#vary my strokes and just not over working a painting?

[lemon-wedges]

Some process gifs of my paintings this year!

[amazinglyashy]

My love, put Aphrodite to shame.

Read on Ao3 Pairings: Rafayel x Reader Summary: Trying to help Rafayel by posing in lingerie for him for his next work, things take a turn for the hot and heady. Maybe you should try nude modelling instead? Either way, his painting won't be finished until he is first- Tags: N/SFW, Unprotected, P in V, BJs, Vanilla Notes: Paint me like one of your Lemurian girls ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ Wordcount: 3,808

"Like this?" You ask, moving just slightly, per Rafayel's earlier instructions. You had been pulled into posing for him, a long day of him begging you to be his muse for his latest work had cumulated into you standing barefoot on the marble at MoArt studio, trying your best to model for someone with such high expectations, you had seen Thomas tug at his own hair repeatedly in the past. 

So far, that hadn't been the case tonight.

The first glimpses of moonlight filter through the faint breath of lace that curtained the windows of Rafayel's studio, casting a faint blue haze throughout the room and tinting everything it touched with a silver glow. You stood a moment away, centered in the room and rays of the moon's glow in white lingerie. It hugged the swell of your hips delicately, the lace designs floral, with the straps of the set etched with the smallest pearls. The rest of the fabric is sheer, with the flowers covering anything more seductive than just your normal flesh.

You were dressed intoxicatedly sensual, the straps of your panties placed high on your hips, your chest filling the matching bra beautifully. If a goddess came down from the heavens tonight and stood in a room with you and a varied audience, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the mere mortal and the divine.

And that had been the goal- the idea having plagued the deepest corners of Rafayel's mind for the last week and a half. The potently sensual image of you before him was everything he had imagined in a possible muse, every bit of perfect he had always known you to be.

"That's it..." He breathed. "Raise your head, cutie, just slightly. Yeah, just like that."

You raised your chin, your head now held high under both his gaze and the dim light of the moon. He had lit some candles as well, but made sure that they were peppered throughout the room at a distance, wanting the slight dots of warmth to not overpower the vision he had created in his mind.

He concentrated, his brush gliding down the canvas in long strokes as he began to put the beginning colors down. He didn't want you standing forever, but he needed you there long enough to capture the image in his mind. At the very least, until it was time to focus on the more important details and additions.

You could feel the warmth in your cheeks grow. This wasn't the first time he had painted you, but it was definitely the first time it was being done so seriously. You were used to charcoal on paper, etching the most prominent features of your face that Rafayel admired. You were used to broken down figure sketches, the most basic shapes making the outline of your body as you sat on his lounge and read a report.

This was... new.

It wasn't bad though, you hoped he wouldn't get you wrong if he asked you. You were enjoying yourself, albeit you were a bit chilly, standing in just a lingerie set near the open windows. The breeze kept wafting in, and being so close to the seaside meant the evening air was particularly biting. Goosebumps ghosted over the skin of your arms, as you tried to keep the blush that was forming across your cheeks at bay.

"Step just slightly closer, cutie." He murmured, and you moved barely a step towards him and the canvas, his gaze scrutinizing as he decided whether or not it was what he was looking for. His fingers flickered, beckoning you forward another step. You obliged, your heart pounding.

The extra step had brought you within an arm's reach of Rafayel and his easel, and it felt like the cool chill of the night was melting away the closer you got to him. The goosebumps remained, however, for a different reason. You were close enough that you could smell the remnants of the cologne he had applied this morning, mixed with the salt of the air surrounding you.

His eyes flickered away from the canvas to glance at you, and you ducked your gaze on impulse. He tried to keep the twitch of a smirk from appearing on his lips, but he couldn't help it. His eyes roamed over you, drinking in the person before him and the beauty that she had to offer him. He had been right in buying you that specific set- it fit you like a glove, and the way it hugged even the slightest curve on your body was enough to make his heartbeat quicken in the depths of his chest.

He couldn't help it. "Perfect," he whispered, moving to slowly set his brush aside, reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "That's absolutely perfect."

"I aim to please."

But you knew he wasn't talking about the pose anymore- about anything pertaining to his painting. His thumb moved to brush delicately over your lower lip, tracing the soft skin as his eyes remained glued to your mouth. You wished something else would be glued to your mouth instead, the heat in your stomach starting to bubble.

As if hearing your silent wish, Rafayel leaned down slowly- carefully. His lips met yours in a tender and lingering kiss. You held yourself back from deepening it, from forcing it further no matter how much need was beginning to pile up within your heart and heat. Your nose tickled instead, a strand of his hair falling forward between the two of you, and you did your best to remember to breathe.

Forgetting the pose, your hand moves to rest on his forearm, your fingers finding his skin under the linen sleeve of his shirt. You want nothing more than to remove it from him- the image of your fingers undoing the pearlescent buttons at a painfully slow speed meant to entice and tease the man below you playing over and over in your head. But you resisted, instead enjoying the feeling of his other hand lifting to rest on your other cheek, holding your face as he himself can't resist deepening the kiss.

His hands tightened their hold, thumbs brushing across the crest of your cheekbones as he moved you to angle your head to intensify the kiss even more. His tongue traced along the seam of your lips, coaxing them to move apart and allow him inside. You happily obliged, your tongue dancing with his own as you tried to hold back the moan that had formed at the back of your throat.

After a moment, he pulled back suddenly, the both of you panting. Rafayel's eyes were dark, filled with lust as they glowed faintly a bright pink in the dimness of the room you were standing in. "I think..." He breaks the silence, his voice low, husky- "I need to study my subject. Just... Just a bit more-"

You nod, and his left hand drops, tracing the hem of your panties with a finger, teasing at the lingerie as his touch sends a shiver down your spine as goosebumps form across the tops of your arms again. You press your body into him, nuzzling against the crook of his neck like an invitation, a wordless affirmation at everything he was doing to you- at everything he wanted to do to you.

You can hear his breath hitch at the contact, and you can only imagine that his heart is racing just as much as yours is. But now the both of his hands are on your waist, and he's pushing back into you like there is still somehow too much distance between the two of you.

And then he starts to grind his hips against you, and you can feel his arousal all too well against the soft of your skin. He's craving the friction, needing the pressure against his sex, as he dips his head to graze his teeth over the sensitive skin of your neck. He kisses a line down the side, surely leaving marks with a few of them as he makes his way down towards your chest.

"What do you want, cutie?" He whispers against the ridge of your collarbone, and the heat of his breath is enough to make you keel over then and there. You take in a ragged breath instead, your own hands moving to drag up and under the shirt on his back

"I want you."

And that's not even the truth spilling from your mouth, the self-correction balancing on the edge of your lips as you try and breathe under the heat of Rafayel's gaze. Try to tell right from left, and up from down, when your head is spinning out of control with desire.

"I need you." It teeters off your lips, and the glint in his eyes- they were always so gorgeous, the way they glowed pink whenever he was deeply aroused- could practically be described as animalistic at your words.

His hands move upward from where they rested on your waist, toying with the clasp of your bra. A soft moan escapes you, and that's all the affirmation he needs to continue.

And then the lace is falling loose around you, the cups of your bra slipping downwards to fall to the floor between you. Rafayel's hand immediately seize the flesh of your bare breasts, squeezing them gently as he lets his thumbs trail over the hardened buds of your nipples.

You can't help the soft moan that escapes your lips, the build up to the touch only having made you more sensitive to his ministrations now that they were truly beginning. His index and thumb pinches each nipple lightly, and you swear you could melt into a puddle on the floor in front of him then and there from his hands alone.

"So beautiful," he murmurs huskily, leaning down to place open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breasts, his hands still hard at work to make your brain incapable of any coherent thought. "So beautiful, and just for me."

Your hands find the belt loops of his waistband, and then you're undoing the clasp of metal and leather as quickly as your shaking hands can manage. You need him. You need him, you need him, you need him, and it's taking everything in you to unbutton his pants and pull the zipper down as his assault on your chest has turned into him suckling delicately at one of your nipples. His tongue swirling over the sensitive bud was enough to make you tremble, your pussy throbbing at the thought of his attention diverting even lower, to where you wanted him the most.

You can feel him shudder as your fingers brush over the bulge in his pants as you work, but the attention he has on your breasts doesn't stop. He's alternating between flicking his tongue over the tips of your nipples, and sucking at them until your body is arching into him unconsciously. His hands explore your body, and the tangle of you two make movements difficult, but you manage to finally unfasten his pants completely.

And then you're pulling away from him- sinking to your knees in front of him before he can question your withdrawal with more than the whimper that had already escaped the back of his throat, sending a jolt of heat to where you needed him the most. You kept your resolve, though, glancing up at him as you tug at the waistband of his boxers, allowing his cock to spring free.

Already as hard as it could possibly get, you can see the precum glistening the tip even in the dim lighting of the studio. You don't waste any time, leaning forward to brush the tip of your tongue across it, savoring his flavor as he lets out a breathy moan at the feeling.

Encouraged, you let out the slightest chuckle, wrapping your hand at the base of his cock and giving it a few lazy pumps. Slowly, almost painfully, placing his cock in your mouth and giving it a few gentle suckles, whimpering happily just slightly at the taste on your tongue.

Rafayel releases a sharp gasp, your warm mouth enveloping his length blissfully well. He can't help his hand as it reflexively tangles into your hair, guiding your head gently further down his cock. He moans when he glances down, your lips stretched beautifully around his girth, the view and the feeling both equally maddening in his mind.

You bob your head up, never the most experienced at giving blow jobs, but a master of eliciting the most amazing noises from your Lemurian. You can feel him throb in your throat, shallowly thrusting into you with more restraint than you could believe he was capable of. Especially with the sight of you down on your knees, still wearing the slightest bit of the lingerie he had been practically dreaming of you wearing ever since he had purchased the set.

You push yourself, dipping your head down painfully as you take him as deeply as you possibly could. You can feel your eyes burning as the tears begin to form at the same time you feel his balls brush against your chin. He lets out a low, guttural groan- his fingers gripping through your hair as he loses himself to the pleasure of your throat.

You pull yourself off of him, and the lewd noise of his dick leaving your throat competes with the image of the string of saliva still connecting you to him as you look up at him for what will make him even hornier. He wishes he could save the image before him somewhere forever, but he settles for moving to unbutton his shirt and reach down to help you up to your feet, carefully, but desperately.

You're barely to your feet before his lips are crashing into yours all over again, as if desperate to drink the remaining saliva and the taste of himself from your lips. The pressure causes you to stumble backward, his hands finding your waist again as he keeps you upright. He keeps you walking rapidly backward until you can feel the backs of your legs hit the cool leather edge of his couch. You let him continue forward, laying you down as he climbs on top of you, finally breaking the kiss and leaving the both of your breathing heavy and coming out in pants.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, and you can see the red painting his face even in the dark of the room. From the heat you feel in your cheeks, you know he can probably see your blush as well. You're not really sure what to say. You want to say how gorgeous he looked standing over you, just how amazing he looks over you right now-

"Hey..." You breathe, and you can feel your blush deepen as he lets out a chuckle at your greeting.

"Hey there, gorgeous." He whispers, his breath hot on your face from how close he's hovering over your. You reach out to brush a hand across his cheek, and you can see the pink in his eyes intensify from your touches.

"You're so incredible, cutie..." He murmurs. "I'm going to take such good care of you. Promise."

As if trying to prove his own words, Rafayel begins to pepper kisses down your body- starting from the crook of your neck, down your chest as he pauses only to suckle on the curves of your breasts one more time. Your stomach shudders as his lips make contact with the sensitive skin there, almost distracting you fully from his thumbs hooking through the bands of the panties you were still miraculously wearing.

He pulls downward, exposing your heat to the cool air of the room, the goosebumps returning to coat your arms and legs at the shift in temperature. You can see Rafayel smirk at your little shivers.

