#choppy rendering

[theartbishop324]

Kneel.

[saewokhrisz]

ive embraced the madness actually

[ngelwaves]

Taanvi ✧ Genesis ✧ Kali

[slimmestslime]

the purgatory dragon is real !!

[flexibility-love-andtrust]

this new X-Men '97 show had the potential to be truly incredible, if it wasn't ruined by all the ai slop...

[falinscloaca]

feels like they’ve been doing the framerate different or something on curses. neat effect.

[doll3tt33]

My haunted lungs, ghost in the sheets…

(sub!colin zabel x dom!reader)

Summary: collared and leashed up, Colin finds himself under your dominant control, submitting himself as your fucktoy for the night. Buuuut, there may or may not be a fun little plot twist at the end :)

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, BDSM, collar and leash, slight choking, orgasm denial, degradation, use of ‘ma’am’, dumbification (I think??), Colin being the dork he is

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble originally but I kept adding on and on, so it’s kinda all over the place and rly choppy??? Idk I’m tired of editing it so whatever

“Mm… hah-… please… faster m-ma’am…”

Lewd moans, mingled with a chorus of whispered cusses managed to escape Colin’s breathless body, heart thudding in his chest with a suffocating anticipation.

His throat constricted, struggling to draw in even the slightest gasp of air, hindered further by the snug collar encircling his neck - a bright Barbie pink one, adorned with glitter too for whatever reason that he did not question.

And there you were, holding the leash firmly in your hand, owning him like the willing little fucktoy he was in that moment.

A tingling buzz reverberated in his ears as you rode his cock perfectly, his tip kissing the spongey spot inside of you with each slippery stroke, effortlessly sliding into your cunt like warm, melted butter. It was seamless - each motion melding into the next, polished to a fine sheen. He never recalled sex ever feeling this good, a bit too good in fact, that it was almost unreal.

Colin's body trembled, his knees threatening to give way as a powerful shockwave of quivers surged through his muscles. His dick twitched inside of you, sensitivity reaching a new height as his every nerve tingled with sizzling anticipation. “Oh god, oh god!-” he rasped, each breath a heaving groan.

His hands, desperately splayed across your back, leaving a trail of crescent-shaped imprints on your flushed skin, evidence of his fervent grip. With each of your movements, his hips met yours, matching your relentless rhythm. “Mmf- fuck, I think I’m gonna…” he teetered off into another hoarse gasp, leaving his lips parted. “…Shit, can’t h-hold it in any longer, ‘m gonna cum!”

“Oh baby,” you breathed, your finger tracing the outline of his jaw. As his impending orgasm loomed closer, you purposely slowed your movements, every inch of him pulsating against your tight walls.

Then, without warning, you took control, yanking the leash with a firm tug until he was face to face with you. Your eyes, dark and playful, held fast to his own round, alarmed ones. “Where are your manners? I don’t recall granting you permission to finish, did I?” You cooed in mock reproach, gaze fluttering across the contours of his face, made striking by a sheen of sweat and that edge of desperation that clung to him like a second skin.

“Uhm… I…” Colin mumbled between heavy panting. His mind was adrift, distracted by the heady cocktail of sensations that rendered him blissfully dazed.

At his lack of response, you gave the leash another harsh tug, jolting him back to focus with a startled yelp. “I said,” you repeated, voice laced with a steely edge. “did I give you permission to cum? Colin.” Each syllable enunciated sternly, as if giving orders to a disobedient pup.

Wide-eyed, Colin stared at you with a strange blend of terror and a whole lot of arousal, practically fucked stupid. “Yes- I mean no- no you didn’t! I uh-“ he gulped, throat bobbing as he struggled to find the right words, the collar constricting his neck only adding to his unease.

“I apologize,” he finally managed to utter out. “Can I… may I cum, ma’am?…” His voice cracked, and his legs quivered under the weight of his desire, a battle waged within to contain himself from jack-hammering into you like a wild animal in heat.

With a flickering smile, you leaned closer, draping your voice in an intimate rumble to tease him further. “Uh-uh, nope,” you replied, still rolling your hips at a torturously slow speed, the thickness of his cock's veins gently massaging your fleshy insides. “I wanna hear you beg for it, like a good boy.”

Bewilderment and eagerness dawned across Colin's face, his unblinking eyes reflecting a hint of flustered excitement. "Go on," you urged, punctuating your words with an exaggerated mewl of pleasure, almost as if you were starring in a cheesy porno. "Beg for me, beg for me to let you cum so you can have that sweet relief you crave so so desperately.”

A blush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks cherry red. “…P-Please ma’am,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “Please let me cum…” The neediness in his tone was unmistakable, a raw plea that seemed to have ignited an almost sickening glimmer of excitement to stir within your features.

“Huh? What was that?” You giggled kittenishly.

“Speak up, I wanna hear that pretty voice of yours begging for me.” You picked your rhythm back up, each vigorous thrust urging his words to the surface. In response, his hips jerked upwards, nearly causing you to bounce on his dick like a pornstar possessed.

“I-I said please!” Colin moaned out, focusing his resolve behind squeezed eyelids as he clings to restraint, awaiting that delicious green light with bated breath. “Pretty please? ’m gonna b-burst here.” He sputtered, bordering on a pathetic whimper of plea, most likely receiving the worst case of blue balls in his life.

A slow, wicked smile spread across your face, savoring the sound of his submission. “Mm that’s what I like to hear, such a good boy. So desperate and whiny for me…” you hummed softly in delight, reveling in the sight of Colin writhing pitifully beneath you.

With a swift, commanding motion, you rode him harder, you pulled your hips down as you buried his cock balls-deep into your weeping heat, your slickness embracing his length with an irresistible spongey grip. Instinctively, Colin’s own hips strained upwards once more, attempting to match your movements, but his mind was an absolute dizzying tangle of horniness and horniness alone to keep up.

“Y-Yes… jus’ please don’t stop… you feel so fuckin’ good, holy shit-“ a groan bounced out from his throat, momentarily choking on his own words. “God, you’re so soft, b-but tight! But also reaaaally crazy soft, like- like what is happening?” He chuckled breathlessly, before blurting out the worst choice of words possible.

"Hah- it feels like I'm having sex with a cloud..."

Quickly, his jabbering came to a screeching halt as he realized the absurdity of his comparison - he probably shouldn’t tell the person he’s having sex with that they feel like ‘condensed water vapor’ of all things.

“Ohmygod- that came out wrong,” he rushed to backtrack for the life of him, his words stumbling over one another. “I-I don’t know why I said that. Jus’ for the record, you feel like a perfectly normal beautiful woman, definitely NOT a cloud. Sorry, did I turn you off there or?….”

Exasperation pulled your lips into a tight, grim line, a loud sigh escaped you as Colin's rambling continued, his words blending into a flustered flurry that you chose to tune out.

When he paused to take a breath, you interjected with a sharpness that cut through the air. “Do me a favor and shut it,” you commanded, emphasizing your words with a forceful grind of your pelvis. The sensation of his thick length stretching and filling your tightness loosed trails of shivers to race along his skin, briefly distracting him from his own incessant chatter.

Colin, catching onto your unspoken demand, mirrored your actions with a reflexive shudder of his body. A quick nod, filled with frenzied energy, served as an agreement to keep his mouth shut for good.

