#fuck you *un styles your art*

[that-gay-gal]

I love changing my artstyle for no reason then immediately going back to normal after

Rambling under the cut bc no one cares about that

I haven’t drawn this guy in a while… that’s upsetting. I need to draw him more. He’s my son I can’t believe it’s been so long :[

I blame Knuckles. It’s his fault I’ve been obsessing over Sonic rn smh (can’t wait for the 3rd movie tho)

Anyway i really like drawing Raphie like this I think imma keep this way of drawing him :]

I now see the appeal of the giant ass bow it’s very fun to give him :3

Also more scars on Raph real⁉️ and no I did NOT forget the eye scars I give him in the second image ssshhhhhut up >:( /j

Y’all ever want to draw characters but have absolutely no clue what to draw them doing? That’s me with Raph rn WHY ARE IDEAS SO HARD

Pinterest, if you can hear me, please save me.

Anyway have a good day y’all!!

[ellecdc]

MOTHERR

Happy Mother’s Day 💐🌷🤭

Anyways, the marauders brainrot continues….I know shocking 😮 , my obsession will never end at this point in time. Oh well, art is kicking my ass and I need something to bring back my spirt lol.

Sooo, could I perhaps, if possible, request a poly!wolfstar? In which;

There’s a party in the commons, after a quidditch match or sm (idk 😭?) and shy reader (preferably female) dresses in only Remus and Sirius’s clothes but somehow finds a way to make her own twist on it and she look beyond gorgeous, all decked out. She doesn’t tell Sirius or Remus and the two don’t realise how much of their clothes and ect. Untill the spot her at the party talking with the girls, and are both shunned because their shy girlfriend is all dressed up, showing skin, confident and all, and in their clothes only, not a single thing of hers.

-🍄

firstly, thank you so much for your mothers day wishes hahahaha I was spoiled for sure. secondly, thank you for your request!!

poly!wolfstar x shy!reader who surprises her boyfriends

CW: mention of drunk friends but no description of drinking?, sexual implications at the end but nothing described and SFW

Remus felt slightly guilty that he wasn’t downstairs to greet you when you arrived at the Gryffindor after party following their latest quidditch win.

The reason he wasn’t there wasn’t even a very good one; it was simply that Sirius always came back to the dorms to shower instead of showering in the team’s locker room and was always riled up (just the way he liked him).

In other words, it was selfish and self-serving.

Which was perhaps why he was currently rushing his boyfriend as he painstakingly styled his hair to look perfectly un-styled.

“Pads, you’ve flipped your hair seven times already, can we go?”

Sirius flipped his hair four more times as he let out a scoff. “Easy bubs; you know I like to be fashionably late.” He responded as he righted himself, shooting Remus a salacious wink in the reflection of the mirror on his dresser.  

“We’re going to miss the party altogether at this rate.” Remus muttered petulantly.

Sirius let out a noncommittal hum as he pulled the collar of his buttoned-up shirt lower in order to show off the new love bite on his neck from Remus, and a few older ones on his chest that you had given him in hopes no one else would see them there.

How wrong you would be.

“I could think of other things we could do instead.” Sirius offered as he stalked towards the chair Remus was currently pouting in and straddled his lap.

“You were the one who wanted to attend the party.” Remus pressed as he allowed Sirius to press lingering kisses along his jawline. “Neither me or your girl were very keen.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy if we took a raincheck.” Sirius responded as he continued his assault down Remus’ neck.

“Perhaps if she wasn’t already downstairs.”

That seemed to snap Sirius out of his ministrations as he looked at Remus incredulously. “Then what in the buggering fuck are we doing up here? Merlin’s saggy balls, let’s go Moony.” He barked as he stood abruptly and yanked Remus’ arm, forcing him to follow.

Remus was only slightly embarrassed that he had to adjust his trousers as they exited the dorm room.

As Remus had predicted, the party was in full swing by the time they made it down to the common room.

Peter was maybe three sips of whatever was currently in his red solo cup away from spending the rest of the night hunched over the toilet bowl, James was already completely ignoring everyone else around him in favour of staring love-drunkenly at Lily as she spoke emphatically to Mary, Alice and Frank were snogging to near pornographic levels in the corner of the room, and Marlene was passed out in Dorcas’ lap as she conversed with…you.

Just when Remus was certain he couldn’t love you more, your sweet, timid, lovely self showed up to a Gryffindor party on behalf of your extroverted boyfriend after they took their sweet ass time to join you when both he and Remus knew quite well that there were probably several hundred other things you’d rather be doing 

And not to mention when you show up looking like that.

“What is she wearing?” Sirius whispered on an exhale; his steps faltering as he took you in.

What were you wearing?

You looked to be wearing – “is that your button up shirt?” Sirius finished Remus’ thought.

And based on the fit and length, it appeared you were, in fact, wearing Remus’ dress shirt.

Though it was cinched at the waist by – “that’s your belt, Sirius.”

“That little minx is stealing our clothes, Moony.” Sirius laughed; equal parts exasperated and lovesick.

You chuckled at something Dorcas said before you turned your gaze to the rest of the party where you spotted your boyfriends.

“What are you wearing? Or should I ask who since you look like you ought to be on a red carpet or something?” Sirius asked in way of a greeting as he made for you, causing your shoulders to migrate upwards as you smiled timidly at them.  

“Hi, dovey.” Remus greeted you as he pressed a kiss to your cheek and shot a wink at Dorcas who was already looking at the two of them knowingly.

“Your girl looks smashing tonight, boys.” She commented; taking a sip of her drink from one hand as she used the other to pet Marlene’s hair.

You, for your part, turned to Dorcas with a look of unadulterated betrayal.

“She looks smashing, always, Meadows; but I have to agree that I like this look, baby girl. Stand up! Give us a spin.” Sirius said as he pulled you up by your hands.

“Sirius…” You chided pleaded quietly as your eyes nervously darted to Remus as if screaming ‘help’.

“Humour me.” Sirius pushed; twirling his finger in a circle to reiterate his earlier demand.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms protectively around your middle but acquiesced to his wishes.

After a few wolf whistles and an actual round of applause from Sirius, and ooh’s and aah’s from Remus, you turned back towards them and Remus could almost feel the heat radiating off your face.

“You played a good game, Siri.” You commented instead of hello, or thank you, or sod off you wankers, which made Remus all the more smitten with you.

“That’s old news, gorgeous.” Sirius dismissed quickly, eyes still darting over your form as if committing this sight to memory. “I’d rather talk about you.”

“I’d rather not.” You argued quickly.

