#my many attempts to try and paint backgrounds
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Prologue
Rona
Velantis
Environmental attempts from @idrellegames Wayfarer. I fell in love with the detail and the magic involved in every new place, so I figured they’d be the perfect way to attempt to paint some environments.
#my art#wayfarer if#idrellegames#wayfarer#environments#snow#swamp#port#fannarl#aeran kellis#tiny masters#rona#velantis#my many attempts to try and paint backgrounds#and each one is in a different style oops#two of these are actually really old#but I just played the new chapter (many many times) and Velantis made me want to try this again#might as well post#i hope I did them Justice
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The making of painted stones
Well, a few times I was asked to show the process of miniature paintings on stones, and here is my first attempt to capture and explain it. Warning - I only have my phone's camera at my disposal, so the quality is not very good.
Firstly - an idea for the image. Every stone has something in its pattern that can be a starting point for developing an imagery. The stone I picked for this one is a beautiful Picasso jasper, and in this case I was looking for a stone for a specific idea I've already had in mind. Spontaneous improvisation dictated by the stone's pattern is also great but I decided to pick something more definitive for better illustrating the process.
This jasper's pattern already has outlines that can be developed into a landscape without painting it over too much. I don't like it when stones are just mindlessly covered by slapping a random image on it, ignoring the colours, textures and patterns.
Here's the idea - ruins of an amphitheatre overgrown with red gladioluses. I know, I know, but I'm very interested in the initial mystical sacrificial background of gladiators. So here it is, arena covered in red, swords in the sand, but it's finally quiet.
Before we start, a stone must be varnished - minerals are porous, and lacquer smoothes its surface. I paint with tempera - most artists who work in lacquer miniatures use oils, but tempera allows quicker process, which is important for me. I'm autistic and my executive dysfunction makes working with oils difficult - my sudden bursts of activity won't match with drying timings and such. So, tempera for me.
Starting with sketching the outlines of the ruins and painting our light source, the sun and red clouds. I'm trying to work with a palette that the stone already has and make the painting as harmonious as possible.
Erasing auxiliary lines as we continue.
Done with the first layer - the walls and the sky. After the paint dries, I apply varnish (I use Novol clearcoat, car varnish - it's very durable). There can be as many layers as you need.
Now - the flowers and details.
After the painting is finished, it'll need several layers of varnish. And some fine sandpaper (1500) in-between the finishing layers for better grip.
And here it is! time to think abou a necklace for this one.
I'm not sure how useful I can be and what aspects you would like to know, so feel free to ask. I'm not sure I can make a good enough video with my current phone, so this'll have to wait. I tried to skip all the musings about ideas and finding stories, but whatever. And the time needed for work - I don't know. There was a month-long pause in the making of this one, due to a couple of emergencies that knocked me down for some time, and it's not easy for me in general due to my mental state - sometimes I can make a painting in two days, sometimes it takes years, nothing is certain with me, especially now. But well, here's what I do.
#miniature#painted stones#rock painting#painted rocks#minerals#picasso jasper#jasper#amphitheatre#arena#gladiators#gladiolus#gladioluses#flowers#ruins#roman ruins#ancient rome#sky#my art
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I've been rewatching "Batman: The Animated Series" and I'm finding it pretty entertaining, because I barely remember anything from it and so, though some of it has aged quite poorly, I keep being pleasantly surprised by many elements. I'd recommend it as a casual / background watch to anyone who is already a fan of Batman and his gallery of rogues. The show is very episodic, so it has a lot of one shot storylines, and it can be both quite silly and shockingly dark and serious.
The production design and overall vibe is really fun and funny, because Gotham City is apparently simultaneously experiencing the 1990s and the 1940s, and also every decade in between. Art deco is everywhere. I like the moody backgrounds painted on black paper. The tech is so chunky. This city is stuffed full of futurists, industrialists, socialites, gangsters, mad scientists, and supervillains. Nearly every classic Gotham rogue becomes a supervillain here because some greedy businessman screwed them over and they decided to take revenge into their own hands.
Because the episodes are focused on their own little stories, you meet a lot of the ordinary people of Gotham, and you get the vibe that there's a lot going on in this city. (It's just Bruce on his own most of the time in the beginning, with Alfred, because while Dick Grayson is Robin, he's already off at college and only occasionally comes back to visit.) The stakes can get high, but they can also be personal. One episode is about a thief who's made himself an invisibility suit, but the climax of the episode is him attempting to kidnap his daughter away from his ex-wife.
One of the most recent episodes I watched opened with the Joker being escorted into the rec room at Arkham and sitting down to watch the news. (He changes the channel away from the gardening show that Poison Ivy was watching and they nearly get into a fight about it.) The news promptly reveals that someone has just opened a brand new $300 million casino that they've themed after the Joker. His face is everywhere. The blackjack dealers are dressed like him. It's all in incredibly poor taste. The Joker is furious and immediately escapes to destroy this new luxury casino.
Of course, Bruce Wayne is there because it's a big social event. And upon the theme reveal, he immediately has Alfred drive over to bring him his Batman gear, because he's like, "Joker is definitely going to try to destroy this ugly casino." And I was like, "Sheesh, I know this is Gotham and it's obviously filled with a rich person social scene that is weird beyond my comprehension, but this is weird even for them! Building a Joker-themed casino is just asking for trouble!"
And then Batman investigates and finds out that the casino's construction bankrupted the owner, so the owner hastily themed it after the Joker so that the Joker would come and destroy it. The whole thing is someone attempting to commit insurance fraud via the Joker. Incredible.
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last year i talked somewhat about jonathan harker in the role of the gothic heroine, which seemed to go over well! this year i've decided to challenge myself to delve a little deeper and keep my literary analysis skills sharp (trying to keep away from anything revealed later than today's entry, for the new readers)
for context in the literary background i'm examining here, the female gothic (a term coined I believe in the 70s) is a lens of analysis for gothic literature which examines the role of women as expression of contemporary anxieties around women and their roles in society, particularly as mothers and wives. like many kinds of horror, political and social anxieties are deployed as supernatural forces with which to terrify the "ordinary" citizens.
jonathan, our ordinary man, is certainly faced with horrors—but in what way? sent by an older man, Peter Hawkins, jonathan enters a foreign landscape where he enters into the power of another older man, at a particularly vulnerable time where a loved one (Mina) is waiting at home but jonathan does not appear to be married. the horrors that jonathan faces are the same trials set up against gothic heroines: threatening older men with power over you, poised at a huge point of transition in your life, etc, etc.
the main argument against jonathan as a heroine is, I think, his job. His transition point right now isn't an impending marriage or that he needs one, but that he's just established himself as a solicitor and is meeting with Dracula for business purposes. however, I think how these are deployed as tools in the story, such as Hawkins almost transferring guardianship of his young employee/ward to Dracula (temporarily), still very much mirror the ways in which high-class social norms are deployed against gothic women. even the work jonathan does in the castle (talking to dracula about real estate) isn't in service of bolstering his manly prowess, but serves as a tool for dracula to distract him, and keep him from realizing that he is trapped and serving dracula's own will.
rather than being tried in a manly fashion by his strength or his wits being challenged, jonathan's gothic experience is of his environment and even his body being manipulated by the man meant to be a helping hand in a foreign land. when I say body people might think it's a little early for that, but it's happening—dracula keeps jonathan up late so he sleeps in, forcing him to acclimate to dracula's own nocturnal existence. when he gets a glimpse of blood, he attempts to take it from jonathan. even today, a few hundred years after dracula's social anxieties about women's bodies being trespassed upon by men other than the ones entitled to them, women may see echoes of their own anxieties about bodily autonomy.
Dracula also isolates jonathan socially. He makes jonathan mistrust his own ability to percieve reality (gaslighting, anyone, a story about a woman being manipulated by her husband?) by pretending that servants are in charge of the cooking and so on, when really it's just dracula keeping up a masquerade.
this comes to a head in the mirror scene, where jonathan's shaving mirror—an item he uses to attend to his appearance—ends up being a helpful tool which exposes the supernatural reality of what jonathan's up against. however, because dracula is still the one in power, he immediately gets rid of it, calling it "vanity". I recall the quote by John Berger:
You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting Vanity, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.
the ways in which jonathan is treated by dracula, and the ways in which he attempts to bolster himself against the threat (spying to see what dracula's really doing, seeing the lack of reflection by chance) mirror the highly gendered dynamics of the Victorian era which this book was written in the tail end of. perhaps purposefully subverting jonathan's gender as a further expression of the horror of dracula, stoker's work takes jonathan as a man secure in his position at home in england to being a manipulated, isolated, and precariously positioned figure subject to the whims of an abusive man while friendless in a foreign country
(and the essay on how race, ethnicity, and foreign versus home plays into this is a whole other post! racism effects gender too! it's not a mistake that jonathan is securely male at home but his gender is subverted abroad!)
#dracula daily#dracula#female gothic#jonathan harker#ok i have to stop myself here and do my actual homework
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25 with matty who’s very drunk or very high and he’s forgotten that the reader is already his gf so he’s trying to (really badly) flirt with her
a poor attempt at flirting (a drabble)
25: “Do you think the moon is jealous of how pretty you are?”
matty healy x f! reader
word count: 1.1k
warnings: mentions of alcohol and weed consumption and poor writing due to many months off :/
notes: kay is back and attending to her inbox! thank you for this prompt my dear and ever so sorry it's taken me 6 months to complete it! anyways i'm not really a fan of this but it was sitting in my drafts and i wanna get back to posting so this is a start ! i promise the writing will get better from here on out mwah so accept this as a peace offering for now <3
You had awoken at 1:06am to a phone call from a very exasperated sounding Hann who had politely begged you to come and take your rather high boyfriend off of the boys’ hands as they couldn’t handle his intoxicated rambling much longer and they all know your patience for Matty far exceeds any of theirs.
This is how you’ve landed in some random party in the city filled with musicians and producers and many other peoples’ faces you half recognise while trying to collect your boyfriend. Thankfully all the boys are easily spotted due to their height (and Ross’ unmistakable mane of hair, which he thankfully lets go wild when he’s drunk). George unabashedly hollers over to you when he sees you, raising his ring-clad hands and waving you over, his smile lopsided and his eyes betraying his lack of sobriety as you make your way over to them. He says nothing but points a painted nail to a mop of curls resting on the table, head leaning on his hand while the other nurses a glass of some dark and clearly long forgotten liquid, his face hidden by the length of deep brown ringlets that fall from the top of his head. You’d recognise your boyfriend anywhere but his hair and it’s current messy state you could clock him from miles away, the stray curls resemblant of his unkempt morning bedhead that you love so much. Your heart momentarily warms at the sight until you remember the reason you’re there. You slowly make your way to sit at the table next to him, your movements slow and your eyes never leaving his form.
Once you’re seated you reach your hand slowly out to his, ghosting your fingers over his tattooed arm in an attempt to grab your boyfriend’s attention. He begrudgingly lifts his head up from where it was rested and you can barely just make out his dark hooded eyes from behind the loose curls that fall in front of his face, reaching down and tickling his nose. He releases the drink from his other hand and pushes the unruly strands backwards onto his head, remaining silent and blinking at you multiple times before he speaks.
“You’re really pretty”. His voice is light and airy and even if you didn't know him as well as you did you’d still be able to sense his inebriated state, however the smell of weed and alcohol makes it overtly clear.
This causes you to laugh, “Thank you. So are you Matty.” you utter with a grin, gaining a surprised intake of breath from the singer, a rush of colour taking to his already flushed cheeks.
His surprise continues as he lets out a whispered “You know me? What the hell”, his dark eyes now wide with wonder. You ignore the chorus of laughs in the background that you can only assume comes from the rest of the band at their frontman’s embarrassing display of forgetfulness. Being well acquainted with Matty’s intoxicated states you’ve experienced similar situations to this before, all of which have been incredibly entertaining.
Your giggle at his clueless response seems to spur his joy farther, his face breaking out into a lopsided smile. Your boyfriend is a pretty sight when he’s intoxicated, with his dark eyes and messy curls and the intoxicating scent of his expensive aftershave and the sweet weed smoke; if you didn't have to worry about getting him home you’d maybe indulge his flirting fantasy for just a little longer.
