#「 INK POURS ON THE PAGES 」 － sketches

[lurxof--thxmaw]

// Not talking English has its downside but also its perks

[arcadequeerz]

Did I ever tell you guys I decided on a name for the God Janus makes his 'pact' w?

Shout out 2 my friend who helped me w it but:

The Revisionist

But they're also known as:

The Author of Revisions The Author who Revises 'An Author's Revisions'

Technically this isn't her 'true' name but its something people can actually speak so! it works.

[flwrkid14]

Love, Scribbled in the Margins

Tim keeps journals—pages filled with scattered thoughts, half-formed ideas, reminders hastily scribbled in the margins before they slip from his mind. His penmanship is erratic, sometimes neat, sometimes a barely legible scrawl. There’s no structure, no careful curation—just the unfiltered chaos of his thoughts, poured onto the pages with reckless honesty.

Danny finds them everywhere.

There’s one on Tim’s desk, filled with quick notes and unfinished sketches. Another by the bed, pages warped from where Tim has knocked over his coffee more than once. One tucked into his jacket, carried with him wherever he goes. And when Danny opens them, he finds something unexpected.

Not plans for patrols. Not mission reports or Gotham’s latest conspiracies.

No, these journals are something else. Something just for Danny.

There are messy, hurried notes—things Tim meant to tell him but hadn’t yet, thoughts that slipped his mind in the rush of the day. Scattered reminders: Tell Danny about the ghost dog that stole my sandwich. Ask Danny if ectoplasm works the same way as Lazarus water. Danny likes lemon biscuits. Find a good recipe?

There are doodles, too. Little sketches of Danny in the margins, some more detailed than others. A rough, unfinished one of him asleep on the couch, another of his hands, a quick, cartoonish scribble of Danny sticking his tongue out with the words annoying boyfriend scrawled underneath.

It’s messy. It’s chaotic. And it’s so Tim.

Danny had always imagined love as something poetic, something grand and beautiful, the kind of thing written in sweeping verses that promised forever. The kind of love you read about in stories, in letters written with elegant penmanship, every word crafted with care.

Tim’s love isn’t like that. It isn’t neatly composed or carefully written.

It’s raw. It’s real. It’s a thousand little moments captured in ink-stained fingers and smudged notes. It’s love scribbled into the corners of his life, unpolished and unfiltered.

And Danny? Danny wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because love, he realizes, isn’t always the kind you find in poetry. Sometimes, it’s a journal filled with half-finished thoughts and silly drawings. Sometimes, it’s a name written absentmindedly in the corner of a page, over and over again. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a note that says, Thinking of you.

Love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. It doesn’t have to be grand to mean everything.

And like honey pulled straight from the comb, love is sweetest when it’s raw.

[narfin-frood]

how do you plan the panel layouts for your comics? i always get stuck and it feels cramped or unsatisfying

okay so i went to college for 2 whole semesters and one of the only art classes i took (and definitely the only one i retained much from) was my sequential art & comics class. so i'm gonna try to explain my process in so many words, but there's a LOT of stuff that goes into a successful comic and i'm by no means a professional. i can however throw some tips and tricks and some recommended reading your way (another longpost ahead!)

first, know what you want to do. know where your comic starts and ends. if you find any joy in writing scripts, you can also do that, but i'm not the best at writing with no visual aide so i usually script while i thumbnail, but always make sure you've got a concept and a goal.

next, start thumbnailing. my initial thumbnails usually look like this:

(incidentally, my storyboard thumbnails look a lot like this, too)

there's no real structure, and i'm just noodling my way from the top left of the page to the bottom right. if you've got what you want from your comic in mind, this part can sometimes just pour out of you. i feel a very strong attachment to these characters and the situations i put them in, so that definitely has to do with how smoothly this part goes. draw the panels as small and as detail-free as possible. i usually don't do speech bubbles, and instead treat it like a storyboard, writing my rough script under the panels as i go.

once you're satisfied with the way your story is coming together, THEN you start laying your panels out. this part looks like this when i do it:

(these are actually from a gfalls comic i never cared to finish from like. five months ago but who's counting?)

honestly, it's best to do this as small as you can possibly get it, to really get your head out of the "but i have to fit all the panels exactly as i drew them on the page" funk. remember that, at least if you're writing the comic in english or other languages read in the same direction, that you're trying to lead the reader's eye from top to bottom and left to right. this is really hard to keep track of, and i still make mistakes and flub up the readability all the time. like here:

the panel layout should be reversed here. the panels in the top left and bottom right should be smaller than the other two, so the gutters would actually guide you to read it left to right instead of top to bottom, but laziness and initial drawing blindness struck me and i never fixed it.

once you have a layout that makes sense to you, it's as simple as blowing your thumbnails up to comic-size and going over your very rough sketches with your final clean panels & inks, or, if you're doing it traditionally, re-sketching your page on your big bristol board after doing some measuring to see where your panels should actually be.

there are other rules to keep in mind when you're in the thumbnailing phase of your comic, like the 180-degree rule (something that carries from film to animation to comics to, really, any form of sequential art), which is easiest to explain with a little diagram:

keeping this in mind really helps with readability. you can do a bunch of things with your angles, you can even omit the other character, but keeping them on the side of the frame you establish them on is very helpful. this is mainly for dialogue, but it does also help if you want to display one character walking in one specific direction, or if you want a fight scene to read as well as possible, etc.

and, if you look at your comic sketch now and think, hey, this looks great, this is so clear and easy to read, i highly recommend stepping away for a few hours to look at it again, or, if you're impatient like me, sending it to a friend. you're also totally welcome to send it to me, if you just need someone to tell you whether your comic is easily readable.

to learn more about drawing comics, i recommend two things. one, read some comics. by professionals in the industry, ideally, though there are many many competent and incredibly detailed comics by independent creators out there. people in the industry will (MOST of the time) be held to slightly higher standards of readability than the average independent artist, and the workflow for professional comics involves several people at once reading and reviewing and revising what's made so that it'll be digestible to the average audience.

two, i recommend getting your hands on a copy of "understanding comics" by scott mccloud. love this book. lots of comic artists love this book. it's fun and informative and packed full of tips, while also being a comic, which makes it even more fun to read. mccloud goes into a lot of detail on stuff i didn't mention, from the gutters between panels to lettering to working with other artists and writers and finding an art style that fits the story you want to tell. great stuff. go to the library, check it out. you won't regret it.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Hiii! Do you also write for male!reader? If its a yes, may I request for Artist!male!reader x Erik? They have a long-distance relationship, yet reader always send him lovely letters (maybe even gifts or complete arts of Erik on special occasions [on Erik's birthday, on Valentine's Day, or on Christmas])

tags/themes- long distance, dont ask how erik sends his letters idk

word count- 1389

The room was quiet save for the faint scratching of pen against paper. You sat at your desk, surrounded by the clutter of your artistic life: half-finished sketches, tubes of paint, and brushes in varying states of wear. The letter in front of you was nearing completion, the words flowing from your heart with ease as they always did when you wrote to him.

Erik.

Even the mere thought of his name brought a warmth to your chest. Your relationship had started in the most unexpected way—a chance meeting at a gallery showcasing your work. Erik had been there, his piercing gaze studying your portraits of faceless figures with an intensity that almost made you falter. You remembered how he’d lingered at one particular piece: a shadowed figure at a grand piano, the light catching only the back of their head and hands. When he’d spoken, his voice was soft yet commanding, full of an almost musical cadence.

“You see people for what they truly are, don’t you?”

From that moment on, letters became your lifeline. Erik was often away, always elusive about his whereabouts, yet he never failed to reply to your missives. Your correspondence was a dance of words—his letters were intricate, almost poetic, weaving his thoughts in ways that left you breathless. You responded in kind, pouring your soul onto the page and, often, into your art.

Today, you were finishing a letter for his birthday. The ink on your pen flowed smoothly as you wrote:

My dearest Erik,

Another year has passed, and though the miles stretch between us, I feel closer to you with every stroke of this pen. Happy birthday, my love. I hope this letter finds you in good health and in the comfort of your music. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you properly, but until that day, let this letter and the gift enclosed be my stand-ins.

You mentioned in your last letter that you’ve been composing again, and it fills me with such joy to know that you’re finding solace in your melodies. Your music has always been a window to your soul, Erik, and I’m honored to be one of the few who gets to witness it.

I’ve included a new piece for you. It’s a portrait, though not a typical one. I wanted to capture the essence of you—the brilliance, the complexity, the beauty I see when I think of you. I hope you like it.

With all my love,

Yours always.

You set the pen down and folded the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope along with the small, flat package. The painting you’d enclosed was one of your favorites: Erik seated at his organ, the faint glow of candlelight casting shadows across the room. His face was partially obscured, not by intention but by reverence—you’d painted him as you imagined he’d want to be seen, enigmatic yet deeply human.

The next morning, you mailed the package. As always, you felt a pang of bittersweet emotion as you handed it over to the postal worker. Would he love it? Would he write back soon? These questions buzzed in your mind as you walked back to your studio, where your next project awaited.