"Don't worry, cutie." He breathes, shifting himself lower as his cock comes down to rest across your pussy and stomach. "I'll make sure to warm you up."

Your breath hitches at the back of your throat, seeing his size against you. You've taken him plenty of times before, but it was always incredible seeing the size difference, wondering how he always managed to fit inside of you so perfectly, every single time.

You don't have to wonder much though, given the probing feeling of his dick at you entrance sending shockwaves of anticipation throughout your body as he readies himself to enter you.

Taking a moment to tease you, he moves his cock against your folds, coating himself in the wetness of your arousal. Each pass he makes make you buck gently against him, desperate for more of him- desperate for more him inside of you. He smirks, knowing exactly what you're looking for, but forever a tease.

"I love seeing you like this, cutie. So beautiful for me." He mutters, drinking in the lustful expression painted across your face, full of want, full of need. Full of need for him. "I want to worship every single inch of you."

And finally- slowly, tortuously- he begins to push forward into you, the thick head of his cock finally breaching the folds of your pussy into your insides. A low groan escapes his lips, drawn out from the tightness engulfing him. He inches forward inch by agonizing inch as you let out a moan of your own, adjusting to his size beautifully like you always did, his hands caressing your thighs soothingly as he finally bottoms out inside of you.

You let out a small gasp at his size when he stops moving, trying to remember how to breathe, but the fullness is too perfect. His hand runs up from your left thigh to rest against your side, just over your ribs, encouraging you to take another breath. He feels incredible inside of you- he always does. Every single time. As if he was made for you, shaped perfectly to fit you.

His hands move to your hips, gripping you gently as he finally starts to move within you. Rafayel starts out slow- deliberate, savoring the feeling of being buried deep inside of you. He watches your expression melt into delicious pleasure, aiming as best as he can for the right spots within your walls.

"Oh, cutie... you feel amazing, wrapped around my cock." He breathes, punctuating himself by beginning to thrust harder into you. He can feel you clenching around him erratically, already close to the edge yourself from his earlier ministrations and the sensuality fogging the air all evening. He changes his angle slightly, aiming for the best spot inside of you- the one that makes stars dance into your vision. From the sounds you're making, he knows it's not much longer for you- Fuck, it's not much longer for himself either. Not with what you're body is doing to him.

He continues, setting a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you. You swear your vision is going to turn white from the pleasure, and your walls squeeze him sporadically in turn, working his own orgasm to the ledge of release.

Rafayel leans down suddenly, capturing your lips in rough kiss and swallowing your moans as his tongue explores your mouth again. One of his hands moves from your hip, reaching between your bodies to find your clit and rub. His thumb circling the sensitive spot as he pulls away from the kiss, panting as he watches you start to fall apart from his cock and fingers.

"Ah!" You choke, the sounds of your pleasure catching in the back of your throat with every single brutal thrust. "Yes, yes- Rafayel!"

"That's it, let go for me-" He urges, his breathing becoming more shallow himself as he inches closer to the brink. He can feel it, and his determination for the both of you to release together fuels his hips into snapping harder into you. "Yes cutie- Cum for me. Cum for me, my love."

The gasp in his voice, strained from his own tension, mixed with his fingers abusing your clit as he pounds you into the couch cushions- It's all too much. The final thread you were hanging onto finally snaps, and you can feel your body spasm and arc as your orgasm rips through you, blinding your vision for just a moment as your pussy clenches around Rafayel's cock.

His release is right behind yours- a few more thrusts powered by animalistic need, and he's burying himself to the hilt inside of you. Cumming and spilling deep within you as your tight cunt milks him dry as you ride out your high.

You can feel him shaking against you, the pleasure of his own climax rippling through him as he lets his weight down on top of you, just for a moment. You welcome the pressure, running your tired hands up and down his back slowly as you try and calm his heart rate down. He responds to your touch but nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, placing kisses on the skin in between his deep breathing.

"Geez, cutie. That was incredible."

His breathing is heavy and you can still feel his heart racing against you despite your touch. He lifts his head to gaze at you, his expression dazed, but a satisfied smile plays on his lips. He brushes a strand of your hair away from the sweat on your brow, before placing a kiss where it had been. You flash him a smug, exhausted grin of your own. "I'll always be the best at bringing you to your knees." 

Rafayel laughs, moving off of you to lie next to you, pulling you closely against his chest from the limited space the couch provided the two of you. That, and he just wanted to have you in his arms. He peppers kisses on you cheek, enough to make you giggle and try and push him away, but your motions lack any bite, and not just because you're tired from the session the two of you just had.

They feel quite nice.

"I don't think I was the one on my knees." 

"Physically, sure. But mentally?" You giggled, and he smiles down at you. "You're down bad for me." 

He doesn't respond immediately, instead just... looking down at you. That goofy smile still spread across his lips. There's something else, painted in his eyes. You see it often, whenever he looks at you, and you're not sure there's a word that exists that can describe it. But you know that you feel the same way whenever you look at him. 

"Absolutely cutie." He responds, finally.

"Absolutely."

[writingfics-passingtime]

hi, can you please write about the reader overthinking decorating a pumpkin and loki threatens to tickle them if they don't start it 🤗🤗

I can still post pumpkin content cause it's still November, right?

Here's a sassy, stoic reader, an absolute teasing menace Loki, and a tender, emotional ending (because I can't help myself).

word count: ~4300

pairing: Loki x female reader

content / warnings: sexual tension, suggestive banter, flirting and touching, tickling, swearing

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a suggestive relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: thank you anon ~ I wasn't going to respond yet because my prompts aren't open, but I've seen a few other writers receive and fulfil this ask, and I've liked seeing what other have done with it. My imagination went a little wild. Thanks for your message x

If anyone has an idea for a title, help a girl out

The room was alive with voices, clinking bottles, and the occasional scrape of a knife against pumpkin flesh. The compound’s main dining hall had been transformed into an unlikely tableau of domesticity. Avengers, gods, and spies bent over their assigned gourds with varying levels of skill and enthusiasm. Stark’s pumpkin already looked like a disaster of glitter and questionable wiring, while Natasha’s had been carved into a clean, menacing grin, a masterpiece of precision.

And then there was you.

Your pumpkin sat pristine and untouched in front of you, its smooth surface mocking your indecision. Brushes, carving tools, and paints were scattered around your space, all conspicuously unused. You held a small knife in your hand, twirling it absently as you stared at the blank canvas.

“Do mortals often find themselves defeated by vegetables, or is this particular weakness unique to you?”

Loki's voice slid over you like velvet, dark and rich, tinged with mockery.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a fruit, actually.”

“Ah,” he drawled, moving closer. “Semantics. How very like you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lean against the edge of the table, his long, lean frame clothed in casual, dark fabrics that clung just enough to remind you that he wasn’t of your world. His sharp blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed your untouched pumpkin.

“You’ve been staring at it for nearly an hour,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Surely even you can’t find this much to overthink.”

You exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m waiting for inspiration.”

“Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to begin.” His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, the kind that made your pulse stumble. “One wrong cut, one poorly chosen stroke, and the whole thing could be ruined. What a tragic metaphor for your careful, overthought life.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to the pumpkin. “Now, if you’re done, I have work to do.”

“Work?” His laugh was quiet, mocking. He moved closer, the faint rustle of his clothing brushing against your senses like a whisper. “Sitting frozen with indecision isn’t work, darling. It’s fear.”

You bristled but kept your voice calm. “If you’re so invested in this pumpkin, why don’t you decorate it yourself?”

“Because I find your quandary far more entertaining.”

He stepped around behind you then, his tall frame casting a shadow over your seat. His presence loomed, a magnetic pull you both resented and couldn’t entirely resist.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said softly, his voice close now, the faintest trace of his breath against your ear. “Either you begin decorating this ridiculous fruit, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. They gleamed with dark amusement, his smirk widening as he caught the way your lips parted involuntarily. “Oh? And how exactly would you do that?”

Loki’s smirk deepened, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I could start with this.”

Before you could react, his fingers brushed against your sides, featherlight but enough to send a jolt through you. You stiffened, gripping the edge of the table as his touch lingered, just shy of maddening.

You twisted in your chair to glare at him. “That’s your plan? Tickle me into submission? How original.”

His chuckle was low, dark, a sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh, I think it would be quite effective. And besides,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I suspect you’d secretly enjoy it.”

Your breath caught at the sheer audacity of him, the way his voice dipped into something so sultry, so intimate, that your stomach twisted. “Sounds like you're desperate for an excuse to touch me,” you shot back, your tone sharp despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

He tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more deliberate. “Desperate? No, darling. Just curious.”

His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, as if he could see straight through you to the rapid beat of your heart.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the tension coiling taut as his words hung there, daring you to respond.

Your grip on the table tightened as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

It felt like gripping the steering wheel of a car spinning out, but you snapped the moment.

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are."

Loki laughed, soft and wicked. “Of course not. And you're the picture of composure, as always."

His hand brushed against yours then, the faintest graze of his fingertips, and you swore the room tilted.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice a low murmur, his eyes locked on yours. “Prove me wrong. Pick up the brush. Start decorating. Show me you're not afraid of a little fun.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. The weight of his gaze, the dark amusement in his smirk, the sheer magnetic pull of him it was... intoxicating.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, you grabbed the brush. “Fine,” you said, your voice tight as you dipped it into the paint.

Loki straightened, his smirk triumphant but his eyes still glinting with wicked intent. “There’s a good girl,” he said softly, the words like a caress against your ear.

It left you burning long after he’d stepped away.

As you focused on the paint in front of you, doing your best to ignore the heat coursing through your veins, you felt the thrill of his words linger.

The brush hovered over the pumpkin, the orange, unsullied skin glaring up at you like a taunt. Loki had retreated to the far end of the room, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table as he spoke with Thor. You knew it was only a matter of time before his attention flickered back to you, the heat of a flame too close for comfort.

You had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm under his gaze any longer.

Sliding the brush down as quietly as possible, you rose from your seat. The soft scrape of your chair legs across the floor was muffled beneath the ambient chatter of the room, and Loki didn’t so much as glance your way. Your pulse quickened as you edged toward the door, heart hammering with every step.

He didn’t follow.

Once you’d slipped into the quiet of the hall, the tension in your chest eased, and you let out a breath you were very aware you'd been holding.

You made your way toward the compound’s library, the solitude of it a welcome balm. The others would still be occupied for at least another hour - enough time for you to lose yourself in the pages of your book and avoid whatever game Loki had been playing that almost made you crack.

The library greeted you with its familiar quiet, the scent of leather sofas and paper a comforting presence. You found your usual spot tucked away in a far corner, a large bay window cushioned with soft pillows overlooking the courtyard. Settling in with a contented sigh, you pulled your book from where you'd wedged it between the seat cushion and the wooden frame.

The story drew you in almost immediately, the tension of moments ago dissolving into the words on the page. The sunlight filtering through the window began softening into twilight, painting the room in hues of amber and shadow.

The quiet here was sacred, untouched by the chaos of the compound. As you turned the last few pages, your chest loosened, the illusion of safety creeping in.

Surely, he hadn’t followed you. Surely, Loki had other things to occupy himself-

Surely not.

“I expected better from you.”

The voice slithered into your ears, so low and sudden that your breath caught in your throat. With all your years of training, you managed to stay frozen. Futile, though. You knew he could see right through it.

You looked up, and there he stood, shadowed and immaculate, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a single, golden lamp. His icy blue eyes glinted with cruel amusement, his lips curling into a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“How... predictable,” he continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You flee like a rabbit, thinking you can burrow away from the wolf.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced yourself turn back your book. “I don’t recall fleeing,” you started, turning a page. “I walked out, actually. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the difference in your old age.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, like distant thunder rolling over jagged peaks. “Ah, there it is. That fire you wear like armour. Does it soothe you to pretend you’re unshakeable?”

