#talking assets

[chromaji]

i love when i get character design ideas just before going to bed or in my dreams like HELL YEAH this one’s getting added to one of the later asset packs

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Dungeon Meshi: The RPG

[turtleblogatlast]

Big Mama must have lost some serious standing in the yokai underworld because it’s gotten apparent that she keeps being beaten by a small group of teenagers and the occasional rat man, and when it’s not them then she’s taking L’s from her own schemes working against her.

And in the ensuing power vacuum, the Hamatos accidentally become the most feared crime family known to all the big bads of the Hidden City.

After all, they’ve publicly outplayed Big Mama multiple times, a couple of them have taken out the heads of two of the most well known criminal organizations, one took out Heinous Green, two are responsible for the destruction of Witch Town, they have ties to both the infamous Baron Draxum and Captain Piel, they won the Doom Dome death race, they’re Battle Nexus Champions, they’ve displayed insane feats of power and defeated impossibly strong enemies, most of them have been to jail, and they regularly mingle with humans.

You can just imagine the notoriety they’d accumulate from word of mouth alone.

[killjoy-prince]

This is them to me

[kristalijah]

HE'S CHECKING OUT GARY!!!! I REPEAT, HE'S CHECKING OUT GARY!!!!

[ostrichmonkey-games]

I love talking about Game Feel in ttrpgs because

what even is Game Feel in ttrpgs.

Like, in video games game feel is a thing and you can point to specific elements of the animation, or feedback, or musical cues, etc etc.

But it is much more, amorphous, in ttrpgs because every table is going to be different. I can point to a mechanic and say it doesn't have enough chew or texture or that Game Feel is off, and just kind of shrug wildly when trying to pinpoint why lol.

Regardless, I think you gotta think about Game Feel in your games lmaoo.

[kendallsroyco]

Marvel Netflix execs said Defenders need to have something to boost viewership...

...all they had was a smedium NYPD shirt, a hot man, and a dream

I love the fact that this tweet (from the DD costume designer) does imply she intentionally chose to give Charlie a tight shirt...thank you for your service Ma'am 🫡

[ultimatedirk]

for people interested in what brushes and assets I use on clip studio paint here's a fun visual for you !!

enjoy :]

[dailyloopdeloop]

DAY 54: my two partners. and yes, they smoke weed

[grouper]

thinking about the implications of THIS THING

long post, just exploring the question of what changes turbo made to his own code to become king candy.

in this scene, king candy moves the "medal" asset from the trophy pot to his own node. when he does so, it materializes and appears around his neck.

if that implies that every asset within his node acts upon his code in some way, we can quantify the changes he's made. each asset represents a change. over 15 years, he's accumulated this many modifications, integrated this many assets into his own code. since the "medal" asset's symbol associates directly with the physical medal object, it can be assumed that each symbol also accounts for a physical object*.

in this close up, we're offered a glimpse into what assets he's integrated into his node. we see:

assorted candy symbols. visible in the image are jawbreakers, wafer cookies, pastries, candy canes, cookies, ice cream cones, lollipops, chocolate chip cookies, and slices of cake. not going to attempt to count these, as i believe they function as space filler on the part of the animators. attention to detail can only go so far, even in a wonderfully detailed movie like WIR. conversely, we could interpret the assorted candy symbols as Turbo filling his node with random junk. you decide!

NINE cups. they are of course stylized and simplified, but their distinctive shape belongs to glasses used for brandy, sherry, or liqueur. out of all the symbols in the image, they occur most often. their placement close to the action front and center in the frame further highlights their importance. Alcoholic!Turbo is canon!

four symbols (demarcated with a question mark),which look like.... puppies. four visible here. the animators decided he needed 4 puppies.

and 2 race cart symbols (circled). pretty self explanatory, but still a cool and thoughtful addition. it would make sense that he'd want multiple race carts!

