i just started using watercolors, can you tell me about your process/share some tips?
Well first of all, congrats on trying watercolors! I’m by no means an expert yet but I’ll do my best to walk you through my process using some of the WIP pictures I have from previous pieces. There’s a ton to cover and I won’t get it all so feel free to ask more specific questions if you need help.
My first tip would be to play with whatever tools you have to figure out what feels right for you. If you don’t have any tools yet, I suggest the Sakura Koi Pocket Field Sketch Box (pictured below) since it’s really nice quality, comes with a water brush, and usually costs like $15-$25 depending on size/where you buy it. If that’s still outside of your price range, the first watercolors I ever did were with old crayola palettes and it worked out fine, it just took way more layers and time to get the color depth I wanted.
As for paper, I’m still looking for the perfect one but just make sure it’s watercolor paper (cold press means there’s a texture, hot press is smooth) or multimedia and not like, printer paper. As long as it’s relatively thick, it should be ok but might buckle when too much water is added.
Don’t worry too much about perfection when learning how to use your equipment. Make lines, blend colors, try making washes, etc. When I came back to watercolors, I mostly did a lot of meditative painting, where I doodled whatever felt right. Some of them even came out real cool looking??
When I sit down to do a more detailed piece or commission, I have a five-part process I pretty consistently use these days. It goes like this:
1) Traditional (or digital) sketch/concept phase. The below pic is from a pop-art commission concept where I really liked the flow of her hair.
2) Digital lineart (cleaning up/refining concept sketches)
3) Print the lineart and lightbox it to watercolor paper using either a hard graphite pencil (very light lines) or colored lead. I still lightbox with this ancient hunk of junk but you can even use a window or your computer screen (VERY CAREFULLY) to lightbox if you don’t have one.
Here’s what some of my pieces looks like after being transferred:
I think it’s important to note that you should keep a piece of scrap paper under your hand while working on the watercolor paper, since the oils in your skin can lead to areas where the paint won’t bind to the paper properly. I’ve had cases where I finished a background wash only to find an absolutely perfect thumbprint in the center of it.
4) Ink the lines. Make sure your pens are waterproof. If they’re not, I’ll talk about a way to get around that later so skip right to painting for now.
I used micron technical pens for the above piece. If you don’t know if you have waterproof pens, make a test chart like the one below. Mine involved copics, watercolor, and super heavy scrubbing to see how easily the pen came off when wet.
I’ve also “inked” after painting by using more concentrated lines of watercolor instead of actual ink. The below painting was too cute and pastel and I didn’t want to ruin it with black lines, so I used that technique here (along with some red pencil)
5) Paint! I’m not really consistent with this step but my main tip is: BE PATIENT! If you want flat blocks of color, wait until each wash is fully dry before moving on to one next to it. If you don’t, they’ll bleed into each other. This is also true when trying to create shadows with hard edges instead of soft blending. Not being patient enough is my #1 cause of “crap I have to start this over”.
(The weird coloration on the lines above is actually dried frisket I put over certain sections of the piece to protect them but it ended up being more of a hassle than anything else for this style of piece.)
So, what if you didn’t have waterproof pens? You can easily reverse steps 4&5 and paint first, wait for it to dry very well, and then ink (shown below).
The finished piece looked like this:
I hope this was helpful!
If you want to see any of my WIPs/ask me questions, you can find me on Twitter and Instagram.
Prompts: “I don’t want to have a baby.” “Go then, leave! See if I care!”
Relationship: Lovers and Exs
Fandom: Young Justice
Character: Kaldur and Wally
Warning: Kaldur is an ass in this fic.
A/N: This fic wasn’t met to turn out the way it did. But it snowballed and I feel in love with how it turned out.
You swore that your heart broke with Kaldur’s words.
“I don’t want to have a baby.”
You had just told your fiancé Kaldur that you were pregnant which was a surprise seeing as you were an alien and he was an Atlantean. You thought that he would be happy at the fact that the two of you were having a child. Yes, earlier than you thought but still, instead he told you that he didn’t want the child growing inside of you. Then his com went off, he answered it and gave you a look. The team needed him.
“Go then, leave! See if I care!” You turned away from him, Kaldur left without a goodbye, the door closing sounding that he was gone from the apartment and for you out of your life. You packed up anything you needed in a suitcase called Wally since he was one of your closest friends and you knew he had a free room ever since Artemis and he broke up.
“Y/N. Hey, what’s up?” Wally asked as he answered your call.
“Hey, Walls. You still looking for a roommate?” You asked.
“Ya. Why you got someone looking to move out here?”
“Me.” There was a pause as you when through the apartment getting anything you needed. After a minute Wally started to talk.
“What about Kaldur? You two are engaged and I thought living together?”
“Something happened that I don’t want to talk about over the phone. Can I stay for a bit?”
“Sure. I’ll fix up the guest room for you.”
“Thank you, Wally. You are the best.”
“Anything for you doll.” You smiled lightly as you finished getting everything together. You set your bags at the door, you when to the coffee table and wrote out a letter to Kaldur. Once you finished the letter you slipped silver engagement ring off your finger and set it with the letter. All you dreams with Kaldur had disappeared that afternoon. But you wouldn’t blame it on the baby, they hadn’t done anything wrong. You left your key to the apartment on the coffee table as well, there was no point in happening it. Picking up your bags you head out of the apartment building, getting a cab you gave the driver direction to zeta tube close by. Will it was a few blocks off to make it look they you were going to a pizza shop. Once you paid the man and got your bags you walked down the five blocks and unlocking the door to a building with a code you walked in. The building was empty, dust covered every surface, the windows were reinforced and tinted. You headed to the very back room and stood on the platform.
