#God Eye Galatea

[stil-lindigo]

a non-comprehensive guide to my favourite characters in claymore, the best manga you've never read (more under the cut)

don't know what I'm talking about? here's a crashcourse.

[niromeva]

more claymore doodles

[claremikas]

Claymore + tumblr text posts pt 3

pt 1, pt 2

[crabbarts]

I'm spreading the Claymore propaganda by drawing memes about it (original images below)

[haxo-wolfie]

some more silly doodles! needa reread the manga so i can draw more references

[thaisibir]

Claymore backstory headcanons

(Yagi has set up a compelling world and cast of characters in Claymore, but so many of them have unknown histories, so that leaves a lot of room for interpretation. I thought I try fleshing out some of my favorite characters with my own takes.)

Miria: She was the daughter of the most talented tracker and scout in their village. Her father would coordinate search parties and patrols, working well within groups. She learned about leadership from him and greatly admired him. In her warrior days, she strives to follow her father's example. One day her father returned as the only survivor of his search party from a yoma attack. A smart girl who knows him well, Miria caught on to his suspicious behavior and realized he must be a yoma in disguise himself. She'd refuse his orders to come home or stay home. As a child she enjoyed racing other children for fun, often coming out as the winner. From those races she knew the village like the back of her hand. She'd run around ducking into nooks and crannies beyond the yoma's sight and reach, sending him on a wild goose chase until the village had time to call in a warrior to kill him. The warrior's handler was so impressed by Miria's spirit and intelligence that he recruited her on the spot.

Galatea: Though born with a humble background of no distinguished class, she was famed for being the most beautiful girl in her village. She married a man and had a son in her late teens. Their happy life as a family was cut short when a yoma killed and took over her husband's body, and Galatea had to witness him devouring their son. Rafaela was the warrior who intervened and saved Galatea's life. Ermita, the man who found Galatea in exile from her village and would become her handler, is the only one in the organization who knows of her past life. She never speaks of her deceased spouse and son to anyone, preferring to keep memories of them locked deep in the back of her mind. Galatea joined the organization as the oldest among the trainees, though her maturity served her well as she quickly rose through the ranks to number 3. Despite herself, her strong maternal instinct and soft spot for children never went away. She sees Clare as a wild child who often needs a firm hold on the leash, and dotes on the orphans in Rabona.

Sophia: Born into a noble family as the only child of a powerful and wealthy lord. She was a sickly girl whom her father doted on. When she wasn't bedridden and sick, she enjoyed singing. She survived many bouts of life-threatening fever and a yoma attack that killed her father and decimated her estate. Fearing she was a yoma too, the surviving servants sold her to the organization and fetched a hefty sum for her noble status. Since warriors don't succumb to illness as humans do, and stinging from the servants' betrayal and the loss of her father and home, Sophia's inner strength manifested as extremely powerful physical strength that led to her high rank and moniker within Teresa's generation. Noble roots are behind her elegant demeanor and polite speech. Unlike her peers, she's great at exchanging pleasantries to put regular folks at ease while on the job. She can sweet talk her way to staying in nice inns at a discount, mostly because she loves a nice clean bed and hates sleeping outside in the dirt and cold like a vagrant. The one thing she enjoys while being on the road is singing and humming to herself. Underneath her lady-like aloofness is a persistent melancholy and the ultimate wish for a quick death in battle that would end her warrior life, so she can be reunited with her father. In the end, she got just that.

Noel: Born into a family of traveling performers, Noel can't sing to save her life, but her acrobatic talent and prowess was put to good use as she'd astound the audience with daring somersaults and jumps. She was the only girl amid four brothers, so verbal spars and rowdiness among them was commonplace. Her family was attacked by yoma on a path through the woods, on the way to their next performance at a nearby village. Noel ran as fast as she could to that village, leaving her the only survivor. As a warrior, she loves to put on a good show while slaying yoma, giving it a performer's spin. Sophia poking fun at her acrobatics is always a sore spot. Noel is secretly jealous of Sophia's talent for singing, though she smugly enjoys her rival's discomfort with the nomadic life she had known since birth. So used to having brothers and her family allowing free reign of her tomboyishness, Noel feels out of place surrounded by girls and women as a warrior. The power system of attaining ranks and numbers stirs her competitive streak. It's the only thing that gives her some sliver of purpose in what she believes is an otherwise bleak and pathetic existence. Deep down she misses her brothers and wants more than anything, even more than being a top warrior, to see them again. She ended up getting what she wanted.

