#fully rendered for like a year and a half

[silverlullabies]

Body Language

Summary: You weren’t subtle, Ghost just never said a word. Not when you stared too long. Not when your body gave you away. But when insomnia and nightmares drive you into the gym at 2AM, his patience finally snaps. What starts as a quiet training session turns into something darker, hungrier, and far more dangerous- because Ghost doesn’t need words to read you. He only needs body language. And yours is screaming.

Pairing: Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Tags: Smut (18+), porn with a plot, afab reader, piv, fingering, slow burn, praise talk, cream pie, dirty talk, minor violence, background canon compliance violence, my attempt at showing a British accent in writing needs to come with its own warning

A/N: One shot after three years of silence brought to you by seeing 661ave’s render of Ghost in work out gear. They’re single-handedly holding the COD fandom together with their bare hands. Thank you 🫡

You can’t sleep again.

Not that you’ve been able to sleep in days, weeks if you’re being honest to yourself. Not since your last op, the screams of the civilians still echoing in your mind every time you close your eyes. The dark seems to press back a little harder than it should lately, especially late at night, when the barrack walls are too heavy with silence that doesn’t let go, just wraps around your ribs and waits for your pulse to stutter.

So you gave up.

The gym is empty this time of night. Just you, your demons, and the fluorescent lights flickering as you hit the switch for the back corner set, not bothering to turn on the main lights. It’s enough for now as your wrap your knuckles in silence, breath steady.

And then you throw the first punch towards the heavy bag. It lands with a satisfying, muted thud. The bag sways, tilts, recoils. You follow it. Jab, hook, elbow, rinse, repeat. The rhythm is the only thing keeping your hands from shaking. Your knuckles throb, glove padding useless against the memory of blood on your hands that isn’t really there. You keep hitting anyway. Impact reverberates up your forearms, rattles your bones, drowns the screams beneath the satisfying thwack-thwack-thwack.

You don’t hear him come in.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley moves like a whisper on the air. One second you’re alone with the humming lights and the bag’s pendulum swing, the next his silhouette leans against the doorway, arms folded, balaclava skull half lit in jaundiced yellow, half swallowed by shadows. He stands there, observing, calculating. Maybe a little concerned but he’ll never admit it out loud.

Your fist stills mid jab. Breathing hard, sweat trickling down the dip of your spine, you force your shoulders to relax, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you startled, even though you’re sure he sees it anyway.

“Couldn’ sleep?” His voice is low gravel, roughened by too many cigarettes and too much war. It slides under your skin, pricks nerves already raw.

You shrug, adjusting a glove with your teeth. “Punching bag doesn’t ask questions.”

He pushes off the frame, steps fully into the ring of light. Wide shoulders, humid heat rolling off his body, dog tags clinking faintly against his sternum. He’s ditched the tac vest but kept the long sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms knit with corded muscles and old scares that catch the fluorescence like silver stitches.

You should look away. Really, you should. But your eyes betray you, dragging down to the thick curve of his wrists, to the broad span of hands hanging loose at his sides. His fingers flex once, idly, like he’s testing his grip, and your thoughts implode.

Jesus Christ, those hands.

You feel like a Victorian man catching sight of a naked ankle in a church. Mortally offended but spiritually undone.

Your mouth goes dry, your brain short circuits.

You wretch your gaze up, too fast, and end up locking eyes with him instead.

A mistake.

Because even behind the balaclava, those eyes pin you in place. Cool, dark enough to down in, and amused- like he’s already figured out exactly what you were imagining when you stared too long at his hands. His eyes slide slightly down to your neck, no doubt cataloging the twitch of your pulse beneath your jaw, the heat rising across your chest, and the way your breath stutters just slightly out of rhythm.

His head tilts, almost imperceptible, not quite a question, but not mercy either.

You swallow, hard.

He doesn’t smile, but something about the set of his shoulders shifts, like he’s just confirmed a theory he didn’t want to test out loud.

You’ve never really know what to call it. Not love; that would be too clean, too sharp. Love is loud, demanding, and needs to be spoken out loud to survive.

Whatever this is has lived in silence for months now. Buried deep and untouched, a kind of ache you carry around like shrapnel.

You don’t know exactly when it started. Maybe it was that op in Al Mazrah when Ghost took a bullet that should’ve been yours and didn’t say a god damn word about it. He just grit his teeth and kept moving like bleeding was another past time for him. Maybe it was that time he sat with you through a med bay detox, not saying anything, just there, a steady shape in the corner while your body trembled through the poison.

Or maybe it’s been happening longer, slower, like smoke curling from under the cracks of a locked door, unnoticed until the whole room smells like him and you can’t breathe without thinking of his voice in your ear.

It’s not lust, not exactly. You’ve had lust before and it always burns fast and dies ugly.

This is… quieter. Meaner. A steady hum under your ribs that makes itself known when he walks into a room, when he says your name, when his gloved hand brushes yours in passing and you feel it for the next twenty minutes like a brand.

You watch him when you shouldn’t, cataloguing stupid things. Like the way he cracks his neck before a mission. The exact way his fingers flex when loading a mag. The rare occasions he lets out laughs, low and startled, like it snuck up on him and he isnt’ sure what to do with it.

You know better, though. You’ve always known better.

Men like Ghost don’t have people. They have missions, protocols, locked doors, and exit strategies. Even when they want something, it’s always with a clock running somewhere in the background.

Still… sometimes you wonder.

Like when he lingers just a second too long in the hallway, watching you finish your gear check. Or when his voice goes soft- not gentle, never that, but quiet. Almost careful.

Like maybe he feels it too, whatever it is.

But no one talks about it and you’d never dare. The unspoken rule sits between you like a landline: Don’t name it. Don’t ruin it.

So you don’t.

You swallow it down, bury it beneath the mission briefings, the black coffee, the broken ribs and bloodied hands and long nights pretending that you don’t dream about him.

You pretend your heart doesn’t pound when he says your call sign like a question he already knows the answer to. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter and you don’t look for him when the chopper touches down. You pretend this isn’t eating you alive.

And maybe it’s working.

Until it’s 2am, when the lights are off and the nightmares creep in, and you find yourself in the gym again, bleeding energy into the bag just to feel something.

“Yer droppin’ yer left shoulder.” His voice scrapes low. “Every time you throw a hook, you telegraph it.

You blink at him before dryly responding, “Thanks, LT.”

He doesn’t respond, just lifts a hand- god that hand- and gestures loosely towards the bag. “Again.”

You hesitate, just long enough for him to notice and narrow his eyes slightly.

You turn, force your limbs into motion before he can read too much into your delay. You throw the combo. Jab, cross, hook. Your shoulder drops again, just a fraction.

You know it the second his hand touches you. Not hard, no rough, just a firm press against your shoulder blade, fingers curling over the ridge of your scapula, guiding the motion.

“Here,” he says. “Kee’ it up. Tight’r rotation.”

His palm is warm, heavy. He smells like the shitty standard issue military soap everyone uses and like smoke and the kind of heat you don’t come back from. Every nerve ending along your spine lights up and your mouth is suddenly dry again. He’s standing behind you now, body angled just slightly towards yours, close enough to feel the twitch of muscles through the damp cotton of your shirt, close enough that you could lean back half an inch and rest against his chest.

You don’t but only barely.

He steps away without a word and it’s somehow worse than if he’d stayed. You exhale slow, chest too tight, stomach fluttering. He circles, slow predator’s orbit, boot shivering over rubber flooring.

You throw another hook and this time, it lands right.

“Bette’,” he says, voice low.

You don’t dare turn around, not yet, because if you do, you might meet his eyes again, and if you meet his eyes again, he might see too much.

And if he sees too much you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep pretending this is about training anymore.

“Good. Now try tha’ on me,” he says, tone unreadable behind the mask.

Silence blooms, thick, electric. Somewhere a vent rattles, clangs in the distant darkness of the free-weight section. Your pulse won’t settle, leftover adrenaline, and now something slower, deeper, coils low.

He nods at the bag. “S’ I can view y’ from a differn’ perspective. S’not good t’ only view y’ from one angle.”

You huff a dry laugh but square up. You throw a jab and he catches your wrist mid-air, redirects the angle, heat of his palm branding through your wraps.

“Keep yer elbow in,” he murmurs, stepping close so the words ghost across the shell of your ear. “Wastin’ power othe’wise.”

You correct, throw again, and he approves with a quiet grunt. The warmth of his body brushes yours as he adjusts your stance- tapping a knee with his boot, nudging your hip into alignment. Every contact is brief, clinical, but it sparks beneath your skin like flint against steel.

“Nigh’mares?” He asks finally.

You exhale through pursed lips, continue punching as he continues redirecting. “Same old reel.”

He doesn’t pry. Ghost respects the weight of silence and unspoken things. God knows he carries enough on his own. Instead, he moves behind you, redirects you back to the bag, hand pressed against your lower back, guiding your rotation as your drive a hook into the bag. His breath, hot and steady, fans the sweat-damp hair at the name of your neck.

“Bet’er,” he says again. “Feel tha’ powe’ travel from th’ floor, through the hips, out your fist.”

You nod, throw the combo again. The bag jerks hard on its chain, a spatter of dust shakes free from the ceiling like fine ash.

Minutes tick by in measured violence. He remains close, calloused fingertips occasionally skimming your forearms, your ribs, correcting form with a murmured “good” that sends a pulse straight through to your core. Your awareness narrows: the bag, his voice, your jittery heartbeat syncing to the rhythm he sets.

Sweat slicks your skin, soaks the tank clinging to your torso. The room feels smaller, hotter. His presence crowds it further, tall and disciplined. At some point he peels off his long sleeved shirt, leaves only a charcoal tee that stretches over his shoulders and leaves veins ridging down his forearm. You pretend not to notice and he certainly notices you pretending.

You finally sag back, breath ragged. Ghost reaches past you, steadying the bag as it sways. Your bodies almost touch, heat bleeding across the sliver of space, and for a suspended heartbeat neither of you moves. His thumb strokes the canvas and your gaze tracks the motion, mesmerized by the flex of tendons, the rough leather creaking under pressure.

You force the words past dry lips. “Appreciate the lesson, LT.”

His dark eyes, partially hidden through the skull-etched mesh, drag over your face. Down your throat. To the rapid rise of your chest. “Lesson’s no’ finished.”

He gestures to a sparring area off to the side.

Your pulse kicks.

You know his reputation. Ghost dismantles his opponents like faulty machinery. He’s efficient and ruthless and in an entirely different league. You’re certainly nowhere near his level in combat. But tonight, his posture is different, patient and inviting, as though he’s offering a language only the two of you speak, all impact and proximity, no translation needed.

“You sure?” You ask, voice thinner than you’d like.

