#anyways .hhhhh

[erveinangel]

// Divergent Universe thoughts in tags.

[ruubesz-draws]

Happy New Year 2024!!🎉

Wanted to draw the OG Gang for my first 2024 art.

Don't worry, they will return in my future comics!

[bumbleboa]

I have been talking a lot about how I want to be less precious about my sketches but still end up hoarding everything in files that never see the light of day because I think they don't measure up (to my own expectations).

But you know what? This is fanart, it's not meant to be polished since it's just for me and maybe someone else gets a kick out of my doodles as well, so let's end 2024 with a bit of a sketch dump from my files.

[fiiishtank]

comic i started when the newsletter with the grillby stuff came out that has been sitting in my files for months !!!!! i finished it ^_^

original :

[pharawee]

And just for me as a treat... 2 more gifs of tiny Winner Tanatat moments in My Stand-In episode 8. 🥰

[ex0rin]

Secretary Bucky & Guard Dog Rumlow | Reverse Winterbones What If… Captain Carter Fought the Hydra Stomper?

+BONUS

[skrunksthatwunk]

thinking about how eiji's a pole vaulter and how ash talks about eiji "flying" and how eiji's associated with bird imagery and how eiji's free (unlike ash) and how eiji comes in on a plane and leaves on a plane and how ash cannot fly, ash cannot be free, how nyc is ash's prison, and how ash is the leopard who dies climbing the mountain, unable to live at such elevation, how he was trying to reach the sky and be free but was always stuck to the earth, how he chose to die instead of climbing back down, how he chose to die where he could see the sky and hope and freedom almost like a bird with eiji's letter right in front of him rather than letting everything go wrong and ruin it once again, how eiji's a failed pole vaulter anyway, how a bad fall ruined his career and grounded him (physically and emotionally), how it took flying to america and meeting ash and needing to save him and skip for him to try flying again, how he landed hard and harsh and still the thought of that escape compelled ash to protect eiji at all costs because if he could fly that means something to him, even if he doesn't think he can fly, how eiji is the manifestation of his hope and how when he breaks and asks eiji to stay with him a while he folds himself over his legs and weighs him down and traps him and grounds him, how ash fights like hell to keep eiji alive not because he thinks he can be like him (hopeful, flying, innocent), but because he makes him forget the gravity of his situation, and so he can see eiji fly again. how he wants to see him escape. how eiji is a bird and ash is a wildcat and how ash never once saw eiji as prey. how eiji never saw ash as a predator. how it is eiji's naivete that first endears ash to him, how it is his freedom and flight and removal from darkness and his ability to leave that darkness that really roots eiji in ash's blood as something essential to him keeping on living in this hell of nyc. how it is that distance from the violence and that hope for the future that ash chooses to surround himself in as he dies. how ash dies in a dream because he feels more than anything that he can't fly like eiji, that he can never leave. how his violence is a part of him and will be forever, how it weighs him down. how he wants to enjoy the view from the mountainside rather than looking up from the ground below. as if they can both fly. as if he is with him up there and not grounded. eye-to-eye with what he can't have, seeing eiji's homeland: the sky. how he dies trying to reach the top because he couldn't take retreating and trying again. how ash, tired and tired and tired and convinced it will go on forever if he crawls back down the mountain, chooses to close his life deluged in eiji, in eiji's insistence that they can fly together, in eiji's hope for him and for them, in eiji's beautiful dream. how ash dies without trying to realize that dream. how ash, in dying, destroys it.

[skitty-kirby]

Some experimental stylized doodles I did, using my favorite Knights as test subjects. :^)

After all it'd be nice to have a doodle style I can use when I don't wanna upload my messy sketches versus don't have the time/energy to make something fully rendered xD

[inkclover]

when ya wanna give blorbos new digs but ya don’t know a thing about fashion hhhh…

An weak for pleated fabrics smskkss …which lead to me wanting Narinder to have a robe + large cuffs silhouette

floppy sleeve holes lets gooo

[pillow-boi]

ORVWW day 3: Shin Yoosung + hope

[collophora]

I posted this on twitter at the beginning of the show haha joke on me.

