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bby-deerling · 6 months

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that's what friends are for (platonic sanji x zoro's partner!reader)

one time you comfort sanji, and one time he comforts you. currently obsessed with the idea of being zoro's partner who is also close friends with sanji despite their rivalry! wc 2.2k, light spoilers for wci and wano. platonic but sanji is sanji. cw for alcohol use (reader gets drunk)

In the dead of night, your hand was hastily scribbling the events of the past few days into your notebook, glancing up every few seconds to make sure there were no marine or enemy ships on the horizon. Normally, you would be snuggled in between Zoro’s legs, laying back against his chest as he snored in your ear. The notebook served as a place for either of you to doodle and write all the things that came to mind (or were difficult to say out loud) while the other was asleep—a secret, never-ending conversation.

Since the crew was currently split up, you had been keeping meticulous notes on everything that had happened to make sure he didn’t miss one bit of what happened on your end. You start to draw a quick sketch of Pudding to assure Zoro that she was indeed a real woman who was somehow attracted to Sanji and get so engrossed in the process that you miss the scent of tobacco filling your lungs and a familiar presence settling next to you.

“That really looks like her, darling.” he murmurs as he looks over your shoulder, causing you to jump and slam the book shut. His cigarette smoke lingers on his breath, causing your nose to wrinkle in disgust.

“Can’t sleep, blondie?” you ask gently, setting aside the usual teasing bite in your tone that you reserved for him. After all that the cook had been through in the past few days, concern for his well-being was at the forefront of your mind.

“I don’t think I’ll be sleeping well for quite a while after all of this, sunshine.” he replied, hand raking through his hair as he leaned further back into the couch of the Observation Tower. Something in your stomach turned at seeing him in Zoro’s usual spot, making the ache in your heart due to his absence grow stronger.

“You missing the stupid mosshead?” he asked, with a bit less disdain than usual at the mention of his rival.

You nodded. “A bit extra tonight.”

“We’ll be to Wano soon, dear.” he says. Comfortable silence fills the air as you lean back and fix your eyes towards scanning the ocean. Sanji pulls another cigarette out of his jacket pocket, but you stop him before he grabs his lighter.

“Not up here. Zoro will think I started smoking again.” you scold. Instead of putting the unlit cigarette away, he fishes out another one and places it between your fingers.

“Just one won’t hurt, sunshine.” he whispers. “We used to smoke together all the time.”

“Zoro hates it.” you said, handing him the cigarette back with a sense of finality in your voice. “I made a promise years ago that I wouldn’t smoke anymore, and I don’t plan on breaking it.”

Sanji smirks. “I had a feeling you quit for him. Was he really so threatened by our little smoke breaks?”

You shake your head with a smile. “More like he didn’t want to taste your shitty cigarettes on my lips anymore. Besides, it was starting to gnaw away at me too.”

“In what way, dear?” he asked.

“It might seem a bit silly, but the act of it started to make my stomach churn. Inhaling your smoke and physically filling my chest with it felt sickening when my heart was already entangled somewhere else; even if I never had any improper intentions the action itself still felt wrong to me. Too intimate.” you reply. “Especially when you always insisted on lighting my cigarette with the tip of yours.”

Sanji chuckles. “You could have just asked for my lighter, dear.”

“I can’t work one by myself, I didn’t want to look stupid.” you giggle.

You offer him one of the blankets you’ve wrapped around yourself, and he takes it gladly.

“If things were different, do you think you could’ve seen yourself loving Pudding?” you ask, breaking the silence. He eyes you cautiously before answering.

“On the record?” he asks, motioning towards the notebook.

“Off the record.” you assure him. “I’m just curious.”

“I don’t think it’s worth discussing because her feelings for me weren’t genuine.” he said softly. “I overheard her before the wedding.”

“She’s been through a lot. She probably was just lashing out as a defense mechanism, she’s still so young and dealing with so much. I wouldn’t doubt that she’s looking out at the clear night sky, bawling her eyes out because you’re gone.” you say. Sanji goes silent.

“Would it even matter if she loved you back?” you ask, voice nearly a whisper.

After a long pause, Sanji replies. “It’s always been Nami. It will only ever be Nami.” He stiffens slightly and then relaxes as you squeeze his shoulder.

“She was so excited to see you, you know.” you say. "She missed you dearly." Sanji nods, a small, pained smile cracking at his lips.

“I’m not good enough for her and she knows it.” he says, voice nearly cracking.

You sigh, rubbing circles into his collarbone with your thumb. “Sanji, you’re compassionate, incredibly tough, inside and out, and devoted to the bone. You’re deserving of all the love in the world.”

A devilish smirk erupts on Sanji’s face. “A confession? Darling, you’re going to crush mosshead’s heart!” he teases.

You scoff. “In your dreams, blondie. I plan on going with him to the ends of the world, and then some.” you say, beaming proudly.

“I’m afraid you have no choice dear, he’ll get lost otherwise.” he replies, smiling with satisfaction as you giggle at his words.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Sanji.” you say with a yawn.

“Me too, sunshine.” he whispers back, both of you settling back into silence watching the crashing waves.

Eventually, he falls asleep against your shoulder, and when the sun breaks over the horizon, you let him sleep in and get a head start on his plans for breakfast.

*******

Sanji is finishing up dishes when you come stumbling into the kitchen. Luffy and Zoro were still asleep with no signs of waking up, and while everyone else was preemptively celebrating the victory in Wano, you were on edge and antsy for your captain and partner to rise from their slumbers. Already tipsy, you staggered with unsure footing to the liquor cabinet, fiddling with the padlock keeping it shut. Successfully gaining entry, you grab a small bottle of mango-infused sake before slumping down on the floor to drink it.

“I didn’t know you knew the code to the liquor cabinet, dear.” Sanji says.

“I’m not drunk enough to forget my own birthday.” you mumble, eyes fixed at the floor as you unscrew the cap on the bottle. “We couldn’t make it his; 1111 is the first thing someone would guess.”

Sanji grabs a few of his freshly baked oatmeal cookies from the counter and sits down beside you.

“Don’t you want to save that for when he wakes up?” he asks you gently.

“Was planning to, but I finished that bottle of bourbon with Robin.” you reply. “She told me to get a snack before heading to the beach but I need another drink before I go down there.”

“Made these special for you, sunshine.” Sanji says, handing you an oatmeal cookie, cringing as you take a swig from your sake bottle first and use the small treat as a chaser.

A wide smile spreads on your face. “Just like my mom makes! You’re too good to me blondie.” Sanji smiles in response, and nudges the bottle away from your hands, replacing it with two more cookies.

“You need to eat, dear.” he says quietly, and thankfully, you listen to his suggestion.

“What’s got you so rattled?” he asks gently. You were typically a happy and cheerful drunk; even when you went past your limits and Zoro had to rub your back and keep you from falling overboard while you puked over the side of the Sunny, you had a big smile on your face. However, despite your smile just a moment ago, the aura radiating from around you is nothing short of depressing, filling the cook with concern.

“They’re teasing again.” you whisper. “I know they’re making fun of her and not me, but it’s humiliating. Especially when she purposely waits until I’m not visiting to give them sponge baths. She’s probably touching him right now.”

You cover your mouth and stare at the floor, embarrassed at the vomit of feelings that you had just divulged. You wanted nothing more than to let it roll off your back like the nonsense that it was, especially because Zoro was fast asleep during most of Hiyori’s advances, but it was hard when Usopp currently thought it was the funniest thing in the world to throw himself over Franky and cry out something stupid like “Oh Zorojuro~! I hadn’t realized I gave you another sword!” while motioning towards the cyborg’s crotch.

“Oh dearest…” Sanji sighs, throwing an arm around your shoulders and giving you a squeeze. “Mosshead is a lot of things. Moronic, single-minded, stubborn, impossible…but as much as I hate to say it, disloyal isn’t one of them.”

“I’ve taken it so well, haven’t I?” you whisper. “I didn’t even say a word to him when I saw her wrapped around him, fast asleep. If I did, he would’ve gotten upset that I wasn’t focused on the mission.” You pause for a moment, a touch of anger bubbling to the surface. “Do you think he would have given me the same grace? If he were to walk in on me sleeping next to, let’s say Trafalgar Law, with his head buried into my chest, we wouldn’t have anything left between us but ashes and memories.”

“You’ve taken it so well, sweetheart.” Sanji reassures you; although he agrees with you, he bites back a variety of his own opinions regarding the stupid mosshead’s behavior as of late in order to spare your feelings. “And I know he appreciates your understanding, even if he hasn’t had the chance to tell you yet.”

You’re quiet for a moment, still staring at the floor as Sanji rubs circles into your shoulder.

“I’ve barely seen him these past few weeks, Sanji. What if he’s lost feelings for me?” you choke out. Before Sanji can respond, you continue. “She’s the most beautiful woman in Wano, Sanji. Don’t even try to deny it, I saw the way she got under your skin too. He has ties here in Wano through his bloodline, and she gave him a legendary sword; what do I have to offer besides my heart, my soul, and the skin on my bones?”

“Darling, he stayed true to you for two years, I hardly think that a few weeks would cause him to have such a change in heart—” he starts to say.

“Aw c’mon, blondie, what was he going to do? Fuck Mihawk?” you snap, cutting him off and causing Sanji to laugh so hard he nearly snorts.

“Seriously Sanji,” you say, sitting up and looking at him for the first time in this conversation causing him to stifle his laughter, “let’s say that, hypothetically, if we were together, and Nami were to confess her complete and undying love for you, what would you do?” The cook goes quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer your nonsense question diplomatically, but runs out of time before you take his silence as an answer and continue.