Weeks passed, and though you busied yourself with commissions and gallery deadlines, the anticipation of Erik’s reply lingered in the back of your mind. One crisp autumn morning, a letter finally arrived. The envelope was thick, the parchment inside scented faintly of something earthy and rich. You opened it with trembling hands.

My dearest,

Your letter and your gift have left me utterly speechless. The painting… I scarcely have words to describe it. You have captured something within me that I thought was long buried, perhaps even lost. It is a gift not just of art but of understanding, and for that, I am more grateful than I can ever express.

I wish you could see how it looks in my home, placed where the light hits it just so. It feels as though a part of you is here with me, and I find myself drawn to it whenever I play. It is a comfort in ways I didn’t expect.

Your letters sustain me, more than I can say. There are days when the world feels insurmountable, when the shadows of my past threaten to consume me. Yet, your words are a beacon, guiding me back to myself. Thank you, my love. Thank you for seeing me, for believing in me.

Yours always,

Erik.

You pressed the letter to your chest, a smile breaking across your face. Knowing that your work had brought him comfort made the hours spent on it all the more worthwhile. As you folded the letter back into its envelope, you resolved to start another piece for him—a gift for Christmas.

Christmas came quickly, the chill of winter settling into the city as snow blanketed the streets. You’d spent countless nights working on Erik’s gift: a series of small watercolor sketches depicting scenes from your letters. One showed the imagined interior of his home, a grand yet shadowed space illuminated by candlelight. Another depicted his hands at the keys of an organ, delicate and precise. The final piece was more abstract, a swirling blend of colors that you felt represented the music he often described in his letters.

Along with the sketches, you wrote him another letter:

My dearest Erik,

As the year draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on all the moments that have brought me joy, and you are at the center of them. Merry Christmas, my love. I hope these sketches bring a bit of warmth to your holiday season.

Your last letter has stayed with me. The thought of my work bringing you comfort fills me with more happiness than I can express. You have given me so much, Erik, more than you realize. Your words, your music, your very existence… they inspire me every day.

I hope one day we can spend this season together, but until then, know that you are always in my heart.

With all my love,

Yours always.

The weeks after Christmas were quieter than usual. No letter arrived, and you began to worry. Had something happened? Had your gift not reached him? The silence gnawed at you, and you found yourself pouring your anxiety into your work, creating piece after piece in an attempt to distract yourself.

Finally, in early February, a letter arrived. The envelope was thicker than usual, and your heart raced as you opened it.

My dearest,

I must apologize for my silence. The past weeks have been… difficult. There are things I wish I could tell you, things I long to share, but the words escape me. Please know that it is not a lack of love that kept me from writing but rather an overabundance of it. Your gifts arrived on Christmas Eve, and they were nothing short of miraculous. The sketches, especially the one of my hands at the organ… it brought tears to my eyes. How do you see me so clearly, even from so far away?

Valentine’s Day is soon approaching, and I find myself wishing more than ever that you were here. You are the light in my life, the one who gives me hope even when the world feels dark. I am sending something to you, a token of my affection. It is not much, but I hope it conveys even a fraction of what you mean to me.

Yours always,

Erik.

The package arrived a few days later. Inside was a delicate music box, its craftsmanship exquisite. When you opened it, a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the room—one of Erik’s compositions, you realized, rendered in miniature. Tears welled in your eyes as you listened, the music carrying his love across the distance between you.

You set the music box on your desk, its melody playing softly as you began your next letter. Though you longed to be with Erik in person, you knew that your words and your art were enough for now. Each letter, each gift, was a testament to the bond you shared, a love that transcended distance and circumstance. And as you wrote, you felt that bond grow stronger, tethering you to the man who had captured your heart.

[madamefluffnstuff]

Can I request a one shot of Fennorian working hard in his study but Vestige comes in and convinces him to relax 🥺

@rvnwtch and I both had the same idea, and *I* originally got the idea from a post by @i-simp-for-fennorian :3 (which I can no longer find the original post on Tumblr but I can find it on Google for some reason! :,D)

Also thought it would be very appropriate for their Ravenwatch Posting Event.~

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fennorian?" A soft voice called down the hallway. No answer came. The Vestige walked down the corridor until she reached a familiar door. Inside, the faint sound of bubbling and glass clinking could be heard. A book page turning, followed by a hasty quill scribbling, and the unsettling noise of glass sliding on metal, most likely from the aforementioned vampire moving a test tube from its rack.

"Fenn?" She asked again as she slowly opened the door and poked her head in.

Fennorian had his back to the entrance, arm raised as he held a tiny glass tube up by a hanging lamp. The candlelight revealed a thick, viscous looking fluid with a bright red hue.

Not blood, but a prototype for the Harrowstorm elixir.

"Ah, my friend. Good to see you," he responded, clearly distracted and not completely aware. He placed the test tube back in its slot and plucked some snowberries from a nearby bowl, extracting a few seeds in a practiced motion. The seeds disappeared into the elixir.

"...How long have you been down here?" The Vestige asked as she walked in, very worried and surprised at what she was seeing;

His normally neat and organized workspace was cluttered. Various jars were opened on the shelves, in various stages of being emptied. Lids were strewn about. Papers with notes and sketches and diagrams were scattered about the desks. If one tilted their head and squinted, they would notice slight stains of various colors on his fingers and gloves.

"A few days." He leaned over his most recent notebook and scribbled something down. "I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."

"I've... never seen you this... well. Focused. When did you last feed?" She quickly stepped out of his way as he bustled to another shelf of reagents.

"I have my flask. And an extra, just in case. I'm rationing."

In Fennorian's defense, he did look like he had recently consumed. That did not excuse the fact he clearly hadn't left the laboratory in some time. The Vestige knew the vampire alchemist had a tendency to get tunnel vision when he was focused on his work, but this was bad even for him. What in the world had gotten into him?

"You've obviously been busy."

Fenn nodded, straightening up and turning to the alchemy table. He wordlessly picked up a beaker with a clear liquid inside and poured it into one of the tubes with the red fluid. Almost immediately there was a small plume of colored smoke and a pungent, musky smell, like the local badgers when they marked their territory on the trees. Fenn made a noise.

"No. No, that didn't work," he reached for the quill and ink pot.

"Okay, no." The Vestige interrupted him. "This has gone on too long. You need to take a break."

The alchemist shook his head vigorously. "I am sorry, my friend. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I'm quite alright."

For a split second he almost sounded convincing.

"Fenn, please," the worry evident in her voice. "You're going to wear yourself out. You need to come up for air eventually."

Fennorian returned to his previous location, where his back was turned to her. "I know you're worried, Vestige. But like I said-" he picked up a cylindrical beaker, "-this elixir has to be perfect or-"

"Fennorian Ravenwatch."

He froze. The room filled with a stunned silence. He had never heard her use that tone of voice with him before. Nor had she used his full name before. At least when addressing him. He blinked.

The quiet was broken by the Vestige sighing and walking over to him. "Look... I know this is important to you. Believe me, it's important to me as well," her voice gentle and patient. "But you need to take care of yourself."

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He had to fight the urge to bring his own hand up and hold hers. Instead he gripped the edge of the desk and the beaker still in his other hand.

The Vestige leaned over to look at him. His hair was hiding his face, some plastered to his forehead with tense sweat. Fennorian was very relieved at that moment she couldn't see his eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this. See that she was right. And that it took her raising her voice for him to realize it.

She gently took the glass from his hand and set it on the table, replacing it with her hand. In the same soft voice, she said "I can't make you leave, of course. But, whenever you're ready to take a break and rest, I'll be upstairs." She squeezed his hand, then turned around to leave him to his work.

"...Come here."

The Vestige jumped a little as she felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist and gently lift her up. She turned her head and locked eyes with Fennorian.

"Fenn, what-"

"Just. Stay here for a bit. I'm almost finished with this page. After that, I'll take a break."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Promise?"

He walked back over, her still in his arms, and set her down on the desk, just to the side of his papers. "I promise."

And true to his word, he finished his writing much quicker than she thought he would. In between quill strokes, she would lean over and place soft kisses on his temple. With each peck he visibly relaxed more and more. Before they knew it, he was closing his book and tying the cord around it. The Vestige hopped off the desk and lead him out of the laboratory, the two hand in hand.

~*~

Fennorian stared up at the Vestige, a tired smile on his face as he rested his head in her lap. She looked down at him, also smiling while her fingers worked slow circles into the sides of his head. Their bed was a very welcome reprieve after days in the laboratory.

He adjusted himself and folded his hands across his chest, using her legs as arm rests. She asked if he was comfortable, to which he responded with a nod. With a slight smirk, the Vestige brought her pointer finger to her lips, made a little kissing noise, and pressed her finger to his forehead in a "boop". Fenn laughed.

That laugh was the best thing the Vestige had heard all week.

[corner-stories]

How about….. 1 (coffee smell) with post-rumbling/alliance Reiner and Jean? (Does not need to be reijean btw!) :)

September Prompts 🌻

1. Coffee Smell *blows a kiss* here ya go!

The vessel taking them across the ocean is not entirely made with comfort in mind. Some parts are purely utilitarian, built to serve a single purpose as efficiently as possible. It's the kind of environment that Jean's rather used to, and he's not sure if it's due to his years as a soldier or because the finer things in life don't exactly please him anymore.