*it isn't depicted here, but i'd assume some of the assets would also have to do with his physical appearance, since each node is supposed to be a representation of the raw data of the game. not to mention, the "medal" node was not originally from Sugar Rush, it was from Hero's Duty. that means external assets can be integrated into his node. it's also explained in the movie that things like programmed memories can be affected by modifying nodes. altogether, we are given the sense that pretty much anything can be changed or added via the game's code.

what else did turbo add to his program? what did he change? what did he lose?

[samodivaa]

Winter Soldier x Asset!Reader You just returned from a mission—you provoke him, but the tension flicks from anger to fevered desire.

Warnings - smut, smut, he hasn't felt arousal for a long time ;)

Words - 2500

❆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❆⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❆

Soldat wraps himself in anger, with a dash of annoyance, and at the bottom of it all is an icy center of pure horror—the intensity of this forgotten sensation, not bloodlust—it is pure human lust—his metal hand tightens around your neck.

"I'm sorry. Please, let me go now, please" but the trickling sounds of your pleas makes him feel thirsty for more.

It is not lust or infatuation—this is intoxication, a craven’s craving he can't explain nor control. He looks at your eyes—dainty blend of colors, lips are rosebuds, cheeks have the color of flamboyant flowers. You are Summer, he is Winter.

"Again"

"What-t?" Your voice is bewildering, and yet mysteriously beautiful.

"Beg. Again."

You poorly try to hide your shock. This is an unprecedented turn of events. The programmed machine inside you wants to block that, to scream for help, and the human inside you wants more.

"Please, please, Soldat"

"Fuck…" he mutters.

His eyes are nearly black, the pupils dilated as he pulls away and moves backwards. Winter stays still, but you see a tremor pass through him—as if he is waging a war with himself.

Hydra always plays with his mind, lies to him, but lust is what it is, it never lies—it is real and he feels it, but his apparatus is so rusted that he doesn’t understand what is happening fully.

And it is not only the faculty of love, lust which were sterilized, but also the faculty of imagination—he never imagined that he would do something like that. Now, he involves his mind in the abuse of imagination in erotic matters—fires of lust spring up for the first time and he groans like some baffled prowling beast.

“What is it, Winter?”

He wants to sin with you, to force you to sin with him and to exult with you in sin.

“Soldat?”

He feels the lust’s presence moving irresistibly upon him, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself.

“I need to touch you, I need—”

A litany. An enchantment. A curse.

He explores you from a distance as he makes several steps backwaters, with his unspoken desire, with the fear that touching you would set him to flame. And you want nothing more in that moment than to prove very much the opposite.

“Do it then”

It's enough for Winter, to hear the soothing whisper of comforting words countering the panic and the frostiness of darkness in his soul.

At that, he makes a harsh, low sound. His eyes exude insinuation and you know it.

You are both alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness, he starts to transfigure—by his monstrous way of life, this seems—beyond the limits of reality.

He tries to bid his tongue so that he might seem at ease, watching you as you shamelessly undo your dirty cargo pants and shirt.

As he stands silent, watching you undress—you are breathtakingly beautiful as you stand there in the dark, the dim lights letting your skin look ghostly pale. When you make steps towards him, he instinctively tries to make several steps backward, but the wall behind prevents it.

You come over to him and you embrace him gaily and gravely, arms holding him firmly by the waist, his eyes couldn't help, but move down at your cleavage, exposing the flawless skin—dozens of inappropriate thoughts suddenly rushes through his head when you let out a small sigh of frustration.

Seeing his face lifts to yours—serious as he feels the warm, calm rise and fall of your breast.

“Samodiva—”

You suddenly kiss Soldat, his head tilting to meet your mouth, lips warm and mobile as they play against his own in a medley of light brushes and soft nibbles. The kiss lingers, each tantalizing caress is his answer which he is too afraid to say out loud. Gentle, but your kiss becomes deliberately seductive. Settling on his lower lip, you draw it into your mouth and suck at it softly, lips, tongue and teeth working in sensuous harmony as his cock jolts to life and you move your hips closer, framing the hardness.

