#i think i figured out some stuff with line weight while doing this

[aviatrixx]

Trying to take making digital art more seriously, but so far all I’ve accomplished is “draw Yamcha a bunch of times” lmao

[Image ID: Eight digital drawings of Yamcha from Dragon Ball with different facial expressions.]

[hanasnx]

“ I CAN FEEL IT, CAN YOU FEEL IT, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING IN THE AIR ” — rafe cameron.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: kinktober; takes place in obx s4 e1 but there’s a slight change; also happy birthday @princessbrunette :) i wrote this for you in mind; and based off of the scene in f&f where dom picks letty up calling her his trophy. WARNINGS: spoiler warning for obx season 4 episode 1 ノ non canon compliant: i made rafe win the race ノ size difference ノ established relationship ノ objectification ノ impact play: ass smack ノ mild exhibitionism bcos of pda ノ praise ノ sexual content: p in v stuff ノ dirty talk.

Your feet sink into the sand as you traipse alongside RAFE CAMERON to his station in the race. His large hand envelopes yours, keeping you balanced as he leads you to his bike. The roar of revving fills your ears, loud enough for your boyfriend to have to lean down to your level to speak to you, walking you through the process and your role here. You’ve never been a flag girl before, but he told you she needs to be a “hot piece of ass” and he wants these boys heads still spinning when he wins the race. As a distraction, you were the only girl he wanted for the job.

“… and all you gotta do, baby, is make sure those guys are lookin’ at you. Show off a little something—just this once, I don’t care.” he explains, and you nod your head while brushing your hair out of your face from the wind. The two of you stand aside his bike and he mounts it, swinging a long leg over it. It creaks from his weight, and you roll your tongue between your lips. Without sunglasses, his gaze is narrowed, meeting yours in the light as he tugs you closer to him. “You look good. Prettiest girl on Figure Eight.” he assures you, the corner of his lips quirked as he checks you out. The tiniest booty shorts you could find and a stringy bikini top, you looked good enough to eat. If Rafe wasn’t so concerned with crossing the finish line while these cucks were still drooling over you, he’d be a little jealous they get such a treat. “Man, you are eye candy. Give me a twirl, c’mon.”

It eases your nerves, grinning bashfully to yourself as he raises your hand over your head, twisting on your toes to show him your outfit. He bites his lower lip hard at the sight of the underside of your ass hanging out of your shorts, and he can’t help but give you a tap. You whirl around from the swat, and catch his eyes flash up.

“Mm, baby.” he exclaims, talking about you like you’re dessert and he’s got a sweet tooth. He doesn’t give you a chance to scold him for smacking your ass around all these people, “C’mere,” he murmurs, yanking you to him until your body is draped over him on his bike. Your manicured nails brace on his chest while he steals a kiss, humming in surprise at him when he tilts his head to deepen it. Takes advantage of your parted lips to slide his tongue along yours in a proper good-luck-kiss, which only makes for a string of spit to connect the two of you when you part. You breathe hard, chest rising and falling from thrill as you search his expression. There’s a glow of love-sickness in his eyes.

You try to milk more attention. “I don’t know if I can…” you begin, alluding to how shy you’re gonna be in front of all these people.

“Oh, don’t start that shit, you’re gonna be fine.” he dismisses, seeing right through you and shrugging you off him so you get it’s time to stop being clingy. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” He plucks his helmet up, and rounds his body to place it on his head while you reluctantly leave him.

When it’s time to start the race, you hold up two bandanas—donated by some guys trying to buy you drinks—and Rafe scoffs to himself, patting himself on the back for being such a genius. “Who wouldn’t be lookin’ at you?” he thinks, while he revs his bike. You even give the crowd a little shake, your girls strapped in your bikini top swinging teasingly right before you set them off with the bow of your bandanas and the low dip of your arch. Rafe could’ve sworn one guy glanced over his shoulder to check out your ass bent over because he lost control of his steering for a second after. The race was on, and you did your job exactly how your boyfriend wanted you to.

Some kook with too much time on his hands made his way through the crowd to invite himself into your atmosphere, watching you as you eagerly await Rafe’s return and your signal to drop the flags for the winner.

A voice too close to your ear alerts you, resulting in a minute jolt of your body when he speaks. “What are you doing after this?”

Brows furrow as you glance over your shoulder at him, “Oh, uh, I dunno right now.” you reply, but you’re not showing interest. It would depend on Rafe’s victory. You refocus, keeping an eye on the horizon and the roaring metal of competitive bikes. Rejoining the crowd’s enthusiasm, you react with them when someone wipes out.

“Me and the boys were gonna head to a kegger in the boneyard. You should come.” he tells you. Again, too close for your liking. He’s not particularly bad-looking, or grabby, but you don’t like how he’s standing right next to you and stooping to speak in your ear.

You face him again to respond, but the race takes your attention away, shutting your mouth to whirl around just in time to see Rafe drive back into view, sand kicking up behind his wheel.

After a close call, he wins, and when it’s safe, the adoring crowd cheers as it floods the scene to congratulate the riders. You’re one of them, beelining to Rafe without a second thought. He’s discarded his helmet, tossing it haphazardly to the sand as he meets you.

“Ah, there’s my trophy.” he says, hands clamping onto your waist to lift you from the ground. You squeal with delight, bracing on his shoulders and kicking your feet up. Slowly he lowers you until you can wrap your arms around his neck. He’s hot and sweaty, and smells like it too, inhaling his scent deeply as you embrace him and he spins you around. You’ve completely forgotten about that kook you left behind.

“Did so good, precious, did exactly what I told you to.” Rafe murmurs against your lips, whipping his bike jacket off behind him while you lead him by his jaw deeper into his place.

“Mhm, had to give them a show. Like you said.” you exhale, nodding fervently as you press yourself to him, desperate for some friction.

“Didn’t I say you’d be fine? Huh? What’d I say?” he goads, and stoops, signaling you to jump into his arms. He catches your legs, securing them around his waist before his hand cups your backside and his other pins you to him by the back of your neck.

“I did so good!” you reply, a little perkier than you’d meant to. It breaks him out into a grin against you, and he snickers through his nose. Bringing you to his bedroom, he settles your back onto the bed.

Lips locked, and bodies tangling together, he struggles to find a spare second to keep talking, “Gonna give me my prize? You gonna put out for the winner?” His hips surge, and a familiar hard outline sweeps across the crotch of your denim.

You nod, poking your tongue out in concentration as you help him to undress fully, and you wiggle out of your booty shorts. The peek of your tongue doesn’t go unnoticed, and Rafe’s lips overlays yours, sucking on the pink tip there toyingly. You relax into it, untensing them to melt into a real kiss as the tip of something else nudges against your sex. Already wet and aching from all the teasing today, you go limp at the promise of what’s to come. Bulging mushroom head lazily thumbing in and out of your slit makes your head throw back and jerk. “Rafe…” you whine. Sodden lips mouth at your cheek and jaw, working their way down to make out with your neck as his hips shallowly rut.

Ringed fingers clutch your face, tucking your chin in the web of his index and thumb. It faces you to him, and you look up at him with doe eyes and pretty brows in an upturn. He wants to watch your reactions as he pushes in deeper and deeper, finally sheathing as you cry out. It’s a stingy stretch, and he can see your want for it in the roll of your eyes and the flinch of your delicate expression. “Yeah, baby, gimme that trophy. That’s right.”

[samandcolbyownme]

POOKIE WHEN ARE WE GETTING SOME MORE COLBY FICS IM DYINGGGGG (in all seriousness I'm not tryna rush you but pleaseeee just think about writing some more soon it's been like a month I've already re-read them all like 3 times 😭🤚)

I am thankful you chose to re-read my stuff, but here!! Here’s some new Colby smut 🖤

DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction is going to contain reader cheating on boyfriend with Colby. I do not condone cheating, it’s horrible. This is strictly for fanfiction entertainment purposes only!!

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, cheating, flirting, mentions of people being drunk, kissing, hair pulling, unprotected sex, general filth

Word Count: 1.3k | unedited

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Alright.” You sighed as you help up the weight of Leo, your beyond plastered boyfriend, “Come on, just a few more steps, okay?”

Leo groans, mumbling some incoherent words as he slowly lifts his legs onto each step.

“Okay, just-“ you huff, “Lean.. up against, yeah.” You push him back against the wall by the door and fumble to quickly get the house key attached to his key ring.

You drop them and Leo leans forward, “I’ll get’em.”

He leans too far and about knocks you both off of the porch, but the banister saves you from going back, “Leo, stand back up. I have to un-“

The door open and Colby, Leo’s roommate walks out, “I thought I heard something out here, what’s-“

You cut him off, pushing Leo up to stand, “He’s wasted. Again.”

Leo stumbles backwards, “You.. say, that. Like it’s a ba-“ he hiccups, “Bad things..”

Colby grabs him before he can move back any further, “Alright, man. Let’s get you upstairs to your bed, yeah?” Colby glances at you and you shake your head, “I’ll be in. I just-“

“Oh come on! Y/n, cheer up! It’s a p-party!” Leo slurs, “Come to bed with me!”

“I’ll.. be there in a second. I’m going to get you some water and medicine for in the morning.” You walk in behind them and go straight for the kitchen.

Colby laughs as he watches Leo stumble up the steps, “C’mon man. You gotta lift-“ he laughs, “Lifts your legs, dude. There ya go.”

You shake your head, laughing slightly as you open the fridge door. You grab two bottles of water, turning around to set them on the counter before you close the door.

You walk over to the medicine cabinet and reach up to grab the Tylenol. Your fingers push it back and you let out a frustrated sigh as you drop down from your tip toes.

“Need some help?”

Colby startles you for a second, “Oh, um. Yeah.” You laugh quietly, “You scared me. Figured you’d be up there for a little.”

“I’m pretty sure he was asleep before he even hit the bed.” Colby walks over and reaches up, big body right next to yours as he reaches up, “Here you go.”

You take the bottle and set it down, “Thanks.”

He leans against the counter, his hand resting on top, “I don’t..” he sighs, “Stop me if I cross a line, but.. isn’t this his fourth night in a row getting wasted like this? I mean I’m not trying to judge.. or anything, but-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, scoffing as you lay a hand on your forehead, “Yeah.”

Colby stays silent and you take a deep breath, looking over at him, “I’ve tried talking to him.. I-I- I’ve tried telling him that drinking isn’t-“ you shake your head, “Colby.” Your voice breaks, “What.. what do I do?”

He tilts his head, raising his brows as he shrugs, “Whatever you want, y/n. I don’t think-“

“No, Colby. Please. I need someone to tell me something.” You turn towards him and he turns his head towards you, staring at you while he thinks.

“Please.” Your voice is a whisper and Colby reaches up, brushing hair from your face, “I think someone out there can treat you better, someone who has gotten to know you without actually being with you.”

He steps closer, “I think I could treat you better than he can.” He bends down, lifting you up onto the counter, and it’s game over.

His lips are on yours.

Your hands sliding his shirt up his body.

His hands working to pull your shorts down as you move your hips side to side.

“You woke up at three in the morning, might as well make it worth it, yeah?” Colby mumbles as he leans back, discarding his shirt to the floor.

“Just..” you pull him back in, kissing him as you spread your legs and push his sweats down, “Shut up and fuck me.”

He smirks and pulls up into the edge of the counter, his lips on yours as he pulls your panties to the side and thrusts into you.

You throw your head back, one arm around his neck, your other hand flat on the countertop next to you.

“Oh my-“ you lay your forehead against his chest, biting down onto your lip as he thrusts roughly into you.

“Look at me, look at me.” Colby groans, grabbing your hair and tilting your head back, “You deserve so much better than what you’re getting. You hear me?”

You nod, mouth open as your eyes roll back.

“Words, baby.” Colby wraps your hair around his head, gaining full control. You whimper, eyes opening to look at him, “I deserve so much better.”

You swallow, “You can be my better.”

“I’ll kick him out tomorrow.” Colby bites down on his lip, watching as your face twists and turns with the best pleasure you’ve ever received, “Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

You gasp, your walls clenching around him as you reach the edge, “F-fuck, Colby. Colby.” Your nails dig into his skin, creating red trails as they drag across his shoulders, “Y-yes!”

Colby’s lips press against yours as he tries to silence your moans, “quiet, princess.”

“He’s passed out. Probably wouldn’t give a fuck anyway.” You pant, “Fuck, Colby. I-I’m-“ you gasp, nails digging into his skin as you finally spill over into that euphoric feeling that you’ve been seeking.

“That’s it, baby. Let go for me. I got you.” Colby whispers, “Fuck, y-you- fuck.” He pulls out, spilling his cum onto your thigh, “Shit, shit.”