You scoffed, even as your pulse betrayed you. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone whose only hobby seems to be tormenting me.”

“Torment?” he echoed, his voice silken as he closed more distance between you. “My dear, if I were tormenting you, you’d know it. Shall I demonstrate?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning another page of your book. The words blurred before your eyes, but you kept your expression neutral. “If you think I’m going to feed your ego by reacting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

"Why did you refuse to take part?" There was something unnervingly earnest in his voice that pulled at your heart. "Why did you leave?"

You looked up, wearing a mask of indifference and sarcasm. “I didn’t realise decorating pumpkins was a matter of state importance.”

The smirk tugging at his lips was slow and predatory, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “Such sharp words, little rabbit. Always so quick with your tongue when your heart’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.”

Your pulse spiked, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you tilted your head, letting a slow, sardonic smirk curve your lips. “You said you weren't desperate, Loki. But you seem to have taken to taunting me for sport."

The laugh that slipped from him was low and sinuous, curling like smoke through the still air. “Oh, I don’t need sport to occupy me. But you…” He leaned forward, the space between you vanishing in an instant. “You’re far too entertaining to resist. Especially when you’re trembling behind that mask of yours.”

“I’m not trembling.”

“No?” His voice was a purr now, his breath brushing your ear as he lowered himself just enough to meet you at eye level. “I suppose you weren’t squirming earlier, either. Like prey in my hands.”

Your cheeks flared with heat, but you kept your expression neutral. “You sound obsessed.”

“And you sound very ticklish.”

The way he said it - smooth, dark, laced with that damned smirk -sent a ripple of mortification through you. It was all the confirmation you needed of his intentions to follow through on his earlier threat.

It was inevitable.

So you leaned back, lifting your book as if to shield yourself from the weight of his gaze. If you were going down, you were going down swinging. Well, verbally, at least.

“You’re overplaying your hand.”

“Oh, am I?” He stood to his full height, towering over you now, his shadow eclipsing the faint light. “Because the ones who act so tough, so stoic, so unbothered... they’re always the most fun. It’s so very delicious to watch them fall apart.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” You forced your tone into something light, dismissive, though your grip on the book tightened. “That you’ve got me figured out?”

His smirk deepened, his head tilting as he studied you like a puzzle he already knew how to solve. “I don’t need to tell myself anything. You do all the work for me.”

Your lips parted for a retort, but his eyes flickered down to the slight tremor in your fingers, the way your knees shifted restlessly against the cushions.

And you saw how his smile widened, satisfied and predatory, when he saw all the hallmarks of someone about to flee.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “Run. It’ll be more fun for me.”

For a split second, you froze, torn between logic and instinct. Then you bolted, your book tumbling to the seat as you darted for the nearest gap.

But Loki was faster.

You didn't make it two full steps before he caught you with a preternatural ease, his ensnaring hands dragging you back against him in one smooth motion. His low chuckle brushed your ear as he manoeuvred you down onto the window seat, half-pinning you on your side with his arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

“Pitiful,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery. “And here I thought you’d make it a challenge.”

You shoved at him, scowling. “Let me go, you overgrown-”

Whatever venom you’d prepared was shattered as his fingers pressed into your ribs, curling with precision against the fabric of your sweater. Laughter burst from you, loud and uncontrollable, and you immediately clamped your lips shut, mortified by the sound.

“Ah,” Loki purred, his grin widening. “There it is. That lovely sound you try so hard to keep from the world. Go on, darling. Let me hear it again.”

“Loki, wait- no!” you gasped, but his hands had already found the curve of your waist, his fingers pinching with precision that felt criminal.

“No?” he echoed, mockingly incredulous. “You were so calm a moment ago. What happened?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, squeezing tighter, his nails grazing the bare skin of your sides. You quaked at the contact, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he found every sensitive spot with uncanny accuracy. Your hands clutched at his forearms, his chuckle hot and tempting against your neck as your head fell back in mirth.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice low and commanding, the words a dark melody against your ear. “Why did you run?”

“I- I...” you wheezed, twisting in his hold, going nowhere. With a ferocious, defiant growl, you yelled, "I... walked!"

Loki paused, his lips curling in that knowing smirk, and then he tickled harder, digging in with precision. You crumpled back against him, laughing helplessly, unable to catch your breath. Every sound that left your mouth was a mix of laughter and helpless gasps, each one a surrender to him, to the unrelenting tickling.

“Let's try again,” Loki commanded, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me why you fled.”

You struggled to pull yourself together, trying to come up with another witty retort, but before you could speak, Loki found an especially sensitive spot, just under your ribs, and his fingers locked in with a brutal efficiency. You shrieked, squirming beneath him, but he held you there with the effortless force of a god, his smile widening against the shell of your ear.

You thrashed harder, your laughter raw and breaking, tears welling in your eyes. “I’ll- kill you-”

“You’ll what?” He laughed, low and dark, his fingers picking up speed again, pressing and kneading with wicked precision. Every stroke of his hands felt like it was designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits and then some.

The realisation hit like a blow: he could read you. Every shudder, every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your body. And worse, he was enjoying it, adjusting his touch with the kind of skill that only centuries of mischief could hone. His hands didn’t just tickle; they teased, tormented, mastered you.

"You- oh my g-" you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "You absolute fucking-"

“Such language,” he chided, his tone a tease of disapproval. “And after I’ve been so gentle.”

His fingers danced lower, teasing the curve of your hips, and the laugh that escaped you was so deep, so raw, it left your chest aching. Loki stilled for half a heartbeat, his grin sharp as he took in the sound, before redoubling his efforts. He pressed his thumbs into the tender space just above your hipbones, his fingers curling to squeeze in a way that had you screaming, your body writhing in his iron grip.

“Okay! Okay!” you gasped, tears of mirth welling in your eyes.

“Speak, then,” he commanded in low and silken voice, his fingers unrelenting. “And don’t lie to me. You won’t like the consequences.”

“I—” You hesitated, your breath hitching, but he gave you no mercy. His nails dragged lightly over your ribs, and the sound that tore from you was half a laugh, half a desperate gasp.

“Speak."

“I didn’t want to embarrass myself!” you finally choked out, your body trembling beneath his. “I didn’t want to make something stupid and have everyone see how bad it is!”

Immediately, his hands stilled, and you gulped in a shuddering breath. He unwrapped his arms from around you and leaned back, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. You shoved at him weakly, as if not quite believing he was retreating.

“Well,” he said, standing and staring down at you, admiring his handiwork, “you’ve certainly made a spectacle of yourself now.”

You glared at him, flushed and breathless. “You... are insufferable.”

“And you,” he countered, his grin returning, “are utterly fascinating. Shall we?”

Before you could protest, he hooked his arms under your knees and around your back, sweeping you up effortlessly, carrying you toward the door. You squirmed in his grasp.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“Delivering you back to the battlefield,” he said, his smirk a knife’s edge. “You’re not escaping that easily. You’ve still got a pumpkin to ruin, and I, for one, am thoroughly invested in the spectacle.”

You groaned, your head falling back in defeat. "I hate you."

The smirk in his voice was undeniable. "No, you don't."

The dining hall was no longer the lively scene it had been earlier.

Now, it was deserted, shadows stretching long and dark across the room, flickering with the faint light of a few dying candles. The scent of melted wax and pumpkin guts permeated in the air, and the silence was nearly oppressive.

Loki carried you inside, his grip firm but not unkind, and though you didn’t resist, you couldn’t help but feel a smouldering irritation at the way he seemed to enjoy this small victory. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, steadying you, as though daring you to bolt again.

You stepped forward, stopping just shy of your untouched pumpkin. Its smooth, orange surface gleamed in the low light, mocking you. The tools remained where you’d left them, and the weight of your earlier frustration pressed at the edges of your mind.

“I... don’t know what to do with it,” you said finally, turning back to Loki. You hated how the admission sounded - small, almost defeated - but there was no taking it back now.

Loki’s sharp gaze softened imperceptibly. His lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t fully form. “Then I shall help you,” he said, his voice low and smooth, offering no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he sat in your chair with that infuriating ease, his presence commanding even in the simplest of movements. His eyes met yours, glittering with a mixture of challenge and amusement, and he reached out a hand, curling his fingers in a silent demand.

“What are you-” The words barely left your mouth before you realised he was beckoning you to sit on his lap. Heat flushed through you, unbidden, and you scoffed, trying to mask it. “You do realise chairs are meant for one person, don’t you?”

Yet, unwilling to have him see how he was sliding under your skin, you turned and settled yourself against him. His muscled chest brushed against your back, his legs firm and solid as your seat.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. His hand settled at your waist - an anchor, not a cage. “Now, let’s see if we can salvage your poor, neglected pumpkin.”

You scoffed, grabbing the carving tool. “Fine. Show me your masterful technique, Your Highness.”

The title came out sharper than intended, but Loki only chuckled, low and indulgent. He leaned closer, his shadow engulfing yours, and reached around your shoulder to guide your hand. His fingers slid over yours, his grip firm but not harsh. “Relax,” he murmured. His voice sent a delicious shiver down your spine. “You grip it like a weapon. This is art, not war.”

You bit back a retort and let him guide you. His body was close enough that his every movement brushed against yours, his breath warm against your cheek. Together, you began to carve into the pumpkin, slow and deliberate. His free hand flexed against your waist, your free hand steadying the canvas.

As the shapes emerged, you realised they weren’t ordinary designs. They were runes.

Norse runes. Delicate, intricate, and entirely unreadable to you.

Loki worked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his hand steady as he traced the lines with your hand.

“What does it say?” you asked eventually, breaking the silence.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured, “You’ll see. Keep holding it steady."

The tension between you grew with every passing second. His touch lingered long, his presence close. Every shift of his body beneath yours was impossible to ignore, every brush of his breath against your skin a reminder of just how thin the line between teasing and something real had become.

When the carving was done, you slipped off his lap, feeling the need for a the brief moment of distance for your sanity, and retrieved a candle from the sideboard.

But the room felt colder without him holding you.

You lit the wick and placed the candle inside the pumpkin, watching as the light filled the carved runes, casting jagged shadows across the table.

You turned back to Loki. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on you as though he could see straight through to your very thoughts.

Carefully, you sat back down on his lap, unable to ignore the magnetic pull he seemed to have on you. This time, you sat side-on. His hands settled instinctively, one on your back, one on your knee, holding you steady. With his height, your faces were almost level, but you still had to look ever so slightly up.

“What does it say?” you asked again, your voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between you.

“The name of a great warrior,” he said, his tone mockingly reverent. “Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.”

You arched a brow, your lips twitching. “Let me guess. Your name?”

His grin widened, and the silence was answer enough for you.

You rolled your eyes, but a genuine smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet undeniably fascinating,” he countered, his voice a low purr. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his smirk faltered, replaced with something quieter, more tender. Relieved. "There it is." His words were almost a sigh.

You tilted your head, raising a brow in question.

“I was beginning to fear you didn’t know how to smile.”

The intimacy of his words rendered you speechless for several, long seconds. Your mind faltered, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“What? You don't remember what happened like... twenty minutes ago? I recall laughing to the point of tears, thanks to you.”

“That was different,” he said simply, his tone quieter, earnest.

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken things. His hand moved in slow, deliberate patterns against your back. “It must be exhausting,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle and laced with something that sounded dangerously close to sympathy. “Always bracing for the next crisis.”

His sudden sincerity caught you off-guard. You fidgeted with your hands, stained with pumpkin pulp, your gaze dropping to your lap. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“Isn’t it?” His hand stilled on your back for a moment before continuing its slow, soothing movements. “You are allowed moments of meaningless joy. To partake in frivolity. It doesn’t make you weak.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft and humourless. “I take it you didn’t buy that I was embarrassed about the pumpkin?”

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Not for a second.”

You looked up, straight into him. "But you let me go."