It is too much for him.

He closes his eyes, surrendering himself to you, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of both your hands and softly parting lips—his flesh shrinking from what it dreads and responds to the stimulus of your touch, his long forgotten sexual needs—purely a reflex action of the nervous system.

You catch yourself staring at the sensual curve of his lips, the impressive cut of his jaw, devouring every part of him with eyes.

And then, weakness, confusion and inexperience fall from him in that moment—your eyes bright with brutish joy meets his—ferocity burns in his gaze promising something primal—your soul shriveled up as he snatches you up around the waist and sits you on the metal table nearby.

You are in his hands—you have to comply.

It is the impatience of the way he tears your panties and bra from your body that really scares you: the lust getting the better of him and you spread your legs wide, exposing your overall and the fragrance of the essences permits in the air, he can smell it.

Reaching out, he grabs your chin

“Have you done this with the others?”

His human fingers dig into the skin, forcing a whimper from your parted lips.

Holding you in place, he awaits for a response

“Yes-s” your voice is quiet, almost lost in the helpless darkness of his presence.

Soldat haltes, blue eyes frosting.

He slams his metal fist down on the table

“I forbid you” he whispers before running the tip of his tongue along your neck, tasting the sweat that has just formed.

There is a stubbornness about you that never can bear to be frightened at the will of the Winter Soldier. Your courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate you, but this time you feel helpless as fear spreads to every part of the body.

The unmistakable flare of jealousy narrows his eyes—there is that infamous control of his hovering on the edge, balancing precariously on the point of a knife, it makes your breath hitch. 

The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He relishes that delicious feeling of freedom, the delirium of being human, his flesh is being born again.

This demon is made for you—his dark eyes and possessiveness have you hooked, his darkness frightens, soothes, but now that darkness is lustful—half god, half hell.

Soldat is a wraithlike observer most of his life, but he takes control for the first time and there is a theatrical quality about all this—he is irreparably damaged, but with your scent filling his nostrils there seems to be a some primitive male instinct as his throat tighten with a hunger he never experienced before—it draws him in deeply, imagining that was how hot sex smells.

“Ти си моя” he says low and quiet and as vicious—his fingers, caressing your tights simultaneously, spreading them further apart.

You feel your heart beat faster, your face flush, and your ire rise, you avoid his cold stare, reeling at his words—you are mine—his hands gripping your hair firmly in a show of dominance, making you face him before Soldat quickly delves into a deep and possessive kiss, his lips are full and warm, soft against yours, but the kiss is hard and desperate.

"If Springtime crawls out of the wild mouths of flowers, then surely, Winter crawls out of mine."

He smirks against your lips when you can't hide your moans, your hands slowly snaking their way around his shoulders, pulling him closer, the intrusive need to be consumed by him.

“Be quiet”

He huffs nonchalantly, stalking closer to lick at the crook of your neck as he runs his hands along your sides, the flesh one stopping just below your breasts—but the metal one flicks your nipple with his thumb as he passes it. He rubs in a slow circular motion as he observes your reactions.

You don’t know when he moves his human hand, but his fingers down to your burning sex, separating your folds and running a thick finger over the slit. He could smell your arousal and knows he needs a taste of you—a groan tears out of his throat.

“Be quiet” you want to mock his own words, but you breathe out heavily and hard as you say them.

You thought he would have a clever reply — something to win, something to shut you up.

In a way, you guess he did.

Your hands tighten on his biceps as he inserts a second finger, your fingernails scrape into him, and the slight pain is pleasurable, knowing he is one giving you pleasure—hypnotized by your velvety moans—you are panting, mouth watering.

You keep your eyes open for as long as you can, hoping that your brainwashed, imperfect memory would capture even just half as much as his.

It suddenly occurred to him he doesn’t know your real name, he wants to call you something.

“Snezinka” His voice is deep and guttural, the word rumbling and vibrating against your neck. It caresses your skin almost sensually

“My snezinka” (snowflake) drawls in a voice too playful for the fear flooding your veins.

