#but my old markers are all dried up

[peasant-player]

Melian Queen of Doriath

Unsurpassed in wisdom beauty and magical singing

Melian was a maiar who used to tend the gardens of Lorien and akin to Yavanna.

She had great fondness of the deep shadows that the great Trees made and she loved to see Vardas Stars.

It is said that when she sang that all the Valar would stop to listen and Nightingales where taught singing from her.

I wanted to draw the original Eldritch Lady in Middle Earth. I mean as Eldritch as I can without making her "evil" looking.

This is just the line art and while I really want to color this one because it would look so good in color and I have a whole color scheme for her- I can't.

Yet

I need to wait until my markers arrive because I don't want to color her with water colors. So she is added to the pile of uncolored pics sry ❤️

Btw in Tolkiens universe she was the prototype of Luthien!

And here again a little treat for you guys

[crimsonbonds]

nothing makes me realize how spoiled doing digital art has made me more than trying to color something traditionally and being like oh my god i dont have access to this fucking color without shittily blending bc my markers are all the wrong goddamn shade THIS BLOWS

[vainvex]

okay MAYBE i have a problem.

[id: my marker collection. 3 full cases of 72 markers (two of which contain spectrum noir, the other has copics), an 80 pack of ohuhu markers, and my crochet bag holding a bunch of prismacolours and some offbrand alcohol markers. /end id]

[softgrungeprophet]

well i seem to have fixed my phone battery for the time being (just needed to be recalibrated)

now if someone wants to buy me a new graphics tablet that would be great (mostly kidding, still works... but. i think something is wrong with the cord (unless it's my laptop's usb ports which i wouldn't put past it since it's such a piece of crap but i haven't had any issues with my keyboard so...) if i jostle it even a little it starts disconnecting and reconnecting) (i reinstalled the driver and it didn't make a difference)

[jozor-johai]

Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime, the Maiden

Jaime’s knighting by Ser Arthur is, in so many ways, Jaime’s deflowering. I did not come up with this idea on my own—credit to @mylestoyne for pointing this out first, or at least for bringing this idea to my dash—but I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now, and I wanted to do a closer examination of this idea.

It had been years since his last vigil. And I was younger then, a boy of fifteen years. He had worn no armor then, only a plain white tunic. The sept where he’d spent the night was not a third as large as any of the Great Sept’s seven transepts. Jaime had laid his sword across the Warrior’s knees, piled his armor at his feet, and knelt upon the rough stone floor before the altar. When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody. “All knights must bleed, Jaime,” Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. “Blood is the seal of our devotion.” With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime’s tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose. (AFFC Jaime I)

Arthur Dayne reaffirms that “blood is the seal of our devotion,” which is true for this religious vigil just as it is true for the marriage bed. A marriage that is not consummated can be annulled:

Do I need to remind you that a marriage that has not been consummated can be set aside? (ASOS Tyrion IV)

Therefore, the revealing of the bloody sheet after a bedding is proof that the oath of marriage has been matched by a blood oath:

“Did you chance to see the marriage bed the morning after?” Cersei asked. “Did she bleed?” “No sheet was shown, Your Grace.” (AFFC Cersei VI)

So Jaime’s memory of his knighting ceremony is like a metaphorical wedding—and deflowering—in this way.

The imagery of the bloody sheet is present in this knighting ceremony, too. Jaime is cut through his plain white tunic, leaving a bloody mark on his clothing identical to the blood of a maiden on a white sheet.

We can also look to Barbrey Dustin for the significance of a bloody sword used this way:

Brandon was never shy about taking what he wanted. I am old now, a dried-up thing, too long a widow, but I still remember the look of my maiden’s blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain. (ADWD The Turncloak)

Like Brandon with Barbrey, we have Arthur Dayne bloodying his sword on Jaime. For his part, Jaime “never felt it,” because of the significance of the moment—not unlike Barbrey, who says it was a “sweet pain.”

Finally, we have the significance of deflowering as representative of the transition to adulthood.

Sex is frequently described as one marker of the transition from boyhood to manhood:

His sweet innocent Tysha had been a lie start to finish, only a whore his brother Jaime had hired to make him a man. (ACOK Tyrion VII)

For Sansa, we see that her blood, as well as the image of the bloody sheet, marks her transition from girlhood to womanhood when she wakes in a bloody bed after “flowering” —a term notable for the implication that she can now be deflowered.

The blood is the seal of your womanhood. (ACOK Sansa IV)

Unpacking the reasons why a girl would ascend to womanhood with a natural process, and not an action, while a boy’s ascension to manhood would be an act would be a whole other issue, but it’s significant here that both situations result in the “bloody sheet,” whether it be Sansa’s flowering, a maiden’s deflowering, or Jaime’s knighting with the blood welling up through his white tunic.

The loss of innocence and skipping manhood

Part of this relationship with Jaime and Arthur is tragic: let’s not forget that Jaime is knighted and then subsequently is elevated to the Kingsguard both at fifteen, after having been entering tourneys and melees at thirteen. While he was clearly capable, there is something tragic about his youth here: this is someone who was clearly barely out of childhood being thrust directly into an adult role without any of the preparation required.

Consider how Jaime thinks of this transformation:

A boy knelt; a knight rose.

He’s skipped over manhood here—he’s gone directly from boy to knight. Soon after this, he will enter the Kingsguard and be expected to take a vow of chastity and forsake his familial ties in service to the king.

Consider a similarly young man—Jon Snow—considering a future in a similarly chaste and isolated role, and the difference in his mentorship here. Benjen warns him that he is too young to understand what he is entering, and tries to insist Jon live more of his life—to become a man first, and then a Man of the Watch:

Uncle Benjen studied his face carefully. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.” “I am almost a man grown,” Jon protested. “I will turn fifteen on my next name day, and Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children.” “That’s true enough,” Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth. He took Jon’s cup from the table, filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher, and drank down a long swallow. … “You don’t know what you’re asking, Jon. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor.” “A bastard can have honor too,” Jon said. “I am ready to swear your oath.” “You are a boy of fourteen,” Benjen said. “Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up.” “I don’t care about that!” Jon said hotly. “You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.” Jon felt anger rise inside him. “I’m not your son!” Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel.” (AGOT Jon I)

Benjen fails to convince Jon, of course, but he tries to warn Jon of this experience, of the tragedy of growing up too suddenly.

Jaime receives no such warning, especially not from Ser Arthur Dayne; instead, Dayne coldly acknowledges that “all knights must bleed,” even those who are fifteen.

This too is a common theme with this loss of virginity, especially in connection with a sudden ascension to power. At the same age Jaime was entering and winning melees against grown men, Daenerys Targaryen was losing her virginity to Khal Drogo and cementing her role as khaleesi. With her, the shock of her young age is much more clear, and GRRM makes it much more clear, closing a chapter with these haunting words:

They were on the far side of the Dothraki sea when Jhiqui brushed the soft swell of Dany’s stomach with her fingers and said, “Khaleesi, you are with child.” “I know,” Dany told her. It was her fourteenth name day. (AGOT Daenerys III)

However, she’s in a similar situation as Jaime. Whereas Jaime’s deflowering was metaphorical as he bypassed manhood and ascended from boyhood to knighthood, Dany’s deflowering is literal—with all associated horrors—as she ascends suddenly from girlhood to the role of khaleesi.

Like Jaime, this is tragic, and we shouldn’t forget that it should not be the responsibility of one so young to bear the weight of a khalasar, of her blood and heritage, and of her for a lost people. Like with Jaime, whose childhood becomes increasingly sad the more we learn of its nonexistence and corruption, we should not forget to mourn Dany’s age and loss of childhood even when we cheer her successes.

The Kingsguard White

As an aside: especially since Jaime and Arthur enter the Kingsguard later, we can also imagine the bloody white Kingsguard cloak, another even better analogue for the bloody sheet of a deflowered maiden. This image appears in a major way elsewhere when Sandor visits Sansa at night and leaves behind his bloody Kingsguard cloak.

Since the Kingsguard are expected to hold to their vow of chastity, we can see the bloodying of the Kingsguard cloak to be as much a deflowering as the bloodying of the white sheet on wedding night. For the Kingsguard, who share the same notion of chastity-as-purity as a virginal maiden, this deflowering can almost be seen as identical: it is the loss of innocence, chastity, and purity all in one.

Consider the circumstances that lead one to bloody the Kingsguard cloak, however: simply the act of killing, an act which is expected and demanded of the Kingsguard from the moment of their initiation.

Killing is the realm of knights, as Sandor points out to Sansa:

“Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing.” (ACOK Sansa IV)

So it is no surprise that Jaime’s deflowering—and loss of innocence—comes with his ascension from boyhood to knighthood.

A boy knelt; a knight rose.

However, it is therefore ironic that all Kingsguard are expected to be knights, and knights are meant for killing, and yet killing results in the red blood spatter on the white Kingsguard cloak, a symbol of their metaphorical virginal purity and chastity lost.

Here, then, we see that the bloody white cloak, when placed in comparison to the bloody sheet of the maiden’s wedding bed, illustrates the inherent contradiction of the Kingsguard.

In this scene with Jaime and Arthur, we see that this begins from the moment of knighthood: Arthur initiates Jaime into a world where “all knights must bleed.”

The myth of Maidenhood (and it’s significance)

I do want to add a disclaimer that I know (and we should all know in this century) that the concept of a virgin bleeding when she loses her virginity is pretty much a myth, and that if there is blood with penetration it has nothing to do with the “virginal” nature of the woman and rather more to do with arousal or other circumstances.

GRRM includes a passage, eventually, that seems to hint that even in Westeros, this is unofficially understood to be a myth, even as the practice of “examining” to prove the maidenhood of those marrying the king is still carried out, and even as the “bloody sheet” of the wedding night is still trotted out to appease family and tradition.

