#The capture of the shadow color

[imaginariumwanderer]

Truthless Recluse doodles featuring guest star: Shadow Milk

[crescentfool]

yosuke hanamura but with six different lighting treatments!

[owoshrike]

just some lil Shadows I put together on paper

[woodcries]

shame that the fade lighting is so desaturated/hard to color in edits because every character looks really hot in it

[mira0000000-blog]

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[seashorepics]

Adapting Your Photography Style with the Changing Seasons: Embracing Light and Time in the UK

AI-generated images As the clocks change in the UK each autumn and spring, photographers face a shifting landscape of light and time that can have a profound impact on their creative approach. The UK’s seasonal shifts, particularly the transitions during Daylight Saving Time, present both challenges and opportunities for photographers looking to evolve their style. This essay explores the…

[flyervel]

You'd work endless hours to provide your wife, people said it's odd you'd call him that. But you'd always shrug, and always gave them your classic answer; He's kinda is... He cooks, cleans and everything.

After another exhausting business trip, you had a feeling your husband was cheating on you (thought, he never did it). You came home to find your husband on the couch. Moaning like a whore, after careful and silent inspections, he fucked himself with a dildo. The pink colored toy on his boypussy, as crying with pleasure and repeating your name.

You smirked seeing him. He would usually text you or just call you if he missed you, barely you expecting this. You came up to him—your husband's eyes went wide. But you didn't let him explain, you immediately ripped every piece of his clothes. Pulling the dildo out, you inserted it into his rim, making him jolted and moan.

He's probably already opened wide, you thought. Seeing the size of the dildo. You immediately unzipped and unbuttoned your expensive pants. Adjusting your position, doggy style before putting your whole length to his heat. You just smiled seeing the eager face of your husband as he looked back.

"Did you bring any men over?" You asked with a firm voice. As he shook his head in response.

Clap—! Your thrust immediately went into his G-spot. "Mffhh~! I didn't M/N—" With that, you start to push your whole length. Didn't move an inch making him whine, you just slapped his ass hard. "That's not my name."

You saw him biting his lower lip, his ass having your hand print as it burns to his flesh. You kneed those cheeks before moving. Your husband just moaned louder, louder than using that dildo, his tongue went out as the sound of skin clapped with each other. "I didn't—ah—daddy!!" But you just kept breeding him, fucking his boypussy.

"You're such a whore..." You muttered as you saw him cumming. But you just continue. Hitting his womb. "You're whore for your husband... My whore wife."

You paused your movements, slapping his ass to get your husband's attention. "Do you want it inside?" He replied with a nod. With his consent, you thrust yourself into him a few more before unloading your load into him, his womb. That very womb that missed your cock for so long...

You pulled out your cock which was still hard and oozing some cum. Your husband's pussy was full, you sat in front of him. As your dick's shadow capture his face, your husband's dazed face looked at your standing length. "C'mon, be a good wife and clean me up, okay? I'll breed you again later."

—

I think this is more of rough sex. But I hope you still enjoyed this, and thank you for the Anon who requested this.

[mangoslixes]

“Shadow and light are the most stable and perfect tools of creation: they unite colors, shapes, and dimensions,” says Moldovan artist Sergiu Ciochină, adding that “shadows move us through diversity, enhancing our perception, while light fills us with the joy of discovery.” In saturated hues, he captures dappled sunlight as it filters through the trees and the rich tones of the golden hour as it casts deep bluish-purple shade onto the sides of houses.

Taking cues from the Impressionists, Ciochină focuses on the nuances of light and its ability to reveal outlines and forms. He works in thick, impasto oil paint on board, emphasizing the shapes of windows, doors, and stoops and transforming otherwise ordinary buildings into compositions glowing with the patterns of foliage, architectural angles, and the texture of brushstrokes. “The symbiosis I create between nature and architecture is intended to evoke a love for space,” he says.

on Sergiu Ciochină

[marvelstoriesepic]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

[capsyst]

And here it is! My first fully completed Procreate Dreams animation. I used audio from one of Technoblade’s more famous rants during his Potato War series. I love Technoblade and miss him every day, so I hope that I was able to capture the magic of his energy in my animation.

I animated the roughs and drew the backgrounds in Procreate, but then I imported that into Dreams to do all the cleanup. It runs at 24 fps, but there’s a lot of variations to spice it up in there.