You grab onto his lithe fingers and move to slowly guide him up, “Let’s get you outside Darling”. His tiredness seems to have dissipated into excitement at this point as he quickly moves to follow you outside, letting out a hushed “Yes!” and doing what you can only imagine is some victorious movement of celebration out of your line of vision, encouraging even more laughs and hollers from the rest of the band, the phrase “What a twat” seeming to be a shared sentiment amongst the group as they laugh in agreement .
Thankfully, leading your rather drunk and high boyfriend outside is an easier feat than you expected; he eagerly holds onto your hand as you guide him and he too joins you in a large intake of the crisp night air once you make it outside. You stop and situate you both carefully against the wall in an attempt to gather yourself and your boyfriend. Matty however takes this as an opportunity to look up and down between you and the night sky and if you looked closely at him you’re sure you’d be able to see the moon’s ring of light reflecting perfectly in his chestnut eyes, giving them a further element of sparkle than what they normally have.
He soon surprises you as he takes both of your hands in earnest and holds them delicately between his infinitely larger, but cold fingers.
“Do you think the moon is jealous of how pretty you are?” . The suddenness of this adorable (yet uncharacteristically cheesy) pickup line startles you, the innocence of his state and how he still compliments you works to warm your body against the harsh cold. You find it funny how a man who normally displays such an astounding example of romanticism is reduced to something so simple in this state.
You simply shake your head in amusement and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Come on, Healy let’s get you home”. To this he grows juvenile and argues “No. I want to stay here and stare at you longer”. As sweet as the sentiment is you realise you’re going to have to play into his delusions even more, only a little bit offended that your boyfriend still seems to have forgotten you but you make sure to keep it in your arsenal to tease him with in the morning.
Your only attempt at reasoning with him works as you gradually win him over by offering to let him stare at you as long as he wants in the car and when you do eventually get home. Although this works on the stubborn man he still puts up some of a fight as he lowers his head and mumbles “You’re too pretty to be bossy” and although you can’t see it you’re sure a cartoon-like frown make its way across his features as he says this. You ignore him and slowly lead him into the passenger seat of the car, buckling him in despite his insistence he can do it - he’s passenger princess this evening and you’re making the most of it. After reaching the second set of traffic lights you realise that his plans to overtly stare at you are unfulfilled as he had at some point fallen asleep, his heavy head resting haphazardly against the window. You simply smile and lower the radio, already planning just how you’re going to torment him with tonight’s events in the morning.
#it's done!#another fic only like half a year later!#sorry again besties#matty healy x reader#matty healy fic#matty healy#the 1975 x reader#the 1975 fic#i haven't missed putting all these tags in jesus#k!'s fics
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hiiiiii ❤️ I love your art but i wanted to ask if you use AI or not? It’s getting harder to find who the real artists are and who keeps faking it I’d love to see how you start your drawing process and wips!
Hello Anon and thank you for the ask!
I understand the concern of not knowing whether any piece uses AI, but I assure you, none of my art work uses any form of AI. I use Clip Studio Paint to do all of my artwork and everything is sketched, inked, and colored by hand. I have shared many of my WIPs with a few friends of mine, but I'll share them with everyone now, as to put any suspicions to rest! =D
These are wip and sketches, so please don't mind the messy process I have lol! At some point I was thinking of streaming my process, so people can watch me work, if they are at all interested. I'm still working on setting it all up.
Below are my WIP for some of my popular Elucien art!
The Elucien kiss, this was just putting down some shading before I worked on the lighting and coloring over the sketch.
My 'anime' style lucien. I had just put down flats and brief shading on his skin. I used the CSP background of a sunset here, adjusting it later and adding some glow.
My Lucien in Illyrian leathers! I was trying out different brushes and mood painting. A lot of this was attempting some monochromatic base painting before adding colors on top.
The sketch and painting of my Elucien garden. I had the HARDEST time trying to get Elain's head to gently touch Lucien's!
I painted the colors down, and started to get into the flow of the tone I wanted, and bigger shapes of Elain's hair. Like AI, hands are the BANE of my existence! I need a lot more study and anatomy practice. Perhaps I can post some of that here too! (I'm just always embarassed of the messy looks and weirdness of the process)
The base colors for my Elucien mother's day painting! This one turned out so pretty, I LOVED How Elain's hair came out in the end, I was pretty shocked! The sky looked sunny too!
Lucien and his wet shirt! This was the first time I've ever tried to paint a wet shirt effect before. I had no idea what I was doing, and had to try and find many different references.
These are the sketches I had done for Lucien and Elain's Final Fantasy pictures I made. Again, I need more anatomy practice, but doing these were so much fun! I listened to Final Fantasy music too to really get me in the mood. ^-^
And this is Elain of that series, in her flat colors!
There ya have it Anon! Here are just some of the WIPs I could find from my painting/drawing process. A lot of it is messy, chaotic, and just ugly looking at the start, but as they say "trust the process!" I certainly hope this helps ease any thoughts or suspicions. I understand its hard to find good work out there that is done with legitimacy, but all my work has hours of blood sweat and tears in them. =D
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I’M YOURS
pairing: richarlison x reader
summary: Y/N is a journalist arriving at a team training to carry out an interview for her new article. The training seems to be unproductive for many reasons, the main reason being that the team contains her vehement Ex- boyfriend, Richarlison.
author’s note: jealous and protective richarlison!! suggest listening to “im yours” by isabel larosa whilst reading… enjoy! + apologies for any bad portuguese
I’m guided into the stadium by a stern security guard, harsh white lights reflecting my canary yellow team shirt. My heeled boots reverberate across the stadium alerting any individuals nearby of my appearance. Clutching my microphone, and my question prompts in my hand, I take a deep breath and brush off any debris off my dark jeans.
I knew he was here. Me and Richarlison “split” exactly six months ago today. Although the split was mutually agreed upon, we both knew that it wasn’t the end of our journey, leading to an embarrassing amount of one night stands and drunken rekindling in the first month. He missed me. I missed him. But we were both too proud to admit it. The past five months I made the decision to refrain from interacting with him which meant ignoring his amorous messages and frantic calls in the dead of night. I watched him from afar, viewing his Instagram on my specially curated spam account. Parties, Girls and chasing a new high seemed to be all of his worries.
The reason why I ended things was because I needed to focus on my career. At the time I was dating him, I was a local journalist from Brazil, dreaming of doing better things and now I’m about to interview one of the best football teams in the world. I made sure that these six months without him didn’t go to waste. And naturally, I was led back to him.
Finally, I arrived on the pitch, watching from the stands designed for other journalists like me. Looking around, I realised I was the only woman in this area, making me extremely conscious of my every move. The team wasn’t on the pitch yet, so I decided to make my way to the bathroom quickly. My nerves were rattling me but I couldn’t let that be known. Asking a guard for directions, I quickly make my way towards a bathroom.
I stare into a mirror, viewing my change. I couldn’t tell if I was better without him or with him. My dark curly hair laid past my shoulders, my lips painted a dark crimson red. I felt different and my appearance reflected that. Scanning over my questions and making sure I was camera ready, I repeated the aim of the trip. I was interviewing Brazilian player on the psychological and manual preparation going towards the Copa América.
Leaving the bathroom in a rush, I hear whispers of Portuguese. Alarm bells ring in my head, as I begin to realise I am not in the correct area.
“Quem é essa beleza?” (Who is this beauty?) I hear a player question, I turn my head around locking eyes with Neymar Jr. I smile awkwardly and begin to scan my areas to make my way back. I clearly wasn’t in the right area and needed to make my way back as the players were obviously out on the pitch.
Sitting down, I get a phone call from my manager, going over everything I need to get done. The camera crew sat next to me, adjusting lenses and positioning. Although I was the only woman, I was thankful I had familiar faces around. In comparison to usual, there were significantly less journalists, myself being one of five.
Training begins, and I see Neymar and Richarlison conversing. Neymar seemed to be raving on about something whilst Richarlison looks around, seemingly trying to understand what he is referencing. This is quickly disbanded as the coach tells them to run laps alongside their team. I make the executive decision to go film some montages and introductions with the players in the background.
I walk down the steps, arriving against the barricade. I was wary of how close I was to Richarlison but I attempted to not let that phase me. My lanyard dangling around my neck, I make a signal to the camera crew to begin.
“Olá, eu sou Y/N Y/L/N, and today I am here with the Brazilian national team as they train for the Copa América. Attempting to attain the title once again, I am here to learn how the players are coping with pressure, and the mental and physical aspects going towards the tiresome process.” I finish ending with a smile. The crew puts up a thumbs up as I drop my microphone from my face, looking behind me.
I lock eyes with Neymar once again but my attention is drawn towards Richarlison. He stares into me, his mouth slightly agape. His eyebrows slightly furrow, almost as if he doesn’t recognise me, his eyes differ as flickers of familiarity scan his brown irises.
I feel statute, as Neymar begins to talk to me yet I don’t even process it. Richarlison comes towards me in a couple strides, and my breath catches in my throat, before I realise I’m going back up the stairs towards the seats.
I feel Neymar 's eyes glued into my back watching me go, before I hear Richarlison say, “Esta é a garota de quem você estava falando? Você falou da minha garota assim na minha frente? Fique longe dela antes que eu cause problemas.” (This is the girl you were talking about? You talked about my girl like that in front of me? Stay away from her before I cause trouble.)
I already knew that this wasn’t going to end well, and as expected they were grabbing each other's shirt collars in their hands. On the verge of pulling punches. Richarlison was acting foolish, talking to his idol like that.
“Problemas, sim? Você é louco? Você esqueceu com quem está falando?” (Problems, yeah? Are you crazy? Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?) Neymar replies, tapping the temple on his forehead.
Flared noses and a string of curses in Portuguese, it was getting escalated to the point where other team members were coming to diffuse the situation. The journalists on my side began to take note of the situation, beginning to redirect their focus on to the fight, at least ten different cameras facing them now. This was going to look really bad in the press, two of Brazil’s key players in the midst of a fist fight, this is not the type of tension needed before a massive tournament.
I don’t even realise I’m making my way down there, but now I am already by the barricade attempting to calm the situation. Instinctually, I place my hand on his shoulder, and call out “Rich, por favor, venha comigo.” (Rich, please come with me.)
This is the first time I’ve talked to him in months and it showed. His grip began to loosen, his breathing began to calm and his attention focused on me. I felt so guilty even though I shouldn't have, this was Richarlison’s fault starting conflict with his teammates. He got off Neymar and practically stormed out of training. I followed him out quickly attempting to catch up but he was walking as fast as a bullet.
He stopped at the changing room, before kicking benches down. I jumped, not expecting his sudden angered movements. I stood still as if I was planted in the floor, like an old oak tree in arid soil. I’ve never seen him this angry. I don’t respond well to anger at all, and he knows this. He continues to throw things off shelves and the room turns into a mess. I call out his name, hoping for a response but there’s nothing. Just pure rage. He slowly begins to realise my state, as he locks eyes with me.
He comes towards me, and embraces me whole. He wraps his muscular arms around my head and holds my waist close. I smell him, and hold him close before pushing him away.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, tired of his contrasting emotions and actions. His breath catches in his throat.
“Your hair is different.” He comments, scanning my curls. A sly smirk is plastered on his face, his eyes dropping to my lips. Completely avoiding the question, I sigh and begin to make my way back to the pitch.
“Wait.” He grabs my hand back from leaving, pulling me inside efficiently. He cups my jaw, and kisses me on forehead lightly.
“Eu nunca parei de te amar. (I never stopped loving you.) I hate it when other guys touch you, or say your name. Love makes me stupid, stupid enough to hit my own idol. I want you all to myself. Eu sei que sou egoísta. (I know I’m selfish.) I regret agreeing to split, but I was scared that if I didn’t leave you a little bit, I would lose you completely. And I would never forgive myself. You are the only one for me. My Mãe and my Pai? They love you more than they love me.”
I chuckle, before a tear threatens to spill. I wipe it before it even escapes my eye.
“I don’t know if we’re good for each other.” I laugh and shake my head. “Mas, eu sou seu.”