“Tie breaker votes talking about you, sweetheart; sorry.” Remus responded, not particularly sorry at all if it meant he got to keep looking at you.

You harrumphed quietly and looked down at your converse which seemed to be the only article of clothing you were wearing that belonged to you. “You guys are being mean.”

Both boys immediately started cooing and apologising profusely; Remus pulling you protectively into his side as they fussed over you.

“Can’t believe I was upstairs all this time staring at Sirius when I could’ve been down here looking at you.” Remus commented quietly into your hair, but from Sirius’ indignant squawk, he was clearly overheard. 

Your responding smile was well worth it though. 

“Are these my earrings?” Sirius asked then, pushing hair behind your ear to expose the dangly star and moon earrings that Sirius had bought back in fifth year when he and Remus first started dating. 

“I thought it looked good with the ‘fit. I had a vision.” You admitted; tone still shy but words far braver than Remus thinks he’s heard from you with this many people around. 

“And you were right.” Remus agreed readily. 

“The vision was great babes; it’s like I picked it out myself.” Sirius said with a wink. “The only thing better would have been if you showed up in only your knickers.” He stated with finality; seemingly proud of his proclamation and of his girlfriend. 

Remus was expecting you to flush horribly at that as your eyes darted nervously around you.

Except you didn’t.

Instead, a mischievous grin spread across your lips as you looked up at the boys in front of you.

“They didn’t go with the vision.”

Both boys stared at you with varying levels of bemusement as Dorcas let out a snort behind you. 

“What didn’t go with the vision?” Sirius accused quickly. 

“Knickers, you tosser.” Dorcas answered from behind you. 

Remus felt a blush of his own take over his face as he realised you had been waiting down here for your boyfriends looking like that without anything underneath your ensemble.

“Are you serious?” Sirius asked stupidly.

“No, you’re Sirius.” You giggled as if you made a truly funny joke, cluing Remus into the fact that you had these boys exactly where you wanted them.

In the palm of your hand.

“Better make a move quick, Black.” Marlene slurred as she rose from the dead sleep and blinked at the boys owlishly - one eye beginning to open before the other had even shut. “Otherwise we w- we will.” 

Remus barked a laugh as Dorcas lovingly rolled her eyes and tried to tame Marlene’s now unruly bedhead, but Sirius appeared to take the threat earnestly as he quickly picked you up and threw you over his shoulder, ignoring your surprised squeak and subsequent protests as he raced up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. 

“Quickly now, Moony.” Sirius called as he took care to cover your arse with one of his hands lest your ‘Remus’-shirt-turned-dress’ were to ride up. “Can’t believe I let you waste all that time getting ready when our beautiful, gorgeous, lovely girl was waiting for us.” 

Remus rolled his eyes as he followed the sounds of Sirius’ faux chiding and your squealing laughter, wondering if Sirius’ diligent eleven flips of his hair was worth attending a party for four and a half minutes.

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[genericpuff]

I'm not sure if anyone else has made this connection, but I've never seen it mentioned before. I think, similar to Lolita, RS was also inspired by the art of Trevor Brown. His work has a lot of young girls and medical fetish themes (to put it lightly) in a style reminiscent of RS's earlier stuff.

sigh

CW: medical fetish art often depicting children / child-like characters and medical equipment such as needles, gas masks, etc. seriously don't hit the jump if medical equipment or young girls in nurse's outfits or with open wounds makes you squeamish, I will not blame you for turning around now LOL

OP I was about to just... dismiss this. Wave it away as a funny coincidence that is indeed funny, but doesn't have any real evidence to back it up. I had a post typed up in response already declaring this, after which posting I was gonna move on with my day, work on Rekindled, play some XIV.

Because sure, there are a lot of resemblances between Trevor Brown's work and Rachel's old art, but nothing that can't be dismissed in good faith as a simple coincidence of being within the same genre of fetish art (first three are Trevor's, last three are Rachel's).

But then that little voice in the back of my head whispered in my ear, "Puff. You should double check. Just to be sure. Do your due diligence." And I once again found myself on the precipice of the rabbithole that somehow becomes deeper every time I jump. This time though, I knew it couldn't be that bad, I mean, I had enough confidence in knowing that there's no fucking way she listed Trevor Brown as one of her favorite artists-

God fucking dammit. How in the world did I miss this? I mean, I suppose I missed it simply because I'm not familiar with the works of Trevor Brown, but you can bet your ass I became familiar with it in my digging. Yeah, this guy is a supreme creep.

Again, I am not going to accuse Rachel of being a pedophile because that's just not an accusation that should be thrown around without undeniable evidence. What I will say, which has largely remained the same - though even more confidently now than ever before - is that she's clearly someone who took a lot of inspiration and influence from very problematic artists when she was young (I'm talking in her late teens which has me wondering if she started making medical fetish art when she was still a minor-) and then, BEST guess, she started to drop the medical fetish stuff around the time she went to college (which was also the same time she dropped The Doctor Pepper Show, which later got reworked into The Doctor Foxglove Show which was a lot less reminiscent of her medical fetish style from the early 2000's, but still had some of her usual preferences at play) and that's led up to today where she's drawing comics that look like they're for kids but tackle heavy adult subject matter in the worst way possible that straight up perpetuates grooming.

No matter how much experience I have with this already, no matter how much I think I've already seen, I always find more, and this time was no different. In fact - though unrelated to the original topic - thanks to this one fucking ask, I even found the full Mads Mikkelson comic with the completed caption. You know, that one.

And apparently Mads Mikkelson did very much replace her crush on Jeremy Irons.

Who's Jeremy Irons?

Oh yeah.

I just... y'all I can't. This is un-fucking-real. I'm gonna go take a shower, I need to scrub myself off of this 😭

[sytokun]

To anyone thinking or saying Dillon Goo is unworthy of acquiring RWBY, not because of anything realistic like finances or the size of his studio, but because he's "just an animator", or just a rando from the internet who cannot write or run RWBY:

Thanks for perpetuating the piece of shit mindset that every soul-sucking corporation and braindead consumer has: that animators have no value or are just there to push buttons and make pixels move for the real creatives.

Animators are artists and creators. They have to work with numerous departments to make things work: They have to know what the writer/director wants, and tell them if it's even possible to put to screen; they have to work with artists and character designers to tell if they can commit that art into moving parts. And for an animated show, they're kind of... I dunno, the entire backbone of its production.