“Did you chance to see the marriage bed the morning after?” Cersei asked. “Did she bleed?” “No sheet was shown, Your Grace.”A pity. Still, the absence of a bloody sheet meant little, by itself. Common peasant girls bled like pigs upon their wedding nights, she had heard, but that was less true of highborn maids like Margaery Tyrell. A lord’s daughter was more like to give her maidenhead to a horse than a husband, it was said, and Margaery had been riding since she was old enough to walk. (AFFC Cersei VI)

Cersei, at least, has an understanding that the “maidenhead,” and perhaps even “maidenhood” does not actually work the way that is believed, although this even is a poor excuse for an explanation because it still allows for the existence of the myth elsewhere, and for allowing the idea that the “maidenhead” will bleed, only not in the ways that are alleged.

Since this concept of the virgin bleeding is really an outdated myth with little real-life relevance and yet is foregrounded so often in the story, I tend to imagine that GRRM has included and highlighted the concept so frequently because there is some non-literal importance to the idea or the symbols it offers.

For one, it’s one way to being the ever-present blood motif to yet another relationship, which I think is probably the key point here. Blood is a huge motif in ASOIAF; it appears in many different contexts with many layered meanings. There’s blood sacrifice, blood magic, blood heritage, blood ties, blood oaths, bloody weirwood sap, bloody weddings, blood sausage, blood and fire, black blood, etc etc. Being able to add blood into the wedding rite offers beneficial symbolic opportunities.

In that vein, highlighting the concept of “virgins bleeding” allows for a lot of the comparisons between swords and penises I’ve mentioned above which I assume are thematically central because of the penetration of Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa.

Arthur Dayne

The one remaining notion here is that which I began to think about this scene with.

While Jaime spends so much of his storyline unpacking what this means for him, I wonder what this interaction says about Ser Arthur Dayne, who played this role in Jaime’s life?

If it’s about devotion and oaths, what does this deflowering say about Dayne’s relationship to Jaime’s relationship with oaths? If it’s about innocence, what does this say about Dayne’s relationship to Jaime’s innocence? If it’s about sex, what does this say about Dayne’s relationship to sex?

What does it mean for Dayne’s character that he’s the one who metaphorically took Jaime’s innocence here?

Or, alternatively, perhaps this says something about Dayne more directly. “All knights must bleed” and “blood is the seal of our devotion” may be true in the grander sense of Westerosi culture, but they’re hardly normal things to say. Does this say something about Dayne’s attitude specifically?

Should we be seeing this as Dayne personally being somewhat responsible for Jaime’s loss of innocence? Should we be seeing this act of metaphorical penetration as a power dynamic which Dayne is specifically enforcing?

[randomingoftherandomness]

Magical demon hypnosis/aphrodysiac, extremely dubiously consensual sex between ZYC and ZY = guilt, remorse, hurt/comfort, tears 🫡

A/N: Tagging for Fuck or Die, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Zhuo Yichen, Cursed Zhao Yuanzhou, Descriptions of Blood and Injuries, Angst, Happy Ending

Please proceed through this fic with caution. I have put the heavier parts under a read more.

--

Horror is the first emotion that he registers when his consciousness returns back to him. A surge of revulsion aimed at himself comes at the heels of shame -- an impossible tide of familiar self-hatred that grabs him by the throat and steals his breath when he looks down to see the body under his own.

Xiao Zhuo's curled on his side and away from him. Long dark hair a matted river on the torn bedspread, there are bruises up and down his back, his thighs, and worse still, bite marks. Almost like a call, the backs of Zhao Yuanzhou's teeth begin to ache and he sucks in a thick draw of air into his lungs. If he compares it, would they find that the shape of Xiao Zhuo's injuries matches his teeth, his fingers, his hands?

His eyes flicker down the bruises on the swell of Xiao Zhuo's ass. A colourful tapestry of reds and bluish-purple, this isn't the thing that amplifies the horror and anger in his chest.

That would be the drying smudges of blood on Xiao Zhuo's injured skin.

Zhao Yuanzhou scrambles back, chest heaving as his senses take in everything around them.

The room they're in is ruined and even for the seemingly bottomless coffers of the BingYi Clan, it will make some ripples to fix up. It stinks of sex and blood, and a hundred things that make his head swim. There's an ache in his bones, a sting of scratches on his shoulders, little hurts that would take nothing for him to heal, but he won't. He doesn't deserve it.

He fixes his eyes on Xiao Zhuo, swallowing around the lump in his throat and the blurring of tears in his eyes. A part of Zhao Yuanzhou wants to reach out to touch, to check him over, to heal him from all the pains he took under Zhao Yuanzhou's own bloodstained hands. Yet another part does not know if he can.

If he has the right to even be by this man's side anymore.

He had been careless. Lasped in his judgement of a dangerous situation that had left him vulnerable to a trap where he had been cursed with an insatiable need, a targeted desire that burnt so bright and true, that he...

The first fall of his tears onto the palms of his hands pulls him from his thoughts. Warm and heavy, it mixes with the spots of dried blood on his skin. Blood and tears. The markers of his very long and miserable life.

"Silly demon..."

Zhao Yuanzhou looks up and he sees hazy eyes looking back at me. The same eyes that have looked back at him with that same satiated heat, that same unfocused pleasure that comes after a night of shared delights.

But what is delightful about this? What delight can be drawn from pain inflicted without consent?

Quick like the flicker of a midnight candle, his beloved's eyes lose any trace of languidness, and he starts to push himself upright on shaking arms. "Xiao Zhuo--" Zhao Yuanzhou moves forward on instinct to help, only to stop midway with his hand outstretched. What if he is rebuffed? What if he looks into those eyes now and sees a thread of fear or disgust?

A soft, breathless chuckle curls in the space between them.

Tiredly and with a grunt, Xiao Zhuo pushes himself forward, dragging the thin blanket with him as he goes. Grabbing Zhao Yuanzhou by the hand, he tugs at him. With an almost put-upon sigh, he tuts at the dampness on the demon's cheeks that only wets even more when Zhao Yuanzhou sees Xiao Zhuo wince when the position he is seated in causes him pain.

"It's my fault..."

Xiao Zhuo scoffs. "Of course it is, you old demon."

Zhao Yuanzhou flinches. "I--"

The punch to his shoulder is one he takes, but the kiss to the corner of his mouth is something that takes his breath away. "Stupid demon." Xiao Zhuo sighs around the tired smile that curls his chapped rosebud lips. "The only thing I'll ever blame you for is the bite marks you left on my ass. Honestly..." He lifts his hand to lovingly wipe away the tears that spill from the corner of Zhao Yuanzhou's eyes. "How many times did you need to come in me anyways? Are you sure you're an ape? Not a dog demon?"

A bark of wet laughter bubbles out of him. Ducking his head, he goes like a puppet cut from its strings, knocking his brow to Xiao Zhuo's chin. Sniffling, he blinks away a few tears. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

Licking his lips, Zhao Yuanzhou quietly asks, "Can I heal you?"

The smile on Xiao Zuo's lips twitches. Leaning in, he presses their cheeks together. A small part of Zhao Yuanzhou breaks at the gesture, yearning for nothing more than to bury himself in this man's bones and shield him from any harm, especially the dangers that come from his own hands.

Unfurling his healing, he lets the warmth of their bodies being renewed be the only focus -- single-mindedly working through every bruise, every scratch, every ache. He moves his attention to the worst of it, then to the little bruises on Xiao Zhuo's hips, the tears of flesh and the marks he had left in his frenzy.

By the time he is done, Xiao Zhuo is half asleep against his shoulder, his breath tickling at his nape. Zhao Yuanzhou waits until he comes back to him, blinking sleepily. There's a half smile on his lips again when his sword-calloused hand reaches up to cup his jaw.

"Sleep. We can work this out in the morning." Xiao Zhuo whispers. A promise. Zhao Yuanzhou turns his face into the heel of his hand. Xiao Zhuo promised and he trusts that he will do as he says.

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Wobbly Hearts AU

Summary: Kai doesn’t like soulmates. He doesn’t want them and he certainly doesn’t need them. High school is hard enough without all the extra stress of soulmarks and finding your soulmates. He decided at a young age he didn’t have time for soulmates and he plans to stick to that decision. Unfortunately, as always, the universe seems to take a lot of joy in messing with him. or Kai struggles with reading and it’s everybody’s problem.

Hi there! Yes it's the very fic I've been yelling about in vague posts and tags the last 6+ months! It's been so long since I've posted anything to ao3 I've forgotten how it works but I'm doing my best! This fic is an AU set in an alternate universe of the LEGO Ninjago Movie (2017) combined with a lot of the characterization and aspects from the original LEGO Ninjago show. It's over 100k so buckle up and prepare for some shenanigans!

the first chapter is UP

sample under cut

Kai got his first soulmarks when he tried to eat a marker.

Tiny, with fumbling fingers, freckles and barely two years old he didn’t remember that day in the slightest. But his parents told the story to him and Nya all the time when they were little. 

It was the little red marker they said that he went for. His mom didn’t notice until he’d pried off the cap and stuck it into his mouth after several unsuccessful attempts that ended in red marker all over his face. She’d gotten it out of his mouth before he could really try to eat it like he’d been meaning to. He'd started crying at the abruptness of his marker being taken away, but those tears dried up fairly quickly after his mom scooped him up. 

His mom laughed that maybe his soulmates wanted him to feel less alone because a blue marker appeared not long after they started to wash off the red.

His first soulmark.

Kai grew up with their scribbled colorful lines on his skin. At first it was the hazardous meaningless lines of a toddler and then, as time progressed, they became more purposeful doodles. They were just another part of life he didn’t fully understand but accepted as fact because his parents simply smiled and spoke over his head of soulmates. He didn’t think he really grasped much of the concept of exactly what a soulmate was until he turned five.

