#twin tip markers

[gemstarb]

[mandalhoerian]

(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

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note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it. 

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

[revasserium]

college fencer!zoro headcanons; not nsfw but a bit risque below the cut, fem!reader, in the same universe as death before decaf, prev fic knowledge not required but helpful. enjoy ;)

college fencer!zoro who is just as shit at studying as you’d always expected, falls asleep in any class that doesn’t have to do with sports and food (though you were truly shocked at how many subjects your uni has that do involve either one or the other), but comes with you to every single one of robin’s academic decathlon contests, just because he knows its important to you.

college fencer!zoro who tugs off his shirt the first time you bury your face in his pillow to complain about the upcoming anatomy quiz, smirking when you blink up at him, cheeks dusting pink, a question in your eyes as he lets out a protracted sigh, glancing away with, “well — you’ve got a live model right here so…”

college fencer!zoro who realizes he’s bitten off way more than he can chew when you press him down onto the tiny twin bed, a trio of colored skin-safe markers in hand, your eyes glinting in the dull light of his feeble dorm lamp, tracing a delicate finger along each muscle group before reciting the name and function out loud and labeling the name on his bare skin; he tries not to think about the softness of your thighs as they straddle his waist, or the way the curve of your ass shifts just above where a gnawing tightness is gathering between his legs.

college fencer!zoro who spends the rest of the night forcing you to name the different muscle groups in your upper thigh while he traces them over with his tongue.

college fencer!zoro who glowers at anyone who tries to partner with you in practical applications, even when you roll your eyes and tell him that you’re supposed to be learning about how to treat a variety of body types — not just him; who pins you with a look and asks, completely seriously, who the fuck else you think you’ll be treating for the rest of your sports medicine career, who, when you ask him what he means, only cocks his head and says, “as if i’d let you touch anyone else.” before stalking away.

college fencer!zoro who never lets you out of his sight at frat parties, sticks close even if he’s drunk enough to laugh at someone else’s jokes, who makes a habit of grazing the tips of his fingers along the bend of your waist just to remind of you of his presence, who only grins when the rest of the fencing team teases about being secretly whipped, responding with, “yeah, and?” in such a casual tone that no one else dares to say anything else about it; who tells you that jealousy looks good on you whenever you pout at him talking to another girl, but will let you talk to other guys so long as you know you’ll feel it in the way he sinks his teeth into the skin of your neck later on that night.

college fencer!zoro who calls you when he’s five minutes late to your date, admitting that he’d gotten lost somehow on the campus that both of you have been frequenting for the past three years; who grumbles an apology when you finally find him clear across campus, in the entire opposite direction, and you’ve definitely missed your reservations, but still insists on going on a date anyways; who laces his fingers between yours and lets you pull him into a shop with pink walls and too many neon signs and the fruitiest cocktails he’s ever tasted, but who will still smile sweet and wide as you look over the menu with contented, eager eyes, because your happiness has always been more important to him than any missed reservation.

college fencer!zoro who, in the midnight dark, shifts to pull you into his chest and murmur into your hair, “stay with me…” to which you reply with a sleepy, “yeah… ‘m not going anywhere…” and him, “good. cause forever’s a long time and i don’t plan on spending it alone.”

[malenjoyer]

Helloooo, what kind of brand of art supplies do you use for markers and pens/color pencils?

For my last traditional piece with superman, I used

- Tombow brush tip markers (it’s very nice for coloring but i don’t know if it’s good for building color. I mostly do flat colors. It doesn’t dry up as fast to me which is preferable as someone who forgets to draw traditionally for months)

- touch mark twin marker, rectangular tip (good for covering large areas, not great for building color. It’s colors are very strong for the blue one I used. You only need one layer of color. It bleeds onto the back. Strong smell of alcohol)

-Aqua Pen Graphix, brush tip. mostly because they had a lot of bright color options that I haven’t seen before and survived since high school somehow.