You rest your head back against the closed cupboards, “That..” you laugh slightly, “I can’t believe that just happened.”

Colby fixes his sweats and walks away for a second.

You lay a hand over your mouth, tears welling up in your eyes, “That..” you take a deep breath, laughing away the tears, “Oh fuck.”

Colby steps towards you, wiping off your leg with a towel, “Sorry if I-“

“No, oh god no.” You look up at him, “I don’t..” you take a deep breath, “I don’t regret this, I just.. the timing.. of it..”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips, “Yeah, no, I completely get it. But I’m sorry if I made you feel-“

“Colby.” You cut him off, “You have nothing to be sorry for, you want to know why?”

He looks up at you, “Tell me, baby.”

You smirk, tilting your head, “Because you have treated me better in these last few months than Leo has. Everytime I’ve hung out here, you were always the one to offer me a drink or food or whatever the case may be.”

“Leo is an immature little boy and I’m just glad we both realized what kind of person he is before he fucked over either one of us over.” He tucks hair behind your ear and kisses your forehead, “Sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

You nod, “Already planned on it, but thank you.” You smirk and slip down off the counter, bending down to grab your shorts and fix your panties, “I’m just.. scared how he’ll react you know.”

Colby nods, “I’ll be there, I mean, if you want me to be.”

You nod, “Please, at least hide upstairs or something? I’ll tell him you went out with Sam or.. whatever.”

Colby fights back a smile and you tilt your head, “What?”

He shakes his head, “Nothing, nothing, I just..” he walks over, wrapping his arms around you, “Just thinking about after he leaves, how much sex we’re going to have.”

You laugh, “Colby.”

“What? Celebration sex, ya know?”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

I feel like this kinda sucked but aw well. Let me know what you think! I love you all so much. Thanks for reading and I’ll catch you in the next one! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Is it just me or do I feel like iv would use his jacket to mark the girl he liked. Back off cunts she’s taken sort of vibes. Maybe you could write something along those lines?

I think about this a lot myself, so I definitely understand you and genuinely agree. Also III is being a bestie in this one.

Little part II

His mark

It started so innocently. The whole band was hanging behind the stage after the concert. The conversation was light with people reaching in to nibble on some food and drinks. Your stage outfit, as nice as it was to jump around on stage while the huge lights shined on your body, now that you were in the dim of the back rooms did little to keep you warm. And you so could have just excused yourself from the conversation with the girls, knowing full well that they wouldn’t mind holding the conversation off for a couple of minutes but you just didn’t want to somehow break the atmosphere.

That’s when you felt it. The weight pressing on your shoulders. The heat instantly radiated from the leather that was being so casually draped over your body. Crocking your head to the side you saw none other than IV. But you didn’t even have to look. The smell of him, so familiar and at this point engraved into your brain gave him away. “Could hear your teeth clacking together from across the room, it’s so annoying”, he grunted, clearly trying to seem more annoyed than he was. “My apologies and you shouldn’t have tasked yourself with coming to my rescue”, you sassed back, slipping your arms through the sleeves. “Sometimes my kindness surprises even me”, IV shrugged, leaning equipment boxes. “We will grab some more food”, the girls chirped, making you snap your head back at them, completely forgetting that they were there in the first place.

“Is it bad that I secretly fantasized about wearing this?”, you asked so out of the blue that you were almost convinced that you heard IV choke on his drink, “This is the coolest thing I’ve seen in a long while”. IV stayed silent for a moment before that shit-eating grin spread across his face, “See, depends on what these fantasies entail”, he muttered, clearly delighted with himself. Now it was you who gasped, pushing his chest slightly as you both giggled away.

The next time it happened was in the middle of the show. The open stage, as nice as it was for some parts of the summer, wasn’t all that friendly when the summer rains split the skies. While the first two songs in soaked clothes were kind of refreshing. Rain alsp brought a lower temperature, slowly settling the tremble into your hands. That’s when a familiar figure sauntered closer but you didn’t give it much thought. IV often found himself close to you and the girls. It was his nature, well all of theirs. That’s until IV pulled his guitar off, setting it down and shrugging out of his jacket.

With your eyes already glued on him, you watched him lifting the jacket closer to you. All you could do was shake your head, “Are you insane?”, you mouthed. It was one thing doing stuff like that around the people in the team. A whole different story when fans were involved. “Put it on or I will put it on you”, IV stated flatly. Throwing the jacket up.

The logic within you told you to ignore it. Let it drop. But you couldn’t. It was way too precious. Someone had spent hours making it and it was also his. But just because it was in your hands didn’t mean you had to put it on. You could just hold it for him. Well, wrong. Cause IV dared to cross his arms over his chest as he watched you, and knowing his stubborn ass he would stand there till you did what he had told you to. With an excessive eye roll, you threw the jacket over your shoulder, pushing some of the wet strands away and clinging to your face. “Happy?”, you mouthed, but IV only winked at you before returning to the front of the stage.

And more often than not this had turned into a norm. Going to the bus? His jacket is on your body. Right before the show while the jitters are insane? His jacket. Walking through the backstages while preparing? Band meetings? Rehearsals? The list could go on and on. But since it brought you the same sense of comfort you never voiced it out loud. Too afraid that if you pointed it out he would turn the other way and run for the hills.

“So, where’s your guard dog?”, III's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. Smiling you rolled your eyes, pushing a pack of goldfish towards him. “Maybe guarding someone else”, you shrugged, making III snort, “Nice try, I bet all of his security alarms are ringing off right this minute”. You frowned slightly at his words. “Oh come on, tell me that you don’t see a pattern?”, III tilted his head to the side in disbelief. “He’s just been sweet”, you muttered, “Plus, I had told him that I have frog hands and feet. I’m constantly cold”.

III just shook his head, “We all know that but do you see me running after you with a blanket?”. You huffed, letting your mouth drop, “Is this your way of telling me that secretly hate me”, you gave him the best version of puppy dog eyes. “Girl, I held your hair back while you threw up a bottle of tequila, I don’t do that for people I don’t care about”, he pointed out. You leaned in, warping your arms around his lean body, “And that is why I like you”, you muttered again his chest.

Someone cleared their throat and you instantly pulled back. Not far from you two stood IV. The fire in his eyes burning out of control. You expect III to pull back but instead, he casually slung his arm over your shoulders. “In need of a hug too?”, he teased, IV eyes burning holes in his bandmate's face. “Just wondering why you needed one”, IV said through gritted teeth. “Oh, come on, I hug you all good morning and goodnight, don’t start playing favorites”, you slapped III on his chest, pulling out of his hands.

IV equally didn’t waste any time stepping closer to you. And as if it had become your secret skin, the jacket pressed down onto your shoulders. III let out a laugh, shaking his head, “Loud and clear mate, loud and clear”, he saluted before turning back. “Why are you in a pissy mood?”, you crossed your arms over your chest, turning to face IV. His eyes are still on III. “I don’t like when people mess with what’s mine”, he muttered, snatching all air out of your lungs. “What is that supposed to mean”, you muttered, letting him pull you closer to him. “Don’t worry your head about it for now”, IV leaned in pressing a kiss to your temple.

[kafka-ish]

I think if Art wasn’t as serious about tennis he’d be such a coworker. Maybe it’d be in between summers at Stanford and it’s your first week there. He’s scheduled to train you, show you the ropes but when you first walk in he thinks you’re just another customer, a really pretty customer that’s got him changing up the script. Hey! How’s it going? What can I do for you? Find everything alright? He’s already thinking of ways he can slip you his number, maybe he’ll write it on your receipt. And he’s typing in his ID to give you his discount, anything until you say, “Actually, I work here.”

Art stops typing. Looks up, completely dumbstruck because you’re too pretty to be selling yourself out for some minimum wage corporation, to be doing any sort of labor. You need to be taken care of; any reason you should step foot in here would be to pick out a new tennis racket for a match you have. But you’re here. You work here. So he cancels out the order and says something about how he’ll get you a t-shirt, stay there.

He’ll take you to the back where the employee bathrooms are. You watch his fingers when he punches the numbers. “It’s like a six,” he says, and you think about that every time you use the code to get in. He waits for you outside the door while you’re changing, wishing he could get a glimpse, wishing he could be on the other side. He gets hard just thinking about it. He thinks about the kind of bra you’re wearing, if you’re wearing one, what you look like underneath the fabric. And he thinks you look so cute in that work-issued uniform even if the collar of your shirt isn’t folded over correctly - it only gives him the urge to reach over and fix it. Sorry, he says when he retracts his hand and sees the look you give him. He doesn’t mean it, not entirely, by the way a smile starts working its way on his face.

Art would give you a tour before you get started. He wants to show you around and he loves that he gets to be the first one to make an impression. Fucking revels in it. But he’s also weighted with the worry of making a good impression so some of his delivery is awkward: this is the stockroom it’s where we get stuff to… stock / we separate brands in sections so if someone asks where adidas is you can point to the three lines back there / managements making us ask everyone if they wanna round up their change but you don’t have to. I just ask anyone who’s paying cash. Or if they’re cute. The system makes you put their email in. He flushes a little because he doesn’t know why he says that last part.

I think Art would be so patient when he’s training you. He would take his time to over-explain everything and he doesn’t realize he comes off sounding like a douche. Telling you what all the buttons mean and asking if you want to come with him when he’s about to stock something just so you can see where it is for next time, obviously. But it’s just an excuse to talk to you!! He doesn’t know how and he figures since you both work there it’s an easy in and you think it’s so adorable that because it’s a slow day he’s pretending to be your first customer, gathering random items, having you scan them, and reminding you to ask if he wants to round up his change for charity.

“Not today”

“Okay, your total will be—”

“Hold on. You don’t want my email?”

“Well, you said no so…”

“No. Convince me. Really try and convince me.”He wants to know what lengths you’d go for him if this is how you’d happen to meet. So you say, okay it’s for this charity you guys are having.

“Say it’s for homeless animals. They eat that shit up,” Art lets you in on this piece of information like the manipulator he is.

“Is that what you do?”

And Art would make sure to stay near you just in case you need something, always bags the customers’ items so you can focus on the transaction. He loves the way you say his name, how timid you are when you whisper Art when you need help. He imagines that’s how you say it when he’s eating you out.

[roosterforme]

Old Habits Die Hard Part 16 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: After you visit Chicago, you understand just how hectic your life is about to become. And Bradley finally gets a very important piece of mail. There are things you want to say to him, but you don't know how. 

Warnings: Angst, swears, smut and fluff

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (fuckboy college student Bradley)

Check out my masterlist

Bradley helped you pack your bag and sat with you while you waited for your ride.

"I wish I could come with you. But I guess I'll have to wait to see Chicago when I visit you in the fall," he whispered, kissing your neck and holding you.

You were going to check out your new school for a long weekend since you'd be moving to Illinois next month. You were kind of terrified to go alone, but you needed to meet your advisor and look at your course of study. If you had the money, you'd take Bradley with you, but it really wasn't an option. 

"I'll scope out the city and see what looks fun," you told him, running your fingers through his soft hair. 

"Don't do the fun stuff without me though," he murmured. "Promise me, Sugar. Promise me you won't visit that big, silver bean. It looks dumb as hell, but I really want to see it."

You laughed against him and nodded your head in the crook of his neck. "I promise."

"And no deep dish pizza either."

You gasped and pulled away from him. "Now that's where I draw the line, Beer Boy."

Bradley laughed and pushed your hair away from your face. "I'll miss you." His face was so earnest, you had no doubt that he would. 

"I'll call you as soon as I land. Behave without me this weekend."

"I will," he whispered against your lips. "I'll be thinking about you the whole time." You dipped your tongue into his mouth and eased yourself further onto his lap, and just when you started to get cozy, your phone alerted you that your ride had arrived.

He walked you down to the street and kissed you one last time before you got in the car to leave. The urge to make some big proclamation about your feelings was filling you up inside, but you had to tamp it back down. Your feelings were honestly scaring you a bit since Tyson's birthday party. Nothing was making much sense to you now, and you needed to keep in mind that you wouldn't be seeing Bradley on a daily basis starting next month. The idea of it felt like too much weight to carry around with you as he stroked your neck with his fingers and told you he'd miss you so much.

You watched the Virginia countryside in the morning light, and when you landed in Chicago, the juxtaposition of continuous urban sprawl was alarming. You figured you would get used to it in time, but the sheer volume of traffic and city noise started to give you a headache almost immediately. 

You managed to get a taxi to your hotel, and you quickly changed to meet with your advisor. Sometimes you wished you had a closer relationship with your parents so you had someone to rely on. It made you want to put all of your trust in Bradley, and you wanted to be the person he could trust with anything. But you'd only known each other for a few months. 