“See? How could you resist being given everything you’ve ever dreamed of? Wouldn’t you be eager to let go of the past too?” you ask, voice trembling.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, brushing your tangled hair out of your face, “Can’t you see that you’re all he’s ever wanted?” His words prompt you to throw yourself into his arms and start sobbing—under normal circumstances, his nose would be gushing with blood, but right now his focus was on getting your breathing and emotions under control.

“I just want them both to wake up.” you say, voice cracking. “I want to sneak away with him and crawl into his arms and cover him with kisses and tell him how much I missed him and melt away into his skin.”

“I know, sunshine,” he says with a sigh as he strokes your hair, “but doesn’t it give you immense comfort knowing that you’re front and center in all of his dreams?”

“He’s probably dreaming about killing Dracule Mihawk.” you mumble, looking up at him.

“And you and Chopper are cheering him on while he does it.” Sanji says with a smile, patting your head. His heart sighs in relief when you grin back at him, and he sees that his words have seemingly finally gotten through to you.

“Thanks, Sanji.” you whisper, breathing finally steady. “Sorry for losing it. It’s hard keeping it all inside sometimes.”

“There’s never any judgement here, dear. I’m here whenever you need me.” he replies. This time when you hug him, a spurt of blood flies out his nose. You grit your teeth and lightly smack him upside the head in return; it lacks its usual power due to still being so raw from sobbing your heart out.

“I’ll make you some tea to help you sober up faster, have a few more cookies, sunshine” he says as he extends his hand to help you stand and guides you towards the kitchen table, gratitude beaming from your eyes. He knew that when you sobered up, you would feel indebted to him for comforting you, but he knew there would be a time in the future that he would need your support, and it would all even out eventually.

After all, isn’t that what friends are for?

#one piece x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #sanji x you #zoro x you #platonic sanji x reader #x reader #i hope this wasn't too cringe or ooc #sanji calls reader sunshine because reasons

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thetarttfuldickhead · 4 months

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It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

#well-intentioned ribbing lead to unhappy revelations #and references to earlier abuse #and roy having all the emotions about it #there’s also a very long hug because a girl’s gotta get her kicks somehow #james tartt sr is mentioned and his own warning #hurt/comfort #angst #roy kent #jamie tartt #roy & jamie #afc richmond #a team of himbos #who mean well even when they get it wrong #fic #my stuff

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myrfing · 2 months

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hi!!! sorry this might be a bit of an odd ask, but i saw that you get some comms from the crepe site (the eating gif one is sooooo cute) and i wanted to ask what the process was like to use that site to order commissions? is knowledge of korean needed? is it like skeb where you can enter comm details in english and it auto translates it for the artist? thank you for your time!

HI not odd at all! I hope more people use crepe, there's many talented artists on there. There is no auto-translate like on skeb. I run everything through the DeepL translator or good old google translate. I also use the Simple Translate extension for Firefox to make this a lot easier. I have 0 knowledge of Korean so I like to double check back and forth & try to use simple, straightforward phrases. Thankfully the website is also designed pretty intuitively, it's just a lot double checking on my end :J...

I pay via stocking up on Points via Paypal and use that to pay artists. In short: you select a commission type from the artist's page, fill out and send in their request form (it seems to be customizable on their end so they differ between artists), and if they accept your commission, they will invoice you via the site's chat system. They will also likely ask any questions they have about your request in here. Once the site confirms your payment, then it's relayed to them to begin working on your commission. Some artists offer check sketch, etc., stages that are facilitated by the site in the same chat, some don't. When they finish, the site will notify you via email & that chat thread, you receive the file, review it, and confirm the completion. At that point, no changes can be made, and the transaction is complete.

Here's a shitty mspaint guide:

To sign up via email:

Follow this link. Enter your email and hit the link to send an authentication email.

2. In the email from crepe, hit the verify button.

3. Fill out your new credentials, then hit the create account button. You can review the terms & services via the subtitle link.

4. This next page asks you what your account is for. The left box = I'm here to commission artists. The right box = I'm here to take commissions as an artist. Make sure the left box is selected and hit next. (Text below informs you you can swap to an artist account later, and artists can commission from other artists)

5. It then scrolls you to the option to verify your identity. This lets you communicate via kakaotalk, adds a layer of security, and verifies your age for 18+ commissions, but unless you have some form of S. Korean ID, hit "I want to do it later". Then hit the "I don't want to verify now" option again on the confirmation popup. I'll add on to this post on how to verify via passport as an overseas user, but it's not necessary unless you want to get hole & pole commissions.

6. Account creation complete :~)! the button just takes you to the front page which displays random commissions you can browse.

To commission an artist:

I'll use the artist who did the snacking animation for me as an example! Say you find an artist you really like, and you go on their page. Here's an overview.

Let's say I click on the top one. It will take me to this page. Scroll down and review all the information and terms about this particular commission type. Artists will tell you what you get, what they will and won't draw, pricing caveats, what you're allowed to do with the commission, and whatever other pertinent info here.

2. Once you've reviewed everything, scroll back up and hit apply. The price is a range; artists will tend to charge more for high detail/addons!

3. You will be taken to their application form. Again, this is different for each artist, and you're gonna need to carefully fill it out case-by-case. Once you've filled out everything required, scroll all the way down and the submit button should no longer be greyed out. It's purple like all the buttons so far. Hit that, and it will show you your completed application and send it to the artist.

4. At this point, you wait for them to either accept or deny your commission. Here's an overview of your header bar menu, click on your icon to access it. You can check commission progress history, the application you submitted, and your messages here. Your messages are where you're going to be alerted if the artist accepts or not, it will have a notif mark. You can also stock up on points, but you can also do that when they invoice you.

5. Once the artist accepts, you'll get a message. It's in the messages where you'll deal with all communication and the procession of your commission. If you're not completing your steps (i.e. paying, checking the sketches) by hitting the purple buttons, the commission can't continue. These buttons will sometimes take you to different pages, i.e. charging points for the invoice, to the comm timeline page to receive your files and confirm steps...U Must play it by ear here and translate on your own because I'd need an ongoing commission to show you & I'm on ice soup week right now

But that's pretty much it! Some things:

I usually begin my applications with a blurb specifying I'm using a translator as an overseas customer in case they are not comfortable working with the language barrier or I start saying some crazy ass mistranslated shit to them. Ex: 안녕하세요! 저는 기계 번역을 사용하는 해외 고객입니다. 번역이 제대로 되지 않은 텍스트에 대해 사과드립니다. 해외 고객은 받지 않는지 알려주세요.

I tried asking if an artist takes tips once, but there's no built-in system for it and Paypal seems to be the only avenue for it, which I think the site disallows you from sharing (?) to keep transactions moderated by the site. They said "don't worry about it", but I dunno if this is universal

Try to not leave descriptions in your ref images, it's hard to read in your application. Enter it as text in the boxes.

I leave a review once per artist within a month, I am nooot sure about the etiquette about leaving multiple reviews. I don't think it would hurt but uhhh I haven't checked

"Omakase" = artist's choice for most of the image composition. You can still give refs of course and make a simple request, but this means you can't nitpick/have total control over what the artist draws.

"Water level" = NSFW 18+ stuff. I habe no idea what a better translation for the term is yahoo mario water level

👍 enjoy your beautofial art

#krepe

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red-bat-arse · 3 months

Text

I Got a Problem 🎸🎶🎻

AO3

Chapter One/Two

Eddie 'The Freak' Munson, famous for bringing rock to new heights with his band Hellfire, listens to everything but Country. 'King' Steve Harrington, leading light of the new generation of traditional Country artists, has a few thoughts about that.

=<+>=

Eddie made himself go into the studio, even though he felt sick to his stomach at the idea of another fruitless session. He'd just feel worse if he stayed home -he'd lay in bed all day with his brain running in circles about getting into his office and working, and he'd keep thinking about it until the sun went from risen to set and he fell back asleep, exhausted from doing fuck all.

So he pulled into the lot and grabbed his traveller thermos to keep him going until someone made him take a break for lunch, and he trudged inside, waving over at Claudia as he passed reception. She looked extra busy, on the phone and typing at the same time, so he didn't stop until the elevator brought him upstairs and he pushed into the lounge room, beelining straight for the coffee machine.

It was weirdly busy in the halls for this early. Sure they were old school at Prison Break and it was an unspoken rule that at least half of everyone's work should be done in house, but the kids usually left it to the afternoon and Wayne preferred his late nights where he could chat with Hop and the guards as long as he liked. Granted, Eddie hadn't done much but hole up in a recording booth these last few months, but he was usually pretty solid on his friends' schedules.

Then the drawl made it to his ears, and he realized one crucial point he'd failed to take into account -country artists were morning people.

"Morning, Munson," was called over, and when he glanced in their direction it was... well, he was pretty sure he knew the kid, the younger of Mama Byers' two sons. The girls looked familiar from the party last week, but otherwise he was drawing a blank.

"Uh, hey," he raised a hand, not really in the mood to socialize. His mind kept drifting back to the unfinished songs on his computer and the sound techs he kept having to put off talking to about production ideas. But he already dug his grave with Harrington, he supposed he should play nice with some of the rest of them; while the pot was filling he meandered over and glanced down at the papers scattered on the table. "Album art?"

The kid -Bill? Will? Yeah, Will -nodded, smiling shyly. "I said I'd do some sketches up for Mike's EP -uh, we got to talking at the party," he ducked his head, and Eddie pulled a nearby one over to inspect it. It kind of reminded him of his classic D&D manuals, and he guessed it'd suit the medieval imagery Mike favoured. "I'm not planning on recording anything right now, so it'll keep me busy. I really liked the painting you chose for The Wrong Road -I heard you and Grant did it yourselves?"

