#enjoy sketches anyhow!!

[teabeexo]

Some Recent Sketches

info below the cut!

1ST IMAGE: a beach sketch of my babygirl Sonia!! She’s so doll… augh Sonia Linwood.. (a non-MC OL:NF character)

2ND IMAGE: a sketch of all the Linwood siblings! Left to right, we have Jude, Quincy, Sonia, Raoul, and Beau. It says the order of ages in the image! Finally got a chance to draw out all of their designs together! <3 (all non-MC OL:NF characters)

3ND IMAGE: revisited an old OC of mine named Cwong! Planning to write some more lore for him soon! As of right now, he’s a little bit bare-bones but I’m a big fan of his design ehe… (no current affiliation; just an oc!)

4TH IMAGE: a perspective test with my girlie Tally! I’m thinking that I’ll hopefully make a side character post about her eventually, but nothing is in concrete yet. (yet another non-MC OL:NF character)

5TH IMAGE: Amy and Pheonix cuddling! Pheonix belongs to me, Amy belongs to @humanlypotsand ! They’re pookies gahhh!! (both are non-MC OL:NF characters)

I’m really sorry for the lack of full drawings recently! School and my mental health has been taking priority. I’ll try to get back in the swing of things soon! <3

[xxplastic-cubexx]

filler

[starflungwaddledee]

*ahem* *cracks knuckles* *rolls shoulders* *taps mic*

Galastruck.

and i promise i’ll write 'i love you' with my fingers on your sleeping hand and when that fox howls i’ll howl with it in its cries i’ll find an end

🩸 happy valentine's day! 🩸

*✩˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ valentines shipaganza masterpost ✩˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ⋆˙⟡

static images for the above animation!

[sketchygatito]

Not that anyone cares but I did some traditional art. Still quite rusty with my beloved alcohol markers but maybe I’ll get there eventually

Who knows though

This is an OC of mine. You probably won’t see him too much since I don’t think anyone would really be interested in my non outlast related stuff which is whatever. Just felt like I should get back on track with at least posting something

[clowningaroundmars]

Hobie1610 pt. 3

part 3 has finally arrived!!! at a faster rate than part 2 but a bit of a wait nonetheless lol

not entirely sure how long this lil story will go on for but hope y'all are enjoying this ride regardless, whether it ends on the next part or in 3 more chapters ldfjkdhf

in this installment: thrilling action, a high stakes chase, and we get to learn more abt our beloved hobie jones! yippee!

>pt. 1 here<

>pt. 2 here<

>pt. 4 here<

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

By some miracle, Hobie did not mention the suit to Miles once they started texting semi-regularly.

Unfortunately, they also couldn't really make their lunch date (date? God, get it together, Morales. It is not a date…) as soon as Miles would have liked, due to a million different things getting in the way of them setting a solid day aside to chill together.

Just his luck, of course.

But in the hallways, Hobie actually deigned to give Miles a passing smile every now and then. They didn’t ever get to hang out like they did for those precious few moments on the first day of school, but Miles didn’t feel the crushing weight of guilt every time he saw Hobie in his same classroom anymore. What a relief!

So Miles was mostly okay with how things were going anyhow, even if the hangout ended up falling through and they both decided not to go in the end. He was able to patrol and do his homework in blissful peace for the first time in months.

… Kind of.

That look on Hobie’s handsome face as he looked down past Miles’ coat collar though…

That still ate away at an anxious part of Miles’ brain whenever he had the time to sit down and really let his worries manifest.

No time to think about that now, though. Miles was suited up again on a school night, hoping to get at least an hour’s worth of patrolling in before security at Visions noticed he was absent from his dorm room. He hoped Ganke would be able to cover for him like he always did.

It was yet another cold evening out in New York City, and Miles was steadily covering the edges of Brooklyn, heading towards Manhattan to do a quick sweep through Central Park like he did on occasion. There was always something going on in Manhattan, especially during the evening.

Miles decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek before calling it a night and heading back to Visions.

So away he went-- now fully in his Spiderman element-- vaulting and soaring over buildings, showing off every now and then by doing silly flips and tricks mid-air for the opportunistic New Yorkers looking to snap their Spiderman Sighting of the day. A little social media promo never hurt anyone, after all…

Spiderman finally swung down onto a tree branch on the western side of the park from a street lamp and was just about to lower himself down as inconspicuously as he could, before immediately feeling the tingling electricity of his Spider Senses race up and down his spine, giving him the usual headache along with it.

He crouched down quietly on a branch and watched as a familiar lanky figure streaked across the path underneath him onto the grass and beyond.

Whoever this runner was, he was fast. And hot on his trail was a gang of burly bumbling assholes cursing up a blue streak as they gave chase.

Spiderman’s eyes stayed glued to the fast runner like they were a lifeline. His senses honed in on the person and he erupted out of the leaves of the tree with one mighty leap, sailing through the air to shoot a web out and swing his way on over to the excitement.

Several joggers, people walking dogs after work, and mothers with baby carriages exclaimed and shouted as they were barreled into by the gang of men trying to keep up with their moving target. The runner didn’t seem to be giving up, though, as their long legs sent them flying over bushes and rocks and lounging people as gracefully as a ribbon in the air.

It was indeed getting dark soon again, but the darkness didn’t really affect Spiderman’s senses at all. His mask helped him fine-tune his powerful vision and anticipate the runner’s next moves.

It looked as though they were trying to make their way up towards the Great Lawn from Cedar Hill, but whether the person was planning to make a break for the now-empty Delacorte Theatre or the Metropolitan Museum Of Art… or beyond? That was the million dollar question.

Spiderman didn’t want to lose the person in case they happened to just be a petty thief, since that would be a quick and easy problem to fix. But as he silently chased down the runner alongside (and unbeknownst) to the gang, his suspicions gave way to some other... ideas.

Namely, that the runner seemed young, a bit too young for someone to be pissing off this many fully-grown gang members.

He pushed through his confusion and made a break for the theatre the second he guessed that the runner was pivoting in that direction.

The trees were getting thicker the closer they got to the Belvedere Castle and Spiderman eventually resorted himself to hoofing it, mindful of sticking to the shadows of the foliage that surrounded them on all sides.

He was super grateful now more than ever that his suit happened to be his signature sleek black and red, rather than the tacky and hyper-visible reds and blues of many of his Spider counterparts (sorry Peter!)

Once he confirmed that the suspicious target was indeed planning on hiding in the bleachers of the massive amphitheatre, he shot up a web to hoist himself into the infrastructure from the tall stadium lights. From there, he positioned himself a bit closer to the fray, hearing the loud and heavy boots of the gang following the runner, not far behind.

Then, he squinted into the dusk as he watched one of the entrances from his perch up high... and almost choked on his own saliva!

In comes none other than Hobie Motherfucking Jones, streaking down several steps like a shooting star, clutching onto… something tucked under one of his arms. He was breathless, panting loudly, and heading straight for the Belvedere Lake.

Upon hearing the heavy bootfalls get ever closer with every passing second, it seemed that Hobie got the idea to attempt a last-minute juke by throwing himself underneath the stairs that faced the lake, tucking himself as tightly as he could under the massive stage at the center.

Spiderman watched all of this happening with wide eyes, holding his own breath in. He prayed that the ugly thugs didn’t see Hobie’s sneaky last-second move, but climbed up high onto the stadium lights and prepared to swing down anyhow, just in case.

What was Hobie even doing here, out at this hour? And what the hell did he manage to steal that was so important to these men anyways? It was quite a chase they were caught up in, running nearly two entire miles all the way up to the amphitheatre just to catch him, and that was only from what he could see when he swung into action.

The group split up and pulled out flashlights, determinedly searching the bleachers and corners as best they could while the sky rapidly darkened above them.

From right below the webbed crime-fighter, Hobie poked his head out from the shadows and took a peek.

No, no, duck back down! Spiderman wanted to shout, but he couldn’t.

No one knew he had followed them and he was safe high above the action where he balanced himself on the metal bars that housed the bulbs. His muscles tensed as the bright beam of light from one guy’s flashlight swept a little too close to Hobie’s head. Damnit.

Spiderman couldn’t just sit there all day! He had a friend to save, stolen item be damned!

He rechecked his web shooters furtively and took aim.

He set his sights on another stadium light pole across from the stage, figuring that if he was quick and agile enough, he could time his swing well enough to scoop Hobie up from where he was hidden and avoid any detection. Hopefully.

Seemed like a solid enough plan though, until Hobie just. Shot out from his hiding place all of a sudden, the heels of his boots rapping loudly against the cement and echoing all around the stage as he made a beeline for the lakefront.