He cocks his head. “I go easy.”

You snort. “You don’t do easy.”

His eyes crinkle. “Then ye’ll keep m’ honest.”

You strip the remaining glove, step onto the mat. Sweat cools into the draft from the AC vent, raising goose flesh along your arms. Ghost mirrors you, barefoot now, mask still on- always on, that final barrier he never lowers.

You circle, breath and heartbeat and the soft pad of feet. He feints and your gaze tracks the parry. Each tap of contact transfers static, as though the air between you is charged with something volatile. A brush of his forearm against your ribs leaves a hitch in your inhale. A sweep of your leg around his calves makes him grunt, low approval that vibrates through your chest.

Minutes melt. The dance tightens, closer, sharper. You catch his wrist, twist; he counters, pivots behind you in a fluid blur, arm looping around your middle, pinning your back to his chest. For a beat, you both freeze, locked in slick heat, your breath panting into silence. The seam of his tee is damp beneath your palms and you feel his heart hammer through it, matched to yours like twin metronomes ticking towards something inevitable.

“Yield?” He murmurs voice rough velvet.

The word pools hot in your stomach.

You shift, testing his hold. His arm tights across your abdomen. You spine arches and his breath skates down the curve of your neck. Every nerve spirals tight, humming the same note as the fluorescent lights overhead.

You could surrender. Let the tension break. But slow burn demands patience and you have just enough left to savor this torture.

With a sharp twist of your hips, you slip free, spinning to face him. Your chest almost collides and his hands shoot out, one catching your elbow, the other settling at the base of your throat, thumb resting where your pulse drums frantic.

“Not yet,” you whisper, voice caught somewhere between your chest and your tongue.

His eyes darker, something molten simmering beneath that skeletal facade. Thumb strokes once- silent promise, silent threat- and your breath hitches, standing inside that radius of him, all heatwave of muscles and shadow and command. The both of you breathing the same air, shallow and uneven, your pulse a staccato rhythm beneath his thumb. His grip isn’t tight. Not restrictive. But it’s there. Anchoring. Possessive. A quiet claim wrapped in the pretense of contact.

Your eyes lock. Neither of you speak.

Not because there’s nothing to say but because anything said right now would set the room on fire.

His palm shifts barely, just enough for his fingers to brush your jaw. A drag of rough leather against fevered skin. Your breath catches again his gaze dips once to your mouth.

You feel the moment he almost moves, the flex in his grip, a near invisible lean forward. Like gravity’s made the decision for him.

But he stops.

You feel the restraint thrumming through him like taut wire, coiled and desperate. And it hurts, somehow, to be this close, to want this much. To feel the weight of him pressing into your orbit and know neither of you will touch the match to the kindling.

His thumb sweeps again across your throat, slower this time, like he’s memorizing the beat. Like he needs to remember what your pulse feels like when he has your caged and shaking and completely still.

You swallow, throat bobbing beneath his touch. “You’re not fighting fair.

His voice drops to a rasp, low enough that it’s barely audible. “Neithe’ are you.”

Your brows furrow but he doesn’t let you answer. Doesn’t give you the space to pivot or retreat.

Instead, his hand at your throat shifts, fingertips ghosting up your jaw, the pad of his thumb training under your chin until you’re looking at him again, trapped in the furnace of his gaze.

And then soft, clinically, as if this is a debriefing and not a moment poised on the knife’s edge of collapse, he speaks, “Y’ ever study body language?”

Your brows pull together again, pulse thundering in your ears. “What?”

“Learned t’ rea’ it before I learned t’ shoot,” he says, voice like a slow drag of a knife across silk. “E’ery twitch. E’ery breath. People telegraph their next move withou’ even realizin’ it.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, not enough pressure to part it, just enough to make you feel it. To make you ache.

“Shoulders roll fo’ward, means they’re bracin’. Heel lifts before a punch. Breath holds before a lie.”

His other hand lifts. You don’t notice when he moves it, just feels it. Low, skimming your hip, fingers settling just above your waistband like he’s still correcting a stance. You can’t think.

“Hands,” he murmurs, watching yours shake slightly at your sides, “Tremble when they want somethin’ they’re n’t allowe’ t’ take.”

You can’t swallow.

He moves closer, a shift in weight that presses his hips against yours, his chest against your sternum, the full breadth of him pinning you like a shadow made of fire.

“An’ pupils,” he says, deep and dark. “Blow wide when they’re starv’d.”

You blink up at him, eyes no doubt blown wide like he just said.

“I’m not-,” you start, but your voice betrays you, cracking on the first word like your throat forgot how to function.

He tilts his head.

“No shame in it,” he says low. “Y’ wan’ something’, y’ wan’ it. Doesn’t make y’ weak.”

He leans in, breath warm against your ear now, lips barely brushing the edge of it. “Jus’ means I know where t’ hit.”

The hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging in slightly, just enough to make your stomach twist. Just enough to say I see you. I know what you’re thinking. I know what you want. I know what you need.

When he pulls back enough to look at you again, there’s something new in his eyes, darker than before. Shaper. Hungry. Promising.

Your mouth is dry, your body is burning.

You don’t speak, you can’t. Not with his breath on your cheek and his hands on your body and his voice still echoing inside of you like the tail end of a detonation.

Your chest rises fast and shallow, breath ghosting against his thumb on your lip.

He watches you, quietly, patiently, like a man who already knows the outcome but wants to hear you say it anyway.

“I can rea’ you,” he murmurs again, his voice vibrating through your sternum. “Y’ think you’re subtle. But y’ look at me like I’m the fuckin’ answer t’ a question yer too scared t’ ask.”

Your lips part and his thumb lingers.

“Say it,” he adds, tone turning sharp- command tucked into velvet.

You don’t know what he means. You do, but your mouth won’t cooperate. Your mind is a blur of heat and need and aching restraint, too full of him to form a proper thought.

“Please,” you whisper. It breaks between your teeth, raw and breathless. Not a sob, not a moan. Something caught somewhere in between, pleading and desperate.

His hand leaves your jaw but you don’t get the chance to miss if because the heat of his hand cups the side of your throat again, not squeezing, just holding. Just letting you feel the strength of him, the control.

He tilts your head up just enough to bare your throat.

“Use yer words,” he says.

You swallow again. “I-“

Your voice falters, his grip doesn’t.

“I want-,” You start, and it’s too much, your body trembling beneath his, thighs pressed tight together, skin flushed and slick with sweat and something heated dripping its way out of you.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “God, I want you.”

There’s silence. Not long, but just long enough to make your heart crash against your ribs like a live grenade. Just long enough to think maybe you’ve gone too far, maybe you’ve imagined all of this, maybe he’s going to step back and-

He moves.

It’s not gentle or rushed, but it’s sure.

He steps in fully, one hand sliding down to the curve of your ass, dragging you against the hard line of him, the other curling up around the back of your neck, under the sweat-slicked strands of your hair. His mask presses against your cheek as he exhales sharp against your eat, and the sound that leaves him is feral, deep, guttural- something that sounds like it’s been locked behind his teeth for weeks.

“Y’ have no fuckin’ idea,” he growls, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you.”

Your kneels buckle and he catches you, of course.

Hands everywhere now- at your hips, your spine, your jaw, your throat.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, “Say stop an’ I will.”

“Please.” You beg, rolling your hips against his. “Don’t stop, please.”

His hand fumbles at his mask, drags it up just enough to bare his mouth and then he’s on you, heat and pressure and need crashing into you like a detonation set off point blank.

His lips slam into yours, hot, demanding, ruthless in the way they claim. There’s no softness, no gentle exploration. Just teeth. Tongue. A low growl vibrating in his throat as he devours every inch of you he can reach like restraint was a cage and you just gave him the key.

You gasp against him, and he takes it as invitation. His hand on your waist tightens, dragging your hips flush against his, the thick, unmistakable pressure of him grinding into you through your sweat damp clothes. The other hand fists in your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can kiss you deeper, rougher, his mouth parting yours with the kind of force that leaves your knees shaking.

You moan, quiet and wrecked into the heat of him, and he swallows it greedily, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make your breath hitch, mouth hot and open and relentless, like he wants to taste every part of you he’s been denied.

You feel his tongue sweep into your mouth, tangling with yours, messy and consuming. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, arms, the damp fabric of his shirt stretched tight over his back. You cling to him like you might drown if you let go.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to growl, “Fuckin’ finally,” before diving back in, kissing you harder, more brutal now, like you’ve both lost the plot entirely. Like the sparring, the training, the months of barely-contained tension were all just foreplay to this.

Your back hits the wall- you’re not even sure how he got you there- but you’re grateful for the support because your legs are done. He presses into you, a wall of heat and sinew, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up, lifting you just enough to hitch your legs around his waist.

He grinds against you once, dragging a broken sound from your throat when you feel his thick bulge press against your core. His mouth tears from yours, only to press hot, open kisses along your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like th’t for weeks,” he mutters against your throat, voice ragged. “Walkin’ around like y’ don’t know what you’re doin’. Teasin’. Taunting.”

“I wasn’t,” you breathe, barely coherent, rocking your hips against him, lost in the drag and friction and heat.

“Liar,” he growls, catching your earlobe between his teeth before kissing you again, rougher than before, almost punishing, almost worshipful.

The sound your bodies make is obscene. Damp desperate friction against the walls, the wet slap of hips grinding, dragging against the thin barrier of clothes that aren’t doing a damn thing to hide what you both want.

Ghost’s hand fists in the back of your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch, to press your chest against him, open and plaint. His mask is still on and that somehow makes everything worse. Or better. You don’t know. Can’t think. Not with the way his cock presses against you, thick and heavy through both your clothes, rutting slow, relentless, unforgiving.

“Y’feel th’t?” He grits out, voice rough. “Th’s what y’ do t’me. Y’ wind me up, brat. Y’ ask for it, over and over, actin’ like you’re innocent.”

His hips grind into you again, slow, brutal, a drag of heat and pressure that forces a gasp from your throat. His grip tightens in your hair as he leans in, mouth dragging the mesh of the mask across your cheek, rough fabric scraping hot over sensitive skin.

“Y’think I don’t see it?” he growls. “The way y’look at me like you’re starvin’. The way your thighs press together when I walk past. The way y’hold your breath when I touch you in trainin’—like you’re hopin’ I’ll notice.”

You whimper, hips canting toward him, needing more, needing everything. But he’s not done. Not even close.

“I’ve seen it all,” he rasps. “The flushed cheeks. That pretty little lip caught between your teeth like it’s the only thing keepin’ you quiet. Pupils blown so wide I could see myself in them. Every time I got close, your body sang for me. Begged.”