Harvey Weinstein was a passionate cinephile, a risk taker, a patron of talent in film, a loving father and a monster. For years, he was my monster.
This fall, I was approached by reporters, through different sources, including my dear friend Ashley Judd, to speak about an episode in my life that, although painful, I thought I had made peace with.
I had brainwashed myself into thinking that it was over and that I had survived; I hid from the responsibility to speak out with the excuse that enough people were already involved in shining a light on my monster. I didn’t consider my voice important, nor did I think it would make a difference.
In reality, I was trying to save myself the challenge of explaining several things to my loved ones: Why, when I had casually mentioned that I had been bullied like many others by Harvey, I had excluded a couple of details. And why, for so many years, we have been cordial to a man who hurt me so deeply. I had been proud of my capacity for forgiveness, but the mere fact that I was ashamed to describe the details of what I had forgiven made me wonder if that chapter of my life had really been resolved.
When so many women came forward to describe what Harvey had done to them, I had to confront my cowardice and humbly accept that my story, as important as it was to me, was nothing but a drop in an ocean of sorrow and confusion. I felt that by now nobody would care about my pain — maybe this was an effect of the many times I was told, especially by Harvey, that I was nobody.
We are finally becoming conscious of a vice that has been socially accepted and has insulted and humiliated millions of girls like me, for in every woman there is a girl. I am inspired by those who had the courage to speak out, especially in a society that elected a president who has been accused of sexual harassment and assault by more than a dozen women and whom we have all heard make a statement about how a man in power can do anything he wants to women.
Well, not anymore.
In the 14 years that I stumbled from schoolgirl to Mexican soap star to an extra in a few American films to catching a couple of lucky breaks in “Desperado” and “Fools Rush In,” Harvey Weinstein had become the wizard of a new wave of cinema that took original content into the mainstream. At the same time, it was unimaginable for a Mexican actress to aspire to a place in Hollywood. And even though I had proven them wrong, I was still a nobody.
One of the forces that gave me the determination to pursue my career was the story of Frida Kahlo, who in the golden age of the Mexican muralists would do small intimate paintings that everybody looked down on. She had the courage to express herself while disregarding skepticism. My greatest ambition was to tell her story. It became my mission to portray the life of this extraordinary artist and to show my native Mexico in a way that combated stereotypes.
The Weinstein empire, which was then Miramax, had become synonymous with quality, sophistication and risk taking — a haven for artists who were complex and defiant. It was everything that Frida was to me and everything I aspired to be.
I had started a journey to produce the film with a different company, but I fought to get it back to take it to Harvey.
I knew him a little bit through my relationship with the director Robert Rodriguez and the producer Elizabeth Avellan, who was then his wife, with whom I had done several films and who had taken me under their wing. All I knew of Harvey at the time was that he had a remarkable intellect, he was a loyal friend and a family man.
Knowing what I know now, I wonder if it wasn’t my friendship with them — and Quentin Tarantino and George Clooney — that saved me from being raped.
The deal we made initially was that Harvey would pay for the rights of work I had already developed. As an actress, I would be paid the minimum Screen Actors Guild scale plus 10 percent. As a producer, I would receive a credit that would not yet be defined, but no payment, which was not that rare for a female producer in the ’90s. He also demanded a signed deal for me to do several other films with Miramax, which I thought would cement my status as a leading lady.
I did not care about the money; I was so excited to work with him and that company. In my naïveté, I thought my dream had come true. He had validated the last 14 years of my life. He had taken a chance on me — a nobody. He had said yes.
Little did I know it would become my turn to say no.
No to opening the door to him at all hours of the night, hotel after hotel, location after location, where he would show up unexpectedly, including one location where I was doing a movie he wasn’t even involved with.
No to me taking a shower with him.
No to letting him watch me take a shower.
No to letting him give me a massage.
No to letting a naked friend of his give me a massage.
No to letting him give me oral sex.
No to my getting naked with another woman.
No, no, no, no, no …
And with every refusal came Harvey’s Machiavellian rage.
I don’t think he hated anything more than the word “no.” The absurdity of his demands went from getting a furious call in the middle of the night asking me to fire my agent for a fight he was having with him about a different movie with a different client to physically dragging me out of the opening gala of the Venice Film Festival, which was in honor of “Frida,” so I could hang out at his private party with him and some women I thought were models but I was told later were high-priced prostitutes.
The range of his persuasion tactics went from sweet-talking me to that one time when, in an attack of fury, he said the terrifying words, “I will kill you, don’t think I can’t.”
When he was finally convinced that I was not going to earn the movie the way he had expected, he told me he had offered my role and my script with my years of research to another actress.
In his eyes, I was not an artist. I wasn’t even a person. I was a thing: not a nobody, but a body.
At that point, I had to resort to using lawyers, not by pursuing a sexual harassment case, but by claiming “bad faith,” as I had worked so hard on a movie that he was not intending to make or sell back to me. I tried to get it out of his company.