-Faber castell Pitt artist pen bullet nib set (mostly because I ran out of black pens. It’s dark and works like a very small tip marker. I can’t tell the difference between Pigma nib pens yet)

I don’t have much experience with color pencils aside from prismacolor ones in school.

I like the softer ones but let me just say I don’t have $130 for a whole set so I use what I get (random stuff)

My personal preference is Tombow, Pigma. I’m a brush guy. Everything else, I’m not that picky. I used to write my notes in crayola marker in high school so I can work with budget stuff. Copic markers are also good. Those are the most popular recommended markers but I will always have a lingering wound from not being able to afford the sets like #thecoolkids. Best bet is go to one of those fancy art stores like Blick arts and try to see if you like how it feels.

[hellaciouscrustacean]

hahaaaaa so, meet three hatchlings owned by Wingheart on ao3 (Tachyl), @isopod-gender (Meteor), and myself (Albite) These are based off our Quantum Space Buddies modded shenanigans! Tachyl is the tallest of the group AND the youngest! They're a Gorphy child with a tendency to wander off and show back up with a cool rock. Sometimes, somehow, they manage to even get off planet.

Meteor is a Cherro child, the shortest and the usual pilot. They're a speed demon the likes of which compares to Feldspar

Albite is a Hornfels and mystery Hearthian (as in haven't decided yet)'s hatchi! They admire Feldspar and even wear a vest they once stole from the Founder as a hatchling.

More details in the readmore

Tachyl's name is pronounced Ta-Shill, not Tackle

Albite's safety harness was designed to be non-functional. If they get in an actual crash, they'll go flying clean out of it.

Tachyl's random wandering is based off the problems Wingheart has with the mod randomly assigning their location as a question mark and hiding their marker, even when we're looking right at them.

Albite bites. This has caused them to lose a tooth. Meteor's arm has a visible bite scar in this image near their sleeve, and Tachyl's ear tip was also a casualty of the little shit.

Meteor drops the other two out of the hatch randomly. This is based off how in the mod, players can revive you at the ship. You'll spawn back in on the hatch without your suit. Isopod loves opening the hatch while we've just spawned in. (It's actually very funny)

Brittle Hollow is Albite's least favorite planet! Based off the fact that it took between six and eight tries to get to the Southern Observatory. I was going backwards every single time until the last attempt, where I made it all the way back to the start and then FINALLY made it back to the actual observatory.

Meteor's least favorite planet is also Brittle Hollow, but they hate the black hole specifically.

Tachyl's least favorite planet is a tie between Giant's Deep and Ember Twin. They despise trying to navigate in the winds and dodge the cyclones of GD, and they're afraid of being crushed to death by the sand in the ET caves.

Their first planet they all went to was Dark Bramble. They didn't know Feldspar was there at the time, they just wanted to check it out. All three like Timber Hearth, the Attlerock, the Stranger, the Quantum Moon, and Dark Bramble.

Tachyl is face blind. Luckily, most Hearthians are uniquely patterned, but a little bit of makeup/paint and they're completely lost.

Albite, like their parent Hornfels, is a horrible cook. They're more likely to catch themself on fire than they are produce anything edible. Anything they can make (toast, marshmallow, sandwich) comes out mildly burnt as best and with a visit to Gneiss at worst.

Meteor is a decent cook, able to make simple things without too much trouble and follow moderately complex recipes fairly well. They enjoy eating mushrooms.

Tachyl is the best cook of the batch, unless theres an ingredient they don't like in the recipe. Mushrooms and chewy fat are some undesired parts of a meal.

Albite is the group's least picky eater. Tachyl and Meteor hand them things they don't like. Unfortunately, this also applies to random plant life on the other planets. Rest in pieces, pretty flower from Brittle Hollow. You were not delicious.

Meteor and Tachyl once dared Albite to taste ghost matter. They reported back next loop that it was rather sour and sickeningly sweet at the same time, and that it felt a lot like touching a sparking ship part.

Meteor hates the warp pads. Or maybe it's the other way around. Either way, they have difficulty warping places. Albite and Tachyl don't have this issue, and Albite sometimes teases Meteor about it.