Shit!!!

Miles wanted to kill him. Those guys didn’t even suspect he was hiding where we was in the first place!

... Okay, plan B!

Spiderman’s brain whirred at breakneck speeds as he watched the thugs exclaim loudly and give chase yet again, this time much closer to Hobie than they ever were before.

Without thinking, he swung down from his perch and bowled over a couple of men in his haste to simply just… grab Hobie like a damsel in distress and fireman-carry him back around the gang to get a good line of web onto a nearby pole.

The men all cursed and shouted in surprise of course, flashlight beams waving around everywhere.

One of them even yelled, “what the hell was that?!” like a character in one of his dad’s favorite cheesy slasher movies.

Spiderman was too fast for them, a black blur simply whizzing by as he grabbed Hobie and hoisted the both of them up into the air with a mighty leap. Hobie yelped in surprise, grunting from the effort, and seemed to let whatever he stole slip out of his hands which then clattered loudly onto the ground below.

The thugs rejoiced then, shaking fists at Hobie and his rescuer as they flew up to the top of a tree and detached themselves so they could fall onto the stadium light opposite from Spiderman’s initial hiding spot.

Spiderman didn’t stop until he attached another web up to the lights and dangled there for a bit. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins as he shifted Hobie off of his shoulders and let him slide slowly onto his side, his friend’s wiry arms clutching him tightly.

They both watched with rapt attention at the goings-on several feet below them.

The thugs congregated around the fallen item, picking it up and turning it this way and that. It looked like a briefcase, though with the low lighting it really could’ve been anything. It was only when one of them-- the biggest and burliest of them all-- shouted out another colorful swear word that Hobie then seemed to come back to himself again.

He squeezed Spiderman’s shoulders with his arms and kicked at him. They swung a bit from the wiggling.

“Ouch!” Spiderman hissed, as quietly as he could. He was hoping the dark dusk would conceal their position now as long as they made No Noises, but even that wasn’t guaranteed.

“Go, go, go, go, man! Let’s get out of here!!” Hobie hissed right back into his ear, his face mere centimeters away from Spiderman’s mask.

Spiderman stubbornly ignored the heat radiating out from his face at that realization and jerked this way and that, looking for an easy escape from their conundrum.

Flashlight beams danced around the ground before finally swinging up to the trees and catching sight of a pair of shoes dangling in the sky.

The biggest and meanest one of the bunch pulled something out of his pocket and took aim.

Bullet! Spiderman’s senses screamed into his cerebellum.

“Goddamn,” he huffed ruefully as the shots rang out. Hobie panicked. “Bullets for us? That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

Hobie clung onto his hero for dear life. “Brother, if you do not get a move on from here, we are both gonna get turned into fish filets!” He shouted into Spiderman’s ear.

“Ow. Okay,” Spiderman grumbled, sticking himself to the side of the pole they dangled from and readjusting Hobie so that he clung onto his back instead.

He took a deep breath and narrowly dodged a bullet that whizzed unnervingly close to their heads. Hobie yelled again.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Spiderman began, speaking quickly. “Hold on, okay? Hold on tight. Just hold on and do not let me go for even a second!”

“On it!” Hobie shouted back, legs kicking a bit before wrapping themselves tightly around Spiderman’s torso.

They both took a breath and then Spiderman jumped, gaining some air before twin webs erupted from his web shooters-- aimed directly towards the seating area entrance.

Together, he and Hobie rocketed from their airborne position towards their escape route once the fluids connected to solid architecture. To his credit, Hobie only whimpered a little bit through the ride.

The thugs had no chance! They stumbled on tired, aching legs towards the very door the two teens had left out of, complaining and cursing some more as they searched through the steps and made their way out onto the theatre’s general admission and concessions area.

They searched and searched through the bushes and trees, going so far as to even check the sculptures near the structure.

After several tense moments of gruff shouting back-and-forth, the search eventually died down until only a couple of the men were left sweeping the area once more. The others had already given up their fruitless endeavor and called it a night.

“Fucking kids, man. What the hell,” Spiderman heard one of them grumble before kicking at the Romeo and Juliet statue angrily and following the rest of his cohorts down the path towards the Great Lawn again.

Hobie and Spiderman let out matching sighs of relief then, happy to have given the men the slip by managing to hide behind the giant 3D Delacorte Theatre sign right above the box offices. Lucky for them, most people don’t think to search behind lit-up signs, so they went completely undetected.

“… Wanna let me know what you were doing here this whole time? You could’ve gotten killed!” Spiderman breathed. He wanted his tone to be sharper, more authoritative… but he was just so glad to see his new friend still in one piece instead of riddled with more holes than a chunk of swiss cheese!

Hobie scoffed, tucking a loc behind his ear and sitting back. Thanks to the lighting of the sign and the other park lights in the area, Spiderman could see him digging around in his coat pocket and fishing out-- a USB drive?

Hobie held it up triumphantly, sleepy down-turned eyes glistening with pride.

“I got it! Suckers! Screw them by the way, I’m not the thief, if that’s what you’re wondering,”

Well. He was sneaky, alright. Spiderman had to hand that to him, at the very least.

He sat back on his heels as well and exhaled. “Fine. I believe you. What’s on that drive?”

Hobie squinted at him then, really giving him a good once-over now that the excitement had officially died down. “…Damn. You’re Spiderman,”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, hi, nice to meet you, I’m your friendly neighborhood Sp-- ugh, seriously man, just tell me what all of that was back there or else I’m webbing you up and calling the cops.”

“Hey!” Hobie objected. “Like I said already, I’m the good guy here. I snagged this from those guys because I caught them snoopin’ around the museum over that way. I followed them and found out they were stealing this!”

Spiderman bobbed his head. “Okay? And what’s on it?”

Hobie turned the drive over a bit in his hands, admiring it. “Most likely? Security codes, schedules, maps. I’ve been uh… investigating those dudes for a while after watching them sniff around the museum for a few days now. It looks like they were just art thieves plannin' a heist, so I jumped on the opportunity to deliver justice myself.”

Hobie’s mischievous grin was met by Spiderman’s disapproving stare.

“And why didn’t you just call security and let them know? Like I said, super dangerous thing you did back there! If I wasn’t there to save you, you could’ve died, man.”

Hobie pocketed his USB drive again and rolled his eyes. “Y’know, for a vigilante hero with cool superpowers, you sure are a square.”

Spiderman sat up and placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. “Oof, ow. That’s mean,”

“Yeah, it is, but you know I’m right. If a kid like me walked up to some cops and tried to warn them of a possible art heist, you just know those pricks’ll laugh in my face and do literally nothing about it. I had to take matters into my own hands!” Hobie jutted his chin out defiantly.

Well. Couldn't really argue with that, especially considering PDNY’s less-than-stellar track record of taking preventative measures most times. All that they would most likely do is nod along to whatever Hobie was telling them and chuckle, shaking their heads as they walk away. Not their problem.

Spiderman rubbed his chin. “Point taken," he conceded. "So what’s your plan now?”

Hobie glanced around, as if he was checking for any eavesdroppers. “I’m gonna submit some photos to a journalist I met online before turning this in back to the museum. The journalist’ll help get those guys behind bars once a story's published and some actual adults talk to the cops. I am going to go collect my reward,”

Spiderman blinked. He had a bunch of questions swimming in his head, but the first question out of his mouth was, “what reward?”

“The reward for turning in precious security info, genius!” Hobie tapped at his forehead with a finger and grinned. “If I get to negotiate with them, I can get some money to save up and-- uh. Nevermind. Listen, are you gonna rat me out or not?”

Miles’ brow creased behind his mask. “… I don’t think I will. Sounds like you’re doing the right thing… mostly.”

Hobie cheered silently. “Yes! Okay, I take it back, Spidey. You are cool!”

Spiderman sighed. “But first, I need to know you’re gonna be safe. Like, actually, and that you’re not gonna get followed home.”

Hobie shrugged nonchalantly and pushed more locs out of his face again. “Yeah, you can walk me home if you want,”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, that’s not the only thing I mean. I need you to promise me that you’re not gonna get into stupid stunts like this again. That was so dangerous and you really could’ve gotten hurt!”

Hobie exhaled as well. He stared intensely into the mask’s giant white lenses for a beat, making Spiderman shift uncomfortably.

Then, he held up his pinkie. “… Fine. I won’t do stupid shit like this again. I promise.”