He claimed that my name as an actress was not big enough and that I was incompetent as a producer, but to clear himself legally, as I understood it, he gave me a list of impossible tasks with a tight deadline:
1. Get a rewrite of the script, with no additional payment.
2. Raise $10 million to finance the film.
3. Attach an A-list director.
4. Cast four of the smaller roles with prominent actors.
Much to everyone’s amazement, not least my own, I delivered, thanks to a phalanx of angels who came to my rescue, including Edward Norton, who beautifully rewrote the script several times and appallingly never got credit, and my friend Margaret Perenchio, a first-time producer, who put up the money. The brilliant Julie Taymor agreed to direct, and from then on she became my rock. For the other roles, I recruited my friends Antonio Banderas, Edward Norton and my dear Ashley Judd. To this day, I don’t know how I convinced Geoffrey Rush, whom I barely knew at the time.
Now Harvey Weinstein was not only rejected but also about to do a movie he did not want to do.
Ironically, once we started filming, the sexual harassment stopped but the rage escalated. We paid the price for standing up to him nearly every day of shooting. Once, in an interview he said Julie and I were the biggest ball busters he had ever encountered, which we took as a compliment.
Halfway through shooting, Harvey turned up on set and complained about Frida’s “unibrow.” He insisted that I eliminate the limp and berated my performance. Then he asked everyone in the room to step out except for me. He told me that the only thing I had going for me was my sex appeal and that there was none of that in this movie. So he told me he was going to shut down the film because no one would want to see me in that role.
It was soul crushing because, I confess, lost in the fog of a sort of Stockholm syndrome, I wanted him to see me as an artist: not only as a capable actress but also as somebody who could identify a compelling story and had the vision to tell it in an original way.
I was hoping he would acknowledge me as a producer, who on top of delivering his list of demands shepherded the script and obtained the permits to use the paintings. I had negotiated with the Mexican government, and with whomever I had to, to get locations that had never been given to anyone in the past — including Frida Kahlo’s houses and the murals of Kahlo’s husband, Diego Rivera, among others.
But all of this seemed to have no value. The only thing he noticed was that I was not sexy in the movie. He made me doubt if I was any good as an actress, but he never succeeded in making me think that the film was not worth making.
He offered me one option to continue. He would let me finish the film if I agreed to do a sex scene with another woman. And he demanded full-frontal nudity.
He had been constantly asking for more skin, for more sex. Once before, Julie Taymor got him to settle for a tango ending in a kiss instead of the lovemaking scene he wanted us to shoot between the character Tina Modotti, played by Ashley Judd, and Frida.
But this time, it was clear to me he would never let me finish this movie without him having his fantasy one way or another. There was no room for negotiation.
I had to say yes. By now so many years of my life had gone into this film. We were about five weeks into shooting, and I had convinced so many talented people to participate. How could I let their magnificent work go to waste?
I had asked for so many favors, I felt an immense pressure to deliver and a deep sense of gratitude for all those who did believe in me and followed me into this madness. So I agreed to do the senseless scene.
I arrived on the set the day we were to shoot the scene that I believed would save the movie. And for the first and last time in my career, I had a nervous breakdown: My body began to shake uncontrollably, my breath was short and I began to cry and cry, unable to stop, as if I were throwing up tears.
Since those around me had no knowledge of my history of Harvey, they were very surprised by my struggle that morning. It was not because I would be naked with another woman. It was because I would be naked with her for Harvey Weinstein. But I could not tell them then.
My mind understood that I had to do it, but my body wouldn’t stop crying and convulsing. At that point, I started throwing up while a set frozen still waited to shoot. I had to take a tranquilizer, which eventually stopped the crying but made the vomiting worse. As you can imagine, this was not sexy, but it was the only way I could get through the scene.
By the time the filming of the movie was over, I was so emotionally distraught that I had to distance myself during the postproduction.
When Harvey saw the cut film, he said it was not good enough for a theatrical release and that he would send it straight to video.
This time Julie had to fight him without me and got him to agree to release the film in one movie theater in New York if we tested it to an audience and we scored at least an 80.
Less than 10 percent of films achieve that score on a first screening.
I didn’t go to the test. I anxiously awaited to receive the news. The film scored 85.
prompt: jimon + childhood friends AU !! always like those, and i always wonder how that would like... impact jace and simon if they had been childhood friends from the start
best friends for a long time is my ultimate weakness <3
“Hey.” Jace says, inviting himself into Simon’s room and sprawling onto his desk chair. “‘Sup?”
Simon’s lying on his bed, earphones half in, and he glares at Jace as hard as he can - which isn’t much, given the fact that his mind is currently drowning in sorrow, and he just wants to curl up and die.
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t hear what happened. You’re here to gloat, aren’t you?” Simon snaps, and Jace shrugs.
“I told you in fifth grade that that dude was bad news, it’s been seven years since then.” Jace reminds him. He’s looking at Simon’s posters now, not even looking at him as he says, softly, “You didn’t even think about listening to me.”
“Sorry, yeah,” Simon bites out, “except he was the only one who invited me to prom and unlike you, I don’t have dates just lined up? So I can’t afford to be picky - “
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Jace says, exasperated, and Simon sits up in bed, furious, when Jace continues, “You would never let any one of us say that about ourselves, but you can say that about yourself? Anyone would be lucky to have you, Simon, you can’t settle.”
Simon’s stunned into a furious silence, glaring petulantly at Jace, because Jace is right, and he hates that, hates that Jace knows him almost as well as Clary. And this boy, with his infuriatingly gorgeous body is nice to Simon in his own way, surprisingly sweet, and fuck it’s just not fair and it doesn’t help Simon get over the feelings he’s had for Jace for years.