His hand releases your hair, sliding down the curve of your back to grab your ass, dragging you harder against him until the air is punched out of your lungs. His cock presses into the soaked seam of your leggings now, heavy and hot, and you can’t even pretend you’re not dripping for him.

“Don’t pretend y’ didn’t know what y’were doin’. Wearin’ those tight little workout pants. Bending over just so when y’ knew I was behind you. Touchin’ my arm when y’didn’t need to.”

He kisses your neck open, wet, relentless, and then bites, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make your hips jerk.

“Y’ wanted my attention?” he growls, voice wrecked, breath like fire against the shell of your ear. “Y’ve got it.”

Your head falls back with a broken moan, and he follows, tongue flicking along your throat before his teeth scrape again, grounding you in sensation.

“Was ne’er subtle, sweetheart,” he says roughly. “Y’walked around like an open fuckin’ book. An’ now I’m readin’ every damn page.”

Every nerve ending lights up, your thighs clenching around his hips, bucking up, grinding, desperate for friction, for pressure, for the brutal relief only he seems to know how to give.

He doesn’t let up. One hand at your throat, thumb stroking just beneath your jaw as his weight cages you. The other hand dips low, slides past your waistband, finding the soaked heat waiting for him. They slide through slick folds, and when he pushes two inside without warning, your back bows clean off the wall.

“Already soaked f’me,” he murmurs. “An’ I haven’t even fucked y’ yet.”

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out, just a sharp exhale, a gasp caught somewhere between surrender and shock. Your body jerks against him, back arched, legs tightening around his waist like a vice. His fingers curl inside you, unrelenting, stroking deep and slow like he has all the time in the world to pull you apart one tremble at a time.

“Fuck,” you breathe, head thudding back against the wall. Your hands scramble against his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can grip. “Ghost-”

He thrusts his fingers again- harder this time, deeper- and your words dissolve into a moan that shatters in your throat.

“No,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your neck, voice gravel and grit. “Y’don’t get to say my name like that, like yer surprised. Like y’ didn’t fuckin’ beg for this with every breath.”

He crooks his fingers just right and your vision flares white at the edges. Your hips buck helplessly, chasing it, grinding against the heel of his palm where it presses hard against your clit. You’re soaked, slippery, pulsing, broken open, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows it from the way your legs shake. From the way your breath hits high and ragged.

“Been thinkin’ about this for months,” he mutters, lips dragging over your jaw, wet and hungry. “Can’t fuckin’ sleep withou’ seeing y’. Fuckin’ perfect, smilin’ like you don’t know what y’ do t’ me. Drove me mad, wantin’ you like this. Starvin’ for it.”

His fingers fuck into you faster now, rhythm brutal, precise. Your body’s a live wire, nothing but static and slick, the wet sounds obscene in the empty gym. His mask is still up just enough for his mouth to ravage your throat, your jaw, his teeth scraping across your collarbone as he groans low and dark.

“Y’look so pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Fucked out. Soaked. Chasin’ my hand like a needy little thing.”

Your thighs are shaking now. The pressure building in your core is unbearable, desperate, so close you’re trembling with it.

“Ghost,” you gasp, eyes fluttering, hips rolling helplessly against him.

He growls against your skin, tongue flicking over your pulse point.

“Y’gonna come on my fingers?”

You nod, wild, wrecked, too far gone to pretend. He slams his mouth to yours, rough, messy, and devouring and crooks his fingers again, rubbing tight and fast over your clit until your entire body snaps.

You come with a strangled cry, breaking apart in his hands, every muscle going taut before unraveling completely. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re sobbing into his mouth, hips twitching from oversensitivity, slick dripping down your thighs.

He only pulls back when you collapse fully into him, chest heaving, eyes glassy.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick, breath heavy. “Did so fuckin’ good f’me.”

Your legs are still trembling when he peels them from around his waist and lowers you to the floor, slow and controlled, like he’s handling something breakable. Which is ironic, considering he’s already wrecked you.

The mats are cold against your back, a stark contrast to the fever rolling off his body as he kneels between your thighs, dragging his fingers up your inner leg and spreading you open like a promise he’s waited too long to cash in on, tugging your ruined leggings down your legs, damp fabric sticking to your skin with every slow, torturous inch.

You open your mouth to speak or maybe to beg or maybe to breathe but it’s too late. He shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, and God, he’s massive. Thick and heavy, flushed dark with need, the head already slick with pre cum. Your body clenches, aching, desperate even after everything he just gave you.

“Look at you,” he mutters, stroking himself once, slow, watching the way your thighs twitch. “Still twitchin’ f’me. Still open and drippin’. Y’ready?”

You nod, frantic.

“Words,” he growls.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please, Ghost—”

“Fuckin’ perfect.”

And then he pushes in. No warning. No teasing. Just one long, brutal thrust that stretches you to the point of pain, and your head snaps back against the mat with a cry. He fills you completely, all the way, hips grinding into yours until there’s nowhere else to go, until you feel him in your throat.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice shattering against your skin. “Tighter than I imagined. Grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

He pulls back and slams in again, harder and deeper and your whole body jolts, a fresh moan breaking from your throat as his cock drives into that spot that makes your legs spasm.

“God, y’ feel good,” he hisses. “Like y’ were made fer me.”

His hands grip your thighs, forcing them wider, locking you down as he fucks you hard and fast, balls slapping against your ass with punishing rhythm. You’re already close again, your body overstimulated, raw, nerves fried and still screaming for more.

“Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ around with this little cunt beggin’ for me,” he grits out, leaning over you now, chest brushing yours, voice breaking. “Coulda had anyone, but y’ wanted me, didn’t you?”

You nod again, tears pricking your eyes. “Yes-fuck-yes.”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Mine now. This fuckin’ body- mine.”

He shifts, bracing one hand beside your head, the other slipping under your lower back, lifting your hips to meet every savage thrust. It punches sound out of you, broken sobs mixed with moans, your body trembling on the verge again.

“Gonna come again,” he murmurs, watching your face. “I feel it. Y’can’t stop, can you? Already spent, and still so greedy fer my cock.”

You try to speak, but your voice shatters.

His thumb finds your clit again and rubs, fast, firm, and ruthless and your entire body breaks. You come again with a scream, muscles locking, everything going white behind your eyes as your pussy clenches down around him, pulling him deeper, tighter, desperate to keep him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost growls, rhythm breaking, voice ragged and feral. “You’re gonna make me—shit—”

One last thrust, brutal and deep, and he buries himself to the hilt as he comes, hot and thick, pulsing inside you in heavy waves, his breath a rough growl against your throat. You can feel it, every twitch, every spill of heat inside you, claiming you from the inside out.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just stays there, pressed deep inside you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other cradling the curve of your hip, as if to say mine again and again, without ever speaking.

Your body’s wrecked. Slick and trembling. But his touch is soft now, possessive, reverent. His fingers trail over your skin like he’s memorizing it, like he wants to make sure you remember who did this to you.

“Good girl,” he breathes, lips brushing your temple. “Took me so well. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You can’t respond. You’re gone. Fucked out, mind empty, body singing with aftershocks.

But he doesn’t need a response.

Because your body already gave him the only answer he ever wanted.

[tears-of-xion]

A lonely moment, away from the party.

What is she thinking of, I wonder?

-

Please do not use or re-post my artwork without my permission. Thank you!   (reblogs, however, are welcome and appreciated)

I do not own Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir, nor it’s characters. All rights to their owners.

[izuinein]

small unfinished doodle :) okay this is Not a doodle but. yknow what i mean

[astronomalyy]

Thinking about the lifespans of Dungeon Meshi elves... The fact that they're completely unnatural alters my brain chemistry, because you can tell just how haphazardly the demon implemented their wish. They live five times the length of tall-men, so they age at a fifth of their rate. It's simple maths and the implications are terrifying. No wonder their birth rate and population are declining - their early development is so slow that at the age of two, they're still unable to stand.

They don't reach adulthood until their eighties. What does the infant mortality look like? How many elves succumb to illness or injury before they're fully mature? It only takes one accident to lose the child you've been raising for decades - and could you bring yourself to care for another? Add to that the implication elf culture has no idea how to process grief... just look at the way the Canaries treat Rin after the death of her parents. They're callous and insensitive and detached - part of that's racism, but there's also an element of pure cold ignorance. They don't even recognise the emotion on her face.

And that's just scratching the surface... does elven memory accommodate their extended lifespan? Once you reach two hundred or so, do the years start blurring together? Kabru mentions that their temporal awareness is remarkably poor.

Two years feel like a few months. Their lives are longer but not fuller. They're older but not wiser than the short-lived races, and most refuse to understand this. Those that do grasp it are interesting - namely Otta, who's ostracised for pursuing half-foot women.

A 30-year old elf is a young child; a 30-year old half-foot has entered middle age. Otta is in the equivalent of her late twenties. She knows that her elven lifespan makes her no more mature than a half-foot - but she also acknowledges that it creates a rift between herself and her partners, and not just in the eyes of society. 'She dumps them as soon as they pass 30', but probably not for the reasons Lycion assumes. For this to be a pattern, decades must have passed - it's possible Otta doesn't want to watch them die as she herself barely ages. No doubt some of her previous lovers have already passed away. In the end, all living 400 years accomplishes is leaving them out of sync with the rest of humanity.

Marcille's perhaps the best example. As a half-elf, she's got 95% of her life ahead and the thought terrifies her. She's going to lose everyone she loves, over and over and over again, and this cycle has barely even started. She runs at a different pace. This context adds so much to her dynamic with Falin in earlier chapters.

Marcille loves her! She's scared for her! Maybe even of her! She's grown attached to a short-lived girl who she met as a kid when Marcille was a teaching assistant! Biologically and developmentally, they're the same age, but chronologically she's twice as old as Falin! Considering what happened to her mother, is history repeating itself? Her feelings towards Falin are tangled and messy and fascinating. They're also more than a little homoerotic, which makes Marcille's infantilization of her friend all the more interesting. It feels like her way of resolving their power imbalance, of remaining a responsible (former!) authority figure... but it's also a coping mechanism. She's frightened by the ways Falin is maturing and changing - aging - and keeping her mental image of her friend as young as possible is her way of denying the march of time that's destined to sever their bond.

Marcille's dream of lifespan extension would remove the need for this obfuscation, render them equal... only, they already are! This desire is imposed onto Falin, but it's primarily for Marcille's benefit. Watching her fight for a world nobody wants, for reasons both selfish and altruistic... it's as tragic as it is understandable. I love this manga.

[oddinary4bts]

Sweet | ksj

☆request:

Congratulations on the milestone ! Can we get a Drabble of idol Jin coming back from the military and trying to sort out his situationship with the girl he left behind when he went into the military?