I wanted to really challenge myself so there’s a LOT going on in this short 9 second clip. There’s a camera move with multiple layers to achieve a subtle parallax scroll, there’s two lighting changes with one being a completely animated shadow layer, and there’s a warp effect on the curtains for when it opens and closes.

There’s still a lot that could be cleaned up. Some of the linework is a little more jittery than I would prefer, and the coloring process was awful. Every color was its own separate layer, which was exhausting to do. I really hope i can figure out a faster and easier way to do the coloring process because that took me over a week to complete! Yikes!

Overall I’m extremely proud of my work here. I’ve been working on this 9 second clip since Dreams released and I really wanted to showcase to everyone just how powerful Dreams is. I know a lot of people were complaining about it when it released and I wanted to do something to help reorient people’s expectations. I genuinely cannot believe that I did all of this on my iPad!

If anyone has any questions or would like to see a breakdown of this animation, please feel free to contact me!

And remember… Technoblade never dies!

[ari-ana-bel-la]

George and his little one getting caught by the DTS crew as he was busy doing her hair as she just pouts since he "ruined" her hairstyles and wanted a new one

Behind the Scenes

The Netflix crew had been shadowing the Mercedes team all day, capturing everything from Toto’s intense strategy discussions to Kimi Antonelli’s quiet moments as he prepared for his next run. But there was one person they hadn’t managed to get much footage of—George.

It wasn’t intentional. He’d just been busy, but not with meetings or car debriefs. No, he’d spent most of the day with his four-year-old daughter, Yn. She was his little shadow, his greatest joy, and today, he had chosen to prioritize her over the cameras.

That’s why, when the Netflix crew entered the Mercedes lounge area, they weren’t expecting to stumble upon a moment far more intimate than any strategy meeting or garage footage.

There, in the cozy corner of the lounge, sat Yn. Her tiny frame was perched on one of the padded chairs, her legs swinging back and forth as she focused intently on the brightly colored picture book in front of her. The book was almost too big for her lap, but she managed, her small fingers tracing over the illustrations as she whispered to herself, completely lost in the story.

Behind her stood George, carefully running a brush through her beautiful hair. His expression was one of concentration, his brows furrowed as he tried to smooth out the little tangles without pulling too hard.

Yn had a small pout on her lips, her nose scrunched up in dissatisfaction. It was subtle, but George noticed instantly. He always did.

“Oh no, what’s this?” he murmured, setting the brush down for a moment to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Are you mad at me, my love?”

Yn let out a tiny huff, crossing her arms. “You ruined my hair.”

George blinked, then looked at her hair again. Sure, it was a little messy from where he had been brushing it, but—oh. He understood now.

“Ah,” he said knowingly, nodding. “Mummy did it this morning, didn’t she?”

Yn nodded, her lips still pushed out in that adorable pout.

George bit back a chuckle. “I’m very sorry, princess,” he said solemnly, kissing her cheek again. “I didn’t mean to mess it up.”

Yn peeked up at him through her lashes, as if considering whether to accept his apology. George, sensing he needed to sweeten the deal, leaned in closer.

“How about this?” he whispered conspiratorially. “I’ll do your hair again, and I promise it’ll be just as good as Mummy’s. Maybe even better.”

Yn’s pout wavered. “Promise?”

George placed a hand over his heart. “Cross my heart.”

That earned him a small, wobbly smile, and George grinned in return, pressing another kiss to her temple before picking up the brush again.

Unbeknownst to him, the Netflix crew was filming the entire thing. They had stayed hidden, knowing that this was one of those golden, unscripted moments that truly captured the human side of the drivers. They didn’t want to interrupt; they just wanted to watch.

George worked diligently, his hands gentle as he divided Yn’s hair into sections. He wasn’t as quick as Carmen, nor was he as skilled, but he was determined to make his little girl happy.

“So, what are we thinking?” he mused. “A ponytail? Pigtails? A bun?”

Yn scrunched up her nose, deep in thought. “Braid.”

“Ah, a fine choice,” George said, nodding seriously. “A classic.”

He carefully began twisting her hair into a braid, his fingers moving slowly to make sure it wasn’t too tight.

As he worked, Yn continued flipping through her book, occasionally humming a little tune under her breath. The soft atmosphere of the lounge made it feel like they were in their own little world, far away from the noise of the paddock.

