Someone who likes to gather little lights in their pockets. this is my quiet corner of the universe, i'm new to writing, and definitely could get better.
this is a safe space for my things, but sometimes the sky rumbles a little darker. Please read my stormwatch to know more!
dni, masterlist and tw below!
âš the constellationsâš
click the stars below to wander deeper:
âïž the celestial code â rules & dni.
đȘ stormwatch â trigger warnings.
đ map of stars â my masterlist.
đš sunlight sketches â my drawing space.
đ the singing moon -- playlists to dream away into
thank you for being here. leave a star before you go!! đ
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[Las Almas]
It only took a betrayal and me getting a bullet to the arm for the Ghost to finally take off that mask. The room was quiet when it happened. Itâs easy to forget that heâs not just a ghost, heâs Simon too.
I can feel his eyes watching me write in this thing. As long as he doesnât look too closely, weâre good.
Think I need a few more glances before I can really get it right⊠Had no trouble with the eyes though. Itâs easier to draw him with the mask onâŠ
was wondering what soapâs journal could look like in the modern warfare reboot⊠decided to make an entry for it myself inspired by the unmasking scene:)
The wind off the North Sea had teeth this morning, sharp and salty, the kind that reminded old soldiers they werenât as young as their scars liked to pretend.
Captain John Price (retired, thank fuck) stood on the weathered deck of the big stone cottage theyâd all pooled money to buy years ago, puffing on a cigar that probably cost more than his first monthâs pension. You'd expect they gave war vetterans a better recognition, huh?
The house sat on a bluff where England grudgingly gave way to Scotland. The scenery was covered with grey cliffs, screaming gulls, and the sort of stubborn heather that refused to die even in winter. It was perfect. If it weren't so damn bloody quiet.
Until it wasnât.
âOi, Cap,â Johnny called from the kitchen window, his silver-streaked mohawk somehow still defying gravity at seventy-two. âGhostâs hogging the binoculars again. Says he saw a âsuspicious figureâ on the rocks.â
Simon didnât even glance up from the cliff path below. The black balaclava was gone these days (mostly), replaced by a plain dark scarf wrapped high against the cold, but the man still moved like a shadow that had barely learnt manners.
âWoman,â Simon grunted. âStuck.â
Kyle leaned over the railing beside John with a mug of tea. âSheâs been climbing around those tide pools for twenty minutes. Tideâs coming in faster than she thinks. Reckon we shouldââ
âAye, already moving,â John said, stubbing out the cigar. Four old bastards in weatherproof jackets and bad knees headed down the path like it was an op. Old habits died hard.
You were having the time of your bloody life.
Seventy years young, silver hair whipped wild by the wind, wearing a bright yellow raincoat that made you look like a rebellious canary. Your late husband Richard (bless his boring soul) would have had a fit if he saw you right nowâperched on a slick rock shelf, one leg dangling over the edge, trying to get the perfect angle of the waves crashing against the cliffs while the sea crept higher behind you.
âCome on, you beautiful bastard,â you muttered to the ocean, clicking the shutter. âGive me drama.â
The drama arrived in the form of four extremely large, extremely retired SAS operators almost stumbling their way down to you like mountain goats with military training.
âMaâam,â John called, voice carrying over the wind. âTideâs about to cut you off. Might want to consider a tactical retreat.â
You looked up, camera still raised, and grinned like a woman whoâd just been handed a live grenade and told it was a party popper.
âOh, thank Christ. Witnesses! If I drown, tell my daughter I died doing something interesting for once.â
Johnny barked a laugh. Simon tilted his head, assessing. Kyle was already scanning the best route down to her. John just pinched the bridge of his nose, already sensing the chaos this woman was about to bring into their quiet retirement.
You tried to stand. The rock, that cunt, betrayed you. One boot slipped, arms windmilling, and suddenly, you were sliding toward the churning water with a delighted âWhoopâ!â
Four pairs of hands grabbed whatever they could reachâyellow raincoat, camera strap, one very indignant armâand hauled you up onto safer ground. You ended up pressed against a broad chest that smelled faintly of cigar smoke and gun oil, looking up into the most ridiculous set of concerned silver-fox faces you'd seen in decades.
John steadied you, hands firm but careful. âYou alright, love?â
You blinked water out of your eyes and took in the four of them; they were rugged, scarred, stupidly handsome in that lived-in way, and felt something dangerous spark in your chest. Rebellion, yes. But also a kind of mischief only women past sixty were capable of.