#richarlison#neymar#njr#neymar jr#richarlison imagine#imagines#football imagines#football#footballer#neymar imagines#brazil#brazil football
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From "The Boy Who Wanted to Be a Deer" - it's on Amazon and also YouTube for free.
PROGRESS UPDATE: Picking up a project again after taking months off is...I don't recommend it. You have to rediscover the original spirit and rhythm of a book, an album, a movie, etc., and many days were wasted. I very literally wrote "DEAD BOOK" a week ago in my notebook because I lost it and couldn't find it again. I already had an idea to write something new that I knew would make money, and when you're trans, you need A LOT of that.
But then, I remembered something. When I trashed my first attempt at a novel two years ago, the itch came back. It's this itch I have to paint something I have seen that I've heard no one speak of. That itch never truly went away and never will (while I'm sober anyways). Last year, I was brainstorming ideas with a friend for metaphors to tell the trans experience, and we weren't coming up with shit. It wasn't months and months later it suddenly came to me at the time I least expected it.
This really is my best chance to tell the tale. It's about drinking, lots of drinking, and the inability to love. When you're disillusioned with the idea of love, you try to get it elsewhere. You may become a workaholic, alcoholic, get addicted to gambling, try to learn as many foreign languages as you can, read all the classics in literature, or you may just have Futuruma playing infinitely in the background somewhere.
When you can't love or make love, it becomes very hard to connect with others. Loneliness leads to disconnection. And disconnection leads to connecting with the only thing you know and understand. And when you're at your lowest, you'll connect with what harms you.
That's what I want to paint, our connection to things, even though what we ultimately desire is a connection with our truest selves so that we may finally be able to connect with others.
#books#art#illustration#cute#artist#transgender#trans#transrights#transrightsarehumanrights#trans pride#trans rights#queer#lgbt#lgbtqia#lgbt+#lgbtq#lgbt pride#lgbtq community#queer community#queer artist
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Dear Wasyago,
Strange, I have always thought it was spelled as Wasayago. But recently I've realized, I can't read very well.
I want to send appreciation today, to you.
You've taught me a lot about art. You've taught me a lot how to draw certain things, and you have opened my eyes to new perspective of art, ever since I started following you. Colours are brighter, I experiment more, I can see a specter of visuals that was previously hidden from me. It's like gaining shrimp colors.
Your art feels like an art classroom. There's sun pouring in from the windows, and there's tree leaves in front of them. Every time you come in you see different art projects. Paints add on to the tables, that will never scrub off again. There's dirty cups with paint water, and brushes, in the sink. It's lunch break, and there's people here. Some are just doing their math homework right before class, some are working on their sculpture, some are picking out paints, some are working on their new piece, on a fresh canvas. And it is so alive.
Your art feels so alive. Like the leaves, the people, the stains. It's really nice to see, every single time you post, how lovingly you bring a character into the world (My favorite so far is that one doodle of Modern au Gillion eating noodles, I have it in my favorites gallery).
I would like to see some unfinished, maybe forever to be so, doodles that you weren't especially proud of. We'll love it all.
Respectfully,
Marcus Bloodsmith
oh, thank you so much, this is so sweet qwq
im happy to know that you feel this way about my art, and im glad i could help you with some advice! it feels a bit weird to show unfinished or scrapped art under such a nice message, but yeah why not. and its funny that you mentioned the gillion eating noodles one, because its also one of the pieces that i really didn't like and didn't want to post hdgsh. i dont have that many unfinished drawings left because i delete or redraw most of them, but i have a couple that might be fun to share... and i guess it's gonna be a long post bc i wanna tell a little about each one or at least name them.
there's this art of chip, the first time i properly tried to figure out a way to draw him back when i just started listening. redrew this piece later, kept the sketch on the left, but the right one i changed completely because i didn't like the vibe this one has.
there's this attempt at redesigning caspian after i found out he was a water genasi, plus the first version of that art of caspian, pretzel and gill. this design didn't feel "caspian" enough, it looked too soft and kind where i wanted him to be more layed back and chill and sarcastic and with a bit of an edge. redrew both pieces later. the underwater drawing also has an unfinished background in this version, i added some fishies later so it didn't feel that empty.
some random sketch of gillion to show off how the lightning scars look on his face and neck. i quite like it, but it didn't really fit in the post with three proper drawings and one sketch so i decided to scrap it.
there's this drawing where i tried to figure out how the capital of the undersea looked like. i really didn't know where i was going with it and didn't have a good idea when i started drawing, so its a mess of things with nothing to really focus on. i tried to add a character on it later to breathe some life into it, but it didn't work out since i didn't focus it on the character from the beginning. plus i don't like how the colors turned out, and the entire concept of the environment feels weak and boring to me. i still want to draw more concepts of the undersea and try a couple other ideas, but probably at a later date...
the first version of whatever try it was to design gill's armor. (fun fact, i have more armor designs scheduled for tomorrow). this one i redrew almost immediately, i really didn't like how it turned out and how the legs were cut off and it looked so messy with no real accent point or personality. plus the smaller copy of the drawing in the corner just didn't look good. im not exactly proud of the redrawn version either (that's why i did another one yesterday lol), but im glad i redrew it anyway, it looks a lot better than this one.
the first sketch of that one gillion drawing. i couldn't figure out the colors for it for so long and wanted to drop the idea entirely. but i left it to sit for a couple hours and eventually got the motivation to come back to it and finish it. for most of the illustration pieces i did for jrwi there were multiple versions, where i just didn't like the first one and redrew the whole thing with a different composition and colors. didn't save any of those drawings tho...
this drawing of jay but with green wings and a slightly different color shirt. it was actually the first version of this drawing, and i changed the colors to blue later. wanted to post both of them side by side but then decided against it. that's why this drawing survived and was properly saved and not just deleted.
more recent attempts at designing the chaingel. i like the concept, and the pose in the second sketch is pretty badass, but the execution is just not there. it doesn't feel right, doesn't have the right kind of vibe that this character gives off. so im sure i will try and draw her later when i figure out what's missing and how to show her personality in the way it feels in my head. but these two sketches were never going to see the light of day, so now they're here.
aand this is it, this is everything that wasn't deleted in the past month for one or another reason. i feel like im more chill with deleting and redrawing things, so a lot of initial sketches and concepts never get saved or seen by anyone. im also on mobile so i can attach only ten files lol. not that it matters, the last two were just random figure drawings for warm up, not much to talk about.
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How aren't mediums fungible? Any art history class would teach you they very much are.
what, has 'the medium is the message' gone out of fashion now or something?
but to explain what I'm trying to get at, since there's a good chance I misused the word >< - each medium brings its own set of affordances and emphases. if I see a CG animation I pay attention to different things than if I see traditional animation or stop motion or what have you.
for example, we could have a look at the animation of Hiroyuki Okiura - say, the introduction to the Cowboy Bebop movie, or his work in Magnetic Rose. Okiura is one of the most renowned realist animators, someone whose drawing style, camerawork etc. hews very close to live action film. his exceptional sense of perspective and space is remarkable in traditional animation. by contrast, you 'get it for free' in CG and stop motion - you will always have perfect linear perspective unless you go out of your way to break it. however, CG rarely captures the exact qualities of Okiura's animation, which come from the sense of drawing principles - how to simplify shapes, 2D spacing etc. and by making it something constructed, the way characters move through space, the way a drawing can suddenly feel 3D, becomes foregrounded - it's no longer incidental but now a core part of what Okiura's animation is expressing.
so, 'live action into anime' is kinda what the AI style transfer tools are going for. in the technique from the recent paper, you start with a static drawing of a character and some animation data (likely mocap), and the program will generate an animation. that's similar what Corridor Digital attempted a few months ago, using a neural network finetuned on Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, and applying 'style transfer' to live action footage they shot. the results were, viewed as rotoscoping, kind of hideous, with shapes constantly flickering and turning into mush. the new paper I linked offers some techniques to improve the temporal consistency of this type of AI rotoscoping which should make it look a lot less bad, though it remains to be seen whether it works in situations other than 'well-lit fullbody shot'.
still, even if Corridor's video was a lot more technically solid (and give AI development a few years to iron out the kinks, I'm sure it will look downright quaint), it doesn't provoke the same response in me as Okiura's animation. the process of drawing something involves a lot of artistic decisions about what to capture, simplify, emphasise; for all that it is 'realist', Okiura's animation likewise has a particular feeling to the way characters move, the way they interact with light, the use of line, etc. which in some large part arises from how it is produced. so much of that is all but impossible to capture in words.
but also - knowing a bit about how it's made, and having my own experiences of animation, gives me an angle to appreciate what Okiura is doing. a drawing of something is a way of drawing attention to the specific details of the subject. two people drawing the same subject will never draw it the exact same way. one of the joys of going to life drawing is seeing how many different ways people can approach the same subject in the same ten minutes - inflected by different media like charcoal or watercolour pencils. one of the great things about anime is the space it gives key animators to bring their own sensibility to a particular shot.
I certainly accept that is inevitable that mediums will evolve with time. anime looks very different today than it did 30 years ago. part of of that is evolving sensibilities, partly the slow-motion collapse of an overstrained industry, but also a lot has do with the fact that every studio has switched to digital compositing and digital background painting. it's possible through painstaking effort to fairly closely imitate the look of cel animation on a computer, but you really have to go out of your way, and it's rare to do that.
and I do feel like something has been lost with the death of cels - qualities of line and colour, the difference between digital bloom and backlight animation. but something has been gained at the same time: maybe we've gradually lost the traditional skills for drawing layouts because the conditions of production made it so that skills weren't passed on to the current generation of animators, which sucks, but we have simultaneously gained the ability to merge 2D and 3D animation with tools like Grease Pencil, to use the camera-like digital compositing effects of directors like Naoko Yamada and Makoto Shinkai. it's not better, just different.
this isn't to make the boring argument that AI art is soulless, or lacks the magic human touch, or whathaveyou. it's just a different medium. nor would it be right to say that there are no connections between media - literally right now I'm modelling an arm, and my experience of drawing arms is directly influencing how I break down the forms and all of that. AI generated images derive in obvious ways from traditional animation and CG and photography and all that, AI engineers study these media in great detail as they develop their programs; our knowledge of those media can inform how we respond to AI.
honestly, CG that aims to replicate the look of traditional animation, such as in the games of ArcSystem Works, or the works of Orange like their Houseki no Kuni, is something I actually find very interesting. not because I think it could or should replace traditional animation; it just reveals fascinating things about both media. the same can be true of AI, I think. like what do you learn from what a neural network is able to capture, and what it isn't? and what does studying neural networks tell us about human brains?
if the development of AI and the accessibility of new tools leads to a flourishing of interesting new animation, I'll be happy. I just don't see it as a replacement for traditional animation and 3DCG. if anything the future of animation will probably look like a hybrid process taking advantage of the best features of all the different media we've invented - insert the usual spiel about Arcane and Spiderverse here. AI is currently very immature, we're still figuring out what it's good for and the hype drowns out everything, but I'm sure it will find a comfortable place, and I'll be interested to see how it all shakes out.
but what I meant with 'not fungible' is that, if you try to replace one medium with another, you will inevitably change the qualities of what you make. nowt wrong with that. like, just because you can adapt books into films (and vice versa) doesn't mean books are obsolete. some things are easier to express in prose, others in film. you can have prose that's informed by film, and film that's informed by prose. everything's talking to everything else, it's great! but the tools you choose are meaningful, and interesting. not just an irrelevant detail to be swapped out when "superior" technology comes along.
#ai#this is all from a very pie in the sky art perspective - not even touching on the implications for industry. labour. etc.#because we don't get free choice of media. nobody will fund a cel animation film now.
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Poets and Painters (Evening) Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]
Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over…
2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss. Commander Wolffe shows Reader he cares so fucking deeply for his battalion in this segment because that’s important to me, thanks. Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet.
Word-count: 6,915
The sun is beginning to set on Little Archossi. Everyone has opted to stay, save for some of the crew. Only, that's untrue; most of the crew has left. Save for you. If the Clones are staying behind, you feel you should too. These are not your brothers, there is no familial bond that drives you to remain by their side and swear to keep them safe.