Nonetheless, a sense of familiarity permeates his being as he occupies the mess deck of the vessel. As he sits at one of the tables, the scent of coffee imbued into the air, he quietly fusses over the latest piece in his sketchbook.

When he's not sipping from a metal cup, he's utilizing the pans in his paintbox to breath life into a sketch. With a brush he places gentle strokes of watercolour onto this morning's drawing — the subject of which being his coffee.

Because sometimes there's nothing better to do — no other way to pass the time than to open his sketchbook, find the nearest object, and try to immortalize it through paint and ink. And it's at this point of the voyage that Jean's getting quite tired of sketching Connie.

After he places strokes of grey onto the page, Jean puts his brush down and reaches for his coffee. He takes a sip as he waits for the paint to dry, a process that often tests his patience and reminds him to trust the process. At least it's slightly easier to paint on a ship than on a moving train, even if last night's unexpected wave shook things up in the most literal sense.

Jean puts his coffee down and mixes pigments on the upturned lid of his paintbox. As he details his masterpiece with a combination of red oxide and chestnut brown, he hears footsteps coming from the hall.

He looks up to see Reiner looking as exhausted as can be at this ungodly hour. He yawns with one hand and holds his suit jacket in the other. It gives Jean the impression that Reiner did not sleep well last night and that maybe the wave bothered some passengers more than others.

The two make eye contact before Reiner notices the cup on Jean's table.

"Is that coffee?"

"No, it's gasoline."

Reiner scoffs and Jean smirks. He reaches for his cup again and happily takes a sip as Reiner walks across the mess. The burly blond goes to the stove in the corner and pours himself a healthy serving from the percolator, then joins Jean at the table.

Reiner sits across from the Ambassador masquerading as an artist, mustering the energy to blow on his coffee and eye Jean's little painting. Jean is acutely aware of Reiner looking at him, but doesn't let it deter him from finishing his piece. They're far used to the other's presence, to the point where the awkward silences no longer feel awkward.

Outside the porthole the ocean is unchanging, nothing more than the line where the cloudy sky meets the sea. The vessel continues to move, both the hum of the engines and the water making their little corner of the world feel peaceful for once.

[rotworld]

1: Pit Stop

welcome to the drift, where nothing is as it seems. you're heading north but first you need to stop for gas.

->contains gore, hand trauma, amputation, general creepy behavior.

.

.

.

The shift came sometime in the night. If you had been awake then, you would’ve felt it. The wind was itchy and the sky wound itself up in knots. There was the distinct odor of newness, like the whole world was a cramped, cobwebbed attic and someone had just yanked the door open. In poured the incomprehensible outsideness, and all the frightened things that lived inside cowered instinctively. Some people swear they can hear reality crack apart, the brittle and alarming krikrikrik of a frozen lake shattering in slow motion underfoot but from everywhere at once, but that’s probably just a myth. If shifts sounded like anything, you think, they wouldn’t sound like that.

In the morning, your lungs are sore. You keep having this nightmare where you can’t remember how to breathe. Something fluttered in the dark. Something dragged its cold fingers up your spine. You wake up on the floor, your throat feeling blistered and wrung out. The sun isn’t up yet. The shadows in the room are thick. 

“I tried to wake you,” the woman leaning in the doorway says. “You’re the last one up.” She has short hair, you think, a hat rounding her silhouette. Her eyes are shimmery, robin’s egg blue flecked with sunrise pastels like opals. You shouldn’t be able to see them so clearly in the dark.  “Eggs for breakfast,” she says. “How do you like yours?”

“Plain, thanks.” Your voice is hoarse, thick with sleep. She’s gone when you look again. 

By the time you’ve showered, dressed and dragged downstairs, the sky is a lighter gray. The stairs creak under your boots, carpet transitioning abruptly to hardwood flooring. The coffee shop on the first floor isn’t open yet but the owner has flicked on the string lights dangling by the front windows and set a basket of eggs on the register counter, so fresh the shells are still tinged green. A laminated card propped against the basket displays a hand and a box hovering above the open palm, stylized in the blocky minimalism of a road sign; the symbol for couriers. A larger version of the same sign is plastered at the front of the shop, right in the corner of the door. You snag a few eggs as you wander over to the other couriers, all huddled around a table too small for the four of them. The woman with opal eyes pulls up another chair for you, wedging it in next to hers. 

“Morning,” she says. You see her more clearly now, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows with a striped shirt beneath. Her hair is brown and jutting out from her beanie stiff like straw. A misshapen chunk of stone hangs from a cord around her neck, pitted on all sides with tiny holes. She bites into the tapered end of an egg, a burst of thick red jelly oozing between her teeth as she crunches through the shell. “You sleep like shit during shifts, too?” 

“Not just during shifts,” you admit, rummaging through your backpack for pencil and paper. They make room for you on the table, nudging their notebooks and sketchpads closer to their laps. You’re in Henley Creek so that’s where you start, a cluster of landmarks sketched in the center of the paper with the town name underneath. “Where are you from? And where are you going?” you ask.

“Prismville. Feels due north of here, not close but not too far. Might be a town between. Ever been?” She smiles when you shake your head. “Make a trip sometime. Tell ‘em Kell sent you. They’re good to couriers, they’ll treat you right.” She tilts her notebook towards you and lets you see what she’s drawn, a handful of disembodied ink scribbles floating across the page. It’s an unlucky map. Prismville is the closest town and there’s a gulf of blank space between here and there. She’s marked it with a prickly shape, not quite a star. Everything else is too far to reach before the next shift. “I’m headed to the University if I can figure out where it is,” she adds.

“It might be east of us,” the man on her other side says, scratching his stubble with the end of his pen. He doodles while he talks, adding embellishments to the margins of his map. Headstones. Moths and mountain lions. A spider with too many legs. “It’s usually out east, isn’t it? There’s a few places you can count on. Wild Oaks is always way down south.” He leans over for a look at you, nostrils flaring. His shirt is so shredded and hole-ridden you aren’t sure how it’s staying on him. “I’m from Verlinda, by the way. Trying to get to Aliquando Island, if you know where that’s at right now?” 

“I don’t, sorry,” you say. They’ve both put Verlinda on their maps a long way northwest from Prismville with deer crossing signs, but his deer has stranger antlers. 

“And you?” Kell asks, bumping her shoulder against yours. “Where’re you from? Where’re you headed?” 

You keep your head down, filling in the outline of a deer. “I don’t know,” you say. “It’s northeast of here. A long way northeast. I’m not sure what it’s called, or what’s there.” The table gets quiet. They feel bad for you. You don’t want to dwell on it. “I’ll go north, I think. Anything I should see in Prismville?” 

Kell grins. “The Mountain,” she says, rubbing her thumb over her stone pendant. “Not like you could miss it.” 

A crowd starts to gather on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. They clutch cardboard boxes, paper bags with the mouths taped shut and gift-wrapped packages. One hastily scribbles an address onto an envelope against the window. Kell is the first one outside and she’s swamped as soon as she announces she’s going to the University. Nobody cares that she doesn’t know where it is yet—a courier will get it there one way or another, faster than anyone else. The man from Verlinda leaves with a thick stack of letters rubberbanded together and nothing else.

The air is cool and damp. Clouds move too quickly like leaves blown across a puddle. There’s a thorny feeling in the back of your brain, a feeling that won’t leave you alone.

“Prismville!” you call over the restless chatter. “Anybody got anything going to Prismville?” There are a handful of takers: a crate of something heavy that rattles. A few jars of cloudy liquid with some lumpy preserved thing gently floating in each. A wax-sealed letter. You heft everything into the back of your car and pull out of the parking lot, and only then does the tension fall away from your shoulders and your jaw unclench. You have a compass in the glovebox but you don’t need it. Home is northeast, your heart says. Something tugs at you from beyond the shifting haze of fog on the horizon. Old brick buildings give way to hilly suburbs and sparse farmhouses. Claustrophobic streets widen into three-lane blacktop. Soon, Henley Creek is vanishing in the rearview mirror and you are on the road again. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE BY WELLMESS FEAT. CHRISTINE SMIT]

Legend has it that couriers like you are born out here, deep in the connective tissue that holds the Drift together. It’s not true, of course, but it must make some kind of sense to the people who don’t feel Home like a harpoon in the chest. They’re just trying to make sense of you. Most people only see the road, if they see anything at all through the fog. They aren’t paying attention to the grassy banks and gorges beside it, the redness of the soil right outside Compass Hill or the knee-high wildflowers in Verlinda. You could wander blindfolded and smell the difference between the earthy, fungal tang of the Stillwoods and the University egg gardens long before the welcome signs popped up to greet you. It’s not that the roads are any different for couriers. You’re just looking when they think there’s nothing to see.

The highway curves gently. A car slides into the passing lane and zips past you, the only other driver you see for a while. Something sprints through the fog on all fours, keeping pace with you for several miles before it breaks off and vanishes into the trees. The sickly sweet chemical stench of Henley Creek’s factories is just starting to wane when you realize you forgot to get gas in town. At the same moment, a blue sign comes looming out of the fog. PIT STOP: NEXT EXIT, it says. There’s no logo, no flair to the text, just the same terse uppercase font that announces speed limits and four words.