[hxckedvxid]

ROXANNA ROSE - TIDBITS

Memorable Moments & Infamous Incidents:

First day as a patched in Saint, she stole a Northside Kings car, spray painted "NSK SUCKS" on the hood. Set it alight, perched herself up on a roof, picked off the members that came running out.

Flashed her tits while running from the cops. Escaped.

At the beginning of her and Felix’s relationship, she claimed she didn’t get jealous. The same night, a girl flirting with him got her head put through a window (Very similar to when Felix claimed he didn’t get jealous, and the guy flirting with Roxy got his jaw broken)

Set fireworks off inside a Saints party. Said it needing livening up.

Cut off an NSK patch off a dead body after a shootout. Later, she started collecting them.

Once held a gun to Grim’s head long before her father died. Didn’t pull the trigger. Still hates herself for it.

Found their father’s body. Disappeared for two days, came back covered in blood, never spoke about it.

One time, there was talk of promoting her and then she walked in with some guy’s fingers and teeth in her pockets.

Once bet a guy’s own life in a poker game. Won. (Cheated)

Has played Russian roulette more times than a sane person would. Convinced it’s not the way she's meant to go out, so she'll always win.

Weapons & Signature Gear:

Custom Twin Switchblades – Pink grips, one engraved with "Sorry," the other with "Not Sorry."

Brass Knuckles – Rose engraved, red at the tips. Not rust.

Revolver – Silver plated, red lipstick stains painted on the cylinder. She kisses it for good luck before using it.

Baseball Bat – Covered in stickers, "BITE ME" on one side, "STAY DOWN" on the other.

Hot Pink Lighter – Had it for years, convinced it’s impossible to lose.

Pink Knuckle Knife – A gift from Felix, she loves it.

Aesthetic & Personal Style:

Fishnets, Combat Boots, Short Skirts – Always looks disheveled. Rarely feels the cold.

Leather Jackets – Various colors, spray painted with various slogans. "EAT SHIT" "D!E" etc

Smudged Makeup – Usually because she goes through every range of emotion in a sentence. Or...because of Felix.

Pink & Blue Hair Streaks – Obviously.

Silver Locket – Inside, a tooth from her first interrogation job. (It is genuinely sentimental to her.)

Tattoos – Mostly done by herself or Felix. Blackwork, scattered all over, patchwork kinda style. This vibe but icba to list each one.

Quirks & General Chaos:

Laughs when she’s angry, grins in a fight, giggles while holding a knife to someone’s throat.

Drives like a fucking maniac just like Dom.

Always cheats at poker. And anything, really.

Keeps a shit list. Crosses off names with a hot pink marker.

"You ever think about how fucked up it is that we exist?" kinda shit at 3AM while playing with a knife.

Is somehow worse after a cup of coffee.

[wickedwitchofthesouth]

New gen Harry Potter headcanons because I'm waiting for my laundry to dry and I'm bored:

Astoria malfoy is from Japan, so scorpius is wasian but still somehow comes out with that malfoy-blonde hair and blue eyes colour pallet, despite still having very Japanese features just like his mother

Carmen and Marco zabini are twins. Carmen is the older one, and she's a total no-nonsense baddie. Marco, on the other hand, is the very embodiment of a golden retriever boy.

Carmen does Marcos hair because he's horrible at taking care of it, and she learned how to braid at the age of 7.

Albus thinks he looks nothing like Harry, and he actually prides himself on being his father's complete opposite [he's actually the only potter kid that looks like an exact carbon copy of Harry]

The potters speak urdu at home, James Lily and Albus call Harry Baba and ginny muma. I'd like to think Harry- After graduating, probably had a phase where he was immensely involved in learning about his desi heritage. I feel like he probably even travelled to Pakistan a couple of times to reconnect with his culture. But I also feel like he felt more like a third culture kid sort of connection to it. The UK was still his home, and he didn't think that would ever change. He still tried, though. He learned the language and tried to teach it to his children so they wouldn't feel as alienated from their ethnicity as he probably did. Ginny learned urdu alongside him, partially because she just wanted to encourage him.

