A very late birthday fic for the wonderful @betaruga. Thank you for all the fanservice you give us Gochi fans and fans of all other ships! You truly are a gift to this fandom *hugs*
I wish there was smut in it, but alas, I suck at writing smut. I hope you like it anyway!
Pairing: Goku x ChiChi
Rating: T, AU in which ChiChi and Goku never met as kids and are in an arranged marriage set up by the Ox King and Grandpa Gohan.
Dark eyes go round as they take in the sight of a man with
no visible ounce of fat on his godly body ingest food at a pace and in a
quantity that would rupture the stomach of a regular human.
Being of a warrior clan herself, ChiChi isn’t the kind of
princess with the formal, genteel etiquette and diction one might expect of a
traditional royal heiress, and she certainly isn’t unfamiliar with the boorish,
sometimes wildly inappropriate conduct of lower-class folk who she on occasion mingles
and socializes with.
But the way this man tears into meat with teeth as white as
eggshells and devours food the way a whale swallows an entire school of fish is
something ChiChi had not witnessed until now, not even from her own beloved
father, who is thrice the size and weight of this beautiful man she is to marry
in less than a week.
Instead of eating, she stares at him. She’s been doing that
a lot since he arrived. Staring. He sure is fine to look at, but that’s not the
only reason why he holds her eye’s attention. He’s an enigma. Simple and
complex at the same time. She supposes that she only has the rest of her life
to figure him out.
She stifles a snicker upon seeing her usually composed and
always reliable butler Piccolo turn almost green with revulsion.
Her father, the Ox King, on the other hand, appears entirely
amused and pleased at the enthusiasm in which his future-son-in-law’s feasts. His
massive chest and belly bounces as he heartily chuckles and makes the room
vibrate with the reverberations of his laughter. “So you like the food, eh?
Good, good. My girl here, see, she helped make most of it, and it’s her own
recipe. Ain’t that right, ChiChi?”
The bottomless (yet
shapely) pit known as Son Goku pauses and gives ChiChi a considering look, a
look he hasn’t given her since they met yesterday in the morning. She feels her
cheeks burn slightly as her husband-to-be regards her.
“Really?” He asks through a mouthful of partially masticated
food, some of which flies out of his mouth and onto the table. ChiChi nods as
he finishes chewing and swallowing the remainder of what’s in his mouth.
“Well that’s something to look forward to when we get
married!” He says in between licks of his fingers, a wide, big dumb grin on his
face. His voice is devoid of any trace of sarcasm. Chichi feels a wave of
disbelief roll over her bones, and then anger bubbles up inside her.
The sound of wooden pegs scraping against a marbled floor
catches everyone’s attention as ChiChi abruptly pushes her chair back and rises
from her seat.
“If you’ll excuse me,” ChiChi announces, dismissing herself
in a manner she knows is a bit rude but doesn’t care. If he can be rude in her
own home then so can she.
She can hear the confusion in her father’s voice. “But you
haven’t even finished your dinner.”
“I’ve had enough.”
As she leaves, she hears, “If she ain’t gonna finish that,
can I have it?”
According to his gramps, he’s upset his bride-to-be, and now
he must apologize, though he really doesn’t know what he has to apologize for.
He’s been nice to her, at least in the brief moments of
interaction they’ve had, smiling at her and repeating some of the phrases his
grandpa had instructed him to address at the princess and the king.
He had wanted to tell her she smelled good, but gramps had
advised against it for reasons he vaguely explained and still didn’t understand.
She really does smell good, like campfire and mixture of
spices, and something that’s distinctly her.
It’s one of the things he first noticed about her, one of the things he
likes about her, one of the few things he actually does know about her.
He’s only known her for less than two days, after all.
For some reason, it’s considered “inappropriate” for the two
of them to be alone together, so this Piccolo guy, who despite his formality is
ripped and huge and looks like he’d be a good sparring partner, is escorting
him to the princess’s chamber door to apologize for something he apparently
did, and when he asks Piccolo what it was he did that made the princess upset the
butler merely responds with a gruff “hymph” and a frown deeper than the one he
always seems to carry.