Anyone stupid enough to claim that, by their logic, should claim that Miles and Kerry were "just writers" and don't have the right nor the intelligence to have any opinions on RWBY's animation, character designs or music. That's how I know you have zero fucking idea how any actual media is produced, because in your head, these positions all just exist as separate little boxes in your brain so it's simple enough for you to grasp.

It was "just an animator" who made RWBY in the first place, dumbass. A "rando" making animations on the internet that Rooster Teeth took a chance on, and now he's responsible for their best-selling IP. By comparison, Dillon is starting at a way better starting position than Monty was, with a successful YouTube channel, public support from multiple current and ex-CRWBY like J Grelle (Tyrian's VA), Kim Newman (former animator who animated Sun's gunchucks in V5) and Jessica Nigri (Cinder's VA), and multiple collaborations with big companies like Hoyoverse.

If anything, I'd expect an animator like Dillon to know and care enough about his staff to not give them near-irreparable spinal damage. Gee, I wonder why Newman would think he'd be a better employer to work with? Dillon would know how an animation project is run and budgeted. Him being an animator is a benefit, for god's sake.

Monty had character design sketches but needed help from professional artists to fully design them. He knew bits of the plot but needed help fleshing it out. Do you have enough brain cells to rub together to know that's precisely what Dillon can do, too? Fuckin', I dunno, hire people? For his studio??

I'd rather have an animator run RWBY because RWBY is an animated series and he would know precisely 1) what complements the medium best and 2) the precise limits of what can or cannot work within his budget. By your ass-backwards logic, I would rather get EC Myers to run RWBY's production over Dillon just because he's a writer and has been employed with RT longer.

That's another moronic argument: "He's only been employed by RT for 1 Volume". Man, I don't care if he's been there for zero Volumes, his work clearly shows a greater understanding of RWBY's aesthetic, mainstream appeal and style than its own showrunners have for the past 7 years. Or is seniority in a defunct company responsible for a steadily unprofitable IP suddenly a positive in this business deal?

I need you to be aware that RWBY as an IP is a joke outside of the bubble of its fandom, and I am telling you bluntly as a fan. Nobody takes it seriously and the ones that do only praise it for either its action choreography or its character designs, one of which is guaranteed with Dillon's studio. Diehard fans may love RWBY, warts and all, but all that love and support clearly wasn't enough to keep it alive, because its reputation was already cemented from its own mismanagement.

What you do is you get the right person for the job. And Dillon ticks a lot of boxes for it. If you think he's unable to acquire RWBY because he's not a big corpo or cannot meet Warner's asking price, that's 100% fair. If you think he's unable to create something on the scale of Volume 9, that's also 100% fair, but only if you're attached to the idea that you'd rather have Volume 10 or more of the same RWBY that was operating at a loss than any RWBY at all. Or if you'd rather see a season of 14 episodes 15 minutes long where 60-70% of it is made up of exposition, talking head scenes and increasingly overambitious world expanding, over shorter episodes with amazing RWBY action sequences with a story that never bites off more than it can chew.

But if you think Dillon is unqualified or worse, unworthy or undeserving (what a weirdo thing to say about a person, like owning RWBY is like inheriting the fucking throne of Gondor), all because he's "just an animator" or because he was smart enough to see RT for the meat-grinder hellhole it was and left to find success on his own, you're full of shit.

And if you disapprove of him because of his association with Shane, go find a restroom because your unsightly hateboner is showing. It's been almost ten years since the letter and you all have been holding this unfettered rage clenched between your buttcheeks longer than Shane's ever been with Rooster Teeth.

And for what? Pointing out Rooster Teeth is a fucked place to work at? Whoops, that was true and now it's six feet under for every scandal and worker abuse case they brought on themselves. For stealing and cannibalising their creators' IPs? Whoops, that's fucking true as well.

[psicheanima]

I've always admired your eye for fashion. Your posts about it on twitter are some of my favorite of yours. Out of curiosity, did you ever encounter a character who had a sense of style you thought didn't suit them which couldn't be explained by purposeful characterization? And if so, how did you think they would dress?

Thank you very much. Yes, it happens a lot, but to answer I suppose I want to talk about a problem in comics of continuing to write characters who were very much a product of their time fashion-wise: Laura Kinney and Nico Minoru. Despite these characters being incredibly gothic with unique outfits, and saying MANY times that this style of dress “felt like them”— in recent years, Neither of them are goth, ever. Especially Laura. She is only drawn in incredibly bland clothes. The edgiest she will ever get is a leather jacket. She dresses explicitly like a girl version of her father, when her unique taste in fashion was a clear stand-out from the writers to create her own unique, more emo identity than Logan had— he is very recognizable by his flannel and more western biker clothes.

For Nico, it all starts with that demon Kris Anka. In his defense, Nico had been wearing increasingly un-researched gothic fits the more she was divorced from Runaways comics. Her outfits got more stereotypically emo rather than punk, clearly drawn by artists who weren’t too well educated in fashion. Nico was known for being a goth character. It is essential to her moody history and even her powers— they involve her needing to cut herself, clear goth stereotype which is deconstructed.

But Kris Anka’s designs of the Runaways were very “updating to suit modern sensibilities.” Karolyn’s, who was peak 2000s soft bohemian— with wrap around tank tops and NEVER without her frayed jeans, was now a complete prep, wearing things that her more down-to-earth, hippie original never would.

In Nico’s case, she is not a goth anymore. She is alt, yeah, but alt grunge. She wears bright colors, dyes her hair in a distinctly 2016 way, and for some horrible reason— is very attached to flannel. This portrayal of her fashion became repeated by other artists to the point that it’s her look in the new Spider-Man show. You understand how upsetting this is to Me? It’s like if someone ripped off all my finger nails than made me eat them.

Yes, the type of goth they were was most popular in its time. But they were characters constructed around those styles and should keep them. They should not grow out of the styles, but evolve with them. I am also an adult and I dress the way they did. It just hurts to see characters with my fashion sensibility have their drip taken away in such a barbaric manner. And have these sauceless outfits now be their style. Laura is her own person— why would she just be a woman version of her dad? Because she’s figured out her life she went from painstakingly choosing her presentation to being a lazy bum who wears only primary colors? To being the lobotomized man’s view of “badass woman clothes”? Just make genderbend Logan art, I will fucking kill you.

