Latest Posts by prtgasluv - Page 3

The most melancholic mfs in the world

Art for @moonelnone’s seraphim au, sparked by this post of theirs

More doodles of mine for this au

OLD COWBOY’S REPRIEVE — pre-canon!boothill x gn!reader, 543

the light from your shared room casts boothill’s figure in shadows and angles as it streams through the curtains and spills across the covers — in the silence of the bed, you hear the distant bleating of sheep and mooing of cattle somewhere far in the fields. the sound reminds you of a childhood trip to the countryside that you had long forgotten, lost and muddled somewhere in the back burner of your mind, but with this moment and these sounds it comes rushing back to you.

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” beside you, your lover’s foul mouth indicates that he is less than pleased to have forgotten to draw the curtains close last night, again. boothill grunts beside you, stirring in bed and burrowing his head underneath the pillow in effort to hide from the sun.

“mhm,” your own bleary eyes blink in the light that filters in through the gaps between the curtains. deciding that yes, it is indeed much too early for it to be so bright, you turn over and away from the window, burying your face in the broad expanse of boothill’s back.

boothill grumbles tiredly, and you — sweet you, darling you, the love of his life and the fire of his loins — just hum. the tension coiled around his wide shoulders eases when he feels your lips press against an old scar on his back, your softer, uncalloused fingers curling along his pec, where the unshaven scruff of chest hair continues to grow.

“c’mere, ya,” boothill rolls over with a shift of the mattress beneath your bodies as you press against him.

your sweet affection towards him in the morning light never ceases to make him weak, and his heart aches from the tenderness of your touch as you press against him, running your hands over his chest while he grunts softly and pushes himself against your hand. he wants to shift closer, push himself against you till he can make a home in the soft warmth of your skin, and the two of you can forever be one entity so he would never have to part from you.

eh, an old cowboy can have his dreams.

you raise your head so boothill can slip his arm underneath, letting his bicep act as a pillow for your soft head. when you do not open your eyes, he nudges you lightly.

“y’ gon’ wake up, toots?” he rasps, voice still groggy from sleep.

“five more minutes,” you groan, which roughly means it’ll be an hour or two before boothill can properly get you out of bed.

boothill sighs as he lets his arms pull you to him completely, your head laying on his bicep now while you remains with your eyes closed. his own head falls back heavily against the pillows, hair cast over the simple linen in a mess of black and white.

he buries his face in the crook of your neck and inhales deeply — it is your perfume now that is an irresistible bouquet, the scent of sunshine and something sweet, and boothill relaxes into the embrace he holds you in, closing his eyes as he too lets sleep overcome him.

his chores out in the ranch can wait a lil’ longer.

ASL 2000’s AU

I cooked. I hardcore cooked with this.

design commentary:

I loved the 2000's, so this was a real treat to design. I was only cognitive for like a couple years of it but i still remember a lot of the fashion from when it was going on. ESPECIALLLY. the short sleeves over the long sleeve shirts. 2000's loved their layers.

So Luffy was pretty easy to design. He was the first one i designed. i love when theres an easy translation for the Sunny and Merry into AU's.

Ace is very heavily inspired by Avril Lavigne. I was having trouble with designing him, but then Complicated by Avril came on the 2000's playlist i was watching/listening to for inspiration, and suddenly i understood everything. It all made sense to me.

Ace was M A D E for this au. I was thinking that as i was drawing him, but then i realized that Ace literally was made in like 2001 so... yeah. he was made for the 2000's.

Sabo was the last one i finished, i wasnt feeling too inspired with him, but i talked with friends who were more cognitive during that time than I, and one of them provided me a very helpful article about fashion trends at the time that included football and basketball jerseys. I put him into each of those, but none of them fit him quite well. I then put him in a baseball jersey, and although it makes him look the 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉, it fit him best. So i kept it.

I did get to put Usopp in the basketball jersey though so it wasnt all for naught.

Franky's hair was also very easily translated into the 2000's, like every boy had that hair, besides the mullet tail at the bottom but franky's just built different like that.

⟁ TOUCH. ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — yearning for sensations long forgotten behind cool steel and blue blood.

⠀ OR

⠀ — you two can get along every once in a while.

⚠︎ mechanic!reader, rev comfort, boothill is a bit of a yearner, can you guys just fucking kiss already. gn reader wc 1.5k.

“you’re less obnoxious than usual,”

your voice snaps boothill out of his daze, eyes blinking quickly as he re-registers your hands in his torso messing with a few wires.

“you sick or something?”

the cyborg keeps his gaze down, watching the careful and precise movements of your hands, actions long practiced and refined. 

it's a little surprising when a flirt or some quick quip doesn't follow your comment— only a small huff of air through his nose as boothill leans further back onto his palms.

“nah. i'm fit as a fiddle.”

you spare a glance up, right eyebrow raising just a tad. you don’t believe him, and boothill’s too clocked out to notice your distrust.

though you don’t comment– not until the cavity in his stomach is closed up and all his pieces are back in place.