But when they call on the princess, she isn’t there.
Piccolo is still following him around like a grey cloud,
unwilling to make conversation with him and declining his invitations to spar
with curt replies and grunts. Goku doesn’t get it. If this supposed to be a
warrior clan, then why is everyone here so stiff, so curt with him?
He wishes he was home.
The marriage was gramps’ and the Ox King’s day idea, a
solution to the rift that had occurred between the two elders after the Ox King
had married the woman Grandpa Gohan had also intended to ask to marry.
Goku still doesn’t quite understand how a dispute between
two people who’ve known each other nearly their entire lives can be settled by
marrying two other people who’d known
each other for a heartbeat, but if that’s what his gramps wants him to do, well
then he’ll do it.
Even so, Goku feels out of place in this vast, cavernous yet
restricting castle, and he takes advantage of Piccolo’s distraction of ordering
staff members around to escape both Piccolo and the castle, exiting through a
window three stories high to land swiftly on his feet.
Not far there is a river, where Goku can fish and tame his
growling belly, cooking his catch over an open fire, the way he does back home.
A wave of sadness hits him as he remembers that he has to trade his small, cozy
cottage and vast lands for a vast but stuffy structure and unfamiliar grounds.
The song of a coursing river sings in his ears, and over
that, he hears the grunts and “kya’s” of a softer yet strong voice. Nearing the banks of the river, he sees her.
She’s practicing katas in a clearing of grass near the riverside, unware of his
She’s wearing attire that is different from the fancy getup
he’s seen her in since he first laid eyes on her. She wears a simple blue and red
cheongsam over bright red pants, and he finds that he likes her in these
clothes more than in the luxurious silks she seems to be uncomfortable and
forced into. In these clothes, she moves like wind, bending her limbs with
graceful fluidity, her torso gyrating in a way that draws his attention closer,
just now realizing that beneath the layer of fabric there is a toned, defined
belly that is probably as smooth and hard as unblemished stone.
His feet move further without thinking about much else
except the patterns she makes with her long, pale arms, drawn to her as if
within those twisting hands there are mini-cyclones forming that pull him
Her form is similar to that of the Kame-style he was trained
in, except much more beautiful to look at, like watching the branches of trees
sway in the currents.
The sundried grass sighs out in under his weighted boots,
alerting ChiChi. She arrests her movements and twirls towards where Goku stands
in alert, her already sun-flushed face flaming brighter as she spots him. Sweat
drips off her chin as her mouth opens in alarm.
A sheepish grin
spreads his mouth, wishing he hadn’t interrupted her admirable choreography. He places his palms out in front of him in a pacifying
gesture, “Don’t stop on account of me.”
The startled lines of her brow crease as her black eyes
narrow at him. She wipes her sweaty brow and sets her arms akimbo. “What’re ya
doin’ out here? And where’s Piccolo?”
Goku grins at her apologetically. For some reason, she makes
him feel nervous, but in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. “I don’t really
like being followed around, so I kind of ditched him. Plus, I needed some fresh
air and food. Ain’t used to castles. Or this heat.”
It didn’t take him long to learn why they call this kingdom
ChiCh looks at him like she didn’t hear him right. “Food?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna catch myself a fish or four.”
“But you just. You just ate three hours ago.” Her voice is
incredulous. He’s heard this tone of voice from other folk who think him
She shakes her head and sighs at him- long and deep but with
a twinge of a smile. “You sure are somethin’ ain’t cha?”
“Dunno what you mean. But hey, I gotta say, you sure are something
yourself. You got a good form. I bet you’re a strong fighter. Been hearing
folks say that about ya.”
Her (full, pink) lips upturn to a confident smile. “Course
I’m strong. My pa is one of tha strongest fighters in th’ world. Trained me
his’self. Ain’t no man ever beat me.”
“That so?” Goku says, feeling his blood ringing with
anticipation. He’s wanted to spar with someone from this clan, but his gramps
had advised against it, particularly against him sparring with ChiChi, saying
that that’s no way to charm a princess, even if she is a fighter herself. But
ChiChi looks like she could give him a good match, and he discards Grandpa
Gohan’s advice to the depths of his reason and asks her :” How about we have a
friendly spar? Test out that theory?”