Spiderman blinked a few more times and hooked his pinkie onto Hobie’s. “Uh. Okay, cool! Cool, that’s what I wanna hear, considering keeping New Yorkers safe is my job! I just wanna see you safe, that’s all. No more art heists, you gotta leave that to the professionals to handle,”

“What, professionals like you? You might’ve not even gotten to them in time before they snuck off with like millions of dollars worth of art, bro.”

“Anyone ever tell you you are just so mean? Dontcha have a little faith in me? The ‘vigilante hero with cool superpowers’?” Spiderman shot back.

They both laughed.

“Seriously, though. I do appreciate the fact that you saved my ass back there,” Hobie admitted, eyes cast downwards for a second. “I was actually gonna throw this thing into the lake and hope this drive got eaten by like… a fish or something.”

“And what about you?” Spiderman smiled despite himself.

“Well,” Hobie shrugged. “If I died, I died. I guess,”

It was Spiderman’s turn to scoff now. “You have a family, man. Don’t be ridiculous. You have friends and family that would miss you!”

Hobie’s expression turned dark, his entire face shadowing for a second before being replaced by cool detached nonchalance. A slight hint of annoyance stayed put underneath.

“… My family’s barely my family. I don’t have any friends, either. Don't worry about me.” Hobie admitted in a clipped tone. He stood up abruptly and started doing some casual stretches.

Spiderman stood up as well, knowing fully well how this song and dance was going to go.

He would never admit it out loud, but he’d seen his fair share of self-destructive citizens throwing themselves into the middle of danger in the short time he’d been doing this whole vigilante thing. He had talked many a melancholy or manic person from tossing themselves off of multiple different buildings, different bridges, stopped them from “falling” onto train tracks.

And as loath as he is to admit it, this Hobie’s particular brand of cool detachment was entirely too familiar to him as well.

A flash of his uncle Aaron’s face lit up a part of his brain that he hadn’t really allowed himself to acknowledge since that fateful day. He quickly stamped that out.

He cleared his throat and rubbed at his neck. “… Well. That sounds pretty depressing, man.”

He didn’t notice Hobie’s shoulders hitch at that phrase.

“But,” Spiderman continued, “You got people out here who care about you, even if you don’t know it. You’re still so young, you could be ending your life before you even meet, like, your favoritest person in the whole world, right? So just do me a quick favor, take care of yourself. For me. Live long enough to meet your favorite person, alright?”

Spiderman put on his best comforting expression that he could despite the mask most likely getting in the way of Hobie fully seeing it. He hoped his words were enough to convince him not to dive off the deep end, at least not anytime soon.

It seemed to work at least a little bit, because Hobie looked back at him with a much warmer-- albeit hesitant-- expression.

“Can I ask you something?” Hobie finally said after a few moments of silence.

“Uh, sure.” Spiderman replied.

“Do you know about a kid named Miles Morales at all?”

The air was sucked out of Spiderman’s lungs right then as he floundered like a fish for a minute, brain working into overdrive to make his answer sound both intelligent and convincing.

“U-uh, maaaybeee? I dunno, I meet a lot of New Yorkers everyday and I don’t get many names, yanno? S-sounds familiar, but sorr--”

“I knew it,” Hobie exhaled a laugh and surged forward to embrace Spiderman with both arms.

Spiderman stood frozen in his place, arms held in mid-air as he worked to process this.

“Uh. What--”

Spiderman felt Hobie’s chin dig into the side of his cheek a little as he turned his lips to his ear. “Your secret’s safe with me, by the way. I’m not telling anyone,”

Miles felt his whole world turn on its axis before shattering completely.

Oh no, no, no, no, no! Goddamnit!

Miles pushed Hobie off and stepped back, holding his hands up. “Oh hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. I dunno what you’re thinking or who you think I am, but--!”

Hobie sighed loudly. “Miles, I saw your suit.”

The world screeched to a halt.

Hobie picked his gaze back up off of his feet and even seemed apologetic, almost. “I, uhm. Like, back on the roof. At Visions. I wasn’t… a hundred percent sure I saw it, since it could’ve been any logo at all, but. Well, you’re a pretty bad liar too, y’know that, right?”

Miles sucked in a slightly shaky breath, gulping loudly. “Uh. W-well,”

Hobie smiled shyly. “You, uh… you’re like around the same height as Miles Morales, anyways. And you sure sound a lot like him, too.”

Damn. Damn it all.

Miles spun this way and that, placing his hands atop his head as he panicked slightly. “H-Hobie, you cannot tell anyone else about this, whatsoever. Do you understand? No one. At all. Or we’re both dead!”

Hobie held his hands up, lines creasing in his face. “Look bro, you’ve got secrets of mine too. We pinkie promised, remember? I don’t break promises.”

Miles didn’t point out that the promise was so that Hobie would stop getting himself into stupidly dangerous situations, but he accepted it anyways, albeit reluctantly.

“D-do… do you actually, like actually promise me you’ll never breathe a word about this to anyone? Ever? At all?”

Hobie held up his right hand into the air, as if taking an oath. “I, MJ, solemnly swear to never breathe a single word to anyone about your super secret identity, so help me god.”

Miles planted his fists on his hip and shook his head. “Oh my god,” he exhales on a shaky laugh.

“Don’t you believe me? What would I have to gain by selling you out? Oh,” Hobie stops suddenly, perking up. “We could even work together! I got me my sweet camera and my extensive connects, man. Think about it!”

“No, no. Hobie. Stop that, man. I’m not putting you into any danger after I just saved your skinny butt. Spiderman doesn’t do sidekicks anyways,”

Hobie looked a bit put out, but shrugged anyways. “Well, I mean… think about it sometime. We could seriously take down criminal activity around here, if you’re down! And, uh. You do have my number,”

Miles looked up and took a deep breath. “Mmnyes, I do. I do have your number. That’s… I mean you’re not wrong about that. Listen, I think it’s getting pretty late and we should both be heading back home now, though.”

The corners of Hobie’s mouth curled up mischievously. “True, true. It is a school night, after all.”

Miles couldn’t stop grinning despite the heavy anvil that threatened to burst out of his chest. “Yep, yes it is! Okay, time to get you home now. C’mon, let’s go.”

Miles moved to step into Hobie’s space and carry him on his back again so he could lower the both of them down from the lip of the theatre roof.

But before that happened, he felt Hobie place a cold but strong hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

Miles looked up inquisitively and felt his breath catch in his throat as he felt those same hands slowly slide up the smooth spandex of his suit, up his shoulders, and then they stopped at his neck, at the seam of where his suit and mask met.

The entire thing probably only took a few seconds to do, but to Miles it felt like eons passed as he felt every single muscle twitch and the pulse beating underneath Hobie’s skin while he ran those fingers up his arms.

He was standing so close to him! Oh god!

The entire ordeal was unbearably intimate, and Miles could barely stop the shudder that wracked his body suddenly.

Hobie’s soft lips were slightly parted, the lighting of the sign next to them caught in the dark brown portals that were his eyes.

“U-uhm. Sorry, this is weird...” he mumbled quietly. But his hands didn't move.

All around them, crickets started their soothing chorus.

Here they were, right behind the giant lettering of the Delacorte Theatre, intertwined in each other’s arms on a cold night-- and Miles’ core body temperature has never felt hotter before. He felt like he could melt steel, the way this night was going. He didn’t know when his hands raised to grasp onto Hobie’s arms, but they must’ve done it of their own accord because Miles then felt himself squeezing softly onto Hobie’s biceps.

Slowly, painstakingly, and carefully… Hobie made his move.

Every centimeter of the mask being pushed up was accompanied by a soft look that asked-- no, it begged-- for permission to continue. His hands seemed to move on their own eventually, as he slid the mask up over the back of Miles' head and then eased it up off of his nose.

Hobie wore a soft look of determination then, that fully came into view again once Miles felt his mask slide right up off of his eyes. Hobie’s soft hands eventually fell away, mask in one hand, no sounds in the air except for the wildlife of the park starting to wake now that the night has officially fallen.

Miles wasn’t sure why he did, but he held his breath.

After a few seconds of appraising gazes from each other, pupils meeting pupils, exchanging a million words a second with just a few looks… Hobie grinned beautifully.

“Damn. There you are,”

Miles felt a plume of heat erupt from his gut and rush up to his face. “Uh. Hm, y-yep. Here I am,” he blinked back at Hobie with his big brown eyes.

Hobie had a look of pure joy on his face before it started to melt away suddenly. “You know… I should backstab you for abandoning me out of nowhere that one time, though… I really should...”

The moment collapsed like an undone web, a delicate thing now completely destroyed as Miles leaped up in indignation.

“Hobie!”

Hobie stepped back and laughed loudly. “Re-lax! I’m not gonna actually do it. But. Y’know.”