“that should be better,” you wipe the oil off your hands with an old rag hung from one of your belt loops. “how's that scratch healing up?”

boothill again is pulled from his thoughts by your voice, cybernetic hand subconsciously moving to the mostly scabbed and healed over cut on his jaw— the one you patched and gave him an earful for getting in the first place.

“‘s fine,” he runs his fingers over it as if he could feel the roughened skin. they linger over it just a little too long. “barely there anymore. we all done here?”

it's another comment that leaves you with a weird feeling in your gut— he always hung around, dragged out his repairs longer than they needed to take just to spend more time with you. to mess with you, ruffle your feathers while you pretend you don’t know exactly what he’s doing. it's almost disappointing when he expresses his eagerness to leave. not to mention the lack of his usual vibrato or high energy is a tad unsettling.

he tries to sit up from your work bench, but your palm against his chest pushes him carefully back down and keeps him seated. unbeknownst to you, boothill actively chokes down the simultaneous urges to swat your hand away and clutch onto it. did you know how insane your touch that he couldn’t even feel was driving him? did you know that he’d had his teeth grit since stepping one boot into your shop— the shop that he was only able to enter after giving himself a firm slap to his own forehead?

“what's with you?”

you folded your arms over your chest, eyes focussed calculatingly on the cowboy sitting in front of you. though the brim of his hat covers a good portion of his face, and his head doesn’t seem too keen on lifting. 

“what’s that s’posed t’mean?'' boothill doesn’t bother looking up, as expected.

“you look like a kicked dog.” 

boothill scoffs. “ain’t no sugar coatin’ it with you, is there?” 

“cmon,” you sigh, unfolding your arms to place them down on your table, caging either side of the cyborg’s hips. you give a slight lean forward as you put your weight down on them, and once more boothill’s caught between pushing you away or grabbing your shirt and pulling you closer. 

“talk to me, it’s weird seeing you all quiet.”

“ain’t you the one always tellin’ me to shut up?”

“boothill.”

he tilted his head back with a quiet groan, steel thumb rubbing at one of his temples. it's embarrassing, really, what he’s so hung up about. 

his thoughts drift to your hands on either side of him, that although calloused and stained with oil you’ll never be able to quite fully get out from under your fingernails, are still soft. human. not exactly delicate but not…clunky. or heavy.

he’s never really been one for vulnerability. where would he even begin? he’d hardened his interior to match the abrupt loss of his fleshy exterior. he didn’t feel he had a choice to do otherwise. now he’s left with the hyper awareness of just how bulky and inelegant he is— it’s not who he was before, not what he had. it never will be. 

“…just missin’ the way i used to be, i s’pose. i dunno.”

his eyes still dodge yours, pulling the brim of his hat down to block out your face from his peripherals. 

“just…forgettin’ things. how things feel against my fingers ‘n whatnot.” his words are half murmured, hesitant behind his lips.

if boothill had a stomach, it would have tightened and churned at your lack of a response. now he just feels silly, like you’re about to laugh in his face for the little bit of himself he’d just bared to you.

“not that i’m moppin’ about it or nothin’,” he quickly tries to save with a clear of his throat. “i mean, this ol’ hunk’a metal come in handy now and again, don’t it?” boothill straightens up a little bit, voice evening out. 

he’s still waiting for you to say something. literally anything— to give a half assed acknowledgement and let him go or call him an idiot. he eagerly awaits for you to just get either over with.

but rather than option a, or b, or even c to z, what he receives is your hand on his cheek, guiding his head to look back forward at you. 

…huh?

he feels frozen. your hand is so warm, it’s making his head feel fuzzy. it’s different than the occasional touch to his face from you, one to tilt his head up so you can see his neck or a lift of his eyelid to check on his eye.

it stays in place, long enough to make the area of his face you’re touching begin to warm as well. his eyes are locked with yours now, slightly wide and filled with uncertainty. he silently prays his cheeks aren’t blue.

“you can still feel here, right?” your question is so…innocent. it’s as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. your thumb slowly smoothing over his cheekbone is enough to make him feel utterly weak.

“…yeah. yeah, i can.”

he’s daring enough to put his hand overtop yours, keeping it in place. you smile slightly at that— not a teasing grin like usual, but a genuine one.

“you know,” your other hand brushes his bangs out of his eyes. boothill’s never been touched like this before, like he’s fragile.

“you don’t have to hide stuff from me.” right now, your voice is the most comforting thing he’s ever heard. he's blanking– you’re the only thing filling his senses. the smell of oil mixed with your body wash, the way you look at him as you speak, every part of it is so…grounding. it’s almost foreign, a sensation long forgotten behind layers of metal and code.

“i ain’t hiding things from ya, sugar plum.”

“quit it with that, okay?” 

your brows furrow lightly as you lean dangerously close. boothill can feel your slow, calm breaths fanning his upper lip. he resists the urge to gulp.

“i know you. probably more than you think.” you tilt the brim of his hat up gently, keeping it out of the way. it’s true, no one’s ever seen him in the ways that you have. comfortable, a little smitten, on and off malfunctioning.

“i don’t like seeing you upset,” boothill’s circuits stutter once your forehead rested against his. “so just talk to me next time.”

it’s not a request, but it’s not a demand either. perhaps “invitation” is a more fitting term.