But you texted him anyway. You snapped a picture as you rode past 'the bean' and promised him you weren't going without him. You texted him photos of the school campus as you walked along, searching for your advisor's office. 

When you found her spacious workspace, she jumped up and introduced herself to you. "I can't tell you how happy we are to have you joining us for the fall semester. Have a seat. And please call me Carmen."

"Thanks, Carmen. I just got lost walking through the campus, but it looks amazing here."

She just smiled at you and promised to take you on a tour tomorrow morning. "Now, I want to give you a brief overview of what will be expected, and then we can select your first semester classes later this weekend. However, I must say, I am so impressed with your undergraduate studies. I've spoken extensively about you with your advisor from UVA, and he assures me that we couldn't have picked a finer PhD candidate to add to our program. So welcome, once again."

You weren't used to hearing such high praise about yourself, and you felt a little uncomfortable in the leather seat. What if they had all actually made a huge mistake? What if you couldn't hack it? You'd be sleeping in the park under the bean, calling Bradley to come out to Chicago and rescue you. 

"Wow," you managed to say with a soft laugh. "I guess the pressure is on then."

When Carmen nodded with a very serious look on her face, all pretense of teasing on your part vanished. 

"It's going to be intense if you want to graduate in four years. And that's one of the things that will be required for you to keep your scholarship. You'll need to maintain a high GPA as well, so you'll be spending a lot of time in the labs and working closely with me."

You pressed your lips together. "It doesn't sound like I'll have much time for a personal life."

Carmen laughed and shrugged. "That's probably true. But when you finish your schooling in just an additional four years, you'll have your pick of careers. You told me in an email that you wanted to be a college professor someday? Well, after we're done with you, I can almost guarantee you'll be able to work anywhere you want to."

You let that sink in for a few minutes while Carmen told you more about the graduate dorms and your monetary compensation.

------------------------------

Bradley spent all day Friday in the study room, bored out of his mind and missing your body perched on his lap. He read his final novel for his English class, and he would have no problem finishing his final paper this weekend. His economics class was so easy, it was boring, and he'd already finished reading his political science textbook.

He'd started counting down the days until graduation. He was ready to move on, simply dying to hear back about flight training. Then he would be able to make some decisions, because at the moment, he was feeling so lost. He was happy for you though. You knew exactly what you wanted, and you were going to get it. He just hoped he would be that lucky this time. 

When his phone went off with texts from you, he scrolled through the photos you sent him, stopping on a selfie of you smiling in front of a fountain. He set it as his background. Then he texted you back.

Dev was sorting the mail when Bradley got back to the Beta house, and the rest of the guys were getting ready for the weekend parties. "Here," Dev told him, tossing a thick envelope to Bradley when he walked past.

"Thanks, man," Bradley replied, expecting it to be the annual information on his mom's life insurance policy. But when he turned it over in his hands and saw the US Navy emblem on the front, he nearly tripped on the stairs. He took the remaining steps two at a time and locked himself in his room. 

With shaky hands, Bradley tore into the envelope and sat down hard at his desk.

"Welcome to officer training and the Naval Aviation Academy," he read out loud to himself, and Bradley could see the tears clouding his vision before he could feel them. 

He set the letter down on his desk and cradled his face in his hands and just cried. This was the thing he had wanted for so long, and this time he wasn't going to let anyone take it away from him. 

Bradley wiped away his tears and let himself smile. His grades had improved so much, especially since he had a 4.0 so far for his senior year. In some sick, twisted way, he thought he had Chase to thank for this, because Bradley wasn't sure he would have been able to find the motivation to drink less and study more on his own. 

He wanted to text you right away. He also wanted to tell Hannah. But he would wait until you came back on Sunday night before he said anything. 

So he read through every bit of information twice and sent an email to the officer listed as his contact person for housing inquiries. As soon as he gave up his room here, he'd have absolutely nowhere to go otherwise. He also asked about guest accommodations, so he would have a good idea about what he should tell you for when you came to visit him.

His schedule looked absolutely wild. In his first year, he'd be in Rhode Island, Florida, Texas, and then California. And now he was hoping he'd have time to see you in Chicago.

So Bradley partied a bit all weekend, silently celebrating his acceptance letter. He avoided the hard liquor and the mob of girls asking him what happened to his girlfriend. You'd be back soon enough, and he couldn't wait to show you his letter.

---------------------------

Your campus tour and lunch with the head of the math department went smoothly. Then you picked out which dorm you'd be moving into, with the option of coming early in May to get a jumpstart on your classes. Then you sat down with Carmen again to select your schedule for the fall semester and see which textbooks you would need to acquire. 

You'd be learning about things you never even dreamed of at UVA. And you'd be working with some of the most intelligent and well studied people in the field. It was a lot for you to absorb.

When you flew back to Virginia on Sunday, you were so antsy, you couldn't sit still. When you landed you texted Bradley and told him you were going to get a ride directly to the Beta house, he said he'd be waiting for you.

And he was. You saw him sitting on the porch when your ride dropped you off, and he walked down to get your bag and pull you into a tight hug. 

"I missed you, Sugar." He scooped you into a hug as the car pulled away, and you let him hold you until you were sliding out of his arms. "How much did you love Chicago?"

You kissed him softly and then nodded. "It was kind of a shock to the system, but...yeah, I think it will be good."

You just inhaled his scent for a few moments while he rubbed your back and asked you for some details. Then it struck you; if you missed each other this much after just a few days apart, how were you going to date each other in two different time zones? You held onto him tighter and kissed the scars on his neck.

"Can I show you something? Up in my room?" he asked softly.

You huffed out a laugh. "I would certainly hope you'd wait until we got to your room for that, Beer Boy."

He rolled his eyes and picked up your bag. "That's not what I was talking about, and you know it. But...yeah, I can show you that, too."

You laughed as Bradley chased you up the stairs, and you opened his door, running your fingers along your phone number as you went inside.

"What do you want to show me?" you asked between kisses. Because now that you had him alone, you needed to touch all of him. His fingers dug into your hair, a little rough along your scalp as he pulled your body against his. 

"I want you to read something," he told you, guiding you backwards until you were sitting at his desk. He pointed to an envelope that looked like it had been opened very hastily, and he kissed your neck as you reached for it.

"Bradley," you gasped when you saw the return address. 

You spun around to face him, but he just nodded and said, "Go on, read it."

As quickly as you could manage, you pulled everything out of the envelope and started to read. You made it through two lines before you were out of your seat and climbing Bradley like he was a tree.

"Oh my god, Bradley! You did it!" You were kissing him all over his face while he held onto you. At first you thought he was crying, but then you realized your lips were met with your own salty tears. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Thanks, Sugar," he whispered against your lips. "I got the letter on Friday, and I've been dying to tell you in person. And now you're the first one I told."

"You could have told me during one of our dozen phone calls, Bradley!"

He just shook his head and climbed on top of you on his bed. "It's not the same."

"What are we going to do when phone calls are all we have?" you asked him softly. But Bradley just shook his head.

---------------------------

He didn't want to think about that yet. He didn't want to think about any of it at all. 

"We'll figure it out," he promised. Your hair was spread out across his pillow, and you were looking up at him like you trusted him with everything. Graduation was so close now, and both of you knew where you were headed next. But none of that mattered, because you'd still have each other.

"I trust you, too, Sugar," he told you, even though you hadn't said anything. "You're so smart. You always know what to do. I trust you."

Your hands were in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you. "I knew you'd get in," you told him. "I never doubted you for a moment."

Bradley smiled as you kissed him. "You're the only one who feels that way about me."

"Lucky me," you whispered, wiping a stray tear from your cheek before you started to pull his shirt off. Nothing you did felt rushed, and even though you were pinned underneath him, Bradley knew you were the one in control.

He basked in the feel of your hands on his bare skin and your soft body beneath him. You had changed him so much; or rather, he had changed because of you. He had known he wanted to be better, but he really did it for you as much as himself. 

"Sugar." Your lips were on his shoulder, gliding across his skin, leaving a trail of not quite kisses as you reached for the front of his jeans.

He wished he could make you cum a million times tonight. He wanted to watch every inch of you as you got off on him, because soon he would have to go long stretches without you.

He stripped your clothing off as well, and you were already wet and moaning when he dipped his fingers down along your pussy. 

"Beer Boy!" you whined. "I need you."

He needed you more. Once he had rolled a condom into place, he rolled onto his back and guided you on top of him. He was hard and ready for you, but he watched the look on your face as you straddled his abs and let your forehead rest against his. 

"I need you." You whispered it this time as his fingers gently memorized the curve of your hips. Then you eased yourself down his body and guided him inside you with a soft hiss.

Eyes slightly out of focus, you moved above him, the bump of your thighs against his body just perfect. Bradley was mesmerized, just like he always was when he was with you like this. He let his fingertips trail up along your ribs and across your tattoo and you gasped for him.

"So perfect," he said, and you kissed him hard while you rode him. You tasted his lips and his teeth and moved with a rhythm that had him close to the edge.

He guided his fingers to the space between his body and yours where you could rub yourself against him. And then you were crying out into his mouth as your pussy squeezed his cock, and he came too. 

"So perfect," he repeated into your hair as you buried your face against his neck.

---------------------------

You changed into Bradley's tie dye shirt and sat on his floor sharing a pizza with him. 

"What's your dormitory going to be like?" he asked, folding a slice in half and taking a huge bite. 

"It's in this ancient building with insanely intricate architecture. I picked it because it looked fun, which I'm sure wasn't the best decision," you said with a laugh as he finished the piece of pizza. "But the best part? It's all mine. No roommate!"

Bradley grinned. "That'll be nice for when I come to visit."

You smiled. "It's a long walk to the bean, but if the weather's good, it's doable. And there's literally deep dish pizza on every street. Jealous yet? Are you still sure you want to go to Rhode Island?"

Bradley leaned across the pizza box and placed the softest, sweetest kiss on your cheek. Your eyes fluttered closed and you smiled. "If there was any option for me to be closer to Chicago, I would have taken it, Sugar. Promise."

You just looked at him, longing for him to understand how you felt inside, but you were way too afraid to say anything to him. You were in love with him, and it was eating away at you. There was no way you could tell him. Not when you were graduating and leaving so soon. It would have to wait. Maybe there would be a better time later. But not now.

----------------------

One. More. Chapter. Left. A million thanks to @mak-32 for helping me the whole time with this fic. This one is for you!

PART 17 (the final chapter)

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

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[sabrinatvband]

Notes on Comic Art #2: To Hatch or Not to Hatch, also some coloring stuff

One of the most influential things I've ever read on the subject of comic art is a piece Jesse Hamm wrote on Alex Toth where he talks about flatpacking.

[I discovered while writing this that Jesse Hamm passed away in 2021. He was a brilliant educator, one of the best in the history of the comics medium, and will be sorely missed.]

In the piece Hamm basically discusses how over-rendering objects usually makes them function worse as comic art. Many other people have discussed how using thicker lines for objects closer to the "camera" is good practice, how colors can seperate shapes and create depth, etc.

The question is, where does cross hatching fit into all of this? Or rather, various methods of adding more detailed rendering to artwork? I'm trying to figure this stuff out as I'm doing layouts for my comic, because I want to know the answers before I start inking the final artwork.

I try/want to have an uncluttered, clean, easily readable art style. I occasionally add hatching to my drawings, because hatching is fun, but I often feel like I've slightly ruined my artwork when I'm finished.

I've decided to look at some of the art that I feel like my own work is trying the hardest to emulate, at least philosophically, to see how other artists "weigh in" on this debate. It's important to remember that inkers embellish artwork [hence the alternate title "embellisher"], and so I'm going to try and find inkers most representative of a given penciller's intentions when applicable.

As I was working on this piece, I read Hamm Tips vol 1.1, and I discovered this diagram, which seems to relate with what I'm going to discuss later:

I think it's accurate to say that my desired approach is Uninflected/Deliberate; I think most people going for a clean and cartoonish look fall into that quadrant. Some people might describe Toth's work as being "clean", and so I should clarify that I'm talking about clean in the spirit of "lines meet neatly".

Some of the artists I'll discuss have lines that fall somewhere between being Inflected and Uninflected, and I think a lot of this comes down to inker approach. I feel like, in spirit, all of these pencillers are Uninflected, but some of the inkers use brushes, which creates a sort of middle ground. Brushes add different weights to a line, whereas crow quill nibs and pens have a uniform width. [The technical term for unweighted inked lines is "dumb line"; I believe this was coined by David Mazzucchelli.]

Let's first look at Adam Warren's work in the Dirty Pair volume Fatal But Not Serious. I'm a huge fan of how this comic looks; the flat, cel animation-style colors are very clean and easy to read. It's a very pleasant look, and I'm surprised more comics don't do this.