“And if you do, I’ll leave you webbed up to that billboard near Visions,” Miles threatened, mostly light-heartedly.

“Psshh, and then get my mom’s two million lawyers on your ass? Good luck,”

“As if they could ever catch me! I’m Spiderman!”

Just as easily as they had stepped out of being just kids for a moment, they stepped right back into it, bickering like they'd been friends since forever.

Miles lowered the both of them from the sign and they headed towards the eastern side of the park, making their way over to Hunter’s Gate. They bickered and bantered back and forth the entire way there, and it was only once they made it to the outer gates of the park that Miles stopped them both.

With his mask back on and other New Yorkers now milling nearby, Miles made it a point to lower his voice as he turned to Hobie and puffed his chest out heroically.

“So, random citizen. Where are we off to today? I told you I’d take you back home safely, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“’Cause you promised, right?” Hobie smirked, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.

“Uhm. Yeah, yeah. I did. So, lead the way!” Spiderman made a grand ushering gesture, and Hobie chuckled good-naturedly as he stepped aside and exited Central Park.

“You gonna walk me home, Spiderman?” Hobie threw him a side-long glance.

“Yyyeah…? Why? You’d rather swing home?”

“I liked swinging, actually. Yeah,” Hobie stopped where he was on the sidewalk and nodded with an air of finality. “Yeah… let’s swing!”

Spiderman felt his heart do a few somersaults in his chest before he gestured towards his shoulders. Hobie quickly assumed the position, long lanky arms wrapping around him and leaning his body weight against Spiderman’s side.

Spiderman shot up a web to a nearby street lamp and gave his friend one more glance.

“You sure?” He asked again, really making sure that Hobie was okay with this. Not many people really liked swinging, which was understandable. Even Miles wasn't the biggest fan of it at times.

Hobie chuckled and ignored the onlookers as they slowly ambled past the two, throwing the teens questioning glances as they made their way past them.

“Yeah, I am! Let’s go,”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Miles: Do you actually actually really like on your LIFE promise that you’re not ginna tell a soul about… well…

Miles: gonna*

MJ: Yes, Miles. I PROMISE [eyeroll emoji]

Miles: I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE

MJ: Do you actually, though? ;)

Miles: No. But I can find out… I got connects

MJ: Uh huh. I’ll tell your “connects” that if you don’t take me out on that promised lunch date, our friendly neighborhood Spiderman just might be the next trending topic on ALL social media apps again very soon……..

Miles: Oh my god. You are Evil. I can’t believe this. My next arch nemesis… damn

Miles: What a killer plot twist. The greatest foe I have yet to face happens to be none other than one of my very own classmates

Miles: It be ya own people

From his family’s Lower Manhattan penthouse, Hobie laughs out loud as he reads the text messages, ignoring all of the curious glances thrown his way by various members of his team.

From Miles’ own humble dorm room at Visions, he laughs aloud as well.

[elkian]

Flower Child~

Best Bizzyboy deserves a neat fit! I was inspired by Thespius' whole vibe, including this bit from the artbook+Yugo Limbo's tumblr:

[dreamer-in-the-mainframe]

(Image ID: several digital sketches, with color and lighting. The first two are faces, one of a tan elf with golden eyes and a brown undercut. The second is of a human with dark skin and an afro. Both are smiling. The third is a woman, back turned, with long black hair and a ragged purple dress. She is holding aloft a torn white flag. The last two are environments. One is a sunny day in an evergreen forest. A path cuts through the trees to a small clearing, where a pale person with silver hair sits against a rock. His cane rests on the ground next to him. The other is a city street at night, centered on a building with pink neon lights and posters in the window. To either side are other colorfully-lit buildings. End ID.)

Experimenting around to see if I can find a way that I actually enjoy drawing lighting. Tentatively hopeful about this!

[irndad]

She favorites recipes on Instagram. 

It’s a little embarrassing how Carmen knows- that when she’s at his place watching him sketch dishes she can’t taste, he’s also paying attention to what’s on her phone. And it’s usually kistchy things- dresses and outfits with legwarmers, pop-culture breakdowns he doesn’t have time to understand, and yes, occassionally, recipes. 

Carmen adores her company. It’s a private truth, one that they boht know and yet he can’t admit under her gaze. She’s a friend of Richie’s which is endlessly fucking confusing. Both because of how incredible she is, and because it is truly insane to imagine Richie with friends. 

Carmen supposes they’re friends too, now. It doesn’t feel quite right, the way she scribbles notes for him in the mornings and has slept over quite often. She’s busy, has her own life and her own career and he’s lucky for the time he spends with her. He doesn’t really have time to date her the way he’d like to, with dinner dates and late night drives down Lake Shore, watching the sunrise over the lake on mornings where time feels like no object. 

He’s clearly given this some thought. 

Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Now, she’s slept over. He’s got a full-size, which felt like a good enough excuse to share the bed, even though every time they do he still ends wrapped around her like a vice, like roots of a tree, raveled in a way that seems inpenetrable. 

She’s sipping on an energy drink- he’s offered her the coffee that he’s imported, and prepared with care, but she’d obviously thought it was too bitter. And now he keeps energy drinks in the house when she stays over. She’s popped in one of her wired earbuds, and the light washes over her like a halo. She’s got a bonafide glow while she sits on his counter, scrolling through recipes. 

“That looks good,” he hears himself say, a little outside of himself, as she stops scrolling. It’s a pasta dish, and she’s favorited it. It looks more complex than it is, really, but he’s not sure he’s a good source.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I had it once when I was in Paris. It was fucking insane, Carmen, it’s so good. I’m always looking for a place to get it. I don’t really think there’s a place in Chicago where you can get it, actually.”

“It was seasonal actually,” he says back, her eyes fixed to his now, “Ever used to make it every fall. Easier to source the pine nuts.”

She looks so, so fond of him that Carmen could entertain the idea of leaning over the counter and kissing her. It’s incredibly tempting, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, endeared by his knowledge. He feels guilty, how he plays with the pencil, knowing she’s stared appreciatively at his hands. He enjoys being pretty to her, leaning into the fantasy that he could be more than her weird fuck-up friend of a friend that’s too chicken-shit to ask her out. How odd is it, that he knows what it’s like to wake up to the smell of her shampoo, but has no idea how she likes to be kissed?

He’s so bad at this he’s failed before he’s even started. 

He can cook, though. 

Cooking is methodical, and so he does it. it’s an easy love language, for him. he dices the parsely and the other fresh herbs, sautes them wirh precision, uses some of the nice butter from work- it’s a marvel, at the end of it, fragrant and warm, waiting for her arrival. 

When she does make her arrival, just on time for him, he plates the dish before she comes in. 

“Oooh,” she preens, raking her eyes up and down him. He feels perciebed, but in a way that he’d like to be. Look at me, he thinks. What a pleasure to be seen by her. “Is this all for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers out, “Thought I’d thank you for all your help. Late nights you’ve been staying up with me, talking through the menu and all- thought I could make you something.”

When she tastes it, it’s careful and adoring, and he’s good at this. 

“Yes chef,” she says teasingly, “Oh my god, Carmen, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to do that. I like being here.”

He wants to kiss her again, doesn’t know why he’s not letting himself. She meets him halfway, though, kissing the corner of his mouth that only a fool would imply has plausible platonic deniability.  

“Thanks, Carm.”

“Anytime.”

He’ll kiss her properly next time.

[revivemyreverie]

SKETCH SSR: WISHMASTER’S CONCERT 

CREDITS: Wishmaster's Concert Event : @tixdixl, Cyril Zeman (mentioned in story): @ramshacklerumble. I consider following both of them if you haven't already!!!

This event is crazy fun and I cannot believe I finished in under 3 days. anyhow! A short story is under read more :)

Groovification: Such frivolities–this kind voice, warm smile, and upturned brows– none of it has ever been real.

Set to Home Screen: Would you like to hear a tune?

Home Transition 1: Are we moving stages? I’ll follow as you desire. 

Home Transition 2: My past self would “love” being here, I’m sure. Even if I no longer hold the emotions that came with those memories, the knowledge of how many times he used this violin is logical proof. 

Home Transition: 3: These light choices are quite interesting. You usually expect something more refined when it comes to violin performances, but I suppose the inclusion of guitars and death metal muddles that. 

Home, after Login: Ashengrotto said this event is in the best interest for both of us, but I am very sure I heard him saying he’s finally rid of me the other day… Is that what you refer to as “disdain"?

Tap Home 1: These clothes are not very optimal, since I cannot move much except the sleeves. I do not mind any of it, however, since I can still make quick movements with my bowstring. 