You moan quietly again, eyes finally fluttering close as he twists his hand just so, delving two fingers deep within your wet folds below and curling them.

You can feel him: his breath coming down on your neck in heavy, hungry pants, his fingers drawing out teasingly and forcing your hips to buck at the motion. With a hum of pleasure, he lets his fingers slide almost all the way out and his throat tightens at the feel of your channel bearing down, trying to hold on to him as he withdraws completely.

Winter reaches between your bodies and begins to unbuckle his pants. His breathing comes in louder and harder as he tries to control his emotions and movements.

His palm runs along his hardened length, stroking himself slowly—

You suddenly pull him by the straps of his harness and he needs to brace himself using the table on both sides of your body—he grunts at your aggressiveness and strength.

A tentative smile on his lips.

“Snezinka…I was not going anywhere” he taunts and presses his lips to yours.

He looks at you with a vicious smirk, as if he’d won something.

In a way, he supposes he has.

His husky voice reaches a playful tone he hadn't touched on in years, decades—he doesn’t know.

Winter holds his cock by the base of it, running the tip up and down your pussy, making sure to linger around your clit.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, your vocal chords struggle to produce words, but your lips simply move in silence, your hands winding through his hair. You wrap your legs, quivering from fear, sexual yearn at a height you never before felt, around his waist, pulling him to you as he poses and you whine, his head creeping in first before his whole penis is engulfed into your wet sex, your pussy stretching around him, he keeps his descent slow and torturous.

Painfully sweet, he moans—

feeling him impale you onto his cock, stilling in you for a moment so you could feel just how deep he is—enjoying how the metal hand grips your waist tightly.

You are not soft or feminine; you are a hard-edged and cold brainwashed machine, crowned in razor wire of hate. For him, you have always been a flower—he takes your thorns as a challenge. Winter will have you scorch with the savagery of his cruel passions and needs—until you are conditioned to bloom in his flames.

He groans, fucking into you harder now, the head of his cock hitting your cervix as your eyes, water up at the sensation of being so stuffed as he gives you more and more—him fuckin you like that flips your brain inside out and turns your cunt to pudding.

Winter leans near your ear, holding your jaw still, with flesh digits, as he speaks.

“Talk to me, snezinka, how do you feel?” he grunts and you shudder, lips pucker from the grip he has on you as you try to speak.

Gasping for breath, you writhe mindlessly in his grasp, only to find yourself easily restrained—all you can do is tighten your legs around him, trying to usher him to fuck you again.

You are annoyed at his cockyness   

That's why you sink your nails into his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase against the fabric, then fisting one hand in his hair. You pull hard on the wet locks, gasping when your violence earns you a particularly hard slam of his hips.

Sin is a lustful state—he actually likes it.

“Do it again” he commands—thrusts grow jerky.

You tug his hair again.

“Солдат-” (Soldat)

And that’s all he needs to hear before he starts ravaging what you’ve just called him—pounding into you, setting an unrelenting pace, clutching him hard as the pleasure spirals up and up.

He hisses, teeth gritting with the sole purpose of making you cum before he does.

The force of his thrusts is making the table quake, but your quiet moans of approval are so satisfying he keeps at it and you starts clenching around him—deliberately massaging his cock, orgasming wordlessly as he continues to fuck you right through it.

He hides his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent sharply as he keeps rutting hard inside of you—your cunt convulsing around him, trying to milk his cock, is making his thrusts sloppy—several incoherent thrusts lead him to come inside, a roar rumbling in his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, and you sink into his chest, marveling at how easy this feels. You both don't accept touch easily, but with him, it seems natural.

Your newfound foundation is rocky, because you make a home in each other’s skin and memory—the damage is beginning to show. You are ready to self-destruct, there is very little left to kill anyway—which makes this tragedy less and more much, much more worse.

What actually led to this situation?

