#I need some consistency

[pamshindouu]

It's fun looking at this new Lucemon drawing I did now and comparing it to that traditional piece of him I did a few years ago and the one sticker design I made a while back too (that I'll probably post here eventually as well) and noticing how different they all look. I'm sure that finding a unique artstyle that suits you and feels right to you must be great and all, but personally I love being chaotic and experimental and always doing things differently. I do still have a bit of a consistent style behind it all but it keeps morphing into different things. And I like that. It's nice :)

[noolsart]

LOOK I JUST REALLY ENJOY THEIR FRIENDSHIP OK?? You can't tell me they wouldn't hang after their respective personal quests (spawn ending ofc)/emotional breakdowns over their own mortality

EDIT: I forgot to watermark these so now more than ever PLEASE don't repost

[clumsypuppy]

forgot i made this my obsession a while ago

[forgettable-au]

Working on something....

[egophiliac]

was this anyone else's first thought, or

[soldrawss]

Part 2 finally! Part 3 to come soonish,,,

You can find part 1 here!

[adamoose-art]

I heard you like bad timeloopers, I'm bad at everything *winks with missing eye*

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Doodle dump because I have too many thoughts about them </3

Stupid shenanigans during their college era referencing this. Harold used to have a stupid moustache and goatee in that “I just started growing facial hair and idk what to do with it” kind of style.

Giving Melvin friends but also making him the shortest and the angriest out of the gang. He is friends with George and Harold and he hates it so much, he is entrenched in denial about it. His only two besties are each fathers of two and very much married, OF COURSE he's going to be mom/dad-friended to death.

They are judging you.

[cryptic-underground]

The Hunt - Part 1

Masterpost | Next

It's done!!!! Yippee. This took me four months to finish, six of which were finished in the last three days. I couldn't stand staring another second at this so line art only for the remaining two-thirds.

I blame Filbrick for my lack of motivation because I would stare at his face and instantly lose my will to draw. (Probably just being overwhelmed by how much I needed to do but ANYWAY-)

This part is done now. I'll start on part 2 eventually, but for now I'm resting. It won't be coloured, just cleaned up because damn I overestimated myself on this one. I believed in my ability do long-period tasks way too much.

But anyhow. Since it's been *four months* since I intentionally mentioned this comic, i should reexplain the premise. So I had been watching an animatic on yt, and I was reading the description when it mentioned Moral Orel. It inspired me on a what-if idea of Filbrick taking one of his sons on a camping trip to beat some toxic masculinity into them. I had a poll to decide whether this supposed son would be Stan or Shermie ( I hc Shermie as older) since I could honestly see either slotting into this scenario with Filbrick. Was leaning a bit more towards Shermie just because I figured he would be a more hands-on in dictating his life choices than the twins, y'know first born debuff and all. But Stan won, and who am I to deny, right?

I picture the twins being somewhere between 13-15 during this. Like a little after Filbrick had them doing boxing. Anyway, I am going to go take a break from thinking about this comic.

[smellroy]

Noticed these goggles around Tozer’s neck but can’t remember a scene with him wearing them

[hatsbuckets]

Another Price x wife/fem!reader ficlet because I'm addicted to him. might do a nikprice thing soon though.

cw: eventual smut (designated at the ellipses), so 18+ but i wanted it to be cozy. It's a soft fic tbh, I cried. nothing too descriptive but oral! fem receiving, p in v unprotected, idk if anything else.

The door clicks shut behind him with the gentlest sound, but even that feels like too much. He moves on autopilot. Boots off. Coat hung. Bag dropped. Keys placed. Hands still dirty, fingers aching from the cold, from the tension that never left his knuckles even once.

He hasn’t spoken in hours, and now the silence stretches around him, too big and too loud all at once, but then he sees you.

You're curled up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked, head tilted, some book half-forgotten in your lap. Light catches on your face like it was meant to land there, like it knew that’s where it should rest and so does he.

He crosses the room without thinking. His knees hit the floor, slow and creaking, and his hands reach for you like they always do--like they must. He doesn’t know what to say, wouldn’t trust his voice even if he did. All he knows is this: he needs you. Just you and your warmth and weight and breath.

He leans in and lays his head to your chest, where your heartbeat taps steady against his cheek, strong and soft and very alive. He exhales slow and steady, the breath shaking out of him.

And fuck, your smell. That quiet warmth he only ever finds here. The fabric of your shirt soft against his skin. Your fingers brush in his hair without needing to be asked. He presses his face in further, breathes deeper, lets his arms slide around your waist and up your ribs and stay there, holding the rise and fall of your lungs in his palms. His thumb brushes the smallest motion along the proof that you’re still here. That he’s still here. Your heartbeat’s in his ear, and he counts the beats like a lifeline.