“can we…” boothill clears his throat softly again, fingers lightly tightening around your hand. “do you reckon we can stay like this for a lil’ while then?” 

you nod.

“okay.”

you pull him a little closer, enough to place your cheek against his and give it a gentle nuzzle.

you’re warm. you’re soft. you smell good, feel good. he doesn’t want to let go.

one of boothill's arms snakes carefully around your waist, and slowly your chest is pulled flush against his while you’re stood between his legs. his face finds itself comfortably hidden in the crook of your neck, all while your thumb gently tracing the shell of his ear is enough to have him purring like a cat.

“you feel nice,” boothill says quietly, voice a bit rough. the rasp is endearing as always. “real nice, sugar.”

neither of you are sure how long you stay there, nor does boothill know when his hand began clutching your shirt as if he was afraid you would pull away. but the gentle whirl and hum of his internals are oddly soothing– like a built in white noise machine that puts your mind at ease.

boothill could have sat there forever, really. nudging his nose against the smooth skin of your neck and gripping tightly at what little physical feeling he had left.

you silently ponder kissing his temple, boothill silently ponders kissing your cheek. neither of you act.

“thank ya.” boothill's voice is nothing above a whisper. “been a while since…y’know.” 

you nod slowly, fingers idly twirling a piece of hair that hangs over his ear.

“you’re sweet when you wanna be.” you can’t help but tease him just a little.

“cmon now, i’m always sweet for you, ain’t i?” and he can’t help but throw a flirt back.

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

so… about that drink you ordered — boothill

summary. boothill has a pity party at a bar and notices a familiar face that he wants to smash into two.

notes. sort of requested official unofficial sequel sort of to hijacked. you can read this stand alone. not saying you should, though. teehee. this is so uninspired. i just like this concept a lot. i also just like rivals to lovers. i’m also riding on the coattails of the “boothill is largely illiterate.” whether it’s actually canon or not who knows. let me be. he’s still not released LMAOOOO.

warnings. the usual banter, little bit of threatening, but nothing major.

Boothill was at a loss. The mission was a bust, there was no response from La Mancha, and the dreamscape was beginning to grind his gears. So many loud noises, the poster signs were following him around, and this so-called SoulGlad was not as good as it was advertised to be.

This bar sucked, too. The bartender had been giving him the stink eye for the better half of an hour now. It probably wasn’t appropriate to sick him right in the face for it, break his nose, and give him a beating.

The bartender wasn’t scrawny, though. Some big bulk of meat with tired eyes, scruff and mousy brown hair. His chest looked like it was about to pop the buttons of his vest. Dude looks absolutely repressed. Probably works minimum wage.

The bartender abandons a blue inky pen and his notebook that Boothill snoops in. Nothing interesting. Just pages of tabs and tabs of people he doesn’t know, nor care about.

There’s music from the stereos in the corners, though surprisingly, considering it’s not a club—that one is next door. It’s a conjoined building. The only thing seperating the bar and the VIP private rooms of the club is a wall and a locked door. Comforting—and Boothill would have lost his mind already.

It’s also dark. Granted, it’s two in the morning, but the low lights can’t be good for normal people. Not to mention the group of women in the corner that have been hoarding the few slot machines for about thirty minutes now.

Every so often, a chime will go off, and one of them will start busting into tears.

He’s here alone. Not for any particular reason. He’s waiting for a response from somebody, and what better way to pass the time than people watch and pretend he’s not nosy.

Also he feels super important sitting at the counter of the bar.

He almost jumps at a whisper in his ear.

A reddish drink in a ribbed coupe glass is gently dropped onto the counter space beside him. There’s a cucumber slice on the rim, and it also looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.

Boothill turns his nose up. Gross.

The bartender glances at the figure who slots into the seat next to the ranger. “Can I get you something else?”

“Hard whiskey.”

Huh. His eyes snapped to the right. Very familiar. Almost unnervingly so. Just in case, he scoots himself away by an inch, sitting closer to the edge of the barstool.

The bartender blinks, unsure as he pulls a tumbler from the rack. “For you?”

A finger prods the Ranger’s cheek. “For him.”

There’s a zap from the finger, like a small electric shock. Like static charged from the friction of the weird material of the barstools.

“Thanks, Gal.”

“No amount of flirting is gonna make me clear your tab,” Gallagher warned before sliding the whiskey over to the Ranger. Boothill had barely moved, now acutely aware of his own face plastered on a wanted poster behind the bartender’s head. “Try not showin’ up here frequently. Bad for my image if I keep serving crooks.” He points to the Ranger, and then to you. “Both of you.”

The bartender then is called over by a group of women who are giggling at a booth in the corner.

Boothill was sure he was going to lean forward and scrap with you over the counter. He could already feel the terse skin of your neck in his hands.

“You followin’ me?”

“You followed me first,” you say harshly.

The ranger let out a laugh before picking up his drink. “It was only a job. If you got offended, that’s your problem.” He then holds the glass close. “You g’nna do that thing again?”

“‘Thing?’” you repeated.

