#have portraits painted at varying times

[thestressedsimmer]

[lorelune]

(continuation of this piece. part ii of regency au with jing yuan)

"he needs to stop doing this."

you tell lord luocha this as you stumble out of your one room cottage, desperately attempting to smooth down your day gown. your palms shake as you do and you shoot your patron an angry look.

lord luocha looks perfectly passive, painfully neutral with a hint of mirth. the bastard. "i think it's quite appropriate for the general to call upon you this hour of the day. i thought you would be prepared."

"i am not an 'eligible lady' as i am so often reminded," you shake your head. "i cannot constantly be ready to take his company, just because it's before supper. be reasonable, my lord. speak with him about this."

"perhaps," luocha tilts his head with the barest hint of a smile. "i'll consider it. for now, why don't you go greet our guest? i'll have some refreshments sent in."

"fine." you say. your voice wavers.

this is not the first time the retired general, Jing Yuan, has called upon you. it's more like the fifth. maybe sixth. it is more frightening to keep count of his increasingly frequently visits (as they clearly indicate some type of explicit interest), so you stopped counting them recently. peace of mind and all.

you enter the drawing with and bow to the general without thinking, "good afternoon, general."

"likewise," he says easily, voice so deep and rich; it makes your insides feel wobbly.

jing yuan sits on one of the loveseats, legs tastefully spread and in some amount of regalia. well-dressed, certainly. his hair is half-tied up as he so favors, and his face has a healthy amount of blush. a crisp jaw. bulging forearms and thighs beneath his various dressings. a broad chest. it is hard not to ogle him overtly. you train your gaze on the hand-tufted rug before rising and daintily (as you can) sit across from him on the other side of the loveseat. you tuck your legs to the side, barely remembering to not fully fold them under yourself. decorum and all.

(it feels foolish. jing yuan hardly seem to care. lord luocha thinks your bumbling is amusing.)

"i apologize for the intrusion," he says. he squeezes his hands into loose fists. you don't miss the action. "will you indulge me for a time?"

"i'm already here, aren't i?" you quip back, tone light. easy. "i don't mind the company."

there's more you could say—

("general, i think you are so very kind and thoughtful. thank you for spending your spare time with me.")

("general, i am sorry i can't attend any of the balls and festivities as anything more than a performer. i would not mind being on your arm, if circumstances were different, and you desired it so".)

("general, how much longer will you entertain this? are you intending to steal my heart, only to break it?"

instead, you remain quiet, picking at your nailbeds. jing yuan watches you with a hum. flexes his hands.

"are you working on any new pieces?" he asks.

"a few, actually." you reply. "the muses have been kind to me."

"oh?" he smiles. he tilts his head cutely, almost boyish, despite his age. "may i ask the subject matter?"

"ah—" you feel your face heat. "a number of things. subject matters. a varying themes."

truthfully, you have started four new paintings in the last week. all of which were started in moments of such deep inspirations, they had you painting and laying base colors from sunrise until sunset. it just so happens that these... works have. a clear theme. that of the general.

(during his second visit, he commented on the blooming azaleas. you've been obsessed with perfecting the shape of their petals. his third visit, you sat on the same seat as him. you were so much closer then, and found yourself lost in the honey color of his eyes. the punch of purple underneath them, an accumulation of sleepless nights. another is of a lion, like that of his crest. the final is a portrait of him that has you committing every bit of him to memory. perhaps you'll be able to capture his likeness with your memory if the muses continue to favor you.)

"you're quite the varied artist." he leans his jaw on his fist. "your dedication to your craft is most admirable."

"i cannot help the ways in which inspiration forces me to act," or, to thirst over the man in front of you. god forbid a parched man be given drink so fine. you shake your head. "i have had... some amount of increased, enjoyable, new interactions over the past while. i suppose i'm feeling invigored."

"oh?" jing yuan looks smitten. his eyes go half-lidded. "may i guess the source of your inspiration?"

"if you do, you'll only embarrass me."

"so, you think i will be right in my guess then?"

"i know so." you roll your eyes, sheepish. "i am not foolish enough to think i could hide face and play games with the Divine Foresight and win."

"you underestimate yourself."

"hardly. have you... met yourself, general?"

"often, frequently." he nods to himself. he catches your gaze. it's piercing. "i find myself in the mirror, often, these days. i tell myself that i am spry enough and have retained enough charm through my years to properly court and woo the recluse, genius artist i have been stealing time from. i meet the man in my mirror and think that he is quite clever, but tends to underestimate you as well."

your breath is caught in your chest. you scrunch the skirt of your dress up in your palms and swallow.

"the general speaks freely and foolishly."

"and yet, i do not lie."

"... you are brazen."

"do you not require such treatment?" jing yuan laughs sweetly. "if i were any more gentle with you, you would've already retreated far into your lord's gardens. i wouldn't hope to see you again. you will need to forgive me for my shamelessness."

"... i could perhaps be convinced." you scoot closer on the love seat. you should. create space away from him. before you do something stupid and unbecoming. but you find yourself drawn closer. "the general is a kind man. good-hearted."

"such a charitable assessment."

"i know it to be true." you do know. the man keeps his own gardens, tends them himself. he pays his servants good wages and left war and bloodshed behind sometime ago. "i would like to get to know his good heart more."

jing yuan steels himself then. you watch it happen. his spine straightens, his throat bobs. sweat beads at his temples, you now notice. his keeps his hands in his lap, wringing them together.

"then we are in agreement?"

"... only if the general treats me well." you stumble over your words. "only if you treat me well, general."

"jing yuan, please."

"fine. jing yuan, then." it takes everything in you not to reach for his hands. your last threads of civility barely remaining. "will you treat me well, jing yuan?"

he breathes. you feel the warm exhale of it fan over your cheeks. your gaze drops to the softness of his bottom lip.

"only the best, for you."

"so, you're smitten with me?"

"simply struck." he gulps. you need him, you decide, decorum be damned. you lean forward, just as he does. you can hear the tremor of your breath in time with his—

the door the drawing room opens, suddenly, with a resounding thud. you jump away from the general, a hand over your heart. you attempt to not noticeably pant, though you perhaps fail. lord luocha raises a knowing eyebrow as a few of his staff bring in a platter of a small treats and bubbly drinks in fluted glasses.

"forgive the intrusion," luocha places a hand on jing yuan's shoulder. the general straightens up. "i figured that you two must be in need some of refreshments. may i suggest a walk in the garden, later? perhaps, you could show him your herb patches, [name]."

lord luocha shoots you a knowing look.

(said patch of herbs is just outside of your cottage. a good distance away from the main estate.)

"i'd love to." you swallow and shake your head. "if the general will deign to spend a bit more time with me."

jing yuan looks at you, really looks at you, and smiles. it is an honest, genuine thing. you are glad luocha is at his back, so only you can see the earnest of it. it is something special, you think, just for you.

"as much as you will allow me."

and you will give him as much as you can muster.

[sanrielle]

Amazing fanart by Joanacchi! Posted here on tumblr with their blessing. Each one is based on a style that reflects a particular ancient culture's art history. (See below for descriptions provided by the artist!)

Store (buy these prints!) Twitter Instagram

Aang: Tibetan Thangka

"Thangkas are traditional Tibetan tapestries that have been used for religious and educational purposes since ancient times! The techniques applied can vary greatly, but they usually use silk or cotton fabrics to paint or embroider on. What you can depict in a Thangka is really versatile, and I wanted to represent things that make up Aang as a character."

Zuko and Azula: Japanese Ukiyo-e

"Ukiyo-e is a style that has been around Japan between the 17th and 19th century, and focused mainly in representing daily life, theater(kabuki), natural landscapes, and sometimes historical characters or legends!

Ukiyo-e was developed to be more of a fast and commercial type of art, so many drawings we see are actually woodblock prints, so the artist could do many copies of the same art!

I based my Zuko and Azula pieces on the work of Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1798-1861) one of the last ukiyo-e masters in Japan! He has a specific piece which featured a fire demon fighting a lord that fought back with lighting, and that really matched Zuko and Azula's main techniques!”

Toph: Chinese Portraiture from Ming and Qing Dynasties

"Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) was one of the longest in China! It was also a period where lots of artistic evolutions were happening, especially when it comes to use of colour! There was not a predilection for portraits during this time, but there are a lot of pieces depicting idealized women and goddesses from the standards of the time. For this portrait of Toph, I imagined something that maybe their parents commissioned, depicting a soft and delicate Toph which we know is not what she is about ♥️

Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) was the last Chinese Dynasty to reign before the Revolution. One of the most famous emperors of this period was Qianlong, and he really liked Western art! He commissioned a lot of portraits of his subordinates, and I chose a portrait of one of his bodyguards as a reference for the second Toph portrait, which I believe is much more like how she would want to be represented! The poem on top talks about the bodyguards' achievements during a specific war. I had no time to come up with a poem for Toph, so I just used the same one for the composition!”