[thatseitagremlin]

gremlyn's danganronpa: despair time x limbus company au: hell's chicken edition (in which arei is also the ultimate conflict escalator)

the number of students who canonically can cook is actually rather high, but with 17 of these bastards running around there's bound to be Multiple incidents... (more yapping under cut!)

drdt cast's canon cooking abilities notes: -) has cooked in-universe: eden (ch1e3 baking + ch2e1 breakfast), hu (ch1e5 dinner), levi (ch2e1 breakfast), nico & veronika (ch2e3 breakfast), charles (ch2e4 cucumber flowers... do they count?? but he can cook eggs by ch2e8 so i'm putting him here) -) implied that they can cook: min (ch1e3 baking; afaik eden does most of the steps but she was there for the scene and understands the processes so i'll just put her here), rose (ch1e3 baking + ch2e6 lunch: "i was apparently supposed to help cook this meal"), j (ch2e1: "...the last thing i feel like doing is cooking"), arei (ch2e1: "but i also don't want to cook. what to do...") -) stated in qnas: whit (best cook in the cast, specialty is french), david (can cook decently but is usually too lazy to), xander (has a weak sense of taste and compensates by adding in Too much flavor, so his food is inedible to everyone else) -) disaster in the kitchen: teruko (ch1e1 investigation + ch1e5 dinner uses this exact wording, but i assume this mostly pertains to her bad luck fucking up electronics since she makes her own food throughout ch2) -) unknown: ace, arturo (afaik these two's cooking ability have never been mentioned so far!), mai (we barely know anything about her. so)

i split up all 16 sinners (replacing whit with mai, since arei banned him from the competition) into four teams of 4. i initially tried randomizing it while sticking to my personal rules of "xander and arei in different teams", "arei and eden in the same team (so they can cook together once before arei's character development)", and "hu in the same team with a 'sabotager' so she doesn't win", but i eventually decided to just make the teams manually. in-universe you can see this as arei rigging the votes.

this didn't end up as chaotic as canon limbus, but i guess that's what happens when most of your cast can canonically cook, so you have to provoke them to beefing with each other...

-) team 1: xander, ace, j, david. there was not enough common sense to counter xander's tastebuds and he learned absolutely nothing. sad! -) team 2: arei, levi, nico, eden. there was not enough hater energy to counter arei's sabotage. also arei had fun even disregarding all the sabotage she did but she won't admit that (yet) -) team 3: rose, arturo, veronika, mai. it's less "food" and more "abstract art piece" that horrifies their poor client, inflicting 10 sinking potency and 8 sinking count -) team 4: charles, min, teruko, hu. with hu's guidance they actually made a really good "family restaurant"-style chicken dish. the ones where it's a big portion for a family to share. they try to get teruko to carry the dish but min realizes and stops teruko from touching the plate. Unfortunately teruko's luck kicks in and min ends up dropping the dish anyways -) won by default: mai secretly let whit in team 3's kitchen and let him cook a backup dish just in case every team fucked up. papa bongy accepts the dish and they eventually un-distort him, making him mvp of the mission and winner by default!

[rr311]

╭﹐ఌ﹕ Stuck Together ﹒〣 ﹕‹𝟹 － 𝖬𝖨𝖦𝖴𝖤𝖫 𝖮.

cw/tw. riding, praising, AGGRESSIVE MIGUEL 😋😻, choking, top!miguel, bottom!reader, black!reader

an. It’s been awhile since the last post but over the weeks i’ve made over 4 drafts! So you guys are definitely getting spoiled this summer. For this story i decided to be a little tease 🤭 but to make it up for it i made a drawing of Miguel in my art style ♡´･ᴗ･`♡.

summary. - you’re stuck in a closet with Miguel.

“Stop moving.” He growled as he felt you shift for the 5th time during the hour, you groaned mumbling a sorry still trying to get comfortable on top of his lap. It was so cramped in here you couldn’t get comfortable. You kept moving on top of him trying to at least get comfortable but when you felt the claws of his suit grip into your hips you tensed up feeling your breath hitch at the feeling of the sharpness. Again he snarled, “I said stop moving.” You scoffed starting to feel irritated, you lifted up your hand to rip off your mask glaring at him, “Well sorry that i’m trying to get comfortable, Miguel!” You whispered yelled feeling his grip tighten, “We wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t get us stuck in here.” He answered back, you rolled your eyes crossing them over your chest as leaned against the wall behind you, “At least we’re safe, you should be thankful.” You squinted looking away from him. Miguel rolled his eyes un masking himself looking anywhere but where you were.

It was quiet for a good awhile as you guys were cramped together, you’re playing with parts of your suit as his hands twitched around your waist. And in all honesty you were starting to feel hot, you’ve never been this close with him ever. I mean yeah you guys been on plenty of missions around the spider verse but never have you guys been this close with each other. You’re actually enjoying being close to him but of course you gotta keep up that act to not make yourself obvious. You huffed as you were digging deep into thought as Miguel wasn’t any better, he started to feel his body warm up feeling your ass directly on his crotch. He thanked the heavens that you stopped moving because if you kept up any longer it his little friend would’ve been joining you two as well, he fought the urge to slide his hands towards your thighs to rest them there but he didn’t wanna make a move…but damn your thighs in your suit made them look more pretty they were sitting pretty on top of him but he had to resist.

Fuck. You’re his co worker! His crime partner at that, he didn’t wanna ruin that chance of ruining that work relationship with you both because he’s letting his hormones get the best of him. He breathed heavy as the silence was still lingering, he was in his thoughts and you were in your thoughts. You hummed lowly dazed deep into your mind not realizing you were starting to squirm, fuck your were letting your hormones get the best of you but could you blame yourself? You were in a closet with a hot big dude sitting on his lap, and to make things worse your little crush on him was riling back up. You cussed mentally being disappointed in yourself for thinking about these thoughts, you were so far deep you accidentally grinded against his core with yours letting a small moan slip. Your eyes widened at the slip up looking anywhere but him…but when you felt his hands trail down your thighs gripping them you shot to look at him.

You almost came at the sight.

He was glaring into your eyes as you stared at him with a “supposedly” calm face. He didn’t say anything but leaned forward towards your ear pushing you more against his chest, “You’re making this real difficult for me, Cariño.” He said deeply, you couldn’t help but squirm humming in response, “Then do something about this.” You said almost in a begging voice gripping onto his shoulder, he grumbled leaning his head towards your jaw pecking it all the way towards your covered neck, he hummed trailing his hand to your back pulling off your suit exposing your chest. You shivered from the sudden air hitting your back but gasped feeling his lips onto your bare neck starting to suck and bite against it. You hummed lifting up your hips starting to move against him trying to pleasure your aching pussy, you moaned quietly feeling his fangs brush up against your neck as he trailed his hands to your flopped suit trying to tug them all the way off.