“Whatever.” Simon sighs, and flops back into bed.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Jace asks, and Simon rolls away from him so he doesn’t have to look at Jace sitting in his room like he belongs there.
“You always are.” Simon says dully.
There’s silence, and then the sound of Jace moving, the bed dipping as he sits near Simon. A tentative hand comes up to stroke his back, Jace’s long fingers burning a path through the thin material of Simon’s shirt.
“You’ll be okay.” Jace says quietly. “You will.”
“Like I was okay in middle school when Georgie Chen dumped her juice all over me for not being a cool enough date to the movies?” Simon asks wryly, and he hears Jace laugh, the small, throaty one that makes little dimples appear in Jace’s cheeks.
“If I’m remembering correctly, I also dumped my juice over Georgie Chen for that, so I think that went fine.” Jace remarks, and Simon smiles at that, shaking his head as he sits up, sitting cross-legged on the bed and facing Jace.
“Yeah, but that cemented your popularity. ‘Ooooh, I’m Jace Herondale, I’m too cool for the cool kids, I wore tiny leather jackets when I was in elementary school and my hair swishes in the wind like I’m in a commercial - “ Simon sings, adopting a falsetto and ducking as Jace throws a pillow at him, laughing.
“I’m Simon Lewis,” Jace says, deepening his voice and turning his nose up, “I corrected the math teacher in ninth grade and now I’m the math nerd and I know ever single Nicolas Cage movie like nobody’s business but I like to wear graphic tees and pretend I’m a punk rocker - “
“I’m a superstar and you know it.” Simon says, making finger guns.
“Damn, and we’re all just along for the ride.” Jace says, propping his chin up in his hands and looking at Simon fondly. Simon grins, because Jace is his best friend, and maybe prom didn’t work out, but - he still has this, still gets this side of Jace that no one else gets to see. And that’s enough for him.
Three weeks later, his phone shrilly and insistently rings, rousing him from his Brooklyn 99 marathon on prom night. He blinks down at the caller ID, frowning as he picks up.
“Hey,” he greets Clary, “shouldn’t you be getting read to go to prom, Fray? Izzy’s picking you up soon, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Clary says, and she sounds like she’s out of breath and running. “But change of plans, I’m getting ready at your house.”
“Uh - “ Simon says, but then his front door rings and he slowly pauses the episode on his laptop as his sister goes to get it.
“Clary?” Rebecca’s surprised voice echoes. Simon jumps up and runs to the front door, where he sees Clary lugging a huge duffel bag and two large dry-cleaning bags, whispering furiously to Rebecca. “Oh my god - yes, I approve - Mom’s not here - well, I’ll just do all the - yes, I love this plan!”
“What plan?” Simon asks immediately, narrowing his eyes at his sister and his best friend. “Don’t like the collusion that’s going on here, no, nope, betrayed by my very best friend in my house, under my roof - “
“No time for yapping, Simon.” Rebecca says impatiently, one hand on her hip as she makes a shooing motion.
“She’s right.” Clary hums as she dumps the dry cleaning in his hands and tugs on his hands. “Come on, we’re already behind schedule.”
“Behind - what?” Simon asks, bewildered, as he follows her to his room. She throws the duffel on his bed and takes one of the bags, the plastic riding up to reveal the shimmery green dress he helped her pick out. “Clary, what?” He repeats helplessly.
“You’re going to prom.” Clary says, beaming at him. “There’s someone that’s wanted for a very long time to go with you, and in a burst of bravery - and pain, because someone slapped some sense into them - they’ve decided to use the tickets they bought for the two of you and take you to prom!”
“Who - what - you slapped someone into going to prom with me?” Simon blinks, feeling like he’s rapidly losing control of the situation.
“Not me.” Clary says airily. “Though I wish I had. I promise its a good date, you’re definitely going to like it. Now go change into your suit, please.”
“Suit - “ Simon looks at the bag in his hands and slides the plastic up, revealing midnight-blue fabric. “Holy shit this is way out of my price range, where’d you get this?”
“Magnus, of course. Raphael picked it out from Magnus’ selection.” Clary answers. She pauses, and then very seriously takes Simon’s hand.
“Hey,” she says quietly, “trust me, okay? This person really likes you, and all of us think that they’ll be good for you. You’ll like them. Let me help you get ready?”
“All of you guys?” Simon swallows. “Even Jace approves?”
Jace, who’s notoriously hard to please; Jace, who’s obnoxiously insulted everyone who’s looked twice at Simon; Jace, who’s quietly helped Simon through every disappointment and made Simon fall harder and harder for him -
“Even Jace.” Clary smiles. “Ready?”
Simon’s silent for a second, looking at the suit and thinking about how even if it’s not with Jace, he deserves to be happy. Maybe he should give this mysterious suitor a chance.
“Alright.” He answers finally, and can’t help but smile in response to Clary beaming at him. “Alright, alright, you win, Fray!”
“Damn right I do!” She says, pleased with herself. “Now go.”
Clary manages to get him and herself ready in record time, and they’re both dressed, hair styled, in less than forty minutes. Simon stares at the person in the mirror, and can’t quite believe it’s him. The suit fits like a dream, makes his legs look longer and his torso broader. Logically, he knows he’s not bad-looking, but the suit makes it much easier to feel that way too. He looks at his carefully coiffed hair, and he nods, sliding his glasses off.