Sokka and Katara: Inuit Lithograph

"For a long time, Inuit art expressed itself in utilitarian ways. The Nomadic lifestyle of early Inuit tribes played a huge part in that: most art pieces are carved in useful tools, clothing, or children's toys, small and easy to be transported, and depicted scenes and patterns representing their daily lives!

That changed a lot during the colonization. Since the settling of the Inuit tribes, many art pieces began to be created in order to be exported to foreigns, so they started to sculpt bigger and more decorative pieces.

Lithography, which is a type of printmaking, was introduced to Inuit people by James Houston, that learned the technique from the japanese. The art form was quickly embraced by the inuit, as part of the process is very similar to carving. Prints that are produced by inuit artists are still being sold today!

As lithography is not an old art style and it's still commercially relevant to the Inuit communities, since creating these in 2021 I have been donating regularly to the Inuit Art Foundation, not only all the money I get from selling some prints of these but a bit more, at least once a year. Hopefully, I can increase donations this year!”

[kwillow]

(1/3) I adore the new comic with Alex, Ridge and Theo! The insight into how Theo's "healing magic" can be used is fantastic and the art is beautiful (as usual) to boot. A question, also: In the background of the last panel, there's several paintings in the background--what looks like three of Jocosa, but also a regular ermine. I recall that beasts (aka animals as we know them) are present in Amaranthine and associations/taboos with them vary by region. In Northcrest, are ermines seen as

Funny that you say there's three portraits of Jocosa in this comic - she is there, but her painting rests alongside these other members of her storied family. Most people who noticed the paintings thought they were all Jocosa, though! I don't blame anyone for being confused. The Norths are infamous for all looking the same.

(Also, they are probably slightly easier to tell apart here, when their portraits aren't covered by 5 years of dust - Theo really needs to clean that place up.)

Anyway, thank you so so much for your compliments on the comic! I will put the rest of your message and answer your questions under the cut.

Ermine Motifs

The ermine isn't a pet, but simply an ermine. The Norths are unusually obsessed with their "source" animal, and use the image of ermines as representations of their power and prestige. Like you predicted, ermines feature prominently in their decor and fashion. Ermine-shaped badges, ermines on rugs, ermine newel posts (that's a fun word!), and ermine paintings. It's a little obnoxious. They hold a peculiar reverence for the creatures while also being extremely willing to wear their skinned pelts as cloaks. They do not think there is anything weird or grim about that.

Part of their fixation comes from the fact that unlike some noble families, ermines feature in their heraldry, so the presence of ermine artwork alludes to their noble status, much like how the royal family of England might display lions. Heraldic ermine spots appear on their coat of arms, and ermines are the shield's supporters. But they are also just self-obsessed and have a fondness for that which reminds them of themselves. Even Theo, despite being of a ratlike persuasion, plays into the North fixation on ermines by occasionally wearing ermine fur and jewelry shaped like heraldic ermine spots.

Closely associating yourself with the animal you resemble was more common in historical times, but the degree to which the Norths do it would still be odd. People with more modern mindsets, more removed from ancient mythical symbolism and more concerned with modern problems of technological advancement and not dying in a frozen wasteland, would consider the Norths to be embarrassing themselves with their ermine obsession. Why are they so heavily identifying with a simple beast? Who cares what kind of animal you look like? Shouldn’t you be more proud of being, you know, a person?

Theo's Catalyst Stone

Yes, the North's catalyst stone is passed down through the generations upon the death of its previous owner. (The teardrop-shaped stone the ancestress is wearing in her portrait is the very same one Theo has stuck in his hand.) Given that Theo slammed the stone into his flesh, he will be the last of his line to use this catalyst stone - and given that he hasn't exactly been a hit on the dating circuit, he will likely also be the last North as well.

Ancient Hyden Encounters

While there were more mages back in Hyden's prime days, it was still a small enough population that it wouldn't be unheard of for Hyden and some early Norths to have crossed paths in their day to day.

Chocodile and I agree that Hyden probably knew some of Theo's ancestors, but we haven't worked out the details of those encounters quite yet. Given the North's seemingly inherent predilection for bitterness and snobbery, they probably didn't get on all that well.

[oldschoolfrp]

From Wargames illustrated 11, July 1988: Some lovely historical armies made from Citadel fantasy miniatures, with appropriate architecture and landscape modeling. Figures are C26 Men at Arms by the Perry twins from 1984, still in production today by Wargames Foundry as their "Wars of the Roses / 15th Century Men at Arms" line.

Miniature banners often are oversized for better visibility on the tabletop, but here the editor offers a different explanation:

Four pics of Wars of the Roses figures from Tim Hall's and Roger Needham's large and varied collections. The figures are the old Citadel range, formerly marketed as fantasy "Men-at-Arms"! The photos demonstrate the military doctrine of the time: the banners were so big, that lots of heavy plate armour had to be worn to keep the bearers stable in the breeze. With the coming of gunpowder -- more accurately, with the coming of personal handheld firearms -- opponents' volleys usually shot the flags full of holes, allowing the breeze to pass through, thus rendering armour obsolete, save for members of the aristocracy having their portraits painted. (Warning to young readers: don't quote this theory in your history exams!) The buildings are by Hales Models.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for putting my paintings in the gallery?

So I (22F) a senior in university and I'm an art major. I graduated last semester, and each graduating senior from the art department has to put a few pieces on show in the gallery.

This one lady, I'll call her Linda (40something F) has had an issue with me as long as I've known her. She's going back to school to get her art degree, and she has a thing about people doing better than her. We have been in all the same classes from day one since the art department is kinda small. I'm an all A student, have been the whole time, and she holds some resentment as she's usually a high C low B student.

I'm a decent artist, and not for lack of practice. My main medium is watercolor, but it hasn't been taught in our university during our class cycle due to the death of the old professor. I did half my paintings for the gallery in watercolor and half in acrylic, all human figures and portraits in varying stages or death and decay as a memento Mori type deal. All realism, all very serious.

I found out halfway through the design period that Linda did watercolor as well to my surprise, and she did a lot of abstract flowers with pastel colors and fun quotes. They weren't super realistic as that's not her forte, but still very nice colorwork and design.

All of my artwork sold, and only about a third of hers did.

I think it was just that my stuff catered more to the crowd that attends art school showings, and hers was more for people who want something they actually enjoy looking at.

In any case, she contacted me at my new job to say that my choice to do watercolor totally undermined her, and that I should have stuck to acrylic since all my acrylics sold and I would have been fine without doing watercolor.

I feel like my choice was justified, I wanted to show off my main medium to investors and collectors, but I still feel like I took food out of another artist's mouth.

I already had an internship at the auction house I now work at, and she didn't have anything lined up. I feel like an asshole for undermining her, and she feels that way too.

So, am I the asshole for doing the same medium as a less established artist and possibly taking her sales?

What are these acronyms?

[the-scandalorian]

two

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: sort of dubcon due to intoxication; alcohol and drug use (by both reader and Joel); mention of reader’s hair being long enough to tangle his fingers in (no details otherwise); smut (fingering, oral, spitting on her pussy, p-in-v); grief and angst Note: There's no part one out yet; this is the second of a potential series of loosely tied oneshots that are coming to me out of order.

The living room is blue. All the surfaces, the shelves and the antique piano, are coated in a thick layer of dust. It feels wrong to disturb anything in this house—in this perfectly preserved resting place—so you tuck yourself into the corner of Bill and Frank’s old couch, out of the way, toe off your boots, and pull your knees up to your chest.

Ellie thunders up the stairs and shuts herself in one of the rooms, gone at the first opportunity for privacy.

Joel doesn’t disappear. You expect him to take the other bedroom and close the door. Instead, he watches you settle onto the couch and drops heavily into the seat beside you. He leans over the armrest and opens a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of dark liquid.

His casual knowledge of the space speaks to how much time he’s spent here, to the depth of his friendship with Bill and Frank. It makes you sad; it makes the room dark. It makes jealousy sour your stomach. Joel has people: a place to fit in this fractured world.

Had. He had people.

There are paintings on the walls: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. Mostly of Bill, you think. With that glower? Definitely Bill. Joel did say Frank was the nice one. 