There could be something between here and Prismville. There could also be nothing, just the Drift stretching out lengths of highway like unraveling thread. You aren’t sure you want to risk it. You aren’t sure you want to stop either. You miss the exit trying to decide. You can push it, you think. You’ve gone further with less. The blink of a turn signal flashes in your rearview mirror and another courier speeds past. That four-legged shape comes loping up to the roadside again, not quite close enough to break through the fog, and you can still just barely smell Henley Creek. A sign comes. PIT STOP: NEXT EXIT. 

You curse under your breath. Reluctantly, you take the exit. A sharp hairpin turn leads you to a gas station just off the highway, the metal canopy edged with eerie red neon that turns the fog to blood-colored mist. The words PIT STOP glow white above the door. There’s a pickup parked at the side of the building, still running, nobody inside. You pull up to a pump, take a deep breath, and head for the gas station doors. There’s no one at the register.

A bell chimes as you open the door. “One sec,” you hear, a grumble from somewhere in the shelves. There’s a mess in the gap where someone could step behind the counter, a sludgy wet spot and a halo of floor to ceiling spatters. It’s definitely blood, still fresh enough to drip. There’s a squelching sound somewhere in the store. A door slams. The gas station attendant comes sauntering out of the back with a wide smile. 

It’s the same one you always see here—the only one you’ve ever seen. Big and broad-shouldered, calloused palms and short, dark hair. His smile is just a little off, a little too big when the rest of his face exudes menace. He wears a long black apron over his uniform, saturated with glistening spots of what could be oil, water or blood invisible until the light hits them just right. “Hey there, courier. Sorry about the mess,” he drawls, sidling up to the counter without even a glance down to make sure he isn’t stepping in it. He rubs his red fingers over the apron, wiping a new stain across the front. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’m at pump three,” you say.

“Mhm?” He rests his arm across the counter and leans forward. He’s giving you that hungry look he always does, drumming his blunt, bloody nails in an uneven, faltering rhythm. “And how do you wanna pay?”

You glance back at your car, out at the fog. Stalling. The attendant’s gaze burns into your back. “The only way you’ll let me pay,” you grumble. You hear a muted click and clatter; dice rolling against his palm. He beckons you forward with one finger. 

“C’mon, courier. I’ll let you pay all kinds of ways. I just don’t want your money,” he says. He stacks the dice on the counter between you, three in a little tower. “Besides, you know the rules. You don’t owe me anything if you win.” The blood on the ceiling is starting to congeal into something sticky and unpleasant. It drips infrequently, in big, gummy clots. “We’re playing Highwayman,” he says. 

“I know,” you say.

He ignores you. “The target’s fifty-two. We alternate rolls. If you go over, you lose. If you roll two wolves, you lose. If we both go over, whoever’s closer wins.”

“I know,” you insist. 

He chuckles and rolls first, counts up his numbers; a one, a four and a five. His eyes linger on your hand when you pick up the dice. You catch him licking his lips. “I’ve been hearing rumors lately,” he says casually. “Trouble down south. Up north? Wherever the Stillwoods ended up this time.” You roll, count, and wait for his turn. This is the easy part. “They’ve been seeing hermit seegris in the area. I’d tell you to watch yourself if you’re headed that way, but those things don’t tend to stay in one place for long.” 

“Hermit seegris?” you echo. “Never heard of those. What are they?” Click. Clack. Clatter. Two sixes and a five. You’re ahead.

The attendant hums. His turn is quick. He barely holds the dice before he flicks them out of his hand. “Like a hermit crab. But a seegris.” 

“You’re not gonna tell me what a seegris is, are you?” 

He grins. You think he’s just enjoying being a jackass but his gaze is lower, by your fingers. You rolled a two, a three, and a wolf. Your heart skips a beat at the blotchy silhouette. It could be anything, honestly. A couple pine trees. A rabbit. A butterfly, if you squint. It’s the shape that’s bound to show up on any die face if you roll it in the Drift often enough. “You know,” the attendant says, “I hear you roll wolves more often if you’re nervous.” Now he’s taking his time, fondling the dice for a while before he tosses them on the counter. Your palms are sweaty. You almost drop the dice on your turn. “You ever think about retiring, courier? Is that even an option? Your type don’t live long enough to get old anyway.” 

He just keeps talking. You don’t stop him. You’re hardly paying attention to a word out of his mouth, just rolling and counting and rolling and counting, each one harder, slower, more nervewracking than the last. Eventually, you toss the dice and his hand comes down hard over your wrist, trapping it against the counter. Your roll hasn’t settled for more than a fraction of a second but you know. It’s the look on his face. His eyes match his smile for the first time since you walked in, his face lighting up with glee. 

A six, a one, and a wolf. 

You look at him and he looks at you, his other hand dipping below the counter and returning wrapped around the heavy wooden handle of a meat cleaver. “Two wolves! Isn’t that something?” he says. “You look nervous, courier. Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve ever lost before. I guess everybody’s luck runs out eventually.” He grins, thumb stroking your pulse. Your stomach lurches. “But hey, you got close. Forty-nine! I’m feeling generous so I’ll give you a discount. Either way, gotta pay up. Safety or certainty?”

You shake your head, stammering. “Wait, wait, I—”

“Safety or certainty. Those are the options.” His grip tightens when you try to wriggle away and he yanks you closer, sending you stumbling into the register counter and sagging into his grip. “Want me to pick for you?”

“No,” you say quickly. He hums, unconvinced. “Wait, listen, okay, how about, uh…how about…”

“You’re young, aren’t you?” he says conversationally. He makes you splay your hand open, palm flat against the table. “Awful young. Haven’t lost anything quite like this before. Don’t you worry, courier. The more you drive these roads, the more you’ll get used to it. What I’m taking is so small you won’t know to miss it. Might wake up one day and realize you were better off without it.” 

“Wait, wait, no,” you beg. He’s not waiting, not even hesitating as he raises the cleaver over his head, your voice rising to a panicked pitch. “No, no, no, nononoWAITNO—!”

The blade comes down in a blur with a solid THUNK. The sounds your body makes are muted in comparison, so distant you don’t hear them over your own screaming, but there was the ripping of flesh as soft as a page turning, the crack of bone snapping and splintering. There’s oozing, throbbing pain shooting up your arm and the prickling wrongness of something not being where it should be, something that doesn’t listen when your body tells it to move. You sink to your knees without the attendant holding you, surprised through a haze of agony to find you still have a hand. There’s a gushing stump where the little finger on your left hand used to be. Shuddering connective tissue flexes and flinches in the wound. 

“You want me to wrap that for you?” the attendant asks. You lurch away from the counter with your hand clutched to your chest, sucking in shaky breaths. “Courier,” he says, shaking his head like you’re the one being unreasonable. He cradles your severed finger in his palm, gazing down at it like something precious. “Go on, fill your tank. And be careful out there. The Drift’s a dangerous place, you know. Monsters everywhere.” He lifts your finger to his mouth and gives it a good, long lick, smearing your blood across his tongue.

You mutter an insult and shoulder through the doors.

(next)

[bunnybuns-art]

Bendy are you a little devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was created out of ink

Then molded into a 3D beast

You can hear him coming by his tapping feet

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Snap back to the era when the swing was king

But the workshops fading and behind the scenes

There's a deep dark secret hidden underneath

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Hey Joey, I got your message

There's still a sketch on my old work desk

It might have a been a bit overzealous

To collect all six of those office relics

I haven't seen my peers

In over thirty years

But there's no one here

Except grinding gears

And my rising fears

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

Bendy was a villain out of sync

Now he's off the page and he's on the brink

And his old pal Boris might have lost his spleen

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

A cartoon cutout that'll make you shriek

Yeah your heart starts racing when you hear that beat

The creator's brain might have sprung a leak

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

One, two, three

To 3D

You and me

Ink machine

Flashing screens

Dancing fiend

Bendy sings

Devil's Swing

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was a lil' devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

[indigosunsetao3]

A Reason To Try

Chapter 12 - Truce

Masterlist of Chapters

Warnings: 18+ - No minors Please read the tags on AO3 for any of your triggers

Alex Keller X Original FMC 6.2k words - AO3 Link

Alex waited in the living room, taking a seat on the couch before Madeline walked in a few minutes later, drying her hands on her shirt. The rain was still coming down hard outside, which was going to throw off his calling schedule for Price and the others. He pushed that thought to the side as he flipped open a notebook where he had been writing down all his plans. There were a few options, different scenarios, and places they could try to go. What they would do if they heard from Price, Laswell, what to do if no news came at all.

“Here,” Alex said as he held out the notebook to where she sat on the other end of the couch, as far away from him as she could get. “Few ideas I’ve come up with, among other things,” he explained as she took the notebook from him and started to read.

Madeline found pages of roughly sketched maps of the community they were staying in, scribbles of items he found, notes of what buildings housed what items, and a to-do list with lines through more than half of the things there. Further in, she found gas mileage calculations and how far he thought they could get with the different cars he had found keys for. She had watched him checking a big bag of keys against the vehicles in the parking lot the day before, throwing away extra keys and leaving the ones that worked on the kitchen counter.