He growled in frustration, making you grin at how he was struggling to pull your suit down. You lifted your hips all the way up so he could pull them down towards you calf’s exposing your plumped ass. You jolted forward feeling him squeeze your ass harshly, you almost let a moan slip out but was quickly silenced by him placing his lips on top of your own drowning your sounds with his groans. You closed your eyes leaning more into his lips gripping his shoulders for support, you groaned feeling him slide your panties to the side before removing his hologram suit using his free hand to line himself up with your hole. He grunted feeling how tight you were as you gripped harder digging your nails into his shoulder. “F-Fuck.” You whined in between his lips pulling back to lean your head against his shoulder adjusting to his size, “You’re so big..” You panted biting hard onto his shoulder holding back tears from the mix of pain and pleasure, Miguel grinned holding your hips in place letting you get used to it,

He caressed his thumb on your waist pecking the side of your head, “You okay Cariño?” He asked in your ear, nodding your head. “Uh huh..” When you felt as if you were adjusted right you started to slowly move your hip grinding against him to get used to it more, he sucked in a deep breath leaning his head back against the wall letting his eyes close furrowing his eye brows, “Fuck..you’re doing so good.” He praised gripping your waist tighter, you smiled at the praise feeling you clench around him starting to lift your hips up and down riding him.

There was nothing but wet, heavy breaths and skin slapping filling the closet room. You tried to keep yourself quiet as Miguel was digged into the crook of your neck muffling his grunts and groans. You kept riding him feeling his dick push in and out of you hearing small bits of broken Spanish being mumbled, you kept moving on top of him but after a few seconds your eyes widened feeling his nails dig into you thrusting up aggressively, “O-Oh!-“ You gasped eyes rolling back as your g-spot got abused over and over again. “Wait! Miguel-“ You called but got caught off by his hand covering your mouth glaring at you with red eyes, “Shh..we don’t wanna get caught now do we?“ Your eyes fluttered feeling his other hand rub your clit mumbling a weak shakily “No,” He grinned pulling your body closer to his before whispering

“Then be a good girl for me and be quiet.”

Tag: @malxoxo

[asimplevampire]

What I'm Doing With The TS2 Universities: The Best-Laid Plans

So because my darling @uberhood teens are starting to go off to school, I'm starting to remodel the universities! Right now I'm thinking about how to make them distinct from each other-- especially since I overdid it and accidentally added every fucking campus in the game and a few modded ones.

So, I'm making this post so I remember wtf I was planning to do with all of these unis. What architectural styles was I planning to use? What mascots was I planning to give them?

Sim State University

Elevator Pitch: Rub elbows with SimNation's best and brightest-- or get invited to their epic ragers-- at SSU.

Inspiration: The College of William and Mary. An old, red brick campus that's split into the Old Campus and New Campus? That's Sim State U if we ever saw it.

Majors: International Relations (modded), Political Science, History, Economics Mascot: The Fightin' Llamas. Rival School: Land Grant University.

La Fiesta Tech:

Elevator Pitch: The truth is out here! Unlock the secrets of the universe at La Fiesta Tech.

Inspiration: New Mexico State's more modern architecture

Majors: The "Four Ps"-- Paranormal (modded), Physics, Psychology, Philosophy Mascot: The Antisocial Bunnies Rival School: Cactus Canyon University

Academie Le Tour:

Elevator Pitch: "Alta cultura, altior drama." If you want to study the liberal arts, there's nowhere better than Academie Le Tour.

Inspiration: Was it ever going to be anything other than Oxbridge? It was never going to be anything other than Oxbridge.

Majors: Languages (modded), Art, Literature, Drama

Mascot: The Magic Dragons. (TS4 Oxbury Dragon)

Rival School: Caelestis University

Land Grant University:

Elevator Pitch: Higher education is a new concept in the area. We'll see how it works out. (~@penig)

Inspiration: Texas A&M. I don't expect to have to remodel too many of the buildings, because this isn't a Maxis school-- but if I do, I'm gonna use The Agricultural School Par Excellence as inspo.

Majors: Agricultural Business, Animal Sciences, Plant Sciences (modded), Biology

Mascot: The Ragin' Bulls (AKA: Cow)

Rival School: Sim State University

Cactus Canyon University:

Elevator Pitch: "The cosiest college in SimNation." Come for the campus life, stay because we've got the best pre-med program in the area.

Inspiration: Honestly? CCU has its own architectural style and I'm Here For It; thanks @aondaneedles!

Majors: Sport Studies, Nursing, Dentistry (modded), Mathematics

Mascot: The Pluckin' Chickens

Rival School: La Fiesta Tech.

Caelestis University:

Elevator Pitch: "Study the quirkier side of life and find your people."

Inspiration: OCAD University, Toronto. A mix of traditional turn-of-the-century architecture and the most Gonzo Pomo shit you ever have seen.

Majors: Galactic Ambassador (modded), Crisis Management (modded), Fashion (modded), Art

Mascot: The Clackin' Lobster (from TS4 Britechester)

Rival School: Academie Le Tour

Quaddington University:

Elevator Pitch: "Braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiins...."

Inspiration: The entirety of Abandonedamerica.us, but especially the Warner Swasey Observatory in Cleveland (and, by extension, Case Western Reserve University).

Majors: Dead Languages, Law (modded), Drama, Philosophy

Mascot: N/A. Might un-default the Brahmin mascot suit from @davinaojeda's Fallout set-- I think that would be funny.

Rival School: N/A. Quaddington U just opened its doors to the public again, and hasn't really had time to reestablish rivalries.

[vio-starzz]

HHHHHHHHHH

FUCKIINNNG HEELLLLL

ART IS NOT ABOUT THE SKILL IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE GOOD IT SHOULD NOT HAVE TI BE PERFECTTTTT. ITS ABOUT ENJOYMENT AND A WAY TO JUST FREELY DOODLE. THERES MANY WAYS AND TECHNIQUES

EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN IMAGES ABOUT ART, YEAH. EVERYONE HAD DIFFERENT LIKES ABOUT IT, BUT WE ALSO DONT ALL JUST START AT THE SAMMME FUCKING POINT DAMNIT!!!!!????

BEGINNER ARTISTS ARE LITERALLY FUCKING THAT. LEAVE THEM ALONE, THEYRE JUST STARTING AND HAVING FUN. AGE DOESNT MEAN SHIT ABOUT A BEGINNER ARTIST. JUST. HHHHHHHH.