“S-Sorry… y’ever just… hah-… word-vomit nonsense first thing?… actually… jus’ ignore me…” his sentence dissolved into a breathless whimper, his focus reclaiming the brink of climax, where pleasure threatened to consume him once again.

Your icy visage cracked, revealing a hint of amusement playing on your lips as you tutted at him. "It's alright, baby," you murmured, a touch of patronizing affection coloring your voice. "Just keep being my pretty little plaything, okay?" With the back of your hand, you gently caressed his cheek, offering him a fleeting trace of your touch.

“…Yes ma’am,” Colin sighed softly, oblivious to the implications and unconcerned about being referred to as a mere 'plaything’. Right now, his pride took a backseat, dignity completely thrown out the window.

Curiously, his gaze wandered downwards, fixating on your perky breasts, helplessly spellbound by the way your tits bounced right above his face with each collision of your bodies, lips curled up ever so slightly in burgeoning grin of delight. As shameless as it was, what man doesn’t have his vices? Colin certainly does, that’s for sure.

“Colin, baby…” a muted moan of bliss broke from your lips, head lolled back as you rocked your body faster, thighs flexing and relaxing in turn. “…I want you to do something for me…” Your sultry whisper snared Colin's attention once more as his admiring stare traveled from your chest to linger on your features, brown doe eyes gleaming with fervor.

“A-Ah… yes?… what i-is it?…” Each word from Colin came out more ragged than the last, matching the fiery intensity building low between his thighs.

Gaze softening, a rosy glow overspread your face, betraying the growing tension winding within the depths of your loins, ready for release “…I want you t-to be a good boy and fill me up real good. Fill me till I’m all nice, warm, and full,” The words slipped from your tongue like liquid velvet, every phrase gliding past in a way that enthralled Colin completely, his pupils darkening over your moving form with undisguised longing.

“Can you do that for me Col?” you asked tenderly, the hold on the leash tightening, the collar exerting its grip, pressing firmly against his ruddied skin - though blunt in deed, your words still rang a syrupy sweetness.

Yet, instead of diminishing, the impact fanned Colin’s excitement into a rising tide. A blissful balm bled through his being, loosening every taut limb into rapture. “Yes!… fuck… Mm.. god,” he panted incoherently, his back arching slightly off the bed as he bottomed out inside you with increased vigor, his red swollen tip continuously bumping deep into you, practically shattering your cervix (or so he thought)

“I wanna f-fill you up so bad… wanna be a good boy for you…” he babbled uncontrollably, mouth moving on its own as a string of nonsense tumbled out in a disjointed rhythm - another word-vomit he’d rather be caught dead than ever spew in any other scenario.

However in the end, none of it weighed on him much, for when you felt so warm and tight around him, ready to milk him dry as things were reaching to an all-consuming climax…

And finally…

Fate decided to deliver a massively rude interruption and pull its trademark cock-blocking move.

BEEP-BEEP

An alarm brazenly blared, and almost immediately, slivers of Colin’s consciousness snapped back to reality. Disoriented, he blinked in the gray dawn light, peering about in confusion as he found only rumpled sheets, where moments before had… you, on top (and of course, the unforgettable sparkly hot pink collar and leash)

In a moment of trepidation, his hand blindly reached for connection as it dipped into his boxers, only for his fingertips to feel something quite... sticky. Well… this is a new low - cumming in his sleep from a dream where you topped and dominated him? Good one Colin, good one.

At the same time, as much as he tried to downplay the dream's "appeal," his libido had little choice but to take notice that it piqued his interests in a way a dreary month of monastic masturbation never could.

Yeah he’d carry this to his grave. In fact, this dream was hitting the coffin six feet under and hopefully deeper. This was staying strictly on a need-to-know basis, and no one but him needed to know, especially NOT you.

However… despite the reluctance to admit, the last hazy remnants of the dream clung to his fading sleep, awaking him with a lingering warmth that refused to fully release its hold. So perhaps, continuing where he left off wouldn’t hurt… right?

“Jus’ a little longer..." he sighed wistfully, eyes fluttering shut once more, hoping to slip back into his dream about you (and perhaps into you). But reality began to intrude as embarrassment set in. "Woah-ho-ho, wait-" Colin jerked upright as if struck, vigorously shaking his head in an effort to banish such thoughts. "Nope. Nopety-nope, not going there. Get a grip Colin, get a grip." he mentally scolded himself.

With flushed cheeks, Colin scrambled out of bed - best not to linger on fanciful sex dreams and instead focus on changing out of his sweaty cum-stained boxers.

-------☆-------

SORRY IF THE PLOT TWIST IS RLY SILLY LMAOOO. I want to clarify that this was not a last minute idea, because reading it now… it really looked like I decided to throw it in there randomly-

The fic was supposed to be shorter and more ‘fuzzy’, like an actual dreamlike atmosphere, but then I went overboard with the details which is kinda dumb, cuz who has this much sensory experience in a dream bro 😭😭

🤍 taglist (probs will be writing an older!grumpy neighbor!Kit smut next, lemme know if u wanna be tagged!): @lacucarachapisser @fear-is-truth @evanpetersbf @nickrhodeslittledarling @babydollxxblood

[mewmew-dream]

uh, is it too late to make slay the princess long quiet (and narrator) designs..? the voices designs will get designed soon! ((narrator design is basically a spoiler for those who haven't seen or played to the end of the game so beware!)) theres more info for the design and the narrator's design below along with the full image!! - - - took me so long to actually start drawing out my design tbh! mostly a mix of procrastination and other things honestly!. anyways! you may notice how my design differs from what others designed the long quiet as and the official vague renderings of him! this is very much on purpose if you couldnt tell as there is an explanation for this. - (sorry in advanced for the very odd and choppy explanation, im not very good at explaining things so i'll probably draw what i mean later to compensate) - the long quiet in the first loop(s) looks like this, but with each new part to that specific loop he'll start transforming, looking more bird like (like what we have to go off of from art from the game) each time. this also happens in the void area! (i know its called the long quiet also but i call it the void.) the design was my first idea of the game before getting the game and knowing what happened but i kept the design, just not the reason on why he looks like this! basically my thought process on this before was basically " guy who was sketchy to begin with got cursed? cool! but he has to slay a princess due to him being an outcast and his curse? better!! " it doesnt hold up when you know what happened / happens in the end though but yeah.

the narrator is based off what we get from the mirror when the player obtains 5 vessels for the shifting mound, except with all seeing eyes i guess.. he stays near the long quiet to observe in each loop yet out of sight. of course his voice is in the long quiets head so distance isnt accounted for when he's talking! he of course can see the voices as well with those big ol' eyes.

aaand heres the full image! shoutout to anyone who can see the very visible but suppose to be hidden details! (they where very last minute..) also ignore the odd neck feathers, i was gonna add more to the chest but forgot up until now but i might fix it later!!

[mr-tsuyo]

i love the style of that 3d render of your character! may i ask how you animated the outline and made the whole thing pixel-y? :0

Very glad you asked!

There isn't many tutorials on how to make this kind of stuff so I am totally glad to be the first one.