When scorpius was little he would often find himself talking to the portrait of his uncle regulus that his grandma had put up after the war. Uncle reggie , as he liked to be called, was scorpius' favourite old family memeber.

Harry always introduces Teddy as his oldest son.

Albus is exceptional at potions. He's also very talented in quidditch, the only thing is he doesn't really like playing.

James on the other hand is a total jock. I'm talking Oliver Wood level dedication to the craft of quidditch.

Lily luna is the embodiment of that scene from good omens season two of the little girl going "And I'm jemaimah! I made this pot!!"

Fred II likes to go by freddie, and him and James II are practically James and sirius 2.0. It drives McGonagall crazy.

Carmen and Marco make everyone believe they have twin telepathy as a prank one day, but now they have to keep up the bit because it's too late to drop it.

Scorpius has a pet ferret and he named it bunny. He was 6 and he thought it would be funny.

When scor was a kid he would colour in dracos dark mark with felt tip markers and scribble all over his arm and go "there now it's pretty". One day draco walked into a tattoo parlour with a scribbled mess on his arm and told the artist to make his sons art work permanent. Draco still has the mark but now its sporting all sorts squiggles and shapes in every colour imaginable. Scorpius thinks its embarrassing because that was definitely not one of his more finer works but draco finds comfort in the way his life's biggest regret becomes just a little more bareable because of Scorpius' childish innocence.

Draco is dad of the year. Harry on the other hand... is still trying to get there.

That's all thanks for coming to ny Ted talk

[the-state-of-georgia-official]

i got bored, decided to make a smoothie bowl for dinner:

with washable twin tip felt markers for dessert /sillyj

[ncfan-1]

I have pondered a long time the question of just what it is that makes both Sol and Qimir both immediately want Osha upon seeing her, whereas Mae is discarded the moment Osha comes into focus. I think I have finally hit upon an answer, one I’ve hesitated to share because I was afraid people would think I was saying it to slight Osha when I’m not, but here it is. I think the answer lies in Osha’s willingness to assimilate, versus Mae’s unwillingness to assimilate.

What is it that makes Sol recoil from Mae on the night of the Ascension, and narrow his focus to be concerned only for Osha’s well-being, even though, if he really does consider the coven to be as sinister as he seems to, he ought to still think that both of these girls could be in danger? It’s when he sees the mark on Mae’s forehead that she has received as consequence of having undergone the Ascension, the physical marker of her belonging with her coven and her unwillingness to assimilate to the dominant paradigm of Force-wielding in the galaxy. He says of her that she “has been marked by dark magic,” and his attitude very much seems to be that she was tainted by this dark magic. He immediately concludes that the marked sister is safe with her family while the unmarked sister is not, even though he has no idea to what end Mae was marked, and Osha wasn’t.

It is Mae, all of eight years old, and not Osha, who is put on the spot about her marginalized culture by a pair of adult outsiders with “notions”, without one of the adults of her own community present. Mae is allowed to lie her way through her cognitive test unchallenged. Sol and Indara both know that Mae is lying during that test—Sol saw her using the Force twice; he knows perfectly well that she’s Force-sensitive—but Sol never encourages her to tell the truth, never shows any real, deep concern for her well-being, even though Mae takes the test first, even though it’s Mae’s behavior and not Osha’s that first tips him off that the twins have been told to lie. He’s Othered her. He’s dismissed her from the place in his heart where concern lives. It’s only after Sol thinks that he’s killed Mae that she seems to become important to him again, dwelling in the place in his heart where guilt lives, a frozen memory that he can perhaps forget had accepted a different way of life than the life he lives, a frozen memory that he can perhaps forget he did such a serious disservice to, even before he dropped her.