Another country boy who knew his work, would wonders never cease? "Yeah, Grant and I workshopped it. I'm sure I've got the sketches around if you ever wanna see them," he offered, and Will nodded quick. "And you ladies are...?"

A prim little brunette in a ruffled shirt and a blonde who would've looked like a cheerleader if she wasn't wearing an oversized flannel and one of the biggest belt buckles he'd ever seen. "Chrissy Cunningham, charmed," the blonde said with a giggle and an exaggerated accent, holding up her hand like a lady in a period drama. When Eddie went to take it she shifted smoothly into a firm handshake. "And this's Nancy Wheeler. It's real nice to be at a good label finally, thanks for putting up with the tight quarters on such short notice."

"It's no problem," Eddie stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, one eye on the coffee machine. He could almost feel the shadow of an idea for a chord coming on, if he could just get his joe and go. "Tiger really as shitty as they say?"

"Whatever you've heard, it was worse," Nancy said, crossing her arms. "Thank god Steve finally got to everyone. I was really to shoot my way out."

"Nancy also shoots pistol competitively," Will piped up helpfully.

"It was... restrictive," Chrissy said with the air of someone holding themselves back, especially with the way Nancy snorted derisively. "Especially to us girls. Purity rings, attending church, that sort of thing -Steve was the one who convinced us we could walk away, and hired a lawyer so we could take our work with us. Even though he-"

"We're very glad to be at Prison Break," Will interrupted, nodding up at Eddie. "Especially me and Jonathan, because Chief Hopper brought Mom in with such a good contract, we don't all have to work extra. We can just focus on the music, or my art, or anything."

"And once we're done with the new album, Hopper said we're free to record solo work. Never would've gotten that from Tiger," Nancy smiled, satisfied, and Eddie suddenly recalled she was one of the Harrington quartet. Her and the elder brother Byers and one other girl. "Is anyone on your team good with percussion?"

Eddie had exactly zero interest in discussing how percussion could work into a good old square dance, or whatever. Luckily he was saved from more talking by the shrill beep of the coffee machine, and he waved himself off with a half promise to ask if Grant was still dabbling in trumpet as of late.

As he filled the thermos up, he turned over what 'worse than you've heard' could mean. He knew he'd been lucky in both labels he'd signed with over his career, thanks to Wayne, but everyone heard the horror stories eventually.

Tiger Studios had always flown under the radar, a bigger record label on the other side of the city from Prison Break that catered exclusively to Country singers in much the same way PB used to cater to hard rock. Honestly, Eddie was a little behind the times, since even before the accident he'd been focused on the album, the tour, and helping plan Jeff's impending nuptials.

Of course, he heard the gossip the past few weeks. One artist dropping their label was rare, let alone ten at once like happened at Tiger. Harrington's lawyer must be fucking amazing to pull that shit off, although there were rumours of the execs only backing off because of some pretty hefty accusations flung their way. The kind of shit that made Eddie thank god for Wayne and Hopper whenever he thought about it too hard.

And in the middle of it all, or at the helm, was 'King' Steve Harrington, risen star of Country at large. Most of the references went over his head, but when someone was called a modern day Garth Brooks, well, that wasn't a light title to bear, even Eddie could say that. It'd be the metal equivalent of a new Ozzy Osbourne -it could happen, but increasingly unlikely as time went on. Harrington, who apparently convinced all the others to leave, and ensured they actually could -that was closing in on Dio territory if he really got away with it without a hitch.

He wasn't too sure if he actually had, though. He caught Chrissy's little slip, before Will broke in; but in the end, it wasn't any of his business. Harrington was here now, signed with them all neat and legal-like, so he'd obviously fought his own battle and come out the victor. The details would probably reach him eventually.

For now, he twisted the lid on his coffee and turned to go, grabbing a banana when his stomach twinged in protest. As he left, Mike and El came in with two more of the country club, and all four called after him their good mornings, more chipper than he was used to so early.

Eddie waved over his shoulder, already wanting to just go home and sleep. He shifted his thermos to his better hand and trudged up to his usual booth anyway. He couldn't keep the band on hiatus forever.

The trend continued through the next while; every time Eddie walked in, no matter what time of day or which floor he was on, the studio seemed more bustling and lively than ever before. Part of it was just that an extra ten people, and a few more security and special technicians and the like, just meant it was natural. But, grudging as he had to admit, the country club were all around just happy to have a space to work on their music and weren't shy about interacting with everyone. Even Eddie, who was probably the least approachable besides Hopper and in a perpetual bad mood besides, he found himself getting pulled into little talks with them on his brief forays into the lounge -although it was mainly Chrissy, who was the most personable of the whole lot.

It probably helped that she smoked about as much as he did, and they swapped a few tips between them to break the ice. Or, she smoked as much as he did on a good day. Lately he was tearing his hair out over his writers block more often than not, so he was smoking nearly every night when he got home, and a bit on his lunch breaks when it really got bad. That was probably why he put his foot in his mouth the way he did, about two weeks into Prison Break's new normal.

Eddie was at the tail end of a string of bad days, and not just because of the dead end of working on the album. Monday was the five year anniversary of his old man dying in jail of a heart attack, which already put him off completely. He was on pins and needles for days, irritated at the slightest reminder and getting reminded at every turn, which sucked because even the good memories were all tinged with hurt by now. Then he cut his hand open on a tin of tomatoes at home like an idiot, which was probably the worst because it meant he couldn't even write when the rare burst of inspiration hit him. He didn't need stitches, but it was a close thing.

After that, it all snowballed. He was frustrated, so he tried to work it out on his laptop -he couldn't get the lyrics to work, so he fiddled with the arrangements he'd written down -when he couldn't visualize how the sounds would mesh, he stomped down to one of the empty booths to play previous recordings back until they poured out of his ears and he was ready to scream. All that, so when lunch or his inevitable breaking point came by he was first out to the courtyard to light up and try to smoke the stress away.

Usually, at work, it was just cigarettes. Today, Eddie sucked down half a joint and the sandwich he brought from home and then went up to claim a booth.

Today, though, his usual booth was occupied. Today, he came into the observation area to see Steve Harrington and the elder brother Byers sitting inside, no sound techs or anything around, picking on their guitars and bickering back and forth about lyrics and timing for the fiddle to come in on the chorus.

And the fucking song was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"I don't blame this brewski for sweatin' like it's guilty of something," Harrington sung jauntily, hamming it up for Byers, who rolled his eyes but obliged with picking out a tune. Eddie had stopped dead when he realized they were working, if you could call a song apparently about feeling bad for drinking a 12 ounce on the water work, and watched with his blood boiling as Harrington sketched out a whole song in a few minutes.

He found himself horribly jealous, not something he often had to deal with, at the ease with which it seemed to come to Harrington. Sure, it wasn't exactly fucking Mob Rules being written in there but it was leaps and bounds more than Eddie was accomplishing at the moment, and he clenched his fists as the pair inside busted up laughing at their own silly song.

Harrington even broke out a stupid, embarrassing Elvis impression for the end of one of the last choruses, which Byers suggested they leave in. Like they were completely fucking around with this in one of Prison Break's good recording rooms, completely unaware that there were other people who wanted to use it to work on serious projects. Not on three chord nonsense songs that talked about the fish not biting at the fucking lake.

Eddie didn't know how long he stood there fuming but unable to make himself interrupt, but it must have been a good while because when Byers pushed open the connecting door and saw him, his knees were sore when he unlocked them.

"Uh, hey man, didn't notice you," Byers said awkwardly, one eyebrow raised at whatever expression was on Eddie's face right now. He didn't dwell on it, just looked back at Harrington as if Eddie wasn't even there. "You good with me taking off early?"

"Yeah, man, go get Baby Byers," Harrington waved him off, flashing those pearly whites again. Bigger Byers nodded, and kind of skirted around Eddie as best he could, his guitar on his back -the door to the hall swung shut with a click, leaving him alone with Harrington.

The other man stood up and stretched, no less put together here than at the party a few weeks back. This time it was a little polo ensemble, brown and cream to match the boots again, a big blue buckle on the belt to go with the blue jeans on his ass. That ticked Eddie off too.

"What's up with you, Munson?" Harrington asked, barely glancing his way as he packed up his songbook. "Did you finally figure out your hair needs conditioner instead of twelve in one?"

"Ha. Funny," Eddie sneered, making Harrington actually look at him. He could feel the frustration from hell week bubbling over, eager for an easy target he already didn't like. "Don't you get tired of singing that shit? Brewskis, Harrington? You've got to be embarrassed."

Harrington straightened up, one hand on his belt, the other with a few loose papers held firmly in front of him. He leveled Eddie with an almost bored look, huffing once like he didn't have a care in the world, like Eddie was the weird one here.

"Beer on the lake, fish in the water, might as well put a truck and a pretty girl in there, get a bingo card," Eddie went on, even more irritated at the non-reaction. "What, not enough songs on the album about drinking already?"

"No, man, it's just a fun one," Harrington said, shoulders shrugging. "It's not that serious."

"It's a waste of time is what it is," Eddie threw up his hands, the first big movement since he'd walked in, and oh, god, ow. "You could actually sing about something important, y'know."

Finally that seemed to make Harrington twitch. "Y'know, Munson, you're being pretty judgey right now. You don't know what is or isn't important to me."

"You're gonna tell me a song about demolishing a pack of crap beer by a lake is important to you," Eddie said, stung by the reprimand, if only because Harrington was right. He was kind of losing his grip on why he was even in here, why he'd even come in today when he felt so bad. "Look me in the eyes and say that. Go on!"

