#might make some art of some personal projects I turn around in my head

[hollytree33]

I’m back!!

[zexapher]

Vacuan Nights, Like Vacuan Days

They’re just so great together! I’d love for Jaune and Weiss to get a little downtime in Vacuo to live out a moment like this. They really deserve it, and I’d love to see Jaune’s guitar make a reappearance.

The comic here was inspired by u/Silverstar1243’s excellent piece of art, A Serenade Under the Moonlight. Send some love to them on their twitter, commission some art if you’re willing and able, they’ve made some great stuff.

You folks may have noticed I threw in a couple of references for those in the know; the Golden Oreos behind Yang (double stuffed, I might add) for the trio’s ship, Weiss liking it rough for Mallobaude’s great fic, and of course I made a whole theme around the Arabian Nights Disney song. A song, along with its Aladdin compatriots, which I spent the better part of a day finding covers for just to listen to on repeat while I worked.

This one’s now officially my longest comic project, with 14 panels, two over the past record since I added the White Knight kiss at the end. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Not sure I’d say it was more difficult than my Vanity of Vanities post, but for this one I actually knew how to use my editing software going into it (at least somewhat).

Put a lot of work into this one, been working on it on and off since February. Took a few breaks for vacation, to make my memorial post for Rooster Teeth, and another five meme edits or so, but I came back around to it. First half was pretty easy, relatively minor edits inserting characters into scenes and so on. The second half with Jaune and Weiss was tougher though, with color correcting, merging poses, redrawing features, drawing Jaune’s entire head to fix some lighting issues, etc. Really like how the edit to make Jaune strum his guitar turned out.

The time it took to make the whole comic got me down a little, until I did a bit of math. Including my side projects since starting this, all the scripting and editing and all, I’ve been pumping out a panel every two days. That seems pretty good to me, that kind of accomplishment makes me a little proud of myself.

Really need to get around to watching the second part of the Justice League Crossover movies. It’s got a few Vacuo scenes that might make things a little more authentic instead of me just using Saphron’s house and pretending it’s a suite in Vacuo. I do love taking yet more character stills from Jaune and friends experiencing deep trauma and turning it into something positive, been making that a bit of a personal habit. And I’ve got to say, the background for Jaune and Weiss’ scene is really beautiful, pulled it from when Sun and Neptune hear Ruby’s message about Salem. That’s just a really good shot all on its own, I even saved a copy for my computer’s wallpaper after editing out the two.

Posting a big RWBY White Knight edit, watching not one but two RWBY Beyond episodes, and all on the trail of the news that RWBY’s found partners that they’re negotiating with and that the creative team is expected to stay on. And I'm sipping bubble tea. Life is good.

Anyway, pardon the long write up. I’m invested in this one, and am quite pleased with how the comic turned out. I hope you all get a kick out of it as well!

[syoddeye]

the christmas party

ceo!price x reader / smut free / ~2.8k words

A very belated Christmas drabble thing. Definitely not inspired by real life events. 👀 Featuring a fem!Reader x Price, background Ghost x Soap, and Gaz, the incredi-boss. Might fuck around make this a series, we'll see! Maybe I'll clean it up and throw it on AO3, too.

CW: alcohol, substance abuse (mentioned) inappropriate comments from coworkers

You came to expect drama at the company Christmas party. It was as traditional as the optional White Elephant gift exchange, the hired group of carolers, and the ugly sweater competition.

Last year, a 'mystery' baggie of powder and a credit card belonging to the former Head of Sales was found in a bathroom stall. Two years ago, it was the unexpectedly raunchy dancing between an engineer and a project manager you swore hated each other. Three years ago, a division head went home with someone who was definitely not her spouse.

You'd seen a lot in your tenure. The good, the bad, the ugly, the hilariously mortifying.

Coming up on your fifth year with The 141 Group, you were a rarity. Most folks job-hopped. More power to them, no shame in gaining good experience after a year or two to leave for greener pastures. The fact you stuck around labeled you a 'veteran', a cheeky if not sensational label, though there were times you certainly felt like you'd seen war. Acquisitions. Rebrands. Reorgs. Yeesh.

But life at 141 suits you. You are an executive assistant, a good one. It helps that your direct supervisor and the VP of Finance, Kyle Garrick, a fellow 'vet', was an incredible boss. He lets you work from when you need to, doesn't micromanage, and treats you like a person, unlike other execs. He had faith in your ability to manage his calendar, prep materials, book travel - in short, you organized his work life. In return, whenever some new hire got too fresh with you, all it took was one teensy mention in a morning meeting, and by lunch, the offending party had only apologies for you. Most importantly, though, the job nets enough money to make rent and let you pursue your hobbies.

With years of Christmas parties under your belt, you were looking forward to tonight's low-grade yet cataclysmic event. Pre-gaming and primping at a fellow assistant's house, Jordan, you clasp the silver holly leaf pendant around your neck where it lies just above your modest cleavage. The dress code was simply 'Christmas Color', another tradition. Formal attire was expected, if not an unsaid requirement, which meant slipping into a gorgeous dark green dress you spied weeks ago in a boutique window. You thank yourself for earning that last pay bump to afford it because you look fantastic, in your humble opinion.

Lacing her leather Oxfords, Jordan gives a low whistle when you turn away from the mirror. "Like a big, sexy pine tree."

You smirk. "Thanks. Remind me why we both couldn't wear red tonight?"

"Because of the two of us, red is my color. Do I not look like some kind of holiday vampire?" She asks, standing with a sweeping gesture down at her deep, red velvet suit.  

"More bellboy, but-"

"Rude!"

The two of you lovingly bicker all the way out to the awaiting car. The 141 Group, ever mindful of its image, always reimbursed rideshares for its company parties. Given the amount of liquor that flowed at these events, it wasn't only generous but smart. Like the higher-ups needed a scandal. The car ferries you across town to the ritzy event space at a local art museum. Leaving your coats at the complimentary bag check, you enter the well-underway party.

The events team needs a raise, like yesterday. The sprawling space was completely done up. Several open bars, a champagne wall, a photo op with a to-scale Santa's Sleigh, and dining tables with place settings that probably rival a monarch. Silvery white birch trees enveloped in lights line the walls, with clusters of small fir trees fully decorated dotting the space. The dancefloor was already busy with a DJ fully dressed as Santa.

Four going on five years, and it was still quite the sight.

You gently elbow Jordan. "So. Cheesy themed cocktails first or canapes?" 

"Obviously drinks. I just saw one with an ornament in it!"

~~

Three hours in, it was a dead heat for Most Dramatic Event. Two separate calamities slowly built throughout the night.

At the nexus of the first, Chad from marketing was almost blacked out. After winning the ugly sweater with a true abomination of a sweater (working lights, a mini speaker, and an ungodly amount of sequins), he celebrated. A little hard. He bopped from open bar to open bar as the bartenders cut him off one by one. He was trying to convince a coworker to grab him another Mistletoe Martini, and it was progressively getting louder.

The second was from the rumor mill more than anything. Apparently, a developer named Scott brought the wrong gift for the exchange. As the story went, his wife used the same paper for an identically sized gift, one of a titillating nature, and now he was visibly paranoid that he nabbed the wrong one on the way out the door. The man stalked the pile of gifts as folks drew numbers.

Jordan bet on the first, and you bet on the second. From the corner, you watch, giggling behind a cup of Prancer's Punch.

The sound of your name drew your attention. Kyle, in a charcoal gray suit with a sleek snowflake tie bar and green tie, approaches with a Tiny Tim Collins in hand. Though you waved hello earlier in the night, he spent most of the evening in the company of who you deemed his 'buddies' - Johnny MacTavish, VP of Technology and Jordan's boss, and Simon Riley, the Chief Security Officer. You learned in your first month to leave the trio to it. 

"Having fun, are we?" Kyle grins and turns to observe the twin events. 

"I love this party. Every year, delivers just like Santa," Jordan gleefully said.

"Someone should stop them," You add, knowing nobody would. At least not Kyle.

And as if on cue, the man chuckles. "Not my circus, not my clowns."

The three of you chat, swapping bits of office gossip collected through the night. Not the most appropriate, but not the worst social crime, surely. You're the right amount of tipsy: warm and relaxed but solid.

The wager came up naturally.

"What do you want if you win, my pine tree?"

"Hmm. It's gotta be something outrageous but not a fireable offense. Hmm. Maybe I'll have you sing on a video call, pretend you thought you were on mute or something."

"...That's boring."   

"Do I want to know?" Kyle asks, sipping his drink. 

"We have a bet on who's gonna be this year's drama - Chad or Scott." You explain.

"Maybe I ought to get back…" Your boss said with a laugh. "Better not witness to whatever you two plan." 

"Might be for the best. Night, Kyle," You accept the brief hug from the man, then poke a finger against his chest. "Listen, if I get one DM about work during the holiday, I'm switching your coffee to decaf."

Kyle claps a hand over his heart as if he's been shot. "Monstrous. Fine, have it your way, no work during Christmas…Now, behave yourself, both of you." 

Watching him retreat back to MacTavish and Riley (who look quite cozy - perhaps another piece of gossip?), Jordan nudges you. "If I was into guys, that's who I'd be into."

"You and like fifty other people here," As Kyle's assistant, you're more than his Girl Friday; you're also a professional gatekeeper. You could wallpaper your apartment with the amount of cringy notes you've stopped from reaching his desk. 

"Not your type, then?" 

You whip your head back to Jordan, utterly horrified. "No way. Not that Kyle isn't an absolute dreamboat; he's just not my dreamboat. Plus, at this point, it would be so, so weird."

Jordan laughs. "Y'know, even though we've been work besties for a year, I don't think we've ever discussed this. What is your type? As dudes are not my specialty, I have no clue."

Your type, huh? As if you don't know. Your type's been the same for as long as you can remember. Big and brawny, the kind of guy who could haul you around. Dark hair. Well-groomed, well-dressed, well-endow–You could still make it onto the naughty list. 

Using better and cleaner terms, you relay this information to Jordan. 

"Huh. A man's man. Whodathunk–oh! Oh shit, look who it is!" The other woman pats your arm and gestures with a nod.

Joining Kyle and his buddies, is none other than John Price - CEO of The 141 Group. Fashionably late (very fashionably late), yet another tradition. Adorned in a Santa red suit jacket and a matching red tie, he somehow makes the boring dress code dashing. Flanking him is a pair of bodyguards. He's just in time for the wager to come to a head. 

God, he looks good. 

As Kyle's assistant, you see John fairly regularly. Not that he sees you. No one above a certain pay grade sees assistants. You kind of just blend right on in. Not even Mr. Riley, whom you've been introduced to a dozen times by Kyle himself, recalls your name. When you tag along to meetings to take notes for the boss man, you assume you're on the same level as a lamp or plant. That doesn't mean you haven't ogled John Price before. Kind of hard to not to, what with his commanding presence. You're kind of ogling him right now.

"Wow, you really do have a type," Jordan hums with a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," You hiss into your drink and look away, just in time to see Chad from marketing lift a gift box-shaped ice sculpture and smash it onto the ground next to one of the open bars with a frustrated yell. The poor bartender and caterers jump back, and the music scratches to a halt. A thick silence fell over the party, impressive for a crowd of over a hundred, and your eyes flick to Mr. Price.

