#its hard ok

[zzazu]

I DID IT BITCH

[honeysweethol]

The bisexual struggle of daily decision making 🥲

[2leggedshark]

Yall im so bored I should be drawing orange guts rn

[mirananananan]

thank you to the person who somehow broke through on ao3 yesterday and left kudos on one of my fics so I still woke up to that email 🫡

[the-tiniest-demigod]

me trying to draw stuff on peoples strawpages with a mousepad

[sharm-the-shark]

Stop calling me out like that

[necromanticalscience]

If I didn't need sleep you wouldn't believe the amount of writing I'd not be doing in favor of other stuff

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

"You and me, Ethan. Together we go save Rose, and then we can grind Miranda into paste!"

[mafuyuakgae]

even if I came to love humanity in the end, there’s no proof I was ever here, right?

[pokituu]

HITO!!! [she/he] the purple sketches were some of the first I did of him. Every drawing since I'm slowly figuring her out :3

[livsmessydoodles]

shenanigans

[nemkero]

uncle ekko

[airoarts]

I know several other people have redrawn that one official cloudtail & brightheart art but i wanted to take a crack at it. Hire me harpercollins.

[ID: a digital painting of Cloudtail and Brightheart from Warriors in a semi-realistic style. Cloudtail is a fluffy white cat with blue eyes, and Brightheart is a ginger-and-white cat with one blue eye and heavy scarring on the other side of her face, including an empty eyesocket, shredded ear, and part of her lip torn away to reveal her teeth. The cats are facing towards the viewer, looking happy, with Brightheart leaning her head into Cloudtail's muzzle. They are in a field of tall grass with mountains visible in the background and a tree with a few leaves looming over them. End ID]

Original below the cut for comparison

[ID: a painting similar to the first one, but Brightheart and Cloudtail are drawn in a more realistic style, lacking expression, and not leaning into each other. Brightheart has much less ginger on her pelt and her scarring is reduced to a few scratches on her eye. End ID]

[bardicbird]

a little siffrin comic about touch, violence, and oranges

[pbnmj]

(not) your guy in the chair

[seiwas]

cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry

bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.

there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.

but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.

your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.

the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.

he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?

heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—

he gulps.

it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—

(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)

the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).

it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.

he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.

bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.

you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.

"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.

as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.

as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.

as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.

his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.

you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.

“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.

your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.

he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.

but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.

he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.

there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.

your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.

then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.

he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.

five minutes, huh?

like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.