She looks at him with blinking eyes, that tenseness he’s
come to associate with her seeping back into her frame and settling on her
shoulders. But then it’s gone, and she
smirks at him, and that smirk does something down his spine that feels like
when he rubs his feet against carpet and touches something metallic, and he
mirrors the expression on her face as she positions herself into an offensive
For a moment, they are still, making no movements but the
rise and fall of their chests and the bat of eyelashes. He can tell she is
sensing his chi, as he is doing hers, bouncing off each other, feeling their one
another’s aura before any contact is made.
And then, she charges at him, her feet fast and buoyant as she’s
skimming the air.
Bending his upper-body backwards, he avoids her angled roundhouse
kick and takes another step backwards as yet another arc of her leg is swept
towards him. Then, he deflects a side-chop aimed at his neck with his forearm,
feeling her chi swell up in frustration as he continues to dodge and repel all
Her movements are precise, well-executed and fast, yet they
are far too hurried and tactless. He tells her this, which only seems to anger
“Why don’tcha attack
me? You afraid to hit a woman?” She shouts, launching a fist that manages to
hit the end of one the spikes in his hair.
“It’s not that. I can’t hit you when you aren’t focused
right,” he says, deflecting yet another intended blow. He hadn’t considered he
was fighting a woman. To him, she was another warrior, a person strong and
powerful. “It’s like you’re mad at me or something.’”
“I am mad at ya!” She yells, alarming a bird somewhere nearby
with the ferocity of her tone.
Goku’s brow creases with confusion, sidestepping another hasty
attack of hers from his left. “Why?”
Wouldn’t be the first time someone fought him out of anger,
but he always knew the reasons, however minor their motives were, such as him
eating the last of the pork buns. He
couldn’t think of anything he specifically did to make her so angry at him.
“You humiliated me!” She grinds the words out as he stalls
another angled kick with one of his own, the impact shooting up his leg in
shocks. They each draw back a few feet apart from one another.
ChiChi shakes her head, and he’s sure if it weren’t for the
straight bangs concealing her ample forehead, he’d see a vein popping out like
an angry, thin snake trapped under skin. “Do I really gotta spell it out for
ya? Fine, I’ll tell you when you defeat me!”
A simple enough request, though he wishes that it didn’t
have to end so abruptly. “Alright. Here it comes.”
With a push of his legs, he sails forward, so fast she has
no time to react except widen her eyes as his fist gets her in the jaw and sends
her flying backwards towards an old, massive tree. Before her spine can hit the
trunk, Goku reacts quickly and catches her mid-flight, rotating her to the
other side so that it’s his back that hits the ancient tree, the impact causing
the treebark to crack and split open, sending the upper-half of the tall, grand
tree crashing down with a loud, resonating thump and a flurry of furiously
flapping wings and shaken chirps.
He prays to Kami that there weren’t any occupied nests in
that tree. Against him, ChiChi’s pulse bangs and racks is chest.
“Shoot, I didn’t mean to hit ya so hard. Sorry about that,”
he apologizes, feeling warmer due to the heat emanating from her body. She’s
soft, he thinks, but also firm, like fresh hard-pressed clay. And her smell.
It’s even better now, a hint of added spiciness that wasn’t there before, making
tongue stick to the roof of his mouth as if he’d smelled a juicy cut of steak.
“I-it’s fine!” She yelps, throwing herself back to land her
bum on the crab grass. With a little more grace this time, she pulls herself up,
her face red as she pats and smooths the lines of her cheongsam and pants. Looking away from him, her voice lowers to a
softer tone as she says, “You didn’t have to take the brunt of the force. I’m no delicate flower.”
“That you ain’t,” he says, noting the hard lines of her
figure and the delicate shape of her jaw that belies the strength behind it. A weaker person would have had a bruise where his
fist struck. “So that makes me the first man to have bested you in a match,
huh? Now are you gonna tell me what it is I did that made you so mad?”