He glares daggers in Chad's direction, then nods at the taller of his bodyguards. Without hesitation, the man crosses the event space toward a petrified, drunk-crying Chad. As the guard hauls him away, your coworker, or former coworker, you assume, bursts into ugly tears and then disappears from sight. But your eyes are still on John, whose gaze turns to the DJ. The music starts again, as does the chatter. 

"Fuck yes," Jordan giddily whispers. 

"Well, shit."

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"...Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I do," You sigh and down the rest of your drink. "Before you swing the axe, let me grab another punch."

"Hurry back, I've got my thinking cap on," Jordan impishly smirks. 

With a groan, you make your way to the nearest open bar. One far from Chad's little tantrum. Most folks are on the dance floor at this hour, leaving this particular bar quiet. Waiting in line behind other tipsy coworkers, a clearing throat behind you grabs your attention. 

"D'you have a recommendation?" A low, gravelly voice from all your best dreams asks. 

You turn, and the sweet Hallmark-worthy image that blossomed in your mind in the last two seconds promptly morphs into a nightmare. Not a running-for-your-life nightmare, but a you're-the-only-naked-person-in-class nightmare. Laughable, considering the topic of conversation not three minutes ago.

John Price stands tall behind you, arms crossed, testing the fabric of his red suit jacket. He smells like tobacco and something spicy, and his eyes are a shade of blue you hadn't noticed before. You never got this close. They narrow slightly, and you realize you haven't answered him.

"Prancer's Punch." The name sounds cornier aloud.

"Hmm. Brandy or rum?" He sounds unimpressed. Was he unimpressed?

You're quicker to answer this time. Except, you babble. "It's, uh, made with dark rum. It's delicious. I've had a few. The cranberry juice isn't too tart, compliments the sparkling wine and–It's good."

Santa, run me over with your reindeer.

Kyle would be humiliated to have heard all of that. You are humiliated for having said all of that.

To your surprise though, the corner of John's mouth hooks in a smirk, then he chuckles. "How many qualifies as 'a few'?" 

You, apparently committed to acting moronically, answer honestly. "Five." 

It gets you an actual laugh this time. His hand raises up to scritch at his cheek, flashing the band of a watch you're certain is worth more than your life, then juts his chin forward slightly. "You're up, miss."

"Oh, no, Mr. Price, I insist, please-" You start to sidestep to let him up in line, but his hand lowers immediately and stretches out to stop you. He doesn't touch you, but the hair of your arm stands up at the proximity. 

John smiles again, and his head tips toward you. "I insist. Join me, Miss…?"

"Mr. Price?" A voice suddenly interrupts. The taller bodyguard that removed Chad steps up and steals away Mr. Price's attention. "The problem's been dealt with. Regarding…"

You don't hear the rest of the conversation because you hurriedly ask for a punch and bolt back to Jordan. 

And Jordan saw everything. Your heart is racing, and you miss half of her teasing. 

"You made him laugh. Twice. I don't think I've ever seen him smile, let alone laugh." 

"Because I basically admitted to being drunk!"

"Calm down, you're not, you're solid," She reassures. "Besides. You saw that death glare at Chad. If he was upset, I reckon you'd be on the receiving end of one of those."

You groan and take a swig of punch. You hope you've had enough of the good stuff to burn away the memory of your embarrassing rambling. You look back to Jordan to say something and find your friend once again grinning devilishly at you.

"I just thought of what I want for my victory."

Any time, Santa. Put me out of my misery.

"What?"

"So…You know #AskPrice?" 

You know where this is going, and your eyeballs nearly bulge out of their sockets. "Jordan. Please. No. Do not make me post something stupid there." 

#AskPrice was the name of the open channel at work. Anyone across the company could post questions for Mr. Price to answer. More often than not, it was a venue for bootlickers and kiss-asses to rain praises and share bad proposals. Rarely was there a legitimate question or a good idea.

"Darling, of course not. I have something far funnier in mind," She started, and you swore you saw the flames of hell itself in her eyes. "You're going to direct message Mr. Price and ask what he wants for Christmas." 

Jaw, meet floor. "Absolutely not!"

Jordan laughs and hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you in. "Come on. It's harmless. Believe me, I considered making you send a selfie or asking if you're on the naughty or nice list."

"He could fire me!"

"For what? It's just a question! He always says we're welcome to DM him."

To be fair, Mr. Price did say that at the end of every company-wide call or in email announcements. He always harps on 'transparency' and 'open channels of communication', hence #AskPrice. To your knowledge, however, no one ever takes him up on that, at least at your level.

"Jordan…Mercy. Please."

"My sweet pine tree, you lost fair and square," She releases you and pats your shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, I bet he gets a thousand messages a day. The notification will get lost in the noise."

It doesn't take much more prodding and encouragement from Jordan. Your phone ends up in your hand, and you tap into the chat app. Your hand shakes a little when you pull up John's username and open the message dialogue. 

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas?

Short and to the point. Jordan calls it 'boring', but you're already putting your neck on the line for a stupid wager. You're not risking anymore by dressing it up. Bet fulfilled, you press send, quickly turn notifications off, and shove your phone back into your little purse. Jordan rewards you with a squeeze to the shoulder.

"That was terrifying." You whine.

"That was a rush. Come on. Let's dance." 

~~

The next morning, when you're all but molded to your couch and housing takeaway, there's a little ping from your phone. It's the chime of the chat app.

"Kyle, for the love of everything, it's Sunday–"

You nearly drop your phone.

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas? > World peace. > I'd settle for a drink, though.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 6 — done it warning, done it now

art cr: @zaunitearchives our most faithful viktor lover <3 (can you guess which one of the inspo pics belongs to me?because i wasn’t joking when i said i might start using my pictures for these silly frames — I‘M DEDICATED to this fic okay)

word count: 2,2k

VERY nsfw, horny idiots in love, dialogue dialogue dialogue, explicit language, public masturbation, vehicle sex if you will. some porn to prepare you for the chaos i may or may not cause in the next chap 🫣

part 7

—

“Do you ever feel like a pawn?” 

He turns around and his weary head tips deeper into what little comfort an old bus seat could provide, honeyed eyes a confused reproach pointed at your sheepish smile — had you dawdling over the halo of sun rays slipping prettily into the dark scatter of his hair, turning chestnut into rich, warm bourbon. 

“Since when are you interested in philosophy?”

It makes you stumble over an innocent chuckle; fingers grow flush and hot against his, threatening to slide out of the warm press of hands — to satiate the sudden whim of cradling his face and dipping your thumbs gently into the sharp lines of defined cheekbones. 

“Answer the question, Viktor.” 

Oh the forwardness. Always gives him the urge to comply no matter how ridiculous the request is — be it a hypothetical silly ‘what if’ or an actual firm demand. 

“I don’t project on inanimate objects, milackú,” he maneuvered smoothly out of your prudent trip, placing a cheeky kiss on the curious arc of your mouth. “But, in order not to digress — yes, I suppose I do. Quite occasionally. In your arms.” 

“Smooth. Bravo, Viktor — that was so sweet I might have to see a dentist now.”

“Don’t forget to send me the bill.” 

You gawked at the tooth gap in his proud grin with a hopeless sigh, leaning closer to tuck your face into the crevice of his slender neck. Couldn’t care less about the other passengers — nor did they care about you, to be frank: your seats were hidden in the back corner securely enough. Lips pressed to the fresh love bruise, so poorly covered with a mess of his unbuttoned collar — a not so humble possessive remnant of the morning tryst in his room. You craved a change of scenery: ravishing only one bed quickly becomes boring and unfair to its just as much ravished owner. 

“No, but seriously,” you kept prying, words a muffled mumble against the slim of his skin — had you smiling when you caught the subtle scent of soap on the barely exposed collarbone, and his hand found tender leverage in your hair as thoughts drifted to the delicious things he did to you in that bathroom this very morning. Even longed to hold him there for a little longer — if not for the damn bus, that was now rapidly moving towards your opportunity to flaunt. Or to become a pitiful disgrace. Unfortunately, so far you were only leaning towards the latter. 

It was Viktor’s idea. To play a local tournament — a somewhat silly for a person of his rating gathering, that he had no valid reason to attend. And yet he was so insistent on taking you there, held your hand so securely tight as you tried to fruitlessly convince him of your incompetence. Well, not incompetence, per se — you were simply a tad bit rusty, with a long forgotten dream of ever turning your passion into something professional. Endured a lengthy back and forth filled with his soft persistence and your capricious reluctance (which was secretly just a failed attempt to cover your incitement). 

Because you loved the competition. Used to live off the thrill of having people at the edges of their seats, consumed their defeated groans alongside each captured piece, and forcibly swallowed the spiteful comments spinning at the tip of your tongue during each bitter post-defeat handshake. Adored the elegant gall-spitting on the checkered board, and loved hearing people whisper malicious things whenever you entered the room. 

What happened to that version of you? Was it still there — a sharp tiny warrior, or ‘that pretentious little cunt’ — a title you wore proudly after a certain querulous opponent had revealed it to you generously all these years ago?

Well, certainly. Angry girls grow up shaped into furious women, but your fierceness is now only imposed on men, poetry and lechery. Anything but tournaments. 

And — while chess still owned your heart — you had to bow your head to the countless obstacles of life, aiming for stability; fed the vigorous child inside you countless books and analyzed hundreds of games, hoping that, eventually, that stupid yearning will be sated. 

But now you had him — your bright opponent, rated strong intermediate and highly respected in narrow circles. A player of great potential — he was everything you could’ve been by now, a living proof of one’s passion and major coexisting peacefully. Your personal Czech serpent, the gentlest hangman of your fortitude — eager to get you rated, to make you see your skills through his meticulous eyes.

So here you were. Entwined with him in the contentious privacy of this backseat, harried with occasional chokeholds of your nervousness. Viktor was waiting for your point, all flushed ears and uneven breath. 

“What I mean is,” you sighed again, tongue dancing skittishly over the front row of teeth, “don’t you ever feel so small and utterly unimportant? Like everyone else is so much more valuable?” 

“But pawns are very important,” he protested, coaxing you to quit hiding from his acute eyes, “I delivered checkmates with pawns countless times before. And so did you.“

You couldn’t argue with that logic. Just sank deeper into his arms and watched the light run through his dilated pupils — the slipping boredom of the city both of you were getting out of today. 

“Yes, but would you rather lose a pawn or… say, a rook? Or a knight? Or quite literally any other thing?” reluctant to bend to his attempts at soothing your restless mind, you refused to retreat and sweetly troubled him further. His smirk curled atop yours in a curt little touch — but one can’t kiss away a worry that excessive. Even as determined as he was to try. 

“Depends on the circumstances. Surely, choosing to lose a powerful piece over a less significant one sounds unreasonable when you put it that way — but we both know it doesn’t exactly work like that.” 

His sigh — or was it the rough scorch of the sun? — was making you melt; took care of your misery like the acidic little thing it is. Big palm stirred over the hem of a cotton dress, tracing it with a tremble, then slipping cautiously underneath — to curl around your thigh and pin it to the seat like a gentle shackle. You could still make out the grip through the sheer restraint of fabric; had your legs clenching together to trap it viciously into a crate of skin and soft little hairs: they stood on their ends oh so treacherously, each shiver palpable under the calluses of Viktor’s fingers. 