Eddie half expected Harrington's expression to go steely, kind of like when he'd been interrupted by Murray at the party.

Instead, Harrington cracked a smile and shrugged again. He dropped his notebook in his messenger bag and put his hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at Eddie up and down, inspecting him.

"Does it have to be without laughing? Cause I don't think I can make it," he crossed his arms and pursed his lips, a little furrow appearing in his forehead. "Are you okay, Munson? You don't look so good."

"I'm fucking fine," Eddie grit out.

"Alright," Harrington held up his hands. "Then, no, a song about a pack of beer ain't that important. But I still think you're being harsh. I get you don't like my music, but you don't have to go out of your way to antagonize me, man."

"I'm trying to be helpful, man. I don't want you laughed off stage when you break out your cringey little Elvis bit," Fuck, why couldn't he just stop? Not everything that reminded him had to be fucking attacked, but now with Harrington actively engaging him, it was almost like he'd passed the point of no return. "If I'm thinking it, so are other people."

Harrington rolled his eyes hard. "And if everyone told me to jump off a bridge, I'd say sure, which one! Do you hear yourself, Munson? I thought rock was supposed to be all about counterculture."

"Rock is an outlet. Sorry for caring about what I put out into the world, I guess I just don't want to embarrass my fans," he'd gotten closer to Harrington at some point, and it was weird -the way his blood was pumping, he almost felt good for the first time in who knew how long. "Or my label for that matter."

Harrington cracked. "I don't put out songs to please the fans, asshole, or any fucking label. I've got fans because they like the music I make. Sure you ain't a little confused?"

"No, I've got it. You've got low standards," Eddie smirked and relished the offence written on Harrington's stupid pretty face.

"Well, at least I can still make music," he said, finally angry, and Eddie flinched back like he'd been slapped. "You're right, Munson, I'm glad to put out a hundred songs that are corny and cringey, because at least they're genuine. How long's Hellfire been on hiatus now, seven months? You ever think the reason you can't spit out a single track anymore is because you're too wound up your own ass and stuck there, you fucking prick?"

In the ringing silence after that, Eddie's mouth dropped open and he felt his face go pale. Harrington's eyes went wide and he muttered a curse under his breath, instant regret plain as day on his face.

"God, Munson, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"You obviously fucking meant it," Eddie snarled, but it was weak, and his head was swimming. His hands were trembling at his sides, heat crawling up his neck at the realization he'd been an unwarranted asshole and brought this on himself. Just another shit day on the tail end of a shit week of a shit seven months. "Fuck this, I can't fucking think anymore. I'll stay out of your fucking hair, Harrington."

"No, wait, man, is something wrong-"

"I said I'm fucking fine!" Eddie stepped forward and shoved Harrington back when he looked about to come close, and didn't feel any better. In fact, when the guy only looked more concerned, he felt about ten times smaller, and his stomach lurched like he was going to be sick.

"Have fun with your goof off anthems, man. I've got actual music to work on."

He ignored anything else Harrington might have said and spun on his heel, out the door in two long strides and down the hall in five. He couldn't stand the idea of an enclosed elevator right now, so he pushed into the stairwell and thundered down the three flights to the ground floor, tunnel vision getting him out the back and into the parking lot in record time.

He was such a fucking idiot. Why did he do that? Why did he see Harrington and go completely off the rails like an absolute lunatic -it wasn't even his fault that country just -jesus christ, he must think he was crazy-

Eddie let out a strangled laugh and fumbled his keys to the ground, reaching down and grabbing them after a shaky minute. He probably shouldn't be driving.

He got into his car anyway, put the keys on the dashboard and sat there like a weirdo staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his fingers ache.

Maybe Harrington was right.

Maybe every shitty thing he'd ever heard from a tabloid was right -that he was a fucking snob who took himself too seriously, and was only making music for the money. There were people who thought he didn't even like making music, and after seven months of this, how could Eddie refute them?

He didn't like it anymore. The thought made his teeth chatter and his brain shy away, but it was true. Ever since he woke up in the hospital and got his expected recovery time on a little note card, he'd dreaded picking up a guitar again. When he finally forced himself to, the chords didn't come easily anymore, and all he could hear was the echo of Jeff's horrified scream. He put it down and tried to write lyrics, but everything was too dark, or too confusing, or made Gareth's face pinch when he looked over the cue cards. He stopped being able to write them not long after.

He didn't like making music. Eddie gagged on nothing and curled in on himself, shivering even in the warm air. He hated making music! He was up his own ass about the album, and getting back on the horse for the fans, and writing these fucking asinine songs about pointless, serious topics that the charts would love and the magazines would rave over and-

Even if he did write it, he wouldn't be able to tour. It hit him like a brick that if he could barely pick up his guitar in the studio, how the hell was he supposed to walk back on stage after what happened? How the fuck was he supposed to play live with all those people watching him when he couldn't even play for himself?

Oh god, he'd never make another album-

Eddie jolted in his seat at that particular thought and fumbled for his keys again, getting them in the ignition with nausea rolling in his stomach. He couldn't think about that right now. Not here in his car where anyone could see -not five minutes after making a complete awful fool of himself and running away like a coward. He had to get home and get in bed and hide. He had to get somewhere safe to freak out.

He didn't remember the drive home, but he got there. Ben took one look at him and ushered him in, accompanying him into the elevator and taking his keys from him to open his door once they reached his floor. The doorman got him inside and tried to fuss, but Eddie loudly thanked him and asked him to go, so he did, reluctantly.

Eddie got to his bedroom, crawled under the covers, and curled himself into a ball.

Maybe he'd never make another record.

Maybe he'd be on hiatus for forever and let down all his fans and Hopper. He'd let down his band, and his uncle, and he'd disappoint his Momma, and he'd never make another album because-

-because he was scared of doing another live show and getting hurt again, and he couldn't write lyrics anymore because everything was wrong in his head, and he couldn't pick up a guitar anymore because his hand wasn't right anymore-

Because he didn't check. Because he fucked up just like always, just like he'd fucked up today by not walking out the minute he heard twangy guitar and let himself get reminded of his shit Dad and how he used to hurt him and-

-Eddie was just-

-he was just-

-so tired.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #musician au #country star #rock star #fic #fanfic #st fanfic #fanfiction #enemies to lovers #hurt/comfort #cross posted on ao3

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darsynia · 1 year

Text

Ephemera | Steve/F!Reader Smut Oneshot

This really resonated with me, thanks for the request! Sent to DarsyWrites, so I hope you don't mind that I took a screenshot to respond.

Summary: You and Steve both survived the Blip, and each of you are trying to offer comfort to your fellow survivors in your own ways. When Steve shows up at your studio to create one of your signature grief pieces, you are faced with the fact that you're not over the way he'd disappeared after your memorable first date, weeks before the disaster in Sokovia.

Warnings: Smut, including mentions of oral (male receiving), fingering, and vaginal sex. Vague reference to suicide (post-Endgame) MINORS DNI

Pairing: Steve Rogers/F!Reader

Square filled: 'Betrayal' for @avengersbingo

Length: 3,132

Note: ‘ephemera,’ something temporary, fleeting, delicate, easily lost; also collectible memorabilia

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @starryeyes2000 @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @munstysmind @nekoannie-chan

Excerpt:

“Do you want the folder part back?”

“No ma’am.”

You set the whole thing inside and shut the door securely. “Still ‘Miss.’ Feels appropriate, I guess.”

“Rough way to build a life,” Steve observes.

“Oh, good, a six-word lecture from the perfect man!” You turn your back on him and walk over to the only piece of furniture in the room, a kitchen-style counter that takes up an entire wall. The resin and frames are already all set up, so you rest your palms flat on the empty stretch of marble and try to channel its cool implacability.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what brought me here.”

You push out an abrasive laugh. “Everyone feels guilty about what they bring to burn, Steve.”

Suddenly he’s against your back, hands coming down beside yours on either side. “I brought myself to burn. Hours of coming here and pushing myself to find something worth drawing, just so I could watch the strip of skin at your back when you lifted your arms up to get more paper.”

Ephemera

Your art is different now. Everyone’s is.

The project angers some people, but that’s not your problem. Everyone deals with the decimation their own way, and yours is particularly bare. Bleak, even. It’s probably good that you lost so much business (some gone, and some gone), because you’d drive people away, no question.

Every week, you see a new, familiar face. They look different now, sporting more lines, more gray, more sorrow, few smiles. After four months, their seedlings have finally taken root in this dust-driven world, begrudgingly seeking out the harsh sunlight. Many have heard about what you’re doing and find it cathartic. They come into the studio with folders, notepads, photo albums, all with looks of raw determination. Some are looking forward to the process, others just want the result. They walk in looking for examples on the walls, but you’ve kept them bare.

Something feels off about that, something’s missing, which is the point. A world of uncreated masterpieces.

Not everyone makes appointments with their name, but that’s one of the beauties of this shitty new world. It doesn’t matter. Either they’ll show up or they won’t. You don’t need someone’s mother’s maiden name to hold a timeslot, you’re not doing this for the money-- if you were, no one would come.

The front door opens as you finish prepping the woodstove, and you straighten, wondering how long to give them. People walk in and need a minute, sometimes. They’re looking for catharsis, to quite literally refine their grief into something new, and those seconds before you greet them are important, you’ve found.

“Hello?”

You suck in a breath. It’s Steve Rogers, you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Not because of his day job, but because of the hours he’d spent here, steeping humanity into the lines of his sketches. Weeks before the tragedy in Sokovia, the two of you had done dinner on Coney Island, talking for hours on a darkened patch of beach, far into the night. You’d stood and stretched, fingertips reaching for the stars, and when you’d turned around, you had offered to show him what touching the stars felt like.