You always help each other undress after the missions, but this time your mind wanderers as you remove the small glove from his metal hand—flashing between images of various memories of killed people and imagined scenarios, you wouldn't have thought of outside of this hazy consciousness—but

Wanting makes the mind restless

He blinks at you, eyes looking perfectly indifferent—and yet, delight in yours; the moment you develop an idea is the exact moment you execute it—you give the hand a squeeze before the chemical desire to taste it overpowers everything in both your mind and body and you bring the fingers to your mouth, dipping two inside

His metal hand is an erotic necessity

—you feverishly lick, drenching them in your saliva, moving your tongue along his fingers all the while.

He suddenly moves, grabbing you by the neck hardly, demanding an explanation.

[chromaji]

WE’RE MAKING JT OUT OF THE PLANNING PHASE WITH THIS ONE 🔥🔥🔥(<- finalized what will be included in a character’s asset)

[ryuubff]

when your first impression on the carpenter's hot son goes wrong just yell "plot twist!" and move on ✩

yeah no jia didn't really give seb a good impression upon first meeting eachother ... it took sebastian a good while to warm up to them because of this (ill draw it... evnetually)

this is based off my gameplay when first encountering sebastian 😭😭 i didnt know you need 2 hearts w a villager to enter ur room (he wasn't there atp) and when i tried to leave he was blocking the way so i just stood there... until he had the "..." speech bubble and ran past me it was SO EMBARRASSING

this is their current impressions of eachother! maybe when i post more comics i'll update it !!

close ups below the cut as always sorry for a super duper long post LOL

face cards......

this is so can we pretend airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars i could really use a wish right now wish right now wish right now

[yuesya]

The Pier Point Shopping Street is always a bustling hub of activity. As a well-known landmark of Pier Point and an attraction for visitors to the IPC’s seat of power, the shops lining the sprawling commercial district truly live up to the reputation of being a dazzling center of wealth. Food, drinks, clothing. Entertainment at its finest –and everything in-between.

There have been many who’ve lost themselves to the glamour of these gilded streets, luxuriating in the allure of satisfaction and gratification stacked upon gleaming credits.

The young Halovian girl sitting across the table from him in the high-class restaurant does not lack for wealth. Nonetheless, she is not one to consciously indulge in materialistic desires… save for her love of sharp weaponry, perhaps.

Aventurine smiles. “It’s been awhile hasn’t it, Lyra?”

Soft white hair, wide blue eyes. Contrary to her soft and seemingly-harmless appearance, though, Lyra of the Oak Family is anything but harmless. Aventurine would know, considering the manner in which they met each other for the first time.

“It’s been awhile,” Lyra agrees. Then, “Is there something wrong?”

“Wow, it’s always straight to the point with you, isn’t it?” Aventurine blinks, and laughs. Something inside his chest sinks helplessly at the girl’s immediate perceptiveness –for all her awkwardness navigating social niceties, Lyra could also be shockingly observant at the same time. “… What gave me away?”

His voice is careless, flippant. Teasing, the way it would be for a light joke. Aventurine maintains the expression of a smile unwaveringly.

Lyra shrugs, a non-response that Aventurine somehow finds himself automatically understanding anyways. Just a feeling. You don’t make a habit of inviting me to Pier Point.

Aventurine lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Can’t hide anything from you, can I?” He straightens, and bats his eyes winsomely. “Y’know, if you ever stepped inside a casino someday, I bet you could–”

“My brother says no,” Lyra responds without batting an eye, and frowns lightly. “… Aventurine, what is this about, really? Do you need me to kill someone?”

This girl. The blond man huffs, wondering what it says about his own mental state that he actually feels a surge of fondness at this offer from her.

“We’ve got to talk about your habit of spontaneously offering to kill things for people at the drop of a hat,” he tells her. “Have you tried buying presents instead?”

Lyra tilts her head, wings fluttering in accompanying confusion with the motion. “… But I don’t offer to kill for just anyone?”