There is some hatching here, but it's not "serious" hatching. Just a few lines on cheeks, hands, etc. 98% of the artwork is shapes delinated entirely by a clean line and color. The convention floor panel is able to have a ton of detail without really changing the visual "rules" of the comic. An artist who does things in a more highly rendered way may've, for instance, reduced the crowd to a series of heavily shadowed figures, or colored in a single expressionistic wash to paper over things, etc.

Warren's Magical Drama Queen Roxy used a very similar approach to Fatal But Not Serious:

Let's now look at Rick Mays. I'm not a huge fan of Rick Mays, I've only actual read a single issue of a comic by him, but as I was reading Gen 13 he immediately stood out as being the best artist on that series, aside from Adam Warren himself [speaking only about issues Warren wrote]. It feels very telling that Rick Mays later did the final art for a graphic novel Warren laid out called Livewires.

These are from Gen 13 vol 2 #70:

The biggest difference between this piece has nothing to do with Warren or Mays, and everything to do with the coloring approach. I don't think the coloring here is bad, but the gradient-y colors do create a vastly different visual effect than the cel look I highlighted earlier.

The inking approach feels quite similar between the two artists; while Mays's art takes one or two steps towards realism relative to the Fatal But Not Serious stuff, texture is largely used to the same degree [with the grass and tornado being understandable exceptions]. What's interesting is that this issue has three different credited inkers; Karl Story, Rick Mays, and Jason Martin. I'm assuming this happened for deadline reasons.

I feel like I'm maybe starting to sound a little repetitive, and so I feel like I should share an issue of Gen 13 that I disliked, and then we can move to things that aren't Adam Warren-adjacent. These are from #43 and #44, with pencils by Lee Bermejo and inks by John Nyberg:

I'm not a big fan of this. The borderline chiaroscuro inking makes everything look heavily referenced, labored, and weird, and the "acting" in the comic suffers because of the over-rendered faces. It's a real shame the artwork is like this, because this two-part story is actually quite solid and would be a minor classic with better artwork.

I notice that many newer comic artists [which is to say, people who began their careers during the 90s onwards] put a lot of heavy shadows on figures in a way that feels too slavishly devoted to a certain kind of realism. I say a "certain kind" because the high contrast look of black spots being put onto a figure make the shadows way darker than they'd actually look in real life, so it almost makes the figures look dirty.

Look at comic art from the olden days and figures are largely defined by outlines/color. If a figure in an old comic has a lot of shadow on them, it's for reasons that are obvious and motivated; noir-y venetian blinds stuff, a mysterious villain being obscured, someone being underlit, or having half their face obscured, etc. There's a clear reason shadows are being used in these cases, rather than it being done to add usually unnecessary detail.

Anyways, let's look at Amanda Conner's work. Image on the left is from a Vampirella story called Fantasy Feast, and the image on the right is from Power Girl #12. Texture is used, like on the walls of the bathroom, but sparingly.

Looking at Conner's work in this context makes me realize, I don't think I've ever seen Amanda Conner's stuff colored flat [at least after she fully matured as an artist]. I don't think the more three-dimensional rendering used in any of these panels is bad, but I'm not going to be doing that kind of coloring in my book, and so it's not quite as instructive to me.

That being said, I really love Conner's style. I've noticed that Marvel and DC are increasingly using artists with styles that are broadly similar to Conner's; I've included an example below. Maybe it's because the artist below is too lazy to draw a proper background, but their work feels so much more flavorless than Conner's in comparison. I think it's because the "acting" is not as impressive, and Conner brings a fun-factor that feels completely absent in the page below.

I realize "fun" isn't always the order of the day, but this page doesn't really reflect . . . anything. It's completely bland.

Here's Kirby, who couldn't be bland if he tried. The left image is from the Young Romance collection Fantagraphics put out, and the right is from OMAC. The former is from the 40s, latter is from the 70s. [By the way, the Young Romance image is photographed from my own collection; there's no warping visible because Fantagraphics knows how to design a book].

Looking at these pieces side-by-side really challenges a lot of my assumptions about Kirby's artwork, because in some ways his artwork changed less than I previously thought it did without direct comparisons. There are some things that are more abstract about the OMAC page, like the wiggly shadows. Someone unfamiliar with Kirby might assume these were drawn by two different people, but only because 30-odd years of growth seperate these two pages.

Kirby's style, in my mind, is highly geometric and defined more so by abstract shorthand squiggles than hatching or other forms of rendering, but there actually is a fair amount of hatching on the OMAC page.

However, that OMAC page I believe was inked by Mike Royer, or at least someone using a brush. I noticed that, by sheer coincidence, almost all of the Kirby art from my first post in this series was inked by D. Bruce Barry, who didn't use a brush and also followed Kirby's pencils perhaps more literally than any other inker he ever had. In those images, it's clear that most of the hatching in Kirby's work was added by his inkers.

When Kirby did ink himself [using a brush], his style was oddly clean. He did add in hatching, but it was never particularly dense.

Anyways, I want to close this by including some Jesse Hamm quotes from his instructional PDFs:

-Simplicity is great, but often you need extra texture to seel weirdness.

-Another sign of experience is texture. The pro-level artist has learned to give different textures to grass, hair, tree bark, bushes, etc. Meanwhile, the amateur uses the same one or two shading techniques on EVERYTHING, giving it all a samey feel.

-Open spaces of black or white may be "activated" with a bit of texture. A few pebbles/ripples/etc will spur the mind to fill what's missing.

-We talk often about spotting blacks, but spotting greys (i.e., details/texture) is also crucial to clear compositions.

The lesson in the bit of Hamm writing I most often revisited, the flatpacking post, was that too much texture and rendering can make a comic exhausting to read. But reading more of his work, it turns out he had a more nuanced, texture-inclusive view of things.

What's the lesson here? Discretion.

[generalluxun]

"What are you doing?!" Chloé announced herself with a shriek.

André froze in the middle of her bedroom. His arms were laden with her jewelry boxes. Excess adornments were looped over his meaty appendages, threatening to slip free onto the floor. He cast about like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Finding no reprieve, a slick well practiced smile slid into place and he brightened.

"Chloé, dear, you won't believe our luck! Gabriel has decided to do an entire line dedicated to us! The First Family of Paris! Isn't that exciting?"

Instead of the expected glee, Chloé advanced on him, leveling an accusatory finger. "Nevermind Lambriel Agreste. What are you doing with my jewelry?"

Andre squirmed, his plunder threatening to spill free again. "Oh, this? It's nothing, nothing honey. Gabriel says he needs these to study, to capture your 'true essence.'"

Surprise registered on Chloé's face, turning quickly to anger. Her face went flush and she stomped her foot. "No! He can't have them! They're mine!"

Andre floundered, "Honey, he needs these. He said so himself. I'll buy you some new jewelry to use until he is done! Won't that he ni-"

"No!" She screamed louder, "I don't want new jewelry. I don't want stupid new clothes. I don't want anything! Just leave me and my stuff alone!"

He paled as his one solution to everything failed. It lasted only a moment though. The placating smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. André squared his shoulders and gazed down from on high at what was simply another unruly Parisian now. "Gabriel needs these. I am taking them. No one argues with the Mayor of Paris."

He was in motion before he finished speaking. The speed of his step hinted fear in equal parts with belligerence. Chloé tried to stop him. She latched onto his arm, but his bulk was nearly three times her weight. Her father shrugged her off. As an after thought he passed his searching gaze over her unadorned hands and ears, then and out of her suite before she had gotten back to her feet.

She screamed after him, no words this time just incoherent rage. When her throat was sore and her head hurt she relented. She climbed up on her bed and picked up Mr. Cuddly. Her bear got one firm squeeze before she poked a fingertip into a small hole in his back seam. When she pulled it out she wore a thin golden band.

"At least he didn't get you." She said to the ring.

Black and green sparks tickled along the ring, then shot off to coalesce into a small black cat kwami; an angry black cat kwami. "Get me? You already got me! You stole my miraculous!"

Chloé winced at the onslaught but countered quickly, "So what? Everybody steals Miraculouses. Ladybug stole mine! Shadowmoth stole everybody's! You're mine now, and no one's going to take you from me."

That put the kwami on the back foot. He squinted at her, "Did you hit your head or something, Miss Priss? Not that it matters. If you think for one second I'm gonna-"

"Be Quiet!" Chloé hissed.

The kwami's lips snapped shut. He resorted to flitting around her in agitated figure eights. She swatted him away and he made a bee line for the most expensive looking vase in the room.

"Back in the ring!" Chloé yelped.

The ring's magic cut Plagg's rampage short, sucking him inside and plunging the room into silence. Chloé sat for a long time, twisting the ring on her finger while the memory of Adrien's stunned face hovered behind her eyes.

When she looked up out of her thoughts the room felt larger, or maybe she felt smaller. The uncomfortable absence of her missing jewelry felt like a robbery. Her bedroom no longer felt safe. She pulled up the comforter to try and ward off the unease.

It's not like she had anywhere else to go.

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 4)

The aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted through the air, encasing your senses as you and Cillian stepped into the threshold of the cafe. A buzz of chatter from the crowded space filled your ears, punctuated by the clinking of porcelain and the hiss of steam frothing milk. The cafe's modern decor, a blend of industrial chic and cozy warmth, seemed to draw in half the city, leaving  you and Cillian at the end of a winding line of impatient patrons.

You fidgeted with the hem of your sweater, an eclectic pattern of colors that you had chosen to appear both sophisticated and approachable. Entering the queue, you the weight of the many eyes skimming over both you and Cillian—some curious, others envious. He stood beside at your side, the epitome of effortless elegance, his dark hair catching the soft glow of the pendant lights above.

“Looks like we’ll be here for a while,” he remarked. “I hate when something I like becomes popular.”

“Seems so,” you replied, your tone light but your mind elsewhere. You slipped your phone out of your pocket, thumb flicking across the screen with swift, practiced motions. Emails, job listings, opportunities—they cascaded down the display as you filtered through them with a sense of urgency that belied the calm front you tried to project.

“Are you looking at anything interesting?” Cillian asked, peering over at your screen with a curiosity that felt too close, too keen.

“Just looking at some job postings,” you said, minimizing the list of applications before he could glimpse the titles. You knew he didn’t truly understand your need to earn your keep, to build something for yourself without the crutch of connections or favors. “It’s difficult to find something with flexible hours and decent pay. I want to find something that fits, you know?”

“I figure it’d be,” he said with a shrug.

Once he retreated out of your personal bubble, you scrolled through one listing after another, occasionally pausing to submit your resume into the void of potential employment. Each tap on the 'apply' button was a tiny leap of faith—a hope that somewhere out there was a chance for you to prove yourself capable, independent.

The cafe was stifling. You removed your cardigan and settled it over your arm, only for Cillian to sweep it into his arms. You glared as he draped the sleeves over his shoulders, tying them into a knot. It was an eyesore against his monochromatic ensemble, but as always, he wore it well.

You shuffled forward in the line, your eyes trailing over the scuffed tile floor of the bustling cafe. Cillian loomed beside you, his body heat seeping through the thin fabric of your blouse as he leaned a little too close for comfort, arms pressing into your side.

“I love this,” Cillian whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Our weekly meet-ups are all that get me through the week.”

You nodded, a quick jerk of your head, wishing your frazzled hair would shield you from the intimacy of his gaze. Your attention shifted to the chalkboard menu above the counter, where playful script offered promises of bold new flavors and exotic blends. You considered ordering a raspberry mocha or the spiced chai latte, something to break the monotony of your usual orders.

“Hey, Lee, what do you think about those new items> Do they look—”

“No. You know how particular your stomach is,” Cillian cut in, his tone laced with feigned concern as he placed a hand on your shoulder. "You should stick with the usual, and I’ll get the new stuff so you can still try it." Before you could protest, Cillian turned to the barista, his charismatic smile in place. “Two of the usual, please. And could you grab one of those pre packaged blueberry muffins?”

Whatever. I’m eating on his dime, you thought as he swiped his card.

With a sigh trapped behind you lips, you smiled and watched as he paid for the order, his flamboyant duct-tape wallet—the same one you made for him during a particularly boring summer—flashing briefly before being tucked away. The idea of eating another stiff, cellophane-wrapped muffin seemed ridiculous when there were trays of fresh pastries just a few feet away. But he was paying, and arguing seemed like it would cost more than you were willing to spend.

“Come, let’s find our table. Did you know the owner started reserving the one in the back for us? It’s nice when loyalty is rewarded.” Cillian steered you gently by the elbow toward an empty table in the corner. Releasing you, his fingers curled around the back of the chair, sliding it out with a graceful swoop that seemed practiced, almost theatrical.