The likenesses vary in style. There’s a gradient from careful, detailed studies to less refined renderings with loose, painterly brushwork. All of them, in their own unique way, capture the same steely gaze—the spiteful tenacity that must have fueled their survival for decades. 

You ignore the many versions of stern eyes watching you.

The worn fabric under your fingers is scratchy, the upholstery splashed with roses, the hard back of the couch draped in crocheted blankets. It’s dated, the whole place frozen in time while the world fell—falls—apart around it, chaos kept out by a chain link fence and Bill’s gritted teeth. A bell jar in a hurricane.

You wonder if Joel and Tess ever considered leaving the QZ permanently for this place. If that was ever offered. You imagine it would have been almost…idyllic.

You look up at Joel. He’s holding the unopened bottle in his lap. His sharp profile is limned by the soft moonlight filtering through the window behind him. It catches on the silver flecked in his hair and beard.

He knows you’re watching him. He says nothing. He’s thinking about the letter.

About Tess.

You’re trying to think about anything else.

You study his face. Even like this, anguished and lined, filthy from the road, with a half-healed slash across his cheek, he’s handsome. He has rugged good looks, with those brown eyes and that granite-cut jaw. The natural pout of his bottom lip. In a different time, a different universe, he could have been an actor, a model—the face of an ad campaign for a devastatingly masculine cologne. Those big, veined hands modeling watches on the pages of a fashion magazine.  

He wouldn’t have. It wouldn’t suit. But he could have.

It’s strange to think about what he could have been.

Instead, he’s here. The peaks of his knuckles are split and scabbed, the valleys a mottled black and blue, their edges fading to a sickly yellow. His skin is rough and dry—it snags when he runs his hands absentmindedly over the denim of his jeans. His palms are calloused. You know because when shit gets serious, he grabs your wrist or your forearm or your bicep—never your hand—and shoves you behind the wall of his body or pulls you along as he takes off at a run. His middle is thick and soft, his shoulders broad and strong. He’s going gray, and fuck, it looks good on him.

You study him because it feels inconsequential. Your presence feels inconsequential. To him, you think, you’re just another ghost in this house.

Or maybe he is.

A small part of you is braced for him to break, to buckle under the weight of Bill’s last words—the words that are hanging over this house like a storm cloud. Anyone else would.

Joel won’t, though. You watched him stalk away from the burning capitol building with white-knuckled stoicism, and you felt sure that he was already too utterly broken to break again.

Like molten metal, bent and hammered and folded over on itself, again and again and again. Until it’s shatterproof. 

He’s leaning forward, his elbows braced on his spread knees. Even on a soft couch, he doesn’t fully relax. He drops his head into his hands and scrubs one over his face. Then he reaches into the pack by his feet and rummages for something. A little plastic baggie. He just holds it for a minute. You watch him decide.

It’s safe here. As safe as anywhere can be. And Joel hasn’t slept in days.

He shakes two white pills out of the bag and chases them with a swig of whiskey, knocking the liquor back with a quick tip of his head, squinting against the slight after-burn. You extend your open palm. He shakes out a couple pills for you without question, without even looking up. 

He passes you the bottle, and you down them. One harsh gulp.

It’s real whiskey, with a label and everything, not something homemade. Not top-shelf quality by any means, but it’s better than anything you’ve had in a long time. It should be sipped and savored. Back in the QZ, you could have gotten a hefty stack of ration cards for this one bottle—even half empty. It doesn’t matter now.

You take another drink and hand it back.

You watch as a glazed calm gradually slips over Joel’s troubled expression and he finally sinks into the give of the couch cushions, letting his head drop back. You watch as the pills soften his edges. Just barely. They erode a little of the hard, calcified layer he must have started building the day of the outbreak. It grants you a fuzzy peek into the Joel before. His shoulders lose their tension; his fists unclench. If you squint, you might be able to see the Joel who drank with his buddies and winked at women at the bar. The one who drove a pickup truck with the windows rolled down in the summertime. 

You sit in silence as the haze takes you too, creeping up the back of your neck like a warm tide until you feel just numb enough. Any and all troubling thoughts are caught and trapped, restrained like moths in amber, so all that’s left in this blue room is pleasant quiet.

You’re just starting to feel drowsy and loose when he turns to you, wanting. Joel shifts in his seat and fixes you with a look—the first time he’s looked directly at you in an hour or more. The usual bite of his penetrating gaze is muted, the crease between his brows deep with feeling; his brown eyes are big with a question. A need.

It’s the tiniest chink in his armor, a momentary blip of him without a mask. A second of vulnerability, so foreign on his stoic face that the urge to soothe him is visceral. It jumps up the back of your throat.

This is Joel breaking.

He’s asking you for something—for distraction, for comfort. To be put back together.

You unfold your limbs and climb directly into his lap.

He makes a low, approving sound when you straddle his spread thighs and drops his head to your chest to inhale deeply against your shirt. If you weren’t buzzed, you might flinch away. You’re filthy, sweaty and dirty from days on the road. Neither of you have taken advantage of the shower yet. You can’t smell nice.

Joel does it again, though, chasing the comfort by burying his face between your tits, his hands tightening on your hips, his long fingers slipping inside the back pockets of your jeans to grip your ass. He pulls you down against his lap. Hard.

He’s hungry for it this time, watching the place where your body meets his, denim against rough denim. Like he’s imagining the way your naked body will fit against his.

He remembers himself for a moment, looking up at your face. “This okay?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you say. “I want it.”

“Good.”

His forehead drops lightly against your sternum as he moves you against him. He guides your hips into a slow grind. Your knees sink into the plush of the old sofa cushions, your hands braced on his shoulders. 

If he were anyone else, you’d have kissed him already. You settle for pressing your face against the side of his neck, dragging your nose up the column of his bared throat. He smells like sun and sweat and pine, like the dry, dusty road and something else...something distinctly him. It's subtle. It makes your mouth water.

He holds you tight, a strong arm wrapped around your back. You run your hands over his biceps, over the hard lines of his muscles, his shoulders—feeling what often distracts you when he crosses his arms over his chest and the fabric of his shirt pulls taut.

Joel is content, for now, to lift his hips, just barely, into the steady roll of your hips. You think about last time—his clinical, efficient approach. It was all deliberate movements and quick work. He'd made a growled promise that it would only ever happen once.

And yet.

This time, he seems to be letting himself enjoy something, reveling in the pleasure. That alone feels like an unaffordable indulgence, like if you drew attention to it, you’d scare it away. 

His big hand slides heavily up the curve of your spine, a needy drag, and back down again, settling on your lower back, urging you harder. Faster.

More.

It feels good. You rock your hips, grinding yourself into his lap, where he’s full and hard now, thick and straining against his fly, and you groan together when he adjusts his legs wider and pushes his hips up to meet you, letting you get at his clothed erection a little easier. The metal button on your jeans clicks against his belt buckle as you move.

He turns his head to set his teeth against your shoulder, biting with no pressure, and breathes hot against the fabric as you ride him, his chest expanding on a sharp inhale as you drag your core over the stiff arch of his cock and chase the embers of pleasure sparking low in your belly.

All at once, it’s not enough.

Joel grunts and grips your ass, fingers digging into your soft flesh, and he half-shoves, half-lifts you backwards as he straightens, setting you on your feet in front of him. You make a squeaked sound of surprise at the sudden movement, clutching his biceps for balance as you find your footing, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into the barest beginning of a smile. You smile back at him, radiant.

Smiles.

The pills are hitting. It’s all a little delirious.

The moment feels surreal, like this dated living room has been snatched from the current of time and set down on solid ground. Just for a moment. Just to let you both breathe.

It evaporates quickly. His stern expression returns.

“Bedroom,” Joel says with a bossy little jerk of his chin.

You snatch the half-empty whiskey bottle from the coffee table and head down the hall.

There are two spare bedrooms in this big, white house—the one upstairs that Ellie disappeared into and a second down here on the first floor. It’s situated down the hall from the locked door. You try not to think about that room. Try not to wonder if Joel and Tess shared this same spare room when they used to visit.

There are too many ghosts here tonight.

You pop open the bottle and drink deep, and Joel shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. He stoops to switch on the lamp on the bedside table.

You drop the corked whiskey onto an armchair and reach for the top button of your shirt, eager to avoid an awkward interlude, eager to please him.

There’s something about Joel that makes you desperate to be wanted by him—something more than just his gruff appeal or the situation you’re in together or the fact that his care promises some measure of safety in this world of scarcity. It has everything to do with how he acts around the people that are his. More than just protective. Possessive.

This want is practical. And it’s not. 

It’s animal too.