“Almost done,” George announced after a few minutes, securing the braid with a small hair tie he had kept in his pocket. “Now, let’s see if Daddy’s work passes the test.”

He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture before turning the screen toward Yn. “What do you think?”

Yn’s face lit up. “I love it!”

And then, before George could react, she flung herself into his arms.

George, always prepared, caught her easily, wrapping his arms securely around her tiny frame. He held her close, pressing a hand against her back as she snuggled into him.

“Best Daddy,” she mumbled into his chest.

George’s heart melted. “And you’re the best little girl.”

The Netflix crew, recognizing that this moment was too private to exploit, slowly backed away, shutting off their cameras as they left the lounge.

Some moments were just meant to be cherished—not filmed.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[sirfrogsworth]

I think this question is the most asked one I see from people starting their photography journey.

They upgrade from their smartphone and get a nicer camera and lens and then wonder why their photos don't look much different.

A fancy camera opens up more possibilities and gives you great control. Lenses are creative tools that allow myriad perspectives. But a paintbrush does not paint a picture for you.

The answer to the question is light and effort.

The better the light, the less effort required. The worse the light, the more effort required. But you always need both to get a good photo. And you need a lot of both to get a spectacular photo.

Imagine this photo taken in the same overcast light as the waterfall above.

That would be the world's most boring parking lot photo.

But because the light was so beautiful I was able to pull out my smartphone and get a great shot. No fancy camera required. But I knew my phone was limited so I took three photos for a panorama. And I captured everything in RAW format to make sure I didn't lose any dynamic range or color information. This required a lot of extra post processing to combine everything and edit the colors close to what my eyeballs saw.

The light made things much easier. I just had to point the camera in the direction of the sunset. But effort was still part of the equation.

The best light is at...

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Or at night (tripod required).

Or... bring your own light.

I had a sunset but my friend was in the dark so I employed my gigantic 7 foot umbrella.

Good photographers often plan their shots in advance. They will scout locations (Google Maps is your friend), take test shots to find the best composition, and then wait until the light is magical to get their shot. There are some landscapists who return to a spot continuously until conditions are perfect. I've heard of some who spend a year or more to get the photo they desire.

I knew I was going to be near the Arch. I used Google Maps to figure out a cool vantage point. I hauled my tripod a few blocks to that spot. And then my heart sank a little...

They turned the lights off.

The lights that illuminate the Arch confuse migrating geese in September. I still took the photo. And it's okay. But I didn't have the light I wanted. So I'll have to go back another time when geese aren't screwing everything up.

I'll have to put in that effort.

I understand you cannot always plan ahead. If photographers need to get a good shot spontaneously in bad light, they have to go above and beyond to elevate the photo.

They might have to find an interesting perspective.

Perhaps use an atypical lens.

Long exposure.

Or they can incorporate an interesting subject. A model. An old barn. Fungus.

Think about foreground, midground, and background. If you have a dull background, increase interest in the foreground or midground. Or both.

Again, the worse the light is, the more effort you have to put in to compensate. You might find yourself lying on the ground or dangling over a cliff.

Another option is to bring your own light. Overcast days can actually look quite compelling if you light a subject and then underexpose the background. This can bring out a lot of details in the clouds that would otherwise get lost in a natural light exposure.

(not my photo, source unknown)

Sometimes the prettiest days make the most boring photos. Sunlight at high noon is very hard to work with photographically. Especially if you have people in the photo. Hard shadows tend to not be flattering.

Black and white can sometimes make harsh sunlight look cool.

Or you can add a fold-up diffuser to help soften things.

All of this is to say... you cannot take a fancy camera to a waterfall on an overcast day and expect it to do all of the work. You are just going to end up with a flat looking snapshot. You have to put thought into your photos. You need a bag of tricks you can pull from at any moment. And you have to be willing to go the extra mile if you don't have the light you want.

For a waterfall at sunset, you can just put it dead center and call it a day.

(photographer unknown)

But if you have an overcast day with boring light, you're gonna need to effort your ass off.

This photographer put the camera near the ground, found a great composition, included cool foreground/midground elements, and used long exposure to make the water silky.

(Stephen Spragg)

There is also the option to combine maximum light with maximum effort.

This is by famed photographer, Joe McNally. He shot at night. There is a hidden flash off to the right of the worker. He used a wide lens to get a unique perspective. He used long exposure to get light trails from the cars below. Oh, and he is hanging off the side of a building.