“Moje laska.” There it is again. Turning you into a dumb pile of freshly discovered weaknesses — he could burn you to ashes that very moment and you’d gladly let him get away with it, as long as that hand stayed so close to home, damp from your sweat and whatever beads of slick seeping through the soaked ruin of your underwear. If only he could reach down and throw а quivering thigh over one scrawny shoulder, tongue a trail chasing the wet deliciousness of your lust after him — just how he likes it: sweet, slow and salacious. The holy trinity of your fervent undoings.

“You’ll make them all feel like pawns,” you felt him sting the shell of your ear in a tortuous whisper, his caress tenderly cruel against what little composure left between tense legs, “I can promise you that much.” 

“We have a tournament to play, and that’s what you’re thinking about right now?” you tried to snatch the power out of his hands, but tripped over his long middle finger — so viciously close to the swollen folds. He could’ve grasped the shape of them through the obstacle of fabric if only you approved of the mischief. 

“We have a tournament to play, and you’re wasting our precious time on baseless self-consciousness. I am merely providing a pleasant distraction,” he explained, then resigned to offer you a moment of hesitation. “Unless the setting is too public for you, of course. I don’t mind proceeding in private, with less prying eyes nailed to your potential, eh… agony.” 

“My, you’re shameless.” 

“You’re one to talk. So? May I?”

Gaze quickly flipped through the row of potential witnesses, failing to notice a single giving a fuck one. Viktor waited for your permission with patiently bated breath, watching your throat move when you gulped, slightly strangled. 

“Please.” 

Lips protruded into a line — a show-off of a smirk at the eroded crumbles of your sanity. Because, indeed — your writhing was needy to its very core, legs tumbled in to coax your salvation out of him. Impatient, fitful, stubborn — your demand was impeccable in its tacit delivery, emphasized the urgency when a single fingertip brushed the entrance soft and languid, then found the wet, laced at the edges barrier. White and see-through, with a silly bow sitting prettily right on top — he watched you put them on fresh out of shower, all damp-skinned and weak-kneed, the swift slide of light fabric over the divine thick of your thighs. It’s a shame he couldn't see the mess he’d made out of them. 

A well-rehearsed route: a casual slide inside the delicate garment, a timid swipe over each plush fold. Immutable, but you liked it — begged for more into his rouge under the white shirt shoulder. It matched you so effortlessly. Though his attire was sticky only from sweat. 

Torturous. Purely, perfectly, obscenely tortuous — that’s how his finger felt, hot and slick, in a precious little roll against the swell of your clit, and you found hold of his lean thigh, nails a sharp anchor in the gentle flesh of it — squeezing hard enough to cut through his pants. And his little chuckles —  these warm brisk spurts of muffled laughter. They had your free from gnawing at him hand pressing tight against your mouth, pushing the debauched whine back into your throat until it was practically strangling you, swallowing hard to keep everyone present unaware of the stage of bliss you were going through in that damned seat. As tempted as you were to scream at the top of your burning lungs — it was best for your audience to remain unconcerned. 

Don’t get caught, don’t attract attention, don’t fuck it up — but god was it difficult when you needed so much more than just these restrained, demure cirles against your aching clit. Glassy-eyed and so tense, you silently pleaded him to keep going — a second away from rolling into his lap to fall strung up on his just as much aching cock and have him thrust your heart out in that very grimmy seat. And he would do it, always so happy to please — no doubt muttering swears towards the oblivious handful of other passengers, mourning the urge to tend to as you deserve it — full-course and thorough. 

He probably won’t fuck you in public ever again. Not where he couldn’t pay you every last neck kiss and every last lewd little word, at the very least. 

But for now he tormented you meticulously towards the sweet climax — clockwise, calculated, gentle. With an occasional flick of darkened eyes over each potential witness: to make sure he’s the only one to savor your collapse, the ever thoughtful protector of your pleasure. And there he was in your ear again — with a filthy helping of pleasantries spoken softly to ensure you get what you want. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Voice satin, motions timidly flawless. He had a bit of a hard time pronouncing it, choked on a humm so utterly awe-struck. “Oh, the things I’d do to you if only we were alone. The things I’m tempted to do to you — to hell with privacy. Being quiet doesn’t suit you, milovaná.” 

And you finally spilled. Heavy head dropped back in what could’ve been a loud lustful moan — mouth formed an eager O under the slam of your sweaty palm. Buckled knees and tiny convulsions — you came not nearly hard enough in comparison to what he usually puts you through, yet it still lanced through you and turned limbs numb, clit was sore from the remnants of your dissolving arousal, throbbing under the generous stroke of his fingertips. 

A slow orgasm — both in delivery and departure, a taunting treat that left you delightfully dizzy. You captured the warm sight of him through the fluttering cover of lashes, myriad white dots biting roughly at your vision, rubbing rudely into a sunny line that melted the ends of his wild hair into a lighter shade. His hand slid away, tremulous. Left a glossy trace all the way up to your shaking knee. Thin wrist caught a little cramp. 

“Breathe.” A sultry reminder upon the slope of your shoulder as his lips found some skin in a brief kiss. Cheeky. Self-pleased. Had you nearly sobbing in fresh desperation when he wiped two glistening fingers to a fetched out handkerchief ostentatiously. Absorbed every drop of you and tucked it back into his breast pocket — to wear you there lewdly next to his heart. 

You’ll need a few cigarettes back-to-back to recover from this.  

The bus needed fifteen more minutes to spit you out gently into the hostile arms of the competition.

—

tags: @thehistoriangirl @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[lunaroserites]

Art and Ice - Doodle

Pairing: Eventual Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Characters: Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, Loki, Bucky, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, a lot of the avengers cast is mentioned.

Summery: MC asks Bucky to be her focus on her project.

This might a 2 or 3 parter (it's gonna be more because cannot help myself). College AU, our boy Bucky is on the hockey team, and reader is an art major (because I love that trope and couldn't help myself)

Warnings: Not beta'd! All mistakes are my own. Friends fluff, swearing, mentions of college students being college students. Bit of friendly harmless flirting between friends. Bucky is a playboy. Fighting.

Word Court: 2770

Likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!

Please do not repost, translate or otherwise copy my work elsewhere, without my express permission, thank you! Lunaroserites on tumblr and ao3

Catch up here: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 ❤️

“You think I can just say fuck it and drop out?” The words tumbled out of your mouth quickly as you walked with Nat toward the arena. Practice was in the afternoon today because there was a game tonight. According to Nat our rival team would be here later to do some warm up before the game tonight. 

“Seriously?” She raised a manicured brow at you. 

“Maybe Pietro was right. I should be a drama major,” you whispered, mostly to yourself. You knew you were being over dramatic about the ordeal, but Barnes was an egotistical jerk and he was going to make this project hell. Was that a pessimistic take on it? Maybe. Were you wrong? Probably not. 

You pulled your school hoodie tighter, winter's grasp was holding on tight this year. The wind nipped at your nose and cheeks as you both made your way into the arena. Once inside the main doors heat blasted at you, you rubbed your arms with your hands and looked at Nat who was doing the same. 

“You are dramatic. But it’s gonna be fine,” her confidence almost made you believe her. Originally you were just going to wait and ask him outside the arena, in hopes maybe his cocky, surefire attitude would be on the back burner. But Nat said practice was amping up now as the season drew closer to playoffs and the team would be traveling a lot more. Nat led us to our seats next to the bench, another woman was sitting there already. 

“Peggy!” Nat said cheerfully, as she sat down next to her. 

“Natasha!” she said cheerfully back. “Who’s this?” She smiled at you. You waved and introduced yourself.

“Oh you’re the one doing the art project? Steve mentioned it,” she asked. 

You nodded, “news travels fast?” you laugh a little weirded out how she already knew. 

“Hockey players gossip worse than fishermen wives in the locker room...”

“And out of it,” Nat added with a laugh, Peggy chuckled as well.

 “And Barnes can’t shut up about the fact you drew him,” Peggy said with an eyeroll. Right, you thought. Peggy probably spent a decent time around him, since Steve and him were best friends, from your understanding it was rare to see one without the other. 

“I’m not surprised,” you chuckled, looking down at your sketchpad. The night before you stayed up and watched videos of Barnes’ best plays and a couple of his interviews. There were some very detailed pictures of his face there. You quickly turned to a black page so Nat wouldn’t see it and poke fun. When you found a muse, it was hard for you to focus on anything but it. You could feel the hole you were digging getting bigger and bigger. 

“Fuck,” you glared at Barnes as he slammed into the glass in front of you, startling you. He had his helmet lifted and he was giving you a bright and flirty smile. You raised an eyebrow at him and shook your head, uninterested in his antics. He slipped his helmet down and pushed back, skating backwards, he moved so fluidly, you couldn’t help but pay attention. 

“Oi! Barnes. Pay attention,” someone snapped, you looked towards the voice and stared for a moment. 

“Coach Fury,” Nat said to you, “the only person that can get Barnes to pay attention besides Steve,” she finished. You nodded before looking back at the players. Your eyes were drawn to a smaller player, he wore a 12 on his back, Stark. He had been in one of your business classes you took in your second semester. He was an interesting guy, cocky and arrogant, he also came from money. His father was the owner of Stark Industries. He was speeding up and down the ice with ease. 

“12, he's fast,” you murmured to Nat, who nodded.

“He broke a record last year, his size makes it easier for him to zoom around,” Nat answered as she looked down at my paper, “Barnes really has your eye doesn’t he, this is like the Hela thing all over again,” she chuckled.  

“Yeah,” you blushed deeply and looked back down at your paper. You really wished one of the other teammates caught your attention, if Clint did this would be much simpler. But of of course the school hot shot had to be one to catch your eye.

“Hey,” Nat lifted your chin and made you look at her. “It’s fine, muses come and go. That’s how art is,” she smiled, that was one thing you loved about Nat, she never questioned or made fun of your muses or how ridiculous an idea you had was when it came to your art. She would poke fun, and make silly jokes, but nothing harmful. Just good natured fun. Her support was unwavering and true. 

Nat was a dancer, she was studying dance and dance theory. That’s how you two met, you accidently stumbled into one of the dance studios after hours instead of the art room. She was there practicing, and made small talk with you. You ended up just sitting on the dance room floor and working on your project talking with her as she practiced. 

“You know what’s funny, I didn’t think about dance for this project,” you chuckled after you relaxed a little. Nat’s face broke into a wide smile. 

“It would be the same as Pietro and the track team, but at least we look cute in our dance attire,” she mused lightly. You laughed loudly at her comment. 

“You really hate those track uniforms,” you shook your head as you chuckled some more. Clint zipped passed a moment later and Nat‘s eye followed him like a magnet. “Goodness, you’re so in love, it’s sickening,” you mused, she pushed your shoulder playfully. 

“How long have you two known one another?” Peggy asked. 

“Since first semester,” you answered her with a smile. 

“You guys are such good friends, I would have expected childhood bestfriends,” Peggy said, as she smiled at Steve who skated by. 

“We just clicked,” you shrugged, returning to your sketchpad. 

Practice drew to a close a little while later and you followed behind Nat and Peggy as they made their way back toward the locker room. There were a few girls, including Pepper Potts, Starks on again/off again girlfriend. Every other week Nat would be talking about it. The girl Bucky had on his arm last time was missing from the group of girls waiting for the players to leave the locker room. First out was Clint, and he made a beeline for Nat, instantly pulling her into a hug and pressing his nose into her neck, she squealed a little as his cold nose made contact with her skin.