He rounds the bed and stands close, stopping your hand with his. You look up, and he inclines his head toward the bed.

“Lie down.”

You move to listen, but he stops you. 

“Wait.”

He bends to grip the bottom edge of the bed frame, and Joel grunts as he slides the whole thing a few inches away from the wall. The feet squeak along the hardwood floor.

He straightens and nods. “Alright, go on.”

The image of him arched over your body, fucking you so hard and deep that the headboard knocks against the wall—thump, thump, thump—sets your heart racing. You scramble up the bed, and he takes his time unlacing his boots then follows with a slow crawl, watching you with dark eyes. With intent so potent it makes you want to look away.

You don’t.

He’s here this time.

As present as either of you can be when you’re a little high. Just the barest edge of sedated. You imagine your own eyes are glassy, lacquered in the low light of the shaded lamp. Joel’s don’t seem to be, though. He’s alert.

He crowds you further up the bed, and you scoot back until your head hits the pillow. He makes space for himself between your legs and reaches for your collar. You watch his deft fingers work quickly down the line of buttons on your shirt.

His eyes flick from his hands to your face and back. There’s naked want there—desire etched into his hard features. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve only seen him two ways: serious or furious.

This is something else. This is intoxicating.

Your head is starting to spin.

He gets your shirt open, helps you shuck it off, and pulls your bra off with a practiced ease. His large, warm hands palm your breasts as soon as they’re free. He’s immediately fixated, and the attention sends a flush of heat over your bare skin. He tests the weight of each, kneading lightly, his mouth parted in muted awe as his fingertips sink into the give. He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, one and then the other, and watches, satisfied, as they pebble for him. He studies your reactions to his touch, eyes lingering on your face as he plays with you, as if your response is as important to him as the feel of you. 

He takes his time. Unhurried. Like you have all the time in the world.

Joel leans down suddenly and licks a warm stripe up the line of your sternum, through the valley of your breasts, and your body reacts to him: you arch your back into the heat, your hand automatically burying itself in his thick hair, your lips parting around a moan.

His tongue.

You must taste like salt and sweat, and yet, he looks a little smug when he pulls back, his lips quirked in a half smile.

“You like that?”

He looks young when he smiles. You can see thirty-year-old Joel in that look. Unburdened Joel. Fifty-year-old Joel without the trauma.

The margins of your vision start to smudge as you look at him; colors bleed freely in the dim light, his features running like wet ink. His smile melts away. You feel off-kilter, like you’ll slip off the solid plane of this mattress and drop into nothingness if you don’t hold on. You fist your hands in the comforter.

A hand frames your cheek. You can’t focus your eyes. Your lashes flutter.

Joel says your name, concern woven between each syllable.

Once. Again.

He drops his weight onto you. The spinning stops, and your hands release. You meet his eyes.

“Joel—”

You remember last time—the first time you fucked, the smothering weight of his hand on your mouth when you said his name—and you bite your lip before you can say anything else. But he doesn’t react to it this time. He’s too lost in it.

It feels good to be lost together.

“You alright?” he asks, his brow pinched not in anger or distress, for once, but in naked concern.  “Too much?”

You're not sure if he's asking about the pills and the booze or the pace or just...him.

“No, no.” You shake your head. “I’m good now.”

There’s so much care in his eyes that it feels like he’d give you anything you want in this moment. Like he’d lie down and hold you if you asked him to. You’re seeing him without his hardened front, and it makes you shiver. You slip your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his face down to yours, taking the thing you want most. He bends for you willingly.

His lips are a little chapped, his facial hair scratchy. You’re expecting a light kiss and a retreat, a concession. You’re not expecting his whole body to respond—the press of his chest against yours and an arm slipping under your shoulders to force you closer. You’re not expecting to be enveloped by his wide frame, for your back to be lifted a couple inches off the mattress in his urgency to hold you tight. You’re not expecting his tongue to slip between your lips first—to lick across the roof of your mouth in an utterly invasive, possessive way that makes you gasp.

He coaxes your shocked body into a response with careful waves of his tongue, consuming you with hungry lips and searching, grasping hands. Gentle teeth worry your bottom lip, soothed by the pass of his tongue. His nose nudges tenderly against yours as he kiss kiss kisses his way across your cheek.

He pulls back, fixing you with a serious look.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You can see him so perfectly in the before for a second. How he might have asked you the same question in some mundane situation, helping you to your feet after a stumble with a steadying hand on your shoulder. The dip of his accent and the color of his eyes would have spelled the end for you. You would have been a goner.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m good.”

“You wanna stop?”

You tighten your fingers in his shirt and shake your head. “No.”

He nods, sweeping light fingers across your cheek, and leans back in.

You fumble blindly with the buttons of his shirt as he kisses you, working as quickly as you can in the tight, shifting space between your bodies. When you have it almost all the way open, he sits back on his heels and yanks it off the rest of the way, tossing it off the bed. You tug impatiently at the hem of the white t-shirt he has on underneath, but he goes right for the button on your jeans, popping it open and ignoring the zipper completely. It comes down on its own when he hooks his fingers in your belt loops and jerks the denim off your body. Your underwear goes with it.

You reach for his belt buckle, but he stops you.

“No,” he says, stern, not unkind, “I’m gonna make you come first.”

He waits for your nod, then slides down the mattress and situates himself between your legs, spreading them open with a decisive push. 

You’re naked under his gaze.

You watch, tense with anticipation, as he leans down to part you with the v of his fingers, one forearm hooked over the top of your thigh. He takes his time admiring the natural gloss of your arousal, his face situated so close that you can feel the warmth of each individual exhale on your skin, and then he looks up at you from his position between your thighs.

Without breaking eye contact, he adds to your slick by pouting his lips and letting a line of his spit drip slowly onto your pussy. 

When he did that the first time you fucked, you chalked it up to efficiency, necessity—a way to bypass intimacy by cutting down on foreplay. Now, watching him track the slow seep of his saliva over your glistening cunt with hungry eyes, you realize he just likes it. He’s just nasty.

Joel dips his head and licks through the mess.

Your knees start to close reflexively around his ears at the first direct stimulation against your clit, but he forces your legs open with one hand and the width of his shoulders.

He looks up at your face.

“You gonna keep these open for me or do I need to do it for you?”

He says it in his usual deadpan, but there’s a challenge there, a hint of provocation behind his expression, the buried hope that you might want to fight him in the way he’d like. You tuck that away for later.

For now, he takes your look of surprise as an affirmative and dips his head again, satisfied.

He works his tongue over the aching pearl of your clit with a gentle, targeted flick—up and back, the bridge of his nose pressed hard against your mound—and your mind goes blank. You arch into him, fucking yourself against his face in a languid rhythm, as the tension begins to build in your body. 

He likes it. His throat vibrates with an approving hum.

You grip the comforter as your muscles pull taut, as your thighs tense in his tight hold. You can hear the flick of his tongue and the suck of his lips. The low, wet sounds.

He exhales sharply through his nose and readjusts, his hands forcing your thighs open and up, so he can taste you how he wants—where he wants. Where you’re dripping for him.

The rough pad of one finger rocks steadily over your clit while he fucks you with his tongue, moaning into the heat of your body as he pushes in as deep as he can. His other hand is gripped around the back of your thigh. Bruises will blossom there by morning, a shadow of his hold on you.

You crook an elbow and drop your arm over your face, turning into it to muffle the noises he’s dragging out of you. A whine. A choked moan.

His mouth moves back up, and a finger takes its place, eased inside you with little resistance. He slides it out, and a second joins the first when he presses them back in. They’re thick, and he pushes them deep.

Joel builds your pleasure to a peak—with his hand, with his tongue, with the low sounds grunted in his throat—and it climbs steadily until it breaks. He climbs with you, the cadence of his breath picking up as yours does, his body rocking gently into yours in time with his fingers' movements inside you, his shoulders pressed against the backs of your thighs. The bed is shifting, the mattress springs whining quietly as you writhe. 

You clench tight around his thrusting fingers, their tips curled repeatedly against the spot that makes your heels slip down the bed, and he closes his eyes as he works you through it with the hot lick of his tongue on your clit. 

Through the shock, the tremors, and the slow fade. Until you’re limp.

His voice is a husky drawl, his breath humid on your hip. “Fuck, baby, you feel good.”

It’s barely anything. From him, it feels like a revelation, like a fucking love poem. You reach for him.