There was a smug grin on your face. You rested the chin in the palm of your hand.

Oh. He was so going to throw you over the counter and smash a bottle over your head. “Y’know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Don’t play stupid.”

You took a sip of your drink.

“Boop.”

Your finger pressed to his chest. You snickered when he stared down at the brief flashing of yellow beneath his joints.

Then, you flit your finger upwards and flick his nose.

He grabs your hand with the intent of pulling it from its socket.

“Now, that’s a dangerous game to play,” you remind him. “I’ve got you in my hands, remember?” Your free hand lets go of your glass, and there’s a small flash of yellow light on the pads of the gloves on your hands. A flicker is all it takes to showcase his entire makeup in your palm. You spin it slowly for good measure.

Then, the image disappears and you snatch your wrist from his hand.

“What do you want?” Boothill mutters. He’s absentmindedly staring into his drink while swishing it around. The ice cubes softly tap against the glass.

“Insight. You’re a Galaxy Ranger, right?” He can’t lie to you anyway. You pretty much know everything about him. Your main profession is definitely stalking and being a thorn in his side. Your fingers held his chin up softly. “Tell me about it.”

He blinks, dazed. “That’s it?”

“No.”

He removes your hand from his chin. He holds his glass protectively. “Then quit pullin’ my leg. Cut to the good bit.”

You sigh. “You’re no fun. Do you come to bars just to mope?” You pull a dramatic frown for good measure.

“Do you come to bars to piss everyone off?” he shoots back. Despite his tone, his fingers are gentle around the glass. Any more firm a hold, and the drink would shatter and spill all over the counter.

You grin.

You tap his nose again. “Just you.” Then, you shake your head. “I’m here ‘cause I got a bar crush.” You then point to a table behind Boothill’s head in the corner. “Blondie with the nice eyes and the rings.”

After a moment's hesitation, the ranger turns and follows your finger.

Sure enough, you’re not convincing him to spin around so you can shove your hand into his sockets. There is a blond man at a table dressed in green, winking at an opponent over a game of… poker? Is that poker? The game with the chips and stuff. And dice, too. They’re thrown over a board, and there’s a couple of people who have tuned in to watch the entire thing unfold.

“His name is Aventurine. Or, that’s a code name, I think. He’s Sigonian. Works for the IPC, incredibly insecure, has a gambling addiction, needs to eat lead…” You stopped short, counting on your fingers as Boothill turns back to you. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

Boothill narrows his eyes at you. “Do you know everything about everyone?”

You shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then, you make a noise. “Eh, I’m lying. Lots of people are boring. I only know the basics ‘bout most of ‘em. It’s the higher ups I’m interested in. Case in point–” You gestured to the blond man again, now scanning over his cards. “–Mister Big Shot. And all his loser coworkers. I don’t like the IPC.”

Boothill quietly sips his drink.

At least you can both agree on something.

He wants to yawn. He doesn’t have the function to do that anymore.

You talk too much.

He cuts you off, and fiddles with a few buttons on his arm. “What can you tell me–” A small image of a woman projects into view from a small lens near his wrist. “–About her?”

You lean closer to the image. Pretty.

She has lovely purple hair and eyes to match. It’s an unassuming photo. She’s not even looking at the camera, not even close to it. She’s standing next to a little boy with sparkling eyes and a uniform that starkly resembles the hotel staff in the waking world of Penacony—oh, the bellboy. You forgot his name.

You hum. “What’s her name?”

“Acheron.” He spits it nastily, as if tasting vitriol on his tongue.

You lean back against the counter. “I’d have to dig deeper. Can’t say I’ve seen her around before.”

“Well, that’s disappointin’,” he huffs before the image shrinks and disappears back into the lens. “Thought you were better than that.”

Your brows knit together.

“Are you trying to rile me up?” It was working. Curse you and your hot-head. It would get you killed one day.

Boothill grins.

Then, he raises his glass to you. “Yep.”

You wanted to pull him apart right there, like a doll.

Instead, you whisper, “tell me about La Mancha.”

Boothill casually sips the whiskey. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll dig up whatever I can find about that Acheron girl.”

Boothill then lets out a small giggle. “I already know who she is.” He wasn’t lying either. You could tell by how he grinned. “I was testin’ ya.”

Oh, great. He’s figured you out again. Not that there’s much to decode beneath the layer of self-doubt and hostility.

You could feel your face burning.

He grabs your cheeks before you can turn away.

“You ain’t here ‘cause you got some ‘puppy crush,’” he accused playfully, squishing your skin like it’s clay. “You already told me ya know everything about blondie. Who’re you really here for?”

He’s not stupid.

He’s also twirling a lock of his hair around his finger.

God damnit.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rim of your glass. The cucumber slice has since fallen into the cosmopolitan, and it’s giving the entire drink a strange watery taste.

The bar carries on. There’s a hoot from the table with blondie, who’s now, since the last time you stared daggers into the side of his head, collected some more of his poor opponent’s chips.

You pull your face from his grip. “Nobody.”

“Not even me?” Boothill presses. “You seem to love followin’ me around. In and out the dreamscape.”

You grit your teeth.

