"From triumph to failure is but one step."
+ the usual
I love when I can include paper sketches in the process gif. It's very satisfying to see it progress from a very vague imagining of what was in my head to the finished project.
+ version without text
My favorite sketch was definitely the one where I actually put in words what it's supposed to convey. I wouldn't usually write that down, cause it's all in my head, but it was useful to do so when sending it to other people. I'll go into it more but here it is just as a teaser:
Lmao first of all, I like how I was teasing "Spanish GP" art, but as per usual, it's just thinly veiled au art. IM SORRY, I'M NOT INTERESTED IN MAKING GENERAL POSTERS, THAT'S NO FUN! So instead you will get weirdly relevant matador au art. I like it a lot though, I was really shocked I was able to draw 3 different Fernandos, I mean even drawing one figure takes a lot out of me, but this was weirdly easy?? I think it's just the effect of not being burnt out anymore, and actually being able to draw with more ease makes me feel like a god.
Okay, so the text: "Fight or Flight?" I'll be honest, I don't even remember why I chose it, literally came to me in a vision 😭 But I think it's fitting with the narrative of this piece. Is it better to keep going on, keep fighting, or better to finally give up, and flee? Not that I even remotely think he should give up, but I feel like sometimes I can sense him pondering this very question. That was the big fear before he announced that he re-signed. Keep fighting and maybe, just maybe, you'll get the chance to finally go up against the bull again. Or accept it's an uphill battle and the fighting is going to keep getting more and more strenous, and maybe it's time to put down the sword. SORRY THIS IS SO ANGSTY FOR WHAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE "yayyyy home race!!!" Please forgive me <3
I. Renault
At some point, someone pointed out to me that I had drawn all other iterations of matador Fernando with a sword, except for Renault Fernando, and that ended up feeling very poignant to me. In a bull fighting match, they really only pull out the sword at the last minute to deliver the killing blow. So I think it's important to never draw this Fernando with a sword, because it shows the unfailing confidence and stability he has at that point. He only needs to pull out the sword at the end, as a formality almost, there's no reason for him to keep his guard up at all times.
II. Ferrari
Meanwhile this Fernando, he's considering his sword like he hasn't had to in the past. He's checking the sharpness, making sure in advance he can do what needs to be done. He's on guard, he feels like he needs to keep up his defenses at all times because he doesn't have that same amount of trust and stability anymore. He knows though he will be up against the (red) bull, at least that's never in question. At least there's the assurance he'll get the chance to fight.
III. Aston
Oh, Aston Fernando....He doesn't know whether to take up his sword or finally put it down for the last time. While at least Ferrari Fernando knows he's on constant guard against the bull, this Fernando doesn't even have that assurance anymore. He feels like he can never put down the sword, just in case he gets the chance to strike the killing blow on the bull, which feels like it's growing more and more unlikely.
Spanish flag: ? Lmao this was meant to be something to celebrate Fernando's home race and it turned very introspective whoops. Also got the Napoleon quote in there hahaha, can't escape it!! Shame though there is no French gp anymore, if so I'd probably draw an unhinged thing for it :,(
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clear smoke, sober demons
Rating: T | WC: 3.6K | Steve/Eddie
This fic depicts a panic attack, so please be mindful. Full tags on AO3.
The first time Steve had a beer after Starcourt he threw up in his parents’ hall bathroom.
Wasn’t even drunk — was nowhere near it in fact — but as soon as the alcohol started to creep up on him he felt bile rising in his throat. Heart racing, pulse thundering through his veins, he couldn’t think. Steve wasn’t himself anymore. He was in the bunker again. Strapped to a chair with his brain feeling like it was going to float away from itself. Drowning in his own blood. Grey walls, grey floor, closing in on him. Walls swaying, mind swimming in a horrid high. No sun, no windows, no breeze. Stuck. He was sweating and shivering and it was so fucking cold. Restraints pressing in as his mind floated. Sweat plastering his hair and his clothes to his skin, sticky and itchy and coated in his own blood. Or sweat. Or vomit. Or a horrid combination of the three that sent a wave of nausea through him. Shivers wracking his body, pulsing in time with his thundering heart. He wasn’t himself anymore.
Steve had spent the evening curled up on the tile floor, face pressed to the toilet seat, shaking and thinking of Starcourt.
The next morning he felt hungover. Like his muscles had been pulled and strung out like taffy, leaving them worn and tired. He was walking through sludge, each movement slow and deliberate as he headed back to the kitchen. Still in his clothes from yesterday, stinking of sweat.
Steve gagged and retched as he poured all the alcohol down the sink. Even just the smell of it sending him reeling. Clutching the kitchen counter so hard he felt like he was going to break it. That it would crumble to dust underneath his fingers. Desperately, achingly, trying to anchor himself. Pull himself back down, shove his mind back into his body.
He had a panic attack on the kitchen floor.
He didn’t drink after that.
Read the rest on AO3
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