“Please, Joel—”

He sits up, kneeling between your legs, and rips his shirt over his head. His heaving chest is flushed. He opens his belt buckle with one hand, the clink of metal and slip of leather loud in the quiet room as it slithers out of his belt loops, and he drops it to the floor. He moves from the bed to kick off his jeans, and when he settles his body over yours again, the only thing left between you is the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

You can feel the heft of him through them. The strain and the heat. The body-warm fabric pressed against your wet cunt.

He’s heavy on top of you, his hips caught between your thighs, his chest warm against yours, knuckles ghosting over your cheek. You shove the elastic waistband over his ass, impatiently searching for skin.

“Need you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He helps you push the fabric down, gets them off, and holds himself over you with a hand braced by your ear, gripping the base of his cock to tease the head through your folds. He meets your eyes as he catches the tip on the notch of your entrance and starts to sink inside you, dropping his hips forward in a slow, purposeful movement as he drinks in your reaction. You’re wet and aching to be filled, but he’s still a stretch, so he thrusts shallowly against the resistance until the crease in your brow smoothes and your body welcomes him deep.

He drops to his forearms and lets you feel each other. He’s thick inside you, sharp and vital in a way that feels incredible, hugged tight in your heat. Joel dips his head, your foreheads brushing, and he presses his mouth to yours in a light kiss. Sweet and quick. Almost chaste.

He tastes like you.

Then he circles his hips, a slow grind that ends in a controlled thrust—powerful and targeted.

You get to collect little pieces of him while he moves inside you, as his cock kisses the deepest parts of you, as you cling to him. Gray hairs are threaded among the dark brown ones on his chest. His neck is dusted with faint freckles, only visible this close. There’s a shiny pink scar on his left shoulder—a deep cut, old and healed. A much newer one puckers the skin of his bicep. A bullet graze.

He likes to kiss your neck and suck on the supple skin of your breasts while he fucks you.

He gives you a second orgasm before searching for his own, reaching between your bodies to take you over the edge with the practiced ease of his fingers.

He was right to move the bed away from the wall.

He works his way up from a slow, deep rhythm to a pace that has each punch of his hips threatening to drive you up the silky fabric of the comforter. He slips a hand under your back and curls his fingers over the top of your shoulder, keeping you in place as he impales you on his cock, pulling you back down to meet him each time. The pleasure has you pressing your head back into the pillow, your eyes closed tight.

He doesn’t like that tonight.

“Look at me.”

Joel shoves a hand under your skull, tangles his fingers in your hair, and holds you fast. He’s panting as his eyes flick between yours. Searching. Almost…frantic as he starts to fuck you harder, with less control. The mattress complains under your shifting bodies.

You watch him unravel.

One hand still caught in your hair, he pulls out and jerks himself over you, chasing his orgasm as he watches your face. He bares his teeth when he comes across your stomach in warm pulses, pearly lines dripped over your skin. The pleasure punches a grunt and a hiss from him, his hand squeezing tight around the base of his cock as his whole body tenses and releases, the tug of his fist slowing to a stop as he milks the last drop.

He’s breathing hard as his gaze traces over the spots where you’re painted with him, and something flickers behind his veiled eyes. Before you can really catch it, he scrubs a hand down his tired face and reaches for his discarded shirt. He uses it to wipe the sticky mess off your skin and tosses the crumpled thing back onto the floor.

He settles on the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to you, and you slip underneath the blankets. Now that you’re sated, sleep is starting to weigh at the edges of your consciousness. Insistent.

Joel pulls on his jeans and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. You hear water running.

You lie there—torn between feeling sure he’s coming back, especially seeing as the rest of his clothes are here, and the creeping thought that he’d probably rather sleep on the too-short couch then blur an already murky line by sharing this bed for something other than sex.

It would be so nice, for once, not to sleep alone.

But you’re used to sleeping alone.

His steps creak on the hardwood outside the door. Too much relief blooms in your gut.

Joel shuts the door behind him and stands at the end of the bed, scratching a hand through his tousled hair. Something about his rumpled appearance, his uncertainty, his half-dressed state is endearing. It’s so rare to see him…undone. He’s studying you, like he doesn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between your bodies now that the lust has dulled. Now that it’s just you and him and a bed.

“You want me to find another room?” you ask, knowing full well that the Texas gentleman buried somewhere inside him would never allow that. He’d leave if he wanted to be alone.

“No,” he says, making a decision and reaching for the light. He shuts it off with a click. There’s a shuffling of clothes, off and on, and he slips under the blankets.

In the dark, it’s easier for him. He gets close. He doesn’t reach for you, but in the quiet black, you can hear him angle his body toward you, settling on his side. He doesn’t resist when you slide closer; his hand rests on your waist when you press your nose into the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt.

In the morning, he’ll be gone again.

[kimsokol]

TIME FOR AN UPDATED COMMISSIONS POST! Pricing full and half-body illustrations can now vary based on complexity. (By 'complexity' I usually mean 'video game armor', as I've noticed those tend to take twice as long as I otherwise budget time for. Overly detailed armor, a complicated weapon, things of that nature.)

Also as of today, Weds Sept 18, MY QUEUE IS EMPTY AND I HAVE SOME TIME BETWEEN JOBS! Work with hard printing deadlines comes first so sometimes these can take a while; if you get in touch now you'll see a much quicker turnaround than usual. :)

If you want something more complicated than above:

These are my terms for character commissions specifically. If you're looking for a scene with a background, prices will rise pretty quickly, as putting together a whole illustration is a different process! Also, these are for personal use only, not for publication; I'm a full-time illustrator, though, and always looking for professional work! Get in touch!

Availability & Timing:

I don’t have a slot system and usually don’t open and close commissions (unless I get REALLY busy) but I’m a full-time illustrator so if you contact me when I’m booked up, there may be a delay.  I can let you know and get back to you when I’m available.

I do commissions in between my professional illustration work, so no promises on timing generally; if you have a deadline such as for a gift, let me know, and we can work something out.

Will Draw:

Human and humanoid OCs - fantasy, sci-fi, historical, etc

Portraits of real people - ONLY with hi resolution, well-lit reference; commission may be turned down if reference provided is not enough for a good painting.

Won't Draw:

Furries/anthro (just bad at animal heads!)

NSFW

How To Get One:

Contact me via email (kim at kimsokol dot com) to let me know roughly what you’re looking for, and I’ll let you know if I can take it.  You don’t need to send a long description with reference in initial contact, but at least give me a general sense of what you want. If you DO have easily available reference, such as a screenshot of a game character or prior commissions, I can let you know where it falls on the pricing scale

Once I accept, I'll send you a form to get your character information and make sure we're both clear on terms

Send payment via Paypal, and I’ll get going on your rough!

[ghostofnoir]

WIP Snip

Thank you for the tag @faiell *I’m still thinking about yours. What a gift you are 🥹

An excerpt from the slowest writer on earth. Who is grinding out this long WIP one overwritten paragraph at a time 💪🏻 Sharing is so vulnerable!

———

Draco turned to face Harry. Harry did the same.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco whispered, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. Harry could feel it ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what the look on his own face betrayed; maybe Draco thought it was pity. But Harry thought it might be closer to the look of a man who knew with absolute certainty in that moment that he was fucked. He couldn’t help but let his eyes roam over Draco’s face as he took him in fully, standing face to face. The flickering picture lights bounced the saturated colours from the painting Draco stood next to onto his pale skin, highlighting his sharp angles and dipping into his hollow, concave shadows.

“You know, I’ve never seen you outside of London,” Harry mussed as his eyes roamed, as if Draco himself were a newly unearthed classical portrait to be appreciated for the first time.

“You haven’t seen me in almost a decade.” Draco unfolded his sleek black coat from his arm and pulled it on. The collar stood high and stiff on his neck, elegant and impenetrable, softened only by the plaid cashmere scarf he layered. The scarf’s varying shades of grey brought out his silver, midnight-misty eyes and made them more poignant. Harry realised then that they were a singular colour that he had never witnessed on anyone else. “Do you find I’m easier to tolerate on foreign soil?”

“Draco, I think I can help you–”

“Help me?” Draco scoffed. “There’s a reason people go untraceable, Potter. You shouldn’t have even been able to find me in the first place.”

“I also shouldn’t have been able to defeat Voldemort,” Harry responded calmly without missing a beat. Draco didn’t flinch at the name, which was at least refreshing. “Or be one of the few known Wizards in history to have resisted a powerful Imperius Curse before I even finished puberty. Or mastered the complex nature of wandless magic by eighteen. Or have an eight-year-long seamless Curse Breaking record, never once having broken my hold over volatile dark magic, but here we are.”