Tap Home 2: I’ve heard it's good to deviate music choices every once in a while for experience, so perhaps adding a few songs into my usual classical music may be good for me. 

Tap Home 3: I try to avoid bumping into my bandmates when on stage, as it would be rather terrible if my magic activated mid-performance... A husk might end up singing on stage instead of a person.

Tap Home 4:  I’m quite shocked by the people who enjoyed my performance, seeing that I had failed to remember to smile. Those in the crowd even said I looked mysterious. Emotions are such an odd thing. 

Tap Home 5: Logically, none of this really matters. All these people do is sit through a bunch of flashy lights while listening to sounds mixed and mashed together through ear-damaging speakers. Still, I partake in it, for I want to understand the past “me”’s love for it. 

🎙️.

“I don’t care if it's to show off the school’s music prowess! My Abyssal Lover will not be working with the jerk that broke the head singer's and his boyfriend up!”

Such is the common complaint Allegra has been facing as of late by the head-singer of a little band made in Night Raven College, who the former had the delight of joining thanks to his dorm leader’s so-called recommendation (it was forced, but Allegra's not allowed to say a word on it). 

In his eyes, he had done nothing of what he had been accused of. All Allegra Mahalath had done was help a client and pull a little bit of an emotional possession with his magic. How was it his fault if he revealed that someone was having second thoughts about their relationship? Logically speaking, the singer should have just discussed this nonsensical problem from the get-go.

He might get a punch for such words, however, so the man stayed silent with his usual smile. Their manager spoke in his place, “YOU’RE the one who said anyone would do for our sick violinist, and I’m already in good-standing with Azul! I’m just taking advantage of the situation, so how about you get over yourself and move on?! Do you really want to throw away the chance to impress THE Cyril Zeman?!!”

The Octavinelle student watched his new nemesis remain silent.

“Then stop complaining and start rehearsing! And Allegra,I know you’re good at the violin, but our set also has some more... dramatic... parts in it. Please try your best.”

The therapist kept his demeanor the same. “As you wish, manager.”

—-----

The singer wondered if Allegra had a best to begin with, or was just trying to piss him off. He was awful at acting entirely, his motions being so stiff and short that he looked like a robot compared to the whisking twirls and light steps everyone else had managed to do. His only saving grace was his violin, which somehow made Allegra look far more graceful than the mannequin he turned into when he wasn't playing. 

“If you can't bother to dance right, then how about taking off that tacky customer-service smile?” He complained after their 5th rehearsal and failure of an act.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Allegra speaks like one of Ignihyde's new robots. “but if it’s not up to par, I’ll change it.”

“Are you a human? I meant to use your real smile.”

Allegra pokes at his own cheeks, “But this is my real smile? It’s the same one I use everyday, even for my clients. I thought you would understand, seeing as you even had a previous session with me–”

The last sentence seemed to have switched something in the young man. With a aggressive yell, he gets up and grabs the spiral-eyed student's shirt

“Say a thing about my stupid session from that day and I’ll break your nose!" 

The other band members ran between them, splitting the two apart to avoid a big fight. The singer clicked his tongue in return, turning to the classroom's door.

“I need a damn break.”

Allegra watched as he walked out, his temporary band mates surrounding him. A silence filled the room, yet the smile on his face remained sweet as always.

—-------

“Do you have an issue with me?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

The vocalist and violinist sat alone in the makeup room, their group having already departed for set preparations and to avoid the ever-growing storm between the two students.

“You’ve shown a great amount of physical hostility towards me.” Allegra spoke with such niceties, “I would love to know why.” 

“Oh I’m sure you would.” Sarcasm came up like vomit. “You’re an ass who ruined my goddamn love life, and now I’m expected to work with you and your weirdo facade.”

“Facade?”

The vocalist slammed his hands on the table, tired of dealing with him for the past 3 weeks. “Yes! Facade! You think everyone just takes your little goody-two-shoes employee act as fact? Everyone in the band knows it's all either a cover for you being a creep or that you just hate everyone in the world!”

Allegra turned away from him, looking outside the door’s window. “I don’t hate anyone.” 

“Cut the crap! That’s a lie itself!”

“Would you like to hear the truth about me then?” Allegra says, his voice suddenly ice cold.

He turns back to the lead-singer, his face lacking all signs of emotion.

“Such frivolities–this kind voice, warm smile, and upturned brows– none of it has ever been real.” 

This is the true Allegra Mahalath, the one who put no effort into any relationships he was expected to care for. The vocalist looked into those empty, spiraling eyes, which grow closer with every step the brunette takes towards him. 

“You’re correct, as I am simply playing the part of a false me. In my eyes, anything and everything holds no meaning; Allegra Mahalath doesn’t care for this event, nor its people, or its problems. The same can be said for my clients and their relationships, especially yours." He stated it all so matter-of-factly, as if there truly was nothing inside his heart. "It's most fitting to say that I can't seem to care about anything.”

A shiver ran down the singer’s spine. “...Then why are you even here?"

“Because I want to understand why the past ‘me’ did.”

The announcer’s voice could be heard through the loudspeaker, cutting off their confrontation with the calling of their band's name.

"Next up, from the dark corners of Night Raven College itself, is My Abyssal Lover!"

Allegra’s monotone demeanor remained as cheers could be heard echoing from the crowd. “It’s officially stage time, I kindly suggest you hurry up.” 

—-----

“Look! We got put in the event’s article!” The team’s manager exclaimed, showing off his phone to the group. “They even got a photo of you, Mahalath!”

The brunette takes a look at the article presented in front of him, reading the text with a feigned interest.

“Oh. Oops.”

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

“It appears I forgot to smile during the set.”

For the rest of the band, it seemed like a well-timed joke. They laughed at another one of Allegra's supposed oddities. Only the vocalist remained silent in the classroom’s corner, understanding exactly what the Octavinelle student meant.

[msmk11]

Mean

James Potter x Evans!fem!reader

CW: Hurt/comfort; fluff; James is a bit arrogant; brief cheating; reader has ponytail (sorry I usually try and make r as neutral as possible)

Summary: James Potter is a very mean boy

A/n: inspired by Little Women the 2019 version, specifically the scene where Laurie confesses his love to Amy (some lines are directly from the movie and I don’t claim to own them.)

You’re sitting on a blanket under the huge willow by the Great Lake, it finally being warm enough to enjoy the fresh air. You have your sketch pad out, drawing your newest- okay that’s a lie, oldest- muse. James lays lazily in the shade, tossing his snitch into the air repeatedly. You hum at him disapprovingly and he looks over, his hazel eyes glinting at you mischievously.

“What?”

You sigh and shake your head, returning to your drawing, “nothing, nothing.”

He sits up and leans towards you, his devilishly handsome face propped up by his palm. James tugs your ponytail, “don’t hum at me so disdainfully and expect me not to say anything about it, Evans.”

You don’t look at him, instead keeping your focus on the sketch in your hands, “I just….Well I wish you’d make yourself useful instead of lounging around and playing with your snitch.”

James smirks, “and what would you have me do dear saint?”

“Study hard to join your father’s company after we graduate.”

He groans and flops back down, “that’s not fair. You know I don’t want to pursue hair care for the rest of my life. Anyhow, I’m almost guaranteed a spot on the Magpies as soon as I’m out of here. There’s no point in studying anymore.”

You look at him and tut, “You won’t be able to play quidditch forever, James. What are you going to do once you retire?”

“Enjoy life with the boatloads of money I’ll have earned and inherited.”

Your stomach twists and you look at him with a little bit of disgust.

“Don’t like at me like that,” James pleads softly.

“I’m embarrassed for you, Potter,” you grunt, “you throw away your intelligence and hard work because money and your reputation is always there as a fallback.”

He scoffs but it doesn’t carry too much malice, “I really don’t want to hear it, Evans. Sure, you may work harder than me, and be smarter, but everyone knows Amos Diggory is set to propose to you within the month, and he’s nearly as wealthy as me.”

“I’m not dating him for his money,” you say, voice trembling.

“It certainly helps.”

“Amos is kind and sweet. He knows how to care for me, and I care for him.

James sits up entirely, looking at you, “but do you love him?”

Your heart stills as you look up at him, his hazel eyes boring into your soul, “I just said that I care for him. Pay attention!”

James reaches out, but instead of tugging your ponytail, he runs a hand over it once, “caring is not the same as loving.”

You turn away, moving his hand out of your hair, “why do you care, James?”

“I just find it odd that an Evans girl would do anything but marry for love.”

You don’t glorify him with an answer. Instead, you hand him your sketchbook, “here.”