His gaze fell to your lips, as if he were already missing your smile. Mourning it. Plotting a witty remark or flirtatious comment that might see its return.

He then looked back to your eyes, swallowing harder than usual, his voice now gentle. “I thought you were due for some mercy. You... seem to have very little for yourself.”

The words settled over you like a weight, heavy and undeniable.

And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

"It feels wrong," you admitted in little over a whisper. "To... do things like this when so many people-" The breath caught in your throat and you had to look back at your hands, sniffing to buy some time. "It's selfish. Carving pumpkins. Decorating. Laughing at stupid things. People are out there suffering, and I’m here playing holiday games. Safe.”

Loki was quiet for a long moment, his hand resuming its slow, deliberate movements along your back. It brought you far more comfort than you'd ever admit out loud. Not yet, at least.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, the usual sharp edges dulled. “You cannot bear the weight of your world every hour of every day. Even the strongest flame falters if it is not tended.”

The rawness of his words cut through your defences. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but your lips twitched as you tried to deflect. “You know,” you muttered, half-laughing as your head dipped, “getting tickled to death felt a lot less exposing than this conversation.”

His chest vibrated with a low chuckle, and when you glanced up, his smirk had returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I’m happy to oblige,” he drawled, his fingers curling against you as if preparing to pounce.

You shot him a warning look, though you couldn’t quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. “You wouldn't.”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” he teased, his hands still hovering ominously close.

"No," you shook your head, that twitch turning into a smirk. "I sat with you of my own free will. Trusting you. You won't jeopardise that."

The playful glint in his gaze softened slightly as he settled back, studying you with a quiet intensity. "The little rabbit may just be a fox after all," he mused, ceding his advantage.

He studied you for a good, long while, you both sitting in a comfortable silence as he traced idle patterns against your back, his thumb brushing your knee.

Finally, you swallowed your nerves, and broke the silence. "Thank you. For your help.”

You looked back to the table, eyes roaming over what he'd carved with your hand;

The name of a great warrior. He'd said. Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.

"Runes are... actually quite beautiful."

He hummed softly in agreement.

You turned your head slightly, eyes still on the sharp lines. "What would my name look like?"

Then, you looked up at his face, and your breath caught.

His eyes were alight, faintly glittering from the flickering candle inside the artwork. Something between a smile and something far more satisfied curled onto his lips as he nodded at the runes.

"Exactly like that."

[icolo]

hi everyone!! my wrist is too sore to draw today, so instead i thought i'd share some of my favorite csp assets + how i like to use them! i also linked some procreate brushes at the end of the post!!

lineart brushes:

SU-Cream Pencil: i swear by this brush and i use it very often!! if you lower the pen density and use a gradient map over it when coloring your drawing, it has a nice effect. that's what i did in this drawing here! i also use this brush like i would draw on paper, so as a sketching tool. recently i've been enjoying blending it for shading. the pics below are drawn on one layer; left is more manga style while the one on the right is from a WIP of my singer sargent study, so it can be used for more realistic styles pretty well!

Found Pencil: another pencil brush that feels really nice to use, created by @/pigpenandpaper.

PS style brushes: a recreation of photoshop's (i believe) default brush. very versatile and also blends well!

analog wind variant pen: a nice pen that i like to use for lineart that is intended to have a bit of a sketch look.

zakutoro real g-pen: i used it for the lineart of this piece. although, it was drawn before i started using 600dpi in my works, so the lower resolution might make it look a bit unclear.

sets of rough pens: great for manga lineart with a rougher vibe; some of them have varying line weight.

coloring brushes:

zaku brushes: very nice and painterly mixing! i definitely recommend it for those who like to leave their colors a bit unblended.

softie marker: as the name implies, it's very soft! i like to use it for blush in chibi illustrations.

analog watercolor brushes: realistic-looking watercolor brushes. i recommend using it with csp's default paper textures, or those i linked below!

993 coloring pen: it's very soft and watery, though it can be made more solid by adjusting the paint density. i actually think it works very nicely for lineart too.

rock dog pen: another soft marker brush i like, that i once again also use for lineart and doodles.

thick coating brush set: recommended for paintings that show brush strokes.

cartoon cloud: don't let the name narrow your vision!! this has to be one of the BEST brushes for painting in my opinion, and of course it's great for clouds and explosions but so so much more!! and it's FREE try it try it!!

decoration/miscellaneous brushes:

neon pen

paper textures

symmetry move brush

close and fill without gaps

rope brush

sphere fisheye guide

flash balloon

speech bubble set: a lifesaving collection for comic artists!! dimensions and line weight can be adjusted by using the operation tool.

gradient map to use in color mode at 15% and another gradient map to use at 20%: the percentage refers to the opacity of the gradient map layer, but they are just the creator's recommendation and i tend to actually increase it. to use gradient map efficiently, i recommend putting all your colors (and lineart if you want) in a folder. then, right-click the folder, select "new correction layer" and then "gradient map". this allows you to modify the gradient map without worrying about affecting the original colors in case you decide not to use it in the end. to import a gradient map from your downloaded csp assets, click the wrench icon next to the name of the gradient set that's currently in use, then select "add gradient set".

you'll also notice that the creator recommends to use their gradients in "color mode". of course, this is also only a recommendation and i suggest trying as many layer modes as you like! to change a layer's mode, simply highlight the layer and click on "normal" (the default mode) and csp will display the available modes.

fruit ninja gradient map: fun to use if you want really drastic/vibrant colors! the names of the gradients are cute too, as you can see in the above screenshot!

BONUS: jeremy fenske's free photoshop brush pack: these aren't csp brushes per se, but they can be imported into the program! excellent for environments, i recommend watching fenske's video on how he uses the brushes to get a clearer picture since there are so many in this pack!!

BONUS 2: my good friend clem has a few brush packs for procreate that are ideal for painting,decorating drawings, and y2k-inspired illustrations, i definitely recommending checking out her shop!

in conclusion i hope this post can be helpful to you!! i tried to explain how to use the brushes as best as i could, but feel free to let me know if anything is unclear!! i hope you will enjoy using them! :D

[heartchoi]

[12:56pm] — c.bg

pairing: bf!beomgyu x gn!reader

wc: 430

synopsis: ceramic painting with your boyfriend ♡

"beomgyu..." you call softly. beomgyu's head quirks up, humming in response. yes, love? his hands are busy making quick paint strokes, but his eyes turn to focus on you.

"what are you making?" you ask, peering your head over your own handiwork to look at his.

defensively, beomgyu shields his work with his entire body. the bowl that was just barely the size of his face now covered with his chest hovering above it, both hands closing the sides around the bowl. he glares at you with a playful glint in his eyes, a slightly exaggerated pout on his lips.

beomgyu shakes his head, "nuh-uh. it's not done yet." he says, sternly. a smile etches itself on to your lips at the sight: a 5'11 man guarding a ceramic bowl, having to lift himself from his chair in order to wrap his limbs around it. paint brushes of varying sizes are strewn over the table.

you whine, “come onnnn, just a peek. i’ll let you see mine.” beomgyu ponders your words for a moment, even tapping his chin with his finger in thought. “hmmm, you need to do more than that to see my awesome, jaw-dropping, stunning piece of art. it would be placed in the louvre if it could.”

you bite back a laugh.

"fine, i bet it’s not even that good.” you say, sticking your tongue out at him.

beomgyu gasps, settling back down. his arms continue to cradle his work, almost as if it were his newborn child. “how could you say that to the love of your life? your man? and look- look at yours! what is that? a flower? tch, doesn’t look good at all.”

"actually, it's a spoon. and how can you judge mine when i haven't even seen yours?" you shot back, a corner of your lip turning upwards.

beomgyu splutters a bit, his mind racing to find a comeback.

just when he's ready to fire back, you silence him — pressing your lips onto his lightly. you don’t dare to fully encase his lips with your own, opting to give him feathery pecks, treating him like he was fragile glass.

that quiets him down immediately, and leaves him chasing your lips for more when you pull away.

“hey. i want more than a peck!” he whines, lips jutted out to make a kissy face. you giggle, “okay, just under one condition.”

“what is it?” he asks, desperation hinting his voice.

“can i please see what you painted?”

“…fine. you win.” beomgyu sighs, his arms untangling themselves to reveal his work to you.

[carmyberzattosjournal]

Entry 9: I'd Love to Drown in This Spell

Screenshot Credit: @neverscreens

Bearblr Promptober Day 9: Impact Play

Summary: In which Carmen and his girlfriend talk about impact play, and he gets a little spark of confidence in the bedroom.

Warnings: Swearing, written with fem reader who is a trauma surgeon (nothing gross described) in mind, she/her pronouns, talking about impact play, fluff.

Notes: All journal entries will be titled as such and tagged with #cb journal.

Reblogs appreciated. Thank you to @carmenberzattosgf for putting together this prompt list.

09 Oct 2024

Personally, I wish people asked more questions of me instead of operating on their assumptions.

She doesn’t try to read my mind or assume because of some tangential situation in the past. I don’t try to be a chaotic disaster of a human being, but I am painted with those colors. And try as I might to reign in those entropic tendencies—whether by stalling my breath or gritting my teeth or setting alarms for when to wake up, when to get to The Bear, when to call my girlfriend, to close down, to leave my office, to come home, make dinner, write my thoughts down, go to bed—my emotional state perpetually ticks to discordant metronomes. I can try to act any sort of consistent, but the tiniest things throw me off. I can try to have consistent opinions, but they will vary wildly anyway. Like even the act of physical intimacy, of cuddling or sex or letting her play with my hair or trace invisible patterns on my chest. Love it, but it depends on so many factors prior to getting lost in kisses and her soft, warm skin that she just finds it better to ask.

Like the time she asked me about impact play.

“Can I ask you a question?” She always started that way. It’s a little thing—a check in to see if I have the mental square footage to entertain one.

We were cozied up in bed under the new comforter she bought at the turn of Fall. Her hands and forearms were killing her because she did 9 days straight in house or on call (either working at the hospital or waiting to be called in, in case I forget), got called in each day, and spent more hours fiddling with little surgical tools than not. So, I worked on them, rubbed out the knots close to her elbows, squeezed her pretty hands to soothe the ache. It’d become engrained in my routine by now, to massage her arms or her legs or her shoulders—whatever ached. Gave me something to do with my hands while also being with her.

I nodded. “Shoot.”

“How do you feel about impact play?”

I froze rubbing out a tense spot in her forearm. “About what?”

Mercifully, she didn’t burst out into giggles. Just held a straight face and explained, “Spanking, riding crop, flogger. Hitting, but sensual.” I must’ve had an uncomfortable look on my face, because she ran her fingers through my hair and stroked my cheek with her thumb. “Some people like some pain with their pleasure.”

“How, uh…” Shit, my face started getting warm. “How would you know if-if…”

I was bright red, wasn’t I? Fucking hell, it was embarrassing to get so flustered so easily. I would’ve thought a few months of dating a girl and all the practice we got dealing with intense topics would’ve inoculated me against my shyness by then.

“If you like pain with your pleasure?” She offered.

I closed my eyes. Nodded. Mumbled, “Sorry, um… I-I don’t know why I keep getting…”

She scooted closer, rested her forehead against mine. Her lips were a millimeter away from mine—part of me wanted to capture them, to taste her and that strawberry lip balm that invariably became tangled up with the idea of her in my mind, but it was also nice to just. Be close. Stirred molten pleasure deep in the pit of my stomach. She wriggled her arm out of my grasp to rest a hand on my sternum.

“It’s probably because you haven’t had the chance to speak freely pretty much ever.” She feathered her hand down over my shoulder, down my arm, to the inside of my wrist, setting off an explosion of goosebumps wherever she trailed. “It’ll take time and practice. To answer your question: I suppose you just try it. Incrementally. Safely, you always want to be safe about it.”—Her hand left my wrist and reappeared on my face. Thumb brushed my lip, and I entertained the thought of sucking it into my mouth—“See if it feels good.”