They were someone (or several someones) that could be his favorite person (or people) in the whole wide world if he let them. After Nya was born he argued she was his soulmate because she was his most favorite person in the whole wide world. His dad said it was a different kind of favorite. But Nya was family and that was just as important. 

It wasn’t until he was seven and struggling to learn the alphabet that he realized there was more than one soulmate out there for him.

Words started appearing as they learned how to write, the letters slanted and wobbly and hazardous. He watched their writing change and improve and watched them start to talk to each other. There were two of them. Two soulmates all for him. They talked in the simple words that they could manage. One excitedly scribbled I <3 U when they learned how. Kai had to ask his mom what the lines meant and she explained it with a patient smile. It means I love you.

He was ten and still just drawing doodles while his soulmates spoke of their favorite cartoons and what they had eaten that day. Letters seemed to float around his head and laugh at him as he tried to read what they were saying, frustrated tears biting his eyes and blurring the letters. Seeing him struggle, his mom would let him sit on her lap and read him the words out loud while he rested his head on her shoulder.

Pens and markers felt awkward in his hands. The little doodles he managed never looked as good as the doodles one of his soulmates was always making. Their doodles were of cool stuff, like ninja and dragons and mechs. The doodles were so cool and Kai doodled little hearts and flames around them as best he could to show how much he liked them. But half the time he couldn’t tell the hearts from the fire and explosions, everything so wobbly and awful. He tried to write his name once and it was almost worse than the hearts.

Keep Reading

[buck-tick-stash]

2024/10/19, 一周忌

This is personal and I ramble a lot. You have been warned.

After nearly 12 hours of sleep, I cleaned up my home, set out some tea, shochu, dried sweets, roses, and a symbolic offering all for Acchan. I burned my best candle and incense, and rang my orin.

Unlike during past anniversary markers, I prayed nothing aloud but sat with only the silence and his image. I waited for the incense to burn away as I looked through the 2023 Genshou photobook and FT110 record of The Ceremony.

2023 Genshou was easier to watch than I expected it to be. I still went through a good portion of my tissue box, but there was much of it I could watch calmly and even more I could smile at, with or without tears. Much of the show was better than I remember, in part because I had a nosebleed seat. However, I can't deny how the boys know how to have fun on stage. It gave me some reassurance for the coming months.

Sorry no good screenshots of the boys this time. My focus was entirely on taking it in.

After that, I left a rose and message on the band's site for Acchan.

Somewhere in Takasaki, there's an intimate group dressed in black and meeting for dinner. In Fujioka, a group of fans are doing the same. I can't afford a trip out east right now, so I've observed rites alone.

But it's the observation that's important.

I've been seeing a lot of comments on the international side like, "I can't believe it's been a year." But I can, easily. You don't miss the days going by when you make a point to pray for his soul every week for seven weeks in a row, or for his happiness and peace in heaven every month on the day. You don't miss where it falls on the calendar when it comes after Issay's and is followed by Heath, Cayce, Reita. Every month is heavy.

I keep reminding myself that there are babes being born destined to be the next great people, both influential and kind. They are growing up, right now. You might pass them on the street or take the same bus. An interaction you might have with them might influence how quickly they do or don't become their best selves, and that's one reason why it's so important to be kind. Of course, they don't have to become greats to be worthy of kindness. We ought to be kind because the world is in such a deficit of it. We ought to be kind because it's the only hope we have of making the world better.

But it's so hard to feel that connection to strangers, to potentials who haven't yet touched your life the way the deceased already have. You can only really see what you've lost, and feel the pain of it. And so those observances become so important, not only to mark the calendar, but to have the right, the space, and the intention to grieve and process that loss. Outside of those times, we get on with the work of living. Hopefully, we do so a bit softer.

The first anniversary marks the end of the mourning period. I'm sure there will be times when I cry again. Sorrow is an old friend. But I do look forward to the future. We are one month and a day from getting a taste of the band's next sound. I don't expect to hear Acchan's voice, but I have no doubt he will be there still.

The Parade goes on.

[cheresha]

While I was working on my last drawing I thought it would be fun to make a post explaining my process like the one I did for my digital art! This is mostly an excuse to gush about copic markers because they are my absolute favorite medium and I feel like working with them has helped me improve a lot in a short period of time! It's also really fun to take something that isn't made for realism and try to adapt it to my style.

This is in no way a tutorial because I still have a lot to learn and improve upon but I will be sharing some tips that have made my drawing process way easier!

I'm putting the rest under a read more because I'll probably end up writing a novel length post lmao

Now, let's start from the basics - this is the sketchbook I use because it's made for markers and allows you to blend the colors smoothly while giving you a glossy finish.

Please ignore its sorry state, it's relatively new but it fell apart almost immediately 🙄 Not to sound like a grumpy old person but my old one I got a few years ago was of much better quality but it is what it is I guess. I'll still continue using it because it's still the best I've tried. It's also really good for color pencils.

Moving on to the markers - I have quite a few, mostly skin tones and pinks because that's what I need for the result I'm looking to achieve but if you're just starting or are not interested in drawing realistic portraits, this set is pretty much all you need to draw people and you can get whichever other colors you see fit. I have a few bright colors I use mostly for backgrounds.

About the price - they are expensive, yes, but if you are like me and use them 2-3 times a month they can last for a really long time. The one I use the most lasted me for over 1 year so in my opinion they are worth giving a try if you have the budget for them, especially because you can easily mix the colors to create new shades instead of buying new markers.

Moving on to the process itself - I try to make my drawings relatively small, as you can see here.

That's because copic markers dry really fast and you have to work quickly if you want your colors to blend properly 🥲 The smaller the drawing, the easier your life will be (his right arm was pretty stressful to draw ngl). Also since the paper is really thin be careful with your eraser because if you damage it, the marker ink will turn that spot into a weird looking splotch that you won't be able to fix 🥲

I have to admit that lineart is not my favorite thing to draw because I have shaky hands and tend to make mistakes but I think it makes my drawings look better so I try my best to practice more and always do warmups before I start. I got these fineliners from my local art supply store and like them quite a lot since they don't smudge easily. I use the 0,2 one for the drawing itself and the 0,5 one for the 'frame'. I like to wait for at least 30 minutes for my lineart to dry before I start coloring. Also, most of the time I don't ink the eyebrows at this point but prefer to draw them on after I'm done with the rest of the face because I will go over them so many times with my markers that I might end up smudging them pretty badly.

After my lineart has dried, I like to get the background done first because if I leave it for last, it can smudge the hair and stain my marker which will alter its color and that annoys me a lot even though it's fixable. Also, this is probably the only time I use the broad tip of the marker because it's perfect for bigger areas. Otherwise it's not very precise so I use the bush tip for everything else. I usually go over the background twice to make sure it looks as smooth as possible.

Okay, moving on to the face! I like to start from the midtones because it helps give structure to the face from the very beginning. After that I go in with the palest shade I have - pale fruit pink (E000). I use it mostly for blending and for the highlights since it's barely visible and really helps you achieve a smooth look. I like it way more than the clear one they sell specifically for blending, it's such a waste of money and leaves weird discolored spots all over your drawing 🙄

Here we make a pretty big time jump because I was fighting for my life (trying to blend the shadows). I recently got the cool brown (E71) and love it so much, it's perfect for the darker areas, also the hair and eyes! But you can achieve a pretty similar color if you go over E11 or E93 with BV31, I use it a lot because it makes the transition between the different shades way smoother and I feel like it gives extra depth to the face!

And the rest of his face is done! For some reason mixing a decent lip color is not easy for me because they tend to end up looking really cartoonish/unnatural but I feel like these 3 colors gave me a pretty okay result! Fortunately his eyebrow turned out okay too, I went in with the cool brown (E71) first a couple of times to establish the basic shape and later added the eyebrow hairs with the 0,2 fineliner.

I used the same colors and technique for his neck - nothing new to add here.

Same with his arm, except I used only the lavender color for the darkest parts - you can't really see it from the picture but irl it looks almost the same as the cool brown.

Time for the hair! This is probably where I need to improve the most since it always looks the most cartoonish out of the whole drawing and it really doesn't look that good compared to the more realistic skin. Black hair is especially difficult for me since you can't really blend the black marker and trying to go over it does nothing but stain my lighter markers. That's why currently I start from my higlight color - it also doesn't have to look neat since it will get covered by the black later and the uneven strokes help add some depth to the finished hair :))

I think I did a decent job overall and going over some of the highlights with this darker gray helped, too. Sometimes I like using a white pen to add a few more details but here I decided against it since I wanted to keep things simple.

I loooove adding stray hairs but I think I went a bit overboard here ahah I also need to get a 0,1 fineliner for them since this one seems a bit too thick.

As I mentioned before, his other arm was pretty hard because I had to work extra fast but I ended up liking how it turned out! I especially love drawing the small details on the hands so I had lots of fun, too. Also, I used the same colors for his pants minus the pinkish one (E93).

And now it's time for the final boss - the cardigan. I've never drawn such a detailed outfit before but it was pretty simple in terms of colors so it wasn't that difficult in the end and I got to practice drawing two very different types of fabric. I also forgot to add it here but I went over these 2 colors with a light warm gray (W-1) a couple of times to give it a softer look.

Here's the finished cardigan - I also added the black details with my marker instead of a fineliner because I didn't want it to look too precise/neat.

I also added the shadows under him with these 2 colors.

And finally I used these 2 for the sheets!

Thank you for reading this whole thing (if you're here you deserve a prize fr), I love talking about markers sm so if there's anything else you're curious about please don't hesitate to let me know!