Something flashed in Draco’s eyes. He opened his mouth to say something. Harry had no doubt that he was about to be on the receiving end of a scathing retort to what Draco had probably perceived as Harry’s inflated ego, in need of being brought down a few notches. He had just simply stated the facts though, and that had been the shortlist.

Instead, Draco frowned, put his head down, and withdrew a pair of black leather gloves from his coat pocket. Harry watched, transfixed by Draco’s refined hands gripping the supple material. Even Draco’s veined knuckles somehow managed to be attractive. A single onyx-stoned gold ring was the only thing that disrupted the slender lines of his fingers, catching Harry’s attention like an alarm and bringing him back to the moment.

“Why did you go untraceable, Draco?”

“To be left alone.” His voice was flat as he carefully pulled on his gloves. “I thought that should have been pretty obvious, even to you. But if it wasn’t, it is now. And it might be a hard concept for you to grasp, but you need to respect that.” He dropped his hands by his side and turned to walk away.

“Go back to London, Potter,” he added without turning back; his long strides had already taken him halfway down the corridor, his voice echoing in the cavernous room behind him.

“But I’ve already booked my stay,” Harry called after him.

Harry stood and watched Draco’s tall, stark figure disappear like a phantom through the museum’s back doors into the frigid January afternoon.

———

Tagging to share if you like @dracoandthehounds @romaine2424 @greattemptation @roseharpermaxwell @drarrymyheart @starquestingfordrarry @fluxweeed @garagepaperback @apricitydays-lazynights @hoko-onchi-writes @elskanellis @gotoemopunk @annanother-thing -and anyone else who would like to join 🤍🤍

[arthistoryanimalia]

#ThreeForThursday:

Portrait of a gyrfalcon, viewed from three sides Lombard Master, c.1540-1560 oil on canvas, unlined via Sotheby's "The sport of falconry, practiced since ancient times, was a pursuit particularly enjoyed at Medieval and Renaissance courts.  The gyrfalcon, shown here, is the largest of the falcon species; the size of the bird, almost certainly painted from life and to scale, suggests it is a female, and the grandeur of the portrait, presenting it from three viewpoints, raised above the clouds, indicates it was both a cherished pet and valued hunting companion.  While incredibly rare, such portraits were not unprecedented.  In a letter in the Gonzaga ducal archives, addressed to one Scaramella, the sender requests that a white gyrfalcon be sent to Mantua to be seen by Costa (likey Lorenzo Costa, the court painter) for a commissioned portrait.... Sumptuary laws of the period dictated that only the most elite nobility be permitted to hunt with gyrfalcons; the owner of this majestic bird must therefore have been a person of elevated status, and the symbolism of the oak and poplar trees, in whose branches the bird sits, most likely holds the key to their identity.  While the oak was an emblem traditionally assumed by the della Rovere, the ducal family of Urbino, this hand does not match any of the artists working for that court during the period.  This striking portrait of a gyrfalcon likely dates between 1540 and 1560 and, while the identity of its author remains unknown, is undoubtedly the work of an extraordinarily accomplished Lombard master. The exceptional preservation of the canvas and paint surface allows us to fully appreciate the artist's prowess in the depiction of light and texture, capturing the dancing movement of the leaves and the varied textures of the plumage.  The accuracy and impeccable detail of the depiction harks to the established tradition of still life painting and the popularity of exact images of naturalia in sixteenth century Lombardy.  These precise representations of animals, birds, insects and plants were circulated by men of science and swiftly became objects highly coveted by aristocratic collectors throughout Europe.2  One artist born of this encyclopedic manner of painting was Giuseppe Arcimboldo; Mauro Natale suggests that the anonymous author of this painting may well have been an artist working within Arcimboldo’s sphere."

[mxmorel]

Hello, I'm from Gaza

My name is Farah

Can you please help me to study at the university

Me and my family have lost our home, our car, and our dream to study

I hope just to help me to start my education

I was in my first year at university in Gaza but after the war, I lost everything my dream and my education 💔

Hope you really can help with anything

Thank you in advance

https://gofund.me/7417ca2b

https://gofund.me/0974b65e

Hi y'all! Check out Farah's GoFundMe here - she is from Gaza and has dreams to go to university to become a pharmacist! She has lost everything, including the university she planned to study at, which has been bombed by the IOF. She and her family have made it to Egypt, but she is trying to start over and is raising money to be able to begin her education. Her €8,000 goal is to pay for her first year's tuition!

As of the time I post this, she is €7,840 away from her goal - I am an artist and if you DM me proof of a donation of any amount to Farah's campaign, I will do a sfw pencil sketch of one character/subject of your choice (but happy to discuss more for larger donations, read on and send me your receipt, we'll chat!)! I've never done commissions before whether for profit or donations so bear with me, I'm figuring it out as I go!

Let's help Farah get a new start on her dreams and on her way to university!

If you can't donate, you can still help by please please please reblogging! I don't have very many followers, so I don't have a lot of reach.

I linked my art tag previously, but here it is again, and here are a few examples of my pencil work:

if you are interested in donating more for colors/more characters/etc, you can see more of my non sketch work in my tag (i work in various mediums like colored pencils, markers, watercolors, gouache, oil pastels, digital, etc).

vague pricing structure + more information below the cut!

'prices':

Going to set a vague 'pricing' structure (in euros since that's the currency the GoFundMe is in) - these are based on roughly how time consuming each medium is for me, but like I said previously, if you can't donate quite enough for a specific thing, reach out to me. I know a lot of us on tumblr (my recently unemployed self included) don't have a ton of money and the top priority is reaching Farah's goal!

For all of the below, you will receive a digital scan of the original work (if traditional medium) or a high res file from procreate (if digital).

Pencil sketch of one subject, bust up: Any donation amount

Pencil sketch of two or more subjects and/or full body sketch: ~€15, +€5/each additional character past two)

One subject + colored pencils or markers: ~€20

Two subjects + colored pencils or markers: ~€25

Watercolor and/or gouache painting: ~€35 for one character, +€10/additional character

Digital: ~€40+ for one character, +€10/additional character (re: '+', level of detail can vary on these, reach out and we'll chat!)

Oil pastel painting: ~€50 for one character, +€15/additional character

If you are requesting a traditional medium and would like to receive the original work in the mail, let me know ahead of time and we can discuss 'price' for this.

To reiterate: all 'prices' are for donations to Farah's GoFundMe Campaign! I will not be collecting any profit from this.

wills/won'ts + fandoms / etc:

what do I like to draw?

I love drawing people, portraits especially, but I also enjoy drawing animals. characters from fandoms, portraits of family/friends/pets/etc are all a-okay! I'm a multishipper so very few ships are a problem for me - what I will draw is pretty flexible aside from what is listed in the following 'what will I not draw?' section. For the purpose of this fundraiser, all art will be safe for work.

what will I not draw?

While I'm happy to draw real people, be they yourself/friends/family/a celebrity you like/etc, I won't do ship art of real people (art of a couple in your real life is fine, but ship art of celebrities, for example, is something I am not comfortable with). I also will not draw age gap relationships wherein the younger character is a minor. No gore/graphic violence - though canon typical bloodiness (MASH characters in the OR for example), is fine. I will not be drawing nsfw art of any ship for this fundraiser.

The above is what I can think of right now, though I reserve the right to turn down a concept should something come up that I didn't think of right now. Should that be the case, I will work with you to determine a different subject/concept.

fandoms?

Lastly, if you're curious about my fandoms, I've included a non-comprehensive list here, but as long as reference images are available for characters/people/pets I am not familiar with and they do not cross the limits listed above, I am okay with drawing for fandoms I am not familiar with/people in your life.

MASH (TV - current hyperfixation)

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (BBCA)

Star Trek (TOS, TNG, DS9, & Lower Decks)

The X-Files

Good Omens

Our Flag Means Death

Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Angel: The Series

The Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit

Twin Peaks

Dimension 20/Dropout in general

Les Miserables

Merlin (BBC)

Firefly

The Adventure Zone: Balance & Amnesty, not caught up otherwise

Princess Tutu

The Prisoner (1967)

There's definitely more that I'm forgetting, I've been rattling around fandom spaces for 20 years now, but like I said, it's a non-comprehensive list!

If you've read this far, thank you again! Please reblog to help Farah's fundraiser reach more people, and send me your receipt if you donate!

[fumifooms]

do you think the succubus chilchuck sees is his wife, but blonde? he seems so upset when its dead

I think it’s a very strained theory. There are two layers to this: Chilchuck’s expression, and the succubi’s appearances. And notice the plural of appearances.