☆pairings: idol!Seokjin x female!reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

☆genre: idol!au, a bit of angst, fluff and smut

☆warnings: unedited, cursing, explicit content: oral sex (female receiving), fingering, jerking off, protected sex (with mentions of unprotected sex), big dick!Jin

☆word count: 3.5k

☆a/n: i did not expect to write smut in this but here we are haha i hope you guys like this one! i had a lot of fun writing it <3

☆☆☆☆☆

It's so sweet, knowing that you love me Though we don't need to say it to each other, sweet Knowing that I love you, and running my fingers through your hair It's so sweet

Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex

☆☆☆☆☆

Seokjin hasn’t seen you in ages, his military service whisking him away from…

From whatever his relationship with you was. Not quite a relationship, but more than friendship, Seokjin thinks he was too immature a year and a half ago to understand you. But when you sent him a message two days ago to congratulate him for finishing his service, he figured he should see you.

If only so that he can give you the closure he never gave you. Because he practically ghosted you when he started his service, not replying to your messages after his obligatory training where he couldn’t touch his phone anyway.

He felt bad. Horrible even, but the distance seemed necessary after the words you last exchanged.

After you all but confessed your love for him. 

It was too much too soon, or maybe he truly was just immature then. Because today, as his car is eating the miles to your apartment, he thinks maybe he was wrong. The heaviness in his chest makes it feel so, as does the rain battering his windshield.

Seokjin parks outside on the street in front of your building, glancing up to see the lights are on in your apartment. His hands turn clammy, and he rubs them on his jeans in a failed attempt to dry them.

It doesn’t work, because the second you’re buzzing him in, they become clammy again and he’s too anxious to even think about drying them again. The anxiety only keeps increasing as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, worrying at some skin on his bottom lip, and it reaches a never-seen-before high as he stops in front of your door.

He takes a deep breath to ease his nerves, thinking about the many times he was here before. That night after your first date - a blind date his friend set up for him - when you told him to come home with him.

He should have known then that it was setting your story in a way that wouldn’t end well for you, to go home with you that night.

Seokjin raises his fist, and he thinks his hand is shaking. He ignores it, pretends he’s as confident as always, and he knocks three times, lowering his hand as he waits for you to open. It doesn’t take you long - he wouldn’t be surprised if you were waiting on the other side of the door.

You’re… beautiful. You were back then, but the months apart have done you good, and Seokjin’s throat dries as he just looks at you, his lips parting on a silent vowel. You just stand there, shining like an angel as a small, shy smile lights your features, your eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Seokjin doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Has never believed it, and though today may not be his first sight of you, it surely renders him speechless, his brain emptying until there’s just you.

“Hey,” you greet him, your voice like a melody conjured from a dream.

“Y/n,” he answers, and your name feels right, righter than anything before.

Your smile widens, and you step aside to let him in. He walks in, fully aware of how close your bodies are as you shut the door, but then you move back and he immediately misses your proximity.

What is wrong with him?

“How have you been?” you ask.

“Good,” he replies, swallowing. “Better now.”

He means the words. He means them more than he’s ever meant anything in his life, and he thinks you catch the meaning behind his sentence. Because blush creeps on your cheeks, and your gaze drops to the floor.

“What about you?” he quickly adds, not wanting you to feel embarrassed.

“I’m… good,” you answer, and you let out a small chuckle. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

You’re direct. It’s something he’s always thought was admirable about you, but the revelation hurts, sending a pang through his chest.

“Y/n…” he trails off.

“But you’re here now,” you say, and your smile turns pained, sad.

How many sleepless nights has he caused you?

“I am,” he says, voice small. “I’m sorry.”

“I get it.” You shrug your shoulders. “You were busy with your service, it’s not like it was easy to maintain a…” You never finish the sentence, even though Seokjin waits patiently for you to say it.

For you to acknowledge that it was just a situationship, that maybe you both just played each other.

“I really am sorry, though,” Seokjin insists, looking down at his shoes. “You did not deserve that.”

You nod once, your gaze trailing to the side. “Then, can I ask… Why did you want to see me?”

His heart stops in his chest. He’s still struck by the sight of you, barely unable to form coherent sentences, but you deserve an explanation.

You deserve closure, if that’s what you want.

“I thought…” he trails off, wets his lips before continuing, “I thought you deserved closure.”

You take a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

He thinks you’re dismissing him. It feels like you are, like you’re telling him to leave, but he just stands there, drinking your features in.

Choking on the hurt he knows he’s caused.

“I really apologize, Y/n,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You did not deserve the radio silence. I… I kind of thought it would be better for you, that you deserved better than being stuck with someone that was going to be gone for months.”

“You could have just said so…” you point out.

Seokjin sighs, his gaze dropping to the ground in shame. “I know. I was stupid, and I was immature too. Which is bad considering I’m in my thirties now but… yeah. I’m really sorry.”

You don’t say anything for a time, the silence getting heavier with every second passed. Seokjin meets your gaze, and he wonders if you can tell how guilty he’s been feeling. He thinks you might, because you wet your lips, glancing to the side, and then you say, “You came all the way here to say this?”

He nods. “You deserved better than a text message. When you texted me two days ago, it reminded me of all the good times we’ve spent together.” The truth comes to the surface, and Seokjin whispers it, afraid he’s going to scare you away. “I’ve missed you, Y/n.”

The world must have stopped turning. Time must have stopped, because you just stand there unblinkingly. He’s not sure you’re even breathing. But then slowly, like the first sun rays in the morning, a smile spreads on your lips. 

You’re beautiful, too beautiful, and Seokjin can’t believe he got scared last year. He doesn’t think there’s anything scary about the woman standing in front of him.

“And you think I’ll just forgive you like this?” you ask even though you’re smiling.

It’s like a stab to the chest. His heart aches, and Seokjin doesn’t know what to reply. He’s aware he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, but he wanted to give you his truth.

“I don’t think I deserve it, honestly,” he says. He gulps around a sudden lump in his throat, glancing around your apartment if only so that he can commit it to memory. “But I have missed you. I’ve felt guilty about it for months, but didn’t know how to approach you. Didn’t think you’d want me texting you out of the blue. I just… When you reached out, I just couldn’t let you go without at least having apologized.”

You nod, leaning against the wall as if your legs can’t support you anymore. “Thank you for apologizing.”

He reckons he’s losing you. Not that he really had you to begin with, but Seokjin thinks he’s losing you, and it hurts more than he ever thought it would.

“Of course.”

There’s another silence of lingering heaviness, and then you nod your head. Push up from the wall and walk in your apartment, sitting down on the couch. You offer him a small smile, patting the spot next to you.

“Come in,” you tell him. “Let’s catch up.”

He widens his gaze, not really believing what you just said. But then again, he knows you’re a forgiving person - he’ll make sure you don’t regret your decision.

And he doesn’t think you do. No, you spend the rest of the afternoon chatting, with you telling him all about your work and that annoying coworker that used to get on your nerves last year too. It’s easy, filled with smiles and laughs and reminiscing, and when you invite him for dinner, Seokjin decides to cook for you.

He doesn’t want you to lift a single finger for him, not when he wants to make it up to you. And he thinks he does, to a certain extent. You’re beaming by the time you’ve finished eating, telling him that you missed his food the most, and Seokjin complains that you only like him for his food. You just laugh it off, and then tell him that he’ll have to cook a thousand more meals for you.

Call him crazy, but he knows he will. He’ll cook every meal for you if that means he gets a chance with you again. One that he promises to himself that he won’t fuck up. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t make a move tonight - he tries to respect you, to respect the fact that you might need a bit of distance from him before you want to be with him like that again.

He thinks it was the right decision. He thinks it was worth the weeks of waiting before you kissed him for the first time again, in a different setting this time. At his own apartment, after you’ve had his Jajjangmyeon. You kiss softly, by the door, and Seokjin wonders if you can hear the wild beats of his heart in his chest.

You have to. Because you lay a hand on his chest right above his heart as you pull away from the kiss. You’re smiling, your cheeks slightly flushed as you look between his two eyes. And then you say, “I want you tonight.”

Seokjin doesn’t need to hear more. He cups your cheeks, stealing a languid kiss on your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers brush the strands of hair at the back of his head, and then you tug on them a little.

He grunts, pushing you back towards the door. He lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist, bringing your heat dangerously close to his dick. He’s already getting hard, blood shooting down from his heart to his cock, and he grinds into you, swallowing the soft moan you let out.

A second later, you tease his bottom lip with your tongue, and Seokjin lets you in, getting drunk to the taste of you. He’s so high with the taste of you that his mind is elsewhere - he doesn’t know how you make it to his bed. All he knows is that, ten minutes later, you’re splayed out on his bed like his own personal feast, and the sight of your glistening pussy makes him go feral.

He kneels between your thighs, hooks your legs on his shoulders before leaning closer, lapping your juices up. You make a breathy sound he remembers from every night he couldn’t sleep during his military service, instead thinking about how much he missed you.

You taste good. You taste sweet and salty, a perfect mix to his senses that makes him forget everything else but you. He circles your clit with his tongue, teases the bundle of nerves before he goes back to your entrance, pushing his tongue in once. You moan, one hand finding his hair to tug at the strands, and you instinctively grind in his face. Seokjin flattens his tongue to let you do it, to let you seek friction on the wet muscle, and then he unleashes himself, eats you out like you’re his last meal on this Earth.

You’re panting already, alternating between mewls and moans by the time he pushes a finger inside of you, fighting against your already tightening walls. They relax when he sucks on your clit, and he takes it as an opportunity to push another finger in, curling his digits to hit the right spot inside of you.

After all, he knows he needs to stretch you out before he’ll be able to fuck you. You’re on the smaller side, and he’s… bigger than a lot of guys, so you do need the stretching. And he’s pleased to oblige, circling your clit, flicking it until your walls start spasming on his fingers. Not even a heartbeat later, you’re coming, his name on your lips in a sinful cry as he rides you through the orgasm, going feral with the sounds you make, and mostly with the taste of you.

His chin is covered with your juices by the time he sits back on his heels. He licks his fingers clean as you watch him through half-lidded eyes, and then he grabs his discarded shirt from the side - he barely remembers getting naked - to wipe his face dry.

You’re naked too. A literal goddess sent from above to grace him with your presence. You’re everything he could have ever wished for, and he still can’t understand how stupid he was last year.

To think he could have had you during the rare breaks from his service… 

He was stupid. Stupid, foolish and everything in between, but at least he’s here with you now.

“Wow,” you let out, a small chuckle falling from your lips. You’re visibly fucked out, yet you still manage to rock his world as you reach for his dick, giving him a squeeze. “I want you.”

Shit.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as you start stroking him.

“So big…” He grunts at your crude words. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been thinking about sex with you for weeks, Jin.”

