I made of this drawing from way back, but in the style of the character concept art from the Red shoes Art book (mostly based on the art by Jeon Mi-jin (전미진) and Choi Minjeong (최민정) I believe). I feel like this drawing is a lot simpler then the original, since I couldn’t add too much stuff without feeling like I was ruining the vibe of the art style I was aiming for. I think it turned out pretty nice, sometimes it’s nice to not go buck-wild with details and highlights and the likes, it’s a nice change of pace.
I do have a small something else also cooking for valentines, but I’ll have to see if I get the time in-between work and recovering from work to finish it in time (otherwise I’ll try to have it out in the weekend).
Hope you all have a nice day, even if you're not celebrating.
(ID in alt and under cut)
[ID:
A drawing of Arthur from Red shoes and my oc Edda (A pale chubby woman, with deep eyebags, brown hair and grey eyes), drawn in the style similar to the Red shoes concept art. They are standing close to each other, with one of Eddas hands placed on his chest and one of Arthur’s hands gently brushing the hair from her bangs away from her cheek, while smiling softly down at her and she flushes in response. They are drawn roughly from chest and up, and the background is a pastel purple with a splash of paste pink in the middle, 9 hearts are drawn around them, 3 between them and 3 each behind their heads. In the left lower corner is a signature reading “Cookieek”.
End of ID]
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WIP Wednesday
Tagged by @atypicalacademic and @thequeenofthewinter. Thank you kindly, friends ❤️
Shifting focus this week to my Skryim fic, Slither and Writhe. It's much longer than I anticipated, oops. All the comparative anatomy classes have turned me into a necromancer apologist. Is it obvious 😅
Tagging: @atypicalacademic (for the new week, heheh) @gilgamish @justafoxhound @dumpsterhipster @sheirukitriesfandom @skyrim-forever @nuwanders @wispstalk @druidx @goddess-of-sorrow @burningsilence @lucien-lachance @chennnington @thana-topsy @kookaburra1701 @sylvienerevarine @expended-sleeper
“You should have absorbed me in the womb.”
“We’re not twins, Syl.”
“Yeah, but you were there.”
“As an egg.”
Sylawen sighed and kicked the rock down the hillside where it rolled into the silvery, serpentine creek below. The splash it made was only rumor, feeble and far away, and just as soon the forest silence returned to congeal upon her ears. Even with the magelight and Masser in full, the night was such a dreary, swallowing gray, and even with Rillion beside her, she felt terribly alone. He’d been distant ever since the disaster at the party. She couldn’t resent him for it. Had she the option, she’d choose to be a little farther from herself too.
“Am I repulsive?”
“Sometimes.” Rillion shrugged, and Sylawen lashed him with a baleful glare. “What?” he said. “By the eight, Syl. You asked.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to be so bloody honest.”
“You enjoy gross things, and your experiments are creepy. Necromancy isn’t a subject most people even want to think about, so it shouldn’t be any surprise that people are uncomfortable when your thralls walk into the house uninvited. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s unnatural.”
“Death isn’t unnatural.
“Okay, but stitching random pieces of dead bodies into some macabre pastiche is.”
“They're not random pieces," Sylawen said pointedly. "They were carefully selected, and no one complains if I stitch flesh back together for a healing spell."
"Syl, please. Don't be dense. It's not the same.'
"You mean you don’t think it’s even remotely interesting?”
Rillion grimaced, shook his head without pause. “No, it freaks me out. It always did.” Sylawen's frown deepened. When Rillion caught it, his eyes flooded with guilt, and she hated how quickly he resorted to carrying it for the both of them when her poor decisions were usually at root. But she always let him. She hated that too.
“How about you tell me when you discover a cure for aging," he said with feigned hope. "Maybe then I’ll be intrigued. Just make it into a salve and make it smell pretty and don’t tell me what it’s made from.”
A scoff escaped her. "Tch, immortality is for losers. Everyone and their scamp is after the secret to lasting life.” She tried to force mirth into it, tried to turn it into laughter, tried to unburden the air that had grown so unwieldy between them. She couldn't.
“Then why do you do these things? If not to help people, why?”
“I like creating, Rillion. I want to make something new. It’s that simple.”
“So make art. I’ve seen your sketches. Even the anatomical ones are beautiful. Imagine if you tried drawing something that wasn’t a dissection for once.”