THEY DESERVE THE SAME AMOUNT OF SUPPORT AND HELP. SKILLED ARTISTS USED TO BE BEGINNERS. WE USED TO HAVE STUPID FUCKING DOODLES THAT WERE SO POOR YET WE LOVED SO MUCH.

STOP COMPARING ART TO OTHERS AS WELL!!!

WE ALL START AND PROGRESS DIFFERENTLY, ITS JUST ABOUT LEARNING AND EXPERIENCING.

YOU CANT LEARN IF THERE IS NO ROOM FOR ERROR. EXPLORE DIFFERENT ASPECTS OF ART, BE FUCKING FREE AND AS STUPIDLY CREATIVE AS YOU WANT. DOESNT MATTER IF ITS YOUR FIRST TIME ARTING.

ITS ABOUT HAVING FUN. NOT BEING PERFECT AND QUITTING BECAUSE YOU ARENT AS COOL AS THE OTHERS.

FUCK THAT.

TAKE BREAKS AND TRY TO HOLD MOTIVATION AND DONT CARE AND LET OTHERS DISCOURAGE YOU.

ART IS LITERALLY ONE OF THE ONLY THINGS THAT HELPS WITH MY ANXIETY! IT GETS MY MIND OFF THINGS AND I ENJOY IT.

MAYBE I DONT LIKE MY ART MOST TIMES, MAYBE OVE GOT MY ICK DAYS, BUT THATS OKAY. ITS NOT A MEANS TO QUIT. ITS A MEANS TO TAKE A BREAK AND RELAX.

FUCK HAVING SUCH BUG EXPECTATIONS.

ART HOWEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT, NO MATTER THE SKILL LEVEL. CANT GET BETTER AND LEARN IF YOU DONT TRY.

FIND YOUR STYLE AND DONT LET ASSES DISCORAGE YOU, OR BEGINNING ARTISTSSSSS!!!!

WE ARE ALL TRYING AND ALWAYS HAVE MEANS TO IMPROVE

YOU WANNA USE A REFERENCE? OR TRACE SOMETHING? USE CREDIT AND FUCKING GO FOR IT!!! MAKE SURE ITS OKAY, YEAH, BUT GO ON!

WE ALL START SOMEWHERE, WHEN IT CAME TO DIGITAL ART? I TRACED SHIT. NOW I EXPLORE PINTREST AND FIND REFERENCES THAT HELP ME!!!!

ITS OKAY TO DO THAT!!!

BEING UN PERFECT IS WHY WE HAVE BLOOPERS FOR SHOWS! ITS WHY WE HAVE OUR SILLY SPELLING ERRORS AND MEMES!!! ITS WHAT MAKES US HUMAN!!

AND IF YOU DONT WANNA VE A HUMAN— FUCKEN SLAY!

IMMA TREE, AND THATS COOL.

[ash-and-starlight]

Ciao Ash I’ve been following your work super closely for a few years and I now feel like I can ask you this, especially since you seem to be so kind with everyone and always explain yourself so well!

I work in illustration and I’ve been drawing for 10 years. For the kind of illustration I do, I rarely have to draw characters. I can draw people, in a very detailed manner too (portraits and studies and such) but when it comes to incorporating characters in my illustration style, I just can’t seem to get it right. Especially with characters who don’t exist so if I want to do fanart, I always have to do it in a way that is not very coherent to my illustration style. Which is unfortunate since I’m in a lot of fandoms and would really like to make fanart I like.

I rely on references a lot, so if I have to draw someone who exists in my style, I struggle and study and put a lot of work and time in but then I’m mostly able to. But characters from fiction? Absolutely not. I especially struggle with consistency: the character always looks different every time I draw them, no matter how many notes on their physiognomy I make…the fact that’s not a real person I can copy the features of on paper really hinders my practice. I also struggle with immediacy and synthesis: since they never look the same I always end up over - characterizing them and that is the opposite of how I illustrate.

How were you able to maintain such a consistent and stable look to these characters? Is there something I don’t know of or that I haven’t been doing and that I should? You really inspire me and I admire your work SO much! It’s remarkable how you built such a recognizable look.

Ti prego aiutami sto diventando pazzo in culo se non risolvo questa cosa voglio disegnare i miei blorbi !!!!

All the love,

Elio

Ciaooo aaa ty for the nice wordsss :’))

and ok i will try to answer as best as i can bc i’m not a professional in the slightest and also i basically have the diametrically opposite problem as you 😭 90% of my art is blorbo oriented i’m a blorbo artist first human being second. but it’s not like i have the charisma uniqueness nerve and talent to stray much from that.

ANYWAY that being said i’m sorry to give you the Very Hated answer of “u just gotta practice” but i think that’s true! i think drawing characters outside of studies (which are always nice and good etc) might not be something you’re used to, and u just need to stretch your drawing muscles a bit in that direction too!! style and consistency are something that develop organically, so i’m sure that if you keep trying you’ll look at your art one day and be like “oh shit this works!”

Usually when i draw characters i’ve never drawn before i make little studies/portraits to figure out how to draw them (evidence 1/2/3/4) which i think could be a pretty low stake way for you to practice? like maybe you can start off with one referenced portrait and then try to draw the same face from other angles but without looking at that reference and just try to figure out what are the important features that make that face recognizable? Expression sheets are another way u could do this, and then you’d have a nice self made reference board for next time.

or you could start smaller and draw different shapes of eyes/noses/mouths etc to get the hang of it, and once you’re satisfied start building your character with the features you’ve drawn

lastly i cannot stress this enough draw that blorbo NOW!! get fucking obsessed with that freak!!! let them fuel you with the brainrotting blazing passion of 28473 suns and you’ll manage to draw a hundred beautiful faces without even noticing

spero che tu riesca a cavar fuori qualcosa di utile da questo sfaso 😭 in ogni caso sono sicura che riuscirai a disegnare i tuoi blorbini devi solo smadonnare un po’ quando necessario e andare avanti 💕

grazie mille ancoraaaa mwah

[i-can-not-art]

fuck- Incredibly sorry about that, I just find that dumb stuff funny, I'll refrain from the dumb NSFW SCP tales/articles. On the complete other ends of the spectrum, I highly recommend "In His Own Image," that tale made me cry my eyes out, and if being incredibly sad isn't your style, I'd recommend reading "SCP-049-J." and of course if you want something to pick apart for DAYS I cannot strongly enough advise giving SCP-5000 (Why?), a read. - Crackfic

I’m fine with sex jokes n stuff I specifically just don’t want my art sexualized, probably could’ve worded that better lol

And thanks for the recommendations, I’ll look into them

It’s kinda hard to find what to read on the website because it is both nightmarishly and comically un-newbie friendly

[bucketspammer4life]

☆ the boxers at a escape room ☆

did this because i felt bad about not posting, will post a weekly update during the weekend + some art hopefully, ive had this on my shoulders for a while, this is so cringe fail

Build-Up

Okay so i made up lore for this escape room:

It's an abandoned hotel, decorated all fancy, theres old couches, fake rotary phones and a bunch of weird symbols used later in the puzzles.