Chilchuck’s expression here is meant as comedic, we can assume because of the lashes and sparkle in his eyes, it gives shojo energy (which is intentional and heavily present at the very least with Marcille in the same chapter). It’s a type of dramatic sorrowful expression that I think Marcille with Hareus and Laios with scylla Marcille would have had the same, the type that Laios had when Marcille crushed the cool dragon familiar he made the type of face you make when a unicorn is killed in front of you. Chilchuck would have this face regardless of this being his wife, because regardless of it being his wife or not the succubi are still Chilchuck’s ideal form. It’s like having the blorbo you fantasize about brutally mauled inches away from your face, or a painting you love stained. Chilchuck wants the sirens to come for his life and is sad he lost the opportunity for it lol. But most importantly imo, if that was his wife, he would have had a face much more like genuine terror or horror (which would have been still both funny and understandable so it was a deliberate choice to pick this expression instead), like in his nightmare with his dead daughters.

Ok now onto appearances: Here are all of Chilchuck’s succubi we see.

The biggest thing against this theory for me is that yes, these are different women who are visibly different. There’s no denying he has a type, long wavy blonde hair, deepset light-colored eyes and sultry mouths, faces with a mature quality to them, but different women no less. It would be interesting to analyze what it would mean for Chilchuck to have only one of his succubi in a sea of succubi be his wife, but it would defeat the purpose of it I think. We see waves of women succubi throw themselves at him, and I think the intent is just that; for them to just be women, his ideal type materialized but sort of identity-less, a mass of them that isn’t really meant to be differentiated or individualized. If you believe that the nameless black-haired half-foot woman portrait is his wife, that shortens the conversation, but there are also arguments beyond it for why yes his wife would have black hair, and why she’d have deepset eyes and a face like this (because it’s a solid argument that his type would be at least influenced by her yes. I go into this topic in this post). If we go with the portrait chilwife theory, then it’s pretty straightforward that none of them truly closely look like her. If we go with another theory then we’re truly walking in the dark for how she looks like. How close is close enough to "be" ‘her except blonde’, anyways? It’s the sort of thing you can believe if you want to, but it creates more questions than answers, which albeit isn’t always bad. My interpretation of Chilchuck’s succubi makes me biased though of course, because it’s closely intertwined with my overall interpretation of Chilchuck and whatnot. I’ve talked about succubi in dungeon meshi and them in relation to Chilchuck a lot over time. I think them being faceless and varied rather than one single model of perfection is because he craves pleasure with no ties, something to feel good for a while and forget all his troubles, including his separation. I think that when Chilchuck reacts like that below, it’s because he feels some amount of guilt at it not being her, and again not wanting to think about painful things, but it could be interpreted to be "can you not, when you just blew her up" I suppose. I go into it here and here as well.

I don’t know Kui’s brain so like, this is just my thoughts, like you asked for, but yeah I don’t think that first succubus literally had his wife’s appearance.

[daddysfangirls-dc]

The Arrangement

Ch 4 - Family Portrait

Damian Wayne x OC!Female

Prev | Next

Bruce was not pleased with Damian. He was upset with the knowledge that the girl had fled the city and angry when his son refused to disclose any more information about the girl. He hadn't spoken of her since that night in the cave. Although the others did try to get him to talk about her, they were unsuccessful. Eventually, most gave up. Bruce and Tim were still on his case. He was benched for a while, and he was pretty sure all his electronics were tagged and being spied on. All his gear had new trackers built in as well.

It didn't matter. Syn and Damian communicated via letters through Alfred. No one was aware of Alfred meeting Syn or the letters. This went on constant vigilantes and secret letters for several months. 

-

"Why didn't you tell us?" Dick asked as he stole one of Damian's fries. "Why didn't you tell us you had a fiance?" Damian sighed deeply. Dick felt bad for asking as he watched Damian slump forward, then quickly tense up, squaring his shoulder in defense.

" She is from my time with the League. I knew none of you would approve. "

"were you going to hide her forever?"

"no, she's my fiance. I would have still married her once I came of age. The likelihood of you all being involved would have been...less."

That hurt. Damian was more than likely prepared to have a life without them or support. He didn't believe anyone would support him more in his relationship, and he didn't think they cared. " I'm sorry"

"You've done nothing to warrant the need for an apology."

"You don't feel comfortable telling us about your fiance-"

"I'm not uncomfortable. I just know you all well enough to know all the possible outcomes. And I don't want her involved. She's already dealing with one side of my family, the murderous, egotistic, dominant, delusional side. She doesn't need to get involved with the egotistical, obsessive, dominant, unrestricted side." his appetite was gone. His food was now a distraction for him to pick out. " She already has to deal with her family and my maternal family. I don't want her to... I want her to have peace. "

"you really care about her?"

"She's my fucking fiance." the duh tone and deadpan expression was too much. Dick bit back his laugh; a chuckle slipped through.

"Apparently," he said, "Will we get a chance to meet her ?"

"Can you guarantee everyone will be on their best behavior?"

"No"

"Then not likely."

-

Syn took a deep breath before she took off quickly and skillfully, jumping over the estate's wall and running across the lawn. She laid low and stuck to the shadows, avoiding the security system. Opting against the door, she found an unlocked window on the first floor—how convenient! She slipped into the manor. The manor was empty; everyone was gone for their nightly activities. Signal was included as he had been following a lead since this morning.

She walked the halls slowly, stopping occasionally to look at hanging photos and paintings. She stopped in front of a painting, a family portrait. Two older gentlemen, four young men, and one girl. Everyone had very similar features. The oldest three guys and a girl had eyes with varying shades of blue. And the youngest, her love, was a beautiful shade of green. Despite knowing everything about everyone in the painting, most were strangers she never met. She had only known Alfred and Damian. 

"We'll be commissioning another soon." Alfred had seen her on the security cameras. After Disabling them before approaching. " Adding Duke"

"Why wasn't he in this one?" This painting was a few years ago, and Duke was part of the family then. 

"He was still new at the time and still grieving his parent's situation. He still had hope they'd get better."

"And now?"

"Bruce is not his father, but he is his family." 

Duke eventually accepted his parents' situation and its hopelessness. He knew the likelihood of getting his parents back was minimal and simply took what he could from them in his visits. He had accepted and was grateful this was his new family. 

"You like it," Syn said as she started walking down the hall, looking at photos. " Having a full house. So many grandbabies."

"The manor has never been so full," he smiled. " You have yet to tell me why you're here," he said bring the focus to more important matters. Like her sudden appearances after months. 

"I'd like to meet my future in-laws. Or at least get more information on them." 

"And you can't learn from them in a more appropriate setting." 

"If they are anything like Damian, No."

Alfred sighed. She was right. It would be a long while before she got behind the masks. Introductions were integrations. Greetings were intimations. Acts of affection were subtle pat-downs. No one in this family was normal. 

"Alright, I'll try the normal way. These photos have given me enough information to understand the dynamics of the main household." Syn said, hoping to please Alfred. Maybe the family would get some semi-normal or could at least act like it. Duke wasn't fooling anyone anymore. 

"How about dinner this Saturday?"

"I'll ask Damian. He's not aware of my presence yet."

"Understood." Comotion could be heard on his coms

"I'll show myself out. Goodnight, Alfred."

"Goodnight, Miss Syn"

-

Syn lay still. As she listened to the door open, she pulled her dagger to her chest and evened her breathing. Ready to jump. Ready to fight. "Why was I not made aware of your arrival?" the tension left her body. Relaxing her grip on her dagger and putting it back under her pillow. She took a moment before slowly sitting up and opening her eyes. Damian stood at the foot of her bed, arms crossed in his Gotham Academy uniform: Dark trousers, white button-up, blazer, and tie, all neat and tidy like she expected him to be. 

"You look good," he just glared. " How was school?" he just glared some more. She sighed.

"I knew you would have said no if I asked or waited for some elaborate plan."

"My apologies for wanting us to be prepared."

"Will we ever be prepared?" she asked. " For your family, will we ever be prepared?" Damian sighed he saqt on the edge of the bed she moved to sit next to him. 

"No...They're unpredictable imbeciles."

"We should start with proper introductions and go from there. AT least try for a bit of normalization. Alfred would appreciate it."

She was right. They couldn't continue their relationship without his family's involvement. They needed some kind of introduction, at least to make his family more aware of her, as she was going to stick around. He'd make sure of it. 

Damian took a deep breath, standing and straightening his blazer. " Alfred has informed you of Saturday dinner?"

"Yes, he has."

"I'll arrive on Saturday afternoon to help you dress and prep."

Syn jumped out of bed and followed him towards the kitchen. She found a bag of takeout on the counter he unpacked it as she sat down. "How was school?" she asked her earlier question.