As for Qimir, I’ll admit, I have long held him in contempt for his “Mae was only interested in revenge,” because it exposes that Qimir never made much of an effort to get to know Mae, no matter how long he was acquainted with her. To the audience, it’s obvious that Mae wanted the companionship of her family more than she ever wanted revenge, because of her willingness to abandon her pursuit of revenge/justice against the Jedi who killed her family when she discovers that Osha, one of her family, is still alive. But let’s assume that Qimir is speaking truthfully when he assumes that Mae was only interested in revenge, and if we do, I wonder if this isn’t an expression of something else.

Qimir does not identify himself as a Sith, saying only that the Jedi would probably name him as such. But we know that there is an implied connection between him and Darth Plagueis, which most likely leaves him Sith-adjacent; the fact that he prompts Mae to recite the first line of the Sith Code in Episode 2 suggests as much. And we know that Qimir was once a Jedi. So, we have Jedi and Sith in Qimir’s background, the two ideologies that take turns as the dominant Force-wielding paradigms in the galaxy. And what is Mae, exactly?

Mae, who when she goes out to track down the Jedi who killed her family, wears clothing and armor that is as close a replication of traditional dress in her community as she seems able to approximate. Mae, who when she needs a poison to offer to Torbin, insists on using bunta, a poison native to Brendok, a poison that she used in her daily life for hunting during the winter, when she would hunt with her family. Mae, who wants to make damn sure that the Jedi she’s hunting down know who it is who’s coming after them, and why. What is Mae, exactly? Whatever tradition of Force-wielding she might currently be utilizing, she very clearly still identifies with the witches of Brendok.

The thing of it is, it’s not as though Mae hasn’t already made a huge compromise while training with Qimir, in that she was willing to accept his tutelage at all. The show doesn’t dwell on it, but electing to accept Jedi-adjacent training cannot possibly have been a decision she made lightly, or easily, whatever Qimir says about Mae having agreed to it “immediately.” To accept training in the tradition of the people who killed her family cannot possibly have been something she agreed to because she was eager for it for its own sake—she can only have agreed to it out of devotion to the family she lost, because she saw no other way to become strong enough to seek justice for them.

A huge compromise, and apparently not enough for Qimir. What’s the difference between Osha and Mae to Qimir? Qimir seems instantly fascinated with Osha. Even before Mae prepares to desert him, he seems to have almost completely lost interest in her, because Osha’s turned up. Why is that? We know that he treats Osha with honesty, whereas he has been consistently deceitful to Mae since they first met. We know that he approaches Osha with sympathy, whereas his treatment of Mae was such that she regarded him with no affection or respect, only with fear and implied resentment.

Qimir’s stated motivation is that he wants freedom from the Jedi, who say that someone like him “can’t exist.” That sure does sound familiar, doesn’t it? From Mae’s point of view, that’s exactly what happened to her and her family. Members of the dominant Force-wielding ideology in the galaxy came to her homeworld, trespassed into the home of her marginalized community, and killed her entire family, with her and her sister as the only survivors. But Qimir never made an attempt to reach out to her on the basis of this huge piece of shared ground between them. He was instead deceitful, made her fear him, and eventually wrote her off as “only being interested in revenge.”

What’s the difference between Osha and Mae to Qimir? Why does he treat Osha so differently?

Well, Osha was once a Jedi, too, like Qimir. And Qimir may regard that as far more genuine a stretch of common ground than Mae having spent sixteen years believing herself to be the sole survivor of a ideologically-motivated massacre of her people by Jedi who decided that they couldn’t exist. He can empathize with Osha’s circumstances, but finds nothing in Mae’s to empathize with. Instead, he looks at Mae, Mae who still identifies strongly with her marginalized community, and Others her just as much as Sol did. “You’re not like me, and you never will be.” He writes off her devotion to her family as simple revenge-obsession, and makes no effort to understand.