Peggy excused herself to go wait by the door for Steve who emerged with Barnes a moment later. She whispered something in Steve’s ear and pointed over at you with a smile. Steve nodded and waved with a small smile of his own. Barnes followed his gaze and instantly he perked up when he noticed you. He swaggered toward you, past the gaggle of girls waiting to try and get his attention, you noticed a couple of them glare in your direction. You stood with your arms crossed over your chest, sketch book tucked against your side. You looked up at him as he came up to you making a complete stop a foot in front of you. He really didn’t care about personal space, you took one step back so you didn't have to crane your neck as much to look him in the face.

“And what do I owe the pleasure today Doodle,” you cocked an eyebrow at the nickname, and squinted slightly. The nickname didn’t make you scrunch your nose or want to gag so it wasn’t the worst. You sighed heavily and danced on the balls of your feet for a moment. He just stared, watching you intently, a dumb cocky smirk plastered on his face. 

“Would you let me draw you for my art project?” You asked, you wished the weight bearing down on your shoulders lifted but it didn’t. You dreaded the thought of spending more time with this menace of a man. His lip twitched further upward and showed some of his perfect white teeth. 

“Ah Doodle, I thought you'd never ask,” he ruffled your hair with one of his big hands. You groaned and moved your head from him and tried to fix your hair. 

“Don’t touch me, please,” you said sternly. “I just need permission to draw you and use your likeness.” 

“Ah don’t be like that,” he moved forward and you stepped backwards and to the right, dodging him. He huffed in annoyance and you stared at him with your arms crossed again and slight scowl. “Will you be at the game tonight?” He asked, finally standing upright, his own arms crossed across his broad chest. 

“Seats are sold out besides the reserved seats for team partners,” you stated, “so no not tonight.”  

“There's always a seat reserved for my girl, you can have that one,” he stated matter of factly. 

“I’m not your girl,” you said back firmly. “This whole thing is for my art project,” you moved your hand jestering to both of you, “it ends once my project is done.” 

You couldn’t quite place the look on his face after you said that, but you could pick up the small look of challenge in his eyes. It seemed he was making this game, like he was contemplating how long it would be before you would cave and give him what he wanted. Another notch in his bed post. From what you could tell based on his body language alone he was not used to being rejected. Women usually flaunted over him and fell in his lap, all he had to do was choose who he wanted at that moment. Your determination to not be one of those girls was considered a challenge to him, met head on with stubborn determination to break you down and get what he wanted in the end. That made your stomach twist at the thought, he only wanted to do this to sleep with you, have some fun and then dump you off on Loki’s lap heart broken. 

You shook your head, lost in your own thoughts. Barnes was still looking at you, a contemplative look on his face. He had his chin in his hand as he rubbed it, “this will be fun, see you tonight Doodle.” You glared at him as he walked away, twirling his keys around his finger. 

“Jerk,” you said softly to yourself before you made your way over to Nat and Clint. 

“Well that went better than I expected,” Nat said quietly as the three of you left the rink until you had to be back later. 

A sleek black car was parked at the curb, you waved goodbye to Nat and Clint as you ran over to the car and slid into the passenger seat, you rolled the window down and shouted “goodbye! See you later,” Nat waved and they continued walking. 

“Hey Loki!” You said cheerfully. 

“Hello darling, I take it asking Barnes went well?” He asked as he put the car in drive and pulled out from the curb. 

“It went alright. The cocky bastard,” you clipped your belt in place and turned your head to look at Loki fully. “He’s already flirting with me,” you shook your head in annoyance. 

“At least he has good taste darling,” Loki said sweetly as we sped down the freeway into town to have an early dinner.

“Have fun darling,” Loki shouted out the open window of the car as he dropped you off at the arena. You turned back and gave him an unamused smile and flipped him off. 

“Yeah, fuck you,” you said with a slight laugh and turned away, waving, “love you dork,” you said over your shoulder. Nat was waiting just inside the arena for you and led you to your seats. 

“So one of the perks of dating hockey players? Free seats?” You mused sitting down next to her, the arena was still pretty empty as the game didn’t start for 45 minutes. 

“One of them,” she chuckled. Warm ups started and Clint stopped for a moment in front of us and lifted his helmet.

“Hey girls,” he said with a smile before darting off to warm up. 

“Looks like Barnes just noticed us,” Nat said as he skated over. 

“He had me clocked from the parking lot,” you grumbled. Nat laughed loudly and placed her hand on your shoulder wiping a tear from her eye. 

“You’re not wrong,” she said between giggles. Barnes skated forward and came to stop sending glittering flecks of shaved ice toward the glass. 

“Nat, Doodle, how's my new favourite girl?” He asked with a cocky smile. You rolled your eyes, and placed your cheek on your hand as you looked at him with a deadpan expression, Nat smirked next to you. You watched as Barnes ran his tongue over his teeth, he then winked and skated off to join warm ups. 

“Do the woman he dates actually like that attitude?” You mused absently as you doodled on the open page of your sketchbook. Nat shrugged.

“Honestly, they’re probably more interested in his looks, and don’t care about anything else. That or the potential paycheck he’ll be earning if they can tie him down long enough,” She said softly. Your gut twisted uncomfortably at that, and you grimaced. Sure the guy was an arrogant prick, but he deserved better than that. Nat noticed your facial expression and nodded. “It’s not really fair, there's moments when he’s more than the arrogant show off, he’s pretty sweet. I think he’s just gotten used to hiding it; he doesn't bother being anything else.” 

“Be what they expect of you and no one will question it,” you hummed. You mindless doodles turned into a simple sketch of his face. You admired the sharpness of his jaw, his mouth set in a soft line that was slightly upturned.  

The game started, and you were too focused on watching Barnes skate to really watch the game. Not that you really understood the sport enough to really understand what was happening in front of you. First intermission passed and they were half through the second period when a black punk landed on your sketch pad. It startled you and your head shot up and you meant Barnes eyes. Nat was giggling next to you as you picked the offending puck up and handed it to the kid sitting behind you, who happened to be wearing a Barnes jersey. The kids day was made and Barnes’ narrowed his eyes at you. You smirked back in return and went back to drawing. 

The crowd erupted in loud chants as Barnes scored with less than a second left in the third period, winning the game for your college. You watched as Barnes skated around celebrating his goal only for the captain of the other team to get up in his face. You tensed up as you watched the guy push Barnes shoulders and then grab his protective gear getting in his face. 

So the rest of the team came to investigate and there was an all out brawl on the ice right in front of you. You stood up and looked down. Barnes was on top of the captain, his fist raised and he was breathing heavily. 

“Bucky,” his name left your lips before you could stop it and he had to have heard you because his face tilted in your direction for a fraction of a second and the captain took that as an opportunity to flip Barnes over and bring a hard fist down on the bridge of his nose. You shrieked as blood gushed out of Barnes’ nose. Nat was standing next to you as you both watched in horror. 

You turned your head and saw your college coach hopping the bench and helping refs break it up. Steve hauled the other team's captain off his best friend and shoved him into the arms of other teammates who pulled him further away. Steve helped Barnes up and took his face in his hands, Barnes just gave him a dopey smile. His gaze turned to you for a moment and he smiled a bigger smile.  You looked at him with wide eyes and your mouth agape, horrified. 

The captain of the other team didn’t look like he fared much better. He was bloody and his eye was swelling shut with each passing second. Coach Fury looked pissed, and was stalking over to the other teams coach for a few words, a ref following close behind.

Taglist: @vicmc624, @calwitch, @learisa, @aaqua-tofana

Feel free you send me a message if you have a request or would like more, or would like to be added to the tag list <3

[laurark]

2023 Wrap Up

A strange year that was both long and short. The main lesson to learn from 2023 is the same lesson I have been learning every year since I was 6 years old: Things happen if you try!

 I spent a lot of time this year hitting my head against a wall, or rather healing from an RSI that caused making art to become really fraught. I could bear the wrist pain in order to do my favorite thing (drawing!!!) but then the pain stuck around after I had clocked out for the day and was making dinner. It would go like this: I want to make pasta sauce using canned tomatoes, but using a can opener is so painful now that maybe I should just do something else. The onions and garlic are already cooking in the pan though, what can I pivot that to? I felt like the biggest dunce in the world. I worked my way into being cursed, I deserved it.

I have this craving to just commit to a big art project, like a graphic novel, and keep my head down working on it. Having all my time devoted to work feels a bit like doing penance, like earning my bread. But I look at the world and I know I cannot draw my way out of this. I can’t write my way out of this. I can’t post my way out of this. I am unprepared for what I need to do to earn a better tomorrow. But I am prepared to learn.

I changed up my desk ergonomics and my wrist healed. Thank you to the huge desk easel that I stole from my parents’ house. It’s ugly, heavy, stained, and I keep banging my elbows on its sharp corners. It sucks but it saved my life. Do not resist making your workspace uglier if it might help you! 

Making The Influence and participating in the ShortBox Comics Fair was a huge work highlight this year. I’m so grateful I can make a work with dark themes and have it be understood and appreciated. The encouraging response to The Influence did a lot to kill the bad faith reviewer in my mind. Things are possible if you try!

I started painting again and I really love it. I’m trying to just follow the image-making. Painting is play to me and I want it to remain so. I feel myself itch to turn it into some kind of profitable thing, to make it palatable, but I’m trying to resist so it remains a place of experimentation. 

I also wrote a short novel. It’s awful. I just re-read it and it’s so bad, but reading it makes me happy. It needs serious reworking to be a proper novel, but I did technically cross the finish line and write the whole story. It was very refreshing and informative to branch out like this, even if I don’t think this particular example is fit for human consumption. Earlier in my life I was so stubborn about ONLY working in comics but now I’d like to pursue whatever path I can to have a creative career. If you try!

I had a great time tabling at Short Run this year. Two different people came to my table and told me they came to the show specifically to see my table. One person said Bug Boys was responsible for facilitating “many special moments” with them and their niece. I don’t want to forget about moments like this. It means a lot to me. 

It occurs to me as I type out this year’s accomplishments, they’re mostly things I did at home alone. I haven’t rejoined the world after COVID in a meaningful way, the way I hoped I would during lockdown. It comes naturally to me to make up excuses to stay home, keep my head down, watch how things play out before joining in. That attitude does me a disservice. It isolates me. When other people are only in the screen, they become hypothetical. It’s not right to live this way, but it’s comfortable to me. It feels “safe” after COVID, even though it’s not safe. I know I need to change this. 

It feels sick and strange to be blogging in my safe little apartment during a time of bloodshed. To flip through my planner and think of my future while others starve is obscene. My entire life was obscene in this fashion. It’s my responsibility to sit with this feeling and do something with it.

Here’s to a better 2024. We can do it, we can try. 

In love and solidarity, 

Laura K.

[chronicbeans]

Wally Darling with a Restoration Project Reader (part 3)

It's been a few weeks, now... You feel like something is wrong...

TW: Mentions of Hacking, Scopophobia/Eye Imagery

🗞️ Daniel has been having more and more mail sent his way. The time you all spend in Finn's house, restoring Welcome Home merchandise and media, is getting longer and longer. Your mother has been getting more and more snippy about it all.

