In Lesson Three, we talked about paying attention to light and shadow in shading forms. In this week’s post, we’re going to focus on shading techniques! Specifically, in how we create marks that build up to areas of shadow.
There are a number of different ways to apply drawn media to a page to create value. A few of them are:
Consuming Passion (Victor Zsasz x Reader) - Part 3 (Final Part)
Anon asked; Can I have a fic with Victor stealing (From the day he first sees her and how he stalks her till he is kidnapping her) the girlfriend from Gordon? + Would you plan on writing a Victor Zsasz fanfiction inspired by the chain you down tie you up story that you wrote for Edward Nygma?
Having a garden or farm with ghostly visitors helps ensure bountiful blooms and wretched harvests. Ghosts are invaluable allies, often cursing huge tracts of land and attracting an ever shifting ecto-ecosystem of pollinators, energy balancers, and beneficial pests.
So how does one attract ghosts in the first place? Start in a graveyard.
Countless ages ago, ghosts lingering near their own graves and visiting others began to notice their sepulchral homes are the greatest place to find afterlife connections. The spell to invite something to follow you home is as simple as silently requesting company as you pass by the gates, anyone and anything interested in a job will take care of the rest.
Keeping your ghastly gardening companions happy is as simple as ensuring your plants are regularly exposed to moonlight (at least once a week). The ghosts will blend the lunar energy with their own magical forces, darkening your plot and killing off any intruder.
Before long, all manner of visitors and residents may join you: living shadows in the spring, haunted winds in the autumn, small trolls when the air is crisp, and if you have a big enough property, vile monsters that defy imagination.
Happy Easter! Have some Regal Believer induced cavities!
For @umbrellagates who prompted little Henry getting a temporary lion tattoo on his arm.
To say that adopting Henry had changed her life was an understatement–adopting Henry had saved it.
Before Henry, she’d led a dull life–everyone in Storybrooke did.The days and nights blended together, weeks passed with little notice, and from year to year, nothing ever changed. Everything was static and unchanging, lonely and void of anything that brought any satisfaction.
Until Henry, there’d been little point in anything–actions didn’t have consequences, hard work never paid off. And while she didn’t care about the residents of Storybrooke or their happiness, in the earliest years of the curse, she often found herself looking for projects to take up her time, to give her something to focus on. The projects were always temporary and made little impact. It hardly mattered that recycling bins were placed all around town or that a new swingset was installed at the park because it all just blended into the scenery as though it’d always been there–and as petty as it might have been, she needed more payoff than simply knowing she’d done something for the greater good.
So, until Henry, Storybrooke didn’t have any traditions or festivities. There were no parades or street fairs with games and funnel cakes; there were no hayrides and corn mazes in the fall or ice-skating rinks and hot-chocolate stands in the winter; and there were no barbeques in the park or fireworks to celebrate the Fourth of July in the summer.
But Henry loved all of those things–and, better yet, he remembered them.
Like any parent, Regina wanted to give her son a happy childhood. She loved watching as his eyes lit up with excitement and his little laugh rang out; he’d gasp and point and beg to take part in things, and she could never say no to him–she didn’t want to. So every year, she found herself trying to outdo the previous year, to keep the wonder and the magic alive for him.
And as he tugged her down Main Street, toward a tent that promised face-painting and balloons, it was obvious that she’d succeeded in her goal.
“Look!” He shouts too loudly as he pointed to one of the booths. “Look, Mama!”
“I see,” she laughs as she stooped down in front of him. “Do you want to try?” Momentarily, she looks to the sign. “You could have the Superman S on your cheek or a shooting star or a unicorn…” Henry considers for a moment, turning back and looking at the sign. “You can pick anything.”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“It’ll wash off.”
His eyes widen as he looks back at her, “But what if I do like it, Mama. What if I want to keep it?”
“Oh,” she murmurs, giving his hips a little squeeze. “We could always take a picture.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, once more looking back at the sign. “That’s true…”
“You could think about it a little longer,” she suggests. “We could play a couple more games or go on the bumper cars again and come back when…”
“No!” He cuts in as a group of children passes on their way to their next activity. “I know what I want!”
“Do you?” She asks as he nods slowly. “What are you going to get?”