[certifiedtrashmouth]

Oh gosh I don’t wanna repeat someone and I’m not sure about Xmas traditions but what about ridiculous stocking stuffers w Eddie? Fluff/humor.

oh, god. this one also got out of hand. started in light-hearted fun and ended in fluff that had me screaming into my pillow. i'm sorry for the length.

good for one kiss (eddie munson x reader)

warnings: none really. mentions of penis??? (eddie makes a joke about his dick and there's mention of a blowjob but no description lol), mentions of cigarettes, idiots in love. best friends to lovers.

“What am I supposed to do with a single piece of gum?” 

“What am I supposed to do with a single cigarette?” 

“Smoke it, idiot.”

“It’s broken, idiot.” 

“Oh.” 

You and Eddie sit cross-legged across from each other on his bed on Christmas Eve, partaking in your annual gift exchange. But there was a catch; each year, you exchanged stockings, only gifting each other what you could fit in the glorified, fleece-lined socks. There had only been two exceptions to the rule of the years - the year you’d gifted Eddie his first professional-grade amp and he’d bawled like a baby (once he’d dried his tears, he’d threatened you and Wayne both endlessly about ever letting the story leave the room. The two of you had exchanged a look, though, knowing neither of you would ever let him live it down.) and the year Eddie had bought you your first acoustic six-string with the promise of lessons from him (it was onyx black and shined with promise as Eddie explained the two of you needed to use paint markers to decorate it). 

It was going on five years of the tradition that had stemmed from both of you never being able to afford much for each other, but still wanting to show you care nevertheless. And as the years had gone on, the gifts had slowly found their rhythm. There was always a perfect mixture of cliche throwaway gifts, gag gifts, and gifts so sentimental that some tears were sure to be shed by one of the parties. 

“I didn’t think it would break,” you scrunch your nose slightly as Eddie holds up the cigarette, limp from the crack in the middle of it. 

“What did you expect, just throwing it in here like that?” Eddie laughs, not bothered in the slightest. He had a pack of Camels snug in the pocket of his leather jacket slung over his desk chair. It was the thought that counted, after all. 

“I expected it to be absolutely fucking invincible for how expensive the pack was,” you whine, and he can’t help but watch you with bemusement, “I spent my last dollar from my tips on that damn pack.” 

The mention of that softens the look in Eddie’s eyes. He knew the two of you struggled to come up with enough money to even keep up this tradition; he had hardly seen you due to how many spare shifts you’d been picking up at Benny’s the last few weeks. 

You catch the look, immediately straighten up, “No, no, no. Don’t even go there, Munson. I can see you going there. Come back to me, idiot.” 

Idiot. The term of endearment you’d coined for him since you’d first met in sophomore year of high school. He’d heard it in a dozen different tones - elated, annoyed, exhausted - but not a single one held an ounce of genuine negativity towards him. You made idiot sound like my love. 

He wasn’t your lover, though. He kicked himself in the shins every morning over it, always telling himself that today was the day and I’m going to tell her how I feel finally. 

Spoiler alert. He never did. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he offers up his own loving nickname for you, “I just know you’ve been busting your ass at Benny’s-” 

“Yes, I have, because I want to spoil you for the holidays. I don’t regret a single second of it. Even when those creepy old men tried to shove the dollar bills in my shirt rather than just hand them to me.”

You both laugh at the memory. It hadn’t been very funny when it happened, leading to you calling Eddie crying and him coming to your rescue, but enough time had passed to see the humor in it all. 

The rest of the gift exchange goes as expected for the most part. The gag gifts pull the appropriate amount of laughter, and the more genuine gifts pull a softness out of each other that nearly had each of your eyes’ pupils forming hearts. 

Eddie fawns over a pack of pics you’d had customized with Corroded Coffin’s logo, and you react just as bluntly as expected when you pull a long red candle from your stocking, looking up to Eddie blankly. 

“For when I finally sacrifice you in the woods,” he explains with a cheesy grin, “Gotta have candles if we’re going to worship Satan, sweetheart.” 

“Ha-ha,” you dead pan, tilting your head slightly as you keep a straight face, completely unimpressed, “You’re hilarious, Munson.” 

“Hey, I could have made a sex joke,” he throws up his hands in a defensive manner, shrugging his shoulders and looking to the ground in faux shyness. 

“Yeah, yeah - you could have made a sex joke,” you mumble as you shove the candle to the side, a smile still escaping the corners of your mouth. 

“As a matter of fact, I still can. Don’t think I didn’t notice the fact that you replaced my stocking this year, darling, and that it’s noticeably larger. Finally big enough to fit over my massive dic-” 

“You’re disgusting,” you interrupt, grabbing the candle and now whacking one of his knees with it, making him fall victim to an uncontrollable giggling fit, “Have you ever been told that? Let me be the first to tell you - you’re absolutely vile, Edward Munson.” 

You don’t mean it, and he knows you don’t. You’re both laughing too much over it. 

You’re starting to get to the bottom of the stockings now. You each have an odd arrangement of candy that had been included in each respective stocking - Eddie is socking on a blue jolly rancher, being sure to make annoying slurping noises to get a rise out of you, as you nibble on a miniature candy cane. There’s only one gift left in your stocking, a small box that you only reach for once you rewrap the candy cane in the plastic wrap it’d come in that you’d saved to avoid getting sticky fingers. 

“What’s this?” you ask, pulling it out and letting the empty stocking fall into your lap. 

Eddie looks up from where he was preoccupied with attempting to open another jolly rancher. His eyes light up from the present in your palm, “Oh, only saving the best one for last, sweet thing.” 

You look at him questioningly, but begin to slide your finger under the delicate edge of the small box regardless. It takes concentration to pry open the box without tearing it, but you do, you gasp. 

In a bed of cotton, there’s a necklace. 

It looks like a copy of Eddie’s signature pick necklace. But instead of the dark swirling black between clouds of burgundy red, it shines with pearlescent opal white and ruby red, glimmering on a silver chain as if it were made of jewels. 

When you gently lift it from the box, it’s clear it’s not a real pick. It’s heavier - Hell, it might actually be made of gemstones. 

“Eddie-” you gasp, cutting yourself off, mesmerized by the beauty. 

He’s nearly shaking with delight, “It’s a locket. Look, open it.” 

You see what he means immediately, realizing that the weight was from the thickness of the faux pick. There’s a subtle seam, with a silver lock on the side that clicks gently when you press on it. The locket swings open, and inside is a snug photo of you and Eddie. You can pinpoint exactly when the photo was taken; it was at your birthday party two years ago, both of you laughing with cake icing on the tips of your nose. The photo is in dramatic black and white, but you can still picture how obnoxiously red your cheeks were with Eddie’s arm slung around your shoulder, pulling you into him as you two lost it over God knows what. 

You feel yourself beginning to tear up, completely stunned, “I- Oh my God, Eddie. I don’t know what to say.”

“You can start with how I’m the best friend ever,” he cheekily grins, wiggling his eyebrows at you as you let out a breathless laugh. 

“It’s…God, it’s beautiful. This- This is too much, Eddie. I can’t imagine how expensive-”

“Nope,” he cuts you off quickly, waving his hands frantically, refusing to listen to your lecture. He didn’t care if it had cost him everything he owned, down to the clothes on his back - it was worth it to see that look on your face. “Don’t even start, sweetheart. One of Wayne’s friends at the plant has a wife who makes jewelry for a living. We got the family discount because she thought the idea was so dang adorable,” his voice pitches to mock the mystery woman, and it makes you tearily laugh some more. 

You look back down at the open locker, finger tracing over the opposite side from the photo. 

E. It’s engraved in cursive. As if you’d ever forget the initial of the boy in the photo - the boy in front of you. 

“You really had to choose the photo that made me look like a dork, didn’t you?” you softly tease under your breath, staring at the memory in unfiltered fondness. 

“Someone’s got to keep you humble,” he retorts. 

You ignore his comment, standing quickly and holding the necklace out to him, “Help me put it on?” 

He doesn’t hesitate to leap off the bed to your side, taking the chain gingerly before you turn and face your back to him. His movements are careful and deliberate as he brushes your hair off to the side, cold fingers skimming over your skin and sending shivers down your spine before he loops the necklace around the front of your chest. You can feel his warm breath on the nape of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp for a few moments before finding success. 

“Aha! Perfect,” he claps as you spin around, grinning giddily at the weight that sits naturally between your collarbones. It gives you a sense of security, a sense of comfort, a sense of home. 

“Thank you, Eddie,” you earnestly say, voice crumbling with emotions as your smile shines and you lift a hand to pinch the necklace between two fingers. The locket is smooth as you rub over it, “I love it.” 

His face reflects your happiness right back before you suddenly throw yourself forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. He returns it immediately, squeezing you back just as strongly. You both melt into the hug, comfortable as you eventually beginning to just-barely-sway in the middle of Eddie’s room, chests pressed together as hearts beat in sync. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your hair before placing a chaste kiss on your temple. 

“Merry Christmas, Eds.” 

You finally pull away, both of you returning to your original positions on the bed. Gifts are scattered around you, mixing with candy and wrappers, as Eddie pulls up his stocking and begins to shake it upside down. 

“There’s not any more gifts, Eddie, you already opened them-” you cut yourself off, the smile that had your cheeks aching still fading when a piece of paper flutters from his stocking. 

Oh no. 

“No more gifts, you say?” he smirks in your direction, picking up the folded note, “What’s this, then?” 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You’d forgotten about that. When you’d been wrapping Eddie’s gifts the night before, Robin had joined you to keep you company. The two of you had broken into a few bottles of wine around the house when you had a bright idea (at least, at the time it seemed bright. Now, it was the dumbest idea you’d ever had. Ever.). Coupons for Eddie, ranging from redemption for kisses to redemption for more… explicit acts. To be fair, Robin had egged you on, knowing of your hopeless crush of two years on your best friend. You’d folded each ‘coupon’ and sealed them with kisses from red lipstick the two of you had dug out of your desk drawers. You’d chickened out when the buzz from the wine faded, and pulled all of the ridiculous notes out before properly filling the stocking with his actual gifts. 