Irene: Born as an orphan with no memory of any family. She scraped by stealing from vendors in the streets for food and clothes. A shrewd observer and gifted with tactical intelligence, she'd gauge her targets from afar and work together with other orphans on joint thieving operations. But outside this, she has zero people skills and has no idea how to go about socializing and making small talk. When Teresa's hit squad stormed the inn, Irene let Sophia handle the payment and apologies to the innkeeper. After Priscilla's awakening, Irene was perfectly content and good at living as a hermit with no civilization in sight.

Flora: Born to merchant parents who made a living of selling and arranging flowers. She got initiated into the family business at an early age, and found her talent in swiftly yet elegantly nicking off thorns and other undesirable parts of a flower with a small knife. She was always soft-spoken, though sharing her extensive knowledge of flowers would break the barrier of her shyness. When yoma invaded her village, they destroyed her family's establishment while slaughtering them. The sight of crushed flowers smothered in blood was seared into her mind like a hot brand, fueling her desire to later grow strong as a warrior so she can cut down the ugly stain of yoma in this world. Born and raised in the warmth of the southern region, she despises the cold because hardly anything colorful and beautiful grows there (which she hid very well during the mission in Pieta).

[rifulofthewest]

Galatea vs Albert drinking contest would slay

(She would have won; + we would have seen how much Albert could actually drink)

[valenshawke]

God Eye Galatea: I never bragged!

Clare: You once called your face "proof of God's existence."

[buriedknight]

God-Eye Galatea

slight revision of an old work of mine

[storekn1fe]

god-eye galatea [id in alt]

[stil-lindigo]

a captain and a nun walk into a bar.

[niromeva]

pocky game

[claremikas]

thinking about the fact that yagi gave us muscular galatea just that one time and never again

[bloodygnqv]

Oh Say Can You See

John Price x fem reader

cw: smut!! minors dni!, size difference (reader is described as small but dw there’s no infantilization), uuuh i think that’s it??

A/N: fuck the national anthem it’s a lana song. it’s been a while since i’ve written smut hope you enjoy anyway bless you all xx 🙏🏻

“Are you okay, love?” John asks you from where you’re laying on your side.

He’s all warmth and comfort, musk and tobacco and leather, a stark contrast between the feminine fruits and spring flowers and candy you enjoy wearing.

His voice is a quiet rumble, the crackle of a fireplace, the roar of an engine, the step on snow.

“Mhm, yeah,” you reply, sleepy and pliant, “Just really missed you.”

John lays on his side as well, cuddling you from behind. He’s always been the bigger spoon, arms and hands so large, so strong he can fully wrap them around your waist, cup your breasts in his palms, keep you to himself. His greed for you and your affection lodges in his throat.

You can feel him hardening against your back, and you stifle a small smile. “Go ahead, John, I’ve been waiting all day,” you whisper, your own desire sparkling in your belly, black milk and rose red and the veil of longing.

“God, you’re soaking. That needy pussy just needs some attention, huh?” His fingers slide against your slit gently as you whimper an affirmative and lift your leg a bit to give him access.

“I can take you, John, really, you can just slide in,” you mumble, stroking at his thigh greedily.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so small and I haven’t prepped you, you know it might hurt…”

Concern laces his voice like poison ivy. It almost makes you melt — he’s always been like this from the moment you two got together, soft care and love so strong it almost suffocates you.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I played with myself earlier..”