“The bartender,” you mutter finally. “I’m here for the bartender.” Currently, Gallagher is half asleep on the other side of the counter, trying to negotiate with some drunkard over the pricing of a scotch.

You eye him warily for a moment.

“There it is.” He pats your head like a dog. “Knew you’d come ‘round, pumpkin.”

You’re trembling with rage. “Kiss my ass, you cyborg scum.” You were considering throwing a punch at his perfect face.

“Rude.” Boothill flicks your nose back and you grunt. “I’m tryin’ to be nice wit’ you. You followed me here.”

You wanted to leave now. He sucks when he knows he has the upper hand, even if he’s well aware you can make his arms tear his own head off.

But you’re not going to do that. You need him. You made that clear.

The sound of a slot machine goes off somewhere to the right. There's cheering from a bunch of women.

You turn back and stare at the wall of liquor behind the bar. Maybe you should just knock yourself out. Whether by downing an entire bottle of bourbon or smashing it over your head. It was a hard choice to make.

You watch him through your peripherals, noticing he’s pinched a napkin from the pile on the counter.

“Lookin’ very pretty tonight, by the way. Hard to keep my eyes off ya.” He was writing something down with the pen from before. “If you were anyone else, I woulda had to take ya home. ‘Specially after ya bought me a drink.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Then, you pause. “Excuse me?”

Boothill folds the napkin into a square and holds it to your lips. “Open.”

“You are not–”

Too late. He’s pushed it to your teeth, and you instinctively clamp down on it.

Oh, this sucks. This sucks bad.

He knows it, too, from the way he’s grinning at you like a shark and snickering.

He presses his warm lips to your cheek. The scent of whiskey faintly wafts in the air.

You stupidly freeze, hands curled around his wrists when his cold hands tilt your head so the tip of his tongue can press to the corner of your lips. You could stop him. You could.

You didn’t.

You smell like strawberry, the same as that other night. You look just as good, too. Shame you haven’t put anything on your lips. He would’ve loved to be stained a nice pink again.

He slides his whiskey next to you.

Then, he finishes what’s left of your drink. Dickhead. “I’ll be ‘round if ya need me.” He taps your nose and stands up. “You know where to find me.”

With a tilt of his hat, he leaves.

You pull the napkin from your teeth. Are you serious?

Face burning with humiliation, you hastily unfold the tissue, fingers shaking around the glass of whiskey. It’s heavy on your tongue; disgusting, bitter, everything you’d use to describe that stupid cowboy and his abomination of a body.

Scrawled in blue ink is a line of numbers. It looked suspiciously like a phone number.

Below it in blocky letters are the words: Keep In touc H. ♡

There’s a crudely drawn horse with a hat in the corner.

⠀ — boothill thoughts that have been in my brain.

boothill who is so fond of cheek kisses and fingers on his jaw and nudging his face against yours— it’s the only way he’s able to feel how warm or cold you are, a thumb smoothing over your cheek is useless when he can’t feel your skin. he’d much rather press his to yours like a cat and leave a quick smooch or a playful bite to the soft skin there.

boothill who always puts his hands over yours when you cup his cheeks, leaving a kiss or two and a harmless nibble on your palms and holding them there for as long as he can. it reminds him of when his own cheeks were able to warm— but having you around to simulate it and gently squeeze at his face isn’t so bad.

boothill who is the kind of guy to pull your legs up over his lap, idly drum on your legs and give your thigh the occasional squeeze while he listens to you talk.

boothill who most definitely throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes to take you places— when you’re up too late and need to get to bed or procrastinating something he knows you have to start on. he gives you the chance to go yourself now and again, but 9/10 times you’re swept up out of your seat and hanging over his shoulders.

boothill who gets too into his own head every here and there and relies on the sound of your voice to pull his focus away from the whirring of his own internals.

boothill who really isn’t as tough and gruff as he’s chalked up to be— not with you, at least. he’s got a special little sweet spot for when it’s just the two of you.

A humble streetwear moment :3

—fault line; leon kennedy.

ʚ leon kennedy x reader | resident evil | 2,5k words. ʚ in which you and leon were both agents working for different countries, with a little bit of shared history. ʚ set in re4 but non canon compliant; reader is implied to be working for a foreign government but not specified which; reader and leon have a history of a physical relationship. ʚ a/n — this took me so long to write and im not too proud of it anyway. it sat in my drafts for probably two weeks-ish purely bc ive been watching atla and abandoning tumblr. enjoy reading anyway.

Nearly two years had passed, and you remained missing the warmth of his bed and the crinkle of his sheets. Nearly two years, and it was the first time you had seen him. Leon Kennedy stood in front of you, the set of his shoulders were stiff as he exhaled, eyes cold blues, studying you.

All around you was foreign: foreign land beneath your boots, foreign houses with stone buildings and weathered red roofs separated by rivers and mountains. Leon was the only reprieve—something familiar, bringing with him a false sense of security which you clung onto like a starved man.

"Can't you leave me alone?" Bitterness spilt out of his lips. Your eyes flit to look at anything else but him: the dried mud on your boots, the rundown docks beneath them, the opaque water of the lake.

