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ego-osbourne · 9 months

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2023 Art Roundup

JAN - FEB - MAR - APR - MAY - JUN - JUL - AUG - SEP - OCT - NOV - DEC

(These aren’t entirely indicative of when I posted them, but when I actually finished them.)

These are some of my biggest/favorite projects through each month!

Piece details + Mod-posting below!

JAN - Asteía ; This was one of my first projects of the year that dealt with lighting, and additionally light from multiple sources! I also remember experimenting with backgrounds and how to make a character pop against a semi-detailed background without making them get lost in the piece.

FEB - Mora and Ego ; This was a good project on figuring out how to fill empty space while still keeping the atmosphere of a piece. It was also good perspective practice!

MAR - Sanguine and Ego ; Though I’m no longer too happy with the proportions or lighting of this piece, I still remember having a blast with it. Hearing feedback about them holding hands and Sanguine’s ear getting squished are very fun memories for me.

APR - Miraak and Ego ; This might be my favorite project of the whole year! Though I know I can do backgrounds better now, I remember being pretty confident and happy during the whole process! I think the motion/lighting/effects all came out very well :] ALSO it was the first piece I did with expressive masks for Miraak and Ego! Wahoo!

MAY - Mora and Ego (again) ; Though the last one was my personal favorite, I heard from a couple of friends that THIS was their favorite. Though a pain in the ASS to do, I’m especially happy with all the texture effects. This was also me experimenting with Mora’s design!

JUN - Erandur ; Not a particularly complicated/difficult piece, but one that was simply pure fun. Had a blast with lighting effects and atmosphere. It was also a good break from the family trip I was taking at the same time ,:]

JUL - Dagon ; Specifically his revamp! This was my first successful attempt at a (very) muscular body type that I liked! In fact, over the course of the year I’ve been pretty proud of my progress of expanding on body types. This one especially, though, was just very fun!

AUG - Iren and Rakell ; My first dive into a colored + shaded animatic (animation? It’s awful choppy lol)! FAR from perfect, but I was (and still am) so happy with the outcome. I particularly remember enjoying figuring out lines of movement and sound effects for the video.

SEP - Sanguine ; My first (and still only, though hopefully not for long) attempt at making Sanguine intimidating. I think this one is going in the right direction! As far as effects go, I actually had a very tough time with things because of a few layer-merging mishaps, but the final product was well-received!

OCT - The Warden ; After many-a night on Minecraft with friends, I realized just how much I loved the warden, and HAD to draw them. Redesigning characters is one of my absolute favorite things to do, especially when taking minimal details and expanding on them! They were super fun all around.

NOV - Miraak, Serana, Ego, and Ancano ; I’d been meaning to draw the siblings being siblings for a while now, but putting them all on one canvas was more than a little intimidating. I was so happy to have it done, though, and I kinda love seeing their colors clash together.

DEC - Sanguine (again) ; After not drawing him for so long, it was a blast doing so. The moment I was back home for winter break, I was ECSTATIC to get to work on this piece. #1 blorbo

This year has been an absolute ride.

I became a mod and then co-owner of the TES server that got me into making TDI and have made some really tight friendships over there (genuinely, anyone reading this who is/was in the cult server, I’m so damn happy to know you).

I’ve done some intense progress on TDI, and even though I didn’t QUITE accomplish my New Years Resolution of posting Ch. 1 this year, hopefully you can understand the drawbacks considering I am… //checks notes/// 70+ chapters in and still going.

I’m in college! Have been for a hot second now, but I’ve been working towards a ministry degree, and have future plans of getting a PhD after my bachelor’s so I can teach at a college level! I don’t think I talk a lot about my irl happenings, but hopefully that gives you an idea of why I might be a liiittle busy when it comes to writing. Ministry is an unforgiving degree when it comes to papers and meetings.

As earlier mentioned, I’ve learned how to do different body types, and am trying to find a good balance between shape language and inclusivity when it comes to bodies! I am… still struggling with feminine anatomy! Admittedly! But I’m willing to keep trying ,:]

And, overall, I (certainly hope I have) improved on my art. I have a much better sense of face shapes, line weights, and consistent details than I did at the beginning of the year. Always learning, but always improving, too!

I hope your year has gone well! Thank you so very much for checking out my blog. Tumblr has been a wonderful thing to get into and has led me to a lot of wonderful people. See you in the new year!