BLENDER 2.5D TUTORIAL

First of all

Get your model ready and steady, that part is what I ain't explaing, however if you want it to have these colors, you will have to put this nodes in your texture shader

`[ This is for her red jacket, the lower nodes is for her primary colour and the upper nodes are for her shadows, which also has some extra nodes to give it a comic texture. ]

Quick reminder to give the model some lineart yourself to the parts that don't form its sihlouette, for example her shoes.

Now for the lineart, first of all make sure you have created a black Emissive material and that it has Backface Culling activated

After that go to the Modifier Properties and add a Solidify modifier

Make sure to Flip the Normals, set the Material Offset to where the Lineart material is, and adjust a little bit the Thickness of the mesh, then you will get some natural good-looking lineart like hers.

Now, you could easily be satisfied like this, but now we are going to make it feel like each frame is a new drawing by making her model lineart jiggly

First of all create a Displacement Modifier and give it a cloud texture

Make sure to lower the strenght and midlevel, otherwise it will look like this

Now, create an Empty Plain Axes and go to the Displace modifier, change the coordinates from Local to Object and focus the object on the Empty

And thanks to this adjustments, if you move the empty around, it will create a slight jiggle

Now what we want is for this empty to automatically move around without you having to do anything

Create a new screen and go to the Graph Editor section

In here we will be making the empty move with a modifier

Select the empty and press "I" of Italy and select Location, this will create a keyframe for the empty that we will be able to manipulate

Go to the Editor and ONLY SELECT THE Z POSITION, and then go to the Modifiers tab and add a Noise modifier

Make sure to adjust the Scale and the Strength so that it looks more proper for the jiggle effect, make it look like a rollercoaster!

And now, if you did everything right, your empty will be moving up and down and all around by its own

WHICH also means, the model displacement will follow the path of the empty to create that jiggly effect we crave so so much

However...

The model is indeed jiggling, but it's doing it the wrong way, we are trying to make it look like a cartoon not a gosh darnit gelatin

So to make it jiggle the right way we are going to make its noise feel more STEPPED

Go back to the modifiers of the Graph Editor and add a Stepped Interpolation, and make sure it has a Step Size of 5

And now we finally get the choppy jiggle effect!!

Now you can play around the Displace and the Noise to make it more or less jiggly

But nonetheless, if you followed the tutorial right, you will be gifted with the perfect looking 2.5D effect!!!

Now you can go ahead and try to fool everyone into thinking a 3D animation is 2D

And before we wrap up, one more extra for the one who asked how this is made,

We are going to make the render feel pixel-y!

Go to Render Properties, make sure you are using Eevee, and in Sampling put the Render on 1 and the Viewport on 0

Then go to Output Properties and you can do two things:

1) Change the X n Y to a size lower than 1000 px

2) Change the Resolution % to these numbers (8, 16, 32, 64) This way if you wanna do pixel art you are more accurate

For this render I used the 1st option

And last but not least, in the Output Properties make sure you save your files in the right way with these settings

THen render animation, make an image sequence with all the pngs, and TA-DAH

You get a pixel-y 2.5D animation!!!

Thank you so much for checking, I hope this is useful for anyone who wants to do this stuff, if anyone has any questions don't be afraid to ask, I may have explained some stuff badly.

Anyways have a very jolly day

Tsuyo OUT

[elioslover]

Afterparties on Tour (One Shot- Italrry x reader).

Premise: Love on Tour is over and Harry needs to tell you how he feels.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: / Other writing

[I'm a little late to the party but here's a little snippet of Love on Tour ending and Harry's vay-cay in Italy. Obviously Italrry! is my favourite, I have a whole fic about it lmao.]

🪐

The moon bounces across the gentle but choppy waves, coming to a crash against the scattered rocks before dissipating and retreating from the shore. It must be loud considering the celebrations behind you, a chorus of cheers and booming base. 

Feet devoid of shoes, toes buried in the cool sand, nursing a drink and gazing out at the ocean, all that dancing has rendered you an unfit kid in gym class. It’s taken longer than you expected to even your exhales, and once it had settled, the feeling of your skin enveloped in the sand has you staying put. At least a moment longer. 

It would help soothe your thoughts about that succubus dressed in only a pair of short-shorts and a loose-fitted button-up, dancing far too close, eyes far too bright, glimmering under the ultraviolet strobes. 

He is so unaware of how unhinged he makes you feel, it seems like he only aims to pull you in further- so unaware, that he couldn’t begin to comprehend the concept of needing space and is already making his way over to your hunched figure. 

You hear him long before you see him, his steps are heavy and uneven, you can just picture the way he fumbles about, a faint and fond smile soothing your frown.

Once he is only a foot away, he announces his presence, 

“Oi! I’ve been lookin’ for ya.” 

He comes to a halt, and as you tilt your head to acknowledge him, your face is levelled with his thigh, bare, unnecessarily thick, and begging to have teeth sunk into its fleshy skin. 

Your brain is buzzing with profanities, ‘Jesus fuck’, ‘fuckin’ unfair.' 'fuck, fuck.' But you hold it together with perseverance, patting the empty spot in the sand beside you an invitation, 

“Hi, Lovie. Have fun?”

He obliges with a loopy, and cheesy grin that obliterates your sense of composure. He is so clueless as he drops to the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, arms stretched out to keep balanced. His finger brushes against your thigh, and you are furious with how easily your skin flares with fireworks. 

Harry takes a deep breath, craning his neck and tilting his face to fix his gaze on your own, his eyes sultry, pupils swollen with celebration. His smile only widens, 

“Much better now.”

He has to know what he’s doing. Surely. You cannot risk looking into his eyes for even a moment, fearful it will end with your lips trailing along his neck, tongue lapping and nipping at the nape. And for obvious reasons, you cannot look at his mouth, instead diverting both your gaze and the topic,

“I like the hat.”

“I’ll give it back, I swear.” He doesn’t want to. 

“Don’t. it looks better on you.” You want him to keep it forever. 

There’s a hopeful look that flashes across not only his green gaze but the crinkles of the corners of his eyes, swelling dimpled cheeks, and dramatically raised brows.  

You don’t like that look; it makes your insides melt into one big ball of overwhelming happiness and hopefulness. He could set you alight with one facial expression, just imagine what would happen if he did even more. 

You cannot will yourself to find out, choosing to commend him instead,

“You’ve been dancing up a storm.” 

“Mm. Wanted you to dance with me.” He nods, eyes lulling shut, his chin tilted to the stars.

“I did. For a good three or four songs.” 

He seems the opposite of satisfied, bushy brows creasing into a furrow and crinkling his forehead,

“Want you to dance with me all night.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You take the risk of brushing your shoulder against his own.

“And you’re beautiful.” He instantly retorts, tainting your skin with blushing berries, thankful that the moon reflects on the ocean instead of your cheeks. 

You’re even more thankful when Harry moves on without your help, inquisitively pointing at the cup still clutched in your palm, 

“Whatcha drinkin’?” 

“I think vodka and cranberry.” You ponder, glancing down and swirling the cup, liquid sloshing against the glass. 

He motions for it, holding his hand out, and you are more than tempted to drop the drink and wrap your palm in his. But he waits with anticipation, and you can only oblige and pass him what he wants, settling for a swift moment of your fingers brushing against his own. 