"I did not come here for you." This was true, at least. You had set foot in the rural village for answers—not voluntarily, though. This was your livelihood.

"Of course not," he drawled. "You'd have to care first."

Enough time had passed for the dull throb in your chest to cease, but it was hammering down on all of your senses. You tried to reign your thoughts in to no avail. They galloped out of control, reminding you of the months—seven—leading up to Operation Javier.

At the time, Leon was early in his career as an agent. Lonely, easily taken by someone he had met on an outing once. You. He hadn't suspected that you could be a foreign intelligencer, tasked to unearth the secrets buried with the destruction of Raccoon City. Leon was supposed to be your impossible task—surely someone who survived that night and was made a special agent wouldn't be so trusting, his life so easily infiltrated.

You had underestimated his loneliness.

He hadn't handfed you the information you siphoned back to your handler, but he practically gave you free access. They had been gathered from eavesdropping his calls from the other room, going over his correspondences while he slept next to you. Until he was sent to South America and you followed, discreetly, of course.

This time, you overestimated your stealth.

He found you out, unravelling your motivations and deception, witnessed by the Amazon rainforest during that very mission. You had escaped before he could turn you in to be interrogated, not caring to find out what they would do to foreign spies, nor could you stand the look in his eyes.

The blues, formerly jewel-like, now fractured. You didn't take into account your own isolation, too, when you took this mission, because somewhere along the way, Leon had stopped being a mark. He had left a mark on you himself, in a way.

"I should go," you said, strangely self-conscious. It was an odd feeling; your presence being so unwanted.

"Why are you here?"

"Your president's daughter being taken was a point of interest, but I have my own reasons." A sample of whatever is infecting people here. Half-truths and lying by omission came naturally to you. You couldn't remember a time when they did not.

"I suggest you don't meddle," he said curtly and stalked off. You opened your mouth, wanting to say everything and nothing at once. Settling for the latter, you turned away from the docks.

Was he insane?

You weren't proud to say that you had been keeping an eye on Leon. Your days in the rural village had been isolating and left you parched for any semblance of companionship. He was either a mirage or an oasis, you hadn't decided which just yet.

After the gross-looking humongous lake monster was defeated, Leon had slumped and lain on his back. At first, you assumed he was merely catching his breath, but he stayed there, unmoving. He was out cold, floating in a strange lake with strange residents all around.

He would be fine, right? It wasn't as if your help would be welcome anyway, right?

You exhaled before paddling a smaller boat towards his, half cursing yourself. There was your handler's voice in your head, mocking you, asking if you were really attached to this American agent and what it was that was so special about him.

Ah, Viper. You aren't actually saving him, are you? Leave the American. Focus on the task at hand.

The boat rocked under you as you stepped over into his. Maybe you could both be the monster's meal together now. Maybe it wasn't actually dead. Maybe it had a bigger, more evil twin swimming underneath the murky surface. You placed two fingers onto his neck, by his Adam's apple and slumped back in relief when you found the pulse.

When he woke up, you were sitting on one side of the boat, knees tucked towards your chest, half asleep yourself. You had moved the boat closer to shore, where it floated near the rocky lakeside. You could've stepped off and left—should have, but something, most likely stupidity, compelled you to stay.

He was startled, understandably so, consciousness still barely registering what was happening.

"You've been out for two hours," you said nonchalantly. "You just... passed out."

"And you've been, what, just staring at me?" His biting sarcasm had returned, but something seemed off. He was staring at his hand as if it wasn't his, turning it this way and that way, flexing and clenching his fingers. His hair moved as he tilted his head, grazing his cheek.

"I don't need to stare, I know what you look like," you replied. "You're welcome for making sure you didn't die."

He scoffed. "You certainly have your motives. That's what you do, isn't it? Pretend to care for what's best for everyone. When in reality, they suit your agenda and yours only."

You wanted to smack him across the head.

"What could be my agenda, Kennedy? Huh? What use could I possibly have you for?"

"A lot, apparently." He shot you a glare. "Did they promote you after Operation Javier? You're welcome."

"They did," you admitted, something akin to shame filled your stomach, but you pressed on. The first ever sample of the T-virus that your country had was courtesy to you. It wasn't even part of your mission. Your original mission had been to dig up information on Leon Kennedy and whatever biological disaster his country found itself in. "I'm paid double what I'm used to. I'm practically a national hero to my colleagues."

"Do you want me to shake your hand?"

"No, Leon! I want you to—I want—" You trailed off, surprised at the emotional reaction you were having. You cleared your throat, schooling your expression. "It doesn't matter. For whatever it is worth, I am sorry. You didn't deserve that."

He stood up and stepped over the side of the boat, boots sinking in the water that reached all the way to his knees. "Like you said, it doesn't matter."

He walked a couple of steps before turning to look at you over his shoulder. "No offense, but I hope we never see each other again."

"I think you're infected."

You had gotten the jump on him. It somewhat amused you, despite the grim castle you were in and the grimmer news you delivered.

"But you already know that."

He looked at you as if you were a petulant child who would not leave him alone. "I had my suspicions."