For a second, he thinks she’s going to yell at him again as
her frown reappears. He’s surprised when instead she smiles wistfully, her tone
almost sad. “Neither one of us really wanted this marriage, ‘specially you,
since unlike me, you shoulda been free
to marry anyone you wanted, bein’ someone of the common folk an’ all. Me, on th’
other hand, I knew tha’ one day I was supposed to marry a prince, even if I
didn’t like him. So when I saw you I…”
“No! I mean, you’re not what I ever expected, but I wasn’t
upset at all. I don’t really care if you’re a prince or not. You’re strong, and
in that respect, you’re worthy of bein’ my husband. But… Can’t you just pretend that this marriage
ain’t a joke to ya, especially in front of our families? It’s embarrassin’ to
have my fiancé be more interested in food
than in me, let alone say it front of everyone. “ She veers her black eyes at him, and then back
to the dry, dull grass, as if looking at him causes her discomfort. “It may
sound vain, but I ain’t used ta boys not thinkin’ I’m pretty and staring. I ain’t
used to being the one who stares.”
“I know you don’t wanna marry me, but can you please make
the effort to hide how much you don’t want to?”
The way her face is pulled down makes his belly flop with
guilt he can’t explain.
“But I do wanna marry ya,” he blurts, surprising even
himself. He’s never thought about wanting
to marry her until this moment, he’s only thought about how he has to marry her.
Her shocked expression quickly shifts to an irritated scowl.
He’s never seen someone go through so many emotions in so little time. It’s
wild and fascinating, almost like when an opponent comes at him with an astonishing,
secret move he doesn’t expect.
“For my cooking, right?” she doesn’t sound happy saying it.
“Yeah, but not just that. I like how you smell. I like how
you look when you’re fightin’, and I even kinda like how you yell at me,” he
chuckles, thinking how strange it is to like being scared, and how funny and
oddly cute it is too see her face look so conflicted at his confession. “I like
you, ChiChi. I think this marriage thing might be more exciting than I thought.”
Her tongue seems to be stuck in her mouth, because only a
noise that wants to be a word comes out.
“Hey, since ya cooked for me, how about I roast us a catch?
I don’t have your skills in the kitchen- I don’t think I’ve ever tasted food
tastier than yours- but I know how to make the skin nice an’ flaky,” he says,
grabbing the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head in a flourish of black
spikes and muscles.
ChiChi makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds
like a mouse cornered into a wall. “What are ya doin?”
“I can’t go in there with my clothes or they’ll get wet,” he
replies, thinking how silly it is for her to not reach this perfectly logical
conclusion as he starts working on the strings around his waistband.
His skull rattles as something hard and compact hits his jaw,
twisting his neck and head around as an “unf” sounds escapes his lips that
pucker from both the impact and alarm.
“Wait till the honeymoon, ya pervert!” ChiChi spouts, her
fist held out before her as she looms over him with her lips pulled back from
two rows of straight, clean teeth. She stomps away with her hands bunched up
and at either side of her hips, where Goku maintains his eyes in fascination as
they sway side to side in a determined, fiery trot.
Whatever a honeymoon is, he doesn’t care, all he knows is
that if this is the kind of vision and sensation he’ll get for the rest of his life,
then he’s completely okay with that.
Slightly NSFW under the cut. (By slightly, I mean that there’s nothing explicit, but you still don’t want to read this with your boss or family members looking over your shoulder.)
The title comes from Macbeth, when the titular Scotsman is plotting to murder the king and doesn’t want anyone to know. Because if I can use a Shakespeare reference (or even if I can’t and have to reach), I will.
(Also, I’m sorry this took so long. I’ve been in rehearsal all week.)
I have a soft spot for Hanamiya (* ˚᷄ 艸 ˚᷅ *) so I hope you’ll like my interpretation of his character. I know it may be a little o-o-c, so I’ll accept all the critisism ;) Hehe~ I had to write ‘something’ XD
There were only three ways of dealing with Hanamiya Makoto:
1. Ignore him.
2. There’s no way, one could ignore him, so one ought to not pay attention to what he’s saying/doing or how he is.
3. There’s no way one will be able to not pay attention to what he’s saying/doing or how he is, so one ought to no cry in front of him. That will make him enjoy one’s suffering even more.