The heat in my face started subsiding, replaced with a gentle sort of buzzing accompanying the heat in my core. “Do you like impact play?”

She placed the lightest kiss just under my bottom lip, spoke into my skin. “A little bit. I can do both the striking and the receiving, but I prefer to receive.”

Fucking hell, it was so hard to think with her like this, with her this close. But it was… nice? It was nice finding it hard to focus—never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d find myself in that position, slowly succumbing to the honeylike tone and touches of my lover and enjoying the process of my mind’s gears grinding to a halt. I was enthralled by her, entranced by the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin.

Should the world show me an ounce of mercy, I’d love to drown in this spell.

“What kind of impact play, my love?” I asked.

My hand moved without my input and curled around the back of her knee. Thinking back on it now, it was natural. Like I’d done it a thousand times. I wasn’t afraid or nervous.

She trailed a hand down my chest and around my side. Her voice had the smallest hint of a waver in it. For once, I was fucking her up. “I’m not terribly picky. I think a flogger might be my favorite. It’s more of a temporary sting that doesn’t bother me too much at work. Though, it has to be used kinda lightly for that.”

I couldn’t resist the urge to hook her leg over my hip and pull her closer. She was warm—the inside of her thigh on my hip, especially—and the weight soothed some dull aching low in my spine, almost at my tailbone, that I didn’t know was present until then. She squeaked in surprise, and I took the opportunity to kiss her. She froze for a moment (only a moment, just long enough for my newfound confidence to think about shaking) but then she tightened her leg around my side and wove her hand in my hair. My head spun. I was too warm, but not the same kind of boiling that accompanied my panic attacks; this warmth was different, broad, shallow rather than deep, encompassing rather than consuming. It frazzled me all the same. Maybe she sensed it, because she tipped her head back and pulled me in so I could draw in a lungful of air and kiss her throat.

“What does it feel like?” I murmured into her pulse.

She didn’t answer immediately. “Ever get whacked by a jump rope? Not, like, super hard, but like a sting on your ankle or something?”

I nodded. Pushed the comforter down to my waist. Settled back on the pillow so I could meet her gaze. She was blinking slowly.

“A bit like that,” she said. “Lighter. Your ass takes it better than your ankle though, you got some padding there.”

I grinned. “Well, that just makes sense.”

The heat in the pit of my stomach started fading. I needed to think about menu prepping for next month.

“Doesn’t it?” She traced my cheekbone. “Your dark circles are worse, baby. Long day?”

Long life.

“Yeah. Long day.”

“You might like it on your back,” she said. It took me a second to figure out what she was talking about. “Flogger. You might like it on your back. More so than your pretty ass.”

“My ass is pretty now?”

She giggled, kissed my forehead. “All of you is pretty, Carm.”

“Why my back?”

“Less vulnerable.”

I tucked her hair behind her ear, swept over her cheek with my bent knuckles. She’s soft. All of her is soft, but not in some fragile, delicate way—not in a way that feels easy to damage. But like she’s made of fine materials, with fine craftsmanship. Like someone—I would say God, but he’s a deadbeat because why else would my life be a hellscape—really took their time and tuned and balanced every little thing about her. There’s this fine porcelain bowl that I came across in a secondhand shop in Copenhagen—handmade in Japan, based on what I could find from the maker’s mark on the bottom, out of some of the finest Kaolin clay on Earth. I had to flip it over to see if the foot ring of the bowl was unglazed because the fired clay itself was so fine, smooth, polished that the edge where glaze broke over bare clay was nearly indiscernible to touch. I felt like I had no right holding a thing so fine, made with such care, without gloves on or something to protect it from the oils in my skin. That’s what it feels like to touch her. Like I had no right to be doing so. That I was in the wrong state—that I was grimy or dirty or that I needed to be polished or refined.

It's funny what love teaches you if you let it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered, drawing my attention back to her. She worked her fingers through my hair. “Where’d you go off to in that gorgeous head of yours?”

“I’d like to try it,” I said.

In retrospect, I’m relieved and perplexed that it didn’t come out sounding like a question.

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “Mhmm.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I trust you. I want to try it.”

I didn’t need to explain further. She just nodded.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Hiii! Do you also write for male!reader? If its a yes, may I request for Artist!male!reader x Erik? They have a long-distance relationship, yet reader always send him lovely letters (maybe even gifts or complete arts of Erik on special occasions [on Erik's birthday, on Valentine's Day, or on Christmas])

tags/themes- long distance, dont ask how erik sends his letters idk

word count- 1389

The room was quiet save for the faint scratching of pen against paper. You sat at your desk, surrounded by the clutter of your artistic life: half-finished sketches, tubes of paint, and brushes in varying states of wear. The letter in front of you was nearing completion, the words flowing from your heart with ease as they always did when you wrote to him.

Erik.

Even the mere thought of his name brought a warmth to your chest. Your relationship had started in the most unexpected way—a chance meeting at a gallery showcasing your work. Erik had been there, his piercing gaze studying your portraits of faceless figures with an intensity that almost made you falter. You remembered how he’d lingered at one particular piece: a shadowed figure at a grand piano, the light catching only the back of their head and hands. When he’d spoken, his voice was soft yet commanding, full of an almost musical cadence.

“You see people for what they truly are, don’t you?”

From that moment on, letters became your lifeline. Erik was often away, always elusive about his whereabouts, yet he never failed to reply to your missives. Your correspondence was a dance of words—his letters were intricate, almost poetic, weaving his thoughts in ways that left you breathless. You responded in kind, pouring your soul onto the page and, often, into your art.

Today, you were finishing a letter for his birthday. The ink on your pen flowed smoothly as you wrote:

My dearest Erik,

Another year has passed, and though the miles stretch between us, I feel closer to you with every stroke of this pen. Happy birthday, my love. I hope this letter finds you in good health and in the comfort of your music. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you properly, but until that day, let this letter and the gift enclosed be my stand-ins.

You mentioned in your last letter that you’ve been composing again, and it fills me with such joy to know that you’re finding solace in your melodies. Your music has always been a window to your soul, Erik, and I’m honored to be one of the few who gets to witness it.

I’ve included a new piece for you. It’s a portrait, though not a typical one. I wanted to capture the essence of you—the brilliance, the complexity, the beauty I see when I think of you. I hope you like it.

With all my love,

Yours always.

You set the pen down and folded the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope along with the small, flat package. The painting you’d enclosed was one of your favorites: Erik seated at his organ, the faint glow of candlelight casting shadows across the room. His face was partially obscured, not by intention but by reverence—you’d painted him as you imagined he’d want to be seen, enigmatic yet deeply human.

The next morning, you mailed the package. As always, you felt a pang of bittersweet emotion as you handed it over to the postal worker. Would he love it? Would he write back soon? These questions buzzed in your mind as you walked back to your studio, where your next project awaited.

Weeks passed, and though you busied yourself with commissions and gallery deadlines, the anticipation of Erik’s reply lingered in the back of your mind. One crisp autumn morning, a letter finally arrived. The envelope was thick, the parchment inside scented faintly of something earthy and rich. You opened it with trembling hands.

My dearest,

Your letter and your gift have left me utterly speechless. The painting… I scarcely have words to describe it. You have captured something within me that I thought was long buried, perhaps even lost. It is a gift not just of art but of understanding, and for that, I am more grateful than I can ever express.

I wish you could see how it looks in my home, placed where the light hits it just so. It feels as though a part of you is here with me, and I find myself drawn to it whenever I play. It is a comfort in ways I didn’t expect.

Your letters sustain me, more than I can say. There are days when the world feels insurmountable, when the shadows of my past threaten to consume me. Yet, your words are a beacon, guiding me back to myself. Thank you, my love. Thank you for seeing me, for believing in me.

Yours always,

Erik.

You pressed the letter to your chest, a smile breaking across your face. Knowing that your work had brought him comfort made the hours spent on it all the more worthwhile. As you folded the letter back into its envelope, you resolved to start another piece for him—a gift for Christmas.

Christmas came quickly, the chill of winter settling into the city as snow blanketed the streets. You’d spent countless nights working on Erik’s gift: a series of small watercolor sketches depicting scenes from your letters. One showed the imagined interior of his home, a grand yet shadowed space illuminated by candlelight. Another depicted his hands at the keys of an organ, delicate and precise. The final piece was more abstract, a swirling blend of colors that you felt represented the music he often described in his letters.

Along with the sketches, you wrote him another letter:

My dearest Erik,

As the year draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on all the moments that have brought me joy, and you are at the center of them. Merry Christmas, my love. I hope these sketches bring a bit of warmth to your holiday season.

Your last letter has stayed with me. The thought of my work bringing you comfort fills me with more happiness than I can express. You have given me so much, Erik, more than you realize. Your words, your music, your very existence… they inspire me every day.

I hope one day we can spend this season together, but until then, know that you are always in my heart.

With all my love,

Yours always.

The weeks after Christmas were quieter than usual. No letter arrived, and you began to worry. Had something happened? Had your gift not reached him? The silence gnawed at you, and you found yourself pouring your anxiety into your work, creating piece after piece in an attempt to distract yourself.

Finally, in early February, a letter arrived. The envelope was thicker than usual, and your heart raced as you opened it.

My dearest,

I must apologize for my silence. The past weeks have been… difficult. There are things I wish I could tell you, things I long to share, but the words escape me. Please know that it is not a lack of love that kept me from writing but rather an overabundance of it. Your gifts arrived on Christmas Eve, and they were nothing short of miraculous. The sketches, especially the one of my hands at the organ… it brought tears to my eyes. How do you see me so clearly, even from so far away?

Valentine’s Day is soon approaching, and I find myself wishing more than ever that you were here. You are the light in my life, the one who gives me hope even when the world feels dark. I am sending something to you, a token of my affection. It is not much, but I hope it conveys even a fraction of what you mean to me.

Yours always,

Erik.

The package arrived a few days later. Inside was a delicate music box, its craftsmanship exquisite. When you opened it, a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the room—one of Erik’s compositions, you realized, rendered in miniature. Tears welled in your eyes as you listened, the music carrying his love across the distance between you.

You set the music box on your desk, its melody playing softly as you began your next letter. Though you longed to be with Erik in person, you knew that your words and your art were enough for now. Each letter, each gift, was a testament to the bond you shared, a love that transcended distance and circumstance. And as you wrote, you felt that bond grow stronger, tethering you to the man who had captured your heart.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

hey, sorry for popping in randomly, but i like your art a lot. When i first saw wips of it, i am going to be honest, I thought you were drawing over ultra-realistic 3D models LOL, and then I saw the finished result and i was absolutely amazed. It's genuinely mesmerising how you can do that. would you be kind enough to share some tips, especially about portraying body hair? it simply never looks right in my style, so i'm desperate for any advice at the moment

Hi there! I actually use a modernised form of painting techniques done by a lot of classically trained artists. I've just transferred a lot of those techniques to a digital format (a lot of traditional mediums cause sensory issues, particularly oil paint). I always work from a couple of references and always suggest using them. Below is what my workspace typically looks like. I'll have my main reference and a few extras set to the side while I work.

I colour match by using the colour picker as opposed to having a set palette of tones and I tend to edit colour in my references to match what I'm seeing in my head. Having said that, I'm still starting with a midtone whenever I begin rendering.

A huge thing that helps me figure out the placement of tonal plains is having my line art as an overlay. This is set to multiply and I turn it on and off as needed. This also helps hugely with body hair. In the above image, I've detailed in the line art where it's thickest. I use a very thin brush (I only use three brushes, one for flats, one for painting and one for blending.) and lightly flick strokes in the darkest tone that I plan to use for their hair. These strokes are done at random on a separate layer from that of the main skin layer and are done at random but generally speaking all point in the same direction. Body hair has different densities depending on the location. I tend to apply a little more pressure in these areas to give that effect as opposed to making the size of my brush larger. I can always go back in and add more as I go. With lighter hair colours (such as Erra on the left) I'll add highlights where needed in a mid-tone. Darker hair usually doesn't require it unless I'm using harsher lighting. Make sure you vary your strokes, lighter where you want the hair to be more sparse, and more pressure as it gets coarser. I sometimes find myself redoing sections until I'm happy with it. Don't be afraid to take a few goes.