No sooner than you sat, a broad-shoulder man rushed over with their drinks. “Here you go,” he said, gently placing them down. “I knew what to make as soon as you walked in.”

You settled into the seat, your eyes drifting to the cup placed before you—a frothy concoction topped with swirls of caramel and a mountain of whipped cream. You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, feeling its smoothness against your palms, the heat barely penetrating the barrier between them.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, more out of habit than genuine gratitude. Bringing the cup to your lips, you took a tentative sip, the sugary liquid flooding your mouth with an intensity that made you wince. It was cloying, too much, like the heavy-handed perfume of someone trying to mask their insecurities. With each visit, the sweetness seemed to grow, or perhaps it was just your weariness of this routine that soured the taste.

“Say 'ah',” said Cillian, tilting his drink to you. “I asked you to open your mouth. I'm giving you the first sip.” He tilted his head, curved lashes rising and falling with each blink. “Or do you want me to make you? Would you like that?”

“I want none of that. It's embarrassing.”

“Fine.” Cillian snatched his drink back, his lips curling into a contented smile as he savored a flavor that  you could no longer stomach. His phone appeared in his hand—sleek, the latest model—as if by magic, and he began to fuss over their table setting, rearranging the silverware and napkins with meticulous care.

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand to halt your movements as you reached for a muffin. “Let me get a picture first.”

Sighing, you withdrew your hand. You should’ve just shut up and drank from his cup. He was probably punishing you now.

You were forced to watch as he positioned his phone just so, angling it to capture the perfect composition of their prepackaged desserts. The shutter clicked repeatedly, a staccato rhythm that echoed the tapping of your foot beneath the table. With a sense of dettachment, you observed the scene through the screen’s glow, detached, as if viewing it all from a great distance.

The cafe buzzed around them, a hive of activity and chatter, but in their little corner, only the soft light of Cillian’s phone display and the artificial sound of captured moments filled the space.

“Perfect,” Cillian finally declared, his voice threaded with satisfaction as he admired the digital gallery of confections and cream. “I can make even cellophane wrap look appetizing.”

“So talented,”  you replied, tone flat, the single word falling short of enthusiasm. You watched him now, as he edited and filtered reality into something palatable for public consumption, something that would garner admiration and envy in equal measure.

Finally allowed your beverage, you eagerly dug in, first savoring the whipped cream before it could’ve further melted into the beverage. Scooping some into your mouth, a dollop of whipped cream perched precariously on the edge of your straw.

It was then that the inevitable happened. The whipped cream betrayed you, a small glob landing with a soft plop on your nose. You froze, a flicker of annoyance crossing your face as you reached for a napkin. But Cillian’s hand was quicker, his fingers skimming your cheek, then swiping the cream off your nose. He lingered a second too long.

“Got it,” he murmured, tongue slithering out to lick his fingers. He wiped his saliva on the sleeve of your cardigan, which was still settled around his shoulders.

Your breath hitched. Although a more sensible part of yourself fought the urge to scream at him for the act, a quieter, darker corner of your mind began to race.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, drawing back slightly. You eyed your portion of the desserts, the artificial brightness of the strawberry topping almost mocking in its vibrancy. You scooped up a small bite, the saccharine taste doing little to satisfy the craving you couldn't quite name.

Cillian watched you, his dark eyes gleaming. He seemed oblivious to the fact that your routine outings had become a suffocating ritual, a showcase for the curated life he projected onto his Instagram feed.

“Isn’t it delicious?” he asked, his tone expectant, a hint of coercion nestled between the words.

“The same as always,” you echoed, though the flavor was as hollow as the affirmation. The consequences of defying Cillian’s vision for your friendship loomed large and his approval was a drug you had been conditioned to crave.

Your spoon clinked against the plastic container, a soft sound. You ate mechanically, your thoughts drifting away from the table, away from Cillian and his veiled demands. You imagined stepping out of this scene, leaving behind the cloying sweetness and the confines of expectations. In your mind's eye, you pictured yourself tasting something real and complex, something that didn't leave you longing for more.

Your eyes wandered from the busy baristas steaming milk to perfection, to the patrons hunched over their laptops or lost in murmured conversations. The clinking of cutlery on porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the muffled chatter around them. You inhaled deeply, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling your senses, yet you found no comfort in the familiar scent. Instead, it underscored a sense of monotony that had been creeping into your days, a desire for something more than these meticulously staged outings.

“Y/N?” Cillian's voice threaded through your thoughts, smooth and commanding. His eyes were fixed on her, expectant, as he leaned forward slightly, his posture perfect, his smile practiced. “You seem distant today. You know you can share anything with me, right?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you assured him, pressing your lips into a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. “Just thinking about a paper I have due.”

“Your dedication is admirable,” he replied, his tone laced with an affection that felt like a velvet glove masking a steel grip. “Admirable, but irritating. You need to learn to relax a bit. Don’t worry, I’m here to take care of you.”

You nodded. You watched him as he adjusted his phone on the table, the screen alight with notifications—likes, comments, a digital chorus singing his praises. It seemed that he had already uploaded the images, a new record. Cillian seemed to exist in two worlds simultaneously: the one before you and the one inside his phone, each moment curated for maximum effect.

“Let’s take a selfie,” he suggested suddenly, his voice light but insistent. “We haven’t updated our cafe chronicles in a while.”

Before you could respond, he had positioned his phone, the lens aimed at capturing the dessert and you smile.  You obliged, tilting your head just so. You braced yourself for a barrage, but he merely snapped one image.

Your stomach curdled. Was it alright? How could he be satisfied by only one picture? Were you ugly and was offering to take a picture with you merely a way to maintain the farce of friendship? He was always buying you things, and you had never stopped to wonder what he was getting in return. Was it a sick sense of charity?

“You’re so pretty here,” Cillian declared, reviewing the photo with a nod of approval. "Our followers will love this."

“Our?”

“They’re mine, but they like seeing you, too. I guess I should share you, sometimes.”

“Right. Yeah, guess that makes enough sense.”

You couldn't help but wonder if there was anyone out there who saw past the facade, who understood the reality of the smiles and the sweetness that left a bitter aftertaste. You longed for the authenticity that no filter could provide, a life where moments were lived and not merely documented for the hollow validation of strangers. You wondered what kind of person Cillian was without that glassy shield.

“Your turn,” he said, pushing the phone toward you. “You should post something too. Keep up appearances, you know?”

“Right,”  you murmured, your fingers hovering over the device. You glanced at Cillian and then back at the bustling cafe, the world spinning around you in a blur of motion and sound. You glanced up at Cillian, who was animatedly discussing his latest social media strategy, his features alight with enthusiasm.

“Imagine the likes we’d get if we posted every weekend.”

“What’s your goal with this?” you abruptly asked. “Why do you post so much?”

He paused, his gaze lifting from the screen to meet hers, a half-smile playing on his lips. “I have dreams, Y/N,” he said softly, almost tenderly. His dark eyes held a glimmer of something fierce, something hungry. “I want to be more than just a face in the crowd. Modeling—that’s what I see myself doing. My face on billboards, in magazines…”

Your heart skipped a beat, not from surprise but from the sudden realization that he had been serious about his ambitions all along.

“Then I support you,” you murmured. The words felt hollow, even to your own ears, as if they were being swallowed by the grandeur of his dream.

But as Cillian spoke, detailing his strategies for building a portfolio and networking within the industry, your attention waned. You nodded mechanically, your mind drifting. Your could hear the passion in his voice, see the fire in his eyes, but it was like watching a play through a thick pane of glass. You couldn't reach him; you couldn't touch the world he was so vividly painting with his words.

The conversation began to feel like a soliloquy, his voice the only sound in the room, resonating with aspirations that soared high above your understanding.  Your gaze settled on the phone still clutched in his hand, the screen alive with notifications—each one a confirmation of his allure, each one pulling him further away from her. The light from his phone cast a glow on his sharp features, throwing shadows that danced across his high cheekbones. He was talking about headshots now, about finding the right angle to accentuate the stark lines of his jaw. You tried to listen, tried to be present, but a storm brewed within her, dark and relentless.

Cillian was sensitive, his heart an exposed nerve, and the world he so desperately wanted to conquer was unforgiving, ravenous. The beauty industry would devour his gentle spirit; you could almost hear the snap of its jaws in the distance. Your stomach churned at the thought of him, caught in the maelstrom of criticism and rejection, those princely features twisted in pain.

A shiver ran down your spine upon drawing a cruel conclusion. You wanted to see him crying, but you wanted to reserve the sight for yourself. He would look pretty even when crying—you had seen it before, the way tears clung to his lashes like morning dew, the way his blue eyes deepened into stormy seas.

Your lips parted, breath catching. It was a troubling realization, one that made your cheeks flush with heat. You didn't want the world to witness that vulnerability, to see him stripped bare of the confidence he wore like armor.

“You’re beautiful. The world will love you," you managed to say. “It will devour you whole.”

He paused, his eyes locking onto your, and for a moment, there was silence. “You really think so?” he asked, tentative hope threading through his words.

You nodded, your throat tight. “It’s impossible not to,” you said, and it was the truth. But buried beneath that truth was a coil of scales and green, that dreaded jealousy snaking around your heart. It was a silent plea that begged him not to share his beauty with anyone else. In a world where you often felt mismatched and uncertain, his adoration was the anchor that kept you from drifting too far into the sea of your own insecurities. The only thing you had was him, and the thought of losing even a sliver of that connection was more than you could bear.

“Y/N?” Cillian's voice sliced through your reverie, laced with a hint of suspicion. “Really, what’s wrong? You seem spacey today.”

“Sorry,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Only tired, that’s still all.”

As you finished eating the desserts,  youur restlessness clawed its way up your throat, desperate for release. With each bite of the overly sweet cake, you tasted the blandness of repetition. The same cafes, the same dynamic, the same Cillian — it was a pattern woven into the fabric of your daily life, one that now chafed and constricted.

You pushed the plate away, the remnants of frosting clinging stubbornly to the porcelain.

“Next time, let’s try somewhere new,” you ventured, your voice steadier than you felt. “Maybe something less curated? We could take a stroll around town and see where we wind up.”

“New?” Cillian laughed. “Why fix something that isn’t broken? This place is us. It’s our spot.”

Your gaze fell to the empty plate, the hollow echo of ‘our’ ringing in your ears. No, you thought, a slow-burning defiance taking root. This isn’t us; it’s you, and I’m just along for the ride because you pay for everything.

“Guess so,” you murmured, the word sticking in your throat like the last taste of artificial sweeteners. Cillian continued talking, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring within.

You bit your lip, gaze lingering on your phone before shifting to your bag, the dog-eared textbook inside. Reluctantly, you retrieved the device and opened your emails, sifting through the job listings yet again.

“Applying to jobs? You can do that anytime.” Cillian’s lips curled into a half-smile, though his eyes narrowed slightly—a fleeting shadow crossing his otherwise immaculate features. “Why are you worrying about that, though? If you need money, I can talk to my father. He’s always looking for competent people at the company.”

The offer hung in the air between you, a gilded temptation laced with implications. Your fingers paused on the page, the words 'cognitive dissonance' blurring before your eyes. You took a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering in your chest.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you replied, more to yourself than to him. “I want to earn my way, not just land a job because I know someone who knows someone.”

Cillian leaned back, his expression unreadable as he regarded you through half-lidded eyes. “As you wish,” he murmured, the phrase an echo of acquiescence that seemed to dance on the edge of something darker, something you couldn't quite place.

Turning back to the textbook, you tried to lose yourself in the psychological complexities it held, your mind tracing the intricate pathways of human behavior and motivation. Yet, a part of you remained acutely aware of his presence, the weight of his gaze, and the unspoken challenges that brewed like the coffee behind the counter—bitter and potent.

“Really, Y/N,” Cillian said, his voice smooth like velvet but edged with something colder. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “You don’t have to do this. I can make things easier for you. You’re not just anyone to me. But you aren't family either.”

“You’re not getting it. You’re just a friend, and connections can be so easily severed. I’ve done it since secondary school, and now that we’re entering adulthood, I don’t want to keep relying on you. I want to feel like I’m doing something for myself for once.”

“Fine,” Cillian’s voice dropped, a shadow passing over his face that matched the darkening sky outside. “But remember, my offer to take care of you is always there. It would be much simpler than all this.”

You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cafe’s air conditioning. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, hands trembling slightly. Your ambition battled with the gnawing doubt that his words left in their wake.

“Simple isn’t always better,” your murmured, your attention ostensibly back on your phone, but your senses were hyper-aware of the man sitting across from you.

