Time for the,,, monthly?? Uhm- once in a while (?) sketch dump! This time with digital sketches!!
Have a good variety- specially witht small redraws of England from the manga and some of the anime xd also some from old MapleTea drawings!,,, then some random Luka, Italy and Feli in Danganronpa AU-
Don’t really have much else to say- so, enjoy them! nwn
The Crimson Fool Write about a character who happens to be a fanatic of the occult. The catch? This character actually succeeds at summoning one of the most powerful and evil demons of the underworld. Double catch? This demon is actually super excited and happy to finally have something to do. [X]
Arthur decided to try and summon a demon. He succeeded and ended up with one of the most powerful ones (and most beautiful) in the underworld.
Pairing: USUK Rating: T+ Warnings: omegaverse, alpha!Alfred/omega!Arthur, heat cycles Summary: The least damsel-esque omega Alfred has ever seen is about to need some rescuing… and Alfred’s about to be in a world of hurt. Word count: ~2400
Alfred F. Jones has been working out at the same gym since he moved to the city after college. He has always been very athletic, even for an alpha. Now, at twenty-three years old, having no mate (having never had even a long-term relationship) he has a lot of pent-up energy to work off and most of his evenings are spent exercising.
Like most public gyms, this one releases a fine mist of chemicals into the air which are meant to dull the scent and sense of smell of its patrons. But, like most public gyms, the patrons of this one have self-segregated and it’s mainly known as a gym that alphas and betas frequent. Even with the scent suppressants, most omegas and many betas prefer to exercise without the presence of too many alphas. Conversely, many alphas find it less distracting to work out with only other alphas and betas.
That’s fine, but even so, Alfred firmly believes that everyone should be able to do whatever they want, go wherever they want, and be whoever they want—though many might disagree and say an omega’s place is at home or that they should only be out with their mate or an alpha family member. But Alfred is certain that everyone has the right to make their way in the world regardless of type and it’s a right he would fight to defend if ever the situation arose. So, of course, he doesn’t care about which types frequent the same gym as he does.
He just wishes that one particular omega didn’t apparently share his political views.
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Portugal wanders his way over to England’s desk, watching him hold open a book with one hand as he scribbles furiously into a notebook with the other. Stacked around him are little towers of other tomes and papers, some of which look like they could be from the 20th century or later — most of which don’t.
Portugal lifts one with a finger to look at the spine. “Are these all Voltaire?”
“Yes.” England answers shortly, then shushes him when Portugal opens his mouth to ask his next question. Portugal obediently closes his mouth and waits, amused, as England pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces at the ceiling like it has offended him. After a moment, England scrawls something on his paper again, then clicks his tongue and tosses his pen onto the table. Portugal takes that to mean he can talk, and asks, “Why Voltaire?” Then, teasingly: “I thought you didn’t read French.”
England looks up to give him a baleful stare from where he has begun rifling through his piles. “Its research. I’m trying to win an argument against Francis. We’ve also got one going on about integration, but he’s clearly wrong about that so I’m focusing on Voltaire right now.” He pulls out Traité sur la tolérance and flips to a page he’s bookmarked with a pink sticky note.
Portugal grins. “I see you two are still very much in love.”
“Yes, I am going to crush him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Portugal laughs. He shifts a couple books onto one arm and replaces it with his neatly wrapped offering. “Well, take a break to eat first. Can’t wage war on an empty stomach.”
England looks up, then at what Portugal’s placed on his desk. He frowns. “What is that.”
“A bento!” Portugal taps the top of the fabric wrapped box with a finger. “I bought the fabric and the box last time I went to Tokyo. Isn’t it adorable?”
The fabric is decorated with red and white camellias and a white snake. It is pretty, England admits to himself. If incredibly embarrassing. The thought of anyone finding out that Portugal had made him a packed lunch makes England want to bludgeon himself to death with his hardcover copy of the Principia.
Portugal is smirking at him. The bastard knows.
England sighs and closes his notebook. “What is it?” he asks.
“Squid ink pasta! I got the recipe from Romano, thought I’d try it out. Have some.” His eyes betray the hope he deliberately left out of his tone.
“I’ll eat after I finish this.”
Portugal immediately frowns at him. “You need to eat.”
“I said I would, after—“
“Did you have breakfast?”
A slightly guilty silence. “I had tea.”
Portugallooks at him, and England hates him. Hates that he can go from mocking to pleading to admonishing in half a breath. Hates that he made squid ink pasta, like that’s a normal thing to have for lunch at work. Hates that he’s actually hungry.
Hates that the camellias on the box are really damn pretty.