“What are you doing?” Clary asks, slipping into her heels and fixing one of her earrings on. She looks gorgeous, impeccable in her makeup and curls, and Simon’s not sure what black magic she worked to get herself ready at the same time. “Keep your glasses on.”
“I look better with contacts?” Simon asks more than he says. He’s pretty sure that was the consensus among his friends. Clary shakes her head, smiling.
“This person specifically told me to make sure you didn’t take them off, because - and I quote - they’re a part of you.” She says, and Simon can’t breathe for a long second, because that’s just about the most damn beautiful thing he’s ever heard, and it makes him feel like he could fly.
“Okay,” he croaks out, sliding his glasses back on, “okay, this person’s a romantic.”
“Hey,” Rebecca sticks her head into his room, “they’re all here, Simon’s date is ready.”
“Finally.” Clary grabs her purse and moves to the door. “I’m gonna go out first, and you can follow right after, yeah?”
“Okay.” Simon says, his mouth suddenly dry and his hands clammy. Clary squeezes his shoulder before she takes off, and he’s left with just Rebecca.
“Becks.” He says weakly, gesturing to himself. “I - “
“You look good, Si.” She says softly, smiling sadly at him. “You look just like Dad, you know. Except for the nose.” She taps his nose. “That’s Mom all the way.”
“Aw, Becks.” He says, flushing.
“Don’t get sappy on me now.” She teases, and then she gestures to the hallway. “Well? Go find your date.”
Simon nods, and bites his lips as he moves to the front door. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath with his hand on the door handle.
This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine.
He opens the door and looks out into the night; the path to the front door is lit brightly by the front porch lamp, white light glowing softly around a figure with soft blonde hair and unbearably adoring blue-brown eyes.
“Hey,” Jace says, holding out a rose to Simon, a blinding smile on his face as he looks at Simon, “wanna go to prom with me?”
“Jace?” Simon croaks out, taking the rose numbly, his mind not quite comprehending.
“I got it on very good authority that all the time I was pining, it wasn’t actually as hopeless as I thought? So, uh,” he gestures to Simon, “I wanted to give you the prom you deserve. And I want to - try to be the boyfriend you deserve. If you’d let me.”
Jace is wearing a black suit with a tie to match Simon’s, his eyes hopeful and sincere. He looks good, like a dream out of some fairy tale, and more importantly -
He’s the boy that hit Simon in the face with a basketball in fourth grade and then led him around school for the rest of the day, holding his hand, because Simon couldn’t see out of his swollen eye; he’s the boy that taught Simon how to play the guitar in middle school and encouraged him to try for his first gig; he’s the boy that stood by Simon through everything. Simon’s never felt this way about anyone.
Heart in his throat, he steps forward and curls his fingers in Jace’s tie and yanks him forward, kissing him on the porch, slow and sweet as the crickets chirp around them.
Six years later, Jace leads him on a walk through his old neighborhood.
“Hey.” Simon says, nudging him as Jace shivers. “You’re thinking too hard.” He reaches over and tightens Jace’s scarf around his neck, his fingers lingering against the underside of Jace’s jaw.
“You don’t think enough.” Jace responds, smirking, as he catches Simon’s wrist and tangles their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. Simon hums and drives his foot down against a pile of dry leaves, relishing in the crunch that sounds from it.
“Did you remember to drop the truck off at the mechanic?” Simon asks absently. Jace’s coffee truck is doing well enough to have expanded into two more trucks, run by his employees.
“Yeah.” Jace abruptly stops, turning to look at Simon. “Hey, remember this wall?”
Simon looks at it and laughs. It’s a little alley tucked away behind the driveways of the houses, and it’s got graffiti from the generations of kids that have lived there; Rebecca and her friends are by Simon and Clary’s heart with their initials in it, Jace’s barely legible scrawl across it all, with Izzy and Alec beneath that.
“I was so angry when you wrote over our names.” Simon recalls, and he squats down and traces over the heart he and Clary drew over their names when they were eleven. “Here Clary and I were, promising to marry each other when we grew up, and you just came in and scribbled all over it.”
“I was jealous.” Jace laughs a little. “I wanted to have all your attention, and instead she got it.”
“You always had my attention.” Simon stands up and smiles at Jace, who grins and hooks his hands in Simon’s pockets to bring him closer, walking him backwards at the same time until they’re pressing against the wall, kissing softly.
They break apart when they hear a car passing by, and make the trek to the Lewis house, bumping shoulders.
“You think I can go back and scribble the heart out even more?” Jace wonders as they climb the front steps. “I don’t want our kids to one day find that Aunt Clary and Dad had a heart thing going on.”
“Our kids?” Simon grins, something warm and soft fluttering in his chest. Jace looks at him like he’s the stupid one.
“Of course.” Jace says. “I’ve had you for thirteen years, Lewis, you think I’m ever going to let you go now? Is it not obvious that you’re stuck with me?”
“It is.” Simon kisses him again, quick and chaste, before he rings the bell, his heart swelling. “It is.”