He looks around, searching for his pants. They’re over by the door, a lot farther away than he imagined they would be. It feels far, too far, considering he’s already nestled between your legs.

“What?” you let out, and you grip him tighter.

He feels it in his balls. He hasn’t had sex in forever - you being the last one before his service - so obviously he knows he won’t last. He’s so horny he thinks he’d be able to come all over your stomach if you keep jerking him off. But he stops you, gently wrapping his hand around yours to restrain your motions.

“Baby,” he breathes out. “Shit, let me grab a condom.”

“You don’t want to fuck me raw?” you tease, biting at your lower lip. “I haven’t had sex with anyone since you.”

The words please him far more than he thought they would. It feels like, maybe, you were his all this time too.

He says your name like a warning, but you only smirk mischievously.

“Afraid I’ll get pregnant?” you add. “Don’t you think we’d make pretty babies?”

You would. He knows damn well you would and it wouldn’t even be because of him. It’d be all you - your beauty is incomparable. 

“As much as I want to get you pregnant one day,” Seokjin replies, moving away from you. He misses your hand on him the second you let go, but it’s for the best. “I don’t think we are there yet,” he continues. “But I promise I’ll fuck babies into you one day.”

You close your thighs instinctively at his words as if you’re still searching for friction.

As if you didn’t come on his tongue just a minute ago.

It doesn’t take Seokjin a long time before he’s put a condom on, discarding the package in the trash can next to your bed. You’ve just been watching him, and he kneels back between your legs, his balls already tightening in anticipation.

He rubs his tip on your folds, collecting the glistening juice. Your mouth falls open on a silent moan, especially as he moves to your clit. One of your legs twitches from oversensitivity, or at least he assumes it’s because of that, and he aligns himself with your entrance.

“Let me know if it hurts,” he tells you.

“Don’t you remember how well I could-”

Your words are cut short as Seokjin pushes in, your walls sucking him in slowly and surely until he bottoms out, some of his dick still sticking out of you. You just look at him, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, and Seokjin licks his lips, saying, “You were saying?”

“I’ve missed this.”

Your words ring in his mind, on and on, erasing everything that he is to build him anew, to build him in a way that finally allows him to be with you. His heart fills with warmth, exploding like fireworks, and he bends down to capture your lips in a kiss that means more than words ever could. 

He doesn’t move for a while, warming his cock in you while he just keeps on kissing you, not even stopping for breathing. It’s like he doesn’t need it - hell, he thinks all he needs is you. And you kiss him back with so much passion he thinks this is it, he’s reached nirvana.

The feeling perseveres as he slowly pulls his hips back, before pushing forward again, the motion making his entire body tingle with pleasure. He swallows your soft moan, grunts in your mouth as your pussy clenches on him. Your hands are on his back, in his hair, and the second you pull on the strands again, he lifts his head, meeting your gaze.

“You feel so good,” you praise, eyes sparkling.

He smiles softly, pecking your forehead, and then he kneels back to take in the sight of you as he slowly fucks into you, spearing you open. The sight of your pussy swallowing his dick is indecent in the best way, and he progressively increases the rhythm, making sure not to hurt you.

He wouldn’t forgive himself if he did. So he fucks you gently, faster and faster but never hard, not until your hands find his thighs, your nails digging into his skin. He grunts then, swearing underneath his breath, and then says, “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Jin, it’s okay,” you let out. You smile, wetting your lips. “Just fuck me.”

He lets out what could be considered as a whine, and then his motions grow rougher. He stops himself after a few thrusts, and you meet his gaze, looking slightly annoyed that he stopped.

“You have to tell me if it hurts, okay?” he says as he cups your cheek. 

You smile softly, nodding once. “I will, I promise.”

Once the reassurance is finally uttered, Seokjin finally lets himself go, fucking you like his life depends on it. You’re soon moaning loudly, and he has half a thought that his neighbours might hear. But then again it turns him on even more to know he’s the one making you scream like that, and he’s soon moaning with you, praising you as he slowly feels his climax nearing.

But he wants you closer when he comes. Wants to feel you in his arms, to feel his skin on yours. So he leans forward again, caging you between his arms as he keeps fucking you into the mattress. Your nails soon scratch at his back, leaving marks he knows he’ll have to hide but can’t bring himself to care about.

“Fuck, Jin,” you moan, and his head drops in the crook of your neck.

“I’m going to come,” he says, and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close as the high finally hits him, and he releases loads and loads of cum in the condom. 

He thinks he’s floating. He’s just a leaf floating away on a small lake, unbothered by the world. His whole body feels so light, and the only thing tethering him to the present is your arms around his neck.

He’s never come this hard before. 

“You okay?” you ask as you rub his back.

He grunts, trying to lift his head but failing. “Holy shit.”

You laugh lightly, and the crystalline sound is what finally brings him back down to Earth, what has to be minutes later.

“Wow.” He chuckles, pecks your lips. “That was amazing.”

You smile, your fingers drawing idle shapes on his back. “It was.”

Seokjin meets your gaze, taking a moment to observe the feelings swirling behind your irises, deep in the depths of your eyes. The emotions are like northern lights, swishing and shining and more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen before.

This time, Seokjin doesn’t get scared. This time, he takes the emotions in, knowing that they are reflected in his own gaze. And though you haven’t told it to each other, he knows that you love him.

And more than that, he knows that he loves you, too.

☆☆☆☆☆

hope you guys liked it:) let me know what you think about this one shot! love y'all <3

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[blanketfort-motel]

Trust The Damn Process.

I wish I could just post time-lapses of my art process but have no software or patience to set that up seeing as I just impulsively, absently work on 90% of the stuff I feel confident enough to post.

I’ve been back and forth on this one for like a week and a half cause I was so iffy about the original draft results but staring at it, taped to the wall across my room, helped me dissect what was off with it and now I’m SO HAPPY TO SHARE IT.

This will have a fully rendered version eventually, and I’m excited to compete it, but for now this draft pic will be my profile header… ngl I’m just so proud I was able to get it so close to what I initially visioned. I haven’t had any general muse for art in years but since finally rewatching supernatural? I’m cracking at the fucking seems with writing and art ideas.

I’m saving up for a proper art tablet or anything I can do digital art on cause I know I’d save so much time and produce so much more content for myself and whoever cares to peek at my work lol

— — —

Thanks for taking interest in the Blanket Fort Motel! We’d love to see you again soon!

[sagaduwyrm]

Something that interests me about Girl Genius is the way that the Heterodynes are consistently portrayed as the worst of the worst despite being pretty reasonable by Spark standards.

This is not to say that they are reasonable by normal people standards, or that they were anything approaching decent people. This is pointing out that compared to other sparks, who figured out they could conquer places and immediately started the Long War, the Heterodynes have had little to no large scale negative effect on the world.

Evidence: Zumzum

While in Zumzum Agatha finds out that the Heterodyne raids rolled through the town "every four years or so, sure as the moonrise" (Agatha H. and the Clockwork Princess). Despite this the town is, though small, prosperous. They have a fully staffed guard and enough spare income that the circus was initially planning to remain for three days.

Compare this to the numerous dead towns noted to be littering the wastelands. Sparks regularly render towns unlivable or dead. The Heterodynes, however traumatize them and steal their stuff, but still leave the towns they raid capable of functioning. From this we can assume that, despite what we are told, the Heterodynes are not only capable of self-restraint, they're good at it.

Evidence 2: Heterodyne Creations

The Heterodynes left an enduring legacy in the form of constructs, clanks, and the castle. Many of these are hundreds of years old and yet have little trouble functioning. This means that the Heterodynes not only build to last, but their descendants are willing to put in the time for upkeep rather than get distracted and focus on the next big thing.

The Heterodynes are the only sparks with so many creations still running around. Other sparks, like Van Rijn, do have some creations that have lasted the ages, but nothing compared to the sheer quantity of the Heterodynes.

Also, consider the jägerkin. The jägers are some of the most important Heterodyne constructs, and have acted as the core of their army and their honor guard for more than half a millennia. Despite this, they don't have levels of speed or strength much beyond average, at least as far as spark constructs go. Instead, they're noted for their remarkable survivability. This again suggests that Heterodynes prioritize longevity to a remarkable level for sparks.

Evidence the Last: Europa still Exists

I repeat myself, after two centuries of off and on spark warfare, significant amounts of Europa is unlivable. The Heterodynes had ten centuries and Europa was fine. Do the math.

However, despite this show of consistent reason, the Heterodynes are constantly described in story as evil incarnate. I'd like to posit that this suggests both that in-story lore should be taken as unreliable, but also that the most dangerous sparks aren't the flashy, fire and brimstone assholes. It's the consistent, intelligent ones who know when to back off and when to press that are the real danger, and it's for this reason that the continent fears Heterodynes. Not because they're uniquely capable of destruction, but because they know when not to destroy.

The Heterodynes are the oldest dynasty in Europa. To everyone with the slightest understanding of how sparks work, this is terrifying.

Also, here's a post that tries to answer why the Heterodynes are uniquely like this. You should read it. It partially inspired this.

[cressidagrey]

The moment I could see it - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ariel Cane (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times that Gianpiero Lambiase thinks that Ariel Cane and Max Verstappen are weirdly similar…and 1 time he is just happy that the two of them are no longer pining after each other. 

Warnings: 

GP's POV, mention of cancer, mention of parent's death

Author Notes: I am back to my old tricks...which means I write from the most random of POV's just because. (I once wrote a chapter from a dog's POV so like, GP doesn't even really count.

It was actually quite stupid, GP reflected drily, that in 4 years of knowing both Ariel Cane and Max Verstappen...he had never even thought that one day they would be in the same room at the same time.

Even after Ariel had gotten a job in Red Bull's PR department straight out of uni.

It was just...two very different parts of his life. Colliding. Right in front of him.

And it was pure coincidence in a way...namely a meeting where they wanted an opinion from the Social Media Team...and suddenly, there was Ariel Cane walking into the room, with a smile on her face.

And there was Max Verstappen. Staring at her. Completely stunned. 

GP found himself silently hoping that Max wouldn't start drooling or do something equally embarrassing.

GP couldn't suppress a silent laugh as he witnessed Max's reaction to Ariel's entrance. Max looked positively gobsmacked as he gaped at her. He couldn’t help but watch the whole thing with a lot of amusement as Max stared at Ariel utterly stunned. 

Max, who GP had seen progress from a reckless speed demon to a more mature driver, but now was completely frozen, staring at Ariel as if he had never seen a girl before.

GP wasn't the only one who was amused by his reaction. Granted, Ariel was a very pretty girl, but the way Max was staring made it seem like she was the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes on.

He couldn't help but find the whole situation entertaining. Max was usually so confident and laid-back, but now he looked completely out of his depth. 