For Maker's sake, you're not even armed! one of your fellow crewmates says in an attempt to reason with you. That's of no concern thanks to Soapsuds' generosity. (His spare DeeCee now sits tucked into the belt and waistband of your slate gray uniform.)
(There, now I am armed. Will you be leaving now?)
But you couldn't leave. Part of you burned to know what the peoples of Little Archossi would look like, how this potential first contact would go, what it was General Plo Koon had sensed through the Force… An equally large part couldn't leave Commander Wolffe on his own.
But… that's a silly notion. He's surrounded by his brothers, flanked by his diligent sergeants, Sinker and Boost, and he's been readily communicating with his pilots like Warthog as they perform aerial sweeps following their return to the atmosphere of Archossi after dropping off the civilian crew on the Triumphant.
Commander Wolffe is not alone. So why do you feel like your absence would mean he'd suddenly be without company? Why did this equally large, equally loud voice within you tell you to stay for his sake? If he wanted you here, that would be one thing. But he never expressed any such sentiment. And he probably doesn't need you here because now you're one more thing, one more person's safety, to be concerned over.
Why are you offering to stay with Commander Wolffe, Arcadia?
I feel like he needs my…
You couldn't answer your crewmate. So you shrugged them off and told them to get on the LAAT without you. What the hell were you going to answer with? My help? My risk assessment? My friendship?
(… and again that creeping, all-consuming doubt: were you friends?)
Joining you on the hill, Commander Wolffe turns his face into the fading light and watches the final signs of daylight melt away; golden amber and candy-soft pinks are surrendering to the deep, swallowing blues of the sea, and the rich, dignified purples that often cloak royalty.
"No painting in the galaxy would ever do a sunfall like this justice."
"Perhaps not…" Wolffe murmurs. "But many will try." He says it like he pities the wasted efforts. Or perhaps instead he is quietly sorrowful on their behalf, in his own way.
"I think it's a wonderful thing that they will." you muse with a soft smile, deciding not to tease him for getting poetic (though it would be so easy to, after all the instances lobbied your way) but to agree with him instead. "Finding something inspiring and hoping to catch a little slice of that moment in time forever? It's like… a tangible form of courage."
Wolffe turns his face from the fading light, seeking clarity. "Courage?" he asks you tenderly, dark brow buckling just a fraction above the beautiful, cold silver eye. Figuring it's perhaps a measure of facial paralysis due to a severed nerve or two, you take notice that Wolffe's brow which the scar runs through doesn't lift as high as the other.
Old gods and galaxies… it makes your heart clench and your veins burn with fire in anger just for a moment. Such a mark dealt by the blade of one who shrouds herself in the dogma of the Sith has only added to the overarching tragedy of Wolffe's war service. His brothers, his eye, his paint. How much more would this galaxy rob him of?
His bravery? The willingness to rise from the dust, bare his teeth and say “again”? Would it take his courage, too?
(Courage… how terrible a thing to lose.)
Swallowing your swirling thoughts at long last, you think you should answer the Commander's question. "It takes courage to try…" you offer simply, "...creating art is the marriage of an act of courage and emotion. A little snapshot of the soul, some people might say. Like, for example, when I started sketching you today: it was a test of my courage…"
You explain that while today seems to show evidence to the contrary, it's been a while since making use of more traditional supplies, and you think of your skills as being a bit rough around the edges.
"I also think I can admit now that when you sat down in front of the tree… it kinda pissed me off. Just for a moment." Your nervous laugh breaks any mounting silence that would have built between you as the Commander considers your admission. "I-I, uh, wasn't planning on drawing anyone at all! But you'd finally sat down… and I didn't have the heart in me to ask you to move. Not when you were finally off your feet, and looking a little more… calmer than before when you were pacing. So I made a decision to add you to the sketch. And… you know the rest."
Indeed he did.
The shoulder pad with the icon of the wolf. The request to watch you add the color and ink to the page. How you'd gotten to know each other degree by degree as he spoke of Abregado, of his brothers, showed you he was more than you expected. The buried and measured sensitivity within him. The maroon and the gray paint. His observations that served as compliments of sorts.
You're perhaps too wise beyond your years, Arcadia.
Sketching… stitching little wolf designs into your uniform… How many other talents are you hiding?
Once, a half-joking statement about being able to tame a battle-beaten wolf was offered. ("I'm sure my brothers will start wishing you were around more, if we ever had more opportunities to "do nothing", Arcadia.") You had been watching Warthog assisting with preparing multiple gunships other than his own for takeoff, then. You had made up your mind to stay behind, but you hadn't yet told Wolffe.
Maybe one day… you'd agreed with a wistful smile, one day, when the war is over. We'll have plenty more days like this.
Part of you hoped it would be with him. When he would be free of his inner anxieties, when he was certain his brothers, all of them, were safe… would always be safe… maybe then, you could spend more days with him creating rather than destroying.
"I apologize for pissing you off," Wolffe offers, his voice a welcome interruption to the growing silence, "and now I appreciate your sketch that much more." The sincerity in the sight of his full lips parted in a gracious, charming smile is just enough to make your heart flutter for a mere moment. Mere moments were all he needed before he needed to excuse himself, Warthog was vying for his attention from the portion of the clearing where they had grounded the LAATs.
He'll (unfortunately) have to leave you to enjoy the rest of the natural, wondrous light show on your own.
As he turns on his heel, and starts down the hill, you wonder… Was there always this militant elegance to the way the Commander walked, carried himself, simply existed?
Maker alive… what's gotten into you suddenly?
There's glee and child-like wonder in the clearing, just paces away as you amble around the edge of the forest. Trying to clear your head, you've traded the durasteel halls of the Triumphant for dew-ladden, fragrant grass to pace. (The smell eludes you. It's familiar, yet hard to pinpoint. Is it the freshness of the water or the silky richness of the life-source in the soil under your feet? (Have you been aboard star craft for too long and just forgotten what grass smells like?))
You're trying to make sense of your thoughts, but there's just too much to filter through both internally and externally. While you're trying to figure out a singular thing - if you've made a friend today - it's impossible to miss the way no one can come to an agreement on what the ever-loving fuck these bugs are called.
“I'm telling you, lantern bugs are just as correct as fireflies.” Tack repeats himself with increasing emphasis to an increasingly confused Soapsuds.
“And they can also be called fire beetle?”
“Yes; not to be confused with the flame beetles of Kashyyyk. Those are different.”
Suds stammers in confusion. “H-how?”
“The flame beetles fuckin’ explode.” is all the elaboration Tack feels like supplying, the grim smile a far cry from comfort.
“What about glowworms?”
“Yes…”
“And fireworms?”
“Yes! You can also call them lampyrids and lightning bugs and candle flies. All of them are correct because they're all different common names for the same bug!” Tack promises, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sucks in his teeth.
Bless him, he's been remarkably patient with his brothers, veterans and shinies alike, in answering their questions about what the devil these bugs with yellowed-green lights were, and if they could catch them (or were they like those razorwing moths back on another planet that looked harmless, but had wings laced with a chemical irritant?) and other questions without end.
Yes, they were safe to catch. Yes, his brothers should also be careful not to squish them. They glow thanks to a process of chemicals, enzymes and oxygen, in short. (No really, Commander, I don't mind answering their questions; you don't have to tell them to quit “pestering” me.)
Yes, they are really pretty, in a strange sort of way, Orchid. The Clone researcher could certainly agree with that. “They’re like… Like…” Tack begins to mutter under his breath in thought, searching for the right sort of descriptive imagery and failing. “Fuck, I got nothing,” he admits with a laugh, “I’ve got connections to another researcher Clone in a completely separate unit, and he's really fond of bugs… I'm certain he'd come up with something in no time.”
You've abandoned your walk for the time being, too intrigued by Tack’s trouble, and mention of connection to another researcher like him. “How about something like… “living stars”, for a start, Tack? And who's the other researcher you know?”
Once more, you've opened the door to be teased for potential poetism, but no one takes the bait this time. Instead, Tack and the two brothers who are aging out of being considered shinies look out into the grassy field where the air is softly roiling with maybe hundreds of airborne fire beetles and allow a collective moment of contemplation.
Living stars…
“Yeah, I can see it.” Orchid offers quietly.
Nodding in distracted agreement, Tack offers the answer to your last question best he can. “His name is Cypher, and he's with the… the uh… Sh-shit, sorry Arcadia, I can never remember if he's with a legion or a battalion, officially. There's some weird arrangement going on with this unit being led by one Jedi, with one Clone commander and captain under their command.”
That sure does sound “weird”, you agree. “I didn't think that a Jedi Master would be-”
“Oh that's the thing: they're not a Jedi Master; just a Knight, according to what we know through the rumor mill, anyways.” Tack clarifies quickly (with an apologetic look for interrupting you). “But, yeah, that still doesn't answer why a singular Force-wielder is leading two forces like this. Trying to get answers out of Cypher that don't involve bugs is like trying to pull rancor teeth, too. No idea if it's some kind of grand fuck-up or maybe there… was… a Jedi Master and they were KIA.”
There's a weighted silence in the air now, devoid of the comfort and ease it once had. “That's… horrible, if it's the second case.” you offer solemnly. You admit your knowledge on the Jedi isn't as great as it could be, in all potential, but you think you understand that a Force-wielder with the ranking of a knight doesn't necessarily “need” the tutelage of their masters anymore (at least if you compare them to say, a Padawan?)... It's still a terrible ordeal to lose someone you formed some bond with.
“Not to mention… pretty troubling if it was a grand fuck-up.” Borrowing Tack's words, you have to acknowledge that the circumstances of leading two forces like this means someone is saddled with the task of keeping so many soldiers of the GAR safe. That's an enormous responsibility to shoulder. So many souls… so many brave men to lead. “If it's the first… let's hope whoever is… let's say in charge of directing the Jedi, sends someone else to help them. I know I'd want to make sure someone isn't on their own in a situation like that.”
From time spent in observation of the Clones aboard the Triumphant, when Soapsuds' left hand lifts to shoulder-height, you know that means he's got a question in mind. “Yeah, Suds?”
“Was it surprising to your family when you decided to take a position on a cruiser like ours?”
You shake your head and laugh out loud, the memory of making up your mind and announcing your decision coming back to you. “Oh, stars, no. They weren't surprised that I wanted to help people, but more how I wanted to go about it, I guess. Maybe they expected me to volunteer at a medcenter, rather than… something like this.”
Oh, you can feel it in your heart that this would make for an interesting story to tell, one day. You've definitely given them a decent amount of communication since joining, but it's all been careful and sparsely detailed. No names, ranks or planetary locations. Nothing the Separatists can intercept and use as leverage, or in an ambush.
You doubt the Separatists could glean anything from hearing you complain that one of your crewmates is a little too fond of loud, thrumming music at 04:00, or that no, you still don't like that one particular vegetable no matter how it's prepared, or no, unfortunately you still hadn't had the time to utilize the art supplies you were gifted, but you kept thinking about it.
(You had no reason to believe they were listening; to monitor so many channels of communication takes a lot of time and resources, realistically speaking. But, better to assume they are.)
Hmm… you can finally tell them you used the art supplies today, speaking of them. Handful of doodles, and at least two proper sketches. A flower and a… person?
No, that makes it sound too impersonal and vague, you decide. You drew a flower and a friend.
You were friends. New friends.
You don't have to be good or even close friends with someone for a meaningful connection like the one you've developed with Commander Wolffe today. Even decent friends are capable of creating unique experiences… It's no less heartfelt.
No less heartfelt and beautiful than the way you see so many of the soldiers who have stayed behind romp through the clearing, catching all the lightning bugs they can. Curiosity and childlike wonder abound, especially among the youngest. Giddy despite minor nervousness, shinnies have made a game (of sorts) out of catching as many of these bugs as they can to then “gift” to their older brothers and their Jedi.
Sinker and Boost take these bioluminescent gifts with readiness; thanking their brothers before counting each little bug before releasing them out into the open air once more. The higher the count, the more impressed they act.
When Commander Wolffe accepts them, he chooses to hold onto it for a time - if the firefly allows. Some fly away immediately, others will remain, resting their wings by lazily crawling over his gloved hands for a time, then taking flight. Other times he “trades” a few with his general. Really, on most occasions, he's just off-loading his gifted fireflies to Plo Koon, where each Clone is thanked by name.