Your fingers paused over the screen, the list of job postings blurred by a growing resolve. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you met Cillian’s gaze with an icy detachment.

“What do you even want?”

“I need to contribute to my brother's school fees. He deserves that chance.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the cafe's buzz dimmed under the weight of his scrutiny. “Which school is he at?”

“Some snooty international boarding school,” you replied, your protective instincts flaring. You didn’t know why, but you didn’t want him to know.

“A prestigious place. Must be expensive.”

“Very.”

“A good education is vital yet costly. Surely, for people of your financial status, there are scholarships, grants…”

“None that cover everything,” you interjected, your tone laced with the fatigue of countless hours spent searching for financial aid.

“Then work harder,” Cillian suggested, his words wrapped in a honeyed tone that did little to sweeten their bite. “Or not. You could always reconsider my proposal.”

“I already said no to the job.”

“Not that one.”

You recoiled, as if the words were a physical blow. “Stop joking about that,” you stated, your voice quiet but fierce. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

An unreadable expression crossed Cillian's face before he masked it with a charming smile. “As you wish. But the world isn’t kind to dreamers who walk alone.”

Your heartbeat quickened, not from flattery but from the veiled warning in his tone.

“Excuse me,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper as you clammbered out of your seat, sidestepped away from Cillian. Your fingers trailed the cool, marbled countertop of the cafe as you headed towards the sanctuary of the restroom. Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender and vanilla, an artificial calm that did little to soothe your troubled thoughts.

Standing at the sink, you turned the cold tap and splashed water onto your face, watching as droplets clung stubbornly to your glasses before tumbling down. You looked up, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. The girl reflected back at you had eyes wide with determination, yet shadowed by doubt. With a trembling hand, you pushed the glasses up the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath, trying to wash away the worry etched into your forehead.

“Can you believe we happened to come here at the same time as them?”

“As who?”

“That’s  Y/N L/N,” a hushed voice pierced through the quiet, followed by the sound of stifled giggles.

You stilled, your heart skipping a beat. You recognized the voices of fellow students, their words weaving through the space between the stalls and sink, ensnaring your attention.

“The one who's always with Cillian?” another whispered, a note of envy threading through her tone.

“Exactly! I thought they were just friends, but seeing them here together, they must be dating. She’s so lucky; he looks like he walked out of a fashion magazine… Vogue, who?”

Your hands paused, water dripping from your fingertips. Their words wrapped around you like a velvet robe, heavy with implications you’d never dared to consider. To them, you were no longer invisible, no longer just a friend clinging to the edges of Cillian’s spotlight. You were the object of speculation, the center of a narrative spun from half-truths and assumptions.

Your reflection in the mirror now seemed different, caught in the crossfire of jealousy and admiration. It was unsettling, this new role you hadn’t auditioned for. And yet, part of you reveled in the novelty, the taste of a life where you weren’t just surviving but thriving in the eyes of others.

“Seriously, what does he see in her, though?” the first voice added with a scoff, the sound sharp enough to cut through your fleeting fantasy. “She’s not even that pretty, and she doesn’t even dress well.”

“Who knows? Maybe she's not as plain as she looks. Or maybe it's her brain. Isn't she a biomed major?”

“Whatever it is, I wish I had it.”

You exhaled slowly, the air leaving your lungs like the deflating of a balloon. With one last glance at your uncertain reflection, you adjusted your clothes and stepped out of the restroom. Your eyes scanned the café until they settled on Cillian. He sat at a corner table, his princely features bathed in the soft glow of your laptop screen.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you said tentatively, approaching him.

“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world,” Cillian replied without looking up, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

You leaned over his shoulder, watching as paragraphs morphed under his command. You noted how he supplemented your notes with additional information, his edits weaving through the essay like intricate lacework. A warmth spread through your chest at his helpfulness.

“Your argument here is strong, but you’ve missed some spelling errors, and the grammar is wonky in some bits,” Cillian pointed out, highlighting the words with a click. “You need to pay more attention to detail.”

The feelings of admiration died.

“Thanks for catching those,” you murmured, trying to match his attentiveness with an appreciative smile. Yet, as Cillian continued to point out every tiny mistake, you felt the weight of his scrutiny. It was as if he were peeling away layers, exposing the flaws you had worked so hard to hide beneath vibrant colors and earnest smiles.

“Here, another one,” he said sharply, almost triumphantly, correcting a misspelled term with a swift stroke.

“Right. I’ll remember that.”

For a moment, you stood motionless, observing Cillian's meticulous grooming mirrored in his meticulous editing.

“Your words are comprehensive,” he commented, finally meeting your gaze. “But sometimes, it feels like you're not quite sure of yourself. You could be more assertive.”

“Maybe,” you conceded, tugging at the hem of your blouse. “I don’t know how to write well. I just want it to be perfect, you know?”

“Just rest up and let me worry about perfection,” Cillian said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the screen’s glow imprinting on your eyelids. The day replayed itself behind your closed eyes: all of it now seemed trivial compared to Cillian's insistent editing, his fingers deftly correcting your words as if they were errant children straying from the path.

Opening your eyes, you glanced at the computer screen. His changes were precise, the document almost gleaming with perfection under the cursor's blinking supervision. But it was your essay, your thoughts—your voice, now polished by someone else's hand. You felt a pang of something akin to betrayal, though no promise had been broken.

"Is it better now?”

“Better,” you replied, your voice lacking conviction. You noticed then how the light caught on the angles of his face, a visage crafted to be admired, to be envied. It struck you—how many others had been captivated by that same light, only to find themselves lost in the dark?

“Thanks,” you added, a necessary courtesy.

“Anything for you.”

You turned back to the screen, retreating to your essay to calm yourself. But even there, doubt crept in, whispering that perhaps you were losing yourself in the pursuit of an image—a place beside Cillian, envied by strangers and shrouded in false admiration.

[ootah-canadiensis]

STRIIIIIDERRRRR!

I wanted to see how I would interpret the very... very strange anatomy of the Strider. And let me tell you, I had a very tough time figuring out the damned thing.

First of all, You might notice a huge lack of the carapace that covers the Strider's legs and main body, that is because I've figured that the exoskeleton is largely artificial as the other synths seem to have it (with exception of the Hunter,) and that inclined me to believe that the Strider didn't naturally have it, and without it It would largely be that dark green musculature, which of course any living thing would have some form of skin and not exposed muscle. Another point towards the carapace being artificial is how it segments, appears to have bolts and of course, the ventilation on it's back. All of these factors would lead a pretty clear image that the synths originally had other forms of covering, with maybe some exception of the Dropship.

And of course, the mouth and "hand." The mouth is where the particle cannon of the Strider was, as it appears there are vestigial compound eyes next to it, and following the evolutionary advantage of the eyes being close to the mouth, as to know what you're eating... It only makes sense to put the mouth there. One thing that I also noticed in the HL:A model for the strider is that a small piece of musculature seems to "wrap around" where the particle cannon is, which I think might be some form of lip structure?

Next down the line on the head region are the bolts downwards of the giant "bolts" grafted onto the side of the neck, which I believe cover where the ears might've been? In my sketch you can see two frog-like tympanic tissues there. Since the Strider naturally is pretty fuckin' tall, it probably wouldn't need extensive protection for the ears (and also because it was easier for me to draw.)

And the next is... The hanging sack of meat that is the Warp Cannon. God, that was just so challenging to try and rationalise how and why a creature would even have something like it. And yet rationalise I did, as I made it where it is able to grasp things and function as a hand or arm, which inside of it is also it's reproductive organs which are more often than not sealed away like a cloaca or something.

Lastly, the feet of the Strider. I wanted to make sure that it's rounded end was still noticeable, while also resembling like an actual functioning foot. Which I ended up with a soft foot with 5 toes arranged in a star pattern. I had to add that in because it wasn't very clear on my sketch of the foot. I also ended up adding those hairs as sensitive whiskers.

And now for my own personal interpretations for its behaviour pre-combine (as if EVERYTHING wasn't my own personal interpretation beforehand)

In HL:A, you can hear "speech" from the Striders. That is something that caught my attention, and I think that might suggest that the Striders were also just as intelligent as us, just in their own way. As for their culture and society... I'm not sure, if someone wanted to use this as a base for something, be my guest :) At minimum their intelligence could be compared to something like an elephant.

And their feeding habits I imagine are a lot like sauropods of earth, using their rake-like teeth to strip off food such as branches or whatever their native flora might've been like. And speaking of their immense height to reach those glorious foods that most other animals can't get too...

They must have been on a planet with lower gravity, I mean just listen to their walking sounds in-game. Do your legs make creaking sounds just by walking? Their legs are clearly under stress from holding up their weight on Earth's gravity, and because of their new-found body's composition of being made of Combine stuff, their legs won't break! But if you were to place a pre-combine Strider on earth, their legs would- should shatter from their immense scale.

And their ears, I think that the Striders largely communicated through infrasound, largely making noises below our range of hearing which they would have naturally heard with their two sets of ears. With exception from the infrasonic communication being that of the deafening howls and "craggles" as I like to call them. And for their sound design in Half-Life: Alyx? I think those may be sounds that are generated from some kind of Combine tech. Not sure, though.

And I believe that is all I have to say, it was delightful trying to figure out just how the Striders probably would've functioned before the combine came along and mutilated them. And it was so incredibly hard not to have the Strider's warp cannon not be exactly what it looks like. If anything was hard to understand, I apologise since I wrote this all in one sitting and didn't have the time or patience to read it over. This will probably be my last Half-Life post like this unless I still have other ideas for how a lot of the aliens of this lovely franchise live beyond being an obstacle for Gordon to bash with a crowbar

[duckduckington]

Differences of the WoY visual style between the pilot and the final show (Along some other stuff) (Part 1)

So a crap-ton of cartoon show bibles and pilots surfaced recently, which is kind of fucking cool, and it included stuff from Wander over Yonder, which is way fucking cooler.

First thing I did was over-analyze the show's visual style and I figure I should put my findings somewhere, so here you go! In a chronological order, it's easier that way (and builds suspense for the real good stuff, ooohooooh (in a spooky ghost voice)).

The first shot alone already brings forth some differences. As far as I know, the show never illustrates space like this, entirely black with just a couple of stars to break the void. There's usually some blue star dust or something, kinda like this:

The skullship was planned to be 3D-animated apparently, instead of being drawn in the same style as the backgrounds. This allows for WAY more complex movements, since it's easier to pull off.

We then get to take a looksie inside of the ship... this isn't like ANYTHING in the show.

We do see control rooms on occasion, but not one like this. It's a circular room with rows of watchdogs on the wall, watching monitors, circulating the middle where Hater sits on his throne. The railings on its support carry Peepers and his cockpit. Two watchdogs control the ship (I think) at the front. That blue goop at the top might be the ship's brain (you can also already see some animation errors in the front, peep their grabbers). There ain't ever been a color palette inside the ship like this, they usually opt for red and black rather than red and white. This might have been their solution to making the characters native to Hater pop out against the background before deciding to just substitute black for purple.

There's still bright locations within the skullship, but they're non-threatening ones, like the food court.

Commander Peepers and the watchdogs have designs that, while closer to their final versions than the pitch bible (or whatever that cover of that graphic novel was supposed to be), carry some traits still worth pointing out (well, so does everything here, but pshhhshshhhshh).

SHINY

COLLARS

Puffy collars around necks, wrists and ankles.

Detailed irises.

Detailed soles on shoes.

Those lines on their gloves that you see in your grandpa's toons.

(bugs bunny pictured flipping the bird)

This is specific to Peepers; the jagged thunder-spike on his helmet has dimension to it, as opposed to the implied dimension in his final design. Spikes on the side are also way longer here.

His eye/face emotes differently by just utilizing a black eyelid, rather than turning the hat into a pseudo-eyebrow, kinda like Double D from Ed, Edd n' Eddy.

We then get a glimpse at Hater's design...

Despite his face missing, you can already see some differences, like his arms resembling more those of an actual skeleton and packing a lot less mass. His hood is also a bit more tout and the folds surrounding it have more empathis.

Another space shot with some shapes to break up the infinite black; it's not always you see a warm color palette for space in the actual show.

Maybe here, when Wander and Sylvia stop the sun from blowing up in "The Good Deed".

When entering the city that's about to get its shit stirred by Hater, we notice that there aren't ANY other locations illustrated like this. We usually have smooth, airbrushy looking stuff, when this is more reminiscent of a comic strip, with clear lines and some hatching to indicate weight here and there. Same goes for the townsfolk, they remind me of... Krazy Kat or something. Craig McCracken has gone on record saying he drew a lot of inspiration from old comic strips, but I don't know if Krazy Kat is one of them. I just thought of it :)

The inside of the skullship looked different so this place might have had an unique artstyle to other locations we would've seen in this version of the show, but that would also be a big difference since the actual show keeps the background style consistent throughout the whole run (as far as I know).