Tilting back, neck mercilessly on display, Harry takes an unintentionally large sip, swallowing with sudden unnerving panic. His mouth is an explosion of sugar sticking to his gums, sending electric charges straight to his brain, 

“Christ that’s sweet!” He exclaims, eyes scrunching with distaste, his hand blinding stretching out to return the concoction to your custody. 

“Just like me.”

“Just like you.” He mirrors. And he’s looking over at you now, eyelids swelled and intoxicated, lashes wisping, irises flickering in the moonlight. His expression slowly morphs into one of soft sorrow, and he can’t stop himself from speaking the silly truth, "'M gonna miss you, y’know.”

“You’ll still see me.” You attempt reassurance, but you’re almost certain Harry can hear the way your words stay trapped between your teeth, squeaking out with disappointment. You are disappointed if that even begins to cover it. 

“Not every day though.” He whines but before your heart can skip a full beat, he panics and presses on, “You’re the best assistant.” This is partially true- you are the best assistant, but Harry will definitely miss you for much more than that. 

You scoff softly, lacking the courage to take his words as anything other than platonic banter, a culmination of spending a prolonged period together- over two years to be precise. 

In honesty, you hope Harry shares same ache as your already-churning stomach at the thought of spending the unforetold future apart. It's embarrassing, though, knowing you feel far too much for a boy whose only obligation is to be shared with the world. 

“Oh, please. You’re just gonna miss being waited on hand and foot.” 

“That too.” He teases, hardly able to hold any sternness in his words, more focused on proving his feelings of fearing the distance from you. He needs to make sure you know. Before it’s too damn late, “But I'm gonna miss you more.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.” You try to rationalise and lighten the mood for both of your sakes. 

“Hardly! My heart’s been breaking for days.” He flails his arms with a flair of dramaticism, even stomping his foot into the sand with extra emphasis. Dramatic display aside, Harry means every word, just the statement has his chest closing in. 

“I think that’s all the Scotch talking.” You say in an attempt to stop your own chest from aching the same. 

“I’m serious!” He defends, frustrated that you seem to have mastered the art in denseness… or diversion… which is worse?  

It’s obvious to Harry that you’re gonna need a little more convincing, and he is happy to oblige, turning his torso to face you, eyes fixed on your nerve-ridden ones, 

“Gonna miss your clumsiness, and your positivity,” he likes the way your face tilts down with shyness, lips pressing together bashfully, “and your sweet laugh.” He’s heard it once, he wants to hear it on a loop for all of eternity. 

His truthfulness is almost believable, but even if it was, you aren’t sure what to do with the information. He’s just begging for you to smother him in kisses at this point, and the conviction that he is simply unaware of the effect his words have on you is encouraging you not to indulge. Instead, you are rerouting the conversation again, 

“None of that has to do with me being your tour assistant.”

“Still.” 

Contradictory to his tongues distaste, Harry wants to touch your hand again, even for just a second, so he reaches for the glass of reddish liquid, skin sizzling when your hold lingers, taking an extra gulp for good luck, a small droplet of cranberry slipping down the slope of his bottom lip. 

The silence, though comfortable is deafening, and Harry needs to hear your velvety voice again, 

“Say it.”

You turn yourself to accept his authoritative switch, eager to see where he plans on going with this. Ignoring the desperate temptation to rub your thumb across his peachy, puckered lips, absolving him of the merciless sweetness, you take back the drink and finish its contents with one swift, throat-swelling swallow. Eyes crinkling from the candy cruelty, you discard the glass and give him your all,

“Say what?” 

“Say it!” 

He persists, looking at you with the most darling of pouts, a glimmer of mischievous knowing- wanting you to confirm his wishes. And, who would you be to deny him such an obvious confession?

“I’m gonna miss you too, Harry.”

“How much?” 

“You really are ridiculous!” Your eyes roll in sync with the huff that slips from between your teeth. 

“And you’re beautiful.” He says like it's old news, “We’ve been over this, how much are you gonna miss me?” 

Your stomach is in your head, your head is in your heart, and your heart is in Harry’s hands, unsuspectingly holding your entirety between the creases of his palms. 

He cannot know. So, you gesture your thumb and pointer finger together in matrimony but leave the tiniest of spaces in between- the false space in which you hold your sorrows for his soon departure, 

“This much.”

“So little?” He playfully pouts, and unbeknownst to you, his pupils are swelling with desperation for you to miss him as much as he, you.  

“Hmm, maybe this much.” With little leeway, you expand your two fingers as far as they will stretch, allowing your longing to settle in the gap. 

Harry's eyes light up with some sort-of satisfaction, his forehead raising, creases disappearing as his dimples swell from the force of his fiery smirk,

“Just as I suspected.”

“What’s that now?” 

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that… I win.” He concludes, boyish grin only growing- if possible- and with as much grace as one could have after two Scotchs, Harry stretches his arms out, swerving to miss you, his muscles spanning like that of a proud swan, “Cause I’m gonna miss you thisss much.”

His body is starting to stiffen and then loses all rigidity, he can’t stop- well, even if he could, he wouldn’t- his arm from wrapping around your shoulder, tugging you down with him as his body starts to tilt back, threatening to sink into the sand. 

“Harry!”

And your bodies are pressed to the trillions of pearly grains, giggles escaping through your parted lips. Your hair is surely sprinkled with sand, as must Harry’s, bodies awkwardly pressed together, his chest criminally close to your own. 

“Y/n.” He mocks, confirming his cheeriness over pulling you into his grasp, your back balancing on his stretched-out arm. 

The party plays on in the distance, the sea is still singing, and you can hear the soft and stable breaths of the prettiest boy on earth, his face tilted towards your own, freckles flickering under the silver sky. Harry is looking at you with an unreadable gaze- one that you have curiously noticed the past couple of months- it may be fondness... But whatever it is, it quickly dissipates into a woeful stare, and he glances away from your wondering gaze in favour of the sky. 

It's quiet for a moment- theoretically only a minute, but it feels like an eternity. Your eyes are tracing the curves of his chiselled jaw, swooping cheekbones, softly kinked nose. He seems miles away, leaving you alone on the beach just as you feared the future would be. 

But he is back on earth, and his eyes are back on yours right before your body threatens to rip itself apart. His brows are furrowed, and his chest hurts so carelessly that he wonders if you might feel it too,

“’M a little sad, y’know?”

“Would be weird if you weren’t.” You reassure, from a practical point, this is true. But from an in-love point, you need to ensure he understands you mirror his melancholy, “I am too.”

“Cause you’re gonna missss me?” Harry coos.

Harry wants to hear you say it in your own words, and the only way he knows how is to sugarcoat his words with a sweet and playful demeanour, scared of what might happen if it turns out that his feelings truly are one-sided. You wish he had said it seriously; you want to tell him that you’re being more than serious, that you will miss him, and that you’ll spend the rest of your life missing him, everything about him, everything he makes you feel, 

“Have you always been this annoying?” 

“I think you’re mistaking annoyance for attraction.” He tries a new tactic. 

“Even so…” You concede. 

“Even so…?”

“You’re both, alright. And you already know it.” Perhaps you’re giving away too much. 