Hope that helps somewhat. :)

[meruz]

another ask post

i mean i also read it because a friend whos rly into queer SFF fiction circles recced it but she did kinda lead with "the writer used to write hs fanfic...tasmyn..taz...?" to which i replied

of COURSE I read the locked tomb because i heard taz had written a book. of course. ill consume most any media made by a beloved homestuck bnf. thats also why i played undertale. and read like..snotgirl. and idk... watched the new dub of neon genesis evangelion.

if u made homestuck fanwork 10 years ago and havent even made it since chances are I still remember and I love you for it.

sdlkfhsg its funny you sensed that because that drawing did in fact start kinda more........ well, I'd be lying if I said my hands never wrought a drawing toeing over the pg-13 line LOL...

NOT to say i have a secret stash of porn or anything. in general im more interested in the implication of sexuality or mature themes over any explicit depiction. like everything i draw is so softcore itd almost feel silly to make a nsfw acc for anything.

but im not rly jumping to post anything on main either bc i get the sense i have a lot of kids in my social media following. it varies from site to site and fandom to fandom but the themes in my work often circle around childhood, coming of age etc and in general i like stories about kids so the fandoms i draw for have a lot of kids in them. even stuff like IT (stephen king) which is about kids but isn't necessarily for kids.. there were a lot of kids in that fandom lol.

actually thats why ive been censoring swears in comics lately because the tmnt fandom comes across to me as a little young...IDK I've had MULTIPLE people ask me what "sodomize" means because of the joke in this post and I'm like... I Cannot be the one to explain this to you. you have to look it up on your own klfsdhsdg like i wouldn't be doing this if i were doing a comic for mgs or even homestuck wherein the characters textually swear constantly LOL but sometimes u gotta change tacks depending on the faces u see in the crowd yknow.

i HAVE been thinking abt drawing nsfw of sunspot/richard rider/kobak from x-men red just because that comic seemed to be really asking for it. who knows.. if the need rly arises maybe my separate account policy will change.

its rly more a matter of the fact that i havent read/watched much of any other iterations... im sure id like most lol. I like most things related to my interests regardless of quality. i rly like the marvel ultimate alliance games for instance. sometimes seeing my fave guy is enough he doesnt have to be well written LOL. i dont exactly have a wealth of free time tho thats the real impediment.

i did watch the 2007 movie on new years eve and found it quite charming overall. and i have read about 30-40 issues between the mirage and idw comics. still feels like im barely scratching the surface but i liked em. i rly want to read all the sophie campbell stuff bc i think her work is interesting. jason aaron will be a mixed bag i think lmao. i say as the worlds biggest Wolverine and the X-Men (2011) fan.

hmm this is kinda hard bc i feel like i naturally draw very loose and the hard part for me is tightening it up. maybe some suggestions tho...

1) hand excercises. i think its easy to forget this when many artists sit in front of the computer all day but drawing is a physical activity u do with ur actual...bodys...muscles lol. if u feel urself tightening up it might help to strech (any google search for "artist hand excercises" should yield good results) or do a page of loose practice strokes like..big circles. long lines. scribbles. that kinda thing. whatever feels good for ur hand. this is also just good to do as a general warm up before u sit down for any drawing sesh.

2) draw further away from the canvas. as a general rule...when ur painting traditionally you do the big strokes with your whole arm outstreched and a long handled brush. and when you do the details its smaller wrist movements and a shorter handled brush. so it might help to take a step back or push back from ur chair a little.. or hold ur tablet a little further away. and hold your pen further away from the nib.

3) change mediums / brush types. some brushes and mediums are more suited to loose sketching and some more inclined towards detail work. so changing ur tool could help. also! i personally have this problem where sometimes if im using a brush i feel really familiar with the pressure to make a "good" "finished" "perfect" drawing is greater... if i want to force myself to loosen up ill switch to a tool i dont use as often so it feels like the pressure is off. a lot of times for me this is switching from digital to traditional. but sometimes its switching from a small pen to a big marker. or a smooth pen to a textured one. or a nice brush to a shitty dried up marker.

but also every body is different so i dont think these tips will work for everyone. u should listen to what ur body and mind tell u and how drawing feels to you

bro just sign up and set it up i dont think theres much to it... i dont rly think too much abt my itch.io store because its digital goods so u just upload the file and let it do its thing. no distribution work needed on ur part. youll notice i barely even advertise my itch unless i have smth new on there lol.. its easy. but good luck!!!

idk if im the best person to ask this im more a comic fan than i am a comic professional... a comic hobbist.

well. scott mcclouds understanding comics and making comics are good books on the craft. i think i had to buy them for a class in art school once.

other than that idk just keep at it. comics are really laborious i think for a lot of people the hardest part is sitting down and doing it.

i think a lot of people have a very instinctive understanding of how to read comics and what they look like so whatever you think seems like good way to tell the story you have in mind, its probably right. if u get stuck, study comics that have done something similar. most people in comics are relatively self taught and actually it can be problematic bc you can tell when a lot of comic artists are all copying the same like 5 old white guys LMAO. but on the flip side if you make sure to reference and study broadly your comics will almost assuredly feel unique.

sorry im responding to this anyways. this is just a really nice ask. i like when people reference my older work bc i feel like sometimes theyre subtly implying it wasnt very good LMAOOO. but its true! at least compared to the work i make now ^^ and the fact that im still making art is whats keeping me from being embarassed abt how much of my old art just floats around online lmao im never ashamed to be growing and learning. isnt that a nice thought <3

[guesswhosonfire]

Deignited isn't dead, I haven't had much of a chance to work on anything over this year between uni and other priorities. It's also been even longer since I last uploaded an update to ModDB, but rest assured - there's been plenty of progress made since the middle of last year or whenever it was.

Mostly in regards to Spyro 1 enemies. Some of them are like fully done (except for custom eyes) - modelled, vert painted, rigged and all set up in UE and everything, but most are in various stages of the rigging process and/or pretty close to being fully modelled and vert coloured.

I seriously need to get off my arse and dump the dev screenies onto Tumblr (or make more for the stuff that hasn't been documented anywhere).

For now, I'm gonna ramble about a recent development.

Sometimes it can be a bit of a trial to rig a low-poly model to armatures/animations made for a high-poly model, especially when you're not bothering to make extra geometry around the joints to accommodate for deformation out of stubbornness regarding the general lack thereof throughout the OG Spyro models.

Yes, I'm aware of the rampart hypocrisy. Anyone who's played the mod or seen the models knows that I've made plenty of deviations - the muscular-type dragons, for example.

Trondo's got forearm muscles since I cut more geometry into them to connect the spines to his main mesh (Bubba taught me the hard way that disconnecting thing and shit from the arms is a good way to make jank visuals) and provide more of an accurate position to vert paint the bandages - and then there's poor bastards like Gavin who really need an extra loop midway along the forearm(s) to avoid taking a trip through Clip City during their animations.

I don't know if I should try fiddle with his weights before resorting to another loop - and also, whether or not I want to do this with every dragon who doesn't already have additional forearm loops.

Either way, I need to fix Cosmos' rigging.

That being said, I think I'm running into more dilemmas involving twists along limbs more often than the joints themselves. It can be pretty wild if there's only just one loop per joint, e.g. shoulder - elbow - wrist; sometimes it's exacerbated by having only four verts in a loop, sometimes it isn't.

There's usually a way around it if you fiddle around with the tweak bones, like if you balance out an arm by taking some of the shoulder/clavicle's first arm tweak bone influence and dumping it into one or more of the last ones, then vice versa for however much the elbow is weighted to the last arm tweak bones. Can't always change the direction of the tris in a quad, what might work for one position might get completely fucked up in another positon/anim/etc.

Sometimes, the increments in rotation between a limb's tweak bones during certain animations aren't relatively equal, and it can get messier if the weights aren't particularly feathered from loop to loop.

Again, stuff like this always varies - and Toys for Bob, Sanzaru and all the outsource studios who helped with Reignited are all miles more experienced and talented than I am with animation (and 3D in general), so I'm not in much of a position to whinge about it…even if there are times where analysing stuff makes me feel like I'm going to have a stroke.

word of advice do not look at the sleeping dogs' weight painting because holy jesus motherfucking christ

Take the big Carrot-Topped Monks from Dream Weavers during their death animation, for example. The sudden twist between tweak 1 and tweak 2 is doing a number on those polygons, and then up until the elbow it's relatively smooth sailing. With a little figurative and literal elbow grease, you can kinda alleviate how much the faces clip into each other on a lower-poly model!

Untwisting the loops can kinda sacrifice some of their width or general size, especially if shit's fucked from shoulder, elbow to wrist…

I might be able to fix that.

What I might not be able to fix is something regarding the small versions of these guys.

Look, this isn't my first time seeing limbs without gradual tweak bones, but um, I think this might be the first time I've seen an armature have those tweak bones while the model just straight up doesn't have any vertex groups for those bones.

The bones themselves are animated, but since tweak bones are in parenting chains stemming from a main bone and main bones are usually parented to other main bones…they're kinda unable to do anything here.

I've never added custom vert groups to my Deignited models before, so I'm not sure what'd happen if I did for the small Carrot-Topped Monks. Even then, I don't know if the order of the groups is a potential issue either in Blender itself, UE and/or Reignited.

Or if it'd just fuck up the animations in general.

Unfortunately there's only one way to find out - and that is trial and error.

I'd probably rather deal with this than fun eyelids. Looking at you, most of the fodder in Year of the Dragon…

[midnightsilver]

Artist Process Post

Some process pics and behind the scenes for my Sam and Dean Costume artwork 😄:

My usual style for digital artwork is free-hand painting. I usually either build a reference scene in a 3D modeller or I draw a messy concept sketch from reference photos to get my basic shapes. Next I do a neater sketch on a new layer in Procreate and turn off my old concept sketch layer. After that I draw block colours on a layer underneath my sketch layer, before finally painting the shading and detailed features on a new layer over the top of it all. I use this process because I am a self-taught digital artist coming from a traditional art background. Plus I just really like painting 😄 - laying down colour in freehand brush strokes to build up my picture - it lets me adjust and change my ideas as I go (pre-planning is not my forte! 😅). However a lot of digital art originated in animation and anime styles, so it uses line art and colour fills in closed shapes to produce a much cleaner style. I thought I’d change up my regular process and give that style a go here and I’m really proud of my novice achievements 😄

I still started with a sketch of the boys. I drew the poses and body shapes in blue, using classic superhero poses and musculature. Then on a new layer I added the costume details in red. (I had loads of fun with this stage, it took me back to teenage me who used to draw comic book heroes instead of doing my homework 😂)

Next I lowered the opacity of my sketch and did some line work on a new layer. The trick here is to try and draw clean smooth lines in a single stroke and to make sure that the lines meet so that shapes are closed. (Later on you select individual closed shapes and fill them with colour, but if you have left gaps in your lines the colour floods out into other areas or fills up the whole page.) My lines aren’t the smoothest (I messy sketch for a reason! I have very shaky hands!!😂) and they also don’t have much nuance to them (lines should vary in thickness to add emphasis and flow to the design) but I was just pleased my work was neat-ish and still looking like my concept! 😄

The next stage is flat colour. This is a straightforward stage if you have taken time on the line work. I selected the areas that I wanted and used the fill tool to add my chosen colours inside the lines. (I also painted a freehand background to add atmosphere before I started on my shading.)