Goes in hand with the skullship; the watchdogs are 3D-animated here, although subtly.

Different gun designs... they look more like water guns here. Big ol' TUBES. Their guns in the show are more sci-fi-esque.

Hater's logo is different, in-line with his design. Way flatter design too. Might as well take a look at his actual face now.

Well, more like next time. Just found out you can only use up to 30 images in one post. Oopsies. I'll continue this when I have the energy! I'll continue my chronological analysis/rambling and perhaps talk about the general art-style and animation at the end. Might take me a couple of more posts.

[shizuturnspages]

Here’s an idea: yan!Thoma’s darling “escapes” (aka musters up enough courage to not be stopped by the guilt and manipulation) and he does not stop them from leaving. Then they find out the hard way you need to have a job to bring food to the table, that stuff costs mora, and that they don’t really have anyone else to help them out. They then proceed to realize they were being unreasonable and “took Thoma for granted” and…they end up having to grovel at his feet to have him take them back in, and he does because of course he knew this was all a tantrum for his attention and-. Please tell me you see my vision

I love your idea!!! It's so different from the usual yandere plots. I tried my best to write this according to what you requested, so here you go <3

You’ve thought about leaving for a while now. It’s not that easy, though, is it? Every time you so much as entertained the idea of walking out that door, something stopped you. Guilt? Maybe. Fear? Definitely. But today’s different. You’ve finally worked up the courage—or maybe just enough desperation—to do it. Your heart pounds in your chest as you grab the few things you can, shoving them into an old, beat-up backpack. The house is quiet, too quiet, as if it knows what you're about to do.

Thoma's not around. He hasn’t been for a few days now, which is probably why you think you’ve got a chance. You tell yourself that he doesn’t control you, that you don’t need his permission to leave, even though deep down, you know that’s bullshit. He’s not physically here, but you still feel him everywhere, like a shadow that clings to your every thought.

With your hand on the doorknob, you take a breath, the kind of breath that says, this is it. You pull the door open and step outside. For the first time in a long time, you feel the cool air on your skin, untainted by his presence. You’re free, or at least, you tell yourself that.

---

Days go by, and at first, the feeling is almost euphoric. You’re out. You’ve done what you thought you couldn’t. Hell, maybe you were even a little proud of yourself. But then the reality sets in.

Turns out, freedom isn’t what you thought it would be. The little money you managed to scrape together is already running low. You find yourself standing in line at some dingy convenience store, counting out change just to buy a loaf of bread and a few cans of whatever was cheapest. You think back to the meals Thoma used to make—how he always had the kitchen stocked, how you never had to worry about going hungry. You shake your head, trying to force those thoughts away. You left him for a reason, didn’t you?

The first night you spend alone is in a rundown motel that smells like stale smoke and old regrets. The bed is lumpy, and the sheets are thin, but you tell yourself it’s better than being back there. You toss and turn for hours, sleep refusing to come. And when you finally drift off, the dreams are relentless. Thoma’s voice, his face, his hands—they’re all there, reminding you that he’s still got a hold on you, even when he’s not around.

When you wake up, you’re more exhausted than before, but you push through. You have to. You start looking for a job, figuring that it’s the next logical step, right? Independence means paying your own way. But it’s not as easy as you thought. Applications go out, but the phone never rings. Days pass, and that knot in your stomach tightens a little more with each rejection.

---

It’s around the two-week mark that things really start to fall apart. Your money’s almost gone, and you’re still jobless. You haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, and the constant gnawing in your gut feels like it’s going to swallow you whole. You’re tired, so damn tired, and not just physically. It’s like a weight pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe with every passing day.

You think about him more often now. Not just in your dreams, but during the long, silent hours when there’s nothing to distract you from the void you’re sinking into. You remember the way he’d look at you, those dark eyes that seemed to see right through you, that smile that always seemed a little too knowing. And you hate yourself for it, but a part of you starts to miss it. Miss him.

What the hell is wrong with you?

---

Eventually, your situation becomes desperate enough that you swallow what little pride you have left. You call the one person you swore you wouldn’t. It takes a few tries, but finally, the line clicks, and his voice—his voice—comes through the phone, smooth and calm, like he’s been expecting this call all along.

“Hey.”

You don’t say anything at first. Your mouth is dry, and your throat tightens up. But he doesn’t rush you. He never does. He knows you’ll speak when you’re ready.

“I, uh…” You hate how shaky your voice sounds, hate that you’re even having this conversation. “I need help.”

Silence on the other end, but you can almost feel his smirk through the phone. When he finally speaks, it’s like velvet wrapping around your brain, pulling you in.

“Of course you do.”

You grit your teeth, hating how easy it is for him to sound so… smug. Like he knew this was coming from the start. And maybe he did. Maybe deep down, you did too. But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Can we… can we talk?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you cringe at how weak you sound.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Come home.”

Home. That word. It’s like a knife twisting in your gut because the truth is, you don’t even know where home is anymore. But you agree, because what else can you do?

---

When you show up at his door, it’s like you never left. The house looks exactly the same. The air even smells the same, like the world had been frozen in time while you were gone. Thoma opens the door, and there’s that smile again—the one that always made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.

“You look like shit,” he says, but there’s no malice in his tone. In fact, there’s a strange tenderness in his eyes, something that makes you want to collapse into his arms right then and there.

“I know,” you mutter, looking down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze. You don’t want to see the pity—or worse, the satisfaction—there.

He steps aside, and you walk in, your legs feeling like they’re made of lead. The house is warm, and instantly, you feel a strange sense of comfort. Like sinking into a bath after standing out in the cold for too long. He doesn’t say anything as he leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of food hits you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach growls loudly, and you flush in embarrassment.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the table. You do as you’re told, because what choice do you have?

He sets a plate of food in front of you—something simple, but it smells like heaven. You don’t even wait for him to sit down before you start shoveling it into your mouth, too hungry to care about manners.

Thoma watches you, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, burning into your skin. It’s suffocating and comforting all at once.

“You know,” he finally says after a long silence, “I didn’t stop you from leaving.”

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you look up at him. There’s something in his eyes now—something dark, something that makes your stomach churn.

“Yeah, I noticed,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, like he expected that answer. “I knew you’d come back.”

It’s a simple statement, but the weight of it crushes you. You want to argue, want to tell him that you could’ve made it on your own if things had been different. But the truth is, you’re not sure you believe that anymore.

He steps closer, and you can’t help but flinch, even though you know he’s not going to hurt you. He kneels in front of you, tilting his head to meet your eyes.

“You threw a tantrum,” he says softly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “But I knew you’d come back. You always do.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. You don’t want to cry in front of him. Not again. But the exhaustion, the hunger, the shame—it all comes crashing down on you, and before you know it, you’re sobbing, your shoulders shaking with the force of it.

Thoma doesn’t say anything. He just watches, his hand resting on your knee, a silent reminder of his presence.

And you hate him for it. But more than that, you hate yourself.

[asmromantic]

Nightmare Realm

While on a Halloween patrol with Hawks, you encounter a villain whose quirk traps you both in a nightmarish dream world. The only way out is to confront your deepest fears, which materialize in terrifying ways around you. Hawks tries to maintain his playful attitude, but the horrors lurking in the nightmare begin to break down his usual confidence. The two of you must rely on each other to escape this surreal and terrifying world.

The streets of Musutafu were unusually quiet for Halloween night, save for the distant echoes of laughter and the occasional sound of footsteps on the pavement. The air was cool, the sky dark, and the city lights gave the night a faint glow, enough to make the shadows feel deeper, more menacing.

You and Hawks were supposed to be on a simple patrol, keeping an eye out for petty criminals or overzealous pranksters. Easy enough, right? Especially with him by your side, always so relaxed, a smirk playing on his lips as he glided through the sky, wings outstretched.

“You’re too tense, you know that?” Hawks teased, landing gracefully beside you on the roof of a building. He folded his wings with a flourish, cocky grin plastered on his face. “Halloween’s supposed to be fun. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you shot back, though your eyes were scanning the streets below, ever watchful. “It’s Halloween. Weird stuff always happens.”

Hawks chuckled, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “Weird stuff happens every day in this line of work, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. That was typical Hawks, always lighthearted, never letting anything faze him. But that ease was part of what made you feel safe around him. No matter what situation you found yourselves in, Hawks always seemed to have everything under control.

Except tonight was different.

You didn’t notice the figure lurking in the shadows until it was too late. One second, the rooftop was clear, and the next, a gust of wind swept past, followed by the sound of something sharp cutting through the air.

“Hawks—”

Before you could finish the warning, the world around you shifted.

When your vision cleared, everything had changed. The sky above was no longer filled with stars or the soft glow of city lights. Instead, it was dark - unnaturally so - like the very night had swallowed up the world. The air was thick, suffocating, and the buildings around you seemed twisted, distorted, as though they were growing and shrinking with each passing second.

You looked around in a panic. “What the hell—”

“We’ve got a problem,” Hawks said from beside you, his usual calm demeanour noticeably strained.

You turned to face him, and even in the dim light, you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his wings twitched slightly as if ready for flight, but unsure which direction to take.

“Where are we?” you asked, your voice shaky as you tried to make sense of the surreal world around you.

“I think we’ve been pulled into some kind of quirk-induced dreamscape,” Hawks muttered, eyes darting around the twisted landscape. “That villain… must have hit us with something before we could react.”

A dream world. You swallowed hard, heart racing as the weight of the situation settled over you. This wasn’t just any quirk - it was designed to trap you here, to mess with your mind. And if the strange shapes in the distance, flickering like shadows that weren’t quite real, were any indication, this dream world wasn’t going to play nice.

“So, how do we get out?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Hawks flexed his wings, eyes narrowing as if searching for an answer in the twisted sky. “There’s usually a catch with these kind of quirks. If we were pulled into this nightmare world, there’s probably a way out… but it’s never easy.”

As if on cue, the ground beneath you started to tremble. You stumbled, barely catching your balance as the buildings around you began to shift, their walls cracking, windows shattering. The shadows seemed to ripple, growing larger, darker, until they began to take shape.

Out of the darkness emerged figures - creatures made of pure nightmare, their forms grotesque and terrifying. They moved toward you with eerie silence, their twisted faces contorted into expressions of malice.

Hawks moved in front of you, wings flaring out protectively, but even he seemed rattled. His usual cocky grin was gone, replaced by a determined scowl. “Stay close,” he muttered, his voice lower than usual. “We need to get out of here before things get worse.”

You nodded, following his lead as he guided you through the shifting landscape, but the creatures were relentless. Every corner you turned, more of them appeared, their nightmarish forms bending the very fabric of the world around them.

“What are these things?” you asked, your voice breathless as you tried to keep up with Hawks.

“They’re manifestations of fear,” he replied grimly. “Our fears.”

Your heart pounded as the truth of his words sank in. This nightmare world wasn’t just random - it was designed to feed off your darkest thoughts, your deepest anxieties. The more scared you became, the more powerful it grew.

Suddenly, one of the creatures lunged at you from the side, its skeletal hand reaching out with clawed fingers. You barely had time to react, raising your arm defensively, but before it could reach you, Hawks was there. With a sharp burst of energy, his feathers shot out like arrows, slicing through the creature and sending it dissipating into the shadows.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing at you with concern, though his breath was heavy, his usual cockiness replaced with something far more serious.

You nodded, but your legs felt shaky, the reality of the situation sinking in deeper with every passing second. “Yeah… I’m fine. Just— what do we do now? We can’t keep running forever.”

Hawks wiped sweat from his brow, his golden eyes flickering with a rare uncertainty. “We have to confront it,” he said quietly. “Whatever this nightmare world is throwing at us… we have to face it. It’s the only way out.”

You stared at him, the gravity of his words hitting you hard. Confront your fears. It sounded easy enough, but in a world where those fears took physical form, it was far from simple.

But before you could respond, the ground beneath you shifted again, this time more violently. The landscape began to warp, trees and buildings twisting into grotesque shapes, and the sky darkened even further.

In the distance, something huge and monstrous emerged - a figure so massive it towered over everything around it. Its form was shrouded in darkness, but you could feel its presence like a weight pressing down on your chest.

Hawks’ face paled slightly, his wings twitching as if ready for flight, but something held him back. His usual bravado seemed to falter for a moment, his golden eyes widening as he stared at the looming figure.