Osha is far more malleable to the dominant ideologies than Mae is, far more willing to assimilate. If The Acolyte hadn’t been cancelled, I think we would have seen her forced to reckon with her heritage eventually; the fact that she instinctively uses Force Magic when she has Qimir’s helmet on is a strong sign of that. But she is willing to leave her family and become a Jedi, and implied later to be willing to adhere to Qimir’s ideas of what a Dark Sider should be, and receives positive responses as a result. Whereas Mae refuses to assimilate more than is absolutely necessary for her own survival, identifies strongly with her marginalized community even after all of them are dead, and is left on the outside of everything as a result.

[sentofight]

MUSE BODY LANGUAGE

Einar Vilho

DEFENSIVENESS : arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip // baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE : hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to the bridge of the nose // pursed lips // knitted brows

SUSPICION : arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION : open hands // upper body in sprinters position // leaning in closely // sitting on the edge of a chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders // droopy/relaxed posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE : hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin // rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up // shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

INSECURITY & ANXIETY : chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent // closed gestures // clearing throat // “ whew ” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer / marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION : short breaths // “ tsk ” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // running hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling // revealing teeth / grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in the brows // shoulders back, head up - defensive posturing // clenching of jaw / grinding teeth // nostrils flaring // heavy exhales

tagged by: @unshackled-instinct (sankyuuu)

tagging: @dcviated (wywy?), @psychcdelica , @pieman1112 , @isaaccecilbryant , @kinships (setu!) , @apotelesmati (elli or xavier? or za twins????) , @foolshoujo , @amalanexus (honks at amon), @flovverworks (or gran~), @riftdancer (shane!!!!!!!!) , @juwul , and u~ steal it with style

[live-from-flaturn]

Act 5, Scene 1

KimChay, post-breakup character study featuring Macbeth references.

approx. 500 words

Kim could feel the burn of those eyes on the back of his neck like twin brands. The sensation of being watched made every hair on his arms and along the base of his scalp stand on end. His nerves jangled beneath his skin, further from his control than he preferred.

"Why don't you call me anymore, P'Kim?"

The guileless excitement that filled Chay's voice whenever he answered one of Kim's calls never failed to get Kim praying for heavenly retribution. But he hadn't called Chay in over a week. Hadn't texted him, either.

"What have I done wrong, Phi? Don't you still like me?"

The burning intensified. His hands clenched hard enough to crack the plastic casing of his cheap felt-tip marker. Behind the gaudy painting Kinn had commissioned for him (and Khun) last Christmas was a small rectangular photo pinned against cork.

Porchay Kittisawat's photo.

His... (mentee? murder suspect? stalker? stalking victim? muse? fanboy? crush? potential boyfriend?) Chay.

Kim knew how to make snap-decisions. He could maneuver himself away from most dangers and keep those around him from stumbling too close to the fire; but he couldn't do shit for Chay. The poor kid was in over his head, now.

And Kim had... Kim said...

"Why did you leave, P'Kim?"

"Why?" Kim whispered.

He stared down at the red ink splattered across his palm for a long, silent moment - Out, damned spot! out, I say! - before he shook the pieces of sticky, ruined plastic into a nearby garbage can. Those wide amber eyes hadn't stopped haunting him, waking or sleeping. Chay was everywhere. The laughter of a stranger, the busker with a cheap guitar, the girl who sold flowers near the temple doors...

"Why did I do that?!"

What, will these hands ne'er be clean?

Kim stood suddenly and spun on his heel. He flung the painting aside with a loud thud and ripped Chay's picture from beneath its round black pin. Those eyes, those fucking eyes! Kim didn't know whether to scream or cry or burst into song. He hadn't felt like this, hadn't felt in so long.

Anger and fear ruled his childhood. Anxiety and ambition ruled him now, and whatever they touched went up in smoke. He couldn't lose Chay like that. Not ever. And yet...

"He needed me. Needed Porsche. Needed someone to keep him from falling between the cracks and we failed him. Fuck!"

What's done cannot be undone.

"Why didn't I fucking stay?"

[awesomesauce2929]

I got new twin tip markers today so I attempted to draw my tumblr icon, I can’t wait to redo this again in 6 months time to improve myself and my drawing skills in general.