The final stages I did were shading and lighting. I drifted back towards my traditional painting style with the shading. Anime styles often use single colour shadows in block shapes, or gradient overlays to add depth, but instead I clipped my shading layer over the top of my flat colour (clipping a layer prevents you from accidentally going outside the edges of the layer below) and hand painted shadows, tone variations and highlights with freehand strokes and a blender brush. The final layer on top of that I used the hard light setting to paint on glows and shine.

And that’s everything. 😄 All in all this took me about 8 hours but that’s because I’m incredibly slow at line work 😭 (I spent soooo much time erasing and undoing crappy lines) and because freehand painting my shading layer is much slower than using block shape shadows - but I would need a lot more practice at that to make it look good, freehand painting is slower but it let’s me cover more of my errors as I go 😁. So while this art style for this pic is still not as clean or as efficient as typical anime/animation style digital artwork, I’m really pleased with the look of it compared to my usual loose style.

P.s. if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not an expert! This is not a tutorial, this is just an explanation of how I did this this time - and I’m learning more every day. If you wanna learn more about digital drawing from people who know what they are doing you can check out amazing artists like @kirathehyrulian and many others. 🤗

Stay awesome and happy Arting my friends

- Midnight

Art post on its own without the behind the scenes 😄

[theseshipsshallsail]

Chapter 2

According to his watch, it's just shy of one-thirty that the asthmatic locomotive pulls to a lurching halt, and Oliver’s struck by how little the provincial scene varies to when he and Elio caught the adjoining line to Rome. He doesn’t have much in regards to luggage. Just his clothes, laptop, travel credentials, and a framed postcard of Monet’s berm. Micol - saint that she is - will ship his prized possessions in the Fall, and wrestling his Tourister from the overhead compartment he makes for the automatic doors; every fibre of his being fizzing like French champagne.

His fierce sense of homecoming amplifies tenfold as he takes in the sparse, grey platform with its same wooden cantilever. The same stationmaster’s hut with its wilting daisies. The same aroma of pine, tar, and enamel: though mercifully a lot less piss. Blindsided, his autopilot knees wobble like an infant giraffe, and adjusting the lie of his holdall Oliver scans the milling crowd, grateful for his six-foot-five height advantage when he eventually spies a lone figure at the farthest extent of the gangway.

Mirage or miracle: it undoubtedly seems like both.

Unsurprisingly, Elio doesn’t notice his approach; transfixed as he is by the painted safety border he’s scuffing with his sneaker. He’s antsy, still. That’s plain to see. Tense. Distracted. More statue than man. Channelling the self-same cocktail of emotions that make Oliver’s heart stagger at the veracity of one last chance. His tongue locks behind his teeth. Muted and ineffectual. Yet the moment Elio glances up - the instant their eyes meet like gravity’s pull - a slow-born grin anoints his sun-kissed features. It’s artless - dazzling - redolent of a full-body embrace, and the flashfire jubilation that spreads through Oliver’s veins verges on debilitating as a lump materialises in his tinder-dry throat.

“You’ve shaved your beard…” he murmurs inanely, only realising he’s spoken out loud when Elio scoffs in delight. 

“The mockery wasn’t worth the upkeep,” he says, ghosting his fingertips over the scruff on Oliver’s jowl. “Though I dare say even Marzia would approve of these distinguished whiskers.”

“Distinguished?” The feather-light touch has him feeling like filigree in Elio’s palm. “My three-day perma-stubble?” 

“Looks designer.”

“Sounds meshuga,” he deflects, reaching up to lower said hand to his brittle ribcage. 

There’s a beat; one breath, then another. Elio’s digits fan out, forming a chord over his left breast pocket, and just like that Oliver sags forward, smothering a plaintive whimper into flyaway curls. He’s prone to being the strong one - the guardian - but when Elio’s grip tightens he melts unerringly further. It’s bizarrely dreamlike - a cliché consolidation of every fantasy he’s ever harboured - and discarding his suitcase he bands his forearm around the other man’s waist, the immutable realness skewering him with relief as he basks in a world made new.

“We still fit,” he murmurs, brain-to-mouth filter decidedly offline. 

“We always will,” Elio maintains, seizing his nape with a surreptitious sniff.

A harsh gasp rises in Oliver’s chest, and he can’t contain it. Doesn’t even try to. Not with the hushed affirmation of Elio’s voice as they sway back-and-forth on the bustling concourse. 

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, overly-conscious of the attention they’re garnering.

“Don’t be.” A cousin of grief, only sweeter. “This was a long time coming.”

“Not for the lack of wanting...”

“Anch’io. It is what it is,” he’s told graciously. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” 

It doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow.  

“You okay?” Elio asks at length.

In the broad strokes? 

“Me okay.” It’s an echo of the past; a promise for the future. “I know it’s irrational,” Oliver concedes, resting his chin upon Elio’s crown. “...but I keep expecting to wake up in that faculty rental - preparing my syllabus and feeding next door’s ficus - not padding my CV for an opening at the Statale.”

Elio huffs. “Your reputation precedes you, professore.”

“I’m done living up to others’ terms and conditions,” Oliver states, reining in the threads of his frayed composure. “What was it Vimini used to say? Reality’s a rabbit hole?”

“Deprived of the scope of imagination,” Elio finishes, the savvy maxim particularly apt given the circumstances. “She’d be thirty today.” 

“She would,” Oliver concurs wistfully.

“And full of righteous I-told-you-sos,” Elio continues, tapping a deft ostinato above his breastbone. “Papà wasn’t alone in his love of speeches.”

Oliver sniggers. “I don’t recall Sami’s being quite so bolshie…”

“Absurdité! An eloquent taunt trumps a thousand insults, ma moitié.”

“I’ll keep that under consideration,” Oliver says archly, quelling an impulsive complaint when Elio takes a half-step backwards, putting unbearable inches between them.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning to a wall-mounted mailbox.

“Hungry?”

“Sì.” Elio swipes a foil-wrapped item from atop its blistered lid. “Hungry,” he parrots, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip: a hardly-there flick that draws Oliver's gaze. “Originates from the Old English hyngran, and the verb hungaran in High German.” 

“I’ll show you High German…”

“Ist das ein versprechen?” Elio deadpans, offering up the delicious smelling bundle. “Bruschetta chicken panini?" 

Oliver’s stomach growls like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “Mafalda’s special recipe?”

“Naturalmente.”

“My knight in striped-cotton,” he declares with a swoon, and Elio chuckles as he tosses it over, unhooking a familiar pair of Persol’s from his khaki belt-loop. 

“Andiamo, Principessa. Your noble steed awaits.”

His steed, Oliver discovers, parked in the shade of a derelict water tower, is a sherbert-yellow Fiat 500 with a Jar Jar Binks air-freshener fastened to the rear-view mirror. 

“Ollie’s obsessed with the prequels,” Elio groans, slotting the key into the ignition, and steering the vehicle to the signposted exit he’s soon navigating the picturesque thoroughfare to B.

There’s a childlike elation he encounters in ticking off the intermittent landmarks that denote their journey. Chasing the proverbial breadcrumbs of yesteryear as Elio updates him with anecdotes of former associates. Marzia’s being headhunted by a rival fashion magazine, he’s told. Whereas Chiara’s eldest daughter just earned a full drama scholarship to Cours Florent. Mario - to Oliver’s great amusement - has taken over the management of La Danzing, and it’s whilst discussing the Moreschi girls’ thriving pasticceria that his eyelids become increasingly leaden, causing him to jerk upright sometime later as they negotiate the gravelled arc of the villa’s driveway. 

“Rise and shine, Bella Addormentata,” Elio says, muting the eighties’ rock ballad coming from the car’s speakers, and Oliver experiences a soupçon of déjà vu as they coast to a stop in the exact same position his taxi did two decades prior. 

“Less of the sass, Perlman,” he replies with a stretch. “Red-eye flights are brutal. And I’m an old man now, remember?”

Elio unbuckles his seatbelt. “Not to me, you aren’t.”

“No,” Oliver agrees softly. “Not to you.” 

A rosemary-scented breeze enters via the open windows; bringing with it the screech of gulls from the peninsula’s shoreline. It’s hallowed ground, this place of memory, and with a cursory squeeze to Elio’s thigh he unfolds his legs from the passenger footwell, casts his face skywards, then loosens another shirt button to expose the Star of David he’d recouped from his treasured mementos.

“Welcome home, Oliver,” he hears in stereo: his disembodied Elio twining with the flesh-and-blood original. 

He’s been quieter of late - his phantom confidante - but any thoughts of answering are swiftly squashed when a snow-white streak rockets across the lawn, the pitter-patter of scampering paws running in ever-erratic circles.

“What I wouldn’t give for that energy…” 

“You and me, both,” Elio says, nabbing the overzealous pup’s collar. “Come: meet Polpetta. Our second -biggest rabble-rouser,” he invites, hunkering down to rub her fluffy midriff. “Miranda’s exhibition got extended at la galleria, so she and Ollie aren’t due in ‘til Wednesday. I think she’s missing her partner in -” 

A faint commotion starts up inside the residence’s stucco interior. 

“Brace yourself,” Elio warns as the porch door creaks ajar, and treating Polpetta’s muzzle to a farewell scratch, Oliver twists to see their harried housekeeper backing onto the veranda.

“Eccoti! ” she calls, depositing a large, wicker basket by the vine-covered plinth. “Il garzone del macellaio -” A pause. “Signor Ulliver?” Her double-take is almost comical, and rising from his stoop, Oliver mounts the uneven steps to meet her on the decking. “Non può essere,” she admonishes, bunching her chequered apron. “Elio! He is early!”

“He is indeed,” Oliver says, grinning from ear to ear. “I do hope we haven’t muddied your plans?”

“No, per niente!” Mafalda tugs his forearms. Pecks a kiss to his bristly cheek. “It is no bother,” she says in her heavy accent, clasping his hands between her own. “Ma basta! Look at you, mia muvi star. So handsome… so tall…” 

“So bashful…” Elio drawls from the Fiat’s rear bumper. “Calmati, Mafalda. Let him be. You’ve already tormented Enzo’s poor delivery boy…” 

It’s mischief personified, and Oliver ignores the flagrant provocation as he drapes an arm around the scandalised woman’s shoulders. “Don’t you believe a word of it,” he murmurs, blushing like the peaches in the nearby orchard. “He knows I’m not going anywhere.”

And the wink Elio shoots him whilst popping the trunk is all the confirmation he needs.

[delporteart]

Amedeo Modigliani

Portrait of the Red-Headed Woman (Portrait de la femme rousse)

1918. Oil on canvas

The most Barnesian moment;

Yesterday a group of my painting class students and I had a field trip to the Barnes Foundation. For context, I probably use the artworks in the Barnes, as a teaching tool, at least a dozen times per class. So it was fitting to take them to see some of the paintings I talk so incessantly about. 

Of course as a former student at the Barnes, I was super early. I had driven one of the students, so being early, we sat among the trees there by the reflection pond to wait for the others and to wait for our assigned time. A woman approached us and asked us if we were part of some tour put on by the French Consulate. We exchanged some information about opening times and the sort and of course we started in on the conversation of the “new Barnes” versus the “Old Barnes” and talked about our fidelity to the resistance of the move. 

A few minutes before the opening, the students and I made our way into the doors. We decided to see the special exhibit of the Matisse and Renoir first. These are the paintings from the second floor, as they are doing renovations to the floors and the second floor is closed. I was stunned… to see paintings that I must have looked at many hundreds of times in the ensembles, were there laid out “museum style” They looked huge and maybe even more beautiful. I got to get up super close as there were no lines on the floor, or furniture in the way… I saw things, and colors I had never seen. My love for Matisse and Renoir swelled. 