To Harry, not enough. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen; did he really think you would confess your devout attraction for him? Did you even feel the same way? You give him the tiniest of hints, always so cautious and thoughtful. He knows this; he feels your fondness, feels the fiery connection… there has to be more, and how much longer can he wait? Threatened by the reality of the two of you going your separate ways, Harry is fighting this obstacle, fearful that this is his only and final opportunity, having to give you something more, some sort-of encouragement,   

“Just like to hear you say it.” 

What are you supposed to say to that? It has to be obvious that you feel so much more for him than mere attraction. Stumbling on words, a blushing mess, tripping over your own toes whenever he expressed his endearment or wonderment. 

It was certainly easier to chalk his affection up to close proximities, homesickness, and maybe even pining over another woman. Theoretically, Harry had more on his mind than spending his time seeking out your affection. 

Your lips are sealed, unwilling to separate and spill your secrets- the only thing stopping you from saying every little thing you love about him.  

But Harry is watching and waiting, carefully checking out the way your forehead furrows, eyes darting with some deep thoughts that he just wishes you would share with him. He’s seen this look before- sometimes showing up during difficult days on tour when you were challenged with a particularly gruelling or complicated task, and on occasion, Harry had noticed this conflict in your eyes during the duet of late-night conversations. 

He knows you’re stumped for words. He knows you don’t plan on speaking up. He needs to know what you’re thinking about, his face leaning forward, trying to close some of the merciless gap preventing him from being able to peck your cheek,

“Tell me a secret.”

“Yeah, right.” You can tell this is a trap. 

You’d be a fool not to know what he was trying; this was his last resort in deciphering your hidden agenda, and the last thing you need is the humiliation of finding out that this little thing going on between you two would remain just that; a thing of the past. 

“Tell me, and I’ll tell you one in return.”

He insists with such sweet innocence that could surely coax you into doing whatever he wanted,

“Okay.” You’ll go with the thing that’s been torturing you for weeks now, “I think you should grow out your moustache.”

“Done.” He answers so quickly, with such authority that your heart is doing somersaults. Before you can overthink his hastiness, he continues, “Tell me another.”

“Hey, that’s not how this goes.” 

“I make the rules. Tell meeee.” He’s a needy little one and he has you trapped, nowhere to go but nowhere you would rather be. 

What’s the point of keeping anything from him when it’s clear his persistence will only be soothed by your obligation? 

Harry is as Harry as ever, so welcoming and understanding before even hearing what you have to say. As far as you’re concerned, he’s been seeking you out for a reason, wanting to make sure that this ending isn’t eating away at you. 

It is eating away at you, though. You both know without verbalising it. If it remains unaddressed it may very well result in severing the ties you so tenderly share, 

“I’m nervous about going home.”

“Had a feeling.” He needs you to know that he knows. “‘M sorry, darling. Promise we’ll see each other, okay?”  

“Pinky swear.” Your eyes are like a puppy dog. 

“I’ll come over, and we can watch Normal People and… pretend we are.” Harry wants that more than anything.

“I’d like that… a lot.” Your eyes lull with the promise of his loving presence, “I’ll make you a warm cuppa.”

“You’ll have hot chocolate.” He notes proudly. 

“And I’ll let you use my fluffy blanket.” You do the same. 

“Ugh. I love you.” 

He whines dramatically, eyes rolling back, deliciously biteable lips parted and glossy. He really does though- love you. You loathe the flippancy with which he uses these words, substituting playfulness for the failure of his reciprocating your feelings, 

“It’s hard not to.”

“That cranberry’s giving you a big head, huh?” He nudges himself against you.

“Don’t be mean.” Also nudging against him in an attempt to reprimand his cheekiness.

“I could never be mean to you.” He pouts cutely, hoping you can tell that he certainly means it.

He’s close- too close- churning your common sense into a spiral of neediness to nearer his face, scatter kisses wherever his skin forfeits. Shuffling back slightly, you miss the way his brows twitch with misunderstanding, and you misdirect the conversation once more,

“Did you see the video I sent you?”

“That puppy was so cute I could have cried.” His features turn to mushy lovability.

“Don’t cry, you’re too pretty.” You tease. 

“Too late.” He tries to add a convincing pout. 

“Such a crybaby.” A cute, fuckable little sulk. Your diversion has certainly worked, but now you long for the back-and-forth of will-they-wont-they, and you cannot resist letting the words come out, “So, what’s your secret?” 

“I already told you.” He says it like it should be apparent. 

“You did?” Had you missed something? 

“Yep.” 

Harry’s certainty is cast-iron, peering over at you with palpable perceptiveness. If his secret was that he planned on growing a moustache, then he had done a marvellous job at fishing you onto the hook. A simmer of frustration bubbles in your belly, shyness and foolishness teasing you for falling into his trap with such ease. Your tone reflects this, retreating to the sanctity of defensiveness,

“Your secret is that you’re a crybaby? We already knew that.”

“Not that.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, well, tell me again.”

“Ask me nicely.” He keeps you baited. 

“Y’know what, I don’t even wanna know.” You tilt your nose to the sky, giving him the perfect sight of your neck craned, cheeks like apples, lips pouted and puckered. 

“Yes, you do.” He informs.

“Nope.” Your lips pop at the P. 

“It’s gonna eat away at you.” He sing-songs. He’s right. 

“Glad to see you’re getting off on this.” Grumbling, you avert your gaze. 

“Would rather get off with you.” He torts, muttering, sudden arousal slipping from his lips and settling anxiously in the already-small gap separating your bodies.  

“Filthy boy.” You friskily reprimand.

“And you haven’t seen the half of it.” He promises.

“Is that your secret?” You press on curiously, “Not a surprise. I’ve seen your ‘fuck me’ eyes before.”

“When I was looking at you?” 

Harry knocks the breath out of you, not even out of you- it’s trapped if your throat, body stilling like a statue, tied and bound by the predicament he seemed to so blatantly provide,

“Not me in particular…”

“Apparently I have two secrets then.” He muses. 

“Just tell me!” You are clearly too focused on secret number one to notice that he just revealed secret number two.

“Hmm… Maybe.” Since you seem so clueless, Harry thinks he should drag this on a little longer, becoming more-and-more discouraged by your blatant dismissal of his attempts to express his affection. 

“Harry, I swear-”

“Alright, missy.” He can hold out no longer. “I love you.”

“I know that-”

“Love, love you.” 

“Oh.” You finally let the realisation sink in, and it sinks in slowly whilst Harry patiently watches the way you process both his feelings and your own. 

The fear of rejection humidifies the air around him, but the relief of having you hear him say it aloud is something he had not known he needed. 

Your entirety is like electricity escaping a plug socket, shocking you with such passion that the only thing left to do is give in,

 “Well, I guess I have another secret, too.”

“Tell me.” He need not know because you have said it in your own words. But, how nice would it be to drizzle your ‘I love you’ like honey across his aching heart. 

You will; coat him in so much caramelised molasses that he will have no choice but to understand that you love him... Right after you make him play a round of his own proven-pointless little game,

“Hmm. Maybe.”