[tw post-apocalyptic grotesque bleakness involving dead bodies & stuff]
He’s headed northwest on I-70 when at last he’s finally forced to pull over.
In the end, it’s not because he’s out of gas, or because stalled cars and trucks have blocked the interstate completely making it impossible to go around. He’s had to go off-road surprisingly few times, mostly thanks to multi-vehicle collisions; drivers long since dragged from their cars and either devoured or turned, stuck horns no longer blaring, headlights dimmed. Only very rarely is the clump of accidents so bad and the shoulder so impassable (or, once, in Pennsylvania, a washed-out bridge) that he simply has to change cars: walk to the other side of the tangle and steel himself to pull whatever’s left from another driver’s seat. Then there’s a ritual: jump-start the battery with his remaining juice, hot-wire ignition the way he was taught; check the gas level, wipe the oil dipstick, examine the tires. Sometimes, to his relief and pleasure—an uncomfortable pleasure, followed by a thick sickened feeling he suspects might be shame—all he has to do is just turn the key, because whoever was about to die had startled presence of mind enough, was so schooled and conditioned by habit, that she’d simply turned off her car in the moments before death.
It’s almost always she, he notices. The same ones who leave behind well-organized purses and center consoles and gloveboxes, handbags he ransacks for their stores of tissues and lotion, candy and gum, painkillers and stronger prescription drugs. These are the women who keep bottled water in the cup holders, fruit rollups and energy bars in the back floorboards or seat pockets. When he is forced to switch cars, he brings everything with him, carries it in the largest handbag he’s found: a pebbled chocolate-brown satchel with a dulled gold stamp reading “kate spade.” He addresses Kate, sometimes, not just in his head but already aloud; thanks her for the water, for the lip emollients that stop his own from burning.
Even this far from big cities the sky roils with dark smoke, heavy and unsettled. He’s lost enough grace not to be able to tell what it is that’s burning, which chemicals and pollutants sift down through the air and sting his eyes and membranes inside his nose and mouth. It’s sifting away, too; he loses it by the hour—it dries up, like watching water evaporate from a puddle. I wasted time, he thinks, not with bitterness but numbly, and now doth time waste me.
(Sometimes in the cars he finds children, their gender obscured by decay. He needs to remember, tries to, that they were people, that they were just as beloved. Whatever rags the children are wearing, whatever length of hair remains on their skulls, he calls them all Mary, because that name once meant something. He unstraps them gently from their seats, arranges families together by the side of the interstate and starts the fire, leaving quickly before it can draw attention. He prays sometimes but only once he’s driving away, safe behind the wheel; sometimes tries to sing “Dies Irae” or say the קדיש, mumbles requiums under his breath, larynx hoarse, throat choking shut on the notes.)
Long ago, pressed into the clammy stone, years he spent listening enrapt to that one contralto nun, her voice like rich soft rainwater gliding over the modal syllables of “Ave, generosa,” transcendent hymns she wrote in Mary’s praise. Listened decades, half a century, until her clear skin wrinkled and she grew old, until she was not. She had something he no longer has, did he ever have it. Did humanity. Was it a thing that ever existed once, that he helped smash. Does she write psalms even now in her heaven, does she still cradle and lift into the light that glorious lucent glasslike orb of her fragile but luminous faith.
for heaven’s flood poured into you as heaven’s word was clothed in flesh in you you are the lily, gleaming white, upon which g-d has fixed his gaze before all else created around you he enwrapped his warm embrace so that his son was suckled at your breast
He drives. He has to know, it takes days, he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t stop. Goes faster at night when he sees eyes gleaming out at him from the roadside.
And yet finally, It’s a billboard that does it, just a stupid fucking billboard, peeling and weathered, stuck out crooked from a neglected cornfield, and he pulls over because he starts laughing too hard to keep driving.
HELL IS REAL, it reads, with conviction, in uppercase block letters, white against black; and of course across the front someone has inevitably spraypainted the livid diagonal scarlet warning: CROATOAN.