He tangles his legs with yours, big frame curling in like he wants to crawl into the space where you exist and never leave where there’s no mission, no gunfire, no blood he couldn’t stop. Just stay in the place where your chest rises and falls and rises again, and the way your body always makes room for him.

He doesn’t cry, but he thinks maybe if you said his name right now--soft, like you mean it--he just might.

So instead, he whispers yours, quiet, like a prayer. And when you breathe deep, slow and steady, he lets himself match it. He lets your rhythm become his anchor. He lets your hands in his hair bring him home.

... smut below ...

He doesn’t plan on asking for anything, doesn’t plan on taking, or moving, or talking. He just needed to feel your chest rise and fall beneath him. He needed your warmth to bleed into his skin and remind him he’s alive, that he came home, again and again, to you.

But then your fingers slip under his shirt, brushing the bare skin of his back, tracing an old scar at his hip--warm and gentle and familiar--and his whole body shudders with pure relief.

Your touch travels slow, up from the scar to the top of his shoulder blade. It moves featherlight down the line of his spine, then up again, smoothing over the tension in his shoulders. He breathes out hard--chest trembling against yours--and presses his mouth to your sternum, open and reverent, just a kiss, just him saying thank you without needing to speak.

Your hand moves from his hair to cradle his cheek. You tip his chin up, give that one, soft smile, and he’s unmade.

He shifts, pushes up on his arms to hover above you, his big hands bracing either side of your waist. For a moment he just looks, studies the way your lips part, the way your skin glows in the low light, the way your eyes hold him like you want all of him... like he’s not too much.

His hands move slow. He undoes the buttons of your shirt one by one, like unwrapping something precious. His fingers are light, shaking, moving not to get it off fast, but to savor it. Every inch of skin revealed is met with his mouth, soft kisses to your collarbone, your ribs, the inside curve of your waist. You feel his beard drag, the scratch of it rough, every brush a reminder that he's here.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You nod, and that’s all he needs.

He kisses down your stomach like he could live in the space between his lips and your skin. His hands massage your thighs, slow circles with his thumbs, and when he parts your legs, it’s with reverence.

He's still for a long moment, just looks at you, eyes meeting yours through his lashes. He breathes against your skin, rests his head on your thigh, lets you feel how much he wants this, how much he needs to give. Then his mouth lowers, and he starts slow. Long, languid movements of his tongue, gentle kisses to the inside of your thigh in between, murmured nothings and praises half-swallowed by the way he holds you open for him.

He stays there, mouth devoted, until you’re trembling with it, until your fingers are in his hair, tugging, until you whisper his name like it’s a secret only he deserves. And even then, he takes his time.

When he finally comes back up, he's meeting your soft, blissed smile with his own. He kisses you slow, like he’s savoring your taste on his tongue, like he wants you to know what you do to him and what you mean to him.

You help him out of the rest of his clothes, soft touches and kisses exchanged in the quiet between breaths. When he finally slides into you, it’s deep and deliberate--one long press that has both of you gasping into the space between your mouths.

“Fuck,” he whispers, lips against your cheek.

"Romantic, John," you whisper, all tease in your voice.

He hums, happily pressed as close as he can be, warm skin against warm skin. Your hands slide up his chest, fingers brushing through the course hairs there until they lock behind his back.

He finally moves, barely any space between where your hips meet before he's back again. He just rocks into you, slow and steady, his whole body wrapped around yours like he could shield you from the world and could hide here, in you, forever.

He murmurs your name, over and over. He tells you you’re perfect, tells you you’re his.

You come apart beneath him, soft, and gasping, and so beautiful--you know because he tells you so--he follows with a low moan and a stuttering breath, clutching you to him like a drowning man finding shore. He stays inside you for a while, presses his forehead to yours and breathes with you. He only moves away when you're both ready, sighing longingly at the seperation.

His hands settle once again at your waist, just as they did when he walked through the door, feeling your breath rise and fall beneath his palms. His head rests over your heart. And after a few moments he sleeps. Despite the sweat and spend--and grime still on him--you don't dare move because he's yours and he’s safe and he’s home.

thanks for reading

[sodapopper]

your darry art gives “if you frown so much your face is gonna stick like that.” except he’s got such bad rbf he never had a chance (this is a compliment btw)

This man will never live down the rbf allegations, and who can blame him when this is his daily experience.

[yuwuta]

you ask yuuta if he wants a bite of your food and when he says yes you offer your plate to him, but he’s just sat there looking at you with his dumb big bambi boy eyes and his mouth slightly open and he will not look away or blink or close his mouth until you lift your fork to his lips to feed him and then he grins like shit’s sweet and hums about how good the food is like nothing happened like he’s not ridiculously attractive. gonna chew on steel

[steelandmayhem]

The other day, I saw a non-fandom text post along the lines of:

“What we had was so special you’ll look for me in every new person” (sorry I haven’t been able to find it again)

And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Because to me this perfectly describes Durgetash + romancing your companions.

