#hm... no character tags. guess!

[biblically-accurate-dca]

painting test with a limited color palette

here's the moon equivalent!

[smrtnik07]

shirooooooo....

[babacontainsmultitudes]

AH. So that's why they put that content warning. I see!

[aurora-boreas-borealis]

“What did you see at the depths of the cavern, Tyler?”

[phosphophillight]

sibling banter or something

[vitrificvitriol]

not sure if you're open to asks rn but thoughts on Perceptor and Whirl?

I'm always down to yap!! I'm just terrible at answering asks LMAO

Hm... I can't say I've really had any of them together specifically, but a quick rundown of my personal opinions:

(During Wreckers): They don't have many interactions as far as I know, the biggest thing I think I can remember is during the G9 liberation, where Perceptor is one of the only survivors of the squad sent, and Whirl is discharged dishonourably. Other than that... hm..

Whirl is so much of a wildcard to me that I have no idea where to place him. I think what stands out to me most is just how much he doesn't care. Nothing matters to him; rank, religion, empurata, lives. I think I distinctly remember him saying something that he's messed up, and that by keeping his features, it's a constant reminder and insulates him from scrutiny b/c ppl will look at him and just assume he's fucked, he looks at himself and knows that he's fucked, and so he acts the part regardless if it's good for the whole. (sorry had to write that all out so if I'm wrong, then ppl can correct me, but this is the basis of my understanding of whirl's character)

Perceptor. I mean. Fuck I guess I'll put my writeup here too. You got pre-impactor,post-impactor, and then mtmte perceptor.

Whirl and Perceptor both occupy the space "irreversibly changed by factors out of their own control" and "decide to keep these changes out of a desire to remind themselves/others of their failures and/or who they are now (empurata > scary, eyepiece > sharp)

but you asked this on the Sex Blog. So uh. Sex Things let's go:

Whirl's deceivingly dexterous with those claws of his, and is very much an appreciator of weaponry. Perceptor's fine-tuned himself from a nobody to a crack shot sniper; much of how that's accomplished is less in the sniper and pistols, and is more in the physical upgrades that he's given himself. The dials are already sensitive, but taking the plating off, and engaging with the sensors in his forearms (measure crosswinds, weight), legs (gravity, planetary rotation), mounted scope (distance, identifying weakpoints), eyepiece (fed all the previous information plus humdity, temperature, predicted ballistics). I'm sure Whirl can find a LOT to tinker around with in there.

(ignore the fact that these things would only really matter for a ballistics weapon, and tfs are usually using energy ones. it sounds cool, so I'm gonna do it)

this goes into (c)nc territory, so turn back if you're not about that!!! and also bottom percy bc im picky

ok now the weenies (joke) are gone. oh god it's so embarrassing typing all of this out but if I close my eyes and do it then it's ok

(Wreckers, post impactor) smth about how Whirl's claws make it impossible to actually really jerk himself off, and who else to menace into handjobs (and then maybe blowjobs... and then maybe just rutting, and then outright fucking..) than the wordy nerd. Bonus points if it'll piss off drift, cause like.. who even is this spiritualist weirdo who just shows up and acts all holy and good. It would be suuuch a shame if Whirl were to "taint" the mech that Drift was able to save, the one who is a little starry-eyed at his mysterious saviour... Yeah right, like Drift would ever be interested, you're lucky that I (whirl) am even granting you the light of day,

[squirreltastrophe]

some little lighting tests that are kinda messy but I liked them enough to post :] wanna really focus on getting better at colors n such!!!!!!

(more coming soon probably hehe)

[idreamofneonsheep]

I don't have a new drawing I'm proud of to share so have a Big Image of my pfp lol

[cel-aerion]

Me in a post two days ago: "It seems to me that [X character] was the programming guy, and [Y character] was the robotics guy."

RE in a YouTube interview that streamed yesterday: "We liked to say that like one of them was, like, the tech guy who did all, like, the hardware, and one of them was more of the software kind of guy who, like, did all the coding and stuff."

Me watching this interview: *nearly chokes on my drink because VALIDATED*

[theperplexednavigator]

I've been feeling pretty sad today. So I drew a few comfort Souls (well, and one angsty one), and that seemed to help a little for now.

[boatboys]

A whole variety of things that have not managed to get posted, of varying significance, completion, symbolism and and canon...nicity. Canonness. Canonitude.

[ethanscrocs]

doll custom / saint of order

[hickorydaisy]

Deleted Worst Hiring Process Ever Scenes, Part Eight

So! This is the old version of Shouta's introduction in this fic. It's, uh. It is certainly a scene with Shouta in it. Yep.

It's fine. It's serviceable. But I can do better. So I did, and now you get this immediately and don't have to wait. Have fun with it.