—

[za0mbie]

IDVJFIVDKCVKN YOUR ART STYLE IS JUST SO awesome!!! I'm not a big shipper in welcome home...but your Julaby art is still cute! and I ADOREEE all of the stuff you make. I was wondering what art app you use? if you use procreate do you have any tips on how you color, your blending and shading are gorgeous!! <3

AHHH TY THAT'S SO SWEET <33 I use clip studio paint so unfortunately I can't help you there wahh,, But I did try using procreate just a smidgen and the techniques are pretty much the same for me so!

for cleaner art I usually follow :

sketch

flat colors (with some gradients)

multiply layer for shadows

rendering (basically painting over the entire drawing for cleanup and more shading)

(sometimes I cut out the multiply layer for shadows and just jump to rendering)

In more "atmospheric" art I pull colors from around the piece and lean into reflective shading quite a bit, there's also ALOT of highlighting along the edges of things (like his hair and the paintbrush for example) especially with stronger lighting like this drawing

(In the background I also added blues and yellows pulled from wally but I'm focusing more on character shading here)

In art where I'm not using multiply layers I'm still pulling colors from around the character or background to tie things together

the majority of brushes I use are hard brushes with low pen pressure but if you're looking for something less choppy a good blending brush Is always nice ofc

UHH HOPE THIS HELPS!! I'm pretty awful at explaining my process I usually just throw speedpaints at people LMAO

[screechingchaoscrusade]

S: How tall are you anyways?! Q: ...

woah what is this?? spider n quaritch content!!? i never thought i'd see the day. spider comparing heights with his dad is something that kinda just pushing itself in the front of my brain for dayss so ofc i had to draw it outtt duhh quaritch doesnt answer, all he manages to do is a chuckle while ruffling spiders hair lol finally rendered (semi) a drawing, tho quaritch is very choppy i rushed with him (as i do with every drawing with him) i'm still drawing out the requests i have in my inbox so dont fret ur pretty little faces!!! patience is key

[haztory]

[fairytales: fathoms below]

⤷ john price x f!reader; fairytales!au, mermaid!reader, no warnings!

⤷ summary: a series imagining each of the cod men in fantasy/fairytale settings.

(w.c: 3.2k)

captain john price - the little mermaid 

Deep brown oak lays a steady foundation for the billowing ivory cotton. It is a formidable beast, splitting the current with a wicked ferocity that only further emboldens everything your sisters have said in the privacy of hidden corners and muttered breaths. This monster is a fearsome one, its force unparalleled. Something entirely different than what you have seen before.

Mind your distance, your eldest sister had spoken in between the echoing bellows of your father’s rampage as he raged and roared about the increased presence of the fiend in the seas. It is a frightening being. 

Yet, as you peek above the waves to peer at its high fixtures and its grand weight gliding across the water, you’re less inclined to be scared of the vessel and more curious about who could have made such a thing. Your sister’s words and your father’s fear are quickly things of the past, rendered outdated almost instantaneously beneath its shadow.

What could they know about the intent of such a thing with certainty when they themselves have never been as close as this before? If they had, surely they’d feel the same as you do now.

The ship rocks with a force equal to the volume of the men steering it. They are of varying shapes and sizes, loud as they shout at one another along the choppy water. Words you can only catch on whispering winds, syllables and sounds that are completely foreign as you try to repeat them to yourself. A pulse echoes within you, a ferocious beating of your heart that begs you to get closer, to let the curiosity that surges within you seize its grand moment. If only just to see, just to hear. 

It is one thing to see the ancestors of this magnificent watercraft on the seafloor—to play in its cracked beams and chase your sisters through the wreckage, imagining in secret what an image it would be were it fixed and afloat—but it is something entirely different to see the beast alive. 

To see it be tamed, made nothing more than a tool to be beckoned— by him.

He stands commanding on the helm, the gruffness of his voice carrying on the winds, crossing the distances to you. The men follow his calls, responding in time to his orders and moving with preciseness on the vessel, not entirely unlike your father’s guards. They are seasoned, well learned, and they follow him without question. It is truly a sight to behold, but him, he trumps it all. 

His figure is distinguishable even from afar. You’ve been able to make him out even as you trailed a couple hundred kilometers behind, curiosity consuming all reason as you followed the ship past neighboring reefs and exiting well beyond the boundaries of your father’s kingdom. He’s well cut and corded, muscle visible even if the white of his shirt didn’t stick to his skin—wet from the seawater. 

He’s wide in the shoulders, tall and lean, before it tapers down to a narrow waist; His bottom half is obscured by a dark fabric, which must be the object of your father’s frequent cursing. Legs. You’ve never seen them before, much less two of them. 

Still, his… abnormality hardly detracts from the verboten truth—your eye is caught. It hardly deviates from his powerful stance; Your gaze can wander across the bridge of the ship to the working crew, but it ends up inevitably circling back to him. Drawn into the vortex of him, water rushing, pulling and pushing, and the pang of longing that you have long held quiet finds its strength.

It tastes of wonder and the desperation to escape; To leave behind the home that you know, all that has created you, for the realization that there’s more.

You leave behind the ship before you risk the chance of it seeing you, but the appetite of fascination is hardly appeased. It becomes the bad habit. The ships are wondrous things, but you find out rather quickly that when he is at the helm, that is truly when your heart leaps and you trail even closer to its hull, eager for a sight. 

It goes this way for forty rises and sets, your eyes held on the horizon for the familiar sight of the wooden ship’s sigil and its master. 

Today, he is seen on the day of the great storm. 

The sky sits in a violent gray, lightning spreading its branches as they flare across the clouds. The air smells of the impending storm as the seas grow rougher and with it the ship rocks unsteadily—the waves beating against wood, climbing up its ridges higher each time it strikes against its side, as if it were begging to climb aboard. Despite the mayhem, he stays sharp, pointing direction from the helm and eventually leaving it to the charge of someone else when he decides to help directly. Grabbing rope and throwing it around the masts, clapping others on the back, Keep going, boys! shouting from his mouth.

You see it before they do. A crack that widens in the undercarriage of the ship, beaten open as the waves ram against it, water rushing in. You want to shout, tell them to look, but they realize it soon enough. One of the shipmates peers over the edge of the ship before turning back and shouting,

“She’s goin’ to sink, Captain!”

The Captain—finally a name to the face, one that you roll around in your mind as your eyes track his every movement; Captain, captain, captain.— moves quickly, foregoing the lugging of a rope and saying something that forces all men to divert attention elsewhere. It’s a flurry of movement from there, the men gathering supplies, hauling smaller wooden vessels by rope and filling them in a quick frenzy. Abandoning the ship. 

It’s difficult as wind and rain pellet them, obscuring vision and keeping them unsteady as they attempt to save themselves. The first lifeboat hits the sea viciously, the waves almost capsizing the vessel as they meet its surface. You don’t mean to interfere—you know you shouldn’t— but they’re terrified, and risk drowning, and you’re much more worried about them dying than you are yourself, so you swim to them; Grab the bottom of the boat and pull with as much strength as your arms and tail can muster and haul them away from the immediate danger of the turbulent waves split by the sinking ship. 