“Okay then,” he permits. He taps the head of his dick over your pussy, still not going in, syrupy whines escaping your throat.

And then his cock notches at your leaky entrance, slowly going in, and every little nag and annoying pesky thought hide somewhere in the back of your head.

“Oh,” you gasp and look down to where you two are connected.

John isn’t very long, but he’s thick, thick enough that you feel the stretch every single time you have sex. He carves out a place for himself in you, Galatea and Pygmalion, gentle marble across your legs (his large hands completely envelop the expanse of your thighs, leaving galaxy marks in his wake).

“Yeah,” John breathes, heavy, grunting out a response, “That’s it. Almost there, love, you can take it. Shit, you’re tight…”

You mewl, hands scraping for purchase against the duvet as he runs his fingers through your hair, his beard tickling your neck, whispering cotton candy filth in your ear. You know he’s already pushed in as you feel his heavy balls snug against your ass.

“There you go. Feels good, eh?”

“It does,” you whimper. There’s the slightest touch of too much, tiniest specks of pain, but they’re quickly chased away by the time John starts thrusting lazily. You’re not gonna last long, and if John’s satisfied grunts are anything to go by, he isn’t, either.

You grab his thick arm from where it’s perched over the gentle curve of your waist, delicate wrist teasing the underside of his palm and intertwining your fingers.

You’ve never felt more at home. You’re exactly where you need and want to be, ballad-like moans and late comfortable nights, devoted eyes and lust as a virtue. John’s filling you up just right, quenching the thirst that has simmered in you all day, pushing you off the edge.

John’s other hand reaches around and starts playing with your clit, just enough pressure in circles to bring you over the edge. He always goes the extra mile when it comes to expressing his love through pleasure, making your legs shake, newborn fawn, you are, seeing constellations and new planets beneath your eyelids.

“I’m gonna cum,” you murmur.

“Go ahead, baby. I missed you so, so much, my beautiful girl,” John rasps, peppering small kisses on the canvas of your neck.

There it is — the explosion of feeling and love and pleasure in your tummy, crawling down your legs and up your arms, making you moan and fist the sheet under your body.

Your orgasm pushes John to the edge, and you can feel his spend spilling in the crevice of your cunt, loud groans echoing in the corners of your ears, arms tightening around your small frame. That’s his favorite place to cum in, warm velvet around him, all that love that burns like a motor in his skin.

John pulls out slowly and lovingly cleans you up as your consciousness slips away from you. It’s been a long, long day, and the great sex is but your favorite way to release tension and put you in that space between wake and sleep.

The afterglow sneaks its way in your vein as you lay across John’s thick, hairy chest and close your eyes. This is your favorite time of day, all warm and snug and happy.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

His caress always feels like a blanket, a balm to soothe your wounds, a hazy morning dream you don’t want to wake up. It makes you all the more grateful, lying with the man you love in a space you two made.

[haxo-wolfie]

some more claymore memes! been awhile since i made some of these

more below the cut!

[brabblesblog]

As if the gods made you to ruin me.

A little love letter for everyone who makes art for this vampire man.

Inspired by the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. First person POV. A sculptor confronts a piece of marble, and Astarion is their masterpiece. One-shot.

The idea of statues "breaking free" from the marble is taken from Michelangelo. This can be better seen in his Prisoners.

@spacebarbarianweird mentioned Pygmalion today, and this idea came to me.

Read on AO3.

P.S. If my writing is something you're interested in, please consider my masterlist. I highly recommend beginning with the 'Whither' series. Thank you<3

The finest, purest white marble. I stare at it, unsure, trying to parse out the figure trapped in the block for me to release. An elf, I think, my hands reaching out in front of me, imagining where the curves would be. Curls, long and growing over his ears. A sharp jaw, strong and yet delicate.

I pick up my tools, and begin my work.

It’s almost as if I’m not in control of my creation. My hands work of their own accord, carving in features that genuinely surprise me and were probably not what I would have preferred, but the longer I look, the more it seems right.