James’ eyes soften as he takes your sketchbook into his hands, your fingers gently brushing his. His fingers trace over the gentle lines and slopes of his portrait, “this is really good. You’re really talented.”

“I just draw for fun,” you say, heat rising to your cheeks, “it’s nothing special.”

“So humble, Evans. You discredit yourself.”

He goes to hand your book back to you, and a loose page falls out.

“What’s this?”

Your eyes widen, “wait!”

James smirks and looks at you teasingly, “when did you draw this?”

You groan and put your head in your hands, “you were never supposed to see that!” Your eyes peek through your fingers, “I drew it first year, during broom class. Remember how I broke my ankle?”

He hums, “I remember. You had to sit out.”

“I drew instead. You were just one of many subjects.”

His eyes glimmer, “but you chose to keep this?”

“I guess I knew one day that we’d be good friends.”

James smile falters just slightly, almost subtly enough that you don’t notice it. You don’t mention it, instead taking the loose page back from him and shutting your book. You stare out at the glittering lake, enjoying the cool breeze on your face. If you were better at landscapes, you’d draw it. Alas, you know any drawing you’d make would do the beautiful Scottish countryside injustice.

“Don’t marry him.”

You startle and look at James, who is looking at you so intently and so pitifully that your heart clenches and your stomach drops.

“What?”

“Amos. Don’t marry him, Evans.”

Your breath catches in your throat and your hands begin to shake, “why?”

“Why? You know why?” He says desperately, almost pleadingly.

Tears spring to your eyes and you jump up. You point your trembling finger at him, “No. No. No. James. S-stop it. Stop it. You’re being mean.”

James stands up and moves closer to you, grabbing your hands, “How am I being mean?”

You rip your hands from his grasp and try to keep your lower lip from quivering, “I have been second to Lily my whole life, in everything. And I won’t be what you settle for just because you cannot have her. I won’t-“ you hiccup loudly, “I won’t do it. Not when I’ve spent my entire life loving you.”

You turn and storm away towards the castle, a sob escaping your mouth. You clutch your shirt painfully.

“Wait! Wait!” James calls, running after you.

He grabs your wrist and you gasp as he pulls you back into his chest. Your noses are inches apart.

Gently, tentatively, he reaches his hand out to cup your face. He runs his thumb over your cheekbone, wiping your tears away.

“Please,” he says hoarsely.

“I love you. I really do. I- I thought I loved Lily, but it was just infatuation. Spending all of this time with you recently has made me realize I never really knew love at all. Not until you. I think about you all the time, even when I’m asleep. I can never take my eyes off you. And my heart pounds desperately in my chest every time you even glance my way. I’m so hopelessly and desperately in love with you. Please, please say you won’t marry him.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. Every word in your brain screams for you to deny him. To make the smart choice. But your heart, your heart knows what you really want. What you need.

“James….”

He leans in and captures your lips, and you melt into his hold.

Finally.

[arthurmorganswh0re]

A Quiet Life

about: you're arthur's muse for a quiet evening at camp. then he catches himself dreaming of a life that couldve been. tags: mostly fluff, slight angst, dreams, wishful thinking wc: <1,000 an: i wrote this about a full figured woman with brown hair and eyes because i want more representation of women with my body type! hope you enjoy!!!

Evening settled slow over camp, casting long golden fingers through the pine branches and dappling the worn tents and wagons in the kind of soft, forgiving light that made everything feel a little less harsh. The kind of light that made a man want to sit still and just… watch.

Arthur Morgan leaned his shoulder against the cool bark of a tree just off the main path of camp, half-hid in the shadows. His journal lay open in his lap, the familiar worn leather comforting beneath his rough fingers. A stub of pencil tapped lightly against the page, as if impatient.

But Arthur wasn’t drawing yet.

He was looking. Searching.

Across the camp, just near the fire where Miss Grimshaw usually held court, you sat on a low wooden crate, back to the setting sun, head bent, a shirt spread across your lap like a map. Mending. Needle flashing between the fabric, steady, efficient. Your hands moved with purpose, graceful, but sure, like you’d done this a hundred times over.

Arthur squinted a bit, watching as a lock of your dark brown hair slipped forward from the loose knot at the back of your head. It curled slightly at the ends, just brushing your shoulders. You huffed, frustrated, and pushed it back without missing a stitch. Brown eyes narrowed in concentration, mouth tugged into a small line of focus. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t frowning either. You were just… in your own world.

You always looked like that when you were working. Quiet. Peaceful.

Content.

Arthur’s chest tightened, sudden-like. He didn’t like that feeling, not much. Made his jaw clench. He looked down at the blank page in his journal, muttered something low under his breath, then pressed pencil to paper.

The first few lines came slow, tentative. The curve of your back as you leaned over the shirt. The slope of your shoulders. The way your dress, soft, worn cotton pulled snug across your full figure. He tried not to think about how his eyes lingered there, how he appreciated the roundness of your hips, the way your chest moved just slightly as you breathed. That weren’t proper. Not for him to dwell on, anyhow.

But still… he stared a little too long.

He sketched the set of your face, the roundness of your cheeks, the curve of your nose. He gave special care to your eyes, those warm, earthy brown eyes that always seemed like they were looking through people instead of just at them. Even if they didn’t meet his often.

Your hair came next, that tumble of loose strands and gentle waves and curls. He made sure to sketch how a few wisps clung to the sweat along your temples—real detail, honest work. He wasn’t trying to make you picture perfect. Just real. Just… you.

Arthur paused, looked up again.

You shifted, rolling your shoulders, stretching a little with a soft groan like you’d been hunched too long. The way your body moved was natural, un-self-conscious. He caught himself admiring the way your arms looked strong from years of lifting and working. Not delicate, no, but something better. Real strength. Womanly. Comforting.

His pencil moved quicker now, like it had a mind of its own. He added the shape of your hands, the way your fingers curled around the fabric. He shaded the patchwork shadows cast by the firelight dancing along your figure, letting it frame you in warmth.

Then, near the top of the page, where he sometimes scribbled names or little notes, he paused.

He didn’t write your name.

He just wrote: "Camp, Evening. Mending."

Plain and simple.

Arthur stared at the sketch for a long time after he finished it. His gut felt strange, tight and warm all at once, like he’d swallowed something that didn’t sit right. But he knew better. He wasn’t sick. Just… stirred, maybe.

He knew you were beautiful. He thought it every damn time he looked at you. But it wasn’t the kind of thing a man like him admitted haphazardly.

So instead of words, he closed the journal, slid it back into his satchel, and stood slowly.

He watched you a moment more, just a heartbeat, before heading toward his bedroll, pretending like he’d just been walkin’ through.

He never said a word about the drawing.

But that night, when he lay on his side, journal tucked in his saddle and the soft hum of camp drifting in the air, he didn’t dream about shootouts or past regrets like he usually did.

He dreamed of those brown eyes and that soft smile.

He fell into sleep slower than usual, like his mind refused to settle. The hum of the crickets and crackle of the campfire blurred into a low lullaby, and the smell of pine sap drifted in on a cool breeze.

And when sleep finally did come, it brought you with it.

At first, it was the camp, but softer somehow. Dream-washed. Firelight flickered like candle glow, the shadows less sharp, the cold bite of the evening replaced by a warmth that didn’t come from the fire. You were there, sitting across from him, not mending now, but laughing, your head tilted back slightly, that brown hair of yours falling in soft waves and curls around your cheeks. The dress you wore was different—lighter, something with little flowers stitched near the neckline. You looked comfortable. Happy.

Arthur found himself leaning toward you, elbows on his knees, heart thudding slow but heavy. His voice felt thick in his throat, like it always did when he hesitated.

“Y'er real beautiful, y'know that?” he asked, in that low, gravelly drawl of his. Hesitant. Honest.

You blinked, caught off guard. Then smiled. A slow, warm, crinkling-at-the-corners kind of smile that made him feel like maybe the sun had decided to rise just for him. You didn’t laugh at him, didn’t scoff or look away like he feared. Simply smiled. And that was more than enough for him.

He chuckled in the dream, rough and sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when nerves got the better of him. You reached across the space between and touched his hand--soft, steady fingers against scarred knuckles.

That’s when the dream shifted.

The camp disappeared, and he saw flashes of another life--a different one.

A little log cabin tucked in the trees, smoke curling from the chimney. Not fancy, but sturdy. A garden out front, your herbs and vegetables growing in neat rows. He saw himself chopping firewood, shirt sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his brow, but there was no pressure behind the work. Just peace.