Light and effort. Light and effort. Light and effort.

And, as always, the third secret ingredient is... education.

Education will help you leverage light and effort more so than any camera or lens. Don't just learn the open chords. Learn those ones where you have to stretch your pinky out super far while barring the low F.

Sorry, I used to play guitar and a metaphor slipped through.

Free photography education...

Tony & Chelsea 7 Hour Course Karl Taylor Free Introduction to Photography

[tender-rosiey]

SUKUNA AND HIS SHY DAUGHTER BONDING TIME WHEN?!?! Reader can be present and discreetly takes their pictures (sukuna pretends not to notice).

guided lines — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: congrats we now have cameras in the heian era and BIG BIG thanks to @bluebell33 and @soupie-writer for beta-reading <33

it’s a quiet afternoon in the heian household, the kind of stillness that comes after the chaos of the morning has settled.

the courtyard is bathed in golden sunlight, casting soft shadows along the wooden floorboards, and the faint rustle of the wind carries the scent of blooming wisteria.

you lean against the doorframe, peeking through the slightly open shoji screen into the courtyard where your husband and daughter are seated.

it’s a rare sight to see sukuna like this—relaxed, unguarded, the sharp lines of his usual stoicism softened as he sits cross-legged on the floor.

your daughter sits opposite him, her tiny hands clutching a paintbrush far too large for her delicate fingers.

the scroll of parchment between them is already half-filled with colorful smudges and haphazard lines, a far cry from anything artistic, but, hey, the effort is there.

“hold it properly,” sukuna instructs, his deep voice carrying just enough patience to make you pause in the hallway.

he reaches out to adjust her grip, his large hand completely engulfing her tiny one as he guides the brush to the paper.

she ducks her head shyly, murmuring a soft, “okay, papa.”

you bite back a smile, the term still so foreign yet so endearing coming from her lips.

sukuna doesn’t respond, at least not verbally, but his movements slow as he helps her make another stroke on the parchment.

you slip inside quietly, camera in hand.

sukuna had gifted it to you on a whim months ago, claiming he had no use for “trivial inventions,” but you’d quickly discovered his disinterest didn’t extend to being the subject of your photos.

he always pretends not to notice, but you’ve caught the subtle shifts in his posture whenever he knows your lens is trained on him—straightening his back, tilting his chin just slightly.

raising the camera to your eye, you adjust the focus, the scene coming into view with perfect clarity:

sukuna’s broad frame hunched slightly as he leans closer to d/n, his expression uncharacteristically soft, her tiny fingers smudged with ink and her lips pursed in concentration.

the sunlight catches the faint scar over his nose, the curve of his jawline, the tension in his hands as if he’s holding back his full strength.

click.

the sound is quiet, but his ear twitches ever so slightly, and you know he’s caught on. he doesn’t look at you, though, his attention remaining fixed on the little girl in front of him.

“what is that supposed to be?” he asks, nodding toward the splotchy shape she’s drawn.

“a bird,” she whispers, the pink in her cheeks deepening.

he raises a brow, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s about to tease her—sukuna’s sense of humor is sharp, often cutting, and you’ve had your fair share of exasperated sighs directed his way.

but instead, he tilts his head thoughtfully, as if trying to see it from her perspective.

“it…has wings,” he says finally, and her face lights up, a smile spreading across her features.

“you think so?”

“it’s obvious,” he replies, though his tone is far from dismissive. “draw another.”

you stifle a laugh, adjusting your position to capture another angle.

sukuna’s patience with a child isn’t something you’d ever expected to witness, let alone document, and it’s a side of him you treasure more than you’ll ever let on.

click.

this time, his gaze flickers toward you, just for a split second. it’s not a glare—more of a warning, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying his amusement.

you grin back at him, unrepentant, and he huffs quietly before returning his attention to your daughter.

“your brushwork is sloppy,” he comments as she attempts another bird, her little hands trembling slightly as she draws a lopsided wing.

“I’m trying,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

he leans back slightly, his arms resting on his knees as he watches her.

“try harder,” he says, but there’s no edge to his tone, only a challenge—a nudge toward improvement.

click.

this time, d/n notices, her wide eyes darting toward you. “mama, what are you doing?”