“These are from Crash, General.”
He's looking to make his escape from the Jedi’s side, for a moment. The amount of young brothers coming to the highest grassy knoll with their fingers full of fire-bugs must be beginning to overwhelm him slightly. His eyes meet for a moment with your own.
Hello, you, is the silent exchange.
Plo Koon offers the excuse sought by Wolffe; a carefully masked chuckle of mischief (or delight in his own cleverness) is made by the Kel Dor as he hands one of the many lantern bugs clinging to his arm guard to his rather stoic second-in-command. “An excellent find, Crash; a most impressive size. Here, why don't you take this little one given to me by Arcadia? Perhaps they would like to return to their first friend, Commander Wolffe?”
“Certainly, sir.”
It should make you laugh to see how obediently, dutifully, a man like Commander Wolffe carries such a puny little thing in his curled left hand down the hill to you. You can't help thinking he looks too serious with such a no-nonsense expression, reminiscent of a predator determined not to let its meal escape them.
A hungry wolf hoping to wear down a frightfully-footed lamb.
But you are no lamb.
And you recall his promise from earlier when you call out to him, forgoing rank or respectful title in front of his brothers currently nearby. “Not getting overwhelmed, are you, Wolffe? Is that why the General wanted you to give me back the first firefly?”
Soapsuds regards you with eyes wider than a porg to hear you tease his Commander so flippantly. What's gotten into you?! the expression seems to scream between the young and bright brown eyes to the sudden drop of his jaw. Where's your respect?!
If you can tease, you will be teased in kind. But first, Wolffe gives you the singular, small glowworm as he was instructed. “I wouldn't say I'm the overwhelmed one, Arcadia. Taking your own turn to walk around the clearing, making more faces than Suds does listening to Orchid swear.”
You chuckle for a number of reasons, first for the ticklish nature of the bug's feet in the palm of your hand, and second for the comparison. “You noticed that, hm?” Wolffe does not answer right away, you notice. He seems contemplative as he watches the little firebug scuttle across each knuckle of your dominant hand, open its wing-covering (Tack called it the elytra) and take off with a buzzy zwit! into the cooling night air.
“A professional Sabacc player would read you like an open book.” Wolffe responds levelly, refraining from mirroring the curious smile with one of his own. (Noted, you think to yourself.) “You clearly had something on your mind.”
To say someone was on your mind as a part of that ‘something’ would be more accurate. At least in large part. Before you say anything to the affirmative, Wolffe offers some reassurance that he's not saying anything with the intention of prying for any information.
“Not that it's any of my business, of course.”
Not that it was any of his business, no, but he had been watching you at least long enough to make an observation, a guess.
“Well, there's been a few occasions where I've been told I'm rather… expressive, so, I'm not terribly surprised.” You offer the response in hopes that it'll keep the conversation from going completely dead; something overly-playful seems like the wrong move to make right now. Something too dismissive would likely be seen through, too.
“You could also say animated, I suppose…” you add with a soft laugh, inspired by the exuberance Orchid shows in tearing after a particularly large firefly that Tack has pointed out rather suddenly. “Or lively or… whatever else. I dunno. Guess it happens more than I'm aware.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Tack promises you, “we've all got our quirks.”
Wolffe nods in agreement to the researcher, a slow roll of his eyes as if to say don't I know it. Adding in a way that's almost an aside, he says, “Comet and Warthog were the ones who noticed. They thought perhaps you might've come to regret staying behind with us.” Here, perhaps subconsciously, his scarred brow lifts when he looks at you again.
Are you? the action says.
You lift one brow of your own, eyes narrowing a fraction. “I haven't.” you promise. (Why? (And are you sure it wasn't you?))
His head bobs slowly, thoughtfully. (Fair.) “Only thought I'd mention it. But I'm glad to hear, Arcadia.”
There's an unusual softness settling into every feature of his face with the last syllable of your name. Something beyond the selfless gratitude typical to hearing someone you care for has had a pleasant day. His brow unfurrows just so. The thumb hooked in his belt just behind his holster - keeping his weapon near - becomes less deliberate now. (Not completely relaxed, but certainly less of a chokehold.)
Not to mention the slight, relieved smile before he turns his concern on one of his brothers.
“Where's your DeeCee, Soapsuds?”
Startled by the sudden addressal, Suds yelps and nearly squishes the large firefly Orchid has caught. “Huh! O-oh I'm letting Arcadia borrow it, Commander. One of the other crewmates, uh-”
Either in the interest of time, or the disinterest in hearing long-winded excuses, Wolffe shortly asks for the firearm tucked into the waistband of your uniform to be returned to Soapsuds. One of the flint-gray commander's own DeeCees is extracted from his belt, no fanfare or fancy fingerwork to make it twirl like Suds had when he offered, and is firmly planted with all the proper weapons-handling etiquette in the palm of your hand. Commander Wolffe's hand is undoubtedly solid - it is not just the form of the blaster that lends to your arm dipping under its weight.
Even through the raven-dark material of the gloves, the body suit, the neutral-colored armor, you know Wolffe is warm, too.
“Here. Why don't you take mine?”
It is not a suggestion.
You don't immediately understand what the big deal is about trading Soapsuds’ weaponry for the Commander's until you spend a little more time thinking about it. Suds has only the one gun with him on Little Archossi, and if the Commander has two, then, it'd only make sense to take his.
As a precaution, you shouldn't be unarmed; that much was agreed upon between the soldier and his commanding officer a ways off in the clearing now. You could catch snippets of their voices, carried on the stiff, evening winds.
“I was only trying to help.”
Suds had not intended to be completely defenseless himself, nor would he be, owing to his training instilled in him on the Clones’ rainy motherworld. Push comes to shove, you've seen your fair share of how proficient these men could be with only their hands. Hands that have hoisted and carried a fellow soldier to safety under enemy fire. Hands that have shown tenderness to the frightened and battle-scarred, civilian and brother alike.
(And that's not without mentioning the many knuckles broken against the plating of the CIS battle units by the brazen (or desperate) men of the Grand Army.)
“I understand that, but you should have considered that we don't know what's out there.”
You're unsure if the Commander is lecturing this brother and young soldier out of disappointment, or out of worry. You've known many Clones who tend to fret after their ‘little’ brothers, each in their own way and fashion. Only too understandable with everything Wolffe has been through and faced (and lost), he must feel some need to really make sure these lessons stick. He will always lose brothers, from the callous to the curious, but if he can ensure as many as possible make it out of this war alive, he likely would.
In this lifetime, in the next, and every heartbeat in-between.
Commander Wolffe cares. About his General.
“... are you angry at me, sir, for giving away my blaster without thinking again?”
About his brothers.
“No, Soapsuds. You were thinking… You… You only meant to look out for Arcadia.”
About you.
Though it feels too private a moment, one between brothers, to witness, you cannot turn away when Wolffe lifts Suds' head hung low and gives him a quiet look. “Your blaster and your name. Never forget.” Soapsuds waits a beat before nodding solemnly; there is a seriousness and severity to his brother's reminder.
Their blasters and their names are among the few things a Clone can own. I own my blaster, I own my breath, I own my Name…
Never will you forget the mantra you've heard multiple shinies, fresh off Kamino, mutter to themselves in isolated halls in the dead of the night aboard the Jedi cruiser. Suds must be one of the few who still repeats this to himself even now.
“I won't.” he promises with an emotional grimace, one that prompts his CO to clutch him to his chest.
He can't. No brother would ever let him forget his name, and a blaster can always be replaced in the event it is lost. There would never be another him. Never another Clone who would twinkle, or glimmer, or burn the same way as him in the Force. Every one of them feels, senses different in it.
(How do you compare, you wonder.)
Would you feel steadfast, seemingly indomitable like them? Or rather you'd be found out as having a bright, sun-like spirit; not merely hot and golden, but perhaps comforting. Maybe flickering and dreamlike, just the way the fireflies are.
You might go your whole life never finding out how you are sensed, never knowing the details in the thumbprint of your soul. You can make your peace with that. You'd sooner exhaust yourself asking after the likes of the Clones, given the chance.
Commander Wolffe releases his brother at last, the hand cradling the back of Suds' neck lifting away last of all as he's freed from a needed embrace. The time for tender doting fulfilled, Wolffe once more cautions his brother to be careful as the evening deepens before turning him loose. “Be sure to watch your step. And keep clear of the trees.” It's totally dark with the sun sunken below the horizon, casting this side of the planet with the deep blues of night. It would be wise to give the forest an even wider berth than before.
After doing some theorizing, the sergeants carried out the test themselves while everyone else had been mesmerized by the emergence of the first fireflies.
You can not see what stares back at you when you peer into the thicket; denser than Kaminoan rainfall, according to Sinker and Boost’s findings.
(Just what the Commander needed… more reasons to worry.)
Soapsuds bobs his head as if to say no, right, makes sense. “I'll, uh… remind Orchid as well, sir.” he promises almost meekly. If he can help it, he won't make his Commander stop whatever he's doing just to wrangle him back into place a second time.
He's not stupid. Soapsuds is just… young. Excitable.
Less experienced. In a moment, perhaps one of mild frustration or fraternal anxiety, Commander Wolffe may have temporarily forgotten that. Which is okay - forgetting is not a crime, much in the same way that being young is not a crime.
Nor should being unable to help your nature…
After some time alone, when you come to check on him, Wolffe casts a nearly pained look in your direction, surmising that you've witnessed the entire encounter. The sloping, pinching squeeze of his eyebrows and the haunted expression suggests maybe he believes he's been too harsh. That he's spent the last five, maybe ten minutes beginning to second guess what he's said - or how he's said it - to an almost-not-a-shiny brother.
No matter how much he's been trying, he's done it again. With every good intention, Master Plo can invite him to relax as many times as he'd like, but it will not come so easily for a soldier.
Commander Wolffe will not relax completely today, because he can't. At least not on his own, not without someone to reign him in should he stray too far beyond briefly conferring with a soldier or two, or sparing a few moments for a visual sweep across the clearing when it had been light out.
“Thought I'd keep up my habit of keeping you company,” you offer quietly, setting yourself down in the lush grass beside him to pull out your sketchbook and pencils, “if that's alright.” You won’t mention the fact that while you were giving Wolffe the space you thought he needed, Sinker had extracted himself from where he, Boost and Comet had steered a giggling mess of Clones a little further off when their retellings of their “sexploits” had become a little more colorful.
You’ve been having better luck than us, Arcadia, Sergeant Sinker had admitted to you, we think you should be the one to keep him company. We’ll keep the lid on things here best we can.
(Force be with you and all that if ‘keeping a lid on things’ involves Orchid and far too many details about sex in any capacity… (Like the time he purportedly ‘froze up’ for a moment when he realized the date he scored himself at 79’s was with an intersex humanoid-species he can't remember the name of.))
You're aiming just to be non-intrusive, out-of-the-way in your company. You're not expecting conversation when you've already done plenty of talking today. You're not even sure what you'll sketch, or if you'll even draw.
Hearing the words “Could I?” out of his mouth is surprising to you. He almost certainly hears that surprise in your voice.
“You wanna give it a try? Uh. S-sure, here.”
The pad is immediately flipped to a clean, unmarked page once it's in his hands; selecting a pencil takes longer, the labels making little sense. Herf. Besh. Herf-Besh. 2-Besh. There's at least two others he hasn't touched yet.
“What does it all mean?” he murmurs more to himself than you. (He takes the 2-Besh at your coaching.) “Level of the graphite’s softness?”
You can only shrug. “Apparently. From what little I know, 2-Besh is most versatile, so that should work for just about whatever you had in mind.” He could fill the page with circles until you've gone cross-eyed for all you care, honestly. There's obviously been a lot on his mind today; there's been a lot on yours too. Whatever it'll take to drive the thoughts nipping at your heels back even for a moment, or even slow or halt altogether that tumultuous tailspin of anxiety for both of you would be a welcomed discovery.
He's made up his mind on what he'll be drawing, but you're not permitted to look. “Not just yet.”