Madeline glanced up as Alex rose from the couch when she flipped another page. He looked at her for a second, sheepishly, ruffling up his bedhead before padding into the kitchen. She watched him from behind the cushions as he stood with his back to her, his shirtless back, and made coffee. Well, he poured a cup of a few days-old coffee from the work trailer he had brewed and put in thermal mugs.

She had yet to accept any of his other offerings of peace, but when he left coffee with a note two days ago, she nearly inhaled it. Madeline opened her mouth to ask him for a cup before shutting it; she wasn’t supposed to be talking to him, she reminded herself. No matter how he looked in his low-slung sweats with mussed hair and dog tags hanging on his bare chest. Or how much it seemed he was trying to earn her forgiveness; it wasn’t enough, she kept telling herself. She couldn’t trust he was genuine because she had tried that route already, and he had torn her apart. Used her in her naivety. Realizing she was staring, she flicked her eyes back to the notebook and flipped another page.

Madeline.

That was why he had risen from the couch and walked off with a look of apprehension. And why he was still standing in the kitchen toying with a packet of sugar, pointedly not looking at her. He had attempted to write out an apology or an explanation. She wasn’t sure what it was as she looked over the words; many of them were scribbled out hard enough that she couldn’t figure out the words, and others were lightly crossed. She ran her fingers over the indented paper, over a splotch of ink that looked like the pen may have broken under his hands in his haste or frustration to figure out what to say.

“You can skip over all that,” Alex said after a second as he finally turned around to lean against the counter. "None of it came out right anyway, and you already said you don’t want to talk about it,” he ventured.

“Right,” Madeline barely breathed out as she skimmed over a few lines he hadn’t crossed out enough. Confessions of regret and admittance of his inability to control his rash reactions. She wanted to read more, delve into it, and try to understand. But by the way, he was staring; she flipped the page, pages, until she got to the coordinates of the Texas safe zone. He had written out directions, different routes to take, and ones to avoid.

Alex didn’t let the disappointment show as she agreed and moved on to the plans of leaving. He pushed it down and walked back over to the couch to take a seat again on the far end. He let her read everything over in silence, his eyes locked on the window where the rain was coming down in sheets. The coffee was horrendous, but he drank it anyway for lack of anything else to do.

“When?” Madeline finally asked as she came to the last page. She flipped through to find them all blank, so his last scribbled notes keeping tabs on his contact schedule had been it. How long ago had he tried to write those apologies? When did he decide to give it up for a lost cause? She wasn’t sure how she felt about it because she had been the one to push him so far away, yet the finality of it stung somewhere deep in her chest.

“Next day or two,” Alex answered as he set the coffee down half finished. He couldn’t stomach any more of it. “Depends on this weather. I have a few more things I wanted to try and finish before we left but the rain is putting a damper on that.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you out there? I know I’ve been sitting around for the most part.”

“No. I would just go through the things I’ve brought in and decide what you want to take. We won’t have a ton of room; I’m not taking the Tahoe. The gas mileage and size are impractical,” Alex explained. It felt odd how they were speaking to one another, very matter-of-fact and stilted. Even from the start, they hadn’t quite acted like strangers. They had fallen into conversation and friendship relatively easily.

“Right,” Madeline replied as she flipped back a few pages to the list of cars. He had marked a few with underlines, all midsized SUVs that she could gather. “I could pack up the car at least if you pick one. Write down anything you want to take.”

“Are you good with going? I don’t want to make that choice for you,” Alex asked as he leaned against the arm of the couch to face her better.

“I don’t think I have much choice,” Madeline answered quietly as she shut the notebook and set it on the cushion between them. “I can’t stay here alone, and if you want to move, that’s the only option.”

“You have other options,” Alex answered. “I know Texas is far from here, from Everett,” he paused. “But I could find you a place close to here that’s a bit more secure. Leave you communication options. Make sure that Price relays to your sister where you are so they can come get you.”

“And where do you factor into all of this? What is your plan?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t have much outside of trying to get to the team somehow. I’ve got contacts in Mexico that they’ll potentially rendezvous with.” He wasn’t going to tell her he was going to forge his way on his own because he was alone. His hopes anyone was still alive that he knew were slim, and while he didn’t want to leave Madeline behind here, he also wasn’t going to force her to go to Texas. He had seen the hesitation and reluctance at his mention of Texas before. Knew being that far from Everett terrified her. Though being here, she wasn’t much help to him either.

“I can’t stay,” Madeline stated again after a few beats of silence. “Everett is safe, me being here or there doesn’t change that. And I know I won’t make it by myself,” she sighed and ran a hand through her hair, eyes darting to the piles of supplies on the living room floor still. “I’ll go wherever you are going, Texas, I guess. See how things are there; maybe I’ll be useful to them.” Her voice had a bite to it, but it wasn’t as harsh as it had been during the past few conversations. It seemed now that there was a conclusion to all of this; she was ready to just get there and get it done.

Alex shut his eyes for a second at her words, doing his best to not argue back with her. She was anything but useless as she had deemed herself over and over, and how she thought he felt about her. She had saved their asses in the mountains, kept Everett alive and uninjured at the attack in the cabin, kept his sanity in check, and had done so much here in the condo to assist. She was strong, smart, and, despite everything, resilient, but he couldn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t listen, she’d only hear the hurtful things he had flung at her instead.

“It’s settled then,” Alex answered finally before pushing up from the couch. “There are a few things I can do even with the rain,” he explained, snatching up his half-drunk coffee and going back to the kitchen. Really he would rather stand outside in the pouring rain all day than sit here with her, torturing himself in the awkward silence. “If you could go through the food and pull easy-to-eat items out, pack up your clothes. I’ve started a list of what I think we need to take from here. You can just throw things in those empty totes.” He pointed to a pile of black heavy-duty totes sitting in the armchair.

“Sure,” Madeline answered quietly as she followed his progression back down the hallway. She heard the door of the kid’s room click shut as he went to get ready. She sighed and looked at the notebook before snatching it up again, flipping to a blank page, and grabbing a pen to start her own list.

She was working on an inventory of food when Alex came back out dressed for the rain. He only paused briefly to grab something to eat and the pile of car keys before he was out the door without a word. Madeline listened to him jog down the stairs before resuming her work, dragging a tote over to fill up with what she thought would be good to take. It was a hodgepodge of things, and she wrote it all down and taped the list to the lid before moving on to a second tote. She wasn’t sure how much room they’d have, but she thought food and water were probably among the more important things.

Alex still attempted to reach out to the team throughout the day despite the rain. He began rearranging cars slowly, careful not to make too much noise too frequently to be safe. The more useful vehicles were moved closest to their condo, and the ones he didn’t want were further away. He was also careful to not make the setup too obvious, scattering them around different parking spaces to make it look like naturally left behind cars. But he still had them all within view of one of the windows from their condo. Once the useless vehicles were moved, he siphoned gas out of them, filling up multiple gas cans and stashing them into varying trunks. He had learned over the years to always have more than one option and never expect anything to go to plan.

The moving and arranging took hours with how slow he had to go, but it kept him busy. He only paused when the rain was coming down so hard he couldn’t move the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The thunder was ground shaking and he rode out one storm in a beat-up Civic and scarfed down a snack pack of mini muffins as he waited.

Madeline had checked on Alex a few times between her work and watched him carefully move things around the parking lot. He glanced up at the condo a few times, but she always ducked back from the window. The thunderstorms seemed unending through the day, one rolling out only to be followed by another an hour later, and the rain never let up. On a particularly loud storm, she had blatantly opened a window and leaned out to find where Alex was, tempted to call him inside when she spotted him eating his late lunch in a car. She gave him a small half wave, unsure if he had seen, before going back inside.

Between packing, she worked on gathering the extra water she had caught from the rain and dumping it into the tubs. If they were going to be on the road again soon, they wouldn’t need a whole lot, but she wanted to bathe at least one more time before they left.

The work had taken most of the day and Madeline kept itching to flip the notebook pages back to look at what Alex had attempted to write to her. She talked herself out of it every time, but when she was finally exhausted and collapsed on the couch, she snatched it up and flipped. What was the worst thing that could happen? He had already hurt her enough, maybe some sort of explanation would at least make it sting a little less, or help her understand. She propped the notebook on her knees as she rummaged through a box of stale Cheerios and started to decipher.

The day ran out of light earlier than usual, thanks to the storms, so Alex headed back inside, soaked to the skin, a couple of hours ahead of schedule. When he walked back into the condo, he didn’t see Madeline; it seemed she had abandoned the living area for the bedroom. Shucking off his outer layer, he threw the clothes into the sink before walking around to assess what she had done. There were totes neatly stacked by the pantry door and they all had paper torn from his notebook taped to them. He bent down to read one as he undid his shoes to see it was a list of everything inside, and he grinned a bit. It seemed she had the same idea of splitting things out, making each tote a combination of things just to be safe.