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hausofmamadas · 11 months

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| To live and leave fast |

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Pairing: Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo

For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober - Day 16 (+ a bit of Day 15 tbh)

Prompt: Day of Surprises (+ a smidge of Day of Absolute Filth) - create a fanwork that focuses on dreams (+ a smidge of character's moral corruption)

Word count: ≈ 2.3K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Real Big Sad, angst with some smoochin'

What was he doing here? He couldn’t answer her. The blankness of before was all he could conjure up and that vast emptiness set him on the edge of panic. okay sjsjs the way I told myself that I was gonna stop at 800 words and it becamekfjs this. So again, imsorryforeverything but uhh yea, I barely proofread this so the Spanish is prolly rough and so is everything else but hey! We can just blame it on it’s all a dream, right ….? Right??? Anyway, enjoy some shockingly non-antagonistic and sometimes tender back-and-forth btwn these two and probably the most ooc Carrillo to ever exist bc I’ve never written for him before. Idk why I’m so obsessed with this crackship but I am and it is what it is

⁂

Her voice rang out, “So, tell me. How long do you really think you can go on like this?” almost in time with the flashing red light that cut through the half-broken blinds, filling the dank, dingy room.

Carrillo tried sitting forward from where he must’ve fallen asleep slumped against something, presumably the wall of someone’s living room. No, not someone’s living room. No one’s living room. Because the place was a mess, covered in old takeout wrappers from Tijuana’s finest dining establishments, broken glass, cobwebs, and dust that would’ve been more befitting of an ancient tomb than this place. The smell of vodka or maybe rubbing alcohol burned his nose but he couldn’t pinpoint where it might’ve been coming from.

Was he even still in Tijuana? Huh. Well, that would have to wait till later. Anyway, he didn’t need to know what city he was in to know he was in an abandoned safe house. Which narco faction it belonged to didn’t make a difference. This one had to have been empty for at least a month, probably more, judging by the disarray. That and the insect activity. From Escobar to El Señor de los Cielos, the pace of the narco-lifestyle only lent itself to living and leaving fast, and whatever got left behind was usually beside the point.

Okay, but how’d he get here.

Maybe if he asked her, she’d stop looking right through him from where she stood across the room, arms crossed, leaning back against a mostly empty bookshelf that housed a few old books, some technical manual for car engines, and what looked like some old issues of Penthouse or some other stag magazine. High brow reading. He wondered if sicarios knew how much of a cliche they all were. Just once he’d like to meet one who enjoyed basketweaving, or birdwatching, or who was sentimental about their girlfriend. Anything that broke type. Then again, when it came to breaking type, he wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“Ay, por favooor, cabrón.” Startled, he jerked forward at the sound of her voice. “Remember when I told you that you were straight out of Central Casting for a war movie?” Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she scoffed, “Who are you to talk about breaking type, hombre?”

What the hell. How’d she– He didn’t– Or, had he— Was he talking out loud this whole time?

He sat up straighter and a pain lit up his right side, going from dull to blinding. Hands already at the damp spot on his shirt, trying not to scream, he could tell the wound there was bleeding more now from the pressure of sitting up. Wait no, that was good. Actually, he could use that. Inhaling with the strength of his whole body, he pressed his fingers down, jamming them into the wound, and let the pain accumulate in his chest and ribcage, then exhaled, hoping his breath would send the sensation up further to his face, his forehead, activate the muscles there to share the load of his heavy eyelids.

He didn’t think he was talking out loud, but then, he must’ve been since she’d answered. That meant something, he knew. He couldn’t focus though. Why couldn’t he focus? What’d it mean? Oh right, blood loss. It was worse than he realized. But why wasn’t she helping him? No matter how furious she was with him, that wouldn’t have been like her, standing there while he bled out.

“Ay pinshe Carrillo, no seas mamón. I was helping but you fought me the minute I started trying to clean the thing. And then,” brows knit in his favorite it-is-what-it-is position, she pointed to a puddle by his feet, “you knocked the bottle out of my hands,” then shrugged, looking around the room absently. “And vodka was the only thing I could find in this place that even comes close to sanitary. So, I had to wait for you calm down or pass out before I could do anything.”

He had no memory of that. In fact, he had no memory of anything before that dingy little room. Which was weird. He’d been hit in the head enough times that lapses in memory weren’t an altogether foreign experience, but usually he could remember something from before. Sometimes it might be hours before whatever disaster, but he at least remembered. Now, it was just blank. It occurred to him that he might be–

“–and you might be in shock,” she finished aloud.