He can’t help it. He watches himself break open, has watched this happen to people before, knows it’s hysteria but there is it anyway, like swallowing down nausea or gasping in fear, something bodies just do that can’t really be avoided. So he gives into it, gets himself out of the car—no one for miles, if the plague ever had been there it’s moved on—barely gets the door shut and then just folds over against it, his forehead smacking painfully hard against the glass window as his mouth presses against the bare crook of his arm, convulsing, opened and biting into skin to muffle the sounds. His shirt sleeve is torn off up high where he’d used it to bandage—bandage someone—someone who immediately didn’t make it. Wasted effort. And his own efforts wasting him.
HELL IS REAL. Hell is real! They had no idea how real. Hell is here, hell is now. He’s been to hell, spent forty years plummeting down through the worst it had to offer and it was nothing, this was infinitely worse and more wrong because this wasn’t supposed to—wasn’t meant to be hell—this was a deliberately planned paradise, and both the gardeners and their caretakers, they’d all conspired, unintentionally, through a series of colossally egotistical, blinded choices, to uproot, to defile, to spoil everything that—
He catches his breath, reaches to wipe wetness off his face and his hand comes away filthy, streaked with soot. It’s hard to swallow, it’s hard to make his chest stop whatever it’s doing. His arm is dirty where his face rubbed it. He should use one of the bottles of water to wash, probably. Find more water.
Vaguely gray and furry, an animal darts off through the corn and the stalks quiver and rattle behind it. Eventually he’ll need to eat but he can’t think about that, not yet, not when hell is real. Hell is nearby, so proximate it throbs.
Hell is that he’s maybe an hour outside of Lebanon, with Detroit’s ruins behind him. And he is terrified—not of what he will, but of what he might not find there.
Thanks so much umadatalien! I’ve been working on a Josh drawing actually, so I took a few screenshots while I drew :) I hope this helps!
For anyone else reading this, I’m using Manga Studio 5 (digital download version is called Clip Studio Paint, which is why my app is called that as you’ll see in the screenshots).
I based my drawing off a photo of Josh, so first off I started with a loose sketch, to try to nail the basic shapes/gesture.
However, as you can see, my draftsmanship skills are waaaay off… I’m not one of those people who can draw things perfectly just from sight, unfortunately! Oops. It’s not terrible, though. In fact, I kind of like the exaggerated length of his arms/legs, so I’m not going to throw the sketch out completely. I might make a few changes, though.
I don’t always do this, but for this drawing, after my initial sketch, I traced over the photo on another layer. I traced it pretty loosely - the idea was to get a sense of the shapes/forms, and pick up any details I might not have noticed. For example, I didn’t notice that Josh is wearing a longer black shirt under his white t-shirt - so that’s something I’ll definitely have to add in!!
Oof. Huge difference between initial sketch and traced sketch. Not necessarily a bad thing though! It’s always interesting to see the difference between how your eyes perceive things, versus how they actually are, though. Apparently my eyes think everyone and everything is anime as hell.
Revised sketch in the middle! I took elements that I liked from both the initial sketch and the traced sketch, and combined them to make the middle sketch. So I’m keeping the basic shape of the initial sketch, but using things I learned from the trace to make the sketch better. Tracing is useful as a tool to improve sketches and help pick up details, but be wary of just using traces for artworks. It can be perceived as lazy. Unless a deliberate rotoscope-like effect is what you’re aiming for, of course!
Final composition. I got the iron filings background off Google; the image is grainy since I had to resize it, so I’ll be redoing it in Illustrator once I’m done. (P.S. I actually flipped it some time after taking this screenshot, bc I decided I wanted Josh facing the right - I’m doing a version with Tyler as well, and when I put them side-by-side I want them facing each other. Josh is always on the left, so he has to face right!)
Lineart time! I lowered the opacity of the sketch layer to about 14%-17%, made a new layer on top, and used my slightly modified version of the G-pen to draw the lineart. (You can do the same thing with the normal G-pen, though. This is just a slightly personalised version.) Lineart is always the longest and most tedious step for me. It usually involves a lot of hitting command-z, a lot of redrawing the same line over and over, and copious amounts of swearing :) if there’s an easy, stress-free way of drawing lineart, I haven’t found it yet!!
Even with the stabiliser set to the second-highest setting to avoid shakiness, it’s still really hard to make a line exactly how I want it. So many other factors like angle, line weight, length etc all come into play, and I really struggle with getting my hands steady enough to co-operate. A lot of artists I know also struggle with lineart, so I think it might just be one of those things that are always going to be annoying and hard and tedious!!
It’s a nice process when you get into a rhythm, though. I like it when I get really focused on it, so I stop thinking about anything else. It can be really therapeutic - when it’s not being frustrating!
Flats! For flats, I use the Magic Wand tool to select areas of the same colour. My Magic Wand is set to expand the selection area by 3 pixels, so a bigger area than the actual space is selected. Then I fill them in with that colour on a layer UNDERNEATH the lineart. Expanding the selection area (and so the area of colour) allows the lineart to overlap the colour slightly, so you don’t end up with white edges.
I try to keep each colour on a separate layer.
Shading time! (here’s where I flipped the image haha).
I made a new layer on top of the flat skin-colour layer, then clipped it to the skin-colour layer. This means that anything I paint outside the skin-colour layer’s area becomes invisible, so I can paint freely without worrying about staying inside the lines. Which is super handy! (I was never a colour-inside-the-lines kind of kid. I’m way too lazy for that.) I used the G-pen to colour the slightly darker orangey skin-tone, and the bluish-grey shade (both on separate clipped layers). Hence the hard edges on those shades. Then above those layers, I painted on the pinks and white/yellow highlights with the Watercolour tool, so those colours were nice and soft.
The crosshatching is actually a dark blue colour, lighter than the scarf. It’s set on top of all the colours. I set the layer mode to Colour Burn, which causes it to interact with the colours below it in fun ways, creating those super saturated reds and pinks.
I painted the jeans/scarf/boots with a lighter blue colour using the Watercolour tool.
Then I created highlights with the G-pen set to a low opacity, layering up the lighter colour.
I used the same technique for the shirt and jacket, except I started with a light base colour and shaded it with a darker blue. Right at the end, I highlighted the shirt+jacket with white using the Watercolour tool, just to brighten it a bit.
I painted the hair using the G-pen, using a bright red for highlights, and darker pinkish-red for shades. Both on separate layers above the base hair colour, remember!
For more highlights, I painted pink strokes on a layer above the hair shading (technically a desaturated light red - as you can see on the colour wheel in the screenshot, hopefully!!), then set the layer mode to Glow Dodge, which creates that extra highlighting effect.
Once all the shading was done, I locked the transparency of the lineart layers, and then coloured the lineart - so dark reddish-purple for the hair, dark blue for the white clothes, and VERY dark blue for the black clothes! I don’t do that for all my drawings - I actually like it when the colour scheme is cohesive enough that I can use one colour for all the lines. But with tøp fanart, I like to leave the lines a dark colour (usually blue-black), and colour the lineart surrounding red objects, like Josh’s hair or Tyler’s socks. Dark red lines usually look better with red objects than dark blue.
In this screenshot you can see I gave him red eyeshadow - that was added in after everything else was done. I just did that on a new layer (clipped to the skin tone layer above all the other shading layers) with the Watercolour tool!
And with that, I think Josh is done! Or Dun. Dammit. Now I just need to draw Tyler *weeps quietly*
I hope that helps! I think a couple of people have actually asked for a tutorial/process-record now, so I hope this is okay! :)
Festivus had the tendency of being an absolute disaster for
Dorian Pavus, whether he intentionally pushed the holiday in that direction or
not. Add in family reunions, and he could be sure that at least three people in
the family would be crying by the end of the night. This year, however, he had
one goal in mind: his eyeliner would not be smeared as he walked out the door,
and he would carry himself with pride.
The only issue? It had become something of a habit to shock
and astound not only his parents but every other extended member of the family
with some sort of surprise. Last year it had been dreadfully long hair, the
year before a ridiculous amount of piercings, and the year before that he had
gladly shown off his brand-new tattoos in all their wonderful Tevinter-esque
style. This year would be the year to undo all others.