“It’s a secret!” He giggles. “I want it to be a surprise!” She laughs as little and starts to stand, but Henry’s little hands rest on her shoulders in an attempt to keep her down at his level. “No. You stay here. I’ll go alone.”
Her heart flutters a little, but she nods, rationalizing that the tent is only a few feet away. “Okay,” she says, handing him the required ticket necessary for a face-painting. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”
Henry nods and runs off, and she watches as he gets into line, craning his neck for a better look at the sign and examining the other children as they leave the tent. She bites off the end of a churro as Henry steps into the tent and she looks around, watching as children play Skee Ball and Whack-a-Mole at nearby tables. Her eyes drift to the the Sand Art table and she watches as a little boy fills a heart-shaped jar with pink and purple sand, and a faint smile draws onto her lips and she feels an odd stirring in her chest. She likes this person that she is, this person she’d become since adopting Henry and when a little girl steps up to the Sand Art table, handing her father a yellow and green balloon that’s shaped like a pineapple, the man smiles and waves to her, murmuring some compliment about a job well-done that makes her feel something like feels like pride.
“Mama!” Henry calls, “Mama! Look! Look what I got, Mama! Look!” She spins around, smiling as Henry sprints toward her and she laughs as he practically crashes into her. “Look, Mama!”
“I… I want to but… what am I looking at?” She examines his still-clean cheeks. “Did you decide not to get face-painting?”
“Yup!” He nods. “I got something better!”
And then her breath catches in her chest as Henry thrusts his arm forward, turning his wrist to show off a lion tattoo on his forearm. “Isn’t it cool, Mama?” He asks, “And it’s gonna last a whole week!” Her chest tightens as she thinks back to a memory she likes to keep tucked away, a memory of a missed opportunity of yet another time she’d turned away from love. “Do you like it, Mama?”
Pulling herself back into the moment, she sinks down so that she’s at eye-level with Henry–Henry the nearly-five year old boy who’s brought to her so much light and love, and more joy than she ever knew possible, the boy who is her happily ever after. “I do,” she murmurs, swallowing hard in an effort to keep her tears at bay. “I love you, Henry.”
“I know,” he giggles as she presses a feathery kiss to his cheek. “Can we still take a picture?”
“Yeah,” she nods. “When we get home.”
“Good! I wanna remember this!”
Again, her chest flutters and she nods–she wants to remember it, too–she wants to remember every moment with her sweet boy–the boy who gave her life a renewed purpose, the boy who brought love into her life and the boy who reminds her to strive to be better than she is–the boy who saved her.
Alright, @scribefindegil asked for “something fluffy with Magnus and Lucretia, the two members of the IPRE crew who have strong feelings about tea, experiencing a particularly delicious blend together on a new Plane”
The world is white.
Winter had come to the plane they were currently inhabiting in a three day long stint of massive snowflakes that blotted out the sun and kept the IPRE confined to the Starblaster and the residents of this plane in their homes for the duration, the fear of getting lost in the drifts too great. Not unusual to this world, apparently; they’d been warned ahead of time what to expect, and they’d been prepared for it. But today at last had broken clear and crisp, the first rays of the pre-dawn light sparkling soft over the small valley they rest in presently.
Magnus sits on the edge of the deck of the Starblaster, watching the world sleep still, legs swinging out into the open sky, past the invisible barrier that keeps in the warmth. He’s got his boots on, a thick pair of pants tucked into the laces just below his knees, but he’s still in the soft red shirt he’s also worn for the last three days, the sleeves slightly fraying at the wrists now from the years he’s had it. Like he’d started getting dressed to go out and had maybe thought better of it.
Lucretia stops for a moment at the top of the stairs to watch him, two identical mugs of tea held close to her body. She wonders what he’s thinking. Idly, though. She’s still in her pajamas, not quite awake enough yet for grand musings.
He hears her when she starts to walk to him, bare footed and all, the world is so still. His smile is fond and content when he looks up at her, and hers in return is just as so.