It has deep, piercing eyes, with crow’s feet. I find myself staring at it at times during breaks. It looks like it’s trying to escape its stony prison, emerging from the formless block. Its expression is poignant, as if it was lost in thought.

Smile lines? I draw backwards and away from the sculpture, frowning myself. It gave the man a look of maturity even though it was youthful. Together with the smile lines and the subtle wrinkles on its face, it seemed as if the man had lived a harrowing life before being trapped in the rock for me to uncover.

And yet, it was beautiful. There was something ethereal in the way it gazed out into space and pondered nothing.

I keep up the work. I feel myself slowly getting absorbed by it. The compulsion to keep going is overwhelming, and unlike any other. I don’t eat other than the bare minimum. I don’t leave my room unless necessary. I don’t think of much else other than what part of him to carve next.

It - no - he consumes my thoughts. In the day I carve and release him from his marble prison. At night I dream of him. Of his face, of his delicate hands, of his lithe body. I dream, I wish, and I long.

He is my finest work, the star amongst my oeuvre. My patrons are forgotten, their commissions delayed. Their ire is nothing to me. There is only him.

Astarion.

The name, his name, comes to me in a fever dream. He reaches out to me, and I ask him what he would want to be called.

A frown crosses those features, and I want more than anything to press my lips to his forehead and smooth the furrows on his brow. I watch him open his mouth, and it surprises me to see fangs.

“Astarion,” he says, and his voice catches me by surprise. There is a slight nasal timbre to it, and a drawl, almost a purr, at the end.

I snap awake, staring at the marble statue. He is looking at a spot about a meter away from where I am right now, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminating his ivory skin.

Ivory. Color. I remember now. His eyes were crimson, his hair white as snow. Features I had never imagined, the medium of my work limiting me from even considering anything regarding complexion. However, the stone was a close match to his skin in my dreams - a white so smooth it was almost pearlescent.

A vampire, I realize, as I remember one more thing: the scars on his neck. I pick up my chisel and walk over to the marble, my hands searching for the spot I remember from my dreams.

I carve, and it is perfect.

I wonder who he is, and what he’s done in his life. I am almost done freeing him, the stone block now only at his knees. I work on his genitals, shaping them as best as I can. I carve out a vein, which I would imagine to be of a bluish tint.

His body is beautiful, and I step back to admire it. Muscular, but not too large. Delicate, long limbs, the marble’s natural veins adding to the illusion of an actual circulatory system. Fingers that would make a pianist weep. Strong legs, with subtle thigh musculature.

He is full of contradictions. Masculine, and yet feminine, his hands on the delicate tilt of his hips. Youthful, and yet his face belies a strange maturity and melancholy. So real to me, and yet here he is, just the work of my hands and my overactive imagination.

I am enthralled.

I do not put him on display once he is done. I don’t sell him. He stays in my room, taking up valuable working space. I do not care.

He is my muse. I talk to him, argue with him, ask him for his thoughts. There is no response, no more dreams.

I weep. I mourn for something that never was. I seek company in lonely taverns, for warm bodies to lose myself in. It is never enough. It is not even close.

I cover him in a sheet. I don’t want to see him, to be reminded of what I so desperately need and can never have.

I try, so damn hard, to forget.

“You ruined my life!” I scream to no one in particular, to him. I am unable to work, my patrons having moved on to more productive artists. I want to throw my chisels at him, to topple him over and ruin him, as he had ruined me. But I cannot.

I rip off the sheets, staring at that face that had burrowed so deeply into my psyche, and I give in and move to press my lips against it. I close my eyes.

The lips that meet mine are cold - but not stone-cold - and soft. I feel hands move to wrap around my waist, tugging me close. I instinctively move my hands up over his head, and feel hair against my fingers - curly, fine strands that flow against my fingers like silk.

A very good illusion from my mind, I gather. As I pull away I force my eyes to open. Crimson ones meet me, and those smile lines crinkle as he grins.

“Hello, darling,” he breathes.

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire@qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld