#soon soon

[gormlessgod]

Wholesome stream of the year

[silna-pdf]

In honor of 2v8 event and being willsker sandwiched just as I hoped, I drew the silly

[crabsnpersimmons]

naptime attendant on duty

i really got Moon on the mind lately, so enjoy Moon happily attending to his sleepy partners

plus extra scene with Clip, who spends his nights plugged into his charging cable and his video games (and/or knitting up a storm):

and a special bonus version with my friend @vacantfields's hot android Moon, cuz these two are precious—

"the naptime attendants do get a bit quirky at night."

the naptime attendants getting quirky at night:

[timethehobo]

Haven’t touched my iPad in over a year but scribbled this on the plane.

[va-vaki]

Beast of control! The woman who has whipped kingdoms, making them disappear without anyone knowing what happened to the people who lived there.

I haven't decided yet which hairstyle to go with, i love both, but im quite fond of the left one.

She is the worst person in all earthbread, I made sure of that. Soon you'll know more about her! And her soulmate of course.

[cocoabats]

i love love LOVE studying your use of color! it’s so mesmerizing o.o i love your work

awww thank you so much!

[chesthighwater]

thank you to all the beautiful people tagging me for wip wednesday and sorry for neglecting you for literal weeks<3 so, for the wonderul @coolbutcher @noblehubris @rain-fall-down @18thcenturythirsttrap here is something that i've been cooking up together with dear @kenwayyed 🫶 it's james in stays ;3 being laced up ;3

Francis is close enough to touch, putting his hands on his waist, tenderly feeling for the boning of his stays, tracing his fingers over the linen, and what was mere moments ago nothing but jittery anticipation turns into pure, simple desire. In truth, he should have known how quickly Francis' closeness would affect him. When does it not? Even this fleeting touch is like a searing brand on his skin– he could swear he feels the heat of his palms through the fabric, the claiming force of his grip, and how dearly he wishes for just that: to be held, to be seen being held, known to be his– Then Francis tugs at the laces experimentally, and it steals the very breath from him. The stays begin to cinch just a little, moulding to the shape of his waist, then cutting into it the more he pulls. He can't help but assume the natural pose of a lady being laced in: elbows raised, back arched, and a shocked little gasp escaping his lips. He imagines what might happen if Francis were to press against him from behind, a hand possessively laid over his stomach, just over the busk, their hips slotting together perfectly– and how easy it would be to pull and unbutton and unlace and let himself be taken where he stands, right in front of the mirror. But Francis is focused on his task, it seems: deftly holding the laces, pulling slowly, allowing James to voice any discomfort. Lucky that James knows exactly how he wants it. “A little tighter, love,” he says, and marvels at his own voice: his strong commander's timbre, trained to cut through the noise of any vessel, the voice of the gunnery sergeant, the rocketeer, now reduced to but a breathy whisper. It is Francis' presence that allows it, that gives it space to blossom so. That, and his hands on James' waist, and the laces pulled ever tighter. How divine it feels– this close, this safe, like Francis' arms permanently around him, like his grip never leaving– and to know that Francis' hands are the instrument of the feeling, the very core of it, that Francis alone could give him this: being enveloped from all sides, pulled taut and held. Being loved, too. Being precious. All things he hadn't truly known before Francis made him know them.