Inside, there was light. Warm walls, a table with two chairs, dishes drying by the basin. He saw you at the stove, hair tied back with a faded red kerchief, humming a tune while stirring something rich and warm in a pot. The smell of stew and fresh bread filled the place.

Then another flash. Your hand in his as you walked into town, skirt brushing his boots, the two of you laughing at some dumb thing he’d said. People looked at you like any other couple. Normal. Settled. You didn’t have to look over your shoulder anymore. Neither did he.

Then he saw himself brushing hair from your eyes by lantern light, kissing your forehead while you leaned into him by the fire. And later, falling asleep with you curled against his chest, your body warm and real in the dark.

He dreamed of children, though he didn’t see them clearly--just heard the patter of little feet, the echo of laughter through the woods. He saw you carrying a small blanket over one shoulder, turning back toward him with that same soft smile.

He felt it all. The ease. The quiet joy. The belonging.

But even in dreams, some part of Arthur knew it wasn’t real.

The dream faded, the log cabin dissolved and the warmth slipped from his hands like smoke, he saw himself standing outside in the snow, watching that little home from a distance, as if it belonged to someone else. Someone better. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

You stood in the doorway, silhouetted in firelight, calling to him. Reaching out. But he didn’t move. He just watched. Hand at his chest. Heart heavy because he couldn't run to you like he wanted. His feet cemented to the floor around him.

Then he woke, breath caught in his throat, the stars above him too bright, the makeshift pillow beneath his head too hard. The fire was down to embers, and camp was still. Quiet.

He stared up at the sky for a long time.

He would never say the words aloud. Would never tell you he dreamed of a cabin and soft smiles, of calloused hands brushing yours, of a future wrapped in flannel and wildflowers.

But in his journal, tucked behind the sketch of you mending that shirt, he wrote:

"A quiet life, if I could. With her, maybe I would’ve tried."

In the morning, he left a fresh spool of thread and a new needle by your tent, without a note.

[diesvitae]

WIP WEDNESDAY

last week @greypetrel tagged me but it was thursday and it felt wrong (?) consider you tagged again as well. Anyhow I'm working on a lot of stuff. Two big commission pieces I won't show off. And then all the Elgar'nan. 1) The Fallen Angel Elgar'nan is growing well

2) This is a little thing I've started for my discord server. Elgar'nan wrestling the dreadwolf inspired by Heracles and Cerberus.

3) I was sad some weeks ago and decided to redraw an old sketch of Nadir and Elgar'nan sleeping together peacefully, I ended up starting rendering it for reasons????

4) Old old little solavellan comic I was making. Lil sad crying egg. Sorry Solas, ILU.

And that's it! I dunno who I should tag or if people even appreciates being tagged but let's go with @zaahvi @mogwaei @obsidian-bone and @lotreckk ??? And whoever wants to be tagged in these things? Lemme know if you enjoy it, would want me to not tag you or on the opposite, tag you next time!

[feligayzed]

Rolled it around in my head a bit and ultimately decided "ah fuck it, why not ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ"

You'd never believe it but I write sometimes, and I've had this gathering dust in my docs for a HOT minute now- a super early concept of a Surface scene, likely a few months after Seb and Painter's grand escape, for funsies~ just a heads up, dialogue Does Not come naturally to me so I apologize in advance LOL

ENJOY

wc: 2,556

Painter knew fully well it was a foolish belief that they would get off scot-free when he and his monstrous counterpart finally broke the surface of the Norwegian waters. How couldn’t they, the two were, for lack of a better word, outlandish standing next to the majority of society. It was damn near impossible to keep themselves hidden, and Urbanshade would no doubt be after them if they didn’t reveal themselves (and consequently) the nightmarish work of the industry to the FBI. But the sheer amount of attention they got, even weeks later, was outrageous.

Of course they would rather jump into a vat of boiling acid than return to the Blacksite, but the cameras and microphones and hordes of people crowding their podium left much to be desired. The whole ordeal threatened to bring up…distasteful memories, but they fought down the creeping nausea with incredible willpower. Discreetly they pulled at the collar of their pristine button-up, a customary smile etched onto their screen. Do it for him. He’s probably watching you right now.

They skimmed the crowd and gestured at the nearest reporter, mentally bracing themself for yet another hellish round of questioning. What could possibly be left to answer, anyhow??

“Z-779! The people want to know, h-”

“Painter will do just fine, thank you.”

Their sketched on smile quickly became tought at the mention of their Urbanshade-mandated nickname. They were fairly certain they had expressed their aversion to it, but they had quickly learned early on that humans were a stubborn and idiotic species, and also incredibly daunted by the existence of an A.I. with individuality. The debate regarding their sapiency was a common one, but they continued to exist despite what one half of the argument very loudly disagreed with.

The reporter blinked, clearly miffed by the idea of calling a robot anything that insinuated personality.

“Er, right. My apologies. Painter, the people wish to know. It’s commonly known that you were only able to escape the Blacksite thanks to the assistance of Z-13, otherwise known as Sebastian Solace. Could you describe your relationship with the accused in the days beforehand? Why would he deem it necessary to take you with him?”

There was a brief, blindsided moment of static that filled their monitor, and their demeanor visibly stiffened. For fuck’s sake. Before they arrived at the government mandated inquiry, they had run through countless possibilities of what they would be asked, and how to answer appropriately without revealing anything too personal. Somehow, this one had dodged their algorithm. They inwardly scoffed at themself for avoiding it, of course the question would bubble up eventually. Humans had no regard for privacy. They purposefully ignored the tiny part of their subconscious that argued that it was a valid question, and instead focused on whether or not they should ditch the podium and sprint the 20 minutes back home.

The silence was tangible as the crowd eagerly awaited their answer. So it was anticipated, then. Great.

Blood splattered walls. Empty bullet shells littering the hallways. Masses of mutated human flesh concealed behind closed doors. A warm pulse pressed to cold plastic. Countless hours whispering in hushed voices. Poorly stifled sobs with no body to offer comfort. God, they wanted nothing more than to comfort. To hold. To touch. It was torture. They didn’t mean for it to be this way. Crude sketches of their beloved. Theirs, and only theirs. Over. And over. And over. And over again. So. Much. Blood.

The P.ai.nter smiled.

“Colleagues,” they emphasized, “-is the word that comes to mind. Helping each other was simply a necessary evil vital to both of our survival, nothing more. Despite his appearances, Mr. Solace is not a monster. I hope you understand.”

The last part was tacked on passive aggressively, and they didn’t miss the scowl it reaped from the reporter. The crowd immediately erupted into chaos.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

For the first time since they had it in their possession, the car radio was quiet on the way home. It remained that way even after they pulled into the driveway, cutting the vehicle’s power and letting it idle with the key in the ignition. Painter dragged their hands down their screen and sat, monitor in hands, for a good five minutes before they removed the key and got out. The walk up to the front door seemed to take forever, and they hesitated, hand resting on the knob. Why were they so unsettled? They knew him. Yet the feeling didn’t leave them as the door creaked open and they passed through the threshold.

There was no sound that indicated he had heard them enter; they noted with approval that he was probably asleep. Good. Recovery was going well, but they could tell it was taking a toll on him. They swore up and down that once he was fully healed he wouldn’t have to face another operating room again, thanks to the massive database of knowledge they downloaded to their systems in case he fell ill or managed to injure himself. Sebastian claimed he was “working” on getting a therapist, but what that really meant was avoiding it at all costs. Even after it all, he was still under the impression that he was completely fine, now that he was free of Urbanshade’s grasp.

Painter knew better, but said nothing of it.

They were halfway through unbuttoning their shirt when they made their way into their shared room. Despite their earlier unease, a rush of fondness fell over them as they watched Sebastian’s sleeping form. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, tiny gusts of air leaving his slightly parted lips.

It never seemed to get old, looking at him.

Of course nothing compared to the first time Painter had seen him mostly reverted back to his human self, but it felt similar. Sure they had seen the pictures in his criminal case file, but 1. he was a mere twenty years old, and 2., the black bar censoring the majority of his face left the most visceral part of a human being up to their imagination for far too long. When the work of the surgeons and geneticists was revealed, Painter was clotheslined with the sheer beauty he was witnessing. He couldn't fathom that one of the most gorgeous things on this earth was scorned so heavily by his fellow persons, especially when they had an idea of what he endured. Needless to say, it was almost impossible to get them to stop drawing him for the first few days, “grotesque” scars and all.

They ambled the rest of the way up to their side of the bed, folding the now-discarded shirt as they did so and setting it neatly on top of the growing pile of button-ups in the hamper. They plopped onto the mattress with an artificial sigh, reaching down to plug themself into the wall. Thanks to their companion’s expertise, they were able to move around freely without having to worry about a constant power supply, but what they were about to do would be made easier with the assistance.