That night, before they go back home to the apartment, they add a postscript to the graffiti heart:
Whenever I come to London I take the opportunity to marvel at the glory of this shop. It really does stock a wonderful range of products and it’s a treat to see them so beautifully presented. Much of it is way out of my preferred price range but it’s gorgeous none the less. The freshly ground nut butters, produce, fresh juices and speciality/allergen free products are really wonderful.
i’m opening commissions for the first time in 7+ years. yikes lol. this is to help fund me going to SDCC with my buds. since my wrist behaves better with pencil and paper, i’m only opening 1 digital slot [full colour or b/w
] this round. the rest will be traditional pencil art.
[i am not offering inked/colours at this time.]
more examples and prices under the cut, cos long post is long.
What's up? You can't sell your overpriced jewelries? You deserve it, bitch
I’m sorry you feel that way.
I understand if you feel frustrated that certain pieces are out of your price range, but please understand that for what they are, they are very fairly priced. As an artist I deserve to be paid for my time. (Just like everyone else!) I work very hard to ensure that my pieces come in a large variety of price ranges, so the most people possible can afford to buy them.
I know I am fair, and that’s enough for me. You’re allowed to feel differently, but I kindly ask that you unfollow me, as it clearly upsets you.
Creepypasta #1095: The Room At The Bottom Of The Stairs
Length: Super long
This is the story
of what happened to my family when I was 14. It was the strangest series of
experiences I’ve ever had.
My dad was an abuser. He never really touched me - he
mostly ignored me, like I was beneath his notice - but he was terribly cruel to
my mother. He never raised his voice or hit her when we were watching, but he
would just quietly criticise her in an almost unbroken stream of soft,
matter-of-fact verbal abuse. Also, while he may not have done it in front of
us, I know he definitely hit her. My mother was - and still is today - a
graceful woman. The stories about her tripping on the stairs or slipping on the
wet bathroom floor never rang true, and yet we all saw the bruises, the arm in
a sling, the band-aids over grazes.
She left him when I was 14 and we were all relieved. I felt
no love for him and I had become more and more convinced over the last couple
of years that one day he would kill her, and maybe us too. Seriously, he was a
frightening man - seemingly soft-spoken, but cold and intense. When stories crop
up on the news about fathers snapping and murdering their families, I always
imagine my dad could easily have been one of them.
So we left, and I was glad. There were three of us: me,
mum, and my big brother Joseph who was a 16 at the time, only a few months off
17. Technically, he was old enough that he could have left home already, but
like me he lived in fear of what dad might do without a tall, muscular 17 year
old in the house. Joey was a rugby player, a hundred kilos of solid muscle, but
the opposite of our father: gentle, sweet, generous. I think it was his growing
resentment of our father that pushed mum to leave. She told me years later that
she had nightmares about Joey losing it and beating dad to a pulp, ending up in
Mum did her homework as thoroughly as she could. She got the
court order in place so dad would be barred from entering the property or
coming anywhere near it, and the very next day she had the moving truck and the
self-storage unit booked. A soon-to-be homeless unemployed single mother has
limited resources, so we had to do all the moving ourselves. That was a long,
exhausting day, but it was good, too. Liberating. We knew we were leaving that
Most of our stuff was stored away and we lived for a couple
of months with mum’s sister Bella and her husband Steve. Their apartment was
small for just the two of them, so with five of us there it was insanely
cramped. Mum’s plan was simple enough - get a job, any job, and then find a
place to rent - but the job market wasn’t great for a fortysomething single mum
who hadn’t worked in almost 20 years.
Thankfully, the government came through with some emergency
payments. Between that and Joey’s income from his weekend job, we had enough money coming in that we
could maybe think about moving into somewhere very cheap. It wasn’t just the
cramped apartment, either. Mum didn’t talk about it much, but she knew that dad
knew her sister’s address. A few times the phone would ring in the middle of
the night and the caller would hang up without saying anything, so mum was
starting to get spooked.
Our stroke of luck came in a matched pair. Mum got a job
interview for an office admin position, and it went very well (the interviewer
was a sympathetic older woman and mum was very honest about why she was looking
for work after such a long break). On the way home on the bus, she saw a
“for lease” sign. My mum has always been very spiritual but she
was feeling very optimistic and decided the sign was, well, “a sign”.
She jumped off at the next bus stop and ran back to check it out.
It was an actual house, not a unit or apartment. Most
people in my mother’s position would have walked on, assuming it was out of
their price range, but my mother was very observant. The road it was on ran
along a kind of ridge between two hilltops, and the house was on the uphill
side of the road, nestled in against a fairly steep slope. As such, the back
yard was considerably higher up than the street, and the back door was on the
same level as the upper storey out the front.
My mother noticed that the exterior of the house - stucco
over brick, painted a creamy white - was looking pretty shabby. It was all
surface dirt, the kind that would come off easily with a hose and a broom. The fact that nobody had bothered made mum feel certain the house wasn’t
getting a lot of love. She took a closer look at the “for lease”
sign, swinging from a wooden post in the front yard. Sure enough it was
looking very weathered too. She jotted down the phone number and - she
confessed to me later - almost skipped back to the bus stop.
Her instincts were good: an unusually frank agent admitted
that it had been sitting empty for months and the owners were eager to get a
tenant in. The rent they were asking was shockingly low and well within our
budget. Mum got the rental approval and a new job on the same day, and we all
felt like our troubles were over.
As long as I was able to assess, I knew that this country was deeply flawed. The inequalities screamed louder than the hushes of those who preferred to live in ignorance. I have seen the failure of BME’s, the working class, those of the LGBT community, the youth and even the elderly.