I loved the interactions the students had and the discoveries we made as it related to their own work. The curious thing was they all kept seeing their fellow student’s work in the paintings, but did not see it for their own? The security guards joined us in our discussions and at one point we were basically shouting… and no one stopped us. The guards were shouting in the exaltation of seeing too… It was a glorious moment of not reading the wall guides and actually discovering what these two men had left for us… 

We walked over the main galleries.  The smell of glue or some sort of flooring emanated. As we entered into that first room, the students who had never been to the Barnes were shocked and had that Main Gallery jaw drop. We swirled around the room looking and then I took them over to the “Lida and the Swan” by Cezanne. I had explained numerous of times how Cezanne had used his rectangle brush stroke as a tool to allow him to make edits over and over, but still keep the painting looking fresh, like he had just whipped it out in one short go.

We walked around, stopping often to discuss a work, or they would ask questions and I would answer as best as I could without thwarting their experiences or discussions. Occasionally I would give a traditions context or some point of history, but for the most part it was painters, talking about painting. One student needed help with line, so I took them to see line, another needed lights and darks and we talked about the use of darks to get light… it was a dream.

We walked into Room 10… a room filled with small Matisse odalisques anchored by a large Soutine and Modigliani. We talked about several of the Matisse in the room and how Matisse had varied his paint to reflect the visual quality. We surmised if Soutine was painting just one person or multiple people. We laughed at the expert opinion that it was just one.    

We ended up in front of Modigliani‘s Portrait of the Red-Headed Woman. I had looked at this painting so many times it is almost to the point of obsession. I know we talked about it in the First year classes on Visual Literacy and in Traditions later on. I had read and heard numerous experts speak on this painting and it always left me unsettled. That rutty texture, the open eyes. We stood there talking about it when a Barnesian, lightening strike moment occurred. 

One of the students simply said, he was painting her freckles. I was thunderstruck! Freckles? She had red hair and fair skin. Of course freckles. The moment you stood back from the canvas, it was all you could see… a masterwork of solution for, how do you capture freckles on fair skin?  The color changes and the shadowing effect of the thick daubs made freckles! As painters we are always tasked with solving the way… how to capture this effect or how to solve some sort of aesthetic problem in service of the visual quality. 

I, as a painter who had painted dozens and dozens of red haired, fair skinned people had always ignored the freckles as it always looked like dots or came out like the person had patches of brown… but not freckles. Modigliani had done it… and it had eluded every “expert” conversation and every piece written that I had ever read about this painting. Perhaps it is not a new discovery and perhaps every guide and person who works for the Barnes knows this, but no one had ever said it in any conversation I had ever been in. 

I was stuck in a perseveration and it almost ruined me for the rest of the trip. Even after, we went to lunch and I must have talked about it a dozen times. Later that day during my drawing class, I spoke to my students about how a painter had solved an aesthetic dilemma and how exciting that discovery was… and how going to the laboratory of repositories of human experience, like the Barnes, discovery was open to them too…

As I was walking the dog this morning, I kept thinking about how much I miss Barton Church and how excited I would be to get into dialog with him over this. I kept thinking about who might be excited by a discovery like this? So i decided to sit down and write… hoping my excitement would show through and how a simple exchange can change everything. How enriched I feel by going to see art.

[starrynight-mantarays]

Back Painting

Ajax is the type of partner to let Xavier paint on his back while laying down,,

Ajax is living in Xavier's dorm because he took Rowan's spot (sorry Rowan, but the boyfriends needed to be together) This is my first writing for them, so hopefully it's not absolutely horrible..

Ao3 link!!

---

"Babe," Xavier says to get Ajax's attention. He looks up from his phone, seeing his boyfriend standing at his desk. "Yeah?" A smile comes up to his face and he doesn't stop it, letting his teeth show a little.

Xavier smiles back at him, "can I paint your back?" asking him nicely and convincingly. Even though Ajax would let him paint whatever he wanted including himself; he loves seeing his work and watching him make it.

Laughing a little at how he's asked, "Sure." he answers simply. Getting up and going over to the other "So, do you want me to lay down over here?" He questions, being confused as how Xavier wants to do this.

"Yeah," pointing to his own bed, "just lay down. Take your shirt off.." he smiles more as he turns around. Ajax listening and doing as he was told, throwing the shirt across the room to land on his bed.

Flopping down on the bed and watching Xavier get everything ready before starting, putting paint in his paint pallet and grabbing some paint brushes. The paint is all kinds of different greens, varying from shades and hues.

As he comes over, he puts his knee on the bed and hikes his other leg over Ajax's waist, straddling his back. Putting the paint pallet down carefully on the bed and taking one of the big brushes before also sitting them down on the bed.

Starting by painting a light green base coat over most of the others back, going from his lower neck to his lower back. The paint brush tickles his skin and makes his giggle a bit whenever he makes a new stroke, making Xavier smile behind him.

After the base coat, he starts with a light sketch of what he wants to do. Marking out and planning where he wants everything to be, putting his full attention on the task at hand.

Ajax sits still for a while, enjoying the peace. But his attention span is too short to sit there for too long, so he eventually brings out his phone. Going on TikTok and scrolling while Xavier peacefully paints his back.

It's domestic, kind of. Sitting here together, in almost complete silence. Feeling comfortable with each other and enjoying each other. It feels as everything is fine, like everything is just so right.

They stay like that for an hour or so, Xavier getting lost in the art; and Ajax watching videos and playing on his phone.

He feels the other lean back towards his legs, getting a farther away view of his work. Adding some fixes and correcting some stuff before getting up and putting the paint brushes in some water, and the paint pallet on the desk.

"Don't move," Xavier says when he sees Ajax looking back at him. Going over and getting his camera, taking it out of the case and making sure there's film. Coming back over to the bed, he climbs back onto his lower back and lines up her camera.

He takes a picture of his artwork, and it saves on the camera so that he can print it out later. Once he makes sure it looks good, he leans over his back and holds the camera in front of Ajax's face, showing him the picture.

"Woah..." He says, very in character of him. Xavier laughs and takes the camera back up to his level, getting off of his back and sitting on the bed. "Can I move?" He asks before he does it, not wanting to ruin the artwork before it needed to be.

"Yeah," he nods, still looking at the camera. Ajax sits up and joins beside him, also looking at the camera; they're shoulder to shoulder, so it's not that hard to see it. "I'm going to print it out," He states.

Ajax nods and hums, "You should, it looks good." praising him for his work. He deserves it, all of his work is amazing and sometimes he doesn't even try to make it good.

He gets up to put the camera away, and Ajax watches him as he does. Once he's done, he comes back over to the other. With Ajax still on the bed, and Xavier standing, there's a big height difference between them.

Neither of them mind as Xavier comes to stand between his legs, putting his hands on the other's shoulders. Ajax awkwardly puts his hands right above his hips, holding him in place loosely. He doesn't know what to do, so he just sits there and lets Xavier look at him, waiting for what he may do.

It doesn't take long before he's leaning down and gently kissing him, the long hair that he had down falling onto the others face. Ajax doesn't do anything about it, instead, he slightly grabs the others hips a bit more tightly.

After a few seconds, Xavier pulls away. They catch their breath a little and look at each other, both smiling a little just from looking at each other. Ajax wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him up and to the side, throwing him on the bed. He yelps, and laughs, and Ajax does too as he brings him closer.

They laugh for a minute before he unwraps his arms but brings them under his arms and keeps them there, one of his snakes come out of his beanie, looking down at Xavier. He looks back up at it but returns his gaze to the other man's eyes after a second.

"Thank you," Ajax says to him sweetly.

"Thank you." Xavier says back to him.

He gets off of Xavier and lays on his side, pulling his boyfriend with him, to which is willingly agrees to. They lay there, Xavier running his hands down along his back, over his artwork and no doubt messing it up a little.

Time passes by, and they stay like that. Ajax falling asleep quickly with the hands running over his shoulders and shoulder blades. Xavier lets him, joining him after a while of thinking about how pretty of a muse his partner is, of course.

---

Muse - [1]

[2] , [3]

(if it doesn't have a link, it's not made yet!!)

[condobuildingbabysitter]

I cater to the whines and whims of a Condominium Association Board of Directors. Some scene setting if, by some stroke of luck, you've never had to know about condominium association management:

Think of the stereotypical Karen filled HOA, creating a small hell for homeowners all across America. A suburban swath of uniformity, policing of inane details, and the most insufferable people in charge. Now, I want you to put that in a 120+ year old building of over 200 units in a major city. The "Lords and Ladies" of this crumbling heap are a Board of Directors, elected volunteers, who make all the major decisions on behalf of every resident. The building is severely underfunded, every day something breaks, no one has a sense of priorities, and one (1) person has to juggle the management of everything onsite for a flat salary for 40 hrs a week (that you literally cannot accomplish the job without working when you get home and on weekends).

So let's break down the players:

Property Manager: me, less than 90 days on the job

Regional Director: boss, who hasn't trained me on the most basic tasks of the job, jokes about how little time they teach me things, and gets visibly upset when I don't know what I haven't learned

Board of Directors: personalities ranging from casually racist finance bro, anally retentive stay at home mommy, "I can do it myself for cheaper" idiots, and people whose main goal is to miss the point.

Residents: now these can really vary. You have folks who probably couldn't afford a single family home, investors looking to charge 3x in rent what a mortgage would cost, people who use a condo in the city seasonally, affluent and elite but fairly young people new to property ownership, and really anything in between, including of course renters.

Now put these people in fun and interesting scenarios like:

"Hey, there is a leak coming from my ceiling. What are you going to do?" Which, of course, isn't an easy answer when you live in condo hell. Is there a roof above you, or another unit? Could be a dishwasher leaking or a pipe belonging to the condo Association. So you have to dispatch someone to investigate. Oh no, but it's Saturday! Too bad, you're calling and coordinating that visit, and the access to the unit. Alright, so it turned out to be a building pipe, but the repair estimate is pricey. Well, the Board of Directors wants you to get prices from 2 other vendors to compare. That took 2 weeks to do, and then they have to decide on one of the estimates, and that's another week. And now the resident has had leaking in their unit for 3 weeks and has bombarded you non stop all while you must play the shield to the Board and their inability to focus on this instead of picking a new color for the lobby paint. They chose an estimate, hooray! But they are broke so you get the work done and now the vendor hounds you for months to pay the bill. The resident isn't happy with how they left the ceiling (new drywall and primer) and is threatening to sue.

This scenario, a million different ways, hundreds of times a year. This new job is a particularly scream-inducing position, but a lot of it is just "normal" in this field. So come along as I tell you about the frequently maddening happenings in your average condo building in a major city.

[damianacottstudio4]

Experiments

i continued to explore different things i could do with this sencil

in all honesty the experiment above was done in like the spur of the moment, i wasn't really getting any ideas so i just started putting pen to paper

there was no vision, idea or theme i was trying to achieve, i really didn't care to much about the outcome i just wanted to try something, i did realise though before making i was hesitant to "mark" the stencil

with this experiment though i kind of put more thought into it

i know the lines vary in size, paint held and direction however i feel like it was more experimental and unplanned, i didn't focus on the direction of the lines to create this 3d look, like the bottom right of the leg, the lines aren't angled they are straight, i feel like this part effects the viewing, glancing over the work the lines are blurred and creates this wavy texture like wind blowing in tall grass whereas the bottom right it kind of feels boring its just horizontal and feels like it has no form or movement when the others do

i do like the outcome, i debated with painting the arms and head however felt that what i had done was already good and if i were to do the arms and head it would be to much, this was in my eyes a good thing, it feels more three dimensional like this

looking back at it i kind of feel like the visual differences between line weight etc. adds more to this textural feel like it emphasises it more, whilst also guiding your eyes, kinda look like tree rings

i noticed that the brushwork was the most "intense" part , the process was very different each time i applied the paint, i tried different methods like applying the paint in one stroke versus two, i played with the pressure(paintbrush, like pushing more/less) as well as the path movement, some are more curved some are more angular/straight edged,

made this in photoshop, played around with the image adjustments like the colour, saturations, hue etc.