🗞️ You grab an old book titled "Happy Birthday, Barnaby!" Opening it up reveals how it's Barnaby's birthday and Wally, Julie, and Sally are all planning to throw a surprise party for him. What you have found with almost every single item that has Wally in it is that he is, most of the time, looking at you. Well, the person looking at the material. Even on the page where everyone is telling Barnaby happy birthday. The rest of the neighbors are all looking at Barnaby, smiling and clapping as he blows out some birthday candles. Wally, however, is looking at you. His body is turned to face Barnaby, but his head is turned towards you, his eyes locked onto you.

🗞️ You put the book down, asking the rest of the group "Wally seems rather odd, huh? He's like... my favorite, but he is very eerie. Do you have any theories as to why he stares at us?" Amy makes a face of concentration, before saying "Well, Wally is meant to make a connection with the children watching the show. It is probably because they want to emphasize that connection, or make it stronger through eye contact." She then clasps her hands together, continuing "I really wish they did that with Julie! She is so cute!" "HOLY-! WHAT?!"

🗞️ Everyone looks over to Finn, who has been looking at the Welcome Home Restoration Project blog on his laptop. His eyes grow wide as he says "Y'all, I think someone has hacked us or something! Look! I found this link beneath the Wally character file on the neighborhood page! It leads to... this..."

🗞️ He turns the laptop around, showing you all a dark page. After a few moments, an image fades in of Wally, sketched in red, facing one of Home's windows. Home's large eye shakes, with red seemingly leaking from it. Wally's kneeling down, his left arm outstretched.

🗞️ You can't help but watch and think. Why is Wally kneeling like that? Why is Home watching Wally so intently? Is Wally inside or outside of Home? Why is it so dark? You ask Finn "Was there anything else odd on our blog?" Finn nods "A bunch of out of place letters."

🗞️ Daniel looks around, before saying "I'll check it out. Maybe this could be the work of whoever is sending us this stuff? The letters could mean something. Amy, you continue working on restoring the art. (Y/N), you can manage the guestbook. We can all work together to try to figure out what this all means."

🗞️ Amy tilts her head, before asking "Should we all like... I don't know... pick a set of characters to research? I feel like it would be difficult for any of us to remember so much about every character when we are learning about them through little dribbles of content. We might get confused and mix them up with one another." Daniel thinks about it, before looking over to you. "What do you think about that idea? I don't want to just say yes to it. This is all very interesting, so I don't know if focusing on a couple characters will make some of us feel left out..."

🗞️ You find yourself immediately responding. It is almost as if it were an instinctual reaction. "I will focus on Wally, Home, and Barnaby." Daniel's eyes widen a bit at how blunt and quickly you responded to his question. He slowly nods "Alright... I'll focus on Frank, Howdy, and Eddie..." Amy decides to focus on Julie, Sally, and Poppy. Finn shrugs, saying that he will just stick with the blog, and that any remaining characters you all find out about will fall onto him.

🗞️ You take some of the restored media with you when you go home. It is all about Wally, Home, and/or Barnaby. Your mother seems to have already gone to bed by the time you get to the house.

🗞️ Quietly stepping up the stairs, you enter your room. It's a bit of a mess, due to how you spend all your free time at Finn's house these days. You keep forgetting to clean it. Placing the pile of papers and books onto your desk, you get a text from Daniel. It simply reads, in all capitals, "GO TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD PAGE ON YOUR PHONE."

🗞️ You quickly do so, the unspoken rule between the group being that texts in all capitals conveys an extreme seriousness that must not be ignored. In cases like these, it is the equivalent of STAT.

🗞️ You go to the neighborhood page on the blog. You are shocked to find that every link is messed up, almost as if they were moved upwards. The image of Home, as well, has been moved to reveal a dark void either behind or beneath the red house. Within that void is a small, white spiral.

🗞️ You don't know why, but you feel a chill looking at it. You can't look away, either. It's kind of like it has infected your brain, causing your mind to spiral, as well. Thoughts and questions fill it to the brim. It is so hard to do so, but after a few minutes, you manage to break yourself away from the void, and go to bed.

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 8: Influencers

I want to talk to Rhoda, but I get Chapman.

Sie messages me from the street corner, and I wander over to the edge of my building to look down at hir, where she waves at me.

Then I retreat from the edge and message back, “Come up.”

I do want to talk to hir about a great number of things. Especially just after Ptarmigan’s divination.

So I wait.

Chapman comes up through the building, doing hir usual thing of Artistically hacking the alarms and locks and somehow avoiding notice. And after a little while, the access hatch opens and sie extract hirself from the floor below to stand before me.

It’s a much cooler day than yesterday, and Chapman’s wearing an outfit that looks like a cross between a witch and a clown, just without any significant makeup. Hir purse is a big, black leather crossbody affair with chrome studs and spikes all over it. A floppy wide brim black wool hat hardly conceals hir magenta pompadour. That gives hir sort of a Boy George look.

I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of how Chapman dresses. It makes me inordinately happy and puts me at ease every time I see hir latest outfit.

But I try to cling to some of my irritation and discomfort from the last day and a half, because I have things I want to remember to ask.

But I start with something light and fun that I also want to know about, “How many clothes have you?”

“Oh,” Chapman says with a little grin. “Less than you might think. But that is a question that I try to make my coworkers ask every day, even though I’ve already answered it. I’ve sort of turned my apartment into a walk-in closet, but I cycle through every item several times a year. I just try to make it so that I don’t wear the same outfit twice in that year. Every day is a different combination.”

“Amazing.”

“I’m proud of it! It took me a while to get it down to a routine.”

“Ptarmigan visited,” I report, changing the subject abruptly.

“Ah,” Chapman responds. “May I sit down?”

I smile in my way, and sie settles down cross legged, managing to get hir purple, black, and red skirt to billow out and lay spread out in a circle around hir.

“I wanted to talk to you about Ptarmigan,” Chapman says.

“Good,” I reply.

“I don’t personally know her very well,” Chapman starts off. “Obviously, there are lots of people I know even less about or not at all. But as far as Artists go, I haven’t spent much time around her. Maybe an incarnation or two, but that’s not long enough to really get a sense of someone. And mostly, I know rumors and gossip. Did she tell you her Art?”

“Nightmares,” I say.

“Yeah. I think if she and I were to combine our Arts in a collaborative project, as she’s suggesting, we could create one of the worst storms this world has ever seen. If we wanted to. And I’m not necessarily talking about a weather system, though it might manifest that way.”

“Scary.”

“Yes.”

“Is Säure Artist?” I ask, deliberately trying to keep hir a little off balance.

Chapman sighs and says, “I certainly hope not. With what I’ve seen in the last two weeks, I’m having a hard time convincing myself he’s not a dragon, and we can’t even confirm that. If he’s a dragon and an Artist, that could be a difficult combination to confront. It would also suggest that the clumsy flailing of Equisetum Wildlife in trying to rehome dragons is a much more complex ploy that it looks like.”

“Am I Artist?”

Chapman shakes hir head, “I don’t think so. I could scan you, if you consent, to try to confirm it. But if you are an Artist and you’re hiding your nature, even subconsciously, I wouldn’t be able to tell. Still, I’m not sure which of my siblings you’d be, if you were. Besides the person I’ve gotten to know over the past two weeks, I don’t recognize you at all. Not in that way.”

“Something new?”

Sie squints at me, “Did Ptarmigan suggest that?”

“Someone did.”

“Ah, hm,” Chapman looks down at hir hands, which are in hir lap, fidgeting lightly. “It wouldn’t be unprecedented. During each of the Earth’s mass extinction events, and after, weird shit similar to dragons suddenly emerging, happened. Almost all evidence of such things has failed to make it into the fossil records. At least, not in any way that a human would recognize. There are more than a few such novel beings hiding around the planet. Sleeping, mostly. Sometimes participating in the chaos that is life here. They learn from us Artists and try to keep their work big, broad, and easily dismissable. Which is what we do most of the time. We keep learning that drawing attention to ourselves is a bad idea.” Sie looks off to the North. “Or, at least, some of us do.”

Chapman waits patiently as I type out my next question, “Am I center of dracomorphosis?”

Sie laughs, “I like that word. I don’t know. But if Ptarmigan says you are, she’s probably right and probably not lying. But whether you caused it or are just the locus of the event is the real question, I think.”

I have to say, I’m liking Chapman’s answers today. They feel more honest, more complete. Of course, if sie is an immortal being of unfathomable age like sie says sie is, then sie’s had all the time in the world to perfect the art of misdirection and lying.

And to think, just a couple days ago, I thought sie was just 5 years or so younger than me and there wasn’t much of an age gap. Not that, well, we’d be more than friends or QPPs eventually. And I’m still a little bewildered by my habit of being attracted more to humans (and human-like people) than to other dragons. But it feels inadvisable to develop any sort of intimate relationship with something that is maybe as old as the Earth, if you’re not.

I find myself worried about the power imbalance there.

On the other claw, I am attracted to Chapman still. Maybe even more so. And that’s throwing me for a loop. So I need to be extra careful with myself.

And in my mouth, I’m still chewing on Rhoda’s proclamation and advice, which Chapman definitely heard loud and clear.

We must work toward a state of the world where beings like Chapman and Ptarmigan or letting mortals manage their own affairs.

A very important question occurs to me and I don’t know if Chapman can answer it, but it needs to be asked.

“Are dragons immortal?” I ask.

Chapman rolls back, grabbing hir ankles through hir skirt and looks around, then says, leaning forward again, “As a class of beings, yes. Effectively. You’re so diverse and so archetypal, you’ll continue to exist long after the last species of life on Earth goes extinct, I imagine. But as individuals? That seems like a potentially bad idea, if you reproduce. If you’re immortal and you lay eggs like the stories suggest, you’ll all have to figure out a way to leave the planet one by one as you get older, so as not to crowd everyone else out. So, I’d say, probably not. Unless the Earth has something really nasty in store for all of us.”

“Is dracomorphosis new?”

“Eh, that’s hard to say. We didn’t have a word for dragons until humans coined it. So we didn’t recognize you as such until then. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you all weren’t somehow part of things like the Cambrian explosion, where life suddenly evolved at a rapid pace to fill in empty niches and develop new ones. Like, maybe the first of you were born during those times, as spiritual influences of evolution. And maybe your ancestors did manifest physically, without us noticing it. Life is beautifully complex. It’s easy to miss stuff like that if you don’t know to look for it.”

One more super important question that will give me a sense of who and what I’m working with, I think. I take my time to spell it all out, “Does Fairport matter?”

I waffled on adding “to you” on the end of that, but decided that the broader, more open ended question would get a more telling and honest answer, and…

“Yes,” sie says. “It matters as much as any other city on the planet right now. There’s the whole butterfly effect, which I’m sure you’ve heard about too many times to count, of course. Anything we do here on the front of maintaining and expanding human rights for anybody and everybody, human or dragon, is going to help shape the rest of the world. It’s a battle that must be fought, even if it isn’t a decisive one. But also, you matter, and Rhoda matters, and so do the Kims, Jill, Cerce, and Nathan, and everyone else who comes and goes in this building. You’re alive, for however little that might be, and that’s inherently unfair to you. Life is a cruel, bitter experience unless you work to make it otherwise. And every life that gets to experience safety and joy is important.”