“What I do is art,” she replied, a bit more harshly than intended because no matter how many times she’d explained it before, Rillion still didn’t understand, didn’t want to. “And it breathes. It exists beyond the canvas. It lives.”
Rillion shifted, placing even more space between them. “Okay,” he said. “I guess.”
“It really is a shame you can’t see that.”
“I know. I wish I did.”
With another disgruntled sigh, Sylawen laid herself flat against the grass. The sky above was charcoal black, ripe for burning. She didn't try to tell him again. Only Tazara had understood, and even then she'd left Sylawen. She'd abandoned her, given up on all they'd discovered, on all they'd almost built together.
Eventually Rillion slumped down to join her, and they fell into a strained quiet, the torchbugs winking in and out all around them, and she recalled summers when they were younger, catching them in jars, the way Rillion's eyes shined with awe when she explained how the green fire in their bellies was made.
Just once, she wished he would look at her that way again. That she could show someone, anyone, her work and see something other than fear reflected back. But she didn't try to explain her studies to Rillion again. She didn't say, we’re all animals when we’re dead. We can’t talk. We can’t tell our stories, but it’s all written there on the body. Muscles made stronger by so much strain. Soft mounds of flesh from kind years and warm meals. The callouses on the fingers of a writer, how they sit differently from those on the palms of a sailor. The wounds we’ve survived. The ones we didn’t.
Rillion cleared his throat. “So… if I died, what part of me would you preserve for your experiments?”
“Your hands,” Sylawen said, reaching for the one nearest her. “So I could hold them when I miss you. “
Rillion smiled weakly, and his face was bronze in the moonlight. She’d remember him like this in the days to come, a ray of warmth when alone in the bleak wastelands of Winterhold. “That’s so disgusting Syl,” he said, but he didn't let go “I can’t believe we’re related.”
#Slither and Writhe#tes fic#skyrim fic#necromancy#I'm convinced functional morphology is basically modern day necromancy#Tag Games#WIP Wednesday#I love mages#Will I ever have a protagonist who is not a mage? Dunno#seyda writes
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funny weird fursona from ages past hours
while i wanna take this opportunity to share my art, i kinda also wanna reach out to everybody who had cringy neon old fursonas and oc's that they're embarrassed of or feel like they need to shittalk every time they mention them bc "theyre totally better at making characters now i swear!"
this is my fursona splash. i've changed sonas a few times, but none of them will be as important to me as her. she's not there yet, but next year in february, on my birthday, she will be 9 years old. i made her feb 22nd of 2015, my 9th birthday.
i stopped using her eventually, because i thought i'd grown out of her.
i used to show her to people and laugh about how stereotypical of a mary sue she was, how she had a demon AND angel form, how i'd ship her with characters from whatever media i was interested in at the time, how she had super secret sparkle powers that could do anything and how she's "not me anymore"
then i remembered how crushed i felt when my friends at the time first started calling her one. i was knee deep at that point in thinking mary sues were dumb, and felt really bad about it when a friend said she was a huge mary sue and how i should probably change her. they even got mad when i said i didnt want to and told me i "couldn't take criticism".
ive tried so hard over the years to distance myself from her while trying not to be too hard on her, to enjoy her in an "ironic, more experienced way" and regard her as what NOT to do.
this is the first ever drawing i did of her. another oc of mine turns 9 on my bday, and ill do art of her too, but this is where i made her.
she was a drawing of firestar that i got bored drawing and decided to slap some neons on from the ms paint advanced preset colors. as you can see, she hasn't really changed much. her name used to be colordrop, because i had a stuffed bunny around that time with the same name. i think i renamed her to splash because i liked splashkittyartist.
is the art good? no. did i really care? not really! i didnt even know it was bad at the time, because it honestly wasn't. i just wasn't as far in my art journey as i am now.
im glad i never deleted my deviantart account, and i plan at some point to go through and save the images that are important to me on a google drive of some kind. aslong as im able to remember and keep her, she's an important part of myself.
she's still me, just from a different time, and also so much more than that. im not sad about her, not in a nostalgic "i wish i could go back way". im happy, if anything, because i only recently realized we shared a birthday. isn't that cool? to not only have an oc that was made on your birthday, but reaches milestones with you? when she turns 18, i'll be 27. when she's 27, i'll be 36. i think that's pretty neat.