Or at least, you thought you’d gotten all of the notes out. Clearly, you hadn’t. 

“Don’t open that!” you blurt out, lurching forward and attempting to snatch the paper from Eddie. It only makes his smirk grow, hand shooting out away from you, glancing wildly between you and the kiss-stained paper. 

“Now you’ve really got me curious,” he mocks, pulling a face at you as he brings the paper back to his face, beginning to unfold it. 

“No, Eddie, seriously, don’t read it. Please. It was so stupid, I- Robin and I were drinking, and I just…” you trail off in your explanation as he completely disregards you and his eyes trail over your scribbled words. 

You didn’t even know which one had been left behind. You could only hope it was one of the less vulgar ones. 

“Is this a joke?” he asks softly. You’re shocked - you’d expected merciless teasing. Not whatever look was currently in his eyes. 

“What?” you ask, trying to peer over to see what the paper said. Depending on which dumb coupon it was, your answer would change, “I- Sort of. Maybe. No. I don’t know.” 

You begin to wring your hands in your lap, waiting for him to respond. You felt so nauseated you considered escaping to the bathroom. Maybe you could die of embarrassment in the Munson men’s bathtub. 

But then you remember it’s the Munson men’s bathtub, and decide the better fate may lay here, Eddie glancing up at you with moving curiosity, eyebrows furrowed. 

Your cheeks burn crimson as you wish for the Earth to swallow you whole. 

“Yes or no? Is it a joke?” he asks again, a stern tone that manages to not come across angry. 

Your stomach and chest twist in sync, “No. It isn’t a joke.” 

Suddenly, Eddie is taking the note and thrusting it towards you, eyes blown wide and chest heaving. 

“Then I’d like to redeem it now, please.” 

You don’t realize it, but the room had started spinning the moment Eddie had read what was written down. It felt like a dream - a dream he’d indulged in with no hopes of it ever coming true for an embarrassingly long amount of time now. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to take the note from him, and you look down to see just how much drunk you had screwed you over in this moment. 

In your messy handwriting, it reads: Coupon for Eddie Munson - good for one (1) kiss. To be redeemed at Eddie’s discretion. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief, thankful it wasn't a vulgar one, before the reality of what Eddie had just requested hits you.  

“Did you just- did you just say you want to redeem it now?” 

Eddie nods, a determined look crossing his face, “Yes, please.” 

You both stare at each other for a moment, letting the emotions in the air sink in. It takes a moment before you both break out into withheld, shy smiles. 

“Okay,” you sigh. 

Before you can overthink it, you’re both leaning forward, Eddie’s hands cupping your cheeks as his lips meet yours tenderly. It’s just a peck, nothing more, but it sends your heart into cardiac arrest. You can still taste the jolly ranchers on his lips, and he tastes the sweet mint of the candy cane on yours. 

You both pull back slightly, his hands not leaving your face, knees pressing together. Your eyes had fluttered close, and you don’t have the guts to open them quite yet and face the consequences of what had just happened between the two of you. 

“I like you,” you admit quietly, your entire body tensing as you await rejection.

It doesn’t come. Instead, you’re met with the sound of Eddie’s gentle voice, “I like you, too.” 

Your eyes finally spring open to already find him staring at you with adoration. “You do?” 

“Of course I do, sweetheart. I let you touch my first sweetheart. I only give that privilege to the prettiest of girls,” he laughs, eyes flickering to your lips but still keeping his distance. 

“You’ve only let me have that privilege.” 

“Exactly.” 

He finally closes the distance again, lips slotting against yours as if they’re meant to be. Something clicks in the Universe, something that says that this is right and meant to happen. Two years of silent and hopeless pining, only to find out both your feelings were returned. It leaves the two of you delirious as you both deepen the kiss. Somehow, Eddie ends up scooting up his bed until his back meets the wall where his headboard would be if he had one, you straddling his lap. It’s all still so innocent; just the two of you, soft and sickly sweet kisses as you hold one another as if you expect the other to vanish. 

“Merry Christmas, Eds,” you repeat your earlier statement and reach up to his gifted locket on instinct now. It feels right. You and him this close, you and him kissing, the photo of you resting against your chest where it belongs. 

“Best Christmas ever,” he chuckles before he captures you in another kiss. 

He’s right. It’s safe to say the two of you struggle to ever top that Christmas. You make it a running joke to always include coupons in his stocking from that year on. Each year, the coupons get better, sometimes raunchy and sometimes just downright adorable. 

Good for one cuddle. 

Good for one blowjob (don’t waste it).

Good for one surprise date night. 

They’re always fairly clever, and each year, he thinks you get closer to topping that first note. 

But it’s not until years down the road, when the two of you sit across from each other in your now shared living room, in some big city you now call home, that he knows that he had finally topped that year. The look on your face when you dig into the bottom of your stocking, finding the small box that contains the diamond ring he’d been saving up for ever since that first kiss, tells him everything he needs to know. 

It’s still pretty nice when he hears you squeal yes out loud, though.

[cheesycatz]

INSTAGRAM ASKS BELOW WOOHOO I CAN NOT SHUT UP ABOUT THIS FREAK

(I updated the lore posts on here in like May because there was outdated stuff I completely missed and finally updated it on instagram too woopsies🧍‍♂️)

He draws. In used school notebooks, across old books, over discarded mail. Broken pencils, dried up markers, dull crayons, chewed pens. He draws the trees he will never climb, fields and fields of flowers, discolored leaves and vines. Sometimes he adds himself.

He keeps a faded journal in one of the jacket's many hidden pockets. A way to pass the time while waiting for prey to… sell to. He only draws “Spamton” in it, not himself. Nothing incriminating.

…never drawn an addison before.

In all seriousness, I've dedicated a lot of thought to Wormton's art style and what he draws. It's relevant to the fic; as foreshadowing, as angst, as fluff, as a plot device. It's meant to appear childish—as in, made by someone who just wanted to make something without caring about what it looks like. The lines are jagged and dig into the page, often ripping through. I held the pencil with three fingers, and used my right (nondominant) hand to write the text and color. His face is drawn in an abstract way where it doesn't resemble his mask, but anyone who hasn't seen his real face would assume it is the mask. He draws himself bigger than he really is, draws his three fingers in place of his mittens, and colors his eyes in the wrong order because he uses his mirrored reflection as reference. He draws Blue's face nearly the exact same as his because he doesn't know how to draw anyone but himself, and forgets their fourth fingers and scribbles them on after the fact. His spelling and handwriting is incomprehensible half the time.

Other than drawing, he also spends a lot of time hunting for food. He explores the Trash Zone, looking for things to sell or keep. He spends time performing maintenance on his disguise, either attempting to clean it or do repairs. He takes time to groom his fur, genuinely hating how filthy his costume and having to look in dumpsters makes him. He likes to inspect and rearrange all the trinkets in his nest before he burrows into his vast pile of shredded blankets, stuffing, and old pillows for the night (or morning? He's not quite nocturnal but he goes to sleep at like 3 am).

Blue's fear definitely does not go away. They might not be as grossed out by certain things (like if they saw an insect or centipede rubbing its legs against its antennae, they'd now understand that it’s simply grooming itself in the same way Wormton cleans his nose). But, I think that the majority of their fear for “creepy crawlies” (and Wormton initially) come from how unpredictable and fast they can be. They're hard to keep track of, you can't tell if they're crawling on your face or if your brain is being paranoid, spiders and centipedes specifically come out when the lights are off, Wasps will sting you for doing absolutely nothing, it goes on. They invade your safe space, you can't tell which can kill you and which are harmless, and nothing you do will convince them to leave your home.

Fortunately for Blue, Wormton's pheromones scare away pretty much any animal with a sense of smell, and he eats whatever is left. There's no birdsong around their home. He's the only one they have to worry about raiding the pantry, building nests in the walls, and crawling on the ceiling.

Yeah, I imagine that Ralsei and/or Queen would have to announce to the general public that Spamton is under protection so that he can finally exist without his disguise. Out of the volunteer researchers who weren't killed and didn't leave Cyber City before Deltarune takes place, I don't think they would dare enter his presence. Personally I would not try to speak to the last surviving member of a genocide if I had previously experimented on and killed thousands of their people's children

There's a lot of hatred for invasive species, especially ones that cause severe damage to both property and people, like malworms do. Some take joy in killing as many as possible. But, I think it's important to remember that species don't choose to be invasive. This is especially apparent with malworms, since they're sapient (though that information isn't really known by darkners). They've been taken out of their natural cave-like environment in the Deep Web and thrown onto the Surface Web with no hope of returning. The bright lights, loud sounds, and open areas of the city are disorienting and terrifying. But, without natural predators or competition, malworms multiply quickly. They destroy buildings, chew power lines, and kill anything they come across. But, the malworms can't stay, can't be reasoned with, and eradicating them was the only option Cyber City had. I suppose it's a miserable fight on both ends. Nobody really wins.

Technically, the only plastic required in a malworm's diet is polyethylene, and gift cards are usually made of polyvinyl chloride acetate. But, malworms like chewing and eating inedible things in general, so it wouldn't be surprising if one did eat a gift card. They like stealing/eating physical money because it annoys people and because Cyber World's dark dollars happen to be made out of the plastic they need.