(The eyes were unfortunately could not be done due to having the wrong colour (Violet instead of Lilac) and shape)

[jwinsorart]

Day 6 of lettering advent. I always need a grey to add shadows to my brush lettering or subtle highlighting on a journal spread. This one is great because I can use the fine tip or the chisel tip.

Lettering advent calendar by @lettersandlattesllc

🖋 @writechofficial Twin Plus Marker

📜 @maruman.usa Mnemosyne Grid

[etes-secrecy-post]

Hi, before I explain my post, I want to say something important.

• What you see my blog has become a major overhaul. And despite the changes, I decided that my 2nd account will be now my artwork blog with a secret twist.

⚠️NEW RULE! (W/ BIGGER TEXT!)⚠️

⚠️ SO PLEASE DO NOT SHARE MY 2nd ACCOUNT TO EVERYONE! THIS SECRECY BLOG OF MINE IS FOR CLOSES FRIENDS ONLY!⚠️

• AND FOR MY CLOSES FRIENDS, DON’T REBLOG IT. INSTEAD, JUST COPY MY LINK AND PASTE IT ON YOUR TUMBLR POST! JUST BE SURE THE IMAGE WILL BE REMOVED AND THE ONLY LEFT WAS THE TEXT.

⚠️ SHARING LINKS, LIKE POSTS, REBLOG POSTS, STEALING MY SNAPSHOT PHOTOS/RECORDED VIDEOS/ARTWORKS (a.k.a. ART THIEVES) OR PLAGIARIZING FROM UNKNOWN TUMBLR STRANGERS WILL IMMEDIATELY BE BLOCKED, RIGHT AWAY!⚠️

😡 WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EVER LIKED & REBLOG MY SECRET POST! THIS IS FOR MY SECRET FRIENDS ONLY, NOT YOU! 😡

Okay? Capiche? Make sense? Good, now back to the post…↓

#Onthisday: Jun 10th, 2012

Title: Spot AGE-1 Normal

I have a ton of traditional drawings that relate on Cuteness Mecha in Gundam AGE armors without noting the armaments & features. So, I'm about to give it anyway with my 2012 sketch version of Spot AGE-1 Normal.

• This here is the armored AGE-1 used by Spot Speedster, of which was came from the "Legendary Savior" called "The Gundam" [CLICK ME! #!]. The AGE-1 was crafted masterpiece by the Asuno Family, and they follow up with the AGE-2 (for Gumball) & AGE-3/FX armors (for Chowder). Like future AGE armors, the AGE-1 uses the "AGE Device" [CLICK ME! #2] a memory device that will access the armor. Although, it did not effect their age progression, human/anthro or otherwise. It also has "Wear System" crafted by the "Age Builder" [CLICK ME! #3], which also crafted several arsenals for the armor AGE trio. As for the AGE-1's Wear System, it can switch from Normal to other forms like the "Titus", "Spallow", "Razor", "Glansa", etc...

Spot AGE-1 Normal Came from the: AGE-1 Gundam AGE-1 Normal

Armament(s):

• DODS Rifle The basic long ranged armament of the AGE-1 Normal. The DODS Rifle was created by the AGE system after the Genoace's Beam Spray Gun. The DODS Rifle spins the beam it fires like a powerful drill, generating enough force to destroy enemy mobile suits in a single shot. The DODS rifle has a limited number of shots, enough to keep a running battle going for some time but eventually repeated use without resupply will render the weapon empty. The DODS Rifle can be stored on rear waist armor when not in use. The rifle has two configurations, a one-handed mode where the barrel is rotated so that the secondary grip is pointing downwards, and a two-handed mode where the barrel is rotated so that the secondary grip is horizontally aligned. The latter mode allows for higher precision when shooting. The word DODS is an acronym that means "Drill-Orbital Discharge System".

• Beam Saber/Dagger Stored in the AGE-1's side skirt armor are a pair of beam sabers. The beam sabers can adjust their length for different combat situations and are also strong enough to pierce and destroy enemy mobile suits with ease. One can be used as a reserve weapon, or both can be used simultaneously in a twin sword fashion.