You followed him down the maze-like halls. "The damsel-in-distress is infected as well, but you knew that, too."

"What do you want, ___?" He said your name like it was a curse. You only shrugged in return.

"Answers, mostly," you said. "Who's doing this and why. That is what I was sent to do."

"What do you want from me?"

The two of you were speaking in hushed tones, trying not to alert the many infected residents of the old castle. Leon looked irritated, taking big strides across the carpeted floor.

"I'm wondering the same thing."

Leon halted in his tracks at your wistful tone, watching you with the intensity of a man witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime comet. As if he was trying to take all of you in before you disappeared for good. You were oblivious to this, stuck in your own head, trying to answer the question he had asked.

Leon broke himself out of the spell. "I don't have time for this."

As soon as he said that, you heard the mumbling of hostiles, just around the corner. Without thinking twice, you pushed Leon into an unlocked door in the hallway, closing the door behind you. Leon let out a startled noise and you placed a hand over his mouth, pushing him back against the wall.

It was a tight fit.

Dark, as well.

The only illumination you had came from the dim hallway, through the slit under the door. Leon's gloved hands found their way to your waist where they squeezed, like it was something he had done countless times before—it was. Your free hand clutched his shoulder as the voices approached your hiding space, hearts pumping anxiously for a long while even after the steps started to recede.

You both let out relieved sighs.

One of his hands slid up your arm to gently remove the hand covering the bottom half of his face. You swallowed. The immediate danger had passed, but proximity to him carried another type of danger in itself.

He breathed out your name, the sound so familiar to your ears and it made you lean into his touch. This was familiar—all of it was familiar. The way your heart roared at the warmth of him, your skin burned at the slightest touch.

"I shouldn't be wanting to kiss you right now."

His chest rose with a sharp intake of breath. Softly, as if speaking anything above whispers might shatter the moment, he said, "No."

Yet his grip tightened and he pressed you closer towards him. His free hand found the side of your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. You had already stopped thinking straight. Without being able to see him clearly, you leaned forward, feeling his breath over you.

"This is a bad idea." You tried being the voice of reason, even as your eyes fluttered close and his nose nudged yours.

"You tend to have a lot of those."

Even as he said that, you could feel his lips brushing against yours. Your hand found the nape of his neck, fingers slotting through his hair. Chest-to-chest, you could feel how rapidly his heart was beating as he could feel yours.

You cursed under your breath, before finally pressing your lips against his. He immediately responded by tracing his tongue across your lips impatiently and you opened your mouth, tasting him again. His kiss was bruising, all tongue and teeth and eagerness. He pushed you back until you hit the wall behind you.

Like a drunken man, he said, "I missed you."

"I know," you said, tugging at his hair. "I missed you, too."

He abruptly stopped, shrinking away from you as if you were a scalding thing, burning him. His hand felt around the door, before finding the handle and pushing the door open. He took a deep breath as light filtered back in through his vision.

"Leon—"

"You should go."

He shook his head, swiping his palm over his face as if chiding himself. You reached towards him, but decided against it last minute, dropping your hand to your side. This was a mistake. All of it.

"Take care of yourself."

"I'm sorry about your friend."

Leon didn't jump this time, as if he had already expected you to appear uninvited. He was sitting on the floor, leaning on the rickety metal bed where the damsel in distress—Ashley Graham—was currently unconscious on.

"He shouldn't have died."

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. There was something broken in him. His shoulders were slumped with weariness, clothes and skin dusted with blood and grime.

"Can I sit?"

"Why won't you leave me alone?" There was no malice in his voice, or any sign of annoyance. If anything, it was exasperation.

You leaned against the doorway. Tentatively, you spoke. "When you asked me what I wanted from you. I think I know now."

He opened his eyes and sat straighter to look at you, nodding for you to go on.

"I kept thinking about it and I don't think everything I did, I did for the mission." You crossed your arms over your chest, looking at the floor. "I thought I was doing it all for the country. My country. I came to realise I'm not that much of a nationalist after all."

He scoffed. "Would you fault me if I didn't believe you?"

"Not at all. I expect you to be at least a little doubtful. Still, I wanted to say it: if we had met in another world—where you were just you and I was just me—I think we could have had it all. No duties or missions or political unrest. We could have made it."

You swallowed. Never had you thought a truth so bitter and sad could spill out of your mouth.

Leon laughed—a joyless, brief sound that tugged at your heart. "What are you trying to say, ___?"

"I'm sorry that I'm not just me," you replied, wringing your hand with anxiety. "I wish I was."

"Why not?" He stood up and approached you, each step relighting the suffocated embers in the ashes of your past. "You said it yourself, you aren't much of a nationalist anyway."

"The same reasons you can't quit being an agent." You let out a sigh, noticing the blue-black veins pulsing all over his forearm. "You have to get the cure soon, Leon. Your friend was telling the truth, that's all I know. I wish I could have helped more—they're sending someone to get me out soon, and I suggest you do, too."

"I'm not planning to die here."

"Your plans have a penchant for going awry."