“What? Oh, Wolffe, come o-”
“Ah-ah. Would only be fair.” He didn't see what you had been working on for a few hours, after all, right? The piece the Commander plans to compose is less involved than yours, so it shouldn't take ‘terribly long’. (Okay, that would only be fair, you concede.) You have one of his pistols, so if you wanted, you could walk around the outskirts of the clearing so long as you were mindful of how close you were to the forest.
Maybe not right now. Maybe instead you should keep an unoccupied eye out instead. You both did just hear General Plo begin to caution several men only a few yards away that there was a shift in the Force around the planet.
The inhabitants of Little Archossi might be waking up.
“Good idea.” Wolffe agrees. He'll be quick about it, he promises. You'll have a look before long, though for now, you'll need to find a way to entertain yourself between the intermittent safety checks. Keep your eyes up, keep your ears perked, and sweep your line of sight often. The only thing he won't tell you to do is keeping a closer eye on the shinies. “I don't know how well you know my men; how readily you can tell them all apart, nevermind who is and isn't newer to the battalion.”
You single out a trooper at random - one who's absolutely covered in grass stains and dirt after rolling down a hill in his full armor kit - and in full confidence declare “That's Halogen. I believe he's fond of rotary cannons as opposed to blasters.”
He chuckles once, impressed. “And is Halogen a shiny?” You're good; he wants to see just how good you are. The pencil is flipped in Wolffe's hand and he tediously erases something for a moment.
“He’s not. Waves, the brother he's sneaking up on is, though.”
Another impressed chuckle. You know more than you've let on, perhaps, he admits, but he still won't task you with shiny-wrangling. Leave that to him as their commander. He turns his attention wholly to the spiral-bound book in his hands, occasionally leafing through the previously marked pages until he reaches the first. Comparing? Admiring?
Or is he thinking, remembering?
“Like worship…”
You try not to respond, acting entirely too interested in the busy-work of fixing up your footwear, ensuring all is secure as you wait for those choppy, sweeping skritch!-es to resume.
And with Commander Wolffe nose-deep in the sketchpad, shielding it from your field of view, you find yourself zoning out somewhat. He won’t show you what he’s working on, but from the sheer amount of times he’s glanced your way, you have a possibility in mind.
You turn your gaze skyward for the moment, higher than the fireflies and beyond the misting of stars. “Wow… would you look at the size of that moon?” you marvel under your breath, more to yourself than anyone in particular. Round and bright, she’s certainly the celestial focal point over Little Archossi, and though it will likely be dark, or perhaps partly back-lit, you know the general location of the Jedi cruiser from your position.
Will the moon look just as beautiful from the viewports of the Triumphant, or does she lose all her shining splendor in the spiraling vastness of space?
“I’m not going to howl.”
There’s a beat of silence before the commander either realizes that you had not made the remark he assumed you had, or that you had not reacted to it like he would have guessed.
“Sorry, Arcadia, I…” The graphite pencil halts in his hand as he reigns in his thoughts, sharply exhaling the likely frustration or disappointment. “Terrible joke. There was a trooper named Howell… It was part of a routine with him; he had a fascination with astronomy. Could tell you the name of every moon a planet had. First thing he’d look for every nightfall. “Look Commander,” he’d say, “Look at the size of that moon!” with such palpable excitement, too…”
You can guess why Wolffe’s reply was what it was. You can almost hear how he’d likely say it too, were he less distracted by the sketch in his hands… “What happened to Howell?”
“The half-starved megafauna the droids were using cornered him in a foxhole while we were aiding another Jedi in the Outer Rim. General Plo couldn’t reach Howell in time.” Commander Wolffe's pencil strokes become halting, brisk, as he thinks about this brother. “Without a helmet, it takes roughly 235 kilograms of force to crush a human skull. Or so I'm told.” The afterthought is added in a small, tight voice. A memory he’s jostled loose that’s left a bitter taste in his mouth.
A fist squeezes the material of your uniform over your heart as you infer poor Howell’s fate for yourself. “Fucking shit…” How terrible. You try not to dwell on those thoughts as you glance over your surroundings, even behind you for good measure. (What sort of megafauna is capable of that, anyways?) Nothing appears out of order in the clearing, but there seems to be perceptible activity from the treeline that the Force-wielder is picking up on.
Why else would Plo Koon be steering the Clones deeper into the heart of the clearing with that kind, almost fatherly cautioning; “Why don’t you join your brothers near the hills, son? (Why, General?) In the interest of safety, that’s all.” Every opportunity he has, Plo has his eyes trained on the forest as he moves from cluster to cluster of troopers, directing them to move closer to where Sinker and Boost have positioned themselves, or the Republic gunships at the very least. He’s moving with purpose, his stride unbroken and direct through the ankle-high, fragrant grass.
Something must be awake beyond the trees… You don’t know if you should start feeling concerned by all these precautionary measures, or feel assured. The Commander hasn’t reacted in any noteworthy way as of now, but you know he’s at least noticed your nervous tells once more. Only once he’s taken a more thorough read of your body language - the shoulders creeping closer to your ears, the occasional bob in your throat with every dry swallow, the fistful of your uniform rumpled in your dominant hand - does Commander Wolffe begin to act.
He begins covering and setting the sketchpad aside, just for a moment, to give you and the immediate surroundings his undivided attention. “Don’t hold your breath, Arcadia. The last thing you should do when you’re starting to get nervous is hold your breath.” he advises you, being cautious about his line delivery. Too casual, it comes across flippant at best about your anxieties. Too stern, and it will sound like a lecture. A reprimand. And he’s not here to do that; Wolffe only means to soothe your nerves best as he can - like he tried to do for Suds. “General Plo would be addressing those troopers a little more urgently if he sensed real trouble.”
You bob your head, but want to offer him a questioning look all the same. The Jedi’s behavior seems pretty damn urgent to you. But Commander Wolffe knows the Kel Dor better than you do, so you trust he’s telling you the truth. “That’s good to know.” you reply with a lilt of relief in your voice.
A lilt he of course notices, and takes as a permission of sorts to resume his sketching. He’s nearly done, he tells you, but he needs to clean up one last thing and add another first before he shows you. Then, perhaps, you could help him decide how he should finish this.
“That sure was fast.” You don’t know if surprise or admiration for the speed of his work is more appropriate.
Maker have mercy, when he flashes a slightly wolfish smile at you, you’re almost tempted to pinch yourself - just to be sure you haven’t imagined it.
“It helps when you’re inspired.”
That’s certainly true, in your experience. When you feel inspired by something, feel inspired to create something, it feels like little else matters in that moment. You can become a whirlwind of creative thought, so swept up in the progress, that time just seems to slip away.
Before you can ask what it was that inspired the Clone commander, Wolffe has added his last few pencil strokes, and presents you with the page.
It becomes very clear right away what it was that has captured his eye, what it was that inspired him. It’s just as you suspected.
“Is… that supposed to be me?” you utter in wonder.
The figure on the page looks just like you, resembles you at the very least; but the wear is not your own. The slate gray uniform has been swapped for the raven of the bodysuit, and encasing every limb are the segments of Clone armor. The gauntlets sport claw-marks, and you think that partially-hidden phase two helmet at “your” hip has what are supposed to be bare teeth - wolf teeth, no doubt. And the chest plate is clearly modeled after his own, at least in part. Otherwise crisp lines partly ruined by eraser-smudgings, there's a large crack in the direct middle, and in the center there's an attempt at an anatomically-correct human heart.
There is a tiny, tiny little icon of the Wolfpack on the throat of the bodysuit in your favorite color, and that's when you see without further doubts that yes, this is supposed to be you.
If your drawing was described as worship, you find his to be an equally heartfelt act of devotion. You're drawn with such care, it's nearly… you don't even have the words for it.
You find yourself almost choking out your words now. “It is me…”
“And you're welcome to color it as you see fit, Arcadia,” Commander Wolffe says rather abruptly, thrusting the pad into your open hands, “I’m needed to speak with the General.”
Pleading with him to stay is like trying to catch smoke. “Wolffe, wait-” He's quicker to his feet than you expect, trampling the grass underfoot without a moment's hesitation to answer the Kel Dor’s distant summons. He will not wait. He will not explain what the bottom of the page, in tidy, thin Aurebesh means.
Behind the teeth and claws, there is a beating heart.
I now have a taglist form, which you can find -> HERE! <- 🩷 Thank you for your patience as the length of this fic spirals out of my control, haha. Clearly it's no longer just the four initial segments like I once thought. (Hey, it's just more Commander Wolffe content, can we really complain?)
[Masterlist]
[Early Morning] [Midday] [Late Afternoon] [Here] [Deep Night] [Golden Dawn part 1]
[Golden Dawn part 2]
#frostfics#Poets and Painters#star wars#star wars fanfiction#the clone wars fanfiction#star wars the clone wars#swtcw#tcw#commander wolffe x reader#commander wolffe x you#wolffe x reader#wolffe x you#gender neutral reader#tcw wolffe#commander wolffe#clone trooper wolffe#cc 3636#cameos of#plo koon#104th battalion#tcw sinker#tcw boost#tcw warthog#tcw comet#clone oc: tack#clone oc: orchid#clone oc: soapsuds
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When i first started digital i would make a layer for everything basically for the face clipping make several layers to it and same for the hair/ background/ every piece of clothing...etc
I did take it down a notch recently and all but i just saw a video from samdoesart and noticed he LITERALLY JUST USES ONE LAYER FOR THE WHOLE PAINTING!!!??
sorry was wondering if you'd recommend a certain number of layers
the amount of layers you use is highly dependent on the style you're going for, the complexity of a piece, your personal drawing style and preference etc so i really don't believe there should be a certain amount of layers you should use. I myself fluctuate between using many layers or just painting everything on one so there really isn't a correct way or number to go for.
Howeverrrr, i think there is a certain threshold where layers become too excessive and turn into more of a burden than an aid, something that you probably noticed as well. If you find yourself becoming frustrated with the constant switching between layers for every single part you've singled out, then it's better to take notice of that and just tone down the number a bit. Samdoesarts, despite his guynextdoor vibes, is a professional and so of course he doesn't feel the need for many layers because he knows what he's doing and has a very clear workflow and style in mind. To some extent, i believe that using a minimal amount of layers does also stem from a place of confidence in your skills and/or process.
Me personally, I tone down the layer amount moreso out of laziness and because i don't like to have my flow interrupted by some "technical" errors as in "whoopsie i painted on the wrong layer again" so i just., really try to keep it as low as possible; sometimes it works sometimes it doesn't and i suffer
I add new layers every time i want to " try something new" or fix something whenever i'm still unsure of how it will turn out. New layers are for experimentation. I treat them like some sort of backup or checkpoint of some kind- that's their primary function for me. If the new thing i tried painting over doesn't work out i can just hide the layer i painted on and either try again or give up on that idea as i concluded it doesn't look good. A safety net, if u will.
One rule i do follow however no matter what is to always always have a separate layer for the hair- both color and lineart. that is the only thing i make a conscious decision to keep separate (because of previous struggles and failed attempts) For everything else, I just paint it on one layer with those aforementioned experimentation layers on top. Same for rendering. And i always merge them together once i think it looks good
I really don't like having too many layers cause it becomes annoying and messy. The only time I deliberately use a shiton of layers is for commissions, really.
i know i didn't really answer your question, but i really don't think i can recommend a certain number, so i just shared my experience with layers instead. Bottom line is, as long as you find them helpful, use as many layers as you want but don't overdo it
#i have a lot of pieces that i gave up on exactly bc there were too many layers and it was too overwhelming#so yeah less is more#tbh i have more hidden layers than active ones#my so-called “backups”#that i never refer to and refuse to delete “just in case”#i have maybe 2 or 3 active layers so to speak#i'd recommend being very loose with drawing and not very strict#but what do i know it's just personal preference#ask iztea
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then teach me
synopsis. it was a small get-together, family friends, the usual. and like the many other ones before. you sat there, quiet but composed. you never noticed though how he wishes he could steal a glance from you. only to grow curiouser and curiouser.
pairings. rich!beomgyu x rich!yn (both are in their early teens)
includes. fluff, y/n is a bit bitter & sad, y/n plays piano though!
you moved here almost 3 months ago. yet you're still not used to the spacious-vintage-old-school-rooms, so you had trouble finding the kitchen for a while there until you tripped on the metal divider on the floor.
it was dark out. so as you always did, even in japan, you washed the left-out dishes of your mom's fancy painted glass china and spaced out for a while. opening the window wide letting the night breeze rush to your face.
the old crackling stereo was quietly playing in the background, a lovely song really. listening peacefully until a foreign voice startled you.
the old crackling stereo was quietly playing in the background, a lovely song really. listening peacefully until a foreign voice startled you.