I feel like I want to argue with that last bit, somehow, but I’m not sure in what way. Is it because I want to find a reason to distrust Chapman, or because I just disagree that if only some life finds joy and safety that makes the world better.

For instance, the fact that I was born to experience severe physical dysphoria and be bewildered by it for fifty years before accidentally finding relief, and very few other people were and don’t get that pain and the memory of it, seems inherently unjust in itself. And the fact that I do get the magical relief that I have, and other people don’t, that’s wrong, too. That makes the world worse, in my estimation. 

But before I can figure out how to say that, Chapman continues.

“I think we can trust Ptarmigan to be completely on board with that, by the way. She might be the Artist of Nightmares, but based on the name and presentation she’s chosen for this incarnation, here and now, unless she’s playing a truly nasty game, we can probably follow her lead, to some extent.”

What? I ask, “What?”

“She’s absolutely got her own agenda, and she deals with really nasty shit as her Art, but, I think –”

My tablet buzzes, and we both look at it. It’s a Discord notification. A direct message from Tannis, my neighbor to the East, whom I used to call Loreena.

I feel the shift of Chapman doing a scan, and trust that sie isn’t scanning me. Ptarmigan seemed to think I could only sense when Arts were used on me, but I’m pretty sure I can sense their use in proximity to me as well.

In some stories, dragons can perform magic as well as any human wizard. Sometimes we’re the source of magic. But is Chapman’s Art magic?

“You’ll want to answer that,” sie says.

I huff and open Discord and then touch Tannis’ account icon, labeled with the username siren_of_the_woods.

She wrote, “Five dragons meet at the observation tower of the Fairport Arboretum: myself, Astraia, Joel, Wentin, and Brenna. We humbly request an audience with Your Highness here, at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

At the immediate sight of the phrase “five dragons” I think it’s a trap. A terrifying proposition, in any case. And addressing me as “Your Highness” feels like sarcasm, and I don’t like it. I haven’t yet changed the name of the Discord server, but I’ve made a post in there about how I don’t really think of myself as queen. But Astraia is there, and though I’ve only seen her in person once, I want to think of her as an ally and friend, and…

“Go,” Chapman says. “You will go to this meeting either way, now or a little later, and you need to know what they are up to anyway. Going now is better.”

I look up at hir.

“I’ll message Ptarmigan and we’ll both back you up. We might take a while to get there in person, against your flight. But we don’t need to be to reach you with our Arts,” sie says. “But, I don’t think you’ll need our help there. They’re all members of your server, they’re friendly to you. Focus on that and you won’t feel obliged to fight them.”

I look down at the tablet and hit the thumbs up icon, then shift over to my AAC app and say, “How you know?”

“You felt me scan, right?” sie asks.

“Yes.”

“Near future possibilities. It told me enough to extrapolate that,” Chapman says. “Combined with how much I know about your current situation already, how you manage your instincts, and my experience as an Artist, I’d call it a very well educated guess.”

“Okay.”

“I also wouldn’t doddle any longer talking to me. I’ll see my way out.”

One more question, not actually as out of the blue as it sounds, “Is Salish Raven Artist?”

Chapman sighs, “I don’t know. It’s been known to happen, but this world is gorgeously complex and we’re just a small part of it. Don’t go seeing us where we might not be. But do go. Please. Hurry.”

I turn my tablet off, put it in my purse, and leave.

I hear Chapman call after me, “Take care!”

I’m getting a little tired of things happening, you know?

On the way to the meeting of Southside dragons, I find myself thinking about how I should look up the cultural significance of ptarmigans. The bird. To see if there’s any meaning there that Ptarmigan herself is trying to draw upon, or that maybe she’s created. Chapman just said not to see Artists where they might not be, but I think Ptarmigan might be there.

I also wanted to ask why the two of them seem to fight or argue so easily, but I can imagine either of them replying, “Because we’re siblings.”

There’s never enough time to say everything.

And, I think I’ve said this before, but it always hits me that back when I could talk just like a human, I hardly ever said anything.

What are we going to do at this meeting? Talk? Probably.

But what about Joel? I know he really needs a huge keyboard, or something really creative, to let him talk in any kind of verbal capacity. Yes or no questions work for him just fine, but in a meeting like this? I’d imagine he’d feel left behind and left out all too easily.

Even when I’m given time to be reasonably articulate, that’s how I feel around anyone who talks with their larynx. Especially in a group.

How thought out is this meeting? It seems rushed and possibly desperate. Especially with how I was notified at the last minute.

Oh.

Maybe I’m being called there to solve a problem, such as communicating with Joel.

I hope not. I don’t feel prepared.

But, of course, Tannis didn’t say that’s what they all needed. They wanted “an audience.”

They’re going to tell me something, or ask me something, if it’s not an ambush.

And, for some reason, not on the Discord server.

And that’s about all the time I have to think about this, because I’m already descending to the park clearing where the observation tower is.

And I’m about to meet three of these dragons in person for the first time.

On the north face of the hill that constitutes the Fairport Arboretum, which is a hill covered in trees and trails, there is a paved lot with a log tower in it. It’s not quite at the top of the hill. That space is reserved for a radio array for the college radio station, and probably a couple other purposes.

As I glide in on the mid day thermals, I see them in a circle in the space in front of the tower. And there are some humans standing beside a few of the dragons. Caleb, Astraia’s boyfriend, is there.

There’s also a family huddled at the top of the tower, watching, children half hiding behind their parents.

So it’s not exactly a private meeting. It’s a very public spot, and park goers and students cutting across the arboretum can be expected to stumble upon it at any time.

But, I wonder if the family in the tower were there unexpectedly, or if they’re keeping an eye out for approaching dragons, because they do point at me, and then I see one of them typing into their phone.

Joel is one of the humanless dragons, and he yawps almost cheerfully and backs up well before I come near for my landing.

Astraia greets me with a series of poinks, and I think I can guess who the others are based on conversations in the Discord.

Brenna would be the one accompanied by a light skinned man in a straw hat, graying brown beard, and blond ponytail. Also partners, like Astraia and Caleb, only older and married with kids. Brenna looks like a really big wolf, like the Gmork from the Neverending Story, only with antlers, huge chicken feet, and her fur seems to be downy feathers. Her tail has spikes hidden in the fluff. Many scholars wouldn’t dare call her a dragon, but I know better.

These are all of the type of dragon that’s older than the word itself. The ones that got called dragons by the speakers of the word after their facts. I’m more of a classic renaissance dragon. Or one from modern fantasy. I feel almost fake here. Out of place.

And Tannis, I’m certain, is the one with the head of an eagle, the upper torso of a woman attached to where the neck would go on the body of a bear with bat wings, and a tail that looks like an octopus arm. She also has a human with her. A woman with dark skin and locs, dressed in neon pink and blue athletic gear.

Which leaves Wentin. A dragon with a “W” name that I didn’t give it. I know its pronouns because it had given them and its name on the server. Username eat_you, I’m pretty certain it’s the dragon I had nicknamed Theremin, because it can sound exactly like one. Spooky as shit if it’s the only thing making noise in the middle of the night.

Wentin is without a human and looks like a dire lion with a head that’s just a mix of all sorts of things. Its snout is as long, broad, and bulbous as that of a deinosuchus, but with lips and covered with that lion-like fur. Its eyes are forward facing and lidded, as expressive as any mammal’s, with enough cranium behind them to hold a sizeable brain. But its ears are a classic spiny finned dragon’s ears. And it has a dark brown mane of quills.

Wentin is big. Phenomenally big in comparison to the rest of us. And as I land it grins to show off its shark teeth, then opens its mouth to say, in a whiny, creaky voice, obviously using a syrinx way more expertly than I can, “Hello, Queen Meghan. Welcome to my territory. It is so good to see you in person.”

There’s no way that Wentin could fit in a building or a house. A garage, maybe, if there was no hoard in it. And I’ve no clue what it’s been eating.

I think that if none of the other dragons are fighting with each other right now, it’s because Wentin doesn’t want it. But maybe we’re all actually more reasonable than that, now that we’ve gotten used to ourselves.

I flap my wings a few more times as I stretch my legs on the ground, then settle down in the spot Joel made for me, opposite of Astraia, with Wentin directly to my left. I feel like I could fit neatly into Wentin’s mouth, but I know I’m not quite that small.

“Yes,” I say, and then make to pull out my tablet and put it on the ground in front of me. I press, “Hello.”

Tannis has hands and is holding her phone. I can see bullet scars on her upper torso, and bite scars all over her shoulders, all six of them. Far more healed than I’d expect for such a short time since her fight with Astraia. Like the rest of us, she doesn’t bother to wear clothes.

Astraia’s haunches are definitely doing better, but those huge claw marks, which definitely came from Tannis, don’t look like they’ll ever fade, let alone heal flush with her skin. They’re red, with a thin layer of scar tissued skin growing in them. Astraia seems completely unbothered by them otherwise. A shiny new tablet that’s twice as big as mine is on the ground in front of her, like the way I like to work. She’ll be typing with three of her eight snouts, of course.

Joel’s pretty much how I last left him.

Brenna, who is the second biggest dragon there, sits on her haunches and looks at her partner, Ian. Either she’s the one I named Caterwall, or she’s from outside the range of my morning song.

Ian addresses me to say, “I speak for Brenna. I am her voice here. I’d do the same for Joel if I could, but we don’t have that connection.”

Joel garumphs.

“Joel speaks for himself,” Wentin croaks gleefully.

I look at Joel and he glances at me and twitches his ear.

Yeah. OK.

I feel like my body has short circuited with so many dragons in one place, and with me sitting so close to the monster that is Wentin. All control has been left to the me that rides this crazy thing. I am shaky and unsettled, and yet also so, so calm.

I breathe in as I type, “I am here. Thank you all.” As much politeness as I can muster seems in order, but expedience still reigns. I am starting to really hate it. And now I’m finding myself intensely jealous of Wentin.

With my extra wide field of vision, it’s pretty easy for me to keep an eye on Joel while talking to the others, and so far, besides that ear twitch, he seems fairly relaxed. He’s bothered by his lack of voice, but isn’t showing it.

Astraia speaks, doing her hydra ballet for typing, four eyes on us, four on the screen, a snout to hold the tablet down, and three to speak, “Thank you for coming. We’ve encountered a problem you should know about.”

Tannis completes her thought, “There is at least one dragon who is allied with Säure.”

[bongcipher]

concept art for a human-ish bill cipher, yap session about his design and the art under the cut!!!

this was a very experimental piece, wanted to try and see if i could replicate a painterly style, also attempted to do more textured and dreamy stuff in here. ik its very messy, but i just like getting things done fast. anyways this is supposed to be like a frame in a sequence where bill appears in someones dreams, whoever you think it is is up to you, maybe its ford, maybe its a stranger- who knows!

i have. So Many ideas for a human bill, and i mean SO MANY!!!! if i added all those conceptd to just 1 design it'd just end up being a cluttered mess with ideas lost in translation, not good! i also happened to like a lot of these ideas with some of them branching out to a pretty clear concept. so ive made the decision that he has 3 forms (they also represent diff gender presentations because i wanna project my dreams onto him :,]) that he chooses whenever he feels like it. otherwise ill just recycle some of my unused ideas for specific au designs. <- theres an idea in the back of my head that when bill gets reincarnated into a human for being a good boy in theraprism, he turns into just...the most Average looking person you'd find in oregon. he doesnt look special or unique, he looks very generic, and it hurts him and everyone around him very much.

this bill is the least human out of all of the 3 im planning for, might even make him less human than he appears in here because shaping him like a vaguely human-shaped star seems fun. bills supposed to be very dream-like in here, he's laying under a blanket of clouds and a pillow. bills shape is supposed to be sorta vague in my mind, this blanket of clouds drape him like its his hair and clothes. hes supposed to not have a clear/defining silhouette amongst the clouds because its like a dream, blurry. fun fact: every step he takes he generates clouds, yk how in chinese mythology dragons move by clinging onto clouds? its a lot like that. theres some vague inspo of the dragon characters from one piece because i love that manga too much ksjdiss!!!

this bill is pretty focused in on the dream/god aspect of him, every bill focuses on a different way he presents himself. ones a party host and the other is uhhh something else ill think of, a demon i guess?