However, it seems to be the issue of class that’s dagger is a deep set wound in this countries side that most overlook. The case of the Grenfell Tower highlights that. No attention was granted to a building housing hundreds of men, women and children. The fire safety of a massive block was overlooked whilst councils assert their attention to multimillion pound private estates. The poor people of London are nothing but a pothole in the road to mouth watering riches for councils.
The saddest part of this tragedy where people begged to be saved from suffocating smoke and flames is that most will now face the issue of displacement. My guess is the remains of people’s homes, their safe spaces and now the final resting places of some said tenants will be bulldozed over. Miraculously sprouting private homes way out of most Londoner’s price range (especially those who benefit from council and housing association homes) to be bought by private investors who may or may not visit every couple of months. The reality of this situation is those who have lost everything may not be offered subsequent housing in the capital. They will be offered homes up north in the likes of Birmingham and Manchester, out of the way of the rich.
It makes you think, does Buckingham Palace need a 370 million revamp for an undemocratic face of state? Or do we need to invest in social housing and look after born and bred Londoners, who receive nothing but discontent from the establishment?
This country has shown me it’s face and it is ugly. It fights for the upholding of inequalities. It fights for the upholding of the ruling classes. Change is needed.
HELLO! First off, you are AWESOME, I LOVE ALL YOUR ART, and you inspire me as an artist to do art things! So thank you for being my inspiration! <3 So anywho I was looking through your blog and came across an old ask that said you sometimes used pencil and scanned it into the computer for shading before posting it, and all ur stuff looks super good when I looked at the pencil stuff, so I was wondering what you use to scan your work? And what methods you might use to clean the scans? (THANK U!!!)
Sure! I use the Epson V700 series of scanners! Specifically, the Epson V750. It’s a nice glass 8″x10″ flatbed scanner that has the added perk (for us, at least) of scanning film as well*! So it comes with the equipment and software to safely scan in 35mm and 120mm film, as well as being a sharp, calibrated scanner for scanning in small pieces of art and sketches. I think they sell a larger size of the V750 (that might be 11″x14″?) but I havent seen it and its way out of my price range for the kind of work that both Mat and I use it for – him for film scanning, and me for art scanning.
*Note the v750 is a model specifically for FILM SCANNING as well as
documents, so check the v600 model line for sketches and lineart
scanning! It’s the same basic build and software but without the
film scanning on the side (trust me the film stuff makes it a lot more
expensive than it would be normally bc not a lot of scanners do that
well or come with holders) so the price tends to be a LOT more
Once I scan in my lineart, I tend to throw it either into SAI or Photoshop depending on what I want to do with it, but in SAI, all I really need to do is set the lineart/sketch to Multiply” and work on top of and underneath it! Typically this preserves the lines I want while letting me clean the lines up and add shading/texture/lighting/color etc. Anything I want, really! Typically though, I just tend to shade my lineart instead of color it in (i don’t always like losing my lines)
So a sketch like this:
Will get cleaned up, isolated, and shaded and turned into this:
Pretty sweet stuff, amirite?
Either way, that’s what I have and thats what I use! I mostly scan black and white but the color is just as good and can be adjusted from the scanner software. I definitely recommend to check it out! I dont draw as much in straight pencil as I used to unless I plan on straight painting it, but that doesnt mean having a nice scanner isnt worth it and can cut down on workflow if you work faster in pencil lines than digital. Besides, pencils have this nice texture to them that isnt easily achieved with digital brushes so if thats a look your going for, all the better to get a good scanner that can capture it.
Consider my ego well and truly stroked, Kara. Amongst other things. Despite your many promises that you could offer nothing more than kisses, I do remember those hands of yours wandering.
If it’s your intention to drive me crazy and have me beg for all the more that I can’t have yet… job well done, you maddening alien. I suppose I shouldn’t be entirely surprised, you’ve been teasing me for over two years now, whether you realized it or not. The perils of falling for youth and inexperience, I suppose.
In the safety of the distance between us, since you have to work, can I confess something further?
You excite me, Kara. In a way that I rarely suspected I was capable of. Oh, I’m no stranger to the pleasures these bodies of ours can provide. You know I’d never sacrifice quality on that or any other front in my life. It’s just that I’ve never been so consumed by just the thought before, so utterly obsessed with what it might finally be like to be with you that way. To have come so much closer now, with kisses, and hands that touch with just a hint too much hesitation, it’s only adding fuel to a considerable blaze.
It’s motivating me to throw everything I have at this recovery, that’s for damn sure.
Previously I might have been content simply to be worshipped, to offer quid pro quo out of some sense of obligation. Sex has always been so transactional in the past. The price of companionship, with a few perks in the process. A way to get the people I wanted, the family I wanted, the person in question always replaceable in the end. I once jokingly called myself the Pillow Queen of All Media. My ex laughed and didn’t correct me.
But with you? I hope I’m making you blush by telling you how much I want all my strength and range of motion back. I could list the things I want to do to you, Kara, but I fear even my beautiful stationery would combust at the content of it, as surely as if you’d unleashed those fearsome eyes of yours.
That said, if you were to come back as soon as possible, I could whisper some of those things in your ear. Let my lips graze that sensitive spot just beneath that we discovered yesterday. If that’s any kind of incentive to break the sound barrier.
hi everybody! im in a lot of pain and dentistry is very expensive, and because i can only secure a part time job in the US of A and barely have any medical coverage, im trying to hustle for some tooth money.
my teeth, genetically, are very weak. i have soft enamel—soft to the point that my grandfather needed dentures by age 17. combined with a lifetime of panic disorder and years of undiagnosed teeth-grinding (though i finally got a mouthguard!), implants are probably in my future. but for now im trying to get by with a crown or two.