It's really colorful but the theres barely any lightning because the vibes need to be settled, theres a lot of puzzles, including: puns, math and the weird symbols mentioned

The lore starts as a hotel shutting down after a serial killer takes over & goes on a massacre, theres a time limit of 2 hours, when the time is over the game is done & a dude with a really bad voice effect says "the killer has got you" Before the doors open

When theres only a few minutes left, a buzzing sound effect plays

Theres a lot of "fake" spiderwebs with cryptid texts too so enjoy that

Glass Joe

- struggling with the puzzles, his brain is melting

- "we have to turn on the TV for clues i think"

- "or a baking show"

- "either way im watching"

- hes not taking this seriously, at all

- keeps using a prop phone like its real & talking on it, ended up getting into a argument with the air

- laying down on the decorative couches "draw me like one of your french girls.." style when hes tired

- "we're gonna die, is the killer hot at least?"

Von Kaiser

- complete opposite with Joe, hes taking this seriously, too serious

- "I WILL NOT LET THEY EVIL HOTEL MAN KILL US ALL. NO!"

- acting like the evil hotel man will actually get him

- doing really good with the math puzzles, hes a natural

- dialing 911 on the fake rotary phone

- runmaging through everything, no chair left un-thrown, no couch left un-turned, no drawer left closed

- when the 10 minutes notice ringed in he screamed like a goat

Disco Kid

- Just bored, he got dragged along and doesnt feel like doing anything

- "does the TV have anything interesting on it"

- "Disco we are being chased by a evil serial killer i dont think you should be so calm"

- escape rooms dont have enough charm for him like haunted houses

- doing cartwheels across the room, accidentally knocked over a bookshelf and revealed a clue

- hes already done with this shit, let him out

King Hippo

- doesnt have any idea whats going on, hes just confused

- doesnt know whether to help kaiser or laugh with Joe

- thinks the argument between Joe and the air is real

- hes so lost

- "mom i frew up" pose while watching everyone do the puzzles

Piston Hondo

- calmly trying to do the puzzles

- trying to help kaiser calm down

- laughed at disco toppling over the bookshelf for a solid 20 minutes

- hes SLAYİNG the puzzles

- "Joe did you take your meds?? You're arguing with the air"

- "wait i got too caught up"

- He isnt taking this seriously but isnt fucking around like Joe either, hes doing his best to have fun, not too much fun

Great Tiger

- also messing around with Joe, both of them are hysterically laughing at everything knowing damn well they dont know whats going on + cant solve a puzzle to save their lives

- "whens the baking show coming on??"

- reading the books on the bookshelf disco kid rko'd

- He could be helpful but he refuses to because seeing everyone go batshit is hilarious

- keeps tripping over the carpets

Bear Hugger

- him & hondo are peacefully doing puzzles while everyone else is going apeshit, hes having fun

- re-organized the bookshelf disco kid slammed down on, he knows damn well they dont get paid enough for this bs

- cheering Joe on his fight with the atoms

- cleaning up behind everyone because hes a decent person

Don Flamenco

- very confused, he thinks theyre all stuck in a silly room for nothing, cannot do puzzles & cannot be silly at all

- Just wandering around & looking for clues

- hes concerned, not only for the boxers but the employees

- thinks the decorations look great, taking notes for his room

Aran Ryan

- doing his evil gremlin thing, chucking stuff, sneaking around, rolling on the floor, hes simply thriving

- scaring people for fun

- hysterically laughing at everything because the lightning is shitty & that makes everything funnier for him

- saying the dumbest shit

- got inspired by disco kid wrecking the bookshelf and decided to throw a couch across the room

- laughing at the wall

Soda Popinski

- Really confused along with King hippo

- hes just following everyone around like a sick puppy

- sad that he cant bring his soda but understands because he has spilled soda multiple times on his stuff and suffered the consequences

- awkward shrugging anytime someone asks him whats going on

Bald Bull

- also hysterically laughing with aran, bad lightning with cheap horror music fits too well for him

- him & aran are cackling at kaiser knowing damn well they both need therapy

- Just having fun

- He doesnt give a shit about anything right now, this is one of the only times he can maniacally laugh at thin air and not get stared at

- was the one to convince disco kid to do a cartwheel

Super Macho Man

- pretending to understand whats going on, Just as confused as soda

- Really bored

- not much to say, hes just.. neutral

Mr Sandman

- Really calm & carrying the entire team

- concerned for aran & bull since he was the only one to notice them maniacally cackle at thin air

- suprisingly not ready to punch someone out into orbit

- extremely worried for disco's bones because no one throws a entire bookshelf onto themselves and walks away fine

- brought a camera to get some real gems

- keeps coughing like hes on life support because of the ridiculous amount of dust

Extra

They made it out suprisingly thanks to hondo & sandman (barely)

Don realized he has some problems with his lungs after that trip because holy shit he was fighting for his life

Sandman convinced aran & bull to go to therapist (somehow)

Joe enjoyed taking out his anger out on a cheap fake rotary phone

Disco needed to go to the hospital after the bookshelf incident, no one is letting the fact that he broke his back thanks to a bookshelf go

Piston Hondo & bear hugger do sudoku together now since they realized they both enjoy math puzzles

Great Tiger still laughs about the bookshelf incident at night when trying to sleep

[brother-emperors]

hi there, I hope you're doing great! I love your comics so much, everything about them is amazing: your style is so unique and the way you organise them (does it make sense?) is wonderful, and since I'm quite familiar with ancient Rome but much less with everything else, especially the Renaissance that I know only superficially, they got me very curious, especially about Cardinal Sforza. Do you have any reading recommendations to get a bit more in detail about the whole thing and him in particular?

thank you so much!!

so. oh boy. so the thing about ascanio is that he was doing so much everywhere all the time that there's a 800 page biography about him that specifically mentions that it chose to focus on his life in the political sphere because it would be too fucking long if they covered his impact on the arts and music as a patron

the extreme cliff notes version of his life (english): HERE

a short biography (italian): HERE

the rest of these are in english (except the ascanio bio), there's a whole bunch of scholarship on the sforzas that's somewhat region locked to italy/your ability to read italian, and god I feel it every day I look at the bibliography of the ascanio biography. someday......someday I'll go to milan in person.....get ahold of these books and texts...........see the archives................