[goblinsandsnails]

My most comprehensive patch tutorial

Hello! I am here to show you how I make patches :]

Disclaimer: stencils are probably easier but sometimes this way works

You will need:

- paint (see next part of this post)

- paintbrushes and water for cleaning

- some slightly sheer fabric (I took some from my dad's old shirt that I enjoy destroying)

- paper and pencil

- sharpie or any dark marker (optional but recommended)

- something to mix paint on

- hard surface that can be moved (plank, mouse pad, glass pane etc)

- masking/painter's tape (I guess other tape works too)

Paint:

When it comes to paint, there are a few options. Steer clear of gouache and watercolour, for obvious reasons. I like to use cheap fabric paint that I bought a while ago but acrylic will work too, it just has a few quirks.

Acrylic cracks on bendy fabric, I heard this can be solved by mixing a small amount of fabric softener with the paint. Beware of washing though as I do not know how well this works or washes.

I would advise to hand wash all patches regardless of paint type.

Plain acrylic will also wash out, so if you use it expect to do touch-ups fairly often.

Moving on to the tutorial!

Step 1: draw your design on regular white paper with a pencil until you're happy with it. Then outline in dark marker. You will see that I forgot the outlining part and it still worked (it was just more difficult)

Step 2: tape down the design onto your movable hard surface. I used an old mouse pad. Tape the fabric down on top of the design. Remember to stretch it out to make painting easier!

Step 3: paint! Follow your design as a guide to help you know where to place the paint. If you have really fine detail I would advise using a toothpick instead of a paintbrush!

Mine turned out a bit bad because this design would work better with a stencil, but I'm just using it for the tutorial.

Step 4: pick up your entire movable hard surface and put it by a window to dry. If possible you can also hang the patch up so it dries faster (just be careful of getting paint everywhere)

Step 5: if you used fabric paint, remember to heat set it with an iron or other hot object.

Ta-da! You have a patch!

[junosmindpalace]

something i wrote while i was still in school because i have no motivation <;/3

written messily with a nearly dried-out, green whiteboard marker was the dilemma sugawara was facing at ten in the morning.

he had bursted into his classroom late and out of breath, loosening his tie and anxiously carding a hand through his unruly hair as he made his way over to his desk, apologizing for his tardiness.

sugawara was a likable teacher, one that graduated students always came back to visit and one that shared the same humor as the kids he taught. he was one of few that made lessons enjoyable and a class students always looked forward to knowing they’d be listening to his humorous lectures. his well liked reputation exempted him from the students’ typical impatience, especially considering that sugawara never called them out on their lates. but they were definitely curious as to what had gotten their favorite laidback teacher so anxious looking.

he looked disheveled as he sorted through papers in his briefcase, trying to organize himself as the time he typically spent doing so before the school bell rang was long past. the students chuckled under their breaths and exchanged looks as their teacher drew out a long sigh. before any of them could ask what exasperated him so, he straightened up and addressed the class. “i screwed up.”

“what happened, sir?” a boy who sat near the back of the classroom called out, and suga’s eyes darted between his students and the whiteboard before he made his way over to write something down. he uncapped an old marker sitting on the ledge, a loud squeak emitting from every line he wrote. he only responded: “we’re doing a poll.”

the students stared curiously at their teacher’s back, craning their heads to make out the words. eventually, he stepped to the side to reveal what he had written.

how do i apologize to my spouse for taking their car keys?

the class was immediately in an uproar.

“you took their keys, sir? that’s why you came late?”

“yes,” sighed sugawara as he walked back toward his desk and collapsed into the leather chair behind it, holding his head against his hand. “i drove all the way back home to return them.”

“they couldn’t take yours?”

he fished around in his pocket with his opposite hand before pulling out two sets of keys. the class let out a sound between a groan and a laugh. “i didn’t realize i already had mine in my jacket.”

“were they late to work?”

“of course they were late.” groaned out sugawara, rubbing his hands down his face.

“were they mad?”

only when suga had arrived at the school building and pulled out your keys to lock his car did his heart drop at the realization of his mistake. he immediately got back into his car and drove the whole 30 minute ride home to return your keys, calling the school to inform them of his lateness. his heart dropped to his stomach when immediately afterward, your contact flashed onto his screen. he hesitantly answered the call, tumbled (practically shouted) out, “i have your keys”, before hanging up, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

annoyed you definitely were at the inconvenience, but your husband's profuse apologies made it hard to stay angry. you quickly rushed out the door and urged him to return back to school. the guilt was still eating at him, which is why he wanted to do something to make up for the trouble.

underneath the question written on the board were three different options given in response.

flowers

chocolate

all of the above

“your answer is obvious.” another boy called out from the front end of the room before suga could respond to the previous question. the class exclaimed in agreement.

the vote was unanimous, and when you returned home from a long day ready to collapse into bed and laugh at the absurdity of the situation from that morning now that you were no longer in it, you were met with an arrangement of your favorite flowers wrapped in pretty packaging, an assortment of different chocolates, and a goofy (but deadly sincere) apology letter tucked away in the bouquet on your living room table.

and though your irritation had long died out, you certainly weren’t rejecting suga’s smothering affection as you entered your shared bedroom, and you certainly weren’t going to turn down his offer to run you a nice bath as an apology either.

[letsgetdowntobismith]

How did you even get into the sword making business?

Oh wow my first ask!! 😁 👍and actually a rather sweet story so get comfortable cause we’re going on a trip down memory lane kiddo 🙏

So growin up my parents where STRICT people, I’m talkin: 7 o’clock bed time, all work must be done before I can draw and eat, always wearing gods awful dresses with those frilly sleeves and fuckin ruffle on the skirt bottom, no going outside past 5 (and even then I had rarely left the house), no playin with the other kids as my parents always had some neighbourhood issue with their parents and the way they where raising them to be (as she puts it) ‘brutes’ , to put it simply I was kinda lonely, parents trying to turn me into a little madam so I’d ’attract a man better’ I couldn’t do ‘boyish’ things essentially. They say that they were protecting me from corruption. Pathetic excuse to get me to change who I was for what they wanted me to be. The only thing I could do so I didn’t die of boredom was draw using a sketching pad and some shitty old dried out markers my parents had found most likey on the street, and even THEN what I was actually allowed to draw was very restricting, no blasphemy, no inappropriate drawings, the only thing that I was allowed to draw where patterns. I cant make this shit up, I assume my parents thought they were patterns for a dress but I didn’t like that, I wanted them to be used for a greater purpose. I wanted to have a greater purpose.

I had a neighbour who never really showed themselves or went outside to interact with others, I guess looking back now we had a lot more in common than I thought but anyway, during the day time I would cautiously look outside my window considering I wasn’t really allowed outside much. At the time I didn’t fully comprehend what everything was in their home front, there were some tables, a couple mallets on the walls and a large stone furnace with a couple of different sized metal slabs (of course I know now these were called anvils), really nothing interesting but at night would be a different story. My room window was facing his house, as I would sleep at night id see spark past my window, sound of metal grinding and screeching and smoke would fill my room. I was always so scared of the shadows it would cast in my room, I didn’t know what the hell it all was. Parents told me our neighbour was ‘a brute’ ‘a corrupted person who would bring harm and violence to this world’ ‘up to no good’ and the list goes on. I grew to fear my the next door neighbour, I hated what they did and how my parents said they would harm people; so I would spend my nights watching the shadows on the walls whilst cowering under the bed sheets listening to the whistling and clanking from the window, though, despite the terror I felt watching the room fill with bright sparks there was always something so mesmerising about it.

I still don’t know what had come over me that one night, perhaps it was the lack of food that day, or the amount of sleepless nights I had suffered OR maybe even curiosity to help my mind relax but as I had gone to bed that night, and the noises and lights began I had decided to look out of my window for once during the night time. What followed was the moment I realised the world is not defined by my parents word.

A strix, with pale blue skin, top of their head adorned with different symbols running downwards leading onto their face, long ears pointed downwards with metal hoops hanging from random parts and as they turned to face the direction of my window their eyes, pitch black sclera with a glowing orange iris. Taking their blistered and stained hand reaching into a bucket of bubbling water and pulling out a spike before throwing it back into the fire and grabbing a mallet off the nearest wall, the once dull scenery of this workshop now shined and dazzled with bright colours of red and amber as the strix whilsted its familiar tune I’ve heard many times before, only this time it felt more comforting than scary. Every move they made was done with such grace, taking out the glowing hot metal from the ovens and smashing them repeatedly with a hammer watching as all the sparks fly out. The metal was then moulded and crafted into a long swords with fancy swirls around the handle. A new found wave of inspiration washed over me (till this day I’m not sure why but Michael’s guess was I had finally seen something new and it was exciting) as I ran to get my sketch book and pen, immediately copying the outline of the sword before drawing detailing on the swords blade.

I had awoken the next morning to my dad shouting, crying bloody murder but not from inside the house, from out side my window. Confused by this I walked over to the sound and there was my dad, MY notepad in hand, holding it up against the face of that strix from last night. “Look what you’ve done with your violent ways, exposing my child to such weapons” he should have known this was bound to happen, I mean seriously my room was right above his workshop!! But I suppose that he thought after scaring me so much I would be too afraid to do investigate what the strix was up to at night. My dad ripped the paper with the sword on it and slapped it onto the strix chest, they took the paper and started to analyse the drawing I watched as their now pitch black eyes study the paper a faint smile going across their face. I don’t think my dad was aware that I was listening because when he had walked in he told me the neighbour was going to hurt me and kill me with their weapons if they ever saw me by that window again. I knew that was a lie.