ANYWAY i’m opening ANY PRICE SCRIBBLES along these guidelines! $1 = Touchpad/receipt doodle, a swampgallows classic! $5 = Colored MSPaint doodle / refined pencil sketch $10 = Line art, standard b/w illustration $20 = Flat colors / ink details *$30 = REAL ART TERRITORY. Stippling, shading, color theory; the works. $50+ = Whoa what, really? We’ll talk! [[ALL SLOTS ARE FILLED. THANK YOU!]]
i understand these are extremely low prices for the art market!! this is not my attempt to freelance, but rather to give something in return for your generosity. (i want to earn my way!!) HOWEVER the $30+ price ranges are my “serious commission” slots, of which I will reserve three, andone slot for $50+.
*** I will NOT draw pornography, heavy gore (e.g. disembowelment), advertisements, or works promoting hate speech. “Classical” nudity is permitted, all body types. I reserve the right to refuse requests as I see fit. ***
PayPal donations/payments, as well as requests, can be sent to email@example.com, or you can message me through tumblr! thanks for your time!
I’ve been getting more and more questions about them lately.
First: I am genuinely delighted and flattered that so many of you want to support me and buy personalised art!
So why don’t I offer commissions?
Pixel art, by its nature, is a very detail-oriented and time-consuming hobby. And it’s fun! And I enjoy it. But the truth is, the amount of time it takes me to make these pieces puts them way out of the standard Tumblr Commission Price Range.
A commissioned piece comparable to the ones decorating this post would probably start at $150.
Why is it that expensive?
I love dedicating hours to this art and making it on my own terms! But add in color requests and feedback and deadlines, and it quickly turns into something less fun and more stressful.
It turns into… well, a job.
Which is okay! Everyone needs a job (we’ll talk about the evils of capitalism another day)!
The older I get, the more I value my free time.
I have a job. I have an hour+ bus commute. I have some health issues that cut deeply into the amount of free time I have. I value my remaining free time a lot! It is precious to me.
The art itself…well, it’s pretty. I like it! Hopefully you like it, too! But at the end of the day, it’s a bunch of dots on a screen. If you print it out, it’d be less than an inch square. Is it worth that much? Maybe to some people! But certainly not to everyone! I’m okay with that.
My commission rates are not based on what I think the art is worth to you. It’s based on what my time is worth to me.
If you value my art as much as I value my time, I would love to do a commission for you!
I think most people probably do not fall into that category, which is okay. (If you do fall into that category, feel free shoot me an email!)
Turns out I can’t get the new medication my doctor prescribed to help with bladder spasms. It’s over one hundred dollars a month.
This is the third medication in four months that I’ve been prescribed that cost over one hundred dollars a month. The third medication I’ve been excited to try to improve my quality of life and had to walk away empty handed.
These medications are to help improve my organs that are no longer working. I need these medicines to function and I can’t get them. I have looked into every coupon and sponser programs and still can’t afford them. All of the meds were still well over fifty dollars.
I partially blame my doctors for prescribing these new medications way out of my price range. They can see I’m on twelve different monthly scripts. That’s a high cost even if they are affordable. But America’s healthcareand pharmaceutical systems are the real culprits.
They’re robbing sick patients of important medications to help them live to fill their own pockets and it’s beyond frustrating. I have to pick and choose what crucial medications I can actually get because I can’t afford them. It’s not fair to patients to extort us for so much money over necessary medications. It’s not fair.
Trish (aka @socktrollqueen) who’s had a really shitty week. I know it’s super short but I hope you
love it anyway. Hope everything gets better.
isn’t exactly known for grand romantic gestures so Trish is a little nervous
when she opens the door of her apartment to find a brand new Coach purse siting
at her doorstep. Stuffed inside is a gorgeous black dress made from the softest
silk she’s ever felt. Well, maybe second softest if Victor’s bedsheets count…
which they do… obviously. Attached to the dress is a note written in Victor’s
messy albeit charming scrawl.
Dinner. 8:00. Be ready.
that’s not intimidating or terrifying at
all. Trish knows better than to expect anything different. You don’t date
an assassin and get rainbows and cupcakes 24/7. Sometimes Victor forgets how to
act like a human and yeah, it gets scary, but he always makes it up to her.
Usually with a night of unforgettable sex. But Victor’s been sweet all week.
Doting even. Why the sudden dinner date?
Oh no, Trish thinks. He’s going to break up with me. But why
buy her all this new, expensive stuff? Consolation
prizes. Thanks for playing the game, babe. You lose. No, stop thinking like
that. There’s no reason to think like that.
Anxiety is a deaf bitch who doesn’t understand sign language either, so she
shows up unwanted and never leaves.
Victor knocks on the front door
(even though it’s also his apartment, so there’s literally no need for him to
do that unless he’s lost his keys again… which is a whole other story). Trish
has one last final though of ohgodohgodohgod
before Anxiety decides she’s now a bored bitch and heads home for a while.
Until Victor drives the car to the richest part of town and stops at the nicest
restaurant Trish has ever seen in her life. Then Anxiety decides she’s once
again deaf and pops back up for round two.