A History of Milan under the Sforza, Cecilia M. Ady

Milan Undone: Contested Sovereignties in the Italian Wars, John Gagné

Popes, Cardinals and War: The Military Church in Renaissance and Early Modern Europe, D.S. Chamber

Ascanio Maria Sforza: la parabola politica di un cardinale-principe del Rinascimento, Marco Pellegrini (Italian)

an additional rec, Showtime's The Borgias. he's extremely fun in that one

[paperstreetlocal]

How did you manage to improve your art so fast in so little time?

i dont think 5 years is that little 😭😭😭😭 i mean.drawing daily for that long ....thats like thousands of drawings since on some days i draw several times

i started drawing fr at the start of quarantine for whatever reason (end of my gacha phase + i wanted to branch out + general boredom) and had a relatively supportive friend group who liked what i made (even tho i deem it utter garbage by my standards now) so that did motivate me to do it often asides from my general love for it... i usually focused on chibi/more cartoony stuff without a general sense of direction (didnt know anatomy or anything) so i guess the real start of me taking it seriously (whatever tha means) was watching fight club? cause i was like Yeah no way am i drawing tyler as a twink in my usual artstyle so hence came my insane focus on learning anatomy and how to draw muscles/fat whatever else

i dont ever do studies and barely use references (aside from character ones so ik how to draw them correctly) because it feels incredibly restrictive and i just like drawing what interests me and cant force myself to do anything that idgaf about which is probably a bad habit and uhm. I should actually learn color theory and whatever but I dont care I draw for fun.art isnt a serious thing if you put your heart to it you can learn anything with enoguh trial and error❤️ experiment!!! if it turns out like shit, good! you learned not to do that thign next time! you also learned how to utilize said style in the future to make something better!!!! If you struggle with studying shit make your favorite character/topic a core component of it!!! if you dont like drawing something, dont!!! take inspo from other artists, use the components you like from their styles to create your own!! its probably not that easy for most people but its how it came to me i Guess... if you struggle with something you want to get better at just fuck around with it until it looks good.......i have horrendous perfectionist issues and if my brain doesnt like what its seeing its gonna tell me (un)fortunately and i draw until its good enough. Or i dump it. my main goal is make as much shit as possible until i just gradually get better at it

i never take more than 5 hours on a drawing since my style is relatively flexible and i dont focus on much than besides basic anatomy and making it as funky/appealing as possible.if ur pose is too stiff mesh transform it until it looks fine, feel free to scrap shit if it looks bad. dont dwell on it for too long. people always talk about rules and whatever other shit or using tutorials it just Doesnt work for me...

only rule i Do like is you have to learn anatomy to break it properly ok. this applies to cartoonish shit too. and chibis. Learn it

gradients are awesome and will make ur stuff look 50 times cooler and I encourage using filters if ur colors look bad.. (i do it for every drawing)

dont compare urself to other artists EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean EVER you can like another persons art but NEVER compare yourself to them IT WILL KILL YOUR ART Only compare yourself to yourself . compare new art to old art if you need to. Do Not compare yourself to others you dont know how long theyve been drawing, how much time thye spent on it, their circumstances, talent, tools Ok. Dont . Jealousy is bad and ugly and you should never indulge in it. draw for nobody but yourself. if you like it its Good enough

tldr: fucking around

[deedala]

🌿w e e k l y 🍄 t a g 🕯️ w e d n e s d a y🌙

thanks @darlingian for writing this week!! and thanks for tagging me @creepkinginc @energievie @metalheadmickey 💖💖💖

which character from any media would you like to have as a father?: oh hey yeah i am going to have to also say Bob Belcher. He is dad goals.

if money, laws, time, and effort were no object, what animal would you want to have?: im sorry i have a whole entire me and 2 kids to take care of i dont want anything else lmao

what is your Chinese takeout order?: veggie fried rice and veggie egg rolls!

what's your favourite emoji?: omg i dunno uhmmmm 💖 is probably up there!!

would you rather have a library, greenhouse, or home theater in your house?: okay i am a legendary plant killer but i would LOVE to be able to just hang in a greenhouse. thats my vibe. i just cannot be responsible for those plants ok

what childhood tv show do you think of the most fondly?: david the gnome!

what was your tumblr like when you first joined?: for a really long time my tumblr was just my silly little artworks, from like 2011 to late 2014. in 2015 it became more of my dragon age artwork and fandom blog. and then a few years ago i just started reblogging whatever the fuck i wanted. and well now its a whole mess huh. my beloved trash pile.

what clothing style do you love but don't feel compelled to replicate yourself?: cottage core and dark academia

if you were plopped into a fictional world, which one would you know the layout of the best?: Thedas hoo boy

what is your favourite piece of art?: hmmm birth of venus by william-adolphe bouguereau

do you have a water bottle? what does it look like?: aluminum cup with a straw style, its blue and green and has a leaves design on it

what fanfic trope is a quiet fave? uuhhh...i dont know if i have a quiet fav?

do you carry a daily bag? what does it look like? what's the weirdest thing in it?: lately its been an addidas black drawstring bag. i just dug through it and found absolutely nothing un-normal haha?? i guess the most uncommon thing in there might be the epi-pens??

If you had to ship Mickey with another Gallagher, who would it be?: what kind of choice is this?? im going to go ahead and be a cheater and say i BFF ship mickey with debbie

what is a fanfic trope you didn't expect to like and then very much did?: ack...again i dunno?? i just like all the basic things and i dont know enough about the other stuff? maybe i need to try more things that i think sound unfun lol

Do you think s11 Mickey can still carry s11 Ian?: lmao hes so inexplicably swole, yes absolutely

who got custody of the killing bat when they sold the house?: i want debbie to have that, she deserves it.

Okay here's some nuggets who i think might want to play!! @michellemisfit @too-schoolforcool @mickeysgaymom @heymrspatel @gallawitchxx @gardenerian @callivich @juliakayyy @mmmichyyy @jrooc @sam-loves-seb @crossmydna @suzy-queued @tanktopgallavich @lingy910y @transmickey @rereadanon @palepinkgoat @sickness-health-all-that-shit @suchagallabitch @thepupperino @sleepyfacetoughguy @tsuga-of-mars and also you person not tagged you can lie and say i tagged you as always i will corroborate~