And that’s how he ended up calling Cremisius Aclassi at one
in the morning three days before the family reunion, asking if he could borrow
his large Qunari friend for the get-together.
“Altus, what now?” Krem picked up the phone sounding all but awake, and Dorian could hear
Lace’s quiet grumbling in the background, which meant that he’d most likely
woken them up. Oops, how unfortunate.
The mage ran a hand over his eyes and wondered on how
exactly to phrase this without causing Cremisius to have a heart attack. “I
need your help. There’s a Pavus gathering on Friday and I need a boyfriend-”
“No, absolutely not, there will be no way in hell that I
ever go with you to a shitshow like that! It’d be like going back to Tevinter
all over again. Do you want me to throw myself to the dogs? Is that something
you find fun?” Krem started blathering before he could even finish, and Dorian
patiently listened to all the reasons his dear friend had decided that no, they
would not look good together.
“No, but I do want to borrow your Qunari friend for the
occasion. He seems like he’d be a man up to the task!” A daring and daunting
request, maybe, but it was worth a shot. There was a long pause and silence
dragged between the two for an agonizingly long moment. Dorian settled a bit
more into his comfortable arm chair, closing his laptop and setting it aside
while he waited.
“I don’t know. I’d have to talk to him. Shit, he might be
crazy, but I don’t think he’d be that crazy.”
“Just give me his number, and we’ll work it out between
ourselves. No need for your involvement beyond this point, I promise.”
“Fine, I’ll text it to you.” There was a sudden beep and the
droning tone that told Dorian that Krem had decided to hang up. Huffing, he
re-opened his laptop and waited. About five minutes after he’d started reading
about Varric Tethras’ spit-shined sequel to the absolute drivel known as Hard in Hightown, his phone made a
pinging sound. Krem seemed to have made good on his promise, and sure enough,
there sat the Iron Bull’s number.
Summary: Michael couldn’t help but notice the strange occurrences that kept happening around him and he wondered if some higher power had a fascination with removing doors and setting things on fire. Sims!AU.
Rating: NC17 (Well, there’s Character Death but….not. If you’ve ever played The Sims then you’ll get what I mean xD)
Summary: Desperate times… desperate measures. Aoba took up the cleaning job, even wore the specified uniform despite his embarrassment, expecting nothing more than a simple paycheck to keep over his - and his grandmother’s - head.
But things soon get personal between him and his handsome employer, and suddenly Aoba’s duties are much more than dusting a few shelves.
Notes: This is a birthday fic for my dearest wife @junjoupurelove. She has been a consistent person in my life, and I have all the love in the world for her. I hope to give her back a little of the happiness knowing her has given me. Happy Birthday to the biggest pervert that ever walked this earth.
The thing is, you’d been afraid you were going to lose your temper, been worrying about it and gritting your teeth and running through your lessons on composure, but in the end you feel quite calm when you shove your client’s face into the table.
Your internal freak out commences immediately afterwards, but by that point you’ve pretty effectively drawn your battle lines and shown your horns and so there’s not much to do but troll up and see this chucklefarce dramedy through to the end. The little internal chant of fuckfuckfuck karkat you fucking fuck up running through your head is just the background noise of your life, really.
a little (slightly cracky) something inspired by magicalplaylist’s reindeer!blaine and the fact that deer represent kindness, generosity, innocence, and determination. aka Blaine.
contains mystical/mythological sort of aspects even though I can’t find any existing myths of deer-people. whoops.
The first time Kurt gets lost in the woods, he’s nine years old. It’s spring.
He hadn’t meant to get lost, of course. It’s just that the old cabin that he and his dad visit every once in a while happens to be ensconced deep within the trees, and once he wanders out of view of the warm light that seeps from the windows, the trees turn into an unending labyrinth.
Being lost doesn’t worry him immediately. He’s sure that he knows the way back, so he simply keeps walking, nose scrunched when he accidentally steps in a patch of mud. The wilderness has never been his favorite thing in the world, but right now it’s calming, how the golden light of sunset dripping through the leaves stamp a pattern on the forest floor. It reminds him of a song – a wordless song – that his mom used to sing. A melodic hum, a soft whistle, and over again.