Jesus, was he saying everything he was thinking? He watched her and waited, seeing if she’d answer more questions in his head.

That light outside kept flashing, bathing the room in a deep shade of red that danced off the broken glass, creating macabre shadows that skittered up the walls, across the floor, the ceiling. Through the blinds too, it cast alternating stripes of red and black on her face. It would’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t so sinister-looking. Well no, it made her more stunning, in a haunting, alien way, even though she looked how she usually did: hair messily pulled back, a few strands hanging in her face, wearing a tank-top and that button-up he’d found at the Salvation Army in San Ysidro. He couldn’t focus. That’s right, he’d gone to drop off some old dining chairs he had no use for, caught it out of the corner of his eye hanging with the rest of the men’s button-ups. And instantly thought of her. Why couldn’t he focus. The pain finally reached his eyes.

Again, she answered his thoughts. “Well, as much as I wanted to fight you for fighting me,” she looked down, pinching the collar of the shirt and wiggling it back and forth like a dollar bill, “I didn’t get far enough in the process of dressing your wound to ruin it. And it is one of my favorites. I have to give it to you, tigre. Your attention to detail is the stuff of legend, and they were not wrong.”

At that, he smiled tiredly. She rocked forward, kicking off the bookshelf, and strode over to him, bits of glass crunching under the gummy, rubber souls of her boots. Doc Martens. So practical. They really were, the two of them, the same sometimes.

“Andrea,” her name came out in a whisper and a wince as he clutched at his side. He looked down in a daze that no matter how many times he blinked, how wide he forced his eyes open, he couldn’t shake. “How’d th– what happened? What are you doing here? How’d you– ,” he grunted, shifting his weight to his good side, “mm– get here?”

“Te he seguido, obvio.”

What? She follo– he hadn’t even briefed anyone on the raid at Agua Caliente until right before. Trujillo would never. Walt? No, after the debacle in Juarez, he was too wrapped up needing this win to jeopardize it by talking to a reporter. Even one as dogged and persistent as Andrea. And yes, she was resourceful. But resourceful, not psychic.

It felt like a lifetime of sitting there trying put it all together and he didn’t remember when she’d started making her way towards him, but she was already kneeling next to him now, slowly removing his hands from his side. Her eyes and forehead pinched in such a way that would’ve amplified his concern if he weren’t so out of it.

Her fingers felt cold around his neck. “Árre, we need to get this off,” she said, unbuttoning the collar of his uniform.

He was alarmed when his hands brushed hers and he saw they were covered in some dark substance. Oh, blood. Strange, it looked pitch black in this light. Andrea continued working her way down, pulling each button gingerly, so as not to hurt him more. The closer she got to his stomach, the more her hands began to resemble his, covered in black.

“Dale, mija. ¿Me vas a explicar lo que haces aquí ya o qué?”

He wanted to rub his thumb across her lip as it curled up in a smug smile. “Why? Should I not be here? You want me to leave? Sure,” she craned her neck around, and called out into the empty room, “I’ll just be on my way then and let someone in this massive crowd of eager, good samaritans help you.”

He chuckled thinly. When she faced back to him, she began untucking his shirt as delicately as possible. It hurt like a sonofabitch but it was going to hurt no matter what they did, so he softened the corners of his eyes, trying not to make her feel bad.

She continued. “The better question I think is, what are you doing here?”

Once he was free from his dress shirt, she grabbed both sides of the hole in the white shirt underneath and tore it wider to get a better look at the wound. Blood leaked out in streams down his stomach to his waist. It appeared to be a large gash from some kind of shrapnel. Much too jagged for a knife. The harsh sound of air through her teeth was a good indicator of what kind of shape he was in.

Alright so, shrapnel. But he couldn’t remember an explosion and there was no evidence of one having happened there in the room. What was he doing here? He couldn’t answer her. The blankness of before was all he could conjure up and that vast emptiness set him on the edge of panic.

He’d been doing a passable job not reacting too viscerally with his face, but when she started rifling through his pockets on either side, he grimaced, growling, “Ay, Andrea! Qué coño estás haciendo, porfavor.”

Paying him no mind, she held out her hand like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel. “Knife.”

He jutted his chin toward his feet. Spotting the shiny silver clip, she grabbed the knife from his boot, flicked it out, and made an incision in the hem of his uniform shirt. Catching the free section in her teeth, she tore down the length of the initial incision, and started packing the vodka-soaked gauze that she’d managed to hold onto after his freakout onto the wound and tying it with the strips of cloth cut from the shirt. When she pulled hard, securing the final knot, he nearly keeled over.