You’ll never forget the mix of tactile sensation of that night. The power of his cock on your tongue, the way Steve had drawn claw marks in the sand beside his thighs to prevent himself from gripping your hair. Barely seconds after he came, a couple walking at the edge of the water spooked the two of you, and then you’d just… never seen him again.

“Coming,” you call out, your voice thready with longing. During the brief walk to the storefront, you wonder what the hell he’s brought, whether you’re going to have to do an Indiana Jones to keep it out of the fire.

Steve stretches out his hand to shake yours when you get out there, like he doesn’t remember what it felt like when you’d stroked him.

“No ink,” you chastise, turning his hand in yours to check.

“No inspiration,” he counters.

You can’t help the self-deprecating laugh as you let go. “That’s never been my problem!” As soon as you say it, you wish you could snatch the words back. It’s gauche to imply that you enjoy any part of this process.

“All evidence to the contrary,” he says, regarding you with warm, professional favor. “I’ve heard good things about what you’re doing. It’s kind of you. Important, even.”

“You haven’t heard from everyone, then.”

Steve purses his lips thoughtfully. “I have. People say it’s disrespectful. That you should be preserving this stuff, not destroying it.”

“The time for preservation was before the blip. I’m just giving people back their agency.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He holds up a folder. It’s a centimeter thick, which is more than you’re used to, but not a problem. You can’t even imagine what could be in there. Multiple recruitment rejection papers? Howard Stark’s schematics for his shield? The mission debrief after the Attack on New York?

“Am I going to have the Smithsonian on my ass if we do this?”

“Don’t worry about it. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you fought like hell to prevent the inevitable.”

Your throat clenches painfully, because it would be clear to anyone in earshot what Steve-- what Captain America is saying.

Sometimes you can’t protect the things you want most to keep safe. Even if you give it your all.

It’s the heart and soul of your new life’s work, so you nod.

“I won’t look,” you promise.

“Looking won’t change anything.”

“I still won’t.”

You lead him down into the burn room, and he looks around appreciatively. “I wondered how you’d protect against fumes and all that.”

“Yeah, we got in on the first round of improvement funding.” You hold out your hand for the folder. “I’m still supposed to ask you if there is photo paper in here from before 1985.”

A wry, amused look transits his face as he nods.

The rest of the run-down doesn’t take long, and you don your heavy protective mitts as you rattle it off. “Most of the wait time is taken up by letting things cool down. I will warn you that I deliberately leave a small amount of material behind each time. It’s difficult to get everything, and the overlap--”

“It’s part of what connects us,” he finishes for you.

“Yeah.” You open the woodstove and pick up the folder. “Do you want the folder part back?”

“No ma’am.”

You set the whole thing inside and shut the door securely. “Still ‘Miss.’ Feels appropriate, I guess.”

“Rough way to build a life,” Steve observes.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what brought me here.”

You push out an abrasive laugh. “Everyone feels guilty about what they bring to burn, Steve.”

“I figured as soon as you knew what my head looked like in your lap you were on to the next one!” you shoot back. It’s instinct borne of rejection; the full comprehension of his gentler words drift down like ash, too little, too late.

“Was given a mission the next day,” he says, mouthing the words along the cotton seam on your shoulder. “It felt cheap to call. What would I say? ‘Hold that thought for when I get back’?” Steve grazes your ear with his nose, and you shiver, pressing back against his solid bulk.

“I held it anyway, you asshole.”

Steve strokes his hand up your arm to your neck, angling your head to the side so he can drag his lips along your throat. His hand keeps going, sliding down past your collarbone and into the loose neckline of your shirt, stroking just shy of your nipples with each wide caress.

You’re conflagrating, partly in anger, mostly in lust, but you dredge up enough breath to say, “Never thought I’d see the day Steve Rogers forgets to say please.”

The monumental troll pulls back, lifting his hands up and stepping away. You’re left without anything to moor you, your sweaty palms sliding on the marble as you turn around to glare at him.

Steve’s standing there, chest moving with the force of the large breaths he’s taking, both hands fisted at his sides. “I wanted to be a soldier. Point me toward the danger, send me to batter it down with the strength they forged me with, fine.” He spreads his hands, looks down at them, his face twisting. “Our collective strength was never going to be enough. Across the universe, fields aren’t harvested, books go unwritten, homes aren’t built, children left unfed, art not created-- as if that somehow enriches those of us left behind."

You get it, you’re sympathetic, but you were so hurt when he ghosted you that you say the first thing that pops into your wounded brain.

“So, what? You decide to fix it by going to find the women you left unfucked?”

Steve Rogers’ every molecule is made of sheer, unmitigated righteousness, so he says, “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

You want to forgive him. You want to throw yourself at the man, kiss his chest, his neck, his lips, all the while explaining away the crunched-down diamond of abandoned misery you’ve been harboring in your heart. You’d set it on fire when you finally realized he wasn’t going to call, he wasn’t coming back, and now the coal of that hope is a fossil fuel polluting your ability to trust him again.

He whispers your name, and you break, turning your back on him again.

“Fuck you, Steve. If that’s what you came for, get on with it. Take what you want and get out of here.”

“I wanted to touch you that night. I had sand embedded in my fingerprints for days after.”

You hear him approach, and shit, all you can think about is cutting yourself on the glass shards of his regret. “So why now?”

“I run a support group,” Steve murmurs, and you let out a knowing breath. Of course he does. He touches your back gently, easing up behind you, his thumb tracing the bare skin he’d mentioned. This presents an aching possibility: Steve is telling the truth. He’s wanted this, wanted you , and he’d held back until the world was torn apart.

“Go on?”

“Lost two this week alone. Another one three weeks back. I find myself advising people to take joy where they can, to stop trying to look to the future.” You reach up, dragging your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and Steve relaxes, dropping his lips to your shoulder, sliding an arm around to fit your hips back against his. “I don’t recognize myself anymore, in the language I’m using to support people. Can’t live in the past, can’t promise any kind of future-- and the here and now?” He lets out a frustrated breath, and you get it. What kind of world is it when asking how to live in the 'here and now' feels like a rhetorical question?

“Goddamnit, Steve… I’m here,” you sigh, starting to turn toward him. Are you angry? Yes. Do you want him? Always. You can pick up the pieces later… or not.

At least you have practice with the ‘not.’

His lips are on yours almost as soon as they’re within reach. The kiss is frantic with longing, a bonfire of grasping caresses, nips and soothes. Steve tugs at your neckline, and you nod, kissing his jaw as you back away just long enough to take off your shirt. You lose it somewhere on the floor as he herds you back against the counter, thumbing open the snap of your pants.

“Yes,” you groan, and Steve cups your face in both of his hands to kiss you, gliding one hand down your arm to anchor himself on the flat surface behind you. With the other, Steve trails his fingertips down your chest, catching the imperfections of his skin against the delicate lace of your bra. The feather-light touches remind you, incongruously, of the ash collecting in the woodstove in the middle of the room. You and Steve are banked fires, but you come together as ephemera, moments cherished but quickly lost, destined to exist only in memory.

He starts on your pants, and you rest an alarmed hand on his. “The windows--”

Steve looks over his shoulder; this room has high, square windows that catch the sunlight from the open lot next door, but since it’s partially underground, they’re technically at street level. Someone could lean over, look in, and see the two of you. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he says, stepping closer. You can’t see past him, meaning you’re visible to no one but Steve. “On me,” he repeats, cupping the back of your head in his free hand and taking your mouth even as he pushes past the lace of your panties with the other.

There’s confidence in the movement of his hand, in the just-right motions of his fingers, and you’re combusting, held up by the desperate grip you have on the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens as Steve’s tongue translates the flamewrought runes he’s painting between your legs, thickening your blood to lava. You feel your orgasm approach, and it’s too intense, you can’t breathe and kiss and come all at the same time, so you pull back, burying your face in his chest.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he breathes hoarsely into your hair. The gravel in his tone is so fraught with desire that it sends you over, the honey-soaked pleasure blazing through your veins. Steve gentles you through it, whispering nonsense syllables that sound like ancient words of praise.

When you finally stop shaking, he lifts you up to sit on the counter, which is good, because your muscles are wrecked, and so are your emotions. He starts to pull back, and you rest your hand on his face, forcing him to look at you.

“You give away too much. It’s why you didn’t come back. It’s why you’re struggling with how to support those people. The ones who died, they took some of you with them, didn’t they?” you ask. His brows furrow and his eyes close, and you know you’re right. “It’s why we’re going to do this, and when we’re done with both works of art, you’ll move on, and so will I.”

Steve opens his eyes, blue eyes shocked, determined. “That’s not what I came here to--”

“You did. It’s untenable, Steve. Intangible.” You breathe in, and the adrenaline of telling the absolute truth to this avatar of honesty tastes acrid. “It’s symbolic. You didn’t want that night to end, and you knew if we did this, it would.” He’s still denying it, so you reach out and start to unbuckle his belt. “It’s okay for things to be fleeting, you know. Admitting that isn’t betraying how hard you fought.”

He sucks in a breath, letting out a little noise when you turn your hand just the right way to reach into his pants. Just as you make contact, Steve leans down and kisses you. It’s almost chaste, this kiss. Respectful. The operative opposite of the motion of your wrist. You understand that it’s his answer, his acquiescence, that he can’t bring himself to vocalize the awful finality.

The moment flames on, Steve trembling against you as you work him, brushing kisses on your lips, your cheek, your hairline, his hands alternately clutching at your hip or feathering caresses on your arms. Suddenly he sucks in a breath and stops you, a low groan answering your quiet query about his well-being.