âDarlings,â you said, patting Priceâs chest with a wicked smile, âIâve been stuck in worse places. Though I donât usually get rescued by an entire calendar shoot.
Johnny wheezed, Kyle hid a grin behind his hand, and even Simon's eyes crinkled at the corners.
Price sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his mustache. âNameâs John. These reprobates are Johnny, Kyle, and Simon. And you are?â
âYour local troubleâ You gave a little bow, still dripping. âPleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.â
You looked at each of them slowly, deliberately, the way a woman whoâd spent decades being proper finally decided she didnât have to anymore.
âAny of you lot any good at getting stubborn old women out of trouble?â
Today is the biggest day for Ellipsus since we launched in 2023... đ
Back then, we began building Ellipsus out of a simple belief: writers deserve a place to create, collaborate, and share their work without handing over their words, their data, or their creative process to bad actors and Big Techâa promise that matters now, more than ever.
Nearly 600k writers and counting are writing on Ellipsus because of this promise. We see everyday how writers are rejecting Big Tech's data mining model in favor of tools that respect user privacy and reflect our values.
Weâre a small full-time team building, maintaining, supporting, and improving the tool every day. And to keep doing that sustainablyâwithout compromising the promises that brought people hereâweâre introducing Ellipsus Plus.
Plus is a set of optional features on top of free Ellipsus, designed to help fund the continued development of Ellipsus for everyone, free and paid; while helping us stay independent, ad-free, and working to improve the tool well into the future.
That means the Ellipsus you know is staying free: you can keep writing with unlimited documents, drafts, collaborators, and core features. Free Ellipsus will continue to receive updates, improvements, and new features too, including major work already planned (like offline syncing and native apps).
Plus features have been designed alongside community feedback, our pricing shaped by our users around what felt fair and sustainable.
Every Plus subscription leads to ultimate ownership of the tool. Not metaphorical ownership, but real ownership, including all future updates to the Plus plan. No endless subscriptions. Once youâve paid, itâs yours. Really.
Our introductory Plus features are designed to be fun, creative, practical, and help you get the most out of the tool! We really hope you enjoy them.
Hereâs a quick overview:
Custom themes
Make your writing space feel like home with custom themes! Use any colors, gradients, images, or .gifs you love. Share with friends and readers. The choices are infinite.
Writing Insights
See insights into your writing process and spot patterns faster across ten AI-free metricsâlike vocabulary diversity, sentence length, sentence rhythm, word frequency, and more. Writing insights are opt-in only, and run on local data, so your text never leaves the editor.Â
Customizable Snippets
We all love snippets! Now you can give your words an extra personal touch. Customize your snippets with media backgrounds (GIFs, images), fonts, text colors, and custom themesâyou can even add byline credits for authors and characters!
Emboss
Emboss is our AI-free proof-of-work layer for human writing. Show your readers the time, labor, and love that went into your work. Instead of relying on unreliable âAI-poweredâ âverifiersâ that judge a piece after the fact, share your writing journey, with authorship metrics that help inspire trust. You can also show how your work evolved with snapshots of your version history. Emboss is fully opt-in.
We hope youâre as excited about Plus as we are! Try Plus free for 7 days, no payment required. You can read more (and sign up!) on our Plus page.
Again, thereâs tons more to come, and we canât wait to build it for you. Free or paid, Ellipsus is going to keep getting better. Thank you for your support.
Have questions about Plus? Weâre hosting an âAsk the Teamâ doc where weâll be answering your burning questions. Please make comments there!
Now please, go forth and explore!
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I know I'm the girl who collected stars but im not really a girl yk???? im a girl who is also a boy but at the same time im neither of those and im a secret third thing
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1. identify what's making you draw so slow. can't figure out pose/anatomy? too perfectionist about inking? getting caught up in details? indecisive coloring?
2. timed gesture studies. draw a loose figure w photo reference in 10 minutes. do that a bunch of times. then 5 minutes, 3 minutes, 1 minute. train yourself to omit as much detail as possible while keeping the figure recognizable.