I wasn’t scared falling asleep that night, I felt nothing really. I awaited for the sparks, whistling and screeching but none of that came. Confused I once again walked up to the window now peering out at the glowing workshop with the strix sat ontop of one of the anvils eyes fixated on the drawing in their hand. “Did you draw this?” They said, such a gravelly and corse voice but one laced with intrigue and happiness. Now looking up at my window with their new glowing orange iris’s back. I didn’t know what to say really, all the terrible thoughts I had about this person because of my parents words had been completely false. “My names Orpheus, you are Runica aren’t you?” All I could do was nod my head. “That’s a lovely name, say, this is a quiet design you made.” Again I didn’t respond “Would you like to see it come to life?” They sat up from the anvil and walked over to a wooden barrel with a couple of handles sticking out and proceeds to pull out the sword that I had watched being made the night before, placing it on the anvil with my drawing beside it, unravelling a leather kit inside filled with different small chiseling tools each with a unique ending to them. Now grabbing the end of the sword Orpheus’s hand begins to glow orange as the sword begins to copy heating up the metal. Without thinking I walk closer to the window, opening it up all the way and begin sitting in the window ledge watching their every move. They tie their messy brown apron around their waist “this” Orpheus said placing their hand on the metal square “Is an anvil, I use it aswell as some other tools to be able the morph and shape it into what I desire” they reach over and grab a mallet off the table next to them “This here is a called a cross -peen hammer, you may want to take note of that, and its job is to shape the metal and this will help us get the basic blade and flatness of the sword, do you follow?” I nod my head along as I observe and listen intently to their voice. The way they spoke with such passion really changed my perspective on things, things my parents had told me about them. They aren’t doing this because they wish to bring harm, they do this because it’s art. That night I had spend my evening asking many questions, learning all different types of mallets/tongs/anvils and their purposes, whilst watching them make my drawing a reality upon that sword until the sun peered over the hills signalling morning.

That day I had spent all my time in my room, drawing new patterns only this time on different weapons. Once Orpheus had given me a showcase of all the different weapons they’ve forged I was a drawing MACHINE. Sickles,syths, knuckle dusters, flails you name it I had already drawn it. Of course I had to keep this a secret from my parents as they probably would have beaten Orpheus to death with their own tools so they had given me one of their books with all the different sketches they’ve made over the years, notes on temperatures, hammer sizes and metal quantity. During the day I would design, by night fall I was a blacksmith. Orpheus had set up a ladder so I could come down undercover, get a better veiw of their workshop and let me tell ya it’s even more magical up close once you see everything for their actual size. The anvil was almost as big as me!! After days of preparing and sketching different work for Orpheus, they would take my designs and show me how to craft them but they were always adamant on ME doing it, they would sit off in the corner on their chair observing me. In a way I’m greatful for that, at the time I was a little annoyed frankly but as I’ve grow up remembering those nights of all that hard work and heavy lifting I can look back and think, I DID THAT. I believe this was their subtle way of showing me independence, I don’t have to rely on someone to tell me what to do.

Orpheus would sit off to one side and would answer any question I asked, but there was one answer that had always stuck with me. Orpheus’ worked during the night time as opposed to the day because of the light. There was something about the sun rays that would cause their eyes to hurt and strain resulting in such pain for them, however watching the red hot glow from the metal and fire was one of the only lights that Orpheus could bare witness too, the glow provided them with the ability to see light without the strain that the sun would give off. I always thought that was rather sweet, the fact that despite their difficulty they still managed to do something they loved and brought them joy, it’s the simple things that get to me honestly.

that’s what made me fall in love with blacksmithing and forging weapons, you don’t have to follow the rules, because there are none, forging is about making your ideas come to life and testing new ideas. If it works, great do it again!! If it doesn’t, melt it down and try again, you don’t have to get it right first time and you know deep down in your heart that with a couple of changes it will work you just have to keep trying. It’s art and I will never forget when I made my first dagger, it wasn’t perfect don’t get me wrong, could have been less bumpy, the leather on the handle was overlapping to much in certain parts and the soldering was um unique to say the least but I had done something for myself for once in my life, I had control over something. I kept going, I kept pushing the limits of what’s possible and always did my best; I owe Orpheus my life, gods knows what I would be doing now if I had just stayed away from the window, I wish to continue on their legacy and create all the designs they had made in that book they gave me all those years ago.

I hope they would be proud of me.

PHEW that was a long one apologies for the ramble but when I see the opportunity to talk about Orpheus I simply can’t pass it, I’ll speak of them until the day I die 👍

[thewizardtower]

It's just past 11am on a Wednesday in October and I'm thinking about how I'm turning into my father.

Got a random flashback of walking through an IBM facility in the mid-90s as a kid and being told how cleanrooms work and how microchips were made. It was where my father worked at the time. I remember thinking about how cool the future would be, and how much I loved computers. I drew a bouquet of flowers on my father's whiteboard in his office since that's all I knew how to draw at the time.

He was let go from the company in the early 2000s (anyone who has worked for IBM likely knows how fickle they are). He was told by a friend that still works there that those flowers are still on the whiteboard some 20+ years later! The marker is dried on and flaking and it's been touched up over the years like so many hands keeping a Renaissance painting alive against the ravages of time. But it's still there. He was told that no one ever had the heart to erase it, and simply would write around it, or even buy a new whiteboard to place next to it they could actually use.

I wish I had a picture of it to share, but I don't. But I remember what it looked like and I vividly remember drawing it. I wish I could pop back into that time and feel the markers under my fingers and the brown rug under my sneakers and the fabric walls of my father's cubicle. I remember the tan sweaters he would wear to work that he's long since gotten rid of. I remember the round glasses frames and his 5 o'clock shadow on his round cheeks before he grew his goatee in the 2000s and before it turned white.

Today as a 30 year old, I work in IT and write documentation about software. It's no mid-90s IBM, but it pays the bills. Yesterday I had a Zoom meeting at work and was momentarily struck by the image of my father staring back at me in my webcam. I saw my own tan sweater, my own 5 o'clock shadow, my own round glasses. I never realized how much I look like him, and how I turned into him as I got older. And all I could do to ponder this was to draw a bouquet of flowers on my own home office white board.

The one I drew as a kid was much better than this. Haha.

Time is weird. Genetics are weird. I still love computers and drawing flowers.

[corn-fanfiction]

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 2)

(Pt. 1) (Pt. 3)

You let your curiosity get the better of you. You press your ear to the door.

“Father…”

“It’s not unusual, Damien.”

“Forgive me, Father, but it doesn’t do much to reassure me. I don’t think I’m doing enough here.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I don’t know.” Damien sighs. He sounds exasperated. “And my mother is getting sick again… how much good can I be doing if I can’t even take care of her?”

-

Rating: M

Tags: religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, priest kink, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, gn reader, queer characters, realistic depictions of anxiety attacks, s*icide, foul language, eventual sm*t

In the time since you’ve been gone from Georgetown, any friends you made in your undergrad program have gone their separate ways, onto their own master’s theses that have taken them hundreds to thousands of miles away. So, when you move into your cramped apartment on Prospect Street, and you’re surrounded by all your belongings reduced to a room of cardboard boxes, all you can seem to do is sit on your floor, record player spinning lazily as Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills, and Nash plays. You’d managed to pull an outfit for your first day tomorrow, and that hung on the bedroom doorframe. But here, with an old Latin workbook in hand, you’re content to not move.

And it isn’t until your alarm clock screams you awake that you realize you’d fallen asleep on the floor, record player skipping on the final groove. You groan as you spot a dried pool of drool on one of the pages of the book you’d been reading. No matter. It was covered in annotations and markers anyway.

It's 5am. You groggily make your way to the bathroom to shower. The water takes a good five minutes to heat but when it does, it undoes the knots that formed in your back from sleeping on the floor. You really can’t complain about the apartment for how little you pay monthly. You also earn a small stipend for translating. It’s not a bad deal.

After showering you dress in running gear, though you suspect that it's going to be more of a brisk walk around the track field on campus. You cover all your hygienic bases. Of course, you remember that you still haven’t stocked your fridge or pantry, so breakfast is out of the question until you leave the apartment.

You sigh as you check your wallet. You have a wadded up 5 dollar bill and some loose change. Maybe it’s enough for a coffee and a bagel.

You’re grateful the walk from your apartment to Holy Trinity is only a couple of blocks, and there’s a food stall on the way. It doesn’t take you long to snag some food- stale bagel and bland coffee. You’ve also got a box tucked under your arm- a small collection of things you assume go into a study: pens, pencils, tape, a snake plant, and some coffee. You assume the church has a coffee maker somewhere.

Once you reach Trinity you store your box in your new office. It's small but features a square stained glass window behind the desk. It's perfectly suitable for your needs.

You'll spend more time in here later, but for now you're antsy and want to stretch your legs, even if there's still a crick in your neck from sleeping on the floor. You grab your coffee and scarf down your bagel and head for the field.

You ran competitive track during your undergrad and it paid for most of your schooling. The familiar smell of the rubber lanes excites you and even the fog on this morning can't keep you from smiling. You remove your Georgetown hoodie and stretch a little, letting your torso pop and crack as you move. It's a satisfying sound. You turn your head to crack your neck and notice a neat pile of a towel and a water bottle. Someone else is here.

And just when you re-lace your sneakers, you spot a figure running towards you on the track. Full sweats, so they must be a dedicated runner as well. You straighten, ready to greet the stranger, when upon closer inspection you realize it's not a stranger at all.

Damien Karras slows to a light jog as he draws nearer then slows to a stop when he reaches you. You sort of just look at each other for a moment, clearly surprised to see another person out this early.

“Um, hi,” you greet awkwardly. Damien is still trying to catch his breath when he gives you a polite wave. He reaches for the towel- his towel, and wipes sweat from his brow.

“Morning. Want to run?”

You're a little shocked by his sudden invitation. “I was just looking to take a walk. I don't wanna slow you down.”

He shakes his head and replaces the towel.

“I don't mind if you don't. I should probably take a break.”

You smile and grab your coffee. If it's a walk, you can drink as you go.

He lets you set the pace which is nice. You walk for a while in a comfortable silence before you decide to break it.

“So…”

“So.”

“You said you have an office on the second floor. That's professors, right?”