[nero1forte]

persona 3 music headcanons

(yay)

i’m taking in the time period the game takes place. (2009-2010ish) also. idk what type of music was popular in japan, so i’m just going off of western music :^)

Makoto

Ok. so i might be projecting a bit on this one, but he listens to early 2000’s emo/grunge/rock music.

A few bands i’m specifically thinking: mcr, deftones (i know im sorry but cmon), green day, maybeee the cure idk

He’ll really listen to anything though. if he doesn’t like something that’s put on he won’t say anything to the person. just. internalize how much he hates it

Makoto also listens to instrumentals. he likes to turn his brain off and do stuff around the dorm or just sit in his room. songs with lyrics sometimes are too overwhelming in those specific instances

Junpei

Junpei definitely listens to bands like Linkin Park and The Offspring. Maybeeee some rap here and there too

“SHAWTYS LIKE A MELODY IN MY HEAD” (thinks of Chidori when he listens to that song)

He def has “concerts” in his room where he blasts his music and sings obnoxiously loud

I feel like he’d also secretly like some pop music, but he’d never admit it

Yukari

She listens to whatever’s popular at the moment but she definitely has some favorite bands/artists

Mainly listens to female artists (P!NK? maybe avril lavigne)

Lovesss pop music and love songs (Junpei teases her for liking love songs and it makes her SO MAD)

Aigis

Aigis doesn’t really care what music is playing. But she has a tendency to… over explain things about the music.

Will give unnecessary info about the artist that is currently playing

She’ll also try to find songs she thinks the others will like based on the stuff they play around her

Shes basically like the DJ thing on spotify

Fuuka

I can see Fuuka liking music with lots of different instruments. But also liking softer songs (idk if she’d listen to this band but my first thought was songs like Never Shout Never makes)

Prefers live recordings and acoustic versions of songs

She usually lets the others pick out music when they’re listening together and generally likes anything (unless it’s super heavy)

Her and Yukari like a lot of the same music. Junpei also tries to get her to listen to more rock

Akihiko

Aki doesn’t really listen to music… He either does things in silence or turns the radio on a random station

He goes to Power Records and buys CDs based on the cover art

If someone plays a song and he likes how it sounds, he’ll awkwardly go up to them and ask them what the song is called

Mitsuru

Mitsuru is a bit hard to place for me. But I feel like she would mainly listen to classical music (on the rare occasions she does listen to music)

She doesn’t have CDs, a radio or an MP3 player. But she definitely has a record player and collects records

Like Fuuka, she’ll usually let the underclassmen pick out music to play and some of the lyrics make her question the things they’re into…

Shinji

Shinji listens to very very very underground stuff. (can’t decide if he would listen to 90s rock or not.)

He tried to show his music to Aki ONE TIME. Aki immediately hated it

No specific bands or songs rlly come to mind

I imagine the stuff he likes is … very hard to listen to :)

He also hates pop music with a passion

Kotone

She’s like a mix of Yukari and Makoto

The type of person to listen to anything… ANYTHING. and most likely enjoy it

Kotone is also one of the only people who actually likes Shinjis obscure ass music

Ken

Ken. Idk.

He seems like the type to not really care about music honestly

Just. Listens to whatever the others put on without much objection

[acolorboom]

Your art is so so pretty, can I ask more about the neglected space AU?

I am so so intrigued if you have anything you wanna share, please just ramble at me :D

Thank you dear anon for the ask! I guess it’s time to explain it??

(Loooong rant below, tw for character death I guess?)

So it all started roughly around the end of 2022, and I at that time decided to re-listen to the song by Imogen Heap, and your guy got INSPIRED.

The song itself is supposed to be from the pov of an abandoned house, and at that time I was watching Tango build Decked Out Two, (specifically the Deepfrost Citadel), and the parallels between the empty halls of the house portrayed in the song with the cold and dark tunnels of DO2 kind of clicked in my head.

And then I saw a post on here (don’t remember who it was from unfortunately) that talked about Jimmy and some other people from (@ the time, Empires s2) accidentally getting stuck in the tunnels of Decked out and Tango helping to guide them through it, falling in love with Jimmy in the process, but the two of them end up going separate ways in the end.

I read the post, and then it resurfaced in my head while I was looping Neglected Space, and it kind of spiraled from there-

So, I started concocting my own version of that idea.

Tango was part of an expedition that has the mission of exploring a system of recently-discovered frozen underground caverns. Unfortunately, due to circumstances, Tango was the only survivor, who was now imprisoned in the tunnels with no way of escaping.

The main events happen after several years of Tango living in the Citadel, and by that point he’s not the same person who entered it. He follows a path of odd footprints that lead him to an injured avian (Jimmy) who it turns out, got in by accident and injured his wings, making him incapable of flying and leaving him stranded.

The two at first have some friction due to Tango’s disheveled appearance and the fact of him not speaking to another person in a very long time, but eventually realize that they kind of need each other to survive, and becoming friends.

One night they are talking while making dinner and Jimmy asks Tango about what happened to him, and Tango tells him everything, from the gradual loss of his friends and contact to the outside world to the sheer loneliness of that place.

Jimmy listens and after gives him a goat horn in case they ever loose each other in the tunnels, along with a feather. Tango doesn’t know what the feather means, but accepts it regardless.

Time passes and eventually Tango is lead by a soul of someone who didn’t survive the Citadel towards a Nether portal. At first Tango hesitates about telling Jimmy about it, due to fearing that they might never see each other again.

Tango, after some thought, decides to tell Jimmy about the portal and the two make plans to escape.

(There’s a kiss in there somewhere fshshsh)

I’m torn between giving this AU a happy or sad ending, one where Tango goes with Jimmy and the other where he stays behind to continue to oversee the tunnels (I’ll decide it eventually lol)

As for Etho, he was part of Tango’s research group and the last to die. He probably dragged away by a ravager while gathering resources and Tango finds his coat later.

Him and Tango had a lot of unspoken feelings towards each other and I’m still figuring out how it will tie into the story. Maybe it’s gonna create conflict between Tango and Jimmy? Hmmm

Anyways that’s all I have so far

Im very bad at keepup with my projects so don’t expect anything major, but enjoy some of the earliest concepts I found :D (circa dec. 2022)

[elvenbeard]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Yes I'm actually doing this on a Wednesday wooo :D

I just went back through all my tags of the last month and man, you guys ;__; <3 I'm not good at keeping up with tumblr atm and I don't have something to share every week, so I think once a month a WIP Wednesday might be a good compromise XD Thank you for all the tags!!

@theviridianbunny @dreamskug @ouroboros-hideout @lokiina @therealnightcity @chevvy-yates tagging you all right back!

So, with that off of my list of works in progress, as is answering all the tag games and quizzes, some projects I'm working on atm:

Writing: Love is stored in the olive jar (WT) - Chapter 13

It's done, but still needs a lot of editing, as it got very heavy on dialogue in the end and I want it all to flow more nicely and make it a bit more scenic XD Too many instances of "she looked up again" or "he paused for a moment/second" xD But I'm getting there! Here's a snippet from the already somewhat polished beginning:

“Alright,” Fuentes said as she finally caught her breath again, “I suggest we cut straight to the chase.” “Yes,” V nodded, “Thank you again for taking the time.” “Of course,” Fuentes nodded, “I have to admit, I have been thinking about you and your case a lot these past days. Even with the limited knowledge I have so far, I still believe I may be able to help. If you are willing now to tell me more about your condition now, of course.” ‘Willing’ wasn’t the word V would use, it was more a necessity at this point. “I will,” he said, “But only if you can provide me with a certain level of security.” Fuentes shifted in her chair slightly and frowned, then she opened one of the drawers of her desk and pulled out a tablet. She turned it on and began to search for something on it while maintaining eye contact with V as best as she managed. “You’ve come here today as my patient. As far as I’m concerned, everything, anything that we discuss, falls under the doctor-patient confidentiality. My contract with the Little China MedCenter binds me to treat your data and information with utmost care and discretion. All data we store is locked away securely, all in accordance with your Trauma Team policy. I can resend you the patient information papers and contracts, although I think most of them you should already have…” “I care less about the MedCenter than about what you personally do with the information I’m going to give you,” V said, and Fuentes stopped her search, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I’m not sure what you’re alluding to,” she said, still polite, but significantly more tense than before. “Nothing,” V shook his head carefully, “This is just not something I tell random strangers on the street… no offense, of course. If I have to play with open cards, I need you to as well.”

In which Vince hates doctors but has to trust one now, boo XD

Writing: Some drabbles :3

Inbetween the longfic I still have some ask prompt drabbles to fill that I'm looking forward to tackling soon! And in a sudden burst of inspiration I wrote out a long although not very serious convo between Vince and Johnny the other day xD I'd love to turn it into a (VP) comic maybe, but I'm not sure yet XD

Art: Nothing new since last time, slowly chipping away at some bigger projects inbetween

VP: Currently no concrete plans for a bigger project

Although I wanna do more "days in the life" for Vince!! And I wanna play around more with some poses though and have a very soft set to share that I gotta edit a bit still ;_; Tomorrow probably!

Also, I'd like to turn the interface thingies from my recent "V as NPC" projects into shareable templates, that is also on my wip/ to-do list! Just wanna gather some in-game reference shots first :D

Modding: 👀👀👀

I'm working on a little something maybe, and I'm so excited :DDD Just gotta relearn how to do Archive XL, it's been half a year xD And I fought MLSetup Builder so fucking hard, but now I know how to edit MLMask Setups, so that's a victory at least XD And I have a base for a very kitschy coat :3

But yes, so much to that so far! See you again in a month or so probably with an ever-growing pile of wips xD But maybe some more writing, maybe some more art, and maybe a finished mod after too long 👀

[archiveikemen]

Morganatic Idol Prologue: Chapter 4

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

My body was unable to move, as though it had turned numb.

(No way… why would Xeno show up somewhere like this?)

Xeno: …

There was not a hint of emotion on his face so perfectly sculpted like a work of art.

(His gaze is so cold. It’s like ice…)

And yet… Xeno’s body was unmistakably warm as he held me.

(He’s like an ice sculpture, yet warm at the same time…)

Cold and warm. … The contradicting feelings enveloped me. I was at a loss for words, and could only stare blankly at him.

??? (Finn): Oi, what are you doing?

Rina: !?

I whipped my head around at the sound of someone’s voice.

Finn, a dancer in exe creed like Xeno, was looking in our direction in shock.

Finn: Oi, oi, are you alright? Why are you carrying so many items?