3. the dot/line exercise, sometimes called the "target practice" warmup. draw two dots, then a line connecting them. keep moving the dots farther apart while drawing the line as fast as you can while keeping it STRAIGHT (not wobbly!) and hitting the second dot. the line is ONE stroke. it's harder than it sounds. this should help you get an idea of how fast you can make a controlled stroke
4. look up tutorials on coloring more quickly in whatever art program you're using if you do digital art. chances are there's a tool or setting that can make it easier to fill in shapes. i almost never color by hand, i fill bucket everything
5. free yourself of "clean line art"... 9 times outta 10 people think sketchy lines are more visually appealing anyway. it's faster and they have more life. in my opinion at least
6. use lots of references. spending hours on a complicated pose from memory instead of just looking at photo/3D model reference isn't impressive it's just stupid and unnecessary
7. study with intent. if you struggle with leg anatomy for example, do lots of studies from photos (eyeballing and tracing), then try it freehand/from memory, rinse and repeat 9000 times until it's not something you get stuck on when it comes time to do an illustration/comic page
8. less detail. simplify. you can have ultra detailed art or you can draw fast. pick which is more important to you
9. bullshit it... draw ugly and bad but do it fast. done is always better than perfect
10. thumbnail. it's not just for comics. do a teeny tiny sketch of your drawing beforehand with colors. then use it as reference. helps to finish the actual piece faster when it's planned out
bonus: be impatient and easily bored. i rarely spend more than 2-3 hrs on any one drawing, including comic pages. i got other shit to do!!!! like nap
cw: Depictions of death, car accidents, beliefs in bad luck, curses and typical canon violence
Salt in your pockets, side steps to avoid cracks and chafed knuckles. Then a set of military dog tags turn up caught in the laundromat drum. You return them, because you have to.
Heâs older, steady, and far too calm for the world you live in.
Captain John Price doesnât believe in curses.
You canât afford not to.
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The pause before your lungs remember how to move, when your alveoli cling together like wet paper, when the arch of your ribcage stutters and whines in restraint. It only ever happens when Simon Riley is looking at you.
It doesnât happen often.
But maybe that makes it worse.
More lethal, somehow.
His eyes are dark. Not the kind that hides, but the kind that pulls. A darkness with gravity, heavy like lead. The kind that makes everything stand a little shorter. That makes you stand a little smaller.
When your eyes meet his, something settles over you, not quite fear. Not exactly dread. But a presence that presses down like a storm front. Not ominous. Just impenetrable. Something that could swallow you whole and still starve for more.
And you know all about hunger, donât you?
The kind that aches in your chest like a phantom limb. Always aching. Always reaching for a hand that can hold you without flinching. Someone that hears the thunder of your storm and stays to feel the rain soak.
Someone unafraid when the room floods with all the space youâre afraid to occupy â but clumsily, desperately do.
And that ache that gnaws at your throat every nightâ it climbs, slow and steady, until it suffocates the back of your teeth. Until it fills the bridge between your mouth and nose. Until it settles deep in your gums and turns them to goo. Until misery and longing melt together and spill, warm and quiet, down your cheeks.
And sometimes, only sometimes, you let your mind wander.
To what it might feel like.
Those gloved hands on your hips. That voice, gravel and smoke, rasp against your ear every morning. And you imagine yourself in the dark, not afraid, not alone. You let your mind drift into those shadowed corners.
Because people like you have learned to find the disquieting, warm. Comfort in the monsterâs shadow.
Because if the thing that scares everyone else is standing beside you,
English isnât your first language. Still, youâve passed several certifications and pride yourself on having better grammar than most of your native-speaking teammates.
However... sometimes you do have slip-ups.
After an especially long and miserable op, you and the rest of Task Force 141 were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the back of an SUV. Lasswell at the wheel, John riding at her side, and Johnny, Kyle, Simon with you in the back. You yawned, eyes heavy, trying to focus on cleaning the bolt carrier of your rifle.
You werenât listening to Johnnyâs slurred rambling untilâ
âAye! Iâd definitely use necromancy on Gaz.â
You froze. Surely youâd heard wrong, right?
âFuck off, mate. If anyone would use necromancy, itâd be bloody Simon,â Gaz scoffed, earning a silent side-eye from your Lieutenant.
Now fully alarmed and running on three days without proper rest, your mouth betrayed you.
âWaitânecromancy? Like when you have intimacy with dead bodies?â
Silence.
Then Johnny lost it, wheezing like youâd just told the best joke of his life. Hell, of the century.
Your captain sighed, voice dripping with exhaustion. âBloody hell. Thatâs necrophilia, Sergeant.â
You blinked, mortified. âRight. Different word, then.â
Then Kyle snorted. âOh my god.â
Johnny, still howling from the floor, managed a breathy: âI volunteer to die before her!â; only to get a swift kick from Simon, who couldnât quite hide his shit eating grin.
âBehave yourself,â he warned, snickering.
âIt was an honest mix-up!â you protested, cheeks burning.
Lasswell chuckled from the front seat. âSure it was.â
You sank back in your seat, swearing under your breath.