You looked at him, realizing that whatever this new threat was, it was part of his fear, not yours. “Hawks,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the monstrous figure in the distance. His jaw clenched, and for the first time since you’d known him, you saw true fear flicker in his eyes.

“It’s… not important,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. “We’ll take it down, just like the others.”

But you could tell he wasn’t as confident as he was pretending to be.

“Hawks,” you pressed, stepping closer. “We’re in this together, right? Whatever that is… we can face it.”

He glanced at you, his expression torn between frustration and something softer, something vulnerable. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice lower than before. “I’ve always been able to handle things on my own. I don’t let people in… 'cause I can’t afford to be scared. Not when I’m the one who’s supposed to protect everyone else.”

His words hit you hard, and for a moment, the nightmare world seemed to fade into the background. Hawks wasn’t just the confident, playful hero everyone saw - he was human, with fears and vulnerabilities he kept hidden behind that carefree facade.

But in this nightmare realm, those walls were crumbling.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, stepping even closer until you were standing right beside him. “I’m here. We’ll face it together.”

He looked at you, the fear still lingering in his eyes, but something shifted in his expression - gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. He gave you a small nod, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“Okay,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “Together.”

With renewed determination, you and Hawks turned to face the monstrous figure. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of your mind, but with him by your side, it didn’t feel quite as overwhelming.

Because no matter how terrifying this nightmare realm was, you knew that together, you could overcome it.

And as the two of you stepped forward, ready to confront the darkness, you realized that maybe, just maybe, the bond between you was stronger than any fear this world could throw at you.

[sailorkamino]

Hi! Could you write some headcannons for tbb x body insecure or plus sized reader?

body insecurities [bad batch]

relationships: gn!reader x bad batch

warnings: weight insecurities, echo has body dysmorphia, diet culture, an older sibling being a parental figure, autistic tech struggling w/ emotions, past body shaming

a/n: i love writing for tech but i struggle with his dialogue, if you're a bad batch writer pls send me some tips to making him sound in character <3

crosshair

• great at reading body language so he can tell when you need comfort even if you don't verbalize it

• he might seem annoyed but that's just his rbf, if he didn't care he wouldn't ask

• the type to be angry when he's worried

• it's eaiser to threaten you then admit he cares

• he'll say stuff like "take a risk like that again and i'll shoot you" or "drink some water dumb ass, i'm not your baby sitter"

• his first reaction is to fight the problem

• "did someone tell you that shit?"

• once he realizes he doesn't need to commit murder he's not leaving you along until you talk

• cross is the best listener and i will die on this hill

• he can seem dismissive of your insecurities but he does care, he just thinks you're wrong lmao

• brutally honest so any praise from him means a lot

echo

• the most empathetic boyfriend part 1

• def has suffered from body dysmorphia so he understands

• but also baffled cuz you're perfect to him

• he's very serious about your mental health so he wants to his a conversation about this

• the most genleman to ever gentleman, he will shower you in love!!

• lots of cuddling and sweet words

• hope you don't have any plans cuz you're not allowed to leave his arms until you feel better

• if you want to eat better that's great! but none of these unhealthy diets you see on the holonet

• no he'll research the best diet/exercise plan for you personally to make sure you're safe <3

• you've helped so much with his confidence he's determined to return the favor

hunter

• instantly knows when something's bothering you

• as the oldest he was forced into a parental role at a young age so he has a lot of expierence with comforting

• will give you a worried dad look until you tell him what's wrong

• he might get a little pushy if you aren't opening up

• he doesn't mean to but worrying about his loved ones is like his default setting

• [protective mode activated] did someone say something? cross will probably help get rid of a body if he asks-

• blames himself for your doubt

• secretly reads/watches romance stories so he'll probably drop some cheesy lines from them

• shows your tummy lots of love, like using it as a pillow while you stroke his hair or sneaking a hand under your top, lulled by your breaths

• cuddles with skin to skin contact are very intimate to hunter cuz of his higtened senses so this is very special privilege

• if it'll give you confidence he offers to work out with you, using the holonet he tries to find 'fun' exercises you can both enjoy (yoga, zumba, etc.)

tech

• he'll get frustrated because he doesn't understand your pov

• he's told you that you're attractive and healthy, why are you still upset?

• hunter has always told him "you can't make others see things the way you do" and it's infuriating for him

• tech is a fixer so he feels helpless when he can't just fix your insecurities

• he'll encourage you to talk to one of his more emotionally intelligent brothers which you take as rejection

• when your eyes fill with tears he panics even more

• "perhaps i should get hunter-" "i don't want your brothers, i want you tech"

• he's quiet for a moment before awkwardly opening his arms, "physical touch causes the brain to release oxytocin, a bonding hormone that strengthens social bonds in mammals. would you like a hug?"

• he's always found you attractive but never voiced it, now he makes sure to tell you every time

• get ready for blunt but 100% genuine compliments like "your chest is distracting in that shirt"

wrecker

• the most empathetic boyfriend part 2

• king of emotional intelligence

• will pick you up and hold you like you're a doll, laughs if you call yourself 'heavy'

• everyone is kind of small to wrecker (even his brothers) so to him you're practically a baby tooka

• but still he takes your feelings seriously

• cadet wrecker was definitely body shamed by regs so he knows how it feels

• showers you with affection 24/7 so it's hard to feel insecure around this guy

• will fight anyone who makes you feel bad >:(

• like hunter, he also offers to work out with you (not just cuz he loves showing off-)

• loves active games, like just dance or wii sports

• is up for any activity has long as you're involved tbh

[willowser]

okay haven't stopped thinking about this since the self-ship game but. on-again-off-again with touya is so heart-breaking.

he's always had his own shitty one-bedroom, but he stayed with you more often than not. claimed it was because you were closer to his job at the bar, but the drive is similar if not a smidge closer. you don't personally think it's worth it, but he does. or did, once.

you're looking at the two boxes of his things that are sitting by the door: a near-drawer full of clothes, bags of random jewelry, two pairs of his shoes, the dish towels he keeps "accidentally" stealing from work, as well as a few of their nicer glasses. photos you don't want to look at. even his shampoo and body-wash is packed away, because you can't stand to smell it anymore.

that's when your phone rings.

it's much too late for you to be awake, but you are, and the number coming across your screen isn't necessarily touya's but it is the number for the bar, so you hesitate in answering. watching and waiting, as it rings in your hand, before deciding to indulge in whatever heart-break he's got ready for you tonight.

—but it's keigo: "hey, i need you to come pick up touya."

you frown at that, and then deeper at the noise in the background. "what? where's his car?"

"he—" a heavy sigh scratches over the line, and his voice is strained, like he's struggling to hold something heavy in his arms. he's always been very friendly, charming; you've never heard him so stressed. "he can't drive. i just need you to come get him."

worry is a weighted stone in your stomach. "what do you mean he can't drive?"

touya's been sober for 16 months, something he's admittedly been very proud of. his longest stint yet, he'll tell you, and he's gone through hell not to break the streak. no matter how hard it was, no matter how tempting giving in sounded. he's turned back into his addictions in the past when you two have split, but you had faith in him this time. you really, really did.

"he just can't, alright? please?"

of course you go. and when you pull up in the parking lot, they're both standing outside, keigo with a half-empty bottle of water in his hands and a frown marring his pretty face. touya's back is to you, and he would almost look normal, if not for the swaying. you don't realize how bad it is until takami is throwing touya's arm over his shoulder and near dragging him across the pavement.

you only watch on, heart heavy, as he's shuffled into your car like a child, mumbling to himself as keigo buckles his searbelt. the car is immediately flooded with the sharp, bitter smell of alcohol and too many cigarettes, and you knew what the truth was, you knew, but you'd hoped for another answer, some bullshit excuse as to why he couldn't drive.

the reality burns; behind your eyes, deep in your nose, the back of your throat.

"call me tomorrow," keigo tells him, too-serious. "and we can figure out your car and stuff." he huffs at the ghost of a smile on touya's pale face, before looking across the seats to you. "i'm sorry, i really am, but his sister would fucking flip if i called her."

"no," touya mumbles again, voice scratchy like he's been yelling. "why the fuck would you call my sister, you perv?"

keigo only shakes his head before sighing again, and then he's leaning back and closing the car door without another word. you've never seen him so—annoyed; you can only imagine what touya's been up to tonight, to make him so.

alone, neither of you say anything, for a while. that haunting smile is still playing on his lips, as his head lolls back and forth with every speed bump you crawl over, and occasionally you can feel him watching you from across the console.

there are—one-thousand and one things you could say, but he wouldn't remember a single one. and so you don't bother.

he does, though, eventually, grin blooming in full. "know you fuckin' miss me."

you shake your head in an attempt to get rid of the tears, swallowing the frog sitting in your throat. he won't remember this. he won't. "of course i miss you, touya."

he laughs once, a small, airy sound, before he's turning to look out the window. your honesty has always caught him off guard. "yeah," he murmurs, smile drooping as reality burns him, in return. "miss you, too."

[chipped-chimera]

Aquarium update - I have a Betta again! Got kind of burned last time so I travelled wayyyyy north from where I am to get her, along with some cories. It's been about two weeks since, judging my water changes (do about 25% a week, not because the water needs it but more because any longer and my filter gets gummed up) and she's been doing really well. She's changing rapidly, but she was very juvenile when I got her (like literally only a bit bigger than some of my green neons which max out at 3cm) which I expected, since marble gene. The contrast of a few weeks though is kinda nuts.

Not quite named yet, since honestly I was so burned from last time (RIP fish Karlach 😔) that I've been hesitant to name her or even share anything about her online. Also because I literally have no idea how she's gonna look in a few weeks as she matures.

I was thinking maybe Arita or Imari since her patterning reminds me of Asagi Koi and Imari-Arita Ware ceramics? Leaning towards Arita since it sounds a bit 'sassier' I guess (idk, vibes) and she definitely is that. I'll take suggestions though!

Anyway more fish rambling below -

Honestly I was so hesitant to get her, but I was already putting in replacement Cories after a mystery disease decimated my Corydora population, leaving my admittedly kind-of-fat female Three Lined solo. Whatever contagion was in the tank is either gone or dormant (since a lot of fish disease I know is entirely reliant on how stressed a fish is - they can still be a carrier but completely fine) after basically doing every treatment I had at my disposal. I think it was a mix of parasitic and bacterial, maybe fungal? Hard to target given all my tank tests consistently returned a big fat 0ppm for all the bad shit. My tank is about as clean as it gets - I only change about 25% weekly and that's more to clean sludge out of the filter, it never really needs it. Admittedly some of the deaths I contributed to because I wasn't aware how much my tank PH had changed over the months (test your PH regularly guys), apparently the huge chunks of wood have exhausted all their tannins cause I've gone from acidic to more basic. It seems to be holding about 7.8, apparently related to the Seiryu stone in there. Basically water changes caused the PH to flux to much, contributing to stress for the Cories. Yeah I feel bad but I'm also not blaming myself since a. Literally first tank b. I am learning the fish hobby is really annoying for consistent information. Like literally information that doesn't contradict itself half the time. A lot of that is the reason why I've been slowed down in figuring out what is going wrong and that ultimately has resulted in a lot of loss.

Important part though is everyone seems to be doing fine, and I've learned enough now to maybe recognise stuff a lot faster. One of the Pandas, after my first water change developed a big fungal streak down it's body (I'm guessing it scuffed itself in a panic somewhere) but had that treated easily within about 3 days with just Pimafix. No seriously, they're doing well. Well enough they apparently spawned? Saw the betta striking some mystery thing on the glass. I thought it was a freshwater limpet (they've been in there, just haven't seen them in a while) and realised no, actually an egg. Not opposed to this since I'm pretty close to stocking limit (at least in a regular, unplanted tank) so I'm down for the population control.

Betta really is a little predator though. She's honestly weird for a Betta in that she doesn't show interest in food. At all. She might nibble at a fallen bit but couldn't care less about anything I put on the surface or during feeding time. Been monitoring her weight, and she's definitely not underweight. Guess I have enough random critters in my tank (Planaria, about a million scuds since my last-ditch effort treatment to save a Cory decimated my shrimp population. I lost my favourite orange/red shrimp too 😭) to sustain her? Worry is of course I need to re-establish more shrimp. There are some left but nowhere NEAR what I had before. I've seen her chase a few who appear, she definitely has them on alert but they tend to be too big for her anyway. And too fast. Juveniles though ....

I do have a HUGE amount of hiding places for new, young shrimp (just moss. So much moss) but I think I'll maybe raise them in a netted isolation box until they're big enough that she's no longer a threat maybe? Idk. That or I get technically-not-allowed Cherry Shrimp from someone local, since they tend to be adults. Juveniles are kind of my only option at my local store.

Anyway that's the ramble!