The pulley breaks when the next boat tries to descend, hitting the surface unceremoniously, but the men make it to the water.  Two wooden boats buoy a safe distance away from the main ship and the crew sits, thankfully, unharmed as they look towards their Captain, beckoning him to jump. He stands at the edge of the great being, a monolith of a man overseeing the wreckage of his great accomplishment. He must be bidding it goodbye, because he then turns, ready to jump, fortified in that decision as he realizes that all of his men are safe and it is now his turn. 

Wind turns threatening and the air ignites with a charge that speaks of impending doom. It is then that lightning strikes the mast, sparking a loud blast. It singes the wooden pillar, immediately exploding it into a shattering of pieces. The detonation’s impact pushes him off the edge, the Captain’s body hurdling over one-hundred feet. 

Your scream is hidden by the shouts of his own men. His body hits the surface of the water, plunging into the depths as the violent waves hurtle him below. 

There is no hesitation, a choice made without conscious thought. You curl beneath the cresting of a wave and immediately sink into the depth in search for him. It is significantly easier to swim beneath the hurtling waves than atop of them, pressure equalizing against your body. You glide within the water, pushing straightforwardly to the spot where his body met water. 

Your heart pounds in fear. Even if you reach him—no, when you reach him— there is no guarantee of his survival. There must be some kind of injury from falling that kind of distance, or so you would imagine. Being sucked into vortexes does all kinds of damage to merfolk, it must be of equal balance for humans. And even if by some miracle he does survive impact, humans cannot breathe under the water like you can. He must have swallowed some water, is that dangerous for him? How much can he swallow? What do you do if he has swallowed too much?

Thoughts hurtle and tumble in fast succession, but your body moves faster. Crossing the distance between your position next to the lifeboats to the spot of impact at a speed that has never before been demanded of you. Your lungs burning, your mind aching, your heart hurting with worry for a man that you do not yet know. A man that, for all you have been told, could kill you. A man whose kind has hunted yours down for sport, strung your people up for decoration. 

You should not care for this man, have been warned not to, and yet the relief you feel when you find him are the blessings from the forces of the heavens and earth. 

He’s sinking, unconsciously. His eyes closed, body suspended to the whims of the tides as they pull him down. Nearing him reveals that he is much larger than you had anticipated but it means nothing in the rapid pump of adrenaline. Hooking your arms underneath his, his back to your chest, you haul with great might. Lugging his weight with a grunt to the surface, just to get him to breathe again. 

Breaching the surface exposes you to the pellets of the ferocious rain, but it matters not. Your eyes set for direction, your head turning frantically in search of a marker, a sight, something to reveal where you are— where you can take him for safety. The lifeboats have been taken far away by the tumbling tides and the ship that was once so marvelous now roars with a fire aboard its surface. 

You have no idea where to go. You have no idea what to do. 

But the Captain is held tightly in your arms, his head rolling lifelessly on your shoulder. A quick placement of your fingers on his neck reveals a pulsing heart and while it hardly solves any of your problems, it’s all you need to do as you have always done and swim. Somewhere, anywhere. 

So, you do. 

South, in search of sanctuary.

It comes faster than you had thought it would. The shallowing of waters after an hour long haul of both he and you bleeds a hope in your soul that pushed you forward until it came into sight. A cove. Away from the large strip of land that surrounds it, remote enough to deposit him without being seen, but close enough to civilization for him to find a way home. Wherever home may be for him.

Your body is exhausted, the muscles in your tail cramping and spasming from the sheer burden of his weight on yours but you don’t stop. Even as you can touch sand with your hands, even as the movement of waves can carry you the distance to the shore— you don’t stop until he is safe. On land. 

Hauling him out of the water and onto the flattening surface of the beach is surely the worst part. Dragging him a safe distance from the water that was able to ease the pressure of his full weight on you to now being on the surface where his body seems to weigh even more, your arms trembling from trying to pull him further up on the coast, is misery. But you do it, with some herculean effort that has never been introduced to you before. 

He lays on land, supine on his back, finally safe. The rain has stopped, the sky turning from the harsh gray of before to a smattering of thickened clouds that finally allow the sun to bleed through. 

You fall beside him in exhaustion. Ragged breaths heaving your chest, your tail grateful for the much needed rest. The swim home will be significantly easier (and faster) without the man in your arms, but such a trek is daunting when physical debility renders you useless. 

But you must go, before he sees you. You have done what you needed to, you have brought him to land, and while you don’t know how to save him, or if you need to, you know his heart still beats. And that is enough to make a job well done. Rather, it should be enough to grant you dismissal.

And yet, you linger. Unable to part, waiting. Watching. You shouldn’t, and still you cannot help yourself. 

You sit up and lean over him, curious to spare him another look. 

Laid beneath you, the truth repeats like a broken mantra in your head. It is a sin of the highest offense to touch him. Being near him like this is a crime itself. But, there is an ache in your fingers that urges you forward and the desire to know eats away at you, until you blink and suddenly, your fingers are tracing the length of his strong nose.

A straight bridge, freckled with color. Your fingers move in a fixed trance, trailing across the soft of his cheek until it reaches the jagged meeting line where skin becomes obscured with hair. You feel the coarseness of his beard, trace the pads of your fingertips down the thick and long hairs. The men at home have hair on their faces, your own father does, but it doesn’t feel like this. So coarse, so rough, prickling against the tips of your fingers. Not made silk by the submergence in water, but thick and apparent. 

You don’t dislike it. At least, you don’t think you do, your fingers smoothing down the expanse of his cheek. Up and down, over and over. Feeling the vitality of this human life.  

You don’t feel the same repulsion that your father does whenever mention of the humans is made near him, nor do you feel the same fear that your sisters have at the mere thought of them. You’re drawn closer, if anything. Curious to know more. 

Wondering what would happen if he opened his eyes.

He has a nose, two ears, and a gentle prodding of his lips reveals a full set of teeth. They’re not sharpened in fangs ready to rip your throat (a rumor circulating through the schools of children) nor are they laid in multiple jagged rows (a preach hailed truth by your father). Instead, just a set of hard bones, the same as yours. He has two eyes that you don’t dare try and see the color of, and a full head of thick brown hair.

For all intents and purposes, he looks like you. The same features, the same design.

Your fingers trail downward, below the thick of his beard and down the column of his strong neck. His shirt is soaked and stuck to his skin, stretched to reveal even more tufts of thick hair on his chest. That is new to you. The men at home don’t have hair on their chest much less a kind so thick. They’re smooth, and if you thread your fingers through it in wonder, it will be a secret you take back to the sea with you.

Maybe the gods made you more similar than different. From where you sit beside him, the only obvious difference lies below. Two long limbs that hold flat appendages at the end. Feet, separated with what you can only imagine are toes. Ten of them on each one. 

Maybe in his creation there was an image of you. A curiosity that was sated by the division of a tail into legs, but otherwise remains the same. Two beings sent to their respective homes and yet destined to intertwine. It must be, otherwise these unexplainable feelings that brew within you have no source other than sheer madness. 

A kind of madness that finds you sitting beside him, staring in lingering awe at the marvels of danger.

You don’t know how long you stay there for, trailing your fingers over him. Finding them studying the feel of his skin and somehow always returning back to his neck, feeling the pulsing of his heart as reassurance. But, a long look to the horizon reveals that the sun is beginning to set and you know then that much time has passed. The sky turns to a burnt orange and the warning to return home beats within your mind. It is unwanted, but you know that you can no longer stay here with the man. Soon your father will suspect something amiss and send guards to find you. While you don’t doubt the capabilities of the human, there’s no guarantee he will be able to defend himself against the royal guards of the palace, especially in his weakened state. (There is no telling what he could do to you if he awakens in this state.)  