"full of imbeciles" he was going to leave it at that. I do not particularly like the place. 

"I've never been."

At moments like these, Damian was reminded that despite growing up side by side for nearly a decade, he was still more privileged than she'd ever been. He had more titles, more rights, more teachers, he made more normal, more people that actually cared, more friends. He had simple things like pets, family outings(that didn't involve killing), school, and big things like forgiveness. Things she'd never be given.

He could tell her a little about school. And he did. 

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the Tape —Episode 3

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot and for episode two, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the third episode while we rewatched it. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?

On the Origin of Species*

Charles Darwin, 1859

* Not exactly art... ...and not exactly confirmed, but given the time, the subject of their conversation, and Lestat's "...this naturalist that fogs your mind" remark, this seems the most likely attribution for the book Louis is reading during the opening scene.

Darktown Strutters' Ball

Shelton Brooks, 1917

The song Antoinette is first singing was published that same year, and you can hear it performed by The Platters here.

Minuet in G

Christian Petzold, circa 1725

As pointed by @cardassiangoodreads in this post, the song Lestat first plays before he starts improvising is Petzold's Minuet in G, often falsely attributed to Johann Sebastian Bach.

Wolverine Blues

Jelly Roll Morton, 1923

While the scene in which Lestat improvises the melody happens in 1917, Morton would go on to record and release the song in Indiana in 1923.

Slave Auction

Jean-Michael Basquiat, 1982

Our very first look at Basquiat's Slave Auction comes in the third episode, though it will be the backdrop of most of the sixth. While some elements, like the crown of thorns, lend themselves to varied interpretations, it's clear this collage shows a boat (golden for money, perhaps) crossing a blue expanse, and the faces of the slaves being transported.

Mother Daughter and Twins 1

Rahmon Olugunna, undated

Rahmon Olugunna, born in Osogbo in 1975, is a member of the Oshogbo school of artists in Nigeria. His work represents Yoruban mythology as well as modern Nigerian life. He is represented by New Orleans curator Katie Koch. [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

Untitled ceramic totems

Julie Silvers, undated

Each unique totem is made by New Orleans native Julie Silvers, and they are distributed by New Orleans store Villa Vici. Two can be seen in the sitting room. [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

Javelina

Bryan Cunningham, undated

By "Junkyard Alchemist" Bryan Cunningham, who posted about it here. [Found by @iwtvdramacd18.]

In the same shot we can see an unidentified painting, maybe of a man's profile. Perhaps you can place it?

Untitled photo of loading docks in St. Paul, Minnesota

Bradley Olson, 2015 (Alamy Stock Photo)

Forty-two Kids and Cliff Dwellers

George Bellows, 1907 and 1913 respectively

Several Bellows pieces have been featured around Rue Royale already, in episodes one and two. [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Am I Blue?

Harry Akst and Grant Clarke, 1929 [Identified by @ouizaya.]

The song that Antoinette sings when Jonah first walks into the Azalea is actually an anachronism. Maybe a bit of commentary from Louis, as this post suggests.

Nocturnes, Op. 55: No. 1 in F minor. Andante

Frederic Chopin, 1842-1844

This is the song that plays during Jonah and Louis's escapade to the Bayou.

Roman Bacchanal

Vasily (Wilhelm) Alexandrovich Kotarbiński, 1898

Kotarbiński was a Polish artist and painter of historical and fantastical subjects, and co-founder of the Society of Kyiv Painters. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Weeping Nude

Edvard Munch, 1913

Young Man kneeling before God the Father

Egon Schiele, 1909

Two more artists we've seen already, in episodes one and two.

Self-Portrait

Edvard Munch, 1881-1882

Bouquet in a theater box

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1871

While we have seen Munch's work already, this is the first Renoir featured. He was a French artist and a leading figure in the development of the Impressionist style. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Church in Stein on the Danube

Egon Schiele, 1913 [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Ship in the Night

James Gale Tyler, c. 1870 [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

Tyler was a New York born marine painter, considered a self-taught artist.

If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

This week, we are rewatching and discussing Episode 4, …The Ruthless Pursuit of Blood with All a Child's Demanding. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!

And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

[whencyclopedia]

Red-Figure Pottery

Red-Figure Pottery is a style of Greek vase painting invented in Athens c. 530 BCE. The style has drawn red figures and a painted black background. Red-Figure Pottery grew in popularity, and by the early 5th century BCE it had all but replaced black-figure pottery as the predominant pottery type in Athens. The last recorded examples are from c. 320 BCE.

In red-figure pottery, the figures are created in the original red-orange of the clay. This allowed for greater detail than in black-figure pottery, for lines could be drawn onto the figures rather than scraped out. This made the painted scenes both more detailed and more realistic, and allowed red-figure painters the opportunity to work with greater perspective. In black-figure painting, figures were almost always shown in profile, but red-figure allowed for frontal, back and three-quarter views, therefore creating a third dimension to the painting.

Like black-figure pottery, red-figure pottery was created in a variety of shapes for specific uses. Daily use pottery, such as amphora for transporting goods and hydria for drawing water, often depicted scenes of daily life. Pots designed for ritual use, such as the lekythos for pouring libations, usually had scenes of religious importance.

Athens remained the lead producer in red-figure pottery, in both quality and quantity, but eventually the style spread to other Greek regions, especially Southern Italy. The subject matter of red-figure vases varied greatly, from portraits of gods and heroes to depictions of every day Athenian life. As such, these paintings provide an archaeological record of historical, social, and mythological information.

Academics have been able to identify individual artists and artistic groups as painters of these red-figure vessels. The most definitive work on the identification of these artists is Sir John Beazley's Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, first published in 1925. Beazley, a professor at Oxford University, catalogued over 65,000 vases and fragments, and identified over 17,000 artists.

Of these identified painters, the Andokides Painter is usually credited with the invention of the style. He was joined by several other early adopters of the technique, including the so-called “Pioneer Group” of Euphronios, Euthymides, and Phintias. These early red-figure painters were often “bilingual,” meaning that they worked in both red- and black-figure for a period of time. Notable painters emerged from the late Archiac period such as the Berlin Painter, the Kleophrades Painter, and Douris, as the technique became more refined and began to dominate in the Mediterranean world. Mastery of the technique continued in the Classical period with famous painters such as the Achilles Painter, the Providence Painter, and the Pan Painter. Later famous artists include the Eretria Painter, the Meidias Painter, who achieved new levels of detail in painting garments, and the Meleager Painter.

Continue reading...

[petite-madame]

I look at your art and i cannot even comprehend how you do it. Do you use procreate? what brushes do you use? I’m deeply in love with your work

Hi anon

Thank you so much for your message and for taking the time to contact me. 💗 Sorry about the late reply, I was quite busy in the past two weeks. 😳

Ok! So, to answer your question, I very rarely use Procreate. I used it a bit when I installed it on my iPad one-two years ago: it was exciting and new but I must admit that now, I work mainly on Photoshop. Don't get me wrong, Procreate is an amazing app, you can create tons of effects but I'm much more confortable with Photoshop. However, this artwork and this one were created using mainly Procreate.

More recently (= about 10 days ago 🤓), I bought an app called Rebelle 6 that emulates oil painting and watercolors. I used it on this Sherlock portrait but also on this one on Twitter. If you see this kind of textures in my art from now on, it's thanks to this app.

These were the exceptions, though. As far as the rest is concerned, I use Photoshop CS6 with an Xp-pen tablet. I tried all kind of brushes but the ones I always come back to give my artworks an "old painting" effect are the Mar-ka brushes and the Deharme brushes. (look at this artist's DA page, you have several sets of brushes available). However, sometimes, I change the settings: I add more texture, change the spacing, the brush dynamic, etc…(everything can be found in the PS brush settings). You have to see what works best for you.

On some artworks, I also add a paper texture a bit like the one below, at a low opacity (layer: soft light). Make sure it's a bit grainy and don't hesitate to adjust it using the "brightness/contrast" or "levels" tools.

However, the opacity and the paper vary according to the artwork. What can work for one artwork is not going to work for another one because of the lighting, the exposure, the effects you want to give. You'll have to try different textures and opacities to reach the effect you want.

The rest is…my style. 🤓 I did a post HERE about how I draw realistic portraits and HERE about a step by step (it was several years ago though so I don't talk about textures, just how I block colors and how I draw realistically).

I hope I managed to answer your question. Thank you for enjoying my work so much and see you at the end of the week with a Stede Bonnet portrait (and then, I'll go on a break to rest a bit ^^)