"it still smells like paint chemicals in here" he crept by the entrance. you jumped, splashing yourself with a bit of water.
“oh gosh!, you scared me” you spun around, bringing the wooden bowl to your chest, and relaxing your shoulders a bit.
“oh sorry..! i wasn’t trying to, i just…“ he says quietly. stepping foot into the room, raising a palm in solace
“no no it's okay" you figured he was probably just lost. "just go down that hallway, then up the stairs-” you pointed towards the archway behind him
he turned back following your hand's trajectory only for him to turn back towards you waving his hands close to his chest “ah- nono, i know how to get back”
“oh then, are you hungry? there are snacks in the cupboard”
“i actually wanted to uh-“
“relax?” you kept interrupting him, as you darted your eyes towards the small dining table by the patio door.
“y/n-ah, let me finish!!” he exclaimed softly
you finally looked at him “right right, go ahead. sorry” you apologized
“i wanted to talk you about how you played piano earlier in front of everyone. it was amazing”
“oh, thank you…” you said turning back around. rinsing the soapy bowl in hand. your hands were getting pruny
he looked “it was very beautiful, you looked so immersed into the song and your voice is really beautiful and-“
he suddenly stopped as soon as he saw an unreadable expression, your eyes in a daze; looking down over your shoulder
“ah- sorry did that” about to reach out a hand, he retracts it. scratching his head feeling his chest tighten by his forwardness. “make you uncomfortable?” laughing in an attempt to soothe the atmosphere
you look up startled “nono of course not! i was just- i’m not used to hearing compliments about my... well anything”
“what do you mean? everyone talks so great about you! they'd say that you’re smart, very poised, adored, ”
he listed the things already heard before, but there was a gleam in his eyes as he stared at out the window. by chance, it made it seem like he actually meant it coming from him. you were puzzled.
he was staring somewhere in the room while you were staring at him. he looked almost shy to say these things but he was trying anyway, making an effort to assure me. you noticed something else when your eyes gazed down from his. he was smiling
he's as handsome as they say he is you thought to yourself
he then looked back up at you catching you by surprise. you were having a mini panic because you spacing out ogling at him. how do you explain that to someone you just met?
“not to mention you seem nice anyway” he chuckles
your posture stiffens up a bit “oh uhm- yeah. i guess, its just the way a person says it i guess? or whatever. thank you though, but I'm not that special as to what you think. or what im assuming you think anyway of me” you expressed
“i think your wrong” he laughs quietly
“excuse me?” your head jolts up, not looking at him still
“no wait, i mean- from what i think you see yourself as. youre more than what you believe” you looked to his reflection from the dark window seal where he was staring at you from.
you just gave him a subtle glare, unsure as to what he was planning or what he meant. but you didn't wanna let your guard down.
"that one time, the maids had gotten the dessert wrong and you baked for us instead, even after your mom asked if you were getting tired"
"ahh- well... those are just times when someone could use the help, anyone would do it really. I'm shocked you remember that much"
"i still think it's cool of you either way"
you paused for a moment not knowing what to say. until you said
“if anything, i’d wish to be more like you. you have a sense of freedom, you know how to look for things you love and pursue it on your own accord” you then looked down from his gaze turning off the faucet.
you then turned to faced him. hands gripped on the counter top behind you. “im tied to what makes me enough to whomever, not that i think i am anyway. i still have ways to go” you said looking down to apron covering your floral tea dress.
“you make me seem selfish y/n”
“i guess… no wait, you’re not- THATS NOT WHAT I MEANT!”
he glanced down and chuckled
his laugh filling the room. taken aback you didn’t expect him to laugh out of nowhere. but it was a tantalizing, echoing in your ears.
“i’m kidding, i know what you mean” he met your gaze with a teasing smirk, your ears began to sear.
a bit lost and vulnerable. your eyes darted in so many directions as your mouth drooped a bit only for you to close it in embarrassment, pursing your dimples.
“this is gonna sound bitter, but i doubt i can handle as much. to keep both stable i mean” you dried some of utensils and walked over to the cupboards to lay them neatly away
“maybe for someone who’s good at it like you, this comes off as irresponsible and lazy. but i just wanna cling onto whatever steadiness i can feel, even if i might me deluding my self” you let out a laugh, “bitter no?”
you were so focused on what you were doing you didn’t realize until he turned on the faucet to wash his hands and grabbed the remaining utensils on the dish dryer to help you.
“it sounds like you resent me a bit for that” he said as he handed you a few forks he dried up.
you timidly took the forks thanking him.
you sighed and smiled bitterly "its something i dont understand, that’s all" you then turned around and away from him. taking the plates, drying them and opening the cupboards.
you couldn’t reach the high shelf, you then tried tippy toeing but that too failed.
“here” he said looming over you, finding his hand under yours.
you handed the plates to him and watched as he put them away without a problem. you both were almost the same height, not that much taller than you. it just so happened the extra 2-3 inches came in handy for him.
“thanks” spinning around to face him looking down at you, your eyes widened a bit by how close he was. he too was shocked but became lost as his eyes roamed your facial features. you were able to have a better look at him,
that was when the winds speed smacked against the window, startling you both.
you looked away awkwardly, as did he. pursing your lips you slipped right from under him. heading towards the sink again.
“i can teach you if you want” he said looking back at you
you fumble several of the ceramic tableware in your hands, taking in sharply that these plates not only cost a fortune but will shatter easily.
“p-pardon?” you turn back ungraciously
“wait no that sounds wrong, not like that!” hands waving up in defense
“i- what is then?” you ask
for a second he pauses but straightens his posture, fixes his hair, then walks up towards you reaching out a hand.
“choi beomgyu”
“i already know your name”
“just- i mean, y/l/n y/n.”
“hmm?”
“i’ll teach you everything there is to know on becoming someone like me”
he winked with a smile, staring intently at you.
“uh- no, word that better” you teased raising an eyebrow
“charming, self-assured, confident- you know what i mean!”
“do i?”
“just shake my hand y/n-ah”
you giggled, smiling down at the hand he held out as you took your hand in his.
“then teach me”
A/N. so my tumblr has been being SOOOOO rude and not showing up on hashtags, but it was recently fixed THANK GOD. so now i’m uploading this thing i wrote when i was feeling sad 🥲🥲
should i do part 2?
#beomgyu x reader#beomgyu#beomgyu fanfic#beomgyu fluff#choi beomgyu#choi beomgyu x reader#beomgyu x y/n#choi beomgyu fluff
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Cultural Reconnection
Happy Lunar New Year! To celebrate, I wanted to do a little selfship fic, and I decided with this one to do a modern AU focused on Helena and Chae-Yeong, partially bcs they have the same backgrounds as me with that so I know a little more about Seollal (Korean new year) things from my irl attempts to connect more with my culture
Full disclosure here, like Helena and Chae-Yeong, a lot of what I know about Seollal celebrations are things that I have recently taught myself from doing research online. This may not be a 100% accurate with how things are celebrated, and if it's not, I would appreciate anyone who knows more giving feedback! While it won't change things with this fic, bcs they also are still learning how to celebrate this properly, it'd help me out with my future LNY celebrations
Rating: Gen
Genre: Fluff
Words: 2325 words
Divider by saradika
Helena doesn’t cook very often. It’s not that she’s a bad cook, but with her and Chae-Yeong both hating being in the kitchen with other people, Chae-Yeong tends to be the one to make dinner more often than not. Helena figures that with how much food they’ll need for tonight’s Seollal celebrations, though, she could handle the majority of the cooking.
As she cooks, Helena’s in new hanbok that Chae-Yeong had bought for this. She’s had to be careful with it— the last thing she wants to do is stain the light green and pink fabric making up the layers of her clothes. Her hanbok’s chima is longer than any of the dresses or skirts she usually wears, but she likes the way it moves around her as she walks around the kitchen.
In some ways it feels like she’s not supposed to be wearing this— her grandmother never passed on much information about Korean culture to Helena or her mother beyond the food. But she’s worn hanbok before, and she reminds herself that this is a part of her culture, even if it’s something she grew up disconnected from.
It helps that Chae-Yeong’s in a similar boat to Helena. Both of them are a quarter Korean, both of them didn’t get many cultural things passed down to them, and both of them look white. Helena is used to feeling out of place everywhere she goes, never really feeling like she belongs to any community fully. But with Chae-Yeong, she actually feels like she’s not alone.
Trying to fill the many gaps in her knowledge of Korean culture is more fun with Chae-Yeong, though. That’s another thing that makes Helena feel less alone, less like she’s an imposter and doesn’t really count as Korean. And as Helena finishes up making their rice cake soup hopes that she’s able to make Chae-Yeong feel the same way.
“The soup is done, starlight!” Helena calls.
“Smells good,” Chae-Yeong says, coming into the kitchen with a bottle of sparkling cider in hand. She looks pretty in hanbok— she's dressed in has a bright red skirt and a black jeogori. The silver and pink norigae she’s wearing is a nice touch too with its butterfly charm, standing out from the rest of the outfit.
Helena thinks this look suits her well. Her hanbok even matches with the red and black paint along her prosthetic arm and leg. It seems to match her perfectly, and is a good reminder to Helena of just how pretty her wife is.
“Thanks,” Helena says. “Did you get the rest of the table set up?”
“Mhm.” Chae-Yeong sets the bottle down on the counter, digging through their drawers to find a bottle opener. “We’ll just need to get the last of the hot stuff plated, then everything will be ready.”
Helena turns off the stovetop. “Great. I’m hungry after cooking all day.”
“I’m sure it’ll all taste amazing, yeobo,” Chae-Yeong says. “Do you want me to help plate stuff?”
“If it won’t make you annoyed,” Helena replies, half teasing.
Chae-Yeong rolls her eyes but smiles. “Putting food on plates and cooking are too different things. And it’s not like you’re better.”
“I’m not. But it’s always good to be safe, you can get scary when you feel like it.”
“I don’t get scary.”
“Yeah, you do.” Helena nudges Chae-Yeong’s side as she walks past with a plate of bulgogi. “You look pretty like that, though.”
Chae-Yeong laughs, pausing the process of scooping some rice from their rice cooker to look at Helena. “You’re the only person in the world who could think I’m attractive when I’m mad.”
“Mhm, which is part of why I’m very lucky to have married you,” Helena says.
Chae-Yeong gives her one last little affectionate look before they both go back to plating their food. It’s a lot of work to do, but between the two of them, they’re able to get the job done quickly. Helena switches to bringing plates over to the table, doing what she can to remember where everything is supposed to be placed.
This isn’t like her and Chae-Yeong’s normal dinner arrangements. They have food set up practically covering every inch of it. At one end of the table is a collection of fruits such as Asian pears and apples, with a row of vegetables set up on plates behind it. The third row at the back of the table is where they set up their bowls of rice along with plates full of japchae and bulgogi. There’s a spot near the middle of that back row for the rice cake soup which Chae-Yeong brings in in two large bowls. Behind the table is a folding paper screen, one set up there especially for today. They’ve also set up a candle on either side of the table’s middle row, which Helena lights as she waits for Chae-Yeong.
It’s a lot of food for the two of them to eat. Far more than they’d usually prepare. Helena’s never been a big eater, and just looking at everything laid out in front of them is almost intimidating.
The food isn’t all for them, though. This year they’re trying something new. A part of Seollal is honoring ancestors with charye rites, and this year they’ll be making their first attempt at performing that.
Preparing an offering table was Helena’s idea. She wasn’t sure how Chae-Yeong would feel about it. Chae-Yeong’s relationship with her family was never a good one, and if she didn’t want to be part of the charye rites, Helena would have understood. Only Chae-Yeong’s biological father even seemed remotely worth honoring. Maybe none of Helena’s ancestors are either— her relationship with her maternal grandparents had been tense for years, and she doesn’t know much about any of her relatives beyond her grandparents.