i think it's important for every artist, if they struggle with this, to look for their old oc's and fursonas and whatnot from when they were kids and instead of looking at them through a lens of "im better now, do you see how bad i used to be at this whole character making thing though? its funny.", instead be kind to your old creations and go "wow, i had alot of fun with you. i wonder if i can have even more."
if you're able to, start using them again. write with them again, even if its small and silly and more out of whimsy and joy than actual plot development. i implore you to be kinder to kid you. even if kid you wasn't very kind themselves. if you would look at another kids drawing and oc and go "wow thats amazing! you're so creative!", then you should regard what you made then with the same enthusiasm. put your own work on the fridge if nobody else did.
anyways, ramble over. i'm very passionate about this subject because i lived it, and i deeply enjoy reclaiming what i was made to feel embarrassed of.
so moon darkraven, demon wolf with an anime scythe and scene bangs and red eyes and neon colors that don't mix, i think you're doing great. i hope you're doing well, wherever you are now, and that so is the person who made you.
happy early birthday to me and my special little gal
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Marmalade Moon Night
Okay, yeah, it's not Halloween.
But on Halloween I published a fic and I liked it so much I wanted to make some art.
So this is the art.
Marmalade Moon Night is a silly little side fic taking place in the Tangled Sisters AU, but as someone who gets overwhelmed easily and still loved Halloween, this was really comforting to write.
Here's a bit of the scene in the drawing:
“I think I want to try the apple game after supper,” Cassandra said.
“Oh, that’s great, Dear, though it’s my favorite game, which means you’ll never defeat me.”
Cassandra gave a mischievous grin, always up for a challenge.
Before Frederic could come back, however, a mischievous little boy dressed as a ghost leaped onto the edge of the fountain just behind Cassandra, shouting, “Boo!”
Cassandra leaped to her feet faster than recommended, her foot caught on the edge of the fountain, and she fell into the water with a splash. The boy jumped back in shock. Arianna gasped.
Cassandra thankfully didn’t hit her head on any of the stone detailing and had landed pretty well, soaked, but unharmed.
“Oh, Darling,” Arianna held out a hand but Cassandra climbed out too fast for help. She stumbled a bit and collapsed into a sitting position on the ground, her legs pulled close, her head lowered so she was no taller than the fountain.
“I didn’t mean to scare you that much,” the boy looked sad, he held out some candy to Cassandra.
“Oh, it’s okay, Sweetheart,” Arianna addressed the boy. “It’s not your fault. Just maybe you’d be better off scaring people who aren’t by the fountain?” She accepted the candy and the boy left. Now she could sit next to Cassandra. “Are you okay?”
“I want to go home.”
Arianna nodded. “Alright. That’s understandable.”
Frederic got back to a soaked Cassandra curled up on the ground near Arianna. Rapunzel nowhere to be seen.
“I’m sorry Fred, but I think I’m going to take Cassandra here back to the palace. One of the children scared her and, well...” she looked back at the fountain.
“Oh, Ari, you love Marmalade Moon Night.” He moved forward, kneeling down and handing Arianna the food. “You stay and have fun with Rapunzel and Eugene. I’ll take Cassandra back.”
“Fred, are you sure?”
Frederic nodded with a smile. “You know my favorite part of this night is you. Me and Cassandra can do all sorts of fun inside activities, right?”
Cassandra looked up. She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded for Arianna’s sake.
Arianna nodded. “Alright then, if you need anything, send for me.” She gave Cassandra a kiss on the head as she stood.
“Tell Raps I’m sorry,” Cassandra requested.
“You have nothing to be sorry about and Rapunzel’s going to be fine without you. You just have your own fun, okay?”
Cassandra nodded and waved goodbye.