I can’t help thinking about amnesiac Durge missing something, always searching, but can’t remember what.

They find echoes of it in Gale’s intelligence, his enthusiasm and knowledge when he speaks about magic. And yet, it doesn’t fit entirely.

They find it in Lae’zel’s easy superiority, her ruthlessness and determination. And yet, it’s not quite enough.

They find it in Astarion’s deception and easy charm, the way he manipulates a situation to his advantage, the way he doesn’t need magic to have people literally bare their necks to him.

They find it in Shadowheart’s snark, her secrecy, her dark goddess. They find it in Karlach’s rage (though she burns hot instead of cold which is odd..), in the smell of sulphur and hellfire that clings to her. They especially find it in her mechanical heart, that makes them want to reach out, bury their hands in it, just to see if it feels as familiar as it seems. If maybe owning her heart will fill the hole in their memories, their chest even.

And yet, surprisingly, they find it in Wyll’s pact, Wyll’s past, but also Wyll’s manners and they way he dances, his stories, that make them feel closer to a city they don’t much care about otherwise.

They find it in the deep possessiveness, maybe even hatred, when Raphael first comes to camp.

And yet none of it is enough, none of it fits quite right, and while maybe eventually they manage to look past that familiar feeling and find new things to admire about their chosen partner…deep in their heart they know.

In the end, they’ll always look for something none of them can give them.

Not until they first encounter that handsome young man with an easy smile, and all the jagged broken edges click together like horrible little puzzle pieces.

[unstoppable-ratlord]

It's been a while since I made a midnight meme redraw I should really get back on that

[thebramblewood]

Little does Ulrike know Helena has the (vampire) sugar mommy from hell... and she's here to crash the party.

Previous / Next

Featuring a lot by @moonwoodhollow, gnome art by @pocketgnome, Leonor and Renzo by @nexility-sims, Rosella, George, and Jo by @aheathen-conceivably, and Nettie by @venriliz.

Ulrike: Did you know I would be showing tonight?

Helena: No. God, no. I wouldn’t have come if I knew… I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to see you, but… I promise I’m not, like, stalking y-

Ulrike: [laughs] Take a breath, Zhao. I didn’t mean to accuse you. But can you blame me for being caught off guard? Why are you in Windenburg?

Helena: Oh, I’ve been staying nearby with some… friends.

Ulrike: What friends?

Helena: No one you know.

Ulrike: Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was doing the residency.

Helena: I just… didn’t want things to be awkward.

Ulrike: And bumping into each other like this isn’t?

[overlapping crowd chatter]

Ulrike: God, I can barely hear myself think. Let’s talk somewhere quieter.

-

Ulrike: Level with me, Zhao. Are you okay?

Helena: What? I’m fine.

Ulrike: You’ve barely even made eye contact, which I know means you’re lying about something. That dress looks expensive — and that jewelry. Your hair is so glossy I can see my own reflection. Your skin is clear as glass. I think I know what’s going on here.

Helena: Ulrike, I can explain-

Ulrike: You’re someone’s sugar baby.

Helena: [bursts out laughing] Oh my god, Faust. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

Ulrike: At least it got you to look at me. Helena, your eyes! They almost seem red.

Helena: [dismissively] It must be the lights. Now, tell me, how the fuck have those gnomes still got you in a chokehold after all this time?

Ulrike: There’s the Zhao I know, always asking the hard-hitting questions.

-

Lilith: Unhand me, you brute! You and your approved guest list can both go straight to hell. [to Caleb] Did you truly think not inviting me would prevent me from finding out about this delightful little event?

Caleb: [calmly] It wasn't meant to be a secret. I just didn’t think you’d care to come.

Lilith: [teasingly] Your thoughts betray you, baby brother.

Caleb: My thoughts betray nothing. You simply followed us here.

Lilith: Well, if only the two of you weren’t so obnoxious about occupying each other’s headspace. Admit it. You only keep me out to tip the scales in your favor.

Caleb: As though you wouldn’t do the same — if you could. But you hear only as much as she’s willing to tell you, and it drives you mad.

Lilith: [giggles] Oh, this is a fun game. We've never feuded over a girl before. I thought that sort of thing would be beneath you, considering your-

Caleb: Don’t be gauche, Lilith. It’s not a g-

Lilith: Yes, there they are — your hideously boring morals. [heaves dramatic sigh] I’d love to keep chatting, but I must take a look around. I’ve always been a patron of the arts.