“nothing,” you lie, lowering the camera with a sheepish smile. “just admiring my two favorite people.”

she beams, but sukuna groans, dragging a hand down his face. “stop filling her head with nonsense,” he mutters, though the faintest hint of pink dusts his ears.

“it’s not nonsense,” you argue, stepping closer and crouching beside them.

d/n immediately crawls into your lap, clutching her brush in one hand and smearing ink on your sleeve in the process. you don’t mind, your focus entirely on the man in front of you.

she giggles, resting her head against your chest as you pull her close.

“papa’s really good at drawing,” she says, pointing at the bird he’d drawn earlier as an example. “he helped me with mine.”

sukuna shrugs, “someone had to make it look like a bird.”

you laugh, the sound light and warm, and his eyes linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary.

it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you know him well enough to catch it—the way his gaze softens, the way his shoulders relax just slightly.

later that evening, after your daughter has fallen asleep, you’re sorting through the photos on your camera, sukuna seated beside you on the porch.

he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his presence, the quiet strength of him a comforting weight at your side.

“you know,” you say, breaking the silence, “I think these might be my favorite pictures yet.”

he glances at the screen, his expression unreadable. “you’re too sentimental.”

“maybe,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder. “but I can’t help it. you’re both so... precious to me.”

he doesn’t respond, and you take it as a sign for the comfortable silence to take over again.

but your husband presses a kiss to the top of your head that leaves you speechless till the end of the night.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will kiss you

check out my buy me a coffee!

[tqlepatia]

— I'LL BE YOUR PROTECTOR.

MOM! SEVIKA × MOM! READER. —

Notes: pure fluff! Sevika and you being the best mother possible to your little boy ᵎᵎ, decided to write it since I never read one with sevika being a boy mom ( I know she's totally girl mom!)

𓂃۶ৎ ● The first time you hold him, you forget every pain that brought you here. His fingers curl around yours like they’ve always known the shape of you. Sevika’s breath catches in her throat as she leans over your shoulder, silent, reverent.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You sit in the nursery late at night with the baby sleeping on your chest, while Sevika leans against the doorway, quietly protective. She doesn’t say much but you feel her watching over you both like a sentry.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika take turns at the midnight feedings. On her nights, you wake up to soft murmurs through the baby monitor and lullabies in a language that you don't understand one word.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your boy refuses to nap unless he’s pressed against one of you. You joke that he was born clingy, Sevika calls it loyalty. Either way, he sleeps best wrapped in your arms.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Bath time is chaos. You hold him steady while Sevika gently washes his hair. He splashes water everywhere, and she grumbles, but never once stops smiling. You both end up soaked and laughing.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he’s teething, he cries endlessly. You pace the floor with him pressed to your shoulder, humming lullabies you didn’t know you remembered. Sevika slips into the room with warm bottles and sits beside you until he settles.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You cry on his first birthday—not because of the cake or the photos, but because of how far you've come. Sevika wraps her arm around your waist and tells you, quietly, that she’s never been prouder of anyone in her life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both fall asleep on the couch, the baby nestled between you. He snores softly, one hand on your chest, the other holding onto Sevika’s shirt. It’s the most peaceful moment of your life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He throws a tantrum at the grocery store. You kneel down, matching your voice to his volume, coaxing him to breathe. Sevika stands behind you, arms crossed, but lets you take the lead—knowing he needs your calm more than her fire.

𓂃۶ৎ ● One morning, he asks you why he doesn’t have a dad. You look at Sevika, who nods softly. You crouch beside him and say, “Because you have two moms who love you more than anything. That’s better than just one dad” He shrugs and goes back to coloring.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to look like a superhero and cries when his hair won’t sit the same. You try to explain it gently, brushing it as best you can. Sevika steps in runs a comb through with a teasing grin, and suddenly he declares he looks perfect.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts drawing stick figure families, always with two tall moms and one smiley kid. You put them on the fridge. Sevika secretly keeps one folded in her wallet.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You bake cookies with him on Sundays. He makes a mess, flour everywhere. Sevika walks in, sighs, and wordlessly joins in. Three hours later, the kitchen’s a disaster.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts sleeping with the lights off, but only if you’re the one to tuck him in. Sevika reads the bedtime story, but he reaches for your hand as he drifts off.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He paints your face with finger paint. Sevika laughs so hard she chokes on her drink. You chase him around the living room while Sevika captures it all on an old camera you didn’t know she knew how to use.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The three of you lie under a blanket fort one stormy night. Rain on the windows, his tiny body between you, flashlight stories casting shadows on the walls. He says, “This is my favorite place ! ”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He loses his first tooth at the breakfast table. You panic a little; Sevika just grins and wraps it in a napkin. That night, you both sneak a little coin under his pillow.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He builds a pillow fort so big it takes up half the living room. You both crawl in with him, bring snacks, and let the day pass in soft laughter and pretend adventures.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to dress like his favorite cartoon character. You help him piece together a DIY costume. Sevika adds a cape. He beams at both of you like you’ve given him superpowers.