He grabbed his dinner, a prepacked protein shake, and the other half of a bag of chips from the night before, and headed to his room. If Madeline had turned in for the night he may as well, he lost valuable time today so if the storm cleared overnight he could get an early start. As he tipped the bag of chips up to get some crumbs he paused in his steps. Madeline’s bedroom door was open. It was just a small gap, hardly enough to see much aside from a sliver of wall, but it was open. She had kept it firmly shut for the past week and he stared at it for just a second longer debating. Was it a coincidence? An accident? Maybe she wanted to talk to him and it was a silent invitation to do so. He stared for a few seconds more before going toward his room. He wasn’t going to push it. She had barely agreed to speak to him, and he wouldn’t ruin that.

Madeline sat quietly on the bed, listening to Alex as he came in, twisting her hands in her lap as she waited. She had no idea what to do, to say. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to say anything at all, to be honest. She had been able to make out what he had tried to say in his writing, piece together his scribbles, and attempt to convey his thoughts. It wasn’t enough for forgiveness, not nearly enough, but it was a start. So she decided to leave it up to him to see if he would want to talk. When he stopped outside her door she held her breath waiting, still unsure of what she wanted, but when his steps continued down the hall she loosed it with a twist of disappointment. Maybe it wasn’t the best time or the time at all.

Still, though, she kept the door open.

Thunder was still rumbling in the distance when Madeline woke up. She had to unbury herself from where she had burrowed under the pillows and feel around for the watch on the nightstand. It was still too dark to be a decent waking hour, but she hit the backlight button on the digital face and had to blink a few times to read it. Two in the morning. She sighed and pushed the watch back onto the table as thunder hummed in the background, but she heard something else. Instantly she popped her head up to listen better, heart ratcheting up a few beats in her chest. She heard it again, muffled, but it was certainly there, and she threw her legs out of bed and stood up, stumbling a bit on her still-asleep muscles.

Grabbing the small penlight flashlight, too dim to be seen from the outside but enough to light her walkway, Madeline shuffled toward her bedroom door. If she heard it, surely Alex heard it as well. He was always on alert, waiting for the next threat. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he was already up and in the living room monitoring the area, gun propped on his shoulder, ready to take down whatever it was.

She pried the door open, thankful she had decided to leave it open overnight and realized the sound was louder now. Her heart jumped into her throat as she clicked the light off and tried to listen over her own quickened breathing. How had something gotten inside? She knew Alex barricaded the door every night, and he certainly wasn’t going to sleep through it. She glanced around in the dark for what to do, where to go, afraid that maybe something had happened to Alex when the sound clearly met her ears this time.

It wasn’t one of those things.

Fumbling down the hall, Madeline went for Alex’s room. His door was also open, and she banged into it. She couldn’t see him in the dark but she could hear him. Hear the frantic shifting in the bed, the stifled groans and choked noises as he fought unknown terrors in his sleep. She tripped over something as she crossed the room and barely caught herself on the bed's footboard. Her jarring the bed didn’t wake Alex as he continued to trash and groan, and she scooted around the edge.

“Alex,” she tried as her hand touched his leg. He was twisted up in the sheets, and she tugged as he strained, the darkness not helping as she attempted to unwind him. He had woken her before in the car when he had his nightmares, but it was never this loud, more of a twitch or a jolt, a few gasps. This was a whole other level, and she flinched as he yelled loudly. The words weren’t discernable but the inflection in the tone was telling enough.  

“Alex!” She called out louder as she felt up his leg to his stomach and finally found one of his arms. He pulled back hard out of her grasp, and Madeline groped for him again, resting her hip on the side of the bed. She slid her hands over his chest finding more sheets and blankets before her fingers found skin. He was damp with sweat, and his breathing was coming too quick, almost in gasps as he fought whatever terrors. “Alex,” Madeline tried soothingly as her hands found either side of his face and gripped him hard. “I need you to wake up,” she tried, shaking his head a bit, “you’re dreaming. You’re safe; I’m here with you,” she continued as he twisted a bit but perhaps calmed a fraction. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real,” Madeline continued quietly, running her thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling the wetness from sweat or tears; she wasn’t sure.

He was being held down, restrained as he watched it happen, and couldn’t help. As he watched those things tear into her and rip her to pieces as he just stood by uselessly. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t let it happen again; he’d already failed once. He twisted and fought against the hands, against the ties keeping him down. They were too tight, his limbs too heavy and slow. He thrashed again and felt the hands grab his face to hold him and make him watch. He wouldn’t. He got one hand free and grabbed at them before everything vanished, and he opened his eyes in the dark.

Alex had grabbed at Madeline’s wrist hard enough to make her squeak with a bit of pain, but she didn’t let go of him. It seemed his movement, or maybe her voice, had finally dragged him out of the dream. He had stopped squirming and fighting, though his chest was heaving, and his fingers dug painfully into her pulse point as he continued to hold on. He didn’t say anything just yet, and Madeline felt him snap his head to the side a bit to assess what was going on.

“Just a dream,” Madeline said quietly in the dark, and she felt him shift his head to look at where her voice had come from.

“Madeline?” Alex asked, his voice a rasp. His throat was dry and felt like sandpaper, and he still couldn’t quite piece together what was real and what was the dream. He continued to hold her wrist as he blinked into the dark to banish the images. “Are you…are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Madeline answered simply as she continued to cup his face. “I’m a little more concerned for you,” she confessed as he finally loosened his grip some so her fingers weren’t going numb.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” He asked again, not really comprehending that she was there with him. He had seen it with his own two eyes, seen her be bit, be savagely ripped apart. Seen Farah dying alone in some back ally. Watched as they both looked to him for help that he couldn’t give. Their eyes pleading for help, flashing with anger at his inability, then terror as they succumbed to the sickness and blood loss. “You’re here?”

No, what he had seen wasn’t right. Farah was in Urzikstan; he had left her behind. She was…well, she was dead, but he hadn’t seen it. And Madeline was here talking to him, so she hadn’t been attacked and ripped apart. 

Or was this the dream?

“Alex, I am okay,” Madeline said calmly as he continued to work through whatever plagued his thoughts. She could feel him still breathing rapidly, and when his other hand reached for her, she held still. Let his fingers brush along her side, broad palm running up to her shoulder blade before coming to rest on her shoulder itself. “See? Just fine.”

“Fuck,” Alex finally groaned as he pushed his head back into the pillow in frustration and perhaps embarrassment. She was here with him; he could feel the warmth of her skin under his clammy grip and her cool hands on his flushed cheeks as she continued to hold him to ground him. What he had seen hadn’t been real; this was real. She was real. “Fuck I’m sorry, Madeline,” he muttered as he let his hand fall away with a small thump, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That is the least of my worries right now,” Madeline answered as she let go of him now that he was more coherent. He seemed as if he needed space to breathe so she moved to stand up right as he pushed onto his elbows.

He needed to get out from under the blankets. They were sticking to him like a second skin with sweat, and his hair was also plastered to his forehead. How long had he been trashing about? What had he said and done? He swung his legs out from the small twin bed and planted his feet on the floor, the cold vinyl a nice jolt to his brain to wipe away some of the fog. He leaned forward and dug the heel of his palms into his eyes as if they would press the dream out of his mind.

“Does this happen often?” Madeline asked quietly as she stood just inches away. He mentioned he didn’t mean to wake her, which said this happened more than once.

“Enough,” Alex muttered simply as he rested his forehead in his hands, pushing the hair up and away.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She knew why, of course, because she had thoroughly shut him out and made it clear she didn’t want to talk to him.

“I’m not going to burden you with this too. This is my own shit.”

“I,” Madeline started before she reached for him. “I know we’ve got some things to talk about, but I didn’t want you to suffer. Not like this,” she breathed as she stepped closer, her hand resting on his bare shoulder where it met his neck.

“I can handle it,” Alex said with a humorless laugh, “comes with the job. These things aren’t new for me. It won’t be the last time.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it alone.”

She stepped around one of his legs to stand before him in the dark. Alex leaned back slightly at her sudden closeness, but Madeline curled her fingers a bit, not wanting him to pull far away. Before either of them could reconsider or pull away, she slid her other arm around him and pulled him against her.

Alex quickly understood Madeline’s intent and didn’t resist her movements. He shifted his position, spreading his legs to make more room for her. As she closed the distance, he leaned his head against her chest, embracing the hug. It was the first soft gesture she had offered him in over a week, and Alex hadn’t realized how much he needed it until he felt her warmth again.

Madeline gently cradled the back of Alex’s head with one hand, her other resting soothingly along his back. In response, Alex wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her shirt with a soft sigh. She could feel how his fingers dug into her skin, gently but conveying a fear she’d pull away or reject him again. But she didn’t. She continued to hold him to her quietly, letting her hand on his head gently run through his hair, feeling the three scar lines near his temple that she had yet to hear how he had received them.

The closeness and simple strength she gave him made Alex swallow hard to keep from falling apart again. The dark always made it so much easier to unravel and that much harder to keep it together. He had been grieving Farah, the suspected death of his friends, and the loss of Madeline’s companionship, utterly alone with no one to talk about it with. It was all overwhelming, and this gesture was the final straw on his tether of false bravado.