Fic WiP Name: Worst Hiring Process Ever (League of Misfits Part One) Scene Name: Shouta Aizawa Relevant Context: Very much pre-canon (this scene is around a month after Oboro's death). EraserCloudMicNight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His colors were darkening.

Was this why black was associated with mourning?

At school, probably due to his hair and his apathy, he’d heard people whispering about how they thought he was probably goth when he got to wear his own clothes. It… wasn’t true, but it was something that he’d heard often.

The four of them used to laugh about it, and one time Nem even drew a pair of drawings of him, labeled ‘expectation’ and ‘reality’. One of them was shaded over darkly, with tons of shiny bits and studs and leather and lace. It looked so uncomfortable! The other though, had just been him as he usually was, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and just trying to exist in peace.

The difference had been so stark that Oboro and Hizashi had cracked up, laughing so hard that they fell over, one on top of the other.

…That would never happen again.

Shouta had always been the kind of person to wear comfort, jeans when he wanted to look slightly nicer and sweatpants when he didn’t care paired with an eccentric selection of graphic tees and novelty socks. When it got chilly out, he had a small collection of novelty hoodies to throw on as well, and long-sleeved undershirts. His curls flattened because he couldn’t be bothered to figure out all the steps for how he was supposed to take care of them, giving him instead this look of permanent bedhead. Oboro used to say that it made him look like he’d just come from getting laid.

Oboro wouldn’t say that anymore. Oboro couldn’t say that anymore. Oboro wasn’t here anymore.

And Shouta’s hair didn’t look like that anymore either.

While he had never bothered to figure out how to properly care for his curls, he had always at least washed his hair - until recently. Until that building collapsed, and Oboro didn’t emerge from under the rubble.

He looked like a mess.

He couldn’t - wouldn’t - wear half his clothes anymore, either. Too bright, too cheerful, too many memories of Oboro tied into them.

So, he was darkening.

He was slipping into shadow.

He was…

He was…

He was…

[doctor-ciel]

Food as an expression of love in Last Game, ft. “Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled with Shrieks” by Christopher Citro

[platoapproved]

first Marius mention in the series and I'm already hissing like an angry cat

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

This late at night, the castle is quiet.

Though this might just be because Shuuichi snuck in through the emergency evacuation tunnel, and stuck to the secret walkways weaving through the walls. He's not ridden day and night, far ahead of his cohort, to slip up now and cause a stir by arriving through the front gates and receive an official reception. The talk of war can wait; all he wants, now, is a single, peaceful night with his husband.

Shuuichi might be too tired for more exciting activities, but he still wants to gaze at his best friend's handsome face, to hold him close. It's a small miracle he was allowed to marry for love, and he intends to cherish it. Even if he hasn't had much time yet to spend with his love, what with the declaration of war arriving on the soles of the wedding. But to see him again, now, will surely serve as a gentle reminder of what he's fighting for. That roguish smile, bright even in the face of adversities, will serve as his beacon. Shuuichi can't wait; now that the border post has been secured, they'll have a bit of time together, while they gather allies and resources. All in due time, to brace the storm.

Perturbed, he shakes the thoughts from his head. They're too heavy for the hour, and exactly what he wishes to escape in his lover's arms.

The key he carries on a string over his heart fits as perfectly as ever into the lock, but doesn't twist. It gives Shuuichi pause.

There is no need to lock the door, of course, this far from the front lines, but his husband is the careful type. Lessons of failed vigilance are carved into their flesh, so they err on the side of caution more often than not. Perhaps his love simply forgot; but then a different idea comes to mind. Perhaps it is an invitation. The thought makes him smile. He wouldn't put it past his love to guess (correctly) that he would stop at nothing to arrive back at his side.

Well-oiled as always, the door swings open quietly despite its size. The room beyond is dark. Shuuichi intends to keep it that way, so as to not spoil the surprise. His love is decently well-organized; so long as he doesn't stray to the rooms edges, he needn't worry about tripping over anything on his way to the bed.

It still takes a bit too much of his focus to creep closer quietly. He might have left his armour behind a few hours ago for the sake of speed, but the weight of it still lingers, and the fatigue that has seeped into his bones makes delicate movements more difficult. But still; he's so close now, he won't fail his little quest at the last metre. He can crash down in but a moment, if he can just muster his resolve for a little while longer.

The overpowering scent of lavender his love is so fond of greets him like a warm embrace. After three weeks, he's finally home.

A smile steals itself onto Shuuichi's face, small and private, and he slips onto the bed. It dips softly as he inches closer.