Meanwhile, Ariel was completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. She was simply smiling warmly at the meeting attendees, not realizing that Max was staring at her like a love sick puppy.

Gianpiero exchanged a glance with a couple of his colleagues, who were also trying to hide their amusement. Clearly, they found the whole situation just as amusing as he did. It was rare for Max to be rendered dumbfounded like this. 

The meeting continued, with Ariel providing some insights for the Social Media Team. However, it was clear that Max struggled to concentrate on anything but her. He shot furtive glances in her direction, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. Luckily for Max, the meeting came to an end not long after, and everyone began to leave the room. GP watched as Max lingered behind, seeming like he wanted to say something to Ariel.

GP stepped in, noticing how Max was still staring at Ariel with a dreamy expression. He couldn't help but rib the young man a bit.

"Don't even think about it, Verstappen," he said dryly, amused by the situation.

Max looked at him, caught in the act of openly ogling Ariel, and his cheeks colored a bright red. 

"I wasn't..." he protested weakly before trailing off. The denial sounded rather half-hearted. 

GP just raised an eyebrow, silently saying 'yeah, sure you weren't.' He knew Max well enough to be able to tell when he was interested in someone, and right now, his interest was painfully evident.

"Actually I was thinking about offering her a job," Max blurted out.

GP could just stare at him.  He definitely hadn't expected Max to say that.

"A job?" he repeated, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "What kind of job are you planning to offer her?"

He watched as Max shifted awkwardly, clearly having blurted out the words without fully thinking it through."Well, I fired Sadie...so I need a new personal assistant."

GP’s eyebrows rose even further as Max explained the situation. He couldn't help but be taken aback by his impulsivity.

"You fired Sadie and now you want to hire Ariel as your new personal assistant? Just like that?" he questioned incredulously.

"She's good at her job!" Max defended himself. "Better that...literally all the rest of the PR team I need to deal with on a daily basis."

GP had to acknowledge that Max had a point. The PR team could be...eccenctric, to say the least. And it was true that Ariel was good at her job.

"Alright, I'll give you that," he admitted. "Ariel is talented. But if you think that she is simply going to do what you tell her to do…you are wrong. She’ll eat you alive,” he said with some amusement. “Her brother is our Head of electrical engineering. Have you met him yet? Tall, Red head? Only manages to come to work with the same pair of shoes on both feet around 80% of time and is  well known for working 48 hour stretches?”

"If they can't get him to stop, they call his little sister...and you don't want to be on her bad side when that happens." 

Max shifted uncomfortably, clearly realising the implications of what Gianpiero was saying. Ariel Cane was not someone to be trifled with. 

GP took a moment to reflect on the situation. Max, with his habit of getting into trouble, wanted to hire a young woman who was known for her no-bullshit, no-nonsense attitude...

Yeah, this was shaping up to be a disaster in the making. And GP was going to have a front row seat

But he couldn't help feeling a slight sense of schadenfreude. Sitting back and watching this unfold was going to be entertaining, in a chaotic and amusing kind of way. 

He didn't actually think, Max was going to go through with it.

Until Ariel showed up in his office days later.

"Tell me about Max Verstappen," she said calmly as she sat down in front of his desk. "What kind of boss is he?"

His eyebrows rose. 

"Well, he's not exactly my boss..." GP began. "But Max is a good kid. He's a raer, through and through. A bit impulsive and a bit...reckless, but he's a good guy...mostly."

He paused for a moment, considering how to describe Max as a boss.

"As a boss, he's...demanding," he continued. "He has high expectations and he expects you to give 110% at all times. But he's also fair and if you do your job, he'll be the first to give you credit for it."

"You aren't actually thinking about taking his offer, are you?" he asked her bluntly, unable to keep his surprise out of his voice.

Max was the unpredictable one. Ariel…Ariel wasn’t. Ariel always did what was expected of her. 

He didn't want to discourage her if she was serious about the position, but he also had some strong opinions about the potential working relationship between her and Max.

"Max is...a handful," GP warned her. "He can be demanding, impulsive, and more than a bit reckless. As his personal assistant, you'd have to put up with a lot of things most people wouldn't even think of. Are you sure you want to get yourself into that kind of situation?"

Ariel cocked her head to the side. "I like a challenge," she said drily.

GP couldn't help but let out a low snort. That answer both reassured him as well as concerned him.

He had known that Ariel would see this as a challenge, and he had no doubt she was more than capable of handling Max and his…behavior. 

"You like a challenge, huh?" he repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Well, Max Verstappen sure as hell will be your biggest challenge yet. The hours will be long, the stress will be high, and you'll have to deal with a hell of a lot of Max's...antics."

He paused for a moment, giving her a hard look. He wanted to make sure she knew exactly what she was getting into with this job.

"You're more than capable of handling Max, I have no doubt. But be prepared for the ride of your life if you take on this job. Max is a handful, and I have no doubt he'll push your buttons. He'll probably drive you insane,” he warned her. “Do you think you can handle that?”

GP watched her closely, studying her expression for any hint of uncertainty or doubt. He was a good judge of character and could usually tell if someone was putting on a brave face. But if he was being honest, he couldn't detect any hint of hesitation on Ariel’s face.

Max could be a force of nature, more than most people could handle.

"Just keep in mind," he added, allowing himself a small smile. "Max is a race car driver. He's used to living his life at lightning speed. You'll need to keep up if you want to keep him on track."

There was a small smile blooming on Ariel's face.

"Oh, I expect nothing less," she said simply.

[sunni-stuff]

I've been thinking about pirate!Ghost for the past couple weeks. I needed to get this out now.

-🌤! Tags: Afab, Uncontrollable Horniness, nsfw, age-gap. (early to mid 20s.)

The Sea Dogs were an entire ship full of ragtag men, each with his own story and reasons for joining the crusade across countless seas. Captain John Price, the leader of this crew, was a renowned figure known for his leadership and countless achievements. He had led his crew through years of wear and tear on the unforgiving waves, making their name heard far and wide.

None were as infamous as Ghost, his trusted gunner, known for his quick dagger throws and even quicker shots. A hulking man with a standoffish demeanor and unwavering cautiousness, Ghost never fully showed his face. He wore a black bandana tied around the lower half of his face, with black paint smudged around his eyes, revealing nothing yet leaving his harsh brown orbs to pierce the soul of anyone who stared too long.

To those who did not know him, Ghost was intimidating, deadly, and most of all, someone to avoid. He was fine with this. He relished the benefits his appearance gave him, how people shrank away at the mere sight of him, even from a distance. It made sense–who in their right mind would want to be near a man who had put a bullet through so many men that he couldn't count them all on his fingers?

Ghost was ruthless.

A silent marauder who took what he wanted without a second thought, plundering from men and women alike. Wherever he walked, the bodies and blood of the lives he took at sea seemed to follow. The culprit, his calloused hands bore the weight of his trusted flintlock, a companion who would even accompany him to his very grave.

A dirty bastard indeed.

Too dirty for the likes of you.

You.

You, who he sees, enter the blacksmith's forge. You, who wore a simple white dress with a black corset tied tightly around your waist. You, who smiled so innocently to the islanders as you carried out your chores. Running errands for your father all around the quaint island, carrying a simple woven basket filled with bread and biscuits in your delicate arms.

His mouth runs dry.

Ghost can't take his eyes off you as you walk past him, saying, “hello.” to a nearby merchant. Your sweet voice renders him speechless, drowning out everything else around him. He can’t hear Price bartering anymore. He can’t hear Gaz and Soap ribbing on who can pull in the most lasses. All he can hear is the sound of his heart beating and your brief yet lovely hello. He watches the sway of your hips beneath the fabric of your dress, how your stays lifts your delectable bosom with each breath.

He wants—needs to sink his teeth in you.

Ghost is desperate to touch you, to possess you completely. He craves the feeling of his hands on your skin, his lips ravishing yours as he listens to the sweet moans in his head. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you and claim you as his own, burying his thick cock deep within your weeping pussy.

You’re a real peach. All smiles and fluttering lashes. A young thing, he assumes, based on the way the people dote on you so as you pass by shops, making your way back to your father’s bakery.

He’s an older man, one weathered by storms and battles, which do nothing to deter him from his new conquest. After all, the older the berry, the sweeter the juice.

And Ghost believes himself sweet enough.

Ghost discreetly adjusts the growing bulge in his pants and conceals any weapons he may be carrying.

He couldn't afford to scare off his darling pet.

And with that, Ghost followed after you, a maiden worth more than any treasure.

🌤 I had really bad writers blocked and was unable to write for a while, but this has been floating around in my pea brain for so long, so please enjoy.

P.S. This wasn't proofread.

[berrydoodleoo]

I created these costumes for the last render and wanted to show them off a bit more, as I'm pretty happy with how they turned out. Some notes under the cut:

Of course, I could have just kept them in their original outfits, but I wanted them to have real expedition uniforms to highlight their 'innocence', for lack of a better word.

Verso

Verso was the easiest: I just removed some bits that seemed like they might have been added over the years, like his waist-wrap, gauntlet, the wooden rune pieces, and so on. I added the backpack, and if it looks familiar it's because it's from FFXIV. :) I just recolored it a bit.

I'm not sure why I added the backpack, other than I felt like I needed something to show the length of their journey, and because (as I was thinking about the backstory of Expedition Zero a lot while working on this image) I suspected that Verso was taking on more responsibilities as the expedition proceeded. When it started, Clea was still the heir and he was still the spare, and I'm sure he was fully expecting find his indomitable big sister and to step back neatly into her shadow. By the time they were close to the Monolith, however, he would have abandoned that hope, and Renoir would have begun to drag as his injuries and refusal to prioritize himself accumulated. So he took on more and more, in attempt to live up to his father's example and to continue protecting Alicia.

Of course, he doesn't have his white hair or scars yet. He looks quite different without them. Younger and more handsome, a bit smarmy. I can definitely see Verso being a bit of a playboy, in the literary tradition of second sons. Overshadowed by Clea, spending his days sleeping, his nights gambling and dancing, but carrying a secret love for the piano, a secret hero-worship for his big sister, and a secret desire to support her and protect the family. But he was overlooked because he was not needed ... until his life was tragically cut short, and the family was rocked by the size and shape of their unexpected loss.

Alicia

Alicia's uniform was also pretty simple. I toyed with the idea of using some pieces from Sciel and Lune's original uniforms from the early concept art, but although the meshes are still in the game they aren't textured, and that was too much work. So her top half is the standard Female Expeditioner outfit, and her bottom half is from Sciel's uniform.

Her boots are the same ones she wears later in the game. It's not always easy to see, but there are subtle silver and gold runes etched on her usual clothes, similar to the gold marbling that shows up for other members of the Dessendre family. So I got rid of them but kept the boots, because I think they're really cool looking. The other thing I used was the scarf -- it was originally Lucien's scarf, judging by the names of the files (a character who didn't make it to the final draft) so that seemed fitting. I imagine that she would often hide her face behind it, as a kind of precursor to the mask she ends up wearing later.