He asked with an indifferent tone, and someone with a more fancy appearance came out from behind him.

Jace: What’s going on?

Hugh: …

(Now it’s Jace and Hugh…!)

Jace looked at us and grinned.

Jace: Helping a lady is such a kind gesture. It’s rare to see Xeno being this nice towards a lady.

Xeno took his hand away from me, and the warmth gradually faded away as well.

Xeno: … This girl fell towards me on her own.

Jace: Oh? I think I’ve seen you before somewhere.

Rina: Eh, h-huh…?

Finn: Oi, this is not the place for hitting on girls.

Jace: I’m not hitting on her.

Hugh: …

Hugh wore a sleepy look in his eyes, and he was clearly uninterested in the topic. Moreover…

??? (Sakura): You guys shouldn’t wander off like this! Didn’t I say to meet at the carpark’s entrance? Geez.

Ivy: When I saw that all four of you weren’t there, I thought you guys went off somewhere without informing us. *sigh*, I’m glad we found you.

(This is their leader, Ivy! All the members of exe Creed are here…!)

(The other man is Sakura Eito, the chairman of exe Creed’s agency and their producer.)

(I’ve seen their photos while doing my research on them, it’s definitely him.)

Sakura: …

(Hm? I feel like he’s staring at me… am I overthinking?)

Xeno: It’s not as if we’re children…

Finn: We already know where we’re headed to next, it shouldn’t be a problem even if we left first.

Jace: Exactly. It’s the uncles’ faults for being too slow and unable to catch up with us.

Ivy: Uhh, you make it sound as though we’re weak…

Sakura: We don’t have to feel dejected and accept those words, we aren’t at that age yet.

Hugh: Sleepy…

Ivy noticed me staring at them in shock and smiled while apologising for the noise.

Ivy: That’s enough, all of you. People might notice us if we stay here and talk. Let’s leave before we cause unnecessary commotion.

Sakura-san left with the five men.

I came back to my senses and called out to Xeno as he walked away.

Rina: Excuse me!

He turned around and looked at me coldly.

(I need to say something… fast!)

Rina: Um… thank you for saving me earlier.

Xeno: …

He left without saying a word.

(There he goes…)

Meeting super idols in a place like this was like a dream.

(Could today’s guests be exe Creed!?)

…

When I returned to the office, I found out that the guests were indeed exe Creed.

I was then informed that a project plan from my team was selected, and that there would be a presentation later on.

(I heard that their strength is in being self-produced idols, and it’s entirely their decision whether to accept the gigs offered to them.)

(Even so, I never expected them to personally make their way here!)

Mori: What took you so long?! Did you buy the things I told you to? Hand them to me.

Mori-san rushed up to me and swiftly snatched the items out of my hands.

A confident smile formed on her face.

Mori: The presentation to exe Creed is starting. I must succeed in presenting our plan to them!

Watching her walk away with such confidence made my heart sink.

(Mori-san is the project leader, which means that my plan wasn’t selected…)

[meanbossart]

hi. I'm a huge fan of your work. I've been following you since before sad sack even came out. I was around for the very first teasers of it. I am very young... definitely i was too young to be reading sad sack when I was. but I'm an adult now so whatever, harm done. I'm a novelist. you are really one of my greatest artistic inspirations.

I guess my question that I want to say is... how do you finish stories? I have a million started but I always get this horrible voice in my head telling me that it's not worth it to finish, that the next project I do will be better, but I know I'm at the point in my journey where I need to just get something done. how do you do it? do I just need time? do I need to get a little older? do I need to keep failing until I succeed?

thank you so much for everything that you've done, your art brings me so much joy and comfort. many, many times your comics have made me feel like I wasn't alone. please keep doing what you're doing, because I love it, just for me lol.

Hey! This has sat in my inbox for a while i know, to be completely honest it just never feels great to know someone was exposed to my adult work before they should have been, and it can feel like im walking a tenuous line in acknowledging that it happens and not... Doing something about it? Though im not sure what that something would be. I will take your word for it that you are an adult now and as you said, the harm was already done. Im not happy about it but nothing can be done about it now i guess.

I do sincerely appreciate your kind words about mine and Nick's work and I'm glad it's brought you joy, and i hope you were always able to enjoy it with a critical eye too.

As for your question, there is truly no easy answer there or A to B guide that will get you past this hurdle - some people work on years and years on the same thing before releasing it, other's just pump their first work to get it out of the way and while it may not be great, at least its done. Regardless, once you get one thing finished, you will come to realize that its easy to finish others, too. I think regardless of what you do though, you will never look back on your very first work and be happy with it, so its my personal opinion that while you should do your best, you should make peace with the fact that it will not be your best, and that's okay.

As for what I would personally do? Pick something, something short, and something fresh, dont start with that massive story you've been workshopping for 15 years. Start with something you can whip up in a year at the VERY most, something you are currently passionate about, something that interests you right this second. Draft it as quick as you can so you know how it starts and how it ends, and then set yourself up with a schedule to finish it - you don't have to abide by it 100%, but if you give yourself all the time in the world to work on it, you might end up taking up your own offer. If you have a deadline, even if made up, you will have to force yourself to move on when you come across something you aren't entirely happy with instead of becoming stuck on it for days, frustrated, and then proceeding to abandon it as you might have done before. I repeat - you will never be entirely happy with how your first work turns out. So focus on being passionate, proud, and absolutely committed to making it happen at all, instead.

I hope this has helped you at all, im both sorry that you ended up looking at our nasty stuff before you should have and also, again, genuinely glad you find inspiration in it now as a grown person. I wish you the best of luck in your journey as a creator!

[purplekoop]

I think I should be transparent about the state of where I'm at with my personal projects that I've been sharing on this blog so far.

First off my computer situation is still unchanged, mostly because of scheduling issues being a constant blockade. It can still safely function enough to type in my notes docs or on tumblr, but the big thing is that it can't run games. This is kind of an issue when my most used tag is for a game I play on PC.

Which leads to the big point: I haven't exactly been in an Overwatch mood lately, both because I can't actually play it and because the recent news about the state of its dev team is some of the most disheartening in this game's extremely tumultuous history. It's hard to be excited about a game you can't play, and it's extremely hard to be excited about a game where you're not even sure if there's enough people still employed working on it to keep it going forward. Somehow I still don't outright detest the game or anything close to that, but it's not been too frequent in my thoughts lately.

Obviously, this hurts my enthusiasm to work more on the AU based directly on the game itself, but also doesn't help inspire me to work as much on War Bots, my original team shooter project based heavily on Overwatch. I realize that between the two the former is more popular (fanbase of like 6 vs a fanbase of like 2), but still. My personal interest in these is at a low, more so unfortunately for Role Requeue than War Bots. This is somewhat normal for me, I cycle between interests pretty consistently, with my last Overwatch/War Bots kick lasting a bit long all things considered without much going to my other personal projects.

speaking of, I can at least mention the two of those I've been lending some brain juices to

The first is Renegades, a teen superhero team story that I hope to turn into a webcomic series one day. There's really not anything to it that I can say as a super unique pitch, I just wanna make my own superhero story because I think they're neat.

Slightly more zesty is Darkworld Showdown, a platform fighter idea with a "spooky/monster/creature" theme inspired by Darkstalkers and Skullgirls. This one has been on brain hiatus for longer since the friend who sort of became the "second in command" on the project has been radio silent for almost a year, but I've been back in touch with them recently so I'm hoping to get back into it more and give another pass on the roster and mechanics to hopefully refine it into something both more realistic to make and more interesting than just another indie platform fighter. I have some character designs floating around on Art Fight already but most of the cast needs an update badly, it's been a while for almost all of them and even some of the public stuff is rough from how old it is.

I may be posting more about these if there's any interest, but I mostly just wanted to explain where my head's been at lately, especially if you mostly expect Overwatch stuff from me. Not gonna try and beat myself up for it or anything, but wanted to mention it anyways. I think at least in my little circle that the Overwatch burnout is apparent so this might not be as big of a shocker as I'm fearing, but uh... yeah not sure how to end this one.

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Validation"

Valanice hadn’t made any more forts under the table, so far as Number One knew. But somehow that one night when he’s stumbled across her, hiding under the tablecloth, had changed the conversation between him and the queen. On the plus side, she didn’t seem to be daunted by him anymore, and was willing to ask him to do all the normal things related to his duties as captain. And he in his turn had come to know better what to expect from her, how to anticipate her needs. But on the downside, that night had somehow turned him into a confidant for her creative woes.

Tonight Valanice had asked him to make sure that the backstair door was locked, as she had heard it swinging in the wind last night. But before he could see to it, she turned her back on him to stare out the window and muttered, “Can I gripe at you little?”

Oh, here we go. “Certainly, madam.”

Valanice leaned her head against the side of the casement and said carefully, “Would you ever… well, not you obviously. Let me start again. Do you think it’s all right to make art just so you can make opportunities to interact with others? Well, not just so you can do that. I mean, what if you love art, and you love making it – mostly – but what really pushes you to actually sit down and make it is the fact that other people might, um, say something about it?”

But why had she settled on him, possibly the least qualified person in the castle for such a topic? “You mean, is it acceptable to make art for the praise?”

“Yes. No. More like, you really hope people will enjoy it, and your imaginations will bring you together for a little while. But, um, also yes. They might say something nice, and it’ll be like magical fruit. It’ll just make you come alive, and you’ll remember it during the hard times. So yes, chasing praise, I suppose.” She turned around, crossing her arms and staring up into the rafters as though she believed Number One were hiding somewhere up there instead of standing at attention a few feet away from her. “And yet, not. It’s like a language. Like there are some parts of us that don’t talk unless they’re speaking art. And if other people like to make art too, it’s like making sandcastles on the same beach. Maybe there’s a rightness to it that takes away the selfish side of it? But then again, you don’t want to turn the people in your life into “people I hope will compliment me.” And you don’t want to turn your art to just be something you put out there so people will puff you up with praise.”

Number One cleared his throat. “With all due respect for philosophy, is it possible it’s been winter too long, and your friends have been stuck at home with the flu too long as well?”

She looked appalled, then blushed, then laughed, then went back to frowning. “Possibly.” She said very softly.

“I’ll say it again!” rang the king’s voice from the next room. “Art is about people! People are the best reason to make art!”

Valanice rolled her eyes. “I know, Graham! But making art for people is different than making art for what people will say, and sometimes it’s so hard to tell the difference!” She turned to Number One, as though expecting him to chime in.

“You’ve heard my take, madam,” he said stubbornly. “Winter, flu. Overthinking.”

“People are a good enough reason to do anything!” cried Graham, sticking his head round the corner. “You’ll never have a perfect reason to make art, or start a new project, or go adventuring. So people just has to be a good enough reason, if that’s what you’ve got. Am I right, Number One?”

Enough. “If you’ll excuse me, sire, I have a backstair door to lock, and then I have an urgent call to pay at the Fey bakery.”

Valanice tilted her head to the side. “But they’re closed. They’ve got the flu. If you go there, you’ll catch it!”

“Preferable,” he said. “At least I won’t be expected to discuss philosophy.”

As he exited, he heard Valanice whisper excitedly to Graham, “He did it! He did it! He snarked at me!”

As he gained distance, he could barely hear Graham’s reply. “Told you he’d start warming up to you soon.”