“… No, I don’t need you to kill anyone for me,” Aventurine sighs. For someone who could be so astonishingly perceptive, she could also be very obtuse. “It’s rather the opposite, really.”

Lyra stills, making the connection in a heartbeat. “There’s someone you don’t want me to kill?”

“Oswaldo Schneider,” Aventurine confirms, continuing to carefully maintain his perfectly pleasant smile.

Lyra takes one look at him and frowns anyways. Then, proving that she truly does know Aventurine a little too well to be good for either of them, “This is an order from the IPC?”

It is.

Aventurine holds no love for Oswaldo Schneider. Even putting aside the bad blood between their respective departments within the IPC… the man had been involved in the negotiations that had taken place on Sigonia-IV, which eventually led to what was now known as the Katica-Avgin Extinction Event. And Aventurine –as far as he knew– was the only survivor from that hell, a young boy who’d been captured by slavers and sold to the highest bidder.

Now… now, he was a slave to the IPC. Which wasn’t so bad, sometimes; nowadays, Aventurine was rich enough to never want for any materialistic goods again. But this did not change the fact that the IPC owned him.

The IPC wanted Oswaldo Schneider to live, and the IPC also knew that Aventurine was friends with the girl who’d nearly killed their rising head of the Marketing Development Department. The next course of action, then, was obvious.

Negotiate. Convince her to stand down.

Diamond had been the one to pass on the orders to him. An additional deal had also been brokered between the Marketing Development and Strategic Investment Departments, and there was a certain sense of vindication in seeing Oswaldo depart from Pier Point for ‘business’ just as Lyra arrived. Vindication… and also frustration.

But, this isn’t something that Aventurine can involve Lyra in.

(… ‘Can’t,’ or ‘won’t?’)

“One of Oswaldo Schneider’s ‘projects’ nearly resulted in my sister being killed by a stray bullet to the throat,” Lyra says eventually, blue eyes focused unerringly on Aventurine. “… I won’t go out of my way to hunt him down. But if I come across him, then don’t expect me to show mercy.”

That’s a lifetime ban from Penacony for Oswaldo, then.

“The higher ups should accept that,” Aventurine nods. “And what do you want in exchange for it?”

The look that Lyra gives him is one of uncomprehending confusion. Inwardly, Aventurine despairs.

“… If it were any other executive sitting in front of you right now, you would’ve very well walked away from this meeting with nothing.”

Lyra’s expression flattens into something unimpressed. “I’m not dealing with the IPC. I only agreed because you’re asking me.”

“And I’m negotiating on behalf of the IPC,” Aventurine reminds her.

“So the agreement stands in place only as long as you do not change your mind, regardless of what the IPC thinks,” Lyra shrugs. As if it’s nothing, the power and influence that she’s handing over to him so easily with this one act –if Aventurine is the one with the final say, then that’s another chip in his hands. Another card up his sleeve. Another point for him to gamble with, and Aventurine is nothing if not a consummate gambler.

“… So again I ask you, what do you want for it?”

Nothing in this world comes for free. No one does anything for no reason.

Lyra blinks, raising a finger to tap at her chin in thought. Aventurine studies her carefully.

“… I want dinner,” she finally says. “I’m hungry.”

…

Aventurine is no stranger to taking gambles. But when it comes to Lyra…

All, or nothing.

(… Which one is it? Really, which one is it?)

[ganondoodle]

i feel like i keep coming back to think about gamedev bc, besides games just being cool as fuck, it feels like that would be so much more rewarding if it works out; i know its alot harder than the comic work i do, but i also feel like the pay off, if it does, would be so much more

its alot to risk and alot to learn, but games have the chance to last alot longer than a comic .. right? not trying to make my previous work seem worse than it is, but its still just a comic with a simple story, theres nothing mindblowing about it and once you read it its read, a game you can keep playing with, actually interact with..

[myreygn]

i think what really solidifies soukoku's power imbalance to me is that dazai in his most powerful state is an invincible puppet master and chuuya in his most powerful state will only survive if dazai wants him to.