• Shield The AGE-1's defensive armament. It is made much thicker and sturdier than the Genoace's shield.

• Beam Spray Gun A weapon originally used by the Genoace. Despite being a beam weapon, the Beam Spray Gun is not powerful enough to damage the armor of mobile suits. The shots of the Beam Spray Gun are about as powerful as a tank shell.

• Marker Shot A pistol-like weapon with non-lethal ammo used during the mock battle.

• Beam Rolling Lance The Beam Rolling Lance is a pole weapon with a rolling beam cutter on its tip. With it, the AGE-1 can slice down Vagan suits far better than regular beam sabers.

Special Feature(s):

• AGE System The AGE System is the Special OS for the AGE-1 (AGE-2, AGE-3 & AGE-FX) engineered by the lineage of the Asuno family. It researches the evolution of living beings by digitizing the mysteries surrounding it and collects battle data to customize itself, grows alongside the Cuteness Mecha member and is customized and used exclusively by the AGE armor users. The only way for this system to be used and the AGE Armor to mobilize is by using the AGE Device. After the rollout of its successor, AGE-2, AGE-1 was taken to the Earth Federation's headquarters, Big Ring so that it can be modified to not require the AGE System anymore.

• Wear System The arms (including shoulder armor) and legs of the AGE-1 are detachable, which allows alternate sets of limbs or "wears" to be attached. In conjunction with the AGE Builder, this allows the AGE System to dramatically change the overall performance of the unit by analyzing combat data and fabricating new wear parts to adapt to new situations or enemies. Later, the AMEMBO support craft was built to deliver the wear parts to AGE-1 during battle, saving it from having to return to its mothership/base for the exchange of wear parts.

Spot Speedster - created by ME! Armor (Mobile Suit Gundam AGE) - Gundam Series © SUNRISE, Sotsu

[rhinoclip]

what art supplies do you use? :)

Well I personally use any and all whenever I want to have a little bit of fun. It’s always good to experiment. :)

For my digital art on this account though, I work on Procreate on an IPad with an Apple Pencil. The brushes I use are Technical Pen for line art and flat colors, Derwent or HB Pencil for sketching, Flat Brush for any rendering or non-cell shading, and sometimes Lightpen for highlights. For any cheaper alternative, MediBang Paint is free and the app I started out with.

If you see me post any future realistic digital art, thats on Art Set and done with their Oil Paint brush.

For my traditional fanart, I work with any sketchbook I can find, but usually Articka or Strathmore Colored Pencil. For lineart, I either use a Hedgehog Touch pen from my local bookstore or a Pilot 0.5mm black felt tip pen (depends on how well my day is going.) I either sketch with any mechanical pencil you can find at Walmart or a Prismacolor Scholar colored pencil. I like to use the colored pencil because sometimes markers can pick up any unerased pencil, and if the pencil is gray it will look very muddy. For coloring, I use and recommend COPIC Sketch markers and Studio Series’ Artist’s Markers. I also sometimes use Kingart Twin-Tip Brush Pens, but not as often since I prefer alcohol-based markers instead of water-based. And for any detailing, highlighting, or bordering, I use and heavily recommend POSCA Medium Point markers for any details, highlights, or borders since they are very opaque and long-lasting.

Thanks for asking!

[rosersmith]

Luxor offers a wide range of color markers suitable for a variety of applications. The Luxor Twin Marker Set includes both fine and broad points, which are ideal for writing, coloring, and sketching. The Luxor 100 Permanent Marker, with its hard acrylic tips and alcohol-based dazzling ink, is available in 24 vibrant colors to fulfill your permanent marking requirements. Furthermore, the Luxor Super Chisel Marker's broad and fine marking capabilities make it suitable for a variety of activities.

ADDRESS Luxor Writing Instruments Pvt Ltd Plot-229, Okhla, Phase-3, Delhi-110020 0120- 4899100