“Can-- I want--” you whisper, and he nods, hand dipping into his pocket to come out with a condom. Minutes later you’re both naked and he’s walking you over to the far corner, out of sight of the windows, out of sight of the doorway. “Chivalrous to the end?” you tease, and he leans you up against the smooth wall, blocking you in with his palms flat on either side.

“I don’t feel chivalrous,” he says, taking your hands and resting them on his chest. “I feel like Zeus. I want,” --and here, he pulls you close, nipping at your ear. “But, I know I can’t stay, not with my life as it is. It’s not the moral choice, but--”

“As long as your Hera isn’t grief, Steve, there’s no shame in this,” you whisper. That unlocks something in him, and he’s lifting you, lining up and then, right before he thrusts home, he presses his forehead against yours. It’s everything-- lust and sorrow, lamentable solidarity.

The pleasure is almost secondary to this understanding, this connection, this-- it must be said, goodbye. Even so, it’s ruinous, the way Steve locks eyes with you, one hand on the wall, the other splayed on your face to hold you steady when he turns his head to kiss you. Searing sweetness races across your whole body from the places where you’re joined, bittersweet and glorious. You’re both vocal, he with deep, satisfied groans and you with moaning cries that he tastes from the outside of your throat.

All too soon, Steve’s grip grows tighter, the snap of his hips more vehement. “I can’t-- I don’t--”

“Let go, that’s what this is about. Grief, catharsis, ashes, pleasure, all of it,” you murmur, your kisses sloppy and imprecise. Steve pulls you from the wall and turns, holding you impossibly close as he ruts up into you, face buried in your neck.

Though you’d expected to go without a second climax, the power of what he’s struggling with drags an unexpected shockwave through you. It shocks Steve, too; you can feel the wave of goosebumps crossing under your hand on his arm.

“That was…” Steve looks shaken.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

You cradle each other in your corner for a long few minutes, two naked humans with naked emotions, until inevitably, the reality of your humanity comes to the forefront, and you need to clean up and dress. The timer will go off in a few minutes, so you prep the resin for the ashes, throwing glances over at where Steve is standing staring at the woodstove.

“How many people have you done this for?” he asks.

“Oh, I call that my Fuck Wall over there, why do you ask?” you say, hating the edge of vulnerability in your voice. Instead of lashing out, instead of challenging you, Steve just walks over and pulls you into a warm, comforting hug.

With the words muffled by the fact that his face is buried in your hair, Steve says, “Were any of those people you?”

The alarm for the stove goes off, and you pull away. “Stop trying to fix everyone, asshole,” you say affectionately.

“You first.”

Neither of you will, of course, but as you and Steve work together to take the ashes of his former life and fashion them into an avatar of what he’s lost, you’re maybe, finally glad you have the chance.

#avengersbingo #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #captain america x f!reader #captain america x reader #captain america smut #steve rogers #mcu #mcu fanfiction #marvel #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #captain america x you

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ruthlesslistener · 1 year

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I dunno why but people sticking digitigrade feet on humanoid characters always makes me a lil uncomfortable, they always look real unbalanced, like they could topple over, bird feet I seen work (as long as the character is a squished bastard), but digitigrade feet look off?

I dunno much about autonomy and you seem to know more so I wanted to ask, would digitigrade feet work on a humanoid character (aka similar skeleton and proportions)?

Dunno anon, I'm an evo/genetics major so my knowledge on anatomy is less about how it works and more about why it exists in the first place. Also, I'm a furry/monsterfucker, so I'm not really sure what you mean exactly about a humanoid character, since the definition can vary wildly. But I can show you how I think of it and why I think it works just fine on nonhumanoid characters, featuring rough sketches of my fursona, if that helps

(I also stalked around my apartment on my tip-toes to see what way of holding myself was the most balanced and comfortable, which helped)

First off, the legs have to be bowed correctly for there to be a semblance of balance; where the foot touches the ground needs to be roughly in line with where the hips are for them to support the weight of the body. Drawing a leg like a human's with just digitigrade feet won't work, because then it's just a long skinny stick with no equal amount of leg on either side of the lateral line from hip to foot

Second, you gotta consider the feet. Human feet are pathetic and useless for this style of walking, with their lack of a defined pad, no claws, and their skinny long toes from an ancestry of climbing trees. The foot of a digitigrade animal should have either shorter, wider toes with large toepads and claws for grip, or it should be a hoof, which is excellent for evenly spreading weight. Human feet just don't have enough surface area to make for a stable step without it (and this is also why fursuits tend to have such big paws)

Third, you have to consider an essential aspect of walking with digitigrade legs, and that's body position + augmentations. I'm talking about tails here

These are really shitty sketches, but notice how there's a line from shoulder to hip to foot in the standing sketch, and how there's an even distribution of weight on each side, with the head balanced by the tail. Tails are pretty damn essential tools when it comes to balance, which is why digitigrade creatures without them can look quite awkward. In the second sketch of me walking, it does look way more unbalanced, but hunching forward helps quite a bit because it puts your center of balance closer to the ground and gives you a chunk of forward momentum that you can work with, not against. To stop, all you have to do is straighten back up. And, of course, there's that tail hard at work again, offering a counterbalance and swaying with your movements to help keep you going. Standing without one would be a hell of a lot harder, and is the main reason why I give Hollow (who has big horns, a forward hunch, and canonically no tail) big ol' raptor claws, as those talons would be doing the work a tail could not

Does that make any sense? I have no idea how a skeleton would work here or if these are even close to your definition of humanoid proportions, but this is what makes sense to me

#anon #reply #my doodles #furry #i'm not an anatomy major i just have years of experience walking autistically and horseback riding

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3rdrateduelist · 6 months

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Help a trans man get through unemployment

I've held off asking for help for months, since my husband in still employed and my unemployment benefits seemed to be stable. It turns out my benefits were not stable. Due to clerical tomfoolery and a shitty, shitty government website interface, I thought I had months more benefits coming in than I was eligible to. I found out last night at 9pm that they have run out.

I am 4 months unemployed, applying to jobs every day. I'm looking into forbearance on my home. My family can't help support me much longer, and my husband's job just can't cover all the bills.

I'm offering sketches and poetry, available through my ko-fi, linked below. I'll be updating with samples throughout the day today - I put up my Valentine YCH in the meantime, and if you request a sketch in a donation I will try to draw it for you asap! https://ko-fi.com/juniperkuriboh Thank you so much, and please reblog if you can! This has been a complete shock, and literally anything helps right now.

#personal #please reblog #anything helps

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emeritus-fuckers · 9 days

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Ghouls or Repugnant guys, you can choose, finding out that they are like a muse to their artist partner, who has lots of sketches and little drawings of them in their sketchbook, but is really embarrassed when asked about it?

Repugnant with an artist s/o

Mary Goore (they/them)

Horny, nosy bitch and an exhibitionist.

An interesting, but also somewhat annoying combination.

They will find out you sketched them by simply looking over your shoulder when you draw.

And if you hide the art, it's game on. They will rip it out of your hands if necessary, just to see the art.

They're not fond of secrets, they wanna know what dark secretive bullshit you're up to!

And then they fucking bluescreen when they see themself on art... before grinning and making a shitty joke about offering you a session of anatomy practice.

They just... want you to draw their dick. That's it.

They'll tease you in private, but won't bring it up in public if it makes you uncomfortable. They're not that much of an asshole.

DD Sars (he/him; fwb, not s/o)

He sometimes scribbles and sketches too, though it's mostly abstract and bizarre.

He probably got you a sketchbook in a rare moment of feeling generous (there was a sale).

He steals your art supplies. All the time. Claims he has no idea what you're talking about if you call him out.

"Alzheimer's is startin' early for ya, huh? Delusional bitch."

You steal his stuff all the time, too, of course. It's just how it works.

He doesn't really steal your art or anything... until you actually hide it.

He's a nosy bitch, just like Mary. And if you hide something from him, he wants it.

He wouldn't bother if you were open about it, but if you're all secretive? Dude's on a mission.

He's gonna mess with you for being a simp if he sees you make art of him.

Keep your cool and he'll drop it eventually.

But if you get embarrassed... he's gonna mess with you about it, especially near the rest of the band.

G. Grotesque (he/him)

He's usually somewhere near you whenever you draw.

He draws, too! He loves doing artsy things with you!

And realistically, he has way more sketches of you than you do of him.

And he is willing to show them off very proudly, actually. Because he drew you! He loves you!

If you ever show him any of your art, he gives you sweet kisses and hugs.

Offers you some tips if you'd like. He took advanced art in high school, so he knows both theory and practice.

He will notice your doodles of him and giggle quietly, but won't really ever reveal what the deal is, since as cute as it is, he doesn't want you to feel bad about anything. So unless you decide to show him the doodles you made of him, his lips are sealed.

Even though he totally saw them.

E. Forcas (he/him)

He never really comments on your art.

He doesn't know much about art, since he doesn't know all that much about it.

He thinks very highly of it, though. He just... doesn't know how to express it. So he just... doesn't really say anything.

If you ask for his opinion, he'll just awkwardly compliment it and that's it.

The situation from the ask probably never occurs with him, simply because he never really tries to see the art you don't show him.

So chances are, he never realizes you drew him.

Tom Bones (he/him)

You probably have at least one drawing of him napping. With his mouth open. Drooling. And snoring, of course.

You either had to have headphones in or managed to be patient enough to only hit him with a pillow after you were done making your art.

Tom is more of a sculptor. And by that I mean that he makes his drumsticks out of bones. He needs to make them all look all nice, you know?

He even gently carves your name on the drumsticks since you started dating. A true romantic.