“Technically. The church paid for me to study psychiatry, so I offer counseling for students and church members alike.”

“That's pretty neat. If you've been on campus, how come I never saw you during my undergrad?”

“I was probably at Johns Hopkins. I only came back last year.”

“Hm. How do you like it?”

And for the briefest moment, you watch his face shift in the classic Catholic move of ‘lie or truth’. Which is more painful? Which is more sinful? The problem is, you don’t know him near well enough to decipher which side wins out.

“It’s an adjustment. I like being able to help people.”

“Well, sounds really noble to me.”

He smiles at you bashfully. It’s, frankly, adorable.

“So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do besides re-read ancient texts and run in the mornings?”

“Well, you don’t know I run .”

He observes you for a brief moment before cracking a side smile. “Sure I do.”

You fight a blush. “Okay, well, I like to read- other than old pieces of parchment. Um, I love music, every kind of music.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course.”

“Because some people say it and don’t mean it.”

“Country, rock, classic, you name it. Obviously, running, and- oh, well you haven’t seen it yet, but I have a snake plant in my office. Which is weird, to think I have an office.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I guess, it’s not that self-doubt, humble thing of ‘I don’t deserve it’. But it just feels…weird. Not what I expected.”

If you had been looking at him, you’d notice the obvious gears in his head turning. “You don’t feel like you belong?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I’ve always been a chameleon. I fit myself in and eventually the space, the people, even I believe it. Not that it’s always untrue. But it’s definitely a skill I put on my resume.”

“‘Chameleon’?”

You laugh. “Adaptable.”

“Ah.”

You walk for another moment in silence until you realize he’s waiting for you to say something. “Oh, okay. Well, since I’m done, I guess it’s your turn. So, what does Damien Karras like to do? And don’t say ‘pray’.”

“But I do.”

“But it comes with the territory. What do you like to do that you don’t have to do?”

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I read- and not just the bible,” you laugh at the parallel of your words. He stops speaking for a moment like he really has to think about it. Your smile falters a little at the mere idea. “I like movies.”

Your smile reappears and breaks wide across your face. “Aha! See! Damien Karras likes movies. What kind?”

“All kinds.”

You give him a teasing look. “Scary?”

“Okay, so not all kinds.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Well, now you know something I don’t like, so what’s something you don’t like?”

Oh, there’s plenty, but you don’t want to make the conversation too heavy, so you think about it. “Um, I don’t know. I don’t like asparagus. I… oh,” you chuckle. “Speaking of movies I guess, I, uh, don’t really like romantic movies.”

He comes to a full stop and looks at you amazed.

“Is it that surprising?”

“I suppose.”

“Why?”

“You just…you seem like you’d really love happy endings.”

You chuckle. “Not all love stories have happy endings, Father. Look at the bible. Heartbreak abound.”

He catches up with you and you resume your stroll.

“Do you attend church?” He asks suddenly, like maybe he's wanted to the whole time.

“Not regularly, but I get the wild hair sometimes. Why, do you?” You joke and he laughs. Something about making him laugh sparks a warmth in you.

“Well, you’ll have ample opportunity if you get the ‘wild hair’ again.”

You laugh and talk more about nothing in particular as you round up to the bleachers again after a second lap. By now, the sun is up, and you get the idea it’s probably time to head inside.

“I appreciate you sharing your morning with me, Father.”

“Please, Damien. Unless you prefer Father?”

Well. Not a question you were anticipating, nor one you’re keen on answering, Was there a word to describe being attracted to a kind, handsome priest and calling him father may or may not leave you with interesting feelings…

Damien is probably for the best.

“Alright…Damien,” you say. He seems pleased to hear you say his name.

“Well, I suppose we’d both better be off,” he says. “Office hours starting soon. You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

"Of course. Same goes for you, you know, if you need something translated.”

You two share smiles and Damien heads back for the dormitories and you go to your office. The box you brought with you still sits on the chipped, wooden desk. You sip on a glass of water you grabbed from the kitchen on your way, and sift through the box one handed. You retrieve your plant and place it carefully on the corner. There’s two empty bookcases that you definitely can’t fill now, but you can decorate it with a handful of books you brought with you. Your fingers caress the cool surface of a picture frame and you retrieve it, only to avert the gaze of the eyes in the photograph. Only for a moment, though, because you see it clearly when you place it on the shelf. It’s your parents, your brother. Anyone with any knowledge of your past would think it’s strange to have on display, but the human mind, and the human spirit, operate in strange ways.

Your things are successfully unpacked and the study still looks barren, even as small as it is. You decide to shake it off for a bit by hooking up your headphones and making your way to the library.

The library is a dreamscape. Rich red carpets, deep wood bookcases, green lamps- the works. You walk gracefully as this kind of space calls for, weaving in and out of aisles, fingering spines and trying not to fog up display case glasses. Finally, you settle on The Medieval Latin Hymn by Ruth Ellis Messenger and settle into an armchair by a window. The sunlight is warm against your skin and you tuck your feet under you, hoping in the back of your mind that no one will notice or care.

By the time you look up again, your journal is filled with notes, and the window behind you is dark. You rub your strained eyes and actually check out the book instead of just putting it back on the shelf. Tonight, it will come home with you and sit safely on your desk until you wake up the next morning, on time, and well rested.

When you come in the next morning, Father Dyer is waiting for you.

“Good morning! I was hoping to catch you before you got too busy. Father Merrin has just come in and-”

“I can speak with him?” you interrupt. Dyer smiles.

“Yes, of course. Right this way. Might I ask, why are you so excited to meet him?”

You blush and shrug as he leads you up a set of grand stairs by the library. “Mostly reputation. I’ve read a lot of his reports from his archaeological digs and find them fascinating. I’ve also listened to recordings of him reading some old texts. I just think he’s a really interesting individual.”

“Well, don’t tell him that or he’ll get very humble on you. Right through here.”

The two of you stop in front of an office door and Dyer gives it a knock. “Come in,” a voice says. Dyer opens the door for you and you peer inside. The study is no bigger than yours but is filled to the brim with all sorts of things- books, figures, artifacts, more books, and things you have no chance of identifying. Merrin looks up from his desk and removes a set of spectacles. At the sight of you, he stands.

“Father Merrin, this is y/f/n y/l/n. They are studying with us for their master’s. Y/n, this is Father Lankester Merrin.”

Father Merrin has come around his desk to greet you and you shake hands. You grin wide.

“Father Merrin, it is an absolute honor to meet you. I’ve always wanted to have the opportunity to speak with you.”

Merrin laughs like he can’t believe it. “Well, I’m flattered. Come, have a seat. Thank you, Joseph.”

“Of course.” Dyer gives you a slight nod before backing out of the study and closing the door. Once you’re seated, Father Merrin looks at your hands.

“What have you got there?”

You check because you’ve honestly forgotten, but you’re clutching the book from last night, along with your bag.

“A book about 13th century Latin hymns. I’ve been annotating it.”

“May I?”

You hand him the book and he turns it over in his hands. “My… yes, I believe I read this when it was first published. That was…oh, some twenty years ago, I think. Yes. Well I must say, it does please me to see another young person joining our ranks, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

He hands the book back to you and you tuck it into your bag. “I’m glad to hear it. Truthfully, it was a positive twist of fate. I came back to Georgetown and they placed me here. Not that I wouldn’t have chosen it, but…”

“Happy coincidence?”

“I was gonna say divine providence,” you laugh, and so does he.

“Did you grow up in the church?”

“I did, yeah. I left for a while, and other than the obvious, I haven’t really…returned, you know?”

He nods. “I understand. Some would say there’s something to be admired about studying something you’re not sure you believe.”

You lose words for a moment. You’d question the audacity of that statement if it weren’t so absolutely spot-correct. He’s smart. As smart as you had expected.

“If you find those people, could you send them my way? I haven’t met them yet.”

“Not your family?”

Your smile falters. “No. They, uh, they passed. Maybe they would’ve approved. Maybe not.”

Merrin nods. “My deepest condolences. I hope you don’t feel that this is an interrogation. I assure you that’s not my aim.”

You find a smile to give him. “I know, and I appreciate it. If you don’t mind, I actually had, well, quite a few questions for you. I read your report on the dig in Kuwait and found it absolutely fascinating…”

And you went on and on and on, questioning him about his research, his time in the church, his home life and his family, and the entire time he was fully transparent, never hesitating, never holding back. You probably could question him for hours if there isn’t a knock on the door behind you.

“Come in,” Merrin says. You turn around and see Father Karras poke his head inside. At first, he doesn’t even see you, just finds Father Merrin and swallows.

“Father…” then, his eyes find you. “Oh, good morning, y/n, Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“No,” you check your watch and see that it’s almost 11. “I should probably actually go do my job.” You stand, and Father Merrin follows suit. “Thank you so much for your time, Father. I really do appreciate it.”

He shakes your hand again. “Of course. My door is always open.”

You give him one last smile before passing Damien at the door. You give him a polite smile and nod, even if the close proximity does something to your insides, but he hardly acknowledges you before the door closes between you.

What the hell? You think. That isn’t like him at all, or at least from the handful of interactions the two of you have had so far.

You let your curiosity get the better of you. You press your ear to the door.

“Father…”

“It’s not unusual, Damien.”

“Forgive me, Father, but it doesn’t do much to reassure me. I don’t think I’m doing enough here.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I don’t know.” Damien sighs. He sounds exasperated. “And my mother is getting sick again… how much good can I be doing if I can’t even take care of her?”

You yank your head from the door when someone comes around the corner, and you lower your head and walk to your study, your mind buzzing with the little information you’ve just learned. It’s not much, but Damien Karras is having some struggle of faith, and that’s interesting enough to keep you distracted the rest of the day. Something is bothering him.

And even though you hardly know the man and it sounds as personal as a problem can get, you’re determined to help.