I decided to use her real colors instead of the grayscale skin/hair that she uses in the game. I also have some headcanons/ideas about how that came about, but maybe I'll save that for later. I'm leaning towards the idea that she was supposed to stay behind in Lumiere, but stowed away with the Expedition and didn't reveal herself until it was too late.

Renoir

Renoir's uniform was the most work. His vest and shirt are Real Renoir's, just recolored. The coat and pants are from an early version of Verso's outfit, which was still in the game files (it seemed fitting). The original coat was clearly stitched together from multiple past coats, so I made them all the same color to try to make it seem newer (obviously they were going for a battered and many-times-repaired look for Verso, but this was at the beginning of their journey). The boots are Verso's. It makes sense that they would have the same boots in their uniforms, right?

I also gave him some pieces from Verso's final outfit, like the fur hood and the sling. I originally toyed with giving him a cape, like the one Verso wears in-game, but Verso's cape is too destroyed (and has the same gold/silver runes as Alicia's outfit) and I couldn't get anything else working in time. In my mind, Verso adopted those pieces of his uniform later, in imitation (conscious or unconscious) of his beloved Papa. With Renoir, I wanted to make him broader and beefier than the others, very much an old veteran and a solid bulwark against any harm (I see Renoir as the tank, Alicia as the healer, and Verso as the DPS).

I also headcanon that Renoir died before they reached the Monolith, leaving Verso and Alicia to carry on alone. He has a strange line in-game about whether Verso knows what it's like to cease to exist, so I think he stayed behind to hold off some enemy (maybe Duelliste?) and laid down his life to give his children the opportunity to flee. I suspect that when Clea was encountered outside the Monolith, she was also helping to hold Aline captive or something similar, so Aline was unaware of what was happening to her Painted Family and unable to protect them the way she does in-game. That would also explain how Painted Clea's fate remained such a mystery. Once Aline was freed and told them the truth (or some version of it) she resurrected Renoir, made the Mirror Family immortal, and froze them in time.

Armbands

The final thing was creating the Expedition Zero armbands, as well as the 100 for the Monolith. The 100 was from a screenshot from Maelle's nightmare, with some tweaking. The armbands were pieced together from the Expedition Zero and Expedition 33 armbands in the game. They're kind of twisted oddly on their arms because I wanted to make sure they were visible in the final render. :D

It might be silly, but the armbands felt weirdly momentous. It signified for me that they were among the first batch of expeditioners. They struck out for answers and to protect their city and their world. And after all they saw and all they learned, all three did their best to stick to that mission, although they came to interpret it in different ways....

[catrionaalexandra]

La Novia de la Luna

Leon S. Kennedy x Female!Reader

⚠️Warnings⚠️

Chapter One: The ‘Saint’

<- Previous

The morning was grey, like old bruises—sallow at the edges, yellowing with time.

Fog clung to the remote DSO airstrip like spiderwebs, low and sticky, veiling the world in a smear of bone-coloured light.

The aircraft carried a stench of kerosene and burnt metal.

Leon S. Kennedy stepped off, cigarette pinched between his teeth, unlit.

He never lit them, they were just something to chew on while the world fell apart once more.

He had been fully briefed on Ashley Graham, the President’s daughter. Last seen entering a remote Spanish village…

A black site mission with minimal oversight. He had read the file twice and memorized her face—round, hopeful, and young. This morning should have been wheels down, boots on the ground, and game face on.

Instead, a black car waited on the edge of the airstrip, its lights off and windows fogged.

Leon narrowed his eyes.

Another detour?

He slid into the backseat without a word. The man waiting inside was a bloodless thing in a charcoal suit, smelling of fresh-dry cleaning and old money.

He was DSO, or something worse, with no name and no introduction.

His long, pallid fingers rested over the photo inside the dossier, as if he were both ashamed and enthralled.

“This isn’t about Ashley,” the man said.

Leon remained silent, leaning back with half-closed eyes and waiting.

The man continued, “There’s another asset in the region, or rather—“ he cleared his throat, unsure whether to whisper or weep, “—a relic.”

That earned a glance.

Leon plucked the photo slowly and without ceremony from the folder. He expected to find a body—decayed, perhaps mutilated—another post-Umbrella disaster washed up on European soil.

He didn’t expect her.

It wasn’t a surveillance photo; it wasn’t even grainy. It was art.

A high-resolution image, printed on thick, museum-grade paper, depicts a nude woman seated before a marble altar bathed in the light of hundreds of candles.

Her skin glowed, pale as moon milk. Her hair was long and loose, curled like h/c satin down to her thighs.

Her arms were folded across her chest, but not in shame—in obedience.

Head bowed, her lips parted slightly. The veil was sheer enough to reveal her eyes, half-lidded, heavy with something too close to darkness.

Leon felt something cold slip down his spine.

He had seen viral hosts, B.O.W.s, tyrants, and people die. But this? This was something worse.

This was worship.

The man spoke like someone reciting from scripture.

“Her name is Y/n M/n L/n. She disappeared in 1994 when she was fourteen years old during a family trip to Barcelona. Presumed dead.”

Leon didn’t take his eyes off the photo, “This is recent.”

“Yes.”

“How recent?”

“A few months ago, a drone captured her during a flyover near the central cathedral of the Las Plagas stronghold. We have reason to believe she has been held there for the past eleven years.”

Leon’s jaw tensed.

“Held?”

The man didn’t blink, “I mean kept.”

Another folder opened, revealing more photos and paintings. Portraits were rendered in oils, blood, and candle soot, while statues were chiseled with reverence.

All depicted the same girl, with the same body and the same dead gaze. She was veiled, worshipped, and adored. A reliquary of flesh, unchanged, as if time had gone to ruins and she had been embalmed inside a fairytale of horror.

Leon swallowed back bile, “Why wasn’t I told?”

“You were. Technically. She’s listed in Section B, paragraph six of your secondary mission objectives. ‘Possible secondary retrieval: L/n, Y/n.’ It was considered a non-priority, until recently.”

“What changed?”

Leon glanced at the man, then past him, as if something even more sinister lurked behind his shoulder. His fingers drummed impatiently on the folder.

“She moved.”

Leon blinked, confused, “She moved?”

“She stood up,” the man whispered. “For the first time in over a decade, during a ritual. Dozens of infected dropped dead on the spot.”

Leon said nothing.

“She didn’t speak, she didn’t strike. She just… looked at them and they died.”

Bullshit.

And yet—

“The cult believes she is the embodiment of the divine Plaga—not infected, not enhanced, but simply sacred. They call her La Novia de la Luna, the Moon’s Bride, the Saint of Chains, and the Miracle Beneath the Mountain.” The man took a deep breath before continuing, “They believe her body keeps the parasites obedient, making her their altar.”

Leon clenched his jaw, “And now you want me to desecrate it?”

“We want you to bring her home.”

Home.

The word rang false.

“She’s not some package,” Leon muttered, “She’s a victim.”

The man’s mouth twisted, “She was. Now, we don’t know what she is...”

Leon looked down at the photo again, her eyes were half-lidded under the veil, but he could now make out the unmistakable expression.

Emptiness.

The car came to a halt, and they were back on the tarmac. A new chopper sat waiting, low visibility, no markings, just enough fuel for an insertion drop, and no backup.

Leon stood without looking at the man.

“She have any surviving family?”

“Not sure, they buried an empty coffin eleven years ago.”

Of course they had.

Leon stepped out into the fog, the photo still folded in his gloved hand. He didn’t believe she was divine or afraid of what she could do, he couldn’t shake the image of her—not the nudity, but the veil.

But the silence.

It looked like it had never been broken, and something in him, cold and buried, whispered—

You will break it, or it will break you.

The chopper blades roared as he boarded. Behind him, the morning broke apart like paper soaked in blood.

Next ->

[kozachenko]

[Click for better quality]

Ok yay I'm back from my vacation yipeeeeeee. I started this drawing of Keiki before I left and I was half considering just giving up on it.... until I did a short study of facial planes and then got motivated to work on this again! I'm glad I didn't give up on it though, as I'm actually really happy with this one!

Artist's Notes;

So as I mentioned in my last post about Touhou 17, I wanted to finish this by the game's five year anniversary but with how progress was going I didn't want to rush this so I decided to take a long break from it. Mainly because of the face. For a while now I was kind of feeling like I was stagnating with my drawings, not really in the clothing but in the bodies. There was something about the way I was rendering them that I just wasn't happy with, and after talking with someone else about this issue, I realized that the reason I felt this way was because the faces were too flat and didn't match the rest of the drawing and that I needed to find a way to make the rendering of the face feel consistent with everything else. So after doing a short study of the plains of the face (I used this 3D head model from art station as a reference for my short study, please go give this person some love as they are a lifesaver) I went back into this drawing and applied what I learned here. It was only after that that I finally became motivated to finish the piece, and while it started off as just a simple character sketch like Saki and Yachie's were, the moment I added in Keiki's little fire dragon I knew I had gotten in too deep and now here we are with a full on background. OK it's not super crazy or anything, but it gets the job done and it's better than there just being an empty void behind her. It's rare moments like this when I use brushes other than the Clip Studio Default Charcoal Brush and use the Clip Studio Default Paint Brushes as well (god bless the oil paint and dry gouache clip studio brushes, they were amazing). I don't know why but painting fire has always been really fun for me, there's something oddly satisfying about it y'know? I do think that another reason for this problem was because I was drawing faces like I would in my more sketchy style that didn't mesh well with my lineless style, so I'm glad I've started remedying that.

After adding in the fire dragon I had an idea to kinda make it feel like splash art in the way the composition works... probably because I have been playing Reverse 1999 again and it has taken over my brain. I do feel like Keiki's tools get a little lost in the composition, and I didn't fully render the metal parts of them mainly because I didn't feel like they needed it, but that's just something for me to improve on later down the line.

If you guys are wondering where I went for my vacation, I went to New York and got to go to the MET and the Museum of Natural History. In both places I found Kofun period stuff and I was so happy to see it you have no idea. I remember one of the Haniwa I saw had some neat face paint under the eyes that I tried to replicate with the makeup under Keiki's eyes in my drawing, though I think I'll gave to figure out how to draw makeup on characters because this reads more like blush to me than anything. While drawing this I also looked up some references of Kofun period jewelry and really liked the stuff I found, which also meant that now she has proper Kofun earrings instead of earrings shaped like Kofun tombs. I put some of the things I referenced with a closeup of Keiki's face as well down below. I made her outfit more reminiscent of the outfit I gave her at the beginning of the year with the buttons and all, though I do want to try and draw her in some more period accurate clothing like the Haniwa I took a picture of at the Museum of Natural History. I wish I could find a way to make her handercheif look better though as I wish I made it a little bit bigger, though I think I'm saying this because I've looked at this drawing for too long lmao. Once again something to work on for when I next draw her. Also want to get better at rendering hair, as some details (like the little strands in front of her ears) kinda got unreadable due to the similarities in colour lol.