#tts fanart#tts au#tts fanfiction#rta fanart#rta au#rta fanfiction#tts fanfic#tts#rta#king frederic of corona#queen arianna of corona#tts cassandra#fanart#my art#two tangled sisters
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HI Ocean!! :D for the love your fandom ask, how about 9, 13 and 23
Love uuu
Hi Dragon! Thanks for the ask 💙💙
#9 "a ship that isn't your OTP but that you enjoy"
Hmm, truth be told, aside from rinharu, I really don't pay too much attention to other pairings. But recently, I read a splash free! au fic, which had a secondary pairing i hadn't seen much of before, and it stuck out to me:
NagiGou. Pretty rare pair, but the way they were written was genuinely so fun and adorable. Nagisa being playful and silly, gently teasing/bantering with Gou, who is exasperated by him but is also fond of his antics. Nagisa, ever cheerful, is able to lighten Gou's mood whenever she's stressed and offer her some comfort with stories and jokes. It has a very kight hearted and innocent vibe. They play off of each other nicely. Didn't expect to actually enjoy it so much. That fic was amazing, too. (A warning for it, though: it has some pretty distressing descriptions of violence at one point)
#13 "your favorite type of fandom event (gift exchange, ship week, secret santa, prompt meme, etc)"
Honestly, as long as rinharu is involved, I'll be satisfied. But alright, I'd have to say that ship week or prompt/theme driven events are definitely my favorite. It generates a surge of fresh new content to enjoy, and the people who participate always end up producing such beautiful, incredible, and creative works. I hope to be able to actually participate in one soon, but I usually find myself too busy with life stuff or just lacking in motivation to actually draw. Art is hard :')
#23 "the fandom you're curious about because of a mutual"
It's been a while since I've tried watching anything new. And I also don't usually get much on my dashboard aside from free! However, from your posts about it, skip to loafer looks actually really cute. The art style is really pretty, and the characters look fun. Looks like a sweet story :D
[From the love your fandom ask game]
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The anime kinda sucks but the op and the ending slap
I'm a fan of the anime! Though it doesn't really reflect the sheer beauty of Aida's art and color sense ... I do appreciate that it does try, and has very unique color for any anime, and is faithful to panels as best as it can be. I've seen much worse adaptations, much more generic flat anime (for shounens especially..) ... and it's sadly not as if Aida-sensei can personally do color keys for every episode ... it has better color than most anime. Jewel-toned, saturated, vibrant, I can tell they did all they could manage on their budget to follow the vibes of Aida-sensei's vivid covers.
My only like "augh" about the anime is just the kind of hyper-focus the fandom puts on only the anime's scenes, depictions. It's harder to find a good discussion about later arcs that isn't just reactionary!
I love the voice cast, I love that the twins are voiced by the same person, and Ogata-sensei is quite hype about her role as the Yugi, seems friendly with AidaIro-sensei... I like that she was directed to sound "more ghost-y" for Hanako, I love the delivery, and I love the difference in Tsukasa's higher, more perky tones. I'm sure given Ogata-sensei's prominence as a VA, that she was very specifically sought out by AidaIro-sensei.
Meanwhile Nene-chan's VA sings the ED, which I do adore ... it's very sweet that her VA can sing, and I wonder if AidaIro-sensei specifically wanted someone who could, given Nene-chan does like to whimsically sing little songs... Nene-chan's VA actually does like, singing in some sort of idol app game .. though she specifically sings like, lullabies.... ??? (its been a while since I looked though, so forgive me if details are off).... fascinating stuff. As a result, I look forward to future Nene-chan singing scenes being animated... and I wonder if other EDs would have her singing. I like the symbolic simplicity of the ED animation... very lovely.... very thoughtful.. it reminds me of how perfect some of the stage play's scenes are orchestrated, really thematic, really respecting the story's intentions...
I think about ED songs I like, vibes like this one....
OP tend to often be high octane so I rarely ever like them ... Brotherhood has the kind I like-- slow going into an emotional intensity-- focus on hands, gestures, love the shot of Riza in bed, would die for a vibe like that for JSHK... but even Brotherhood's later OPs are more action-oriented and don't work for meee.... ><;;; what I really like about Aida-sensei's art is how much she cares about gesture, expression, composition of a shot, specific lighting conditions ... I find the series so romantic, I wish the OP focused on that.
I don't actually like the OP of the anime LOL, and I feel like fkldsjsdkl; animating Aida-sensei's horny splash page image has genuinely poisoned the fandom into thinking about Tsukasa as some sexual predator WAY TOO MUCH (because they have to justify it as something other than a fun horny illustration, meant to draw in the proper audience.... ) ... again stuff BEING ANIMATED AT ALL means everyone, kind of, obsessively inflate the importance in their brains it feels lol .... I don't like the song really either, I prefer moody or somber OPs...! I would like something romantic and nostalgic.
