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Collab - Blog Posts
Request that I ended up really really struggling with. If it hadn't been for @inkpotachilles I don't think I would have made it. She's so talented and if you get the chance please please please give her a follow
Woooooo
oh @slushgut~
You are an absolute champion!!! At shading!!! You made it even better than what I could imagine. I'm so in love!!
Thank you so so so much♡
Uh ooooh what's that??? Another collab???
I AM SO EXCITED!! TO HAVE DONE THIS WITH YOU!!♡♡♡
@inkpotachilles is absolutely incredible with her work, and the shading ties all of it together. Without her, this wouldn't have turned out so beautiful. Thank you thank you thank you too her and please give her a little looksie if you get the chance ♡
My half of a collaboration with @inkpotachilles !!!
A collab with the amazing @gwenny994 ! Honestly I'm really happy with how I coloured this. Their line art is FUCKING AWESOME!
bitches never got over JeanMarco since 2014
its us, we are bitches
Me and @valjeanbo did a collab and drew our bois because it's never too late to draw a very old and emotional ship, huh
I did Jean and she did Marco
the rest is silence --------------------------
This is an illustration I did for @thescholarlystrumpet's fic "The Rest is Silence," which you can---nay, you must, go read on AO3. The Rest is Silence on AO3 (Explicit rating, sorry kids)
We did this collaboration as a part of GOAD's (@goodomensafterdark) ongoing Smut Wars so, this is not at all safe for work, but if you wanna risk it anyway, check out the full size under the jump.
i painted this
hi res art post coming soon to a tumblr blog near you @goodomensafterdark @thescholarlystrumpet
The Rest is Silence - Smut War fic!
art by Quona
Crowley’s hands are bound by a pale tartan bowtie, stretched above his mussed red crown of hair. His chest expands, lungs like bellows, exhaling hot bursts into the air of the empty shop. His jeans were miracled carelessly away to leave him straining in black silk pants. The Angel’s hands have not yet closed around their prize but it twitches in anticipation of their journey.
Aziraphale’s mouth is busy sucking lewd bruises into Crowley’s lean inner thigh. His thick fingers knead at the tight muscles as they flex, slung over his broad shoulders. The Angel’s shirt is unbuttoned where the tie sat moments before, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He is otherwise comparatively clothed. The bulge below his waist presses insistently, uncomfortably, at the seam of his trousers. But it is an afterthought, a mere distraction.
The ache of his arousal is an aperitif and the Demon spread out on the desktop is the meal.