He might snatch your drawings from you occasionally, mostly just to mess with you.

He'll teasingly gush over how fucking cute it is that you would draw him like this.

He will lovingly mock you for it, calling you a fucking romantic (he's gonna roll his eyes and claim it's completely different if you remind him of the drumsticks thing) but he drops it pretty quickly.

Not because he feels bad or anything, he just doesn't think it's something to tease you about for more than a few minutes.

Unless there's some bolder sketches there. In that case, he won't live it down.

Written by Nosferatu.

Taglist: @copias-fluffy-asscheeks @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @calliedion-dungeon @callmeicaro @thecuriouss @nuntia @thermodynamic-comedian @vampyrolesbos

#ask #anon #repugnant #repugnant band #repugnant x reader #repugnant band x reader #mary goore #mary goore x reader #dd sars #dd sars x reader #g grotesque #e forcas #g grotesque x reader #e forcas x reader #tom bones #tom bones x reader

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andrewshusband · 4 months

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More god damn au ideas Zootopia/Beastars au. Unlike Beastars, herbivores aren't going to be super weak and animals aren't classified as just carnivore OR herbivore. So Zootopia and Beastars combine because I AM cherry picking. It’s MY au so I get to make the lore /ref

Rambles under the cut. I have more doodles I’m making and I do have Ashley sketched out. Also more warriors on the way too

I'm a wolf and Andrew is a rabbit There's been disappearances of a few animals (I'd say mainly rabbits? Or just other smaller animals?) and no one can find out who it is. It's Andrew and Ashley who are killing and eating animals. I probably meet Andrew one night and we get to know each other. I find out he doesn't have a place so I offer for him and Ashley a place at my apartment.

I'm with Andrew, but people would think it's me for obvious reasons. However, police cannot find any evidence on me and I pass their polygraph tests. However, they're trying to prove it's me. I swear on my life I hadn't killed any animal, Andrew admits to his crimes to me. I don't turn him or Ashley in.

I'd be hesitant to pursue a relationship at first just because of species. But I can only do nothing for so long. But seeing as we get closer and I understand just what kind of animal he is, I don't hesitate anymore to be with him.

I'd say I have pretty good control over my instincts. I can smell blood of other animals on them when they come back to my apartment. I'd probably have some struggles but I refuse to harm another in a carnivorous way, but I will protect them best I can.

Story unclear, come back for more later, if you want. I’m just brainstorming and drowning in my own mind and hoping to make better plot points for all my aus. Goodbye

Please don't trace or steal my (or anyone's) art in any capacity. It's just a shitty thing to do. Please do not repost. If you are to share, reblog or share the direct link with it to my post+blog

#andrew graves #the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #fanart #my art #self ship #oc x canon #au #zootopia #beastars

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bogkeep · 1 year

Note

Do you have any advice or resources on pricing commissions/commissions in general? I've been thinking of starting comms

I hope this is an okay thing to ask lol

PS: luv ur art!

for resources, there's this video (subtitled but not transcribed sorry) which lays it out really well! there used to be a really good twitter thread by yoshi yoshitani, but it seems to be deleted.

here's some general experience/advice:

- IN A PERFECT WORLD we would all price our commissions well and fairly and comparable to industry standard, buuuuuut i get why most of us don't. compared to industry standard my $130 character portraits are also underpriced, and while i AM steadily upping my prices (my first comms were $40 for a fully colored and shaded fullbody. oof) 1) i need to consider what audience i have and who will be able to commission me, and 2) i mostly do commissions for some extra pocket money, not to make a living. i think my prices are comparable to many fellow internet artists in the same sphere.

- the way i price my commissions are that the MINIMUM amount needs to be the amount i have to be paid to feel like a commission is worth doing (taking into account my limited amount of time and energy to work on art, if i take paid $50 but then spend several days to complete it i will grow resentful and stretch myself too thin for too little), and the MAXIMUM is "at what point will the price paralyze me because i feel like I don't feel like i can make something worth that amount."

- working on a commission WILL take longer than just working on a Fun Piece For Yourself, both because you're putting in extra effort trying to make it worth the money you're given, and because you will spend time communicating with your client. you will get a better grip on your timeframe after you have more experience doing commissions.

- you're not just taking paid for the art itself, but client communications, your experience and expertise which has taken years to build, revisions, tools, etc.

- something they JUST told us in clock school: sometimes you get clock repairs that cost less than your quote and you might feel bad about this, but you will definitely do clock repairs that cost a lot more than your quote. THIS IS HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE, THIS IS HOW YOU BREAK EVEN. when you give a quote at the beginning you don't know how much the work is going to take and estimates are always rough, but you're using your time and expertise to offer a service and you need money to live.

- your prices/quote can have wriggle room like "will cost X amount but Y for Extra Detailed Stuff Like Wings/Fancy Outfit/Background Detail"

- don't offer commissions you don't wanna do! i used to offer a wide range of styles and price categories, including some really cheap sketch options, and i don't Regret doing those per se but nowadays i only offer a narrowed down selection. I don't have time to do fullbodies with full backgrounds, so even if it's something i CAN do and people WOULD pay me for, I don't HAVE to do that.

- its okay, encouraged even, to adjust your prices as you go along and get more experienced at doing commissions. it's pretty normal to start out with low prices to get the hang of it (tattoo apprentices do tattoos for lower prices unil they're done with their training, and doing commissions is its own skill)

- if someone thinks your prices are too high, you don't want them as your clients to begin with. dealing with shitty commissioners is rarely worth the pay, and higher prices tend to result in better and more respectful clients.

i hope im not forgetting something hope this helps

#art advice #I NEED TO GET UP FOR SCHOOL NOW BYE

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pythianoracle · 1 month

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PSA About Some Shady Shit on Tumblr

This post is to bring light to some shady marketing on tumblr. This is not about an individual, but rather as a company posing as an aesthetic/meme account in order to get people to buy from their shitty drop shipping company.

I am making this post because I am sick of covert marketing and drop shippers over charging for the same stuff that can be found for cheaper and by the actual company. I am also concerned for the possible hazard of drop shipped items that need to be food safe in order to use.

Tumblr user @/my-kawaii—world is a drop shipping company pretending to be an aesthetic blogger who happens to “find” links to all the products in posts. All these links lead to the same drop shipping company website: Lavender Constellation. Under the cut is evidence to support my claim.

Alt text has been added for accessibility.

Hey, so I’m really not one to make posts like this, but I saw something that rlly sketched me out that some people may want to be aware of.

So, someone I follow reblogged this really cute teapot that my-kawaii—world posted!

[ID: a screenshot of a tweet reposted by user my-kawaii—world on tumblr. The post reads “losing my mind over this frog teapot my best friend gave me”. Attached to the tweet are two images showing a green frog teapot with two black tadpole cups. ID END]

Seems innocent enough, right? But then you scroll to the end of the post.

[ID: A screenshot of the bottom of the previous post by my-kawaii—world. Attached is a link to a storefront in green and pink text that reads “**Update For the people asking I asked her and she bought the frog tea set HERE🐸. ID END]

I thought “dang, a ton of people must have been asking them if they went to all that extra effort”, so I decided to check the tags.

[ID: A screenshot of the post reblogs with the user names blocked out in red to respect privacy. From top to bottom, the tags read: #cat #basically #cats and #haha. ID END]

Why would people be tagging this with cats if it has nothing to do with cats? Looking further, if you open up a reblog, you see this.

[ID: A screenshot a reblog that shows a different tweet. Punctuation has been added to alt text for readability. The tweet reads as follows: “Me: Invents a device to talk to cats. Cat: Oh god, finally you understand me. When ever I meow for hours it’s because I want wet food. I know this was so opaque for you. Me: No no, I knew you want wet food the whole time, but you can’t have it whenever you want. Cat: (blank space) Me: (blank space) Cat: first of all, fuck you,”. ID END]

They’re retroactively editing their high note posts to give more credibility to the shit they’re selling. Here is the listing on the linked website

[ID: a screenshot of a website called “Lavender Constellation”. The website has a light purple background with darker purple text. The listing image is of a green frog teapot with two black tadpole cups on a pink background and labeled “TEA SET FROG & TADPOLE”. The item’s original price is listed as $149.95 USD and is listed as on sale for $79.99 USD. ID END]

Wow isn’t it so cool that it’s on sale right now? Save over $60 USD? What a steal! They also offer free world-wide shipping and have a coupon code you can use. Crazy.

Upon further digging, the real teapot is the frog from the サンアート aka sunart brand, specifically from their parent and child collection. And guess what? You can get it on Amazon for less than half the price, even after the “sale”.

[ID: a screenshot of the same green frog teapot and black tadpole cups listen on Amazon. At the bottom are options to select, including Frog Parent, Elephant Parent, and an additional one that is cut off. The frog parent is $32.96 USD and the elephant parent is $26.22 USD. ID END]

I looked into the brand and they seem to specifically make ceramics additionally, the options to pick less popular options that I don’t see nearly as many bootlegs of make me pretty confident this is the actual product.

This is far from the only post they’ve done this with. Looking at their blog, you’ll see a sea of ads for their original posts, all linking to the same store:

[ID: A screenshot of a post by my-kawaii—world. The post is cut off due to the size of the device it was taken on. In the screenshot, there is an image of a silver sword ring with a skull on the pommel and a chain connecting the pommel to the cross-guard. Below the image is a link that red, bolded, and underlined text that reads: “OMG, I FINALLY FOUND THE RIGHT WITH FREE SHIPPING!!!!”. ID END]

And then following the link, we get taken right back to the Lavender Constellation website:

[ID: A screenshot of the same Lavender Collection Website from before with a pale purple background and darker purple text. The listing photo is of a person’s hand with a silver ring in the shape of a sword. It has a skull on the pommel and a chain connecting the pommel to the cross-guard. The listing is labeled “STAINLESS STEEL GOTH SWORD RING” in purple text. ID END]

If you go to their page, you will see a ton of other examples of this. Hell, I have even more examples, but I feel this post is long enough as is. I’m frankly fed up with people doing this shit, especially charging over double the price of an original product for a shitty knock off.