His love is still not reacting. He must be playing along, waiting with baited breath - he's a light sleeper, there is simply no way he hasn't woken up with someone else this close. Despite his calm demeanour, his love has a cheeky side, one Shuuichi utterly adores. Warm fondness spreads into his fingertips. Combined with weeks and weeks away, he can't stop himself any longer.

He leans down swiftly, one hand on the mattress and one on his love's cheek, and finds Hiro's lips, expecting to be met with the devotion he's come to love.

Instead, the body beneath him remains motionless.

Akai, too, stills.

Slowly but surely, wet cold seeps through his sleeves, into his heart, freezes over his throat. As he shakily removes his hands, they stick to skin for just a moment. Beneath the sickly-sweet lavender, there's a hint of a metallic smell he's all too familiar with.

Alarm bells ring in his head with dizzying intensity.

He can't cause a commotion, not when he doesn't know-

Maybe it's just someone sending a message.

Surely, Hiro is down in the hall, drinking and laughing with the rest of the generals-

Akai ignores the sinking feeling, and the knowledge that his husband is too careful to drink while he's away.

He needs-

Yes. A bedside candle. He ignores the suffocating scent of lavender as he lights the flame. He doesn't want to, but he needs to see.

Hiro's face is pale in death, his eyes so lifeless they might as well be glass. His throat has been cut in a jagged line. Intended to keep him quiet, surely, and almost certainly a death sentence. But whoever did this didn't leave it up to chance; there's a second, dark stain on Hiro's nightgown, right above his heart.

Akai's own heart, frozen in his chest, drops. On impact, it cracks and splinters into a thousand shards, cutting where he stands.

The wound is not visible, but Akai can guess what it would look like. Still, he can't go digging. He's already disturbed the crime scene too much; he can't risk destroying further evidence when it's-

When it's Hiro-

God above have mercy.

Hiro is dead. His husband is dead.

Akai's head spins. The overbearing scents aren't helping at all. A quiet, choked-out noise escapes his throat.

Is this how Hiro died? His breath taken away, until nothing remained but a quiet, hollow whine?

His corpse isn't even cold yet. If Akai is lucky, if he lies down now, perhaps the killer will return to finish the job-

Akai keeps staring in noncomprehension. The glow of the candle singes his face, and yet it can't heat up the cold reflection of the ring on Hiro's hand.

Not a robbery, Akai notices mutely. The jewellery is still there.

Just death.

'To love and to cherish, 'til death do us part', Hiro had sworn to him but a month ago.

No trace of that happy smile remains, now.

This... this isn't how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to have an eternity together, walking side by side through life. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, with God as their witness.

He should have known better than to trust in holy ghosts and empty promises.

A wave of cold and hollow anger washes through him at the injustice of it all. It sucks out the last vestiges of warmth in his heart, and leaves him nothing but idle, empty curiosity.

How did this happen?

Why did this happen?

Why Hiro? Why not himself? If it had to be either of them-

The void inside his chest is slowly suffocating him. It caves in on itself, drawing everything into its hollow, but he needs to let it out, somehow-

And still Akai forces himself to take one laborious breath after the other. It's hard to think, it's hard to breathe, it's hard to move. But he needs to do something, and it can't be rash.

Hiro would hate him forever if he did something impulsive, now. The mere thought is unbearable.

He drags himself out of the door, unconcerned whether someone could see him, covered in blood as he is, and makes his way across the hall.

"Shinichi", he says quietly. It's not been long since their return; he doubts his page is asleep just yet. "Shinichi, get dressed. I need you to run an errand for me."

It's dangerous to send him, when there's a murderer on the loose, but the boy has a mean kick. He can take care of himself. Akai would go himself, but someone needs to guard the scene, and it shouldn't be a child, no matter its interests.

At least that's his excuse.

From behind the door, there's grumbling, and then the shuffling of clothes. The boy might not always be well-mannered, but he surely knows Akai wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.

"Fetch me Dame Uehara and her knights, as well as Shiho." It's the most indirect way he can ask for reinforcements, and still it probably gives away too much information to his page.

"Akai, what's wrong?" Despite his marriage, Shinichi hasn't quite gotten the hang of using his correct last name, yet.

His marriage.

The nausea is back in full force.

"Hurry, and use the passages where you can. I'll be waiting in my room."

He can't leave Hiro alone any longer.

He never should have left him alone in the first place.

Akai shuffles back into his room. Whatever willpower he had left escapes him when he sees Hiro's shadow on the bed. His knees buckle, and Akai barely manages to lean against the door in time to slide down to the floor along its ornate surface.

He should be with Hiro. But the path towards the bed might as well be an endless chasm, when his legs won't budge.

Hiro is gone.

Akai blows out the candle. Surrounded by smoke and darkness, he turns and turns his wedding band until his flesh is sore.