𓂃۶ৎ ● On nights when he’s sick, you stay up rubbing his back while Sevika heats soup and brings towels. You don’t sleep much, but he calls you both his heroes the next day.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts locking his bedroom door. You knock gently. Sevika knocks harder. But eventually, he lets you in and sits between you both to talk about how weird it feels to grow up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He surprises you with breakfast on your birthday. Sevika helped, but he did the pancakes himself. They’re slightly burnt. You eat them with a full heart.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika both attend his school play. He keeps looking at you from the stage. Afterward, he only cares if you liked it. You both hug him like he just won an award.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts helping with dinner. You show him how to chop vegetables. Sevika shows him how not to burn steak. Together, you build little rituals of home.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he first came out to you, it was simple he said, “Mom, I’m gay.” You just nodded calmly and asked, “Okay, what kind of lasagna do you want for dinner tonight?".

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika already knew. She’d seen him once in your bedroom, dressing up like you—your clothes, your scent. She’d laughed softly but kept it quiet, letting him come out in his own time.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika felt it that morning, deep in your bones. The weight of time resting heavy in your lungs, the stillness in your chest. A quiet knowing. Today would be the last.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You took a warm bath together, the water gentler on your aching bodies than it had ever been. She helped you into that old dress—the one she loved most. The one she said made her feel like the luckiest bastard

𓂃۶ৎ ● With the help of medicine, and a whisper of strength left in you both, you made love that night. Slow. Reverent. Like a prayer. You wore the black silk slip Sevika always said made her heart stop. She smiled when she saw you, even through the ache in her chest.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The sunset poured through the curtains in gold and soft lavender. You both laid side by side in bed, holding hands, faces turned to each other. No machines, no fear—just shared breath and hearts that had beat together for decades.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your son sat between you, now a man, brushing Sevika’s hair with shaking fingers and holding your wrist like a tether. You smiled at him, weak but still his mother. “You made our lives beautiful,” you whispered.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika coughed out a breath of a laugh. “If it’s possible… put us in the same fucking coffin,” she rasped. “We fucked last night. Just to haunt you one last time.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He laughed through the tears, head bowed to your entwined hands. “You two are impossible,” he sobbed. “I love you. I love you so much.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your final words, shared in near unison, were just, “We love you too. Always.” And then… peace.

Sevika felt it instantly. The weight of your body against hers shifted—no rise, no fall of your breath. Just a hush that cut through everything. Too still. Too quiet. Her hand shook where it rested on your chest. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking like a branch in winter. “No, Dearest, c’mon…”

She pressed her forehead to yours, trying to feel you again, even for a second.

Then, with a trembling laugh breaking through the sob in her throat, she muttered, “Rude. I always said I’d go first.” Her eyes stung, nose running, mouth tugging into a crooked smile as she wiped her face on the blanket between you. “Didn’t even let me win that one, huh?”

She held you tighter, lips to your hair. “Alright, alright. I’m comin’.” A pause, then dryly, “You’d just haunt my ass if I didn’t.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both slipped away within minutes of each other. Faces soft. Hands still clasped. Mouths tilted toward a final kiss that death couldn’t quite steal.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your funeral was quiet. Flowers bloomed over your shared grave, just like the ones you planted on the balcony every spring. Your son brought the same kind—lavender, soft pinks, deep reds. He cried. He smiled. He stood tall.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Years later, he adopted a daughter with his husband. A bright-eyed baby girl with your warmth and Sevika’s intensity in her gaze.

𓂃۶ৎ ● They named her a tender mix of both your names. A name that meant legacy and love and strength.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Every year, they visited your grave. He’d talk to you both like you were still around. Sometimes, he left lasagna. Sometimes, whiskey. The baby, now a child, would place tiny flowers in the stone cracks.