But this is something that’s part of most celebrations of Seollal, and Helena wants to try this at least once. Chae-Yeong agreed to this too, and if nothing else Helena will be glad that she gets to do this with her wife. They had to make some substitutions, though— Helena read that alcohol is usually offered to ancestors, but neither of them drink so instead they opted for a sparkling cider. Incense is also used for charye rites too, but the smell makes Helena feel sick so instead they have a reed diffuser set up on the table by the vegetables.
“Are you ready to do the honors?” Helena asks as Chae-Yeong comes to rest her head on her shoulder.
“If you are,” Chae-Yeong says. “I’m still not sure I’m the best one to be handling this, though. There wasn’t a ton of information about what I’m supposed to be doing online.”
“You’ll do great,” Helena promises, reaching back to give her wife’s hip a quick squeeze.
Chae-Yeong takes a deep breath. It’s rare that she’s ever nervous, but that she’s clearly worried about this is a sign of just how much it matters to her. This is a part of her culture too, a part that neither of them are experienced with. They both want to get this right.
Knowing Helena’s not alone in this is nice.
But it’s also nice seeing the way any nerves fade away as Chae-Yeong begins performing the charye rites. She pulls a piece of prayer written in Korean from one of the pockets built into her skirt, placing it on the table before calling out towards their ancestors in a greeting, welcoming them to the table. She’s always been good at coming off as confident even when she’s new to something, and she looks like she’s done this a thousand times as she pours a cup of sparkling cider as an offering. She places a pair of chopsticks on the plate of bulgogi and leaves a spoon in one of the rice bowls.
Chae-Yeong moves to move the paper screen, unfolding it more so it hides the table from view. Her skirts rustle around her as she makes her way back to Helena.
“Alright, we’ll have to step out for a bit now,” Chae-Yeong says.
Helena nods and lets her wife lead the way out of the dining room and into their living room.
“Are we supposed to just sit in silence while the ancestors eat?” Helena asks as she closes the door behind her.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t find anything about that when I was figuring this out,” Chae-Yeong admits. She takes a seat on the couch. “I’d say we try to be quiet just to be safe. That feels more ceremonial.”
“Okay.”
Helena sits down next to Chae-Yeong. She doesn’t usually like sitting around in silence for a long time— her mind wanders easily, and usually it wanders towards rumination and everything in her life that’s stressing her out. But with Lunar New Year on her mind, she finds her thoughts going to better things for once.
She wonders what her great-grandparents would have thought of her and Chae-Yeong. She never met them, and she never heard stories about them either. There are no puzzle pieces for her to put together, there’s no story she can create from scraps of information. Most of her family tree is a mystery to her even as she honors them.
But Chae-Yeong’s not a mystery at all. Helena knows how to read her unlike anyone else, knows every single one of her little quirks by heart. She’s someone who makes sense, and Helena’s always grateful for their similarities. She makes life so much better for her, and she hopes that regardless of who her great-grandparents or even her great-great-grandparents were, they’d at least be proud of her for finding someone she can be herself around. Maybe they’d be proud of her for reconnecting with her roots, for trying to follow cultural traditions even if it took her a long time to do so.
Family is weird, and it’s complicated, but Helena hopes that there’d be someone in Chae-Yeong’s family that’s happy for her too. And if no one else is, then Helena will be proud of her for them.
The five minutes they’re away from the dining room pass quickly. Chae-Yeong’s leg brushes against Helena, getting past her skirt so that she can feel the plastic of her prosthetic foot brushing against Helena’s lower leg.
Chae-Yeong breaks the silence with a cough. “We’re good to head back in.”
Helena gets up first, waiting a second for Chae-Yeong to get up after her. She stretches as she gets up, making a soft grunting noise.
Nothing’s different as the two of them make it back into the dining room, though Helena feels like it should be. She hopes that this is what they’re supposed to be doing, as Chae-Yeong makes her way to the table again. She moves to put the folding screen back in its original position, revealing the table again. She goes to take the chopsticks from the bulgogi, then the spoon from the rice bowl.
“We’re supposed to bow four times now,” Chae-Yeong says as she rejoins Helena. “It’ll help send the ancestors back to the spirit world.”
Helena hums in response, taking four deep bows along with Chae-Yeong. She hopes that if anyone is watching from the other side, they appreciate the food she and Chae-Yeong prepared for them.
Chae-Yeong strides over to the table again, now taking the written prayer from it and burning it over the candle. The ashes fall down onto the table, and Helena notes that next year they should use a tablecloth.
“Okay,” Chae-Yeong says. “Since we don’t have any ritual things outside of that prayer, I think that’s about it aside from eumbok.”
“Great,” Helena says. Now it’s her turn to step up to the table.
It’s hard to say if that’s what the ceremony was supposed to be like when she has no frame of reference for it. Now that it’s over, she can’t help but worry that they did this wrong. She heard that people usually eat dried fish for Seollal— they didn’t have any of that, maybe that means the food offerings aren’t right. And they might not have done the ceremony itself right either, it was hard trying to find resources online about how to do this. She knows that she’s probably being irrational, and she’s probably holding herself to too high standards, but worry still eats at her.
“I think we might be doing this wrong,” Helena says, frowning down at the table.
“Maybe,” Chae-Yeong replies. Her arms wrap around Helena’s waist as she hugs her from behind. “But I like trying this with you.”
Helena can’t help but smile at that. “Yeah. I like it too.”
It’s not perfect. Helena knows it never will be, no matter how much she wishes she could push everything into place. But she thinks she can be content with imperfection if Chae-Yeong is.
So she leans back to give Chae-Yeong a quick kiss on the cheek.
“How about we go ahead and eat, then?” she suggests.
“Sounds good.”
As they sit down at a corner of the table, Helena looks at all of the food laid out before them. It’s impressive to think about how much they managed to make in one day, and even if things aren’t perfect, Helena thinks now that she’s happy with how things turned out. They’re definitely going to have a lot to eat, though, and she’s sure they’ll be eating leftovers for a long time after this.
Helena takes a slice of Asian pear, offering it to Chae-Yeong. She takes it between her teeth, biting off a piece with an affectionate look at Helena.
She’s lucky to be going into this new year with Chae-Yeong. Everyday with her is a gift. And Helena hopes that when they eat their rice cake soup, symbolizing growing a year older with the lunar new year, this will be one of many more years spent together.
#selfship fic#selfship#safeship#safeship fic#my writing#my posts#lunar new year#💫 Modern AU 🌙#💫 shepherd’s delight#💫#🌙 helena
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Trying to craft jokes like Rodney Dangerfield used to do is just a really fun writing challenge for me. Like, his material is quite tricky to write anyway, but I have added a further challenge to make the jokes queer and avoid or minimize self deprication. So for a lot of them I have his pacing down but they're longer than I'd like.
But so the basic formula is one sentence should frame the landscape, the background, the situation as it were; and then the next sentence is the punchline. Ever so often there's three sentences, with a middle sentence bridging the set-up and punchline, but that's about the max. My attempts often go to four or five sentences, which is too long when you compare it to a guy who could just punch out like four or five jokes a minute. There's so many so fast it looks easy but especially trying to make them queer specific it take a lot of work to hone them.
Like, the first thing I think most people get wrong is trying to play the frame to a too specific audience. It's like okay, it works for memes online, but when I'm framing one of my RD type jokes I'm trying to imagine what an offline audience in Nebraska or Ohio might be familiar with. Thankfully there's much more trans awareness, but not enough to always reliably throw complicated queer ideas in two lines, so you keep the broad concepts really simple. My wife, my dad, my job, my doctor, etc. These are all pretty reliable touchstones for people who aren't always going to process my nonbinary asexual wife and my relationship and the whole complex polyamory thing.
It's all about compacting information to its minimal possible state of compression, trying to cut away every last scrap of extraneous detail. Every single thing to understand the punchline should be in the first sentence, which somehow also needs to be the verbal equivalent of brightly colored preschool shapes.
Once all that information is delivered, the follow through has to transform it into something different, but which carries the ideas of the framework forward in a logical way. The first step ideally makes people paint a picture of their own version of Dad or Doctor or Wife. With Rodney Dangerfield, the second step usually involved dropping himself in as a loser getting dumped on. Like "I went to the doctor and he said I was overweight. I said I wanted a second opinion so he said fine, you're also ugly." It's a classic but not really the vibe I want, but also fortunately being a trans queerdo gives me something entertainingly contrary to the familiar ideas in the set up. Like "geeze Dad I thought you'd be upset I'm trans. Well I wish you'd been a lawyer but as long as you're happy." That's a cute gag that needs a little extra framing up front but ultimately plays on many ideas broadly familiar to a wide audience while generating a pretty amusing bit of absurdity for a laugh (being a lawyer isn't the same as being a gender, funny!).
Anyway, it's just a really exciting process for me to get a kind of shitpost idea, but then workshop it into one of those one-two punch jokes. Some of them need a little more fine tuning, but they're all much more carefully crafted than meets the eye. A bit like the haiku, the formula is simple, but learning how to build it takes work.
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Little taleena blurb 🫶
this idea would not leave me alone so here's this
tw/cw for mentions of blood and violence
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
Mileena's chest heaved, fiery adrenaline coursing through every vein. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, and the warmth of it stained her hands. Her jaw ached, teeth still looking to bite and tear and kill. Her harsh breathing filled the room, eyes trained on the mangled corpse that lay at her feet. It was barely recognizable as a person, torn to shreds and its last vestiges of life ebbing away. Mileena was sure that the rest of the group fared the same.
Foolishly, there had been an attempt on her life.
Assassination wasn't uncommon, both of her parents had their fair share of attempted coups and hired assassins. It came with the job description. Usually, though, the assassins weren't so arrogant.
There were many that opposed Mileena's reign before she even ascended, half of Outworld instead rallying behind the likes of her sister. She had met every one of them head-on, proving time and time again that she deserved the throne. Tarkat be damned, she would not allow herself to falter in her leadership of her people.
For someone to dare try and assassinate her, in the light of day no less, was a disrespect of the highest degree.
Behind Mileena, the door to the throne room opened. Tanya came rushing in, steps sure and looking relatively unscathed. The only sign that she had even been in battle was the tight grip that she had on her weapon.
"It's done, Mileena. The traitors have been taken care of," Tanya said, stopping just behind her Empress.
Mileena turned, angling herself towards her love slowly. Like a lioness, Mileena was a perfect picture of a graceful huntress, covered in blood and wild eyes pinning Tanya with her stare.
"Thank you, Tanya," Mileena's gravelly voice rumbled. She was still attempting to tamp down the blinding rage in her chest, reeling herself back in since the fight was over.
Tanya smiled fondly, tilting her head and tucking away her weapon. "Oh, Beloved," she murmured, moving closer. Once within range, Tanya cupped Mileena's cheeks, carefully avoiding the razor edge of her teeth. Her fingers smeared some of the blood, but neither Mileena nor Tanya seemed to care that much. "Look at you. Radiant as always, my love. Come, let us clean you up."
Mileena closed her eyes, angling her head closer to the warmth of Tanya's palm. "Not as radiant as you," she hissed. Tanya was a vision of beauty, and Mileena regrets not being there to witness her in her element. Tanya was deadly, with a righteous fury that could bring even the most vicious of beasts to heel.
Similarly, Tanya thought the same of Mileena. To see Mileena tear apart her enemies was something Tanya had thanked the gods endlessly for. To be by Mileena's side, with the blood of her enemies shared between them, was a blessing. There was no one she would rather be beside, no one who could match her ferocity in the heat of battle.
As the blood cooled between them, Tanya pulled Mileena's forehead to hers, sighing quietly. A relieved smile painted her lips. While she never doubted Mileena's abilities, there was still a chance that something could have happened, an unexpected variable that could've taken Mileena away for good.
However, with the carnage around them fading into the background, Tanya supposes that not even death could keep them apart.
#mortal kombat#tanya x mileena#taleena#mk1 mileena#mk1 tanya#women covered in blood >>>>>>>>#mk1#my fics <3
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