“I’m here,” Madeline finally said as she felt Alex tense and stiffen as he tried to hold himself together. She had not been shy about crying in front of him and had broken down too many times to keep up with. He had always been there to help her through it, given her space when she needed it, but also picked her back up and kept her moving. Yet, when he needed her support most, she had walked away. Even though his words had hurt her immensely, and she knew it was the grief talking, she continued to shut him out and let her anger drive instead of logic.

She had forced him to navigate his pain alone, something he would never have done to her. She knew if she had lashed out, berated, or screamed at him, he would have come back because he understood. “I’m sorry for what happened to Farah,” she said quietly, feeling him tighten his grip on her at the mention of the name. “And I’m sorry for making you go through this alone.”

“Madeline,” Alex said quietly, afraid if he raised his voice, she would hear how badly it was wavering. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The things I said-”

“Weren’t you,” Madeline finished for him before he tried to continue to blame himself. “I read the note,” she paused, “notes.”

“I meant what I wrote,” he mumbled, “I couldn’t say it right but writing was a little easier.” He let his fingers press into the soft skin of her back as he pressed closer into her embrace. He was fighting to keep everything together, not let emotion overwhelm him at the fact she had given him a chance. That she understood what happened on the roof really was not him and how it had all gone to shit in a shockingly fast fashion.

“I know,” was all Madeline replied as she stared off into the darkness. She wasn’t ready to forget what happened between them, but now wasn't the time to talk about it. Instead, she gently continued to soothe him, feeling his breathing start to slow into a more relaxed state and his muscles untense.

“You should get back to sleep,” she finally ventured after a long moment of silence as they held onto one another. “It’s still early enough to get a few more hours before sun up.”

Alex shifted and leaned back some to look up at her in the dark, his hands sliding to grip at her hips gently. “I’m probably not going to get back to sleep,” he answered before letting his hands drop from her to his lap. “Usually don’t. I can get started on a few things,” he reasoned before Madeline flexed her fingers on his shoulders to hold him in place.

“We both need some good sleep if we’re about to hit the road again. It’s still stormy out, nothing you can do in the dark,” she reasoned.

“I’ll just stare at the ceiling if I stay here. You can go back to bed I’ll be quiet,” he answered back as he sighed. “I’m usually up for hours before you anyway.”

“Move over,” Madeline said, sounding braver than she felt.

“Mads there’s no room in this-“ Alex started as she shifted to go around him. “I’m fine, you can go back to bed.”

“It’s just like the car,” Madeline reasoned as the bed squeaked with her added weight. She wasn’t forgiving him fully, at least not yet, but maybe just tonight, they could slip into the easy companionship they had developed, filling the void of loneliness for her and loss for him. Tomorrow they could figure things out properly.

Alex didn’t fight her. He shifted back into the small twin bed until his bareback hit the wall, sending a chill down his spine. Laying down on his side, he tucked his elbow under his head and shoved the pillow in her direction as she pushed the sheets down to get under them. It really was just like the SUV and he raised his arm up as she laid down and pressed herself up to his chest, curling her own arms against her chest between them. He let her settle, get that last small adjustment before he dropped the arm around her and pulled her tight to him.

“Good?” Madeline barely whispered as she felt his heart hammering under her hands. Or was that her own?

“Good,” Alex answered back as he splayed his hand on her back to keep her pressed to him and not topple on the floor. She didn’t say anything else as she lay there, her body stiff with awkwardness. As time passed, she relaxed more into the bed, and soon, her breathing was a soft sigh, indicating she had fallen asleep.

It was a long while before Alex fell asleep, the nightmare still vivid in his mind as he held onto Madeline. But even with the images flashing in his mind, he was more relaxed, more content to know at least one thing in his world wasn’t gone. Least not yet. They still needed to discuss the next steps and plans. He wasn’t sure when exactly he fell asleep, but even with everything on his mind, having Madeline there next to him, he was able to rest undisturbed by thoughts or nightmares for the rest of the night.

The next time Madeline awoke, she found herself curled nearly on top of Alex. She blinked at the watery sunlight coming through the windows as she tried to take in her surroundings. Her cheek was pressed tight to his chest, one of her arms flung across him. His arm, in turn, was protectively wrapped around her back to hold her close, and his other hand loosely held her bicep as if he had tugged her on top of him and fallen asleep holding her. She shifted a leg to stretch a bit and found their legs were also entwined together. She peered down where the blankets adorned with cartoon characters hid their lower halves.

He was shirtless and while the room had a chill to it, he was warm like always. No matter the weather or the temperature, Alex always ran hot. His skin was like a radiator under her fingers, and it was perfect to sleep with. Sliding her hand to the center of his chest near her face, she quietly looked at his arm that was caging her. She let her eyes rove over the tattoo that she had seen plenty of times but never this close or this long to pick up the detail. He must have had it for years, parts of it faded a bit with age and use, a few spots marred by scars he received after the artwork.

Madeline ran her finger over the staff of what looked to be a grim reaper near the crease of his elbow when Alex’s breathing stuttered with alertness at the movement. She halted and turned her head up to see him blinking at the ceiling, the arm around her back tightening its grip as if afraid she’d slip away.

“How long ago did you get these?” Madeline asked as she returned her attention back to the tattoo and traced a few swirls of black-inked smoke, the pad of her finger feeling the ridge of another scar.

“Years ago,” Alex answered with a yawn as he peered down at what she was looking at. “Need some touchup, not sure when that will happen,” he added. “I had a plan to eventually run it down my back but life got in the way.”

“It has a funny way of doing that,” Madeline answered as she let her hand fall to rest on his chest again. “Get enough rest?” She asked, tilting her head up to look at him. He was pale with exhaustion, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in this light.

“I could use another three days,” Alex confessed with a small grin, “but I got plenty to be able to function.”

“I guess we better get going,” Madeline stated as she shifted to sit up. She was sore from being tucked so tightly to him, no room to move in the small bed. “Since you lost some time yesterday. Do you still want to leave tomorrow?”

Alex’s arm fell away from her as she sat up, hiding his disappointment that the moment was over so quickly. He watched her back as she stretched, her tank top riding up her waist to give him a peek of her own tattoo on her ribs. He stared for a moment longer before pushing to sit up himself, groaning as his shoulder and back popped at the moment.

“Tomorrow or the day after. I don’t want to leave in a rush if we don’t have to and risk forgetting anything,” Alex answered. “But lingering also isn’t the best idea either. It’s just a matter of time before people start venturing out for more places to raid, to find supplies. Grocery stores and the like will be depleted by now, and people need food. This is out of the way, but locals will know it exists.”

“Right,” Madeline answered as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked over her shoulder at him. “Can I help today?” She asked, “and not just by staying inside. I’m getting a bit stir-crazy.”

“I, ah,” Alex started, but he saw her eyes narrow. She was talking to him; he wasn’t going to ruin this tentative truce. “We can start packing the car.”

“Great,” Madeline answered as she stood up and reached above her head to stretch out, pushing up onto her tiptoes before settling flat foot again. “I’ll get changed, and we can eat then get started,” she gave him a small smile.

“Sure,” Alex replied with his own smile as he watched her walk out.

Alex arrived in the living room first and flipped open the laptop, plugged the phone in, and swiped over to his email. He was prepared to just send his usual morning communication when a noise outside caught his attention. He rose from the seat and peered out the window.

They had company much sooner than he anticipated.

[lurxof--thxmaw]

Someone give this poor woman a stim toy

// Don't worry, she's got plenty!

[sammy-i-dont-want-to-be-here]

Bendy are you a little devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was created out of ink

Then molded into a 3D beast

You can hear him coming by his tapping feet

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Snap back to the era when the swing was king

But the workshops fading and behind the scenes

There's a deep dark secret hidden underneath

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Hey Joey, I got your message

There's still a sketch on my old work desk

It might have a been a bit overzealous

To collect all six of those office relics

I haven't seen my peers

In over thirty years

But there's no one here

Except grinding gears

And my rising fears

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

Bendy was a villain out of sync

Now he's off the page and he's on the brink

And his old pal Boris might have lost his spleen

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

A cartoon cutout that'll make you shriek

Yeah your heart starts racing when you hear that beat

The creator's brain might have sprung a leak

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

One, two, three

To 3D

You and me

Ink machine

Flashing screens

Dancing fiend

Bendy sings

Devil's Swing

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was a lil' devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

((did you just wrote a friking full song in here- I don't even know how to respond to that))

[cutebendy]

Bendy are you a little devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was created out of ink

Then molded into a 3D beast

You can hear him coming by his tapping feet

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Snap back to the era when the swing was king

But the workshops fading and behind the scenes

There's a deep dark secret hidden underneath

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

Hey Joey, I got your message

There's still a sketch on my old work desk

It might have a been a bit overzealous

To collect all six of those office relics

I haven't seen my peers

In over thirty years

But there's no one here

Except grinding gears

And my rising fears

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

The illusion of living

Was only the beginning

Ink incarnate that's sinning

Presented in Sillyvision

Bendy was a villain out of sync

Now he's off the page and he's on the brink

And his old pal Boris might have lost his spleen

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

A cartoon cutout that'll make you shriek

Yeah your heart starts racing when you hear that beat

The creator's brain might have sprung a leak

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine

One, two, three

To 3D

You and me

Ink machine

Flashing screens

Dancing fiend

Bendy sings

Devil's Swing

Dreams do come true

I was deceived by Joey Drew, and now I'm coming after you

Who's laughing now?