For the first time in a really long time, he grinned at you. It felt as if everything in the world would go as it should, that nothing could ever go wrong. Like ice over a burn, a hot drink on the coldest day. What a smile to have.

Ashley stirred behind him.

"I'll be off, then," you said. "Be careful. I wish I'd seen you again sooner."

"Then come see me after we get out of here."

You shook your head. "I'm rubbing off on you. You're having horrible ideas."

"Leon?"

He turned around to find Ashley rubbing her eyes and waking up. When he turned back to say his goodbyes to you, you were already gone.

[ ]

merman ace!

*Swaps your captains*

I re-drew this a little better.

sanji doodle pile

bepo is coming for that fucking cat

[slaps roof of ASL] I can put so many different faces on these bad boys.

I fucking love drawing these whores in different situations

Water is Thicker Than Blood Chapter 39

OOH! What a question to ask, Emmanuel!

{Start} {Prev Next} {Master Post}

hietus is done, thank you for your patience~ the holidays have been Busy Busy Busy!!!

Sorry i couldnt fit all the mothers in the family tree portion, i truly ran out of room lol

I started drawing this comic slightly different, i wanna see if anyone can figure out what i changed before i reveal it in next week's chapter. if you win you get a free commission, just as long as that commission is of a photo-realistic illustration of the Wüsthof 17-slot Walnut Wood knife block that is indistinguishable from just a straight up picture of it.

Not exactly a badge of honor.

Reference and speedpaint:

song: Éric Satie - Gnossienne No.1

reference image Found here

ASL Cowboy AU

I figured i should give the other two designs since i made Ace pretty cowbish in this post o' mine. You guys really liked that post, i didnt expect so many people to rb my rough doodles lol i'm so glad so many of you see Dream Whery's vision :D

additional lore/design discussion 👇

I feel like pirates to cowboy is a pretty 1 to 1 translation, so this au follows the same plot-line that the original property does (sorry, that does mean that Ace passes away in it. Hate to see him leave but we also hate to watch him go)

Much like Ace's knife (or whatever tf that green thing on his hip is) in his original design, Ace doesnt actually use his gun at all. Its just there to make him look cool.

I like to imagine in this version tho, Sabo just has just So Many Weapons. Just So Many. He will never be caught lackin'

In the first draft i had for Luffy, i gave him a gun, but it just looked... wrong. I think a very important part of him and his crew is that none of them wield guns (except Sanji that one time). I think its especially important they don't because of how so many of them have been traumatized with firearms. Especially Robin.

The design for luffy in the first image is pre-timeskip him, and the one in the third image is his post-timeskip design.

I gave luffy a longer nose and higher cheeks than i usually do to make him look a little more Native American, I felt leaning a little more like his father would be the way to go overall in this case, too. He looks like such a cutie patootie in this version though.... i might have to keep drawing him like this....

i honestly dont have much for this au so far, i just wanted to dress these guys up like little dollies, an impulse that has never been lost on me.

i didnt steal it !

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ULTI <3 u can bash my head in anytime

(id in alt text, image without text under the cut!)

shes so cutes to me.....also like i Know her zoan form doesnt work like this but idk i wanted to draw her regular hair but her dino hands sue me

who was gonna tell me the straw hat badges were a limited time thing 😔

just normal guy behaviour 👍

GOT COMMISSIONED BY @antiv3nom ! ! ! THANK YOU SO MUCH!

“luffy is not smart” luffy does not win all those fights JUST by punching hard. he is figuring his opponents out! he’s accessing their strengths and weaknesses. he’s seeing what makes them tick. he’s altering his fighting techniques accordingly. he knew the map room was what hurt nami the most, and what arlong valued the most, so he destroyed it. when he was fighting crocodile, he figured out in one fight (while being impaled) that crocodiles weakness was water, and when he ran out of water, he used blood. when fighting enel he knew his electrical powers couldn’t effect him because he was rubber, and when enel predicted his moves he ricocheted his punches off the wall so they were unpredictable. & not to mention his emotional intelligence

Ive drawn so many asl hugs. But not these two before. Because. They make me sad.

HOWEVER ☝️

I am a completionist.

So here we are.

Close up pics 👇

In the outskirts of the city lies a rundown apartment building filled with eccentric residents... Doesn’t seem like anyone checks on this part of town, but it’s not like they’re causing trouble, right?

Impel Down Escape Team Modern AU!!! 🏬🏬🏬 they r all living in the same building and being silly together

5/2 Pirates

If you like my art, help by reblogging ♡ because it’s the only way to get my art noticed :)

Trafalgar! One piece on the mind…

asl bros doodles sketches and scribbles from the past few days. for the soul

"Thank you for loving someone like me who is good for nothing."

my first official one piece art and its on yamato birthday.....hes just so real 2 me .

(id and art without text under cut, click image to see more detail :D)

Image ID: [The first image is a digital drawing of Yamato from One Piece, with smiling at the camera with his hands on his hips. The background is white, and behind Yamato is a blue color blob similar to the color of the ends of his hair. In front of him is text reading, "Happy birthday Yamato!" in all caps.

The second image is the same as the first, but without the text.] End ID.

diagnosed with obsessive loving of asl brothers