Now you may have also noticed the little cracks I added onto Keiki's face, and that's because I have fallen in love with the idea of Keiki's body being made from ceramic and that she crafted her body herself. While they aren't very visible I also tried to add some doll joints to her body, which is an idea I played around with in the past but never went to far with. I also want to get better at rendering cracks in ceramic, porcelain, etc, as I'm not sure how those read in the drawing. I also have a headcanon where the cracks in Keiki's face show up because of heightened emotions, and while Keiki is aware of this and does her best to make sure her face doesn't break off.... she will still end up with at least a few cracks during any given day, and she can often forget to repair her own body quite frequently so Mayumi has to remind her quite a lot. Mayumi even taught herself some basic sculpting techniques to help repair parts of her body that are so badly damaged to the point where Keiki can't repair them herself, i.e. if both her arms broke off, Mayumi would put them back together for her so Keiki can at least have something to repair herself with rather than nothing. I also like to imagine that if Keiki created her own body, if you took a look at Keiki from the beginning of her life she would look completely different compared to now.

BTW If you guys are wondering what a very very angry Keiki looks like....ok in order for this to make sense have any of you read volume 11 of Land of The Lustrous? Am I bringing back some memories for those of you that have? Ok good, glad we all got that mental image brewing in our minds, I'll probably draw a version of Keiki that is somewhat inspired by that one day as it's an idea I've had for a little while now. And to those who haven't gotten to that volume yet and are confused.... don't worry about it, just keep reading :)

[celuere]

„Dr. Juno-Celia Whitlock. Today, you‘re on trial for the following crimes. Second-Degree Murder, Arson, Larceny, Burglary, Kidnapping and unethical experiments on one of her Majesty‘s Harbingers. By attending today’s trial, you oath to speak the truth, yet you do not have to testify if you are not willing to.“

„Understood, your Honor.“

It was an unfortunate situation, really. Unfortunate but not surprising. Juno knew what would await her the moment she dragged two of Dottore‘s duplicates into her laboratory after setting the Harbinger‘s own facility on fire. But the woman was interested in his clones, wanted to make a few of her own but sometimes doing everything by yourself can be a little frustrating so why not just… borrow a few materials from a fellow colleague?

But colleague would be a little too friendly to describe the relationship between the Harbinger and the scientist. Dottore doesn’t hate a lot of things. For him, everything is but an experiment waiting to be pursued. But Juno? He despised that woman. He despised her from the deepest depths of the abyss. There was always something wrong with the girl, even when she was just a toddler in the Hearth under Crucabena‘s influence. Other‘s might not notice it but there was a certain uncanny aura around her, something that rendered her not quite human. The eyes was the first thing he recognized. Khaenri’ahn. Pure-blooded. Yet, why doesn’t she seem to suffer from the Shade‘s curse of immortality? At first, it was curiosity, but his request to transfer the 8 yo into his laboratory was met with not one- not two- but three knives pointed at him in addition to Eilif almost decapitating Dottore on the spot.

And if Dottore hated one thing it was having to swallow his thirst for knowledge. But one thing- there was one thing he hated more than anything.

And that was being mocked.

Which Juno never failed to do whenever he visited the Hearth. Wether it be his ugly hair, the stupid mask or teeth- Juno always let him know how stupid he looked in her eyes.

Juno hated stupid people.

The pinnacle for him- an incident that caused the Doctor to stay away from this godforsaken house for almost half a year was when she solved a problem in his research which he has been sitting on for months- within mere minutes. He just left the papers in the living room while following the late Knave into the basement for some… check-ups and when he came back- there laid a paper next to it. The handwriting was sloppy and cranky- yet the grammar was perfect and the solution was flawlessly written down.

„You can’t be ugly and stupid old man“

He never wanted to strangle someone with bare hands so bad.

And now she was sitting there, hands cuffed behind her back as the judge presented the evidence to her and all she did was smile. It was the kind of smile that caused people to squirm around in their seats, even the judge had her problems with holding up the eye-contact. And it caused his blood to boil. He didnt care about the two clones of his. Or his laboratory getting blown up to pieces. It was the fact that she planned it all and even succeeded perfectly in the end without him getting even the slightest wind of it.

Dottore knew her husband was of similar caliber. Calculated, cunning and ruthless. But Juno took things to a whole new level. Where normal people would stop- she was starting to pick up. Normal people would have been dead by even thinking about a plan to trick the Harbinger but she ended up cutting up his experiments like a bunch of pigs and blended them. Blended. Them. The amount of… smoothies that was found outside the S.R.T wasn’t nearly enough to count for two fully grown men but whatever happened to the rest- he didn’t know. Dottore loathed the feeling of the unknown. Loathed her.

„First-Degree Murder.“

„I beg your pardon, Dr. Whitlock?“

„It was First-Degree Murder. Not Second-Degree. That would indicate I was too lazy for a proper plan and that I didn’t intent on killing of the two subjects. Which is actually quite insulting.“

„So… you admit to the crime?“, multiple jaws found their place on the floor that day.

„Wholeheartedly.“

Nobody could explain the joke of a sentence she got handed to her.

A month. One month in jail for something they would’ve usually hanged any other civilian.

But Juno was no civilian. Nor was she human.

And the Doctor didn’t even have a fitting laboratory to let out his anger in.

[scary-monsters]

5k feels like an adequate milestone to host my very first "draw this in your style" challenge, and it feels correct to use my personal take on a modern au diego brando for subject matter 🧡 rules and other stuff under the cut! whether you're participating or not, thank you so much for being here and enjoying my art :')) it means a lot to me

for this dtiys, i would love to see other artists' takes on a modern au diego! please include the following:

something he's listening to (music, podcast, yt video, etc)

something on his phone screen (could be a text, a game, a website, anything!)

a cute little outfit of some kind ("cute" is subjective, i just want to see him in something other than his canon outfit!)

any pose is fine, doesn't have to be half-body, can be a bust if that's all you're able to do! i'm mostly interested in seeing y'all's headcanons expressed through art

if you don't have headcanons as far as any of those things go, no worries! drawing my version will work perfectly fine! in fact i would love that just as much :')) he is dear to me..

additionally, to be considered for a prize:

make sure you tag me in the post, and include the "diego brando" tag as well just to be safe since i actively track his tag on here! i may miss it otherwise, and i would hate to miss anything!

you must post the art on here specifically! if you post elsewhere on other sites i will hopefully see and interact with it too, but it must be posted here primarily

you must be following me!

prizes will be in the form of two sketches and one fully rendered portrait, gifted to three separate people. i will not be choosing based on perceived art skill or personal relationships!! i just want to see other people's takes on my favorite character in the world 🧡🙏🏻

deadline is currently december 15th!! this may change, depending on my own schedule and other people expressing a desire for more time, i'm not in any rush!

due to my work schedule being chaotic this whole month, the new deadline in January 1st, so you have until the end of the year!

[katzske]

Thoughts on Earthspark Season 2 (first half)

Spoiler Free:

I must admit I’m dissatisfied.

The animation and rendering definitely looks cheaper. Sometimes it feels like frames are missing, animations not polished, scenes not fully rendered. 2d and 3d poorly blends. It’s quite noticeable unfortunately. Characters also do the TFP Megatron stare now.

That being said, time was taken to revisit old models of characters and give them a new appearance. (4 i’ve noticed) It makes sense given a lot has changed during one year time skip.

The writing often feels either like exposition dumping or naruto filler episodes. I was never at the edge of my seat even during the climax. I ended up skipping through episodes due to the lack of relevant plot information.

Something ES managed to maintain were carefully composed shots that make great still images. While that’s nice for screenshots and redraws, I also feel like it’s the only unique aspect of ES’ animation style that remained. The rest, as previously mentioned, has lost quality.

Character Details I’ve noticed and want to talk about (spoilers ahead)

half of season 2 part 1 is filler. optimus trailer episode, great america with cosmos, a pachycephalosaurus-truck fighting mushrooms, hashtag taking ten years to dispose of hard drives…. each episode did have a few minutes of either cute or important moments. but the majority is a waste of time.

I was hoping that we would learn more about the decepticons. now that they’re free, what are they up to? how are their dynamics? how did season 1 finale change their perception on things? would they try to convince the terrans THEY are the good guys? nothing like that though.

There is no satisfying character development for starscream. ES Starscream was perfect to explore a more neutral version of him, who does not do bad things out of pleasure, but due to necessity; following his desire to be free. In the show he mentions he wanted to get rid of his oppressors (in his eyes autobots and humans), but a real “bruh” moment was when he told Hashtag the only reason he opened up to her last time was to tell her “take care of yourself first”. It completely disregards the fact he came to help in the season 1 finale after reflecting on Hashtags words. It also aggravates me that the writing could have been a very easy fix. “hey i’m not being selfish by destroying this town. im doing this for the decepticons, we have lived under the control of the autobots and then of humans. this needs to stop, we deserve freedom and i will do anything it takes.”

the show managed to establish some friction between starscream and shockwave but for deception standards it was very tame. overall i think it was written okay; he purposely let the Terrans escape with the fragments, and he bailed on Starscream once he went bonkers. I hope that he gets to be a Decepticon leader in the second half; i don’t think we have seen that in any TF TV show before. i also like that his antennae and eye color give away his emotions now.

i feel like the autobots are treated even worse than the decepticons this season ngl. they merely exist; and when they do have the spotlight it’s often for comedy.

why the fuck did shockwave not wait for hashtag to just dump the hard drives and leave. if someone walked up to me yelling “give me your trashbag” as i’m trying to dispose of it i’d be weirded out too lol.

i hope the chaos terrans don’t return. aftermath imo was, plot wise, redundant. spitfire at least was interesting and had an impact.

i wish there were more interesting fights like in season 1 instead of, oh no they’re hitting the trailer with sticks, oh no we are an abomination of dinosaur and vehicle for what feels like 15mins straight. i miss seeing soundwave slay.

[iamtheracoonking]

Today I present you ✨️ WOMEN ✨️ !

This has been sitting at my 'WIP's to finish one day' list for the last half a year. I randomly decided to continue it and was abel to render it in a day, which for me is WOW! (I'm like, extremely slow at rendering)

It's also the first time I'm ever posting a fully finished illustration here so depending on if you guys like it or not, I may even bring something else out of the WIP archives.