So you will leave him with the hope that he will wake soon, that he will recuperate enough to pull himself from the sand and walk the short distance back to the mainland. That your efforts were timely and he is able to make his way home. 

You will leave him and hope that maybe, he will come back to the cove in search of you. You will leave him and hope that maybe he will see you waiting for him in the water.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to his face. To look at him once more before you go.

Eyes as blue as the sea you pulled him from, meet yours. You gasp, jolting backwards in shock and he—the Captain, alive and awake— blinks slowly.

“You’re real.” He croaks, his voice hoarse. It still holds the same gruffness that you heard on the ship, the commandeering tone and hefty weight, but in the closeness it is twinged with gentleness. No longer addressing men at his command, but you. A softness mirrored in tone and gaze as he, for the first time, sees you. 

His hand reaches up and you hold still in fear. The conditioning of your father’s paranoia rears its head; Is this where his strength is exhibited? In the calloused palm of his that is larger

than your own? Is this where he decides to lay waste to you in a manner your father is so convinced that humans possess? 

Instead, his hand raises to your face, fingertips slowly brushing a fallen strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is light on your skin, brushing against the curve of your ear before trailing downward and across your cheek. Warm and soft, he stares a seriousness into you as though the only thing he intends to do in that moment is commit you to memory. 

You fall into his touch with little convincing. His skin melding to your own, as though it were meant to be there. 

“I thought you a dream.” 

You shake your head slightly. His eyes dart across your face before moving downward. Surveying you before spotting the obvious truth.

“Mermaid.” He chokes out, in reverence. His stare does not falter and his face does not scrunch upward in disgust. He looks at you much like you have always looked at him. 

Adoration disguised in the innocence of curiosity. 

“You saved me,” He says. “Thank you.”

a.n: i blame my visit to disney world for this idea. the thoughts of john price soaking wet is irresistible, and i aint sorry for it!!

simon is next :)

[smalltestaccount]

I just realized i can post some of my Pico-8 stuff. For some reason the GIF is really choppy, probably something wrong with the gif format.

This is a basic usage for a new feature from a few months ago that let you render a circle inverted (the inside of the circle is transparent and the outside is colored)

Does this count as pride?

[ceilidho]

tell me something nuclear winter ghoap NOW!! (bo)

BO!!!!! ok you wanna read what i've got so far?? it's not very much but here's what i have for my project that's tentatively titled "permafrost"

At first, it comes as a series of lights in the distance, a gentle rain like a cascade of falling stars. And then, it goes dark.

It happens over the course of several hours. By the time the dust settles—and it never settles, never really settles, always hangs in the air and renders it unbreathable, unlivable—and the sirens quiet and the last few screams die off, there’s hardly anything left. Hardly anything left living. 

The initial blast doesn’t reach up the country and, for that, Johnny lasts the months after the first nuclear bombs are dropped. Somedays, he can barely recollect the hours after the initial impact; they come back in foggy chunks, stumbling out of his house, boots crunching over the glass that had been blown clean out of the windows, covering his eyes against the flash of light and staring out into the distance at the mushrooming cloud of smoke just cresting the horizon. The bottom falling out of him at the sight.

More bombs hit other parts of the continent, several in Russia, throughout Asia and down into Africa, and across the pond as well. The world goes up in flames in an hour. In his cabin up in the Scottish Highlands, crutches jammed under his arms in his haste to limp his way outside, he sees the blast and then hears it a minute or so later. A roar rippling through the air. 

It shatters the world. 

In the present day, the boat sways where it’s roped to the wharf, the waters choppy. Johnny sits on the deck in a foldout chair, fastening a new head onto his ax, fixing the metal wedge over the eye to hold it in place. The blade is cleaner than the one that’d just cracked, sharp from being run over the whetstone. He pulls his scarf back over his nose when it slips down his face.

His cabin in the Highlands hadn’t been a viable choice for longer than a few months, not after the cold had finally begun to set in. Too far up north. He’d made his way down south over the course of weeks, bringing with him only as much as he could carry. A bittersweet goodbye to the summer home of his youth, a hand laid flat against the door before turning on his heel and starting the long trek south.

It’s not any warmer farther down south, particularly around the coast where the wind gets bitterly cold, sinking into the bone. He’d found the boat on a whim, the only structure still relatively intact and, most importantly, isolated.

Making his home on an old boat might not win him any awards for brightest idea, but the downside to traveling further into the country, away from the untenable glacial weather up north, is that it coincides with the areas where the bombs were dropped, leaving limited options for shelter.

Months pass. Years pass. 

His ankle healed funny all those years ago from prolonged bouts of starvation before desperation kicked in and from traveling miles on foot. He’d driven a portion of the way down north until the roads had outlived their usefulness—asphalt cracked, chunks of bedrock spiking up out of the ground. The rest he’d managed with his crutches and a single backpack, leaving the car to rot some three hundred or so miles up the country.

It's some strange occurrence, Johnny thinks at age thirty-something (he’s lost count), that his lot be murky, for death to miscount. He witnesses an apocalypse and comes out the other side. Happenstance. Coincidence, that he’s discharged from the military not a month before the first bomb hits London and leaves a crater that never fills, that never heals. A pockmark in the earth. 

His lips twist bitterly. The price of a long life is a barbed and slick soul. 

​​Immortality sometimes occurs to him, or godship, but neither option rests well with him and Johnny wonders if this is how gods are born: not of sea foam but of inevitability, of miscalculation, of death's err, of smallness, of acorns he carried as a child through pastures behind his summer house.

He sniffs. Cuts that memory off at the quick.

Johnny gives himself a couple more minutes to fiddle around with the ax before looping it into the gear loops on his backpack and buckling it in.

[MISSING STUFF HERE]

Much of the city has returned to nature, rubble encased in snow and ice; the stores have long been looted or reduced to ash from the blast. 

[twothpaste]

my lucas gets so deeply and hopelessly attached to places and settings. i like to imagine his experiences as a kid made him extremely aware of how irreconcilably a place can change. tazmily post-timeskip isn't the town he grew up in, the forest he used to play in will never be the same after it burned down, his own house becomes a completely different place the instant mom & claus aren't living in it. he's really conscious of the relationship between spaces and time, knowing full well that every space he inhabits will eventually change or cease to be, just like people do.

he sits around wondering vaguely sad thoughts, like how many more sunsets he's gonna get to watch on this particular porch, before it gets remodeled. how many more times is he gonna pass by this dilapidated yet quaintly charming old shed, before it gets torn down and disappears from his life forever. how many times will he get to hike this particular trail with dad, before dad's too feeble, and he's gotta hike it alone, rendering it a different hike entirely. tries his best not to take any moment for granted, 'cause the light on the grass or the smell of smoke or the choppy ocean waves might be all he has to remember a place by. he does this even with places that suck, places he associates with bad memories, doesn't matter. he can't help it. he ends up loving them unconditionally anyways. and misses them when they're gone.