I've been kinda hoping the announcement of new material is an OVA, because I would actually personally prefer less anime but a higher budget, getting to really explore a single arc, really get to see the faces rotating accurately (the anime never has as pretty of profiles as Aida-sensei draws;;; it kinda defaults.. the front-facing shots are accurate, but others are sortof 'whatever'....)
my favorite thing about Aida-sensei's art is the facial proportions... they look downright ah, weird, from many angles, bugeyed, tend to have an overbite, smooth muzzle.... extremely distinct
My Little Pony snouts.... gelfling..... cute upper lip....
I like Aida-sensei's art so much, that I doubt any anime would really have a high enough budget to do it justice ... but I don't dislike the anime we got, and just hearing scenes voiced is lovely. There are a lot of lines I am eager to hear aloud ... I think about getting to hear this aloud...
Ogata-sensei would crush it... mnnngh
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Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
Chapter 26-27
XXVI.
ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS.
It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie" business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration; for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at 314 all hours; smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner-bell at her door, in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the under side of the moulding-board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer-barrel; a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindlings for some time.
From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced sea-sickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropsical infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced "wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet-shelves on to people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own 315 pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast in a pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least.
After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of clouds," that looked like a choice display of feather-beds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun, to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose, trying after "points of sight," or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.
If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo affirms, Amy certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called "high art."
316 She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society," without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her.
"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.
"I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with an important air, one day.
"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained "the baby."
"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I am poor, yet they never made any difference."
"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her "Maria Theresa air."
317 "You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know;" and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,—
"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic fête for them."
"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"
"Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living."
"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look sober.
"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."
"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about."
"Why, mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of char-à-banc.)
"All this will be expensive, Amy."
"Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a 318 little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.
"Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you."
"Thanks, mother; you are always so kind;" and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best salt-spoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have nothing to do with it at first.
"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupé," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
"I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!" returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way."
When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her 319 side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as "a nonsensical business."
The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well anywheres." This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil desperandum," and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well: the chicken was tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
"If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as Amy declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best joke of the season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.
If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday,—an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby; but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skilfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the 320 worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with home-made statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights; for the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge were her strong points.
Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting a little stale.
"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad to-day," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.
"Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife.
"Hannah left it on the kitchen-table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats.
"Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy decidedly.
321 "Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr.
"You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit, and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought.
As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a new-comer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, "Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and, congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and—oh, horror!—the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor.
"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
"Please don't—it's—it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.
"Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding.
322 Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing,—
"Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young ladies" diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't see them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before; and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory 323 of yesterday's failure by a grand success to-day; so she ordered the "cherry-bounce," and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
"There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go into the porch to meet them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for, looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.
"Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table; it will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh.
In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being gayly partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce!) and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when "the party went out."
As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fête had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.
"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg soberly.
"Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
324 "It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, "Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn"—here a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets," to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping her eyes.
"I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.
"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
"I am satisfied; I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed; I comfort myself with that," said Amy, with a little quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."
No one did for several months; but the word "fête" always produced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.
XXVII. Literary Lessons.
325
XXVII.
LITERARY LESSONS.
Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her in this wise.
Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of a black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap 326 of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew; and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew; and not until the red bow was seen gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any one dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her "vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads, and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights 327 and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a studious-looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking, and, with boyish good-nature, offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a first-rate story."
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personæ, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say;" and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
"No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed."
"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly-sprinkled exclamation-points that adorned the page.
"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it."
328 Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Prof. Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded upon paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when "genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate dénouement. The manuscript was privately despatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story.
A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having 329 composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way,—
"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money."
"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.
"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo promptly.
"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish," cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned away the check which her sister waved before her.
"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for, and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone, so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs the change, and she won't leave you, so you must go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always cures her patients!"
To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was 330 much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house; for by the magic of a pen, her "rubbish" turned into comforts for them all. "The Duke's Daughter" paid the butcher's bill, "A Phantom Hand" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the Coventrys" proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.
Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market; and, encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.
"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.
"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.
"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making the trial than by waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. We are too partial; but the praise and 331 blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
"I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher's note.
"Do as he tells you; he knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By and by, when, you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.
"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"
"I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture "soon."
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the old man and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much 332 description; out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the sombre character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world, to try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it; likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from which it took her some time to recover.
"You said, mother, that criticism would help me; but how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man says 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness; all is sweet, pure, and healthy,'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years' (I know better than that); and the next asserts that 'though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally; yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education; and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
333 "Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly; "and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So I'll comfort myself with that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."
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