You thought that you could cut me out

But now the ink is pouring down

Bendy was a lil' devil thing

Who was brought to life on the silver screen

Used to make em chuckle now he makes em scream

It's Bendy in the Devil's Swing

Flash back to the place that made the cartoons sing

Where the cobwebs grow and the floorboards creak

And it's all connected to an evil scheme

It's Bendy and the Ink Machine?

Here all song im lazzy to continue :D

[manueillustrations]

FR- Si vous aimez mon art et avez envie de m’encourager, je vous invite à vous joindre à ma page Patreon :) Cette plate-forme me permet d'explorer mon style, mon univers, les histoires que je souhaites créer... J'y présente plusieurs sketchs, des finaux, des fanarts au gré de mes envies. C'est un peu comme la plateforme Ko-fi ou on peut offrir un 'café', sauf que dans mon cas, ça vous donne droit à des contre-parties.

Vous pouvez vous inscrire gratuitement, déjà ça, c'est encourageant pour moi et je vous en suis reconnaissante Mais, si vous décidez d'y inclure un montant, voici les différents paliers 1- Vous avez accès à certaines exclusivités et mes illustrations générales à l'avance. 2- Ce qu'il y a au tier 1, plus des planches de BD quand j'en poste (selon le temps et l’inspiration). 3- Ce qu'il y a au tier 2, ainsi que mes illustrations plus romantique. 4- Ce qu'il y a au tier 3, mais avec un peu plus de 'spicy' (illustrations plus mature mais bien dosées) 5- Ce qu'il y a au tier 4, ainsi que des planches de BDs plus romantique/spicy. Environ 3-5 planche par mois ou deux. 6- Ce qu'il y a au tier 5, ainsi qu'une illustration encrée digital (contactez-moi pour savoir ce que vous avez droit) Et en plus, vous avez accès à toutes mes archives :)

ICI HERE www.patreon.com/manueillustrations

EN- If you like my art and want to support me, I invite you to join my Patreon page :) This platform allows me to explore my style, my universe, the stories I want to create… I present several sketches, finals and fanarts as I see fit. It's a bit like the Ko-fi platform where you can offer a 'coffee', except that in my case, it entitles you to counter-parties.

You can sign up for free, and that's encouraging enough for me, for which I'm grateful.

But if you decide to include a fee, here are the different levels

1- You get access to certain exclusives and my general illustrations in advance. 2- What's in tier 1, plus comic strips when I post them (depending on time and inspiration). 3- What's in tier 2, plus my more romantic illustrations. 4- What's in tier 3, but with a bit more 'spicy' (more mature but well-balanced illustrations). 5- What's in tier 4, plus more romantic/spicy comics. About 3-5 panels a month or two. 6- What's in tier 5, plus a digital inked illustration (contact me to find out what you're entitled to).

Plus, you get access to all my archives :)

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)

[spyridonya]

For Kadira: 🔮 for a scene about the supernatural

The longest one, and likely the one that doesn't say the most about what's going on but... Love wins. Thank you for sending this!

Small as it is, Kadira's bedroom is pristine. Perhaps it's the size that makes it relatively easy with very few things she can use, much less call her own. A bed, a chest, a desk, a chair - all relatively simple if comfortable - and a book shelf filled with magic tomes, brittle and dry history, and hymns of gods and goddesses. They're all made out of some unknown wood, lacquer black and sleek to the touch, the construction not quite sane and yet unmistakable that it's beautiful, glowing in the violet light that holds her room when not pouring through those heavy books.

Kadira knows such a room is a luxury compared to back home, all of it a twisted privilege to use, but none of it is hers. Not really.

Yet, it's perfectly clean. Everything is in order: the floor is clean and the bed is always made. The books are put away after usage in their order of subject, the only mark of her own are bookmarks and paper tucked between pages with notes. It's not so much that Mother demands her room to be clean, but rather Kadira wants her room to be clean.

A place for everything and everything in its place; Including things she shouldn't have.

Not that she ever leaves the lab to attain contraband. Not that she can. There's very, very little she could even exchange to the visitors among the lab. She hides sketches. Silly sketches of Suture and Tergrizon. Doodles birthed from poorly scribed arcane runes. Drawings mimicking the creatures found on the borders of history books and symbols of demons twisted into funny little plants and animals. 

She hides all of these under the mattress and tears older sketches piece by piece to be thrown away. But that’s rare. 

After all, Tergrizon is prone to snapping Kadira's pens; she ought to tell Mother about that, but the little Quasit is almost too pathetic to rat on. Besides, Areelu never seems to mind getting new pens and ink. Sometimes, she even gets colored ink for her.

So, of course she knows when something new is in her bedroom. Something strange. Even when she's exhausted from lessons like she is now.

It's a feather that sits on top of her bed.

Of course she's seen feathers before, mostly chicken feathers and from the occasional seagull in Kenabras. They're usually brown, beige, or dirty white and no longer than her han and always tattered and torn.

Not this feather. It's perhaps the length of a human foot and the vanes are flawless until it reaches the afterfeather and downy barbs. As Kadira studies it, she can see those little parts of the feather are perfect, Soft, fluffy, and delicate.The edges of the feather are a romantic red, colors bleeding into the rest of the rainbow to the rachis, which is the deepest indigo.

And as Kadira holds it, it feels safe and warm in her fingertips as memory tickles, trying to rise from the gloom of confusion.She feels loved. 

But then she hears the scrape of a handle at her door and the laborious breathing that gurgles like garbage. She has seconds. Mere seconds. In a speed that rushes against the clock, Kadira stashes the feather under one of her pillows and whirls, her skirts dancing about her, her eyes wide and her furrow apparent.

The low, uncomfortable fear is a perfect disguise for her little secret of a feather that simply should not be there.

[keshetchai]

Fountain pen ink bottle: $4 /ea

pocket sized sketchbooks or notebooks $2 (yellow & brown strathmore drawing/sketch are bundled together for $2)

The three larger sketchbooks are all $5 /ea

various mini canvas packs $3 / ea

acrylic paint pad $8 BNNU

mixed media toned paper pad $6

gel print and roller $8

tortilla pencil roll $2

cheapie brushes bundle (seriously these are CHEAP brushes, they aren't good quality. they're meant for watercolor or acrylic, and I keep cheapies on hand for things like applying masking glue, gesso, spattering, yknow...there's all kinds of reasons why you want sort of terrible brushes. the handles can mix stuff. any time you might end up destroying the good brushes, these are the sacrificial lambs!) $3 for all of them.

brushes box $14 BNNU

brush washer, paint keys (bundle), sanding sponges, letters stencil, clip-on cups to hold medium -- $3 /ea

golden open acrylics set BN swatched and tested like once, got some oil paints on tube but otherwise great. this is the traditional colors set of 6. $30

palette paper (white) BNNU $8

soho, grumbacher, & turner watercolor bundle: $15

marie's gouaches bundle and storage box I had them in $6

Lukas gouache bundle $25

QOR watercolor (remaining paint in squeezed out tubes (1 tube missing), and the paint poured out into a funky pink pill box with a cool skeleton on the front and washi tape decoration. the watercolors left to dry in the pill box rewet nicely. $15

union square watercolor pad $6

Filofax Original A5 size organizer in Dark Aqua WITH loads of interior pages - some bought from an online etsy shop (in rainbow colors, "QUESTS" instead of "to-do lists" and "heart" boxes, plus regular white or colored lined papers as well. it's stuffed full!) No actual calendar pages but does have numbered dividers with tabs. $130

pencils box $2

that white palette $3

art supply carrier tote bag thingy $10. it does have like, graphite, pastel smudging on the insides and all of that, but honestly you're just going to add more, right?

NOTE ON GOUACHES AND WATERCOLORS:

I will not do returns for dried gouache or watercolor in the tubes. Some of them will need to be reworked! (like I can hear one of the marie's gouaches rattling inside the tube, lol)

The fix to a dried out or drying out watercolor/gouache is incredibly simple: add water. You can cut open the tube to act as a cup, or cut them open and pour them out into a plastic paint cub or reused glass/plastic cup with lid. or right into a palette. add just enough water to fully soak the dried paint. wait a few days for it to soften up. add more water as necessary. if it's still a bit thick, you can add a drop of plain glycerin to the paint and mix it in to help it retain the moisture it's soaking in. this will also make it easier to rewet as you go on.

I will say the lukas gouaches all appear squishy still in tubes, the acrylics are perfect, and the sohos/turner seem mostly fine, but there's some they may need re-constituting and the marie's may have some dry ones as well. lastly, the QOR's don't have much left actually inside the tubes, so you might want to cut the tubes open anyways to paint directly from. they're nice paints tho, and i of course am bundling with where i poured all the paint into.

also: sorry the lighting is weirdly yellowy. I laid out a white curtain that I am not currently using to try and take pictures on and it's just...this whole house has terrible lighting in every room lol. i promise you those curtains are white.

these can't be shipped media mail, so just keep that in mind!