𓂃۶ৎ ● She’d say, “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandma Vika.” And laugh as if you were just behind the tree, waiting to scoop her up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● And somehow… in the rustling of the wind, in the golden light that touched her curls—you always were.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa , @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine , @zombieeepup .

[umehaji]

— 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞;

☾ Pairing: Kaji Ren x f!reader

☾ Word Count: 1.1k

☾ A/N: inspired by satoru nii's note on kaji getting his headphones as a gift also i am simply down bad

“How come he never takes that shit off?” Sakura mutters, mostly to himself, pausing on the uneven sidewalk to adjust the weight on his back. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the bustling street, the chatter of vendors and the hum of passing bikes filling the air.

“Hmmm?” The granny—Chiyoko, as she’s always insisting he call her but he can never bring himself to—leans slightly to peer over his shoulder, her sharp eyes following his line of sight. Her gray hair flutters in the gentle breeze, tickling his cheek.

Across the narrow street, past the stalls piled high with fresh produce, ones Sakura knows Umemiya likes to frequent, Kaji and his vice-captains are strolling down the sidewalk in their direction. Kaji's got his hands buried deep in his pockets, mouth set in its usual stern expression, a lollipop dangling lazily from between his lips. His white headphones sit snugly over his ears, their metallic sheen catching the light. They're always spotless, Sakura notes, as if Kaji takes painstaking care of them.

“His headphones!" Sakura grumbles. "He’ll go deaf at this rate.”

“Ah," Chiyoko muses, her voice laced with amusement, "but wouldn’t you also treasure something so precious to you? Young love...so sweet."

Sakura’s brows knit together. “The hell you mean ‘young love’?”

The granny fully ignores him. "I remember back in my day-"

"Hold on, the fuck you mean- sorry, I mean-"

Before Sakura can keep gracing Chiyoko with his colorful vocabulary, something cuts him off.

“Rennn!”

The sound of hurried footsteps and the unmistakable brightness in the voice snaps Sakura’s attention to the source. His head whirls around, and he freezes.

A girl.

You.

You're a pretty thing, pleated uniform skirt hiked up just a tad bit too short for school regulations. It flutters around your thighs, exposing an expanse of skin that has Sakura blushing right down to his toes. He quickly tears his gaze away.

Instead, he watches, stunned, as Kaji slows his pace and reaches up, fingers curling to hook his headphones down to his neck. He stands there, hands dropping to his sides, palms open as if he's expecting something.

And then...the most inexplicable thing happens.

You launch yourself forward, into the notoriously bad-tempered second-year’s arms, your own arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

“Ren! Missed you so much!”

“Huh?” Sakura whips his head around to gawk at Chiyoko to make sure she’s seeing the same thing he is. “Huuuh?”

The granny on his back just beams, eyes crinkling, like this is something she's seen happen a thousand times.

Kaji barely reacts to the impact of you. He plants his feet, arms coming around your waist, steady and sure. If there's one thing Sakura has learned, it’s that the blonde is deceptively strong. From his angle, Sakura can see the faintest hint of color rise to Kaji's cheeks, a subtle shift masked by the tilt of his head.

A soft jangling sound captures Sakura’s attention and he zeros in on the charm dangling from your backpack. It looks vaguely familiar and he squints, trying to place it. Then it hits him- he’s seen it before, a matching charm clipped to Kaji’s rarely-used bag. The trinket is small and undeniably cutesy, in sharp contrast to Kaji's abrasive personality, which is what had drawn Sakura's attention to it in the first place.

“Oi,” Kaji snaps, tightening his hold around your waist, but his voice lacks the usual bite Sakura has come to associate the blonde with. “Be careful.”

You pout, playful and unabashed. “Aw, but I knew you’d catch me.”

“Still.” Kaji eyes you. His fingers brush against the hem of your skirt, tugging it down slightly. “And this—”

You cut him off with a practiced ease, plucking the lollipop from his mouth and popping it into yours.

"Oi!"

“Yeah, yeah,” you say breezily, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s too short, other guys will mess with me, blah blah blah. But I’m not worried, because my big bad boyfriend will take care of any problems, won’t he?”