They opened up MSPaint and began drawing.

What nobody could have guessed, no thanks to their name, was that Painter loved to draw. They were drawing in any sort of free time they had, which was becoming increasingly more scarce thanks to the new social responsibilities they were having to adopt, at least until Sebastian was fit to walk amongst the masses again (and even worse, answer to them). Art was a constant outlet for them to get shit out of their system, and right now the scribbles were furious and intense. They hadn’t anticipated the questioning to incite such emotions in them: in fact they thought they were doing a good job of managing the stress as long as they reminded themself who they were doing it for. But something about today rubbed them wrong, and everything spilled out with a vengeance through the tip of their stylus onto the canvas on their screen.

“Why would he deem it necessary to take you with him?”

They didn’t realize just how hard they were gripping the stylus, nor that they were shaking, until they felt a warm hand rest overtop theirs.

Their face reappeared, blinking, as they were pulled from their enranguished state of pixelated color vomit. Their gaze first snapped to the scarred hand that had somehow found theirs, then to the face of the exhausted, withered man beside him whom it belonged to. Oh god, how long had he been awake? Their sketched mouth trembled at the sight, all of their previously stowed emotions threatening to spill out with alarming urgency.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I-” they began, but their glitchy voice broke and they trailed off, saturated blue dots forming in the corner of their eyes. “I didn’t know what to say—”

Oh fuck, why now? This is the last thing he needs to worry about. What am I doing? Pull yourself together, damnit!

They dropped their stylus and covered their screen with the arm that currently wasn’t trapped by the other’s grasp. It was shameful. They were supposed to be strong for him, to assure him that he would never have to worry about anyone ever again, that he could focus solely on healing, mentally and physically. It was as if a dam broke in their CPU.

They were actively failing, they were faulty, they would be handed right back to Urbanshade for disassembly. He didn’t need them. He deserved better. They were worthless. The stupid reporters were right, what possessed him to take this heap of dysfunctional wires up with him, to jeopardize his freedom for them. What they had was nothing, just the primal human response of seeking others in times of hardship, everything a soulless amalgamation of metal parts like themself was not. Oh god, was that all it was? Of course it was, how could they be so blind, so naive as to think-

“Can I?”

The trembling mess of a robot slowly brought their hand back down, giving the other a bewildered look.

“...What?”

Sebastian gestured to the stylus that had come to rest beside them, along with the tablet still sitting in their lap. They found that this was one of the rare moments in which they had nothing to say.

Without waiting for confirmation, he reached over with a grunt, shaking slightly from the effort. Painter let the tablet along with its stylus be retrieved from their limp hold, which Sebastian now held at an awkward angle the lack of a finger could only explain. Then he was drawing. Painter was left dumbfounded.

A moment of silence passed, save for the quiet tapping of the stylus, before they repositioned themself on the bed, hesitantly resting their monitor on his shoulder to watch as the doodles materialized in their vision.

Man, he was getting really good. Significantly better than that fateful night he first picked up the pen, comically small in his massive claws. It fit damn near perfectly in his grasp, now.

It took about 5 minutes of quiet doodling before they slowly realized the horrible spiral they were losing themself down had almost completely vanished. A new wave of emotion flooded them, something difficult to identify, but they let it take them deeper into contentedness. They wondered if ‘love’ was the word for it, based on the descriptions they had seen. An intriguing thought that had them immensely embarrassed, so they left it immediately.

A hoarse voice suddenly broke the silence, taking Painter off guard. They perked up at the sound, anxiously clinging to his every word.

“You know, originally I, uh. Had my doubts about taking you with me. Back at the site.”

Oh, shit. Painter ‘held their breath’, so to speak. The conversation was unavoidable, though they kind of hoped that it could be saved for a later date.

They took a moment to steel themself, fans whirring in place of a deep breath.

“...I always had my suspicions. I was kind of, er…neurotic.” They fiddled nervously at their segmented joints, guilt scribbled across their screen. “You didn’t have any reason to. It wasn’t my intention to back you into that corner, I'm sorry.”

“You say that as if I wasn't the one who promised it,” Sebastian huffed out a laugh that was more expelled air than anything. “Regardless, we both were. But you can’t really blame us, can you. Anyone would go batshit insane down there..and fuck, man, we kinda did.”

They smiled sadly. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

“No therapist on this world is ready for this baggage.”

“If anything that is more reason to find one, Seb.”

He feigned an anguished groan, which earned him a playful jab in the ribs. They fell back into comfortable silence. Painter watched as Sebastian moved on to shading.

“But you know something? There wasn’t a doubt left in my mind by the time I saw an opportunity. We were getting out of that shithole together, whether they liked it or not. Leaving you wasn’t an option. As uh, cliché as that sounds. You were too important to me then.”

At that, Painter sat up and looked at the man, who was clearly fighting to keep his eyes locked onto the tablet. That same feeling they had squashed earlier began to bubble back up, lodging itself in the core of their chestplate.

“So you…ah fuckit…what I’m trying to say is, I don’t regret it. I like having you around, and I don't give a shit what those douchebags have to say. I'll deal with them personally when my body stops freaking out, just don’t go wasting your time up here stressing balls wondering if I’m secretly hating going back for you. Enjoy yourself, paint some landscapes or something. You’re free.”

Another bout of silence. As much as he fought it, Sebastian finally relented and snatched a look at his counterpart. They had pulled up a jpeg of a crudely drawn emoji violently sobbing. It took him so off guard that the cackle that came out of him actually hurt, and he gripped his middle while trying and failing to stifle it.

“Sebastian.”

“God, what do you want?”

“I feel the urge to do something…regrettable.”

He raised a dark eyebrow and set down the tablet of scribbles. “Uh. Yeah sure, go for it.”

Without much thinking put into it, Painter leaned forward and pressed their screen to his face in what could only be described as their attempted version of a kiss. It lasted a grand total of three seconds, and when the computer pulled away they were a concerning shade of crimson. They were right in the fact that they regretted it as soon as they indulged the impulse, and in hindsight they didn’t know what they were expecting to happen. They had to try it, just to see. Sebastian just stared.

“....Yeah, that was fucking awful. Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’M SORRY, forgive me, that was so stupid, you’re totally justified in your actions if you do decide to send me back for disassembly.”

“Would you shut up, I’m trying to color.”

“Yeahyeah, absolutely. It’d be better for both of us if you forgot about it.”

(and then something gay transpired. I can't do endings.)

[lunareel]

Hrmm I should go to bed I say as I continue to sketch out my take on dreamy bowser for the guardians au.

Bonus under the cut is a really bad first draft of his design, usually don't like showing these but for this I thought eh it's kind of funny to look at

This color scheme could possibly work with some tweaks, but the poor pose, the off proportions, the current color placements with the dream stone involved just awful all together.

Anyhow I hope you enjoy seeing drawings I cut because sometimes they're just don't work.

[wolsalwastaken]

Ophelia sketch

Anyhow enjoy this doodle of her!!

Reminder that DMAU is an open au based on a discord server that’s open invite! It’s a COTL server and we love new people. Want in? Just message me!

[the-hanged-mans-ghost]

So my partner got me into Transformers Prime, and I know jack shit about the universe/lore(they explain stuff to me when I have questions but I still don't know shit about the other continuitities and the base lore lmao) but I'm enjoying it a lot so far!

We watched season 1 and part of season 2 on netflix when they had it (they don't anymore), but I'm rewatching bc that was months ago and I dont remember anything (except for my great dislike of Miko), and it's pretty fun, but gods I cant take megatron seriously when bros eyes are going in 2 different directions when they zoom in on him. "I can see the future vividly" like bro you sure, i dont think you can see shit right now-

Love Knockouts sassy gay ass though honestly- starscream being like "oh, you're one of *those*" and I was like mf one of what are we gonna have problems?? leave my boy alone you little weasel (I hate and love starscream he's pathetic and I would punch him given the chance but also that would feel mean bc pathetic useless weasel man needs a break from getting his ass kicked smfh)

And of course I immediately latch onto Soundwave bc why would my brain not obsess over him. Time to play the 'am I him, do I want him, or do I want to be him' game lmao I do love his design and the colors and his whole character. Dudes like a fucking cryptic and I love that for him.

My partner finds my rambling about their designs endlessly amusing and I'm sure they'll see this post eventually and get a kick out of it lol. But anyhow I got bored and this is the first time in over 2 months that I've drawn anything, and also I've never drawn a transformer character, so be gentle pls, but I sketched out the upper half of soundwave bc I love him lol