[karekuat]

Our Goddess

The new season is so good I had to draw Eris

(Click for high rez)

[strawberri-draws]

Idk if Luz coming back helped either tbh

[miyuskye]

natural-born babygirl subs who don't want to admit they want to be topped (usually they like to be in control of everything)

[lyxchen]

Kisses :3

[becauseplot]

Penciled Lines

(Cross-posted on ao3, if you prefer to read it there. Reblogs still appreciated!)

Missa wakes up, and he thinks he might be doomed. This doesn’t scare him nearly as much as it should.

Missa is awake early—by his own metric, anyway. His nocturnal nature causes “early” for him to mean “early night” and not “early morning.” Regardless, “early” means that Philza is not asleep yet, still going through his nightly rituals. “Early” means that Philza is sitting up in (his? their?) the bed, pillows propped up behind him, notebook in his lap, sketching away.

And when Missa wakes up to the soft scritch-scratch of a charcoal pencil on textured paper, his forehead just so happens to be brushing Philza’s hip.

Missa can hardly breathe.

Oh no.

He knows that if he gives any indication that he is awake, Philza will stop sketching, close his notebook, shift himself over until he is politely seated on his side of the bed, and greet Missa with a friendly smile. Philza has done it before, when Missa wakes up early. That’s how Missa knows he’ll do it again.

Thus, Missa can hardly breathe—his breaths have to be the slow in-out of sleep. He can’t so much as twitch, either. He has to keep quiet and play dead or else he’ll be found out. Seen. Caught living the lie.

“Husband,” Philza calls him. They’re not married. They share a bed. They’re hardly ever in it at the same time. They have a son and a daughter. Neither of them know Missa very well. Philza has had an extra set of armor and a skull on his backpack for months, waiting for Missa. Missa doesn’t even know Philza’s last name.

Philza is a good man and a good friend—and Missa doesn't deserve him. Still, he takes what he can get. Curls around it. Hoarding every innocent kindness Philza extends like a starving creature: the generosity of a backpack fully stocked with equipment; the trust Philza places in Missa to watch the kids when he’s asleep; and now, the courtesy of not moving his hip from Missa’s forehead to ensure his “sleeping” isn’t disturbed. Missa clutches all of these little offerings in his greedy claws and hugs them into his chest, even as the guilt eats away at him.

Because, regardless of the lack of mutual feeling, he loves Philza. He loves him so, so much, and that is why he is doomed. He can’t afford to lose what little he has. He can’t cross that line. 

So Missa lies beside Philza, forehead pressed against Philza’s hip, pretending to sleep so he can imagine that they’re not just lying in bed together, but lying in bed, together; and later, when Missa truly wakes, he will sit on his side of the bed and look at Philza’s face soft with sleep and think about how lucky he is that he still has a side-of-the-bed to begin with.

Missa doesn’t mean to drift off. When it starts to happen, he’s hopelessly torn between shaking himself awake and thus giving himself away, or remaining how he is, silently fending off the inevitable. In the end, Missa clings to that scritch-scratch sound of Philza’s pencil on the paper for as long as he can before the fog at last pulls him under. 

Eventually, he dreams. In fact, he dreams of the calloused fingers he dreams of every night, hands like his own, an artist of Death, cradling and shading the contours of his face—a softness dashing charcoal across his jaw, and over his cheekbones, and perhaps on his lips, too, if he’s lucky. Defining every edge of him.

~*~

A deep sigh. Phil stops sketching as Missa shifts in his sleep. He tilts his head up so that the tip of his nose is now just nearly brushing against Phil’s hip. The motion disturbs the wild splay of his dark hair, revealing more of his face: eyelashes, cheeks, warmth. Tender blush of something Stygian and otherworldly. New.

Phil’s lips tilt upwards. He turns to a fresh page, and he starts again.