“Aycarajoperdónperdónperdóname,” she said, catching him by the shoulders.

She stayed there, acting as his scaffolding until the pain subsided. He lifted his chin to rest his forehead against hers and catch his breath. Just in her wanting to help him, the assurance of her fingertips against his shoulders, he felt her helping him. He couldn’t remember a time he was so grateful for another human being. Grateful in the way only she could make him feel.

Speaking half to her and half to the ground, he tried putting the pieces together, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. For some reason–“ but lost the words when he’d barely gotten started.

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s– I have this strange– I have a feeling we’ve always been here. And will … always be here.”

Andrea nodded, eyes closed, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. It might feel like a trap if they didn’t have each other. She was always more than enough.

After a beat of silence, she pulled back and looked at him sadly, like she knew something he didn’t. Which was odd given what she asked next. “Horacio, por favor, necesito saberlo. Why? Why did you do it?”

Why’d he do it? Why’d he do, what?

“I know it’s in there, I know you remember. You have to, or you’ll never make it out of here.”

He shook his head, squinting his eyes, confused and cranky like a kid prematurely woken up from a nap. “Make it out? I’m not gonna make it out. Not unless you help me. Look at–“ he motioned to his side, “Ni siquiera puedo andar, mija.”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted calmly, her eyes full of an inexplicable mix of hope and resignation.

What did she know that he didn’t?

“I don’t know anything you don’t know. You just don’t want to know it. But you have to try, tigre. Eso es la única manera de vengarte a él. No more cutting corners. No more deals with the devil. Eres mejor que eso, ya lo sabes.”

The devil. The devil. The flashing red light. Deals. Deals with the devil.

Ah. Calderoni. That. That fucking deal.

His own C.I.s in exchange for Calderoni’s intel on Agua Caliente, el Hipódromo, Carlos Hank Gonzalez. A bigger fish than the Arellanos. Even though he knew exactly what the family would do to the informants. They’d have to stop building bridges in Mexico to hang people from. He showed up in Tijuana to clean up Rebollo’s mess and gone ahead and made his own.

Still, she was never part of the deal. But he could guess how that happened. In some boardroom meeting he conveniently wasn’t present for, somehow “journalist” and “informant” got conflated. They were wise not to include him. Not only would he not have agreed, he would’ve ensured not a single one of them made it out of there on two feet and breathing.

So, is this what it’s like watching the boulder come crashing down the mountain for the hundredth? Thousandth? Millionth time?

Carrillo’s face fell with understanding. “But I can’t lose you.”

“Sí, pero lo tienes que hacer. You have work to do. Because I love you. And you love me. And you owe me. And,” she rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek, and then flashed a dangerous smile, “I want you to burn the whole motherfucking thing to the ground.”

Then, cradling the back of his neck with both hands, she leaned in, lips christening him on the forehead, each of his eyelids, the tip of his nose, coming to a close at his own. There was a finality to the kiss that made him dig in deeper as if he could hold her here without lifting a finger, an urgency she returned so fiercely, when they broke away both their lips were swollen and flushed. Not without passion, but it wasn’t carnal so much as the pure desperation of goodbye.

“Going after those pinshe shingamadres is the least you can do.” He hadn’t even registered tears at his eyes until she brushed one with her thumb that had escaped down onto his cheekbone and mused, “After all, you are the reason I’m dead.”

∴

Slapped with a blast of air, his whole body jolted back to life, as he came to in a cold sweat, ceiling fan taunting him from above while he gasped for air and shivered against the damp sheets. He was so used to waking up violently like this, it didn’t even scare him anymore. Confused him a little, maybe. But reassurance was quick to follow and his breathing slowed as he relaxed, because ah, yes, he knew how to deal with the nightmares now.

Like clockwork, he reached for his life preserver, turning and throwing his arm over to the other side of the bed, expecting to feel the warmth of her back, her shoulders, hear her steady breathing next to him. But his hand sailed straight through empty air and landed on the cold, vacant spot of the mattress instead.

He almost doubled over. Pain unlike anything.

Worse than when Trujillo first delivered the news to him in his office. Much worse. The perpetual renewal of shock that this was real and the place in that dingy room in his head was not, only sharpened the blow each time. But he deserved to be wounded and wounded like this over and over again. After all, he was responsible, she was right about that.

She wasn’t here to help him with the nightmares anymore. Now, she only lived in his.

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taglist: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @narcolini

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