I’m not going to comment of the safety of these products (i.e., if the knock off teapot is food safe or not) because I don’t plan on buying one to test for lead, but that is a genuine risk you have when buying drop shipped products. For example, counterfeit makeup is well known for containing chemicals that can be harmful to the skin due because they’re much cheaper than the skin safe stuff. Here is a research article that discusses some of the harmful effects that unregulated, counterfeit makeup can have on your skin. The article is open access, so don’t worry about being blocked by a paywall.

Again, I don’t know if the counterfeit teapot is food safe or not, I haven’t been able to find any posts discussing the bootleg, or even Lavendar Constellation as a whole, but with stuff like this, it’s much better to be safe than sorry.

I am positive my-kawaii—world and Lavender Constellation are not the only people running operations like this on tumblr, I’m sure there are a shit ton more. Most will probably run the same way as my-kawaii—world. Essentially if you go to a page that posts a ton of cute, aesthetic products and they link to the same website for every single thing, it’s probably a drop shipping scam.

I’m not someone who thinks I’m “morally superior” for buying only name brand stuff, hell I own a few bootleg plushies, but items that need to food safe are not something I personally would fuck around with. And even if these bootlegs are food safe, the fact that they are charging over double the price of the original is so ludicrous and inexcusable.

Personally, I recommend blocking the @/my-kawaii—world account. Don’t micromanage people who have already reblogged from them unless they’re a friend, mutual, etc. Basically, don’t harass strangers who happened to reblog the original post or the edited post. Just get the word out there about this account.

Do I think my post will shut down their site and drive them off Tumblr? Probably not. But the more people that know about this specific scam and scams like it, the better.

#PSA #food safety #consumer safety #dropshipping

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dragonmuse · 1 year

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With the upcoming American holiday, do any of the mainverse characters celebrate Thanksgiving?

(they do, but here's a glimpse of a particularly special one in 2026)

“You okay, babe?” Pete hooked his chin over Lucius’ shoulder. The sketch taking shape was distinctly miserable, a crack in the sidewalk with a widening abyss inside it.

“Yeah,” Lucius sighed. “I’m fine, I swear. Just a little melancholy about the holiday.”

“You don’t have to go over to Izzy’s, you know. You could bring him over here. I know the food thing might be tricky, but I think we can manage not to kill him.”

“No, I know. But I don’t want to mess with your tradition. It’s sweet and if we’re there it’ll change things.”

“Probably for the better,” Pete kissed his cheek. “It’s an open offer, okay?”

Keep reading

“Yeah, okay.”

The Revenge folk all had their own takes on Thanksgiving and Lucius thought they were all pretty good.

Jim and Oluwande spent it with Oluwande's family and they did things traditionally. Once Jim had figured out how to make mashed potatoes, they were pretty confident about the whole event and usually distributed leftover sandwiches at the club the next day with Dolly’s blessing.

Stede and Eddy went to Mary's house which was probably awkward as hell, but that way the kids have the holiday with everyone together. Alma’s friends joined in various groupings over the years, rounding out the table.

Roach always took the whole week off and met up with his parents wherever their boat was docked to travel with them. He’d send photos of the distinctly not-American feasts he was having and describe them in detail with an open offer to attempt to replicate them on any willing guinea pigs when he got back.

Then there were Pete, Buttons, Frenchie and John, who had cobbled together their own traditions. Every year they each cooked one dish without comparing notes so they wind up with a mystery buffet that they took over to Buttons house to eat. There was the infamous year of All Pie that Pete talked about with amused nostalgia. The food was apparently followed by a Twilight Zone marathon.

While he was regularly invited to this bonanza, Lucius usually went to his mother's house and stayed the night, coming home in a by-now traditionally shitty mood.

Then last summer had happened. Lucius hadn’t even wanted to think about the holiday after the disaster of coming out to her and had opted to spend the day with Izzy, both of them determined not to think of the holiday at all.

This year, Lucius was pretty sure Izzy had turned down an invitation to his sister’s house to provide the same again and he was feeling guilty about it. Still, it was the man’s choice and Lucius really didn’t want to insert himself into the long-standing patchwork feast tradition.

It’d be fine. He would be fine. Hell, he’d probably be in a better mood than if he did go to his mother’s house. At least this way he’d get laid and no one would say passive-aggressive shit about his livelihood.

Still. It was hard not to feel a little weird about waking up on Thanksgiving morning (well, afternoon, it was a day off) with a kiss goodbye, the sounds of industry and then silence. He lay in bed, and indulged in feeling sorry for himself for a bit. Or at least, he tried. His phone rang before he could get into a really deep funk. It was Stede, sounding breathless,

“Hello! Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he repeated. “What’s up?”

“I know it’s a terrible day to ask, but I just got an alert that the backdoor of the club is open through the security app. It doesn’t seem like anyone opened it, but you know how windy it was last night. Can I be awful and ask you to take a look before you go to your plans? I don’t think anyone else will be close enough.”

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Who forgot to lock it? Was it the Swede again?”

“Probably me!” Eddy’s voice sounded distant and tinny. They were probably in the car. “Sorry!”

“You owe me,” he grumbled.

“Thank you,” Stede sighed. “If you can get there in the next half-hour, before someone gets opportunistic, I’ll owe you two.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“As you should. Have a good holiday!”

“Yeah, thanks, you too.”

At least it forced him out of bed and into clothes. He texted Izzy as he went.

Lucius: Stopping by the bar first. Someone left a door open. Then onto your place.

Izzy: ok.

Laconic. Great. He hoped that wasn’t a sign for the way the day would go. He wasn’t in the mood to pull teeth. The train schedule was probably all fucked up and Lucius decided to walk. It was cold, but not bitingly and after walking for a few minutes, he felt all right. Everything felt nearly normal, even with the stores closed. People were still going about their business, cars in the streets and garbage out on the curb for tomorrow’s delayed pickup.

When he got close to the Revenge, he picked up speed. He suddenly very much wanted the familiarity of the bar and the familiar smell of the cleaner they used on the floors. Maybe it was missing home, in its own way.

The door to the back was not only unlocked, but propped open. Lucius swore and approached more cautiously. He heard people inside too. Great. He was going to have to break up some party and hope that he didn’t have to call the cops. With a sinking heart, he stepped inside.

“Oh, you’re right on time!” Stede greeted him, looking particularly cozy in a kelly green sweater.

“...what the fuck?” Lucius’ hand was still on the doorknob.

Behind Stede, the entire bar was lit up. The usual house lights that only got turned on the end of the night were gleaming and all the smaller tables had been pushed together into two long lines. Food groaned over every surface and there were people everywhere. All of their people. Eddy and Jim were standing over a particularly large turkey with some wickedly large knives. Izzy and Read were moving folding chairs in around tables to add extra seats. Mary and Dolly were comparing something on their phones and laughing while Doug listened attentively to Ziva. Oluwande was guiding Charlie and Ava's kids through putting out utensils. Alma and Ingrid was sitting on the stage making construction paper chains

Pete was holding Pickle, who was attempting to scale to the top of his head while Delly tried to get her little socks back on. Buttons and Audra were arranging plates of cookies on the bar. Marvin and Roach were definitely having some kind of debate over the green beans that John was eavesdropping on with amusement. Frenchie had out his guitar, strumming idly, a meandering background music to it all.

“Let’s call it a late birthday gift,” Stede grinned at him. “I had the idea months ago, to do a big all-family party for the day. And I thought...well. I usually rely on you to arrange these things.”

“Yeah,” Lucius blinked rapidly. “Yeah, I’m good at that.”

“You are,” Stede agreed and crossed the space between them to pull Lucius into a hug. “But I decided it was my turn. So it’s all done. You don’t need to organize anything. Just come and have a seat with your family and enjoy, all right?”

Lucius was very glad for Stede’s ridiculously thick sweater. It had to absorb a few tears just then. Stede held him and it was a confident, strong hug. The man had gotten good at this at some point and Lucius just held him back.

“How’d you even manage all this?” he asked when he felt he could trust his voice again.

“Oh, I’m not helpless, you know. I can make a spreadsheet and make a few phone calls. Easy.”

“Eddy called in Izzy, didn’t she?”

“...please don’t mention it again.”

Lucius laughed waterily and brushed a kiss on Stede’s cheek, “Thank you. Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

Eventually, they would separate and Lucius would get his favorite seat in the world, jammed between Izzy and Pete. Izzy even had a wrapped plate that Roach had presented him with, so they got to really eat together. The entire bar was filled with voices and noise and eventually, music too.

“Thank you,” Lucius turned to Pete and kissed him thoroughly when everyone else was distracted.

“What for?” Pete asked, pink and pleased.

“I know Stede didn’t think of this all on his own.”

“Aw, he did,” Pete insisted. “I maybe just implied a few things. It was okay?”

“Okay? This is amazing. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

It wouldn’t become a tradition, everyone would go back to their respective plans next year for the most part. Lucius would even go back to his mother’s house with some very strict boundaries in place and it would be fine. Not great, but fine. But for this one year, there was a golden memory that he would take out and admire from time to time. It was something to be thankful for

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #lucius black #pete black #stede teach bonnet

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