“Here,” she says, holding one of the steaming mugs in his direction, fingers splayed around the rim. His smile turns quizzical for half a second, and she’s done this what must be a thousand times now, this exact thing, bringing him a drink or a snack just because she wanted one and thought he might too, wanted someone to share with, but something must show in her face, this time. Maybe he is able to feel her anticipation just by how she’s standing, gods, but they know each other so well by now. Still. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. She waits for him to take it.
He brings both of his hands up, always so large and rough despite his perpetual youth, and the mug disappears between them. He watches the surface of the liquid as he draws back, careful not to slosh it’s contents, and then glances back at her. He’s still looking at her as he brings the cup to his lips to take a sip. He only stops looking at her when his eyes widen, brows rising in surprise.
“Holy shit, what is that?”
“Tea?” she suggests, trying for innocuous, but the smile is too wide on her face. She’s delighted that he likes it. “Or whatever passes for the equivalent on this plane. We’ve been working on the blend for weeks now.” She sits down next to him, settling her soft blue robe around herself and leaning into his shoulder. He shifts his mug to one hand, leaning into her in turn.
“We?” he asks, and takes another sip.
“Taako and I,” she says.
They’d tried hundreds of combinations, balancing ingredients, experimenting with temperatures and times for steeping, different sweeteners and additives, searching for that place of perfection, a custom creation that Magnus would truly appreciate. They’d used up every mug in the Starblaster’s cupboards several times over, and she’d kept scrupulous notes on their progress.
She appreciates cycles like this, cycles where the get the Light early, and the world is kind, and they have time to live the more normal side of life. The side where she can make tea for someone she loves, just because she wants to.
“We thought we’d surprise you,” she says.
“Well, consider me surprised,” he says, enthusiastic and wonderfully genuine in the way that only Magnus Burnsides can be, the way he always is. “Really, Creesh, this is fantastic, thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she says. “I’ll let Taako know too. We can stock up on the ingredients so it will last you a few cycles, huh? Or maybe,” she continues, thinking aloud, “Maybe Merle can find a way to grow what we need on the ship, then we’d never run out, would we.”
He hums at her, pleased, and his sideburns tickle her ear as he leans his head against hers. “What would I do without you,” he says, and it’s a little teasing but also very real.
They lapse into silence, drinking their tea, watching the sun rise over the snow-covered peaks in the distance, dragging long paths of light over snow-covered trees and the pointed roofs of snow-covered houses. Smoke starts to rise from a chimney, and then another, and another, as the people of this plane begin to rise themselves and stoke their fires for warmth and breakfast.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks him now, warm tea in her belly, curiosity at last outweighing the cold and the sleep in her bones. She sets her mug down and shifts against him, rolls her head back so she can watch him watching the world.
He laughs a little, more breath than sound, and she gets the sense that he is very careful not to look at her when he says, “Just, uh… Just imagining what we’ll do, when all of this is over.”
Her heart stutters in her chest, because they’ve all talked about after, with anger and sadness and longing, hope and despair and determination, with inebriated bravado and quiet earnest certainty. And she’s trying to figure out what to say now, in this moment that suddenly feels terribly vulnerable, when he beats her to it.
“I think I’ll build us a house.” He says it a little loud, a little forceful, and for Magnus Burnsides fifty years ago, that would have been simply how he was, all brashness, all rushing in, but this Magnus Burnsides has learned something of stillness, and so she understands he’s decided to save them both the burden of sadness on this bright, quiet morning.
“You have gotten very good at ducks,” she says, completely straight-faced. “Do the same basic principles translate to houses?”
He laughs, and it’s warm and it’s what she wanted. “Probably, I don’t know.” He looks at her, finally, and there’s still a wistfulness to the turn of his mouth, but his eyes are clear. “I figure Taako can just transmute whatever I get wrong, right?”
“We’ll need a large kitchen,” she says seriously.
“And a big tank for Fisher,” he adds. “And a library for you, just like, books everywhere.”
“With ladders?” she asks, twisting so she can throw an arm across him, dancing her fingers over the softness of that red shirt, his belly.
He nods, draping one of his arms around her shoulder. “Oh, definitely.”
“Hmmm,” he says, making an exaggerated show of thinking it over. “Well I figure Lup and Barry will want to share, but if we do seven maybe one can be a closet for the twins.”
“We’ll get all sorts of brand new lab equipment for Barry and Lup.”
“A greenhouse for Merle. A workshop for Cap’nport.”
“More than one bathroom.”
“Oh gods, yeah, I dream at night about multiple bathrooms,” he says. “Showers I can stand up in, tubs as far as the eye can see.”
She’s giggling into this chest now. “No strange plant life growing in the corners!” she says. “Counter space not covered in cosmetics!”
“And like twelve dogs,” he says.
“To start,” he says. “And we’ll have tea together, just like this, every morning.” He reaches out, traces the line of her face from brow to chin, and her heart hurts with the tenderness of the gesture, the strength of his gaze. She closes her eyes, cements the moment in her memory, for all those times she will need that strength in the days, months, years to come.
“We’re going to get there, Magnus,” she says. She says it like a promise, she means itlike a promise. She doesn’t open her eyes. “We’re going to get there and we’re going to be so, so happy.”
This also doubles as avi art since I based if off of my all time fave witchy avi I made on gaiaonline for Halloween last year. My lil’ witchy loves causing mischief and general inconveniences. She’s also a bit of a scrapper, hence, the booboo on her nose.
Shiro plopped down next to his new red pilot. The tan-skinned boy that had saved them all. The same boy who happened to worship him, though Shiro could hardly understand why.
“Hey.” He gave Lance a nudge. At the slight gasp from the brown haired boy, Shiro gave a weak smile. “Long day?”
Lance snorted. “Yeah.”
Shiro understood. It wasnt just a long day or night. It was a long week, month, year. At some point it had become harder and harder to keep track of how much time passed on earth and their days and weeks blended together.
Wanting to comfort Lance, Shiro brushed his hand against the side of the teens neck, the way he had done many times when Keith was younger to calm him down.
But Lance had a different reaction. He squealed and blushed ashe pulled away.
“Wait.” Shiro blinked. “Are you ticklish?”
“What? No.” Lance huffed.
Shiro felt the tips of his fingers nearing the teen’s neck to test that theory.
“Nononono.” Lance yelled jumping up. “Not happening. No matter how much I love you.”
Alright I decided to just post it anyway, this is something I’ve been working on, but got sidetracked with trolls week, the blending is not on point yet and there’s some smudges but I really like this so far. Plus I have an obsession with Halloween cats.
Dean keeps turning reflexively to his side, expecting to find Missouri and the nimble, practiced language of her hands. What he sees instead is an empty wooden stool, and he fidgets with his sweater as he stares at the clock. He’s never come to class sans interpreter, never really gone anywhere without someone who could sign. But he’d wanted to try this, to not be conspicuous for once. It’s Home Ec, after all, and he already knows his way around a kitchen. So he’s all set, he really is. No one could persuade him otherwise.
As his classmates file in, however, nerves start to gnaw at the confidence he’s been building up. His eyes sort of dart all over the place, uneasy, and he braces himself while the teacher puts up the seating chart.
His heart sinks the second he spots his name - and the one beside it.
He’s sharing a station with Castiel Novak, which means they’re partners for the semester, fifteen weeks of working together. Dean may be a bit behind on the latest gossip, but even he’s aware of Castiel’s unrivaled popularity. Star of cross-country team, Homecoming King two years in a row. Castiel wouldn’t want anything to do with Dean, who’s reticent, a self-classified nerd, a kid who fills his silent world by diving into books.
Dean doesn’t look up when Castiel slides into the seat next to his. Their teacher walks by to hand out the recipe, and it’s an easy one - fettuccine Alfredo - so at least he won’t have to ask Castiel for any help today. Dean doubts Castiel even realizes that he’s stuck with a partner who can’t hear.
He sits tight until the other students begin herding toward the fridge for ingredients. He’s about to follow when a scrap of paper slips into view, fingers gently bumping his elbow.
Hey, I’m Cas,it says, and Dean blinks at the words for a moment before tentatively reaching for a pen.
My name is Dean, he writes back in his perpetually caps-locked scrawl, and to his surprise, Castiel smiles then leans in close to jot his reply.
I know. His smile widens at Dean’s dumbfounded expression, while his hand continues to move and add Nice to finally meet you like it’s something he’d been waiting for.