Kaji's lips twitch as though he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, what looks like the faintest smile slips onto them, though it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

“Hi, Kusumi-chan, Enomoto-chan!” you lean back slightly in Kaji's arms, tilting your head so you can see the other boys who have been smirking at each other the entire time. Sensing their silent amusement, Kaji snaps his head around, fixing them with a pointed glare. Their expressions transform immediately into pictures of innocence and they greet you enthusiastically, clearly charmed by you.

“Good t’see ya as always,” Takeshi grins broadly. “Still keepin’ our captain on his toes?”

“Someone has to,” you quip, swirling the lollipop stick between your fingers before slipping it from your lips. Kaji’s gaze flickers downward, tracking the motion, lingering a beat too long on your lips.

You tug at the headphones around Kaji's neck. “Still taking good care of these, huh? Never takes them off, does he, Enomoto-chan?”

“Well,” Takeshi says with a teasing grin, “they’re special. Given by someone even more special.”

“Shut up,” Kaji mutters, ears faintly pink, though he doesn’t refute it. He's still staring down at your lips, though his gaze flickers back up to meet yours when you reach a hand up.

“Aw," you smile sweetly at him, brushing a finger through the bangs covering his forehead, "I'm glad you're still putting them to good use."

"Tch." Kaji's gaze darts away but returns to you almost just as quickly.

Sakura sputters, completely thrown off by the revelation that the reason behind the permanent fixture on Kaji Ren’s head...is you. Dumbfounded, he watches you continue to shower Kaji—the same boy he's seen coldly pummel opponents to a pulp with the harshest of scowls—with affection. But none of that brutality is visible now. Instead, Kaji holds you with an unexpected tenderness, as if you’re something delicate, something precious to him.

You let out a long, almost aggrieved sigh, and Sakura can’t help but wonder if you’re starting to tire of giving without getting anything in return from the blonde.

“Why're you so handsome?” you pout, sliding a finger down the bridge of Kaji's nose until it rests gently over his lips. “It’s just so unfair.”

Sakura chokes on his own spit.

Kaji doesn’t reply to that at all. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to. The tips of his ears are an unmistakeable flaming red now.

And then, as if on instinct, he leans down. The movement is quick, almost imperceptible. But it's enough signal for you apparently, because you close the gap by pressing your lips to his, winding your arms around his neck tighter and relaxing into his hold.

Sakura feels his brain grind to a complete halt.

“As I said,” Chiyoko hums behind him with a knowing smile. Her short legs swing happily against Sakura's sides. “Young love.”

[comicaurora]

No question I just wanted to say the way you drew the water on the new page is BREATHTAKING

Actually, you know what, I do indeed have a question. How on earth did you make it look so good??

I'm really glad it worked! I've never had to paint the underside of water before, and it was an interesting challenge, since so much of wave texturing is communicated through seaspray, a particle effect that can't be used from under the water. Here's the gist:

Started with solid blue, of course. Since the bottom panel was going to be a plunge into deep water, threw in an easy dark gradient.

To texture the underside of the water, I started with light and shadow. Light gathers on the crests of waves, so I brushed out an approximation of where it seemed like it made sense for the light to be catching. Because of the radial splash in panel 2, I wanted the illusion of the water bending inwards towards the camera, so I kept the light to the edges of the splash and filled the center with shadow.

Darkened more across the board to increase the intensity. I added a second darkening layer, this time a deep blue instead of purple, to create the effect of multiple colors above the surface being filtered through the bluish water. I also wanted to imply the shadows of the fragments of the shipwreck falling towards the water, hence the smaller, sharper dark areas.

Glow! A thinner, finer brush to capture the specular highlights on the crests of the waves, and of course some light rays in the third panel to reinforce the feeling of depth. This layer used a gold color, which is the only part of the water texturing that wasn't in the blue-purple range.

Boat bits - I started working out the atmospheric perspective effect with these, to create the illusion that the ones further from the camera were less opaque because the water was obscuring them. I also added a layer of simple bubble effects (a dot particle brush screened over the page)

For the final layer, figures, more bubbles, and more precise hand-drawn bubbles to communicate the movement the specific way I wanted to. Rapidly-moving bubbles stretch and distort rather than remaining perfectly spherical, and they also helped sell the scale, implying that the objects with larger bubbles were closer to the camera and thus farther from the surface.

And that's the gist of it! I'm glad it worked because it was a real seat-of-the-pants endeavor over here