Never Ever Trusting Myself Again When I Say "just A Warmup Sketch" Because I Ended Up Working On This

i watched maurice 1987 and

First post! I'm relistening to this podcast for the fourth time and I still can't get enough of it. Couldn't help myself and drew them

(if colours seem off blame my terrible laptop screen)

(I'm also on insta as @/no.noah.for.lunch)

ohhh i hate it so much i need to strap it to a rocket and launch it into the stratosphere.

somewhere, there exists a memory of that fateful day

//

i somehow managed to delete the entire thing during the lineart phase, but worry not because i redrew him in his shining glory from scratch

really like See Myself.

☆Prints☆

the kind of people who believe Hannibal Lecter would enjoy their company are the same kind he would turn into a nice stew at his earliest convenience.

one broken stylus, twenty-two flower crowns, and *checks notes* eighteen hours later. happy holidays

happy holidays, everyone! 🌟

I don't know what it is about coffeeshop AUs, I find them very christmassy! and a leather-wearing Thorin is also quite festive in its own merit, I'd say...

please come munch on the compilation/short comic for this AU: 🎁click here to read on AO3! 🎁

ko-fi request: "Gromit from Wallace and Gromit getting in a heated internet argument with other dogs on an older Dell computer, as Wallace walks in with saying "are ya winning, old chum?""

When Jon rests his weary head on Martin's lap, it feels like the clearest of revelations. The greatest of miracles. The ravaged world stands still – asleep or dead, doesn't matter, nothing matters except for the warmth of the cheek pressed to Martin's knee and the tingling of his stubble through the fabric of his jeans. Jon tosses and turns for a bit, looking for a comfortable position, and finally closes his eyes with a content sigh. The eye bags are growing darker with every passing day, just as the lines on his forehead are growing deeper. The world is at its closest to the end, and still Martin has never felt so in love before.

It seems that everything has been leading them to this moment – Jon in Martin's arms, tired but trusting and dear to him, so dear that his heart aches longingly. Martin reproaches himself for such thoughts and still can't help but thinks that he would let the apocalypse happen again, and again, and again, only to see Jon like this, to hold his hand, their fingers intertwined, to kiss the corner of his lips, to cradle him in his arms at night, hiding from the nightmares.

(They're both broken and crushed by fate, wrong and full of mistakes. Martin doesn't know whether they're going against what is destined, or right where they are supposed to be, whether they're going towards their death or a new life. He has no idea. Or better put it this way: he just follows Jon, no matter where he is heading, the way apostles followed Jesus. He believes him and in him without any doubt and is ready to die for him or with him, if it's necessary. This is how sick and twisted they are. At least, in this universe.

Maybe in another universe they weren't such idiots and found each other earlier. Maybe there Martin can kiss Jon every day and not fear lest this kiss should be their last. Maybe there they can just live – happily ever after, like in those fairytales. Maybe. Martin doesn't know. What he knows is that in this universe, in their universe, the sky is constantly watching them, the earth is soaked with sticky fear and blood, and they are the ones to fix all of this.

In this universe they are a tragedy, but Martin wouldn't change a thing in them for the world.)

“Your thoughts are too loud,” Jon grumbles, a quick green flash in his narrowed eyes. Martin bites his lip. He still forgets that his boyfriend knows and hears absolutely everything, and it is both exciting and unnerving.

“Sorry,” he says. That I think so much, that it seems to me that we have no future, that I believe in you like in God.

Jon finds his hand and presses his cheek against the palm. Martin chokes on his breath, as this act is so simple and yet so gentle that he suddenly wants to cry. (He never considered tears to be a sign of weakness, but he needs to be strong for Jon, so he just sniffles and squeezes his eyes, choking a sob rising in his throat.)

“Martin,” Jon calls out quietly, stretching the vowels in an oh-so-familliar way, and kisses the centre of Martin's palm as if kissing holy relics. No one has ever touched Martin like this. “It's alright, love.”

And just as saints on the icons cry with blood and myrrh, Martin is crying as well, soundlessly and ugly. Jon sits beside him and hugs his shoulders worriedly, kissing him on his temple.

“Martin,” he whispers softly, “my sweet, my dear, I'm here. It's alright, for now it's alright.”

Martin knows that nothing is alright actually, and that they can die tomorrow and no one will remember them. But right now Jon is right beside him, warm, soft and loved, and only this truly matters.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin exhales, his voice trembling, and it sounds more like a prayer.

Maybe, he is praying.

At least, his god will stay with him till the very end and will not leave him to die alone.

I’m so obsessed with how Martin Blackwood casts himself as Pylades/Horatio/Samwise Gamgee, deciding early on that his role within the narrative is to Be There for Jon as he descends into tragedy and that he can’t really affect the narrative otherwise. He doesn’t fully consider the consequences of his actions because he’s so confident that he doesn’t matter enough to impact the events around him. He hurts people because he doesn’t think he has the power to hurt people. His fatal flaw is his absolute conviction in his own unimportance. WHAT a character