#I know I'll get better with practice

[rosie-lav-art]

I didn't have an Anime Drawings phase as a kid, so I get to start at Middle School Level as a 27 year old 😭 at least I can only go up from here!

Please recommend a blorbo or two of yours for me to draw. I need to practice!!!!! I have so many years of practice to catch up on before I find a style I can do easily/consistently 😭

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hope you feel better soon!

I am riddled with ailments, but I stay silly!

[starry-bi-sky]

i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.

He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.

And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.

And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.

Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.

Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."

There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.

It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.

Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.

At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.

"Do you like to do anything?"

Nothing. Just silence.

Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.

Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.

Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.

And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.

He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.

Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.

So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.

"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"

"Don't."

He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.

Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"

"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."

It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"

The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."

Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."

And they fall back into silence.

Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."

He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.

(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)

At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.

Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.

("Tucker told me once--") ("Tucker?") ("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")

(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)

(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)

It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."

The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."

The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.

When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.

Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.

"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."

When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.

Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.

[torchickentacos]

What my first (water-soluble) oil painting is teaching me:

Wooden palettes are great if you like splinters and not being able to clean all of the paint out.

It takes forever to dry and I'm going to turn it in for class while it's wet and that's just going to have to be okay.

You need way less black and blue than you think you do and a LOT MORE white than you think. Or maybe I'm doing something wrong? Really unclear. Maybe don't take advice from a post about how I've never done this before.

Don't sketch everything out in pencil unless you want it to mix into the paint when you go to paint over it. I haven't had time to figure out underpainting, but do that instead probably? idk.

Green is an incredibly annoying color to mix properly. There are too many shades of green.

Linseed oil has a really weird, specific smell? I'm getting used to it but everything in my life smells like linseed oil right now.

There is dog hair in my painting. Much like point 2, there is nothing that I can do about this, either. It's just part of the painting now.

Don't let your first painting be on an 18x24 canvas. Don't do that to yourself. Go get some of the cheap-ass tiny ones from Michael's. Oh my god. If this wasn't for a grade I wouldn't be putting myself through it.

If you DO end up having to use a large canvas, just splurge on larger paint tubes. Even if the tiny ones have enough paint, you're going to spend the entire process stressed out that you won't have enough paint and it's really just not worth it emotionally.

Art youtubers and how-to blogs talk too much and I personally feel better off just fucking around and finding out at this point.

All that being said, I painted this and I don't hate it! It's a tiny part of a larger painting that I'm much less happy with, but I like this little rectangle of it :) The last time I painted was probably in like ninth grade so this feels like a pretty okay first current-day attempt, all things considered.

[sysig]

Wuh oh (Patreon)

Bonus:

The novel experience of being crushed by a giant rock, a visual metaphor

[weird-an]

Murray is getting on Jim's last nerve. He has been calling the station four times today already, yelling into Jim's ear how he should check on Billy Hargrove, because he's hiding something.

"He's a fucking teenager," Jim says, "Of course we don't get him, of course he's got secrets."

"No, Jim, he's been stealing stuff from Melvald's and has not gone home for the last two nights!" Murray rants. "There's something going on."

Hopper sighs into the phone. At this point he's getting a headache.

"Stop stalking a teenager, Murray."

"Then do your fucking job and investigate!" Murray shouts before hanging up.

Jim doesn't think about it for the rest of the day. But when he sees the Camaro parked at Melvald's parking lot in the middle of the night, after he's on his way home, he stops the car.

Maybe Murray is right, he considers, something is going on. And if it's not, he can tell the idiot at least that he's checked without lying.

He walks over to the Camaro, half way wondering if he'll cockblock a teenager on a date, but he stops dead when he looks inside the car.

Billy Hargrove is curled up on the backseat of his car, a ratty blanket wrapped around him and chewing on a sandwich. At eleven o'clock on a Thursday night. A dark bruise on his cheek.

Billy freezes when he sees him. Hopper can't blame him. He's a big guy.

Billy crawls in front of his car and opens the door. "Is there a problem, Chief?" He smiles at Jim, apparently unaware he's got blood on his teeth.

"Who did this?" Jim points at Billy's face. "And don't fucking lie to a police officer."

He swears internally when the kid flinches at that. He's not good at the whole talking thing.

"Um. I.." Billy coughs and it's obvious he tries to come up with a lie.

"Your old man?" Hopper guesses, because he knows the story. Because he's fucking lived it, too.

Billy stares at him with wide eyes. "It's...I'm...He... doesn't really.."

Jim tries to keep his anger at bay. "Whatever he is, he is wrong about it. You're coming with me."

"Am I... arrested?" Billy asks. Hopper wants to punch someone. Preferably Hargrove Senior.

"No. We're going to mine...and I'm...going to help you." Thank God he doesn't sound as unsure as he feels. He just needs to get Billy away from this man. He's got to figure out how to help this kid.

He wishes the worst thing of all of this would be telling Murray Bauman, he's right. It isn't. It's a fucker kicking out his son after beating him up.

But Billy follows him and sits down on the passenger's seat of his car, still clutching the sandwich. It's a start at least.

[askblueandviolet]

Mayor, I like people who play instruments.

Can we have a date? ;)

MASTER POST

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[a-drama-addict]

little grumpy sigrid doodle

[divinetheatre]

sometimes i really wish i hadn't stopped drawing :(

[the-impala-is-my-home]

Zhu Yuanzhang; the radiant emperor, fated to be the greatest of all.

Zhu Chongba; just a humble monk at your service.

[spamtoon]

i would take their poison

Sketch + Line Art for those Clicking Under the Cut(tm) (archival purposes honestly)

[risingsunresistance]

dont think im gonna be able to make myself finish this (as of now) but i had fun with the leg

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS x Warrior Cats AU (part 1): That boy can meow!

Names and a huge inspiration credits to @clintbeefwoods!

(part 2)

[becauseplot]

Touching Base

Just a little Roommates/Cellmates AU oneshot because they live in my head like how Cell lives in Felps' apartment: rent-free. (Also because I am procrastinating on bigger projects rn.) (What who said that.)

Takes place a couple years after the events of Miss Me? and Shared Living Space. Cell has officially started going by Cellbit, a relatively recent development. He still sleeps on the couch, but that's mainly because the second "bedroom" in the apartment is used for Felps' storage and both of them dread having to clear it out. He has a job and puts most of that money towards groceries, new clothes, and therapy. Felps---finally working at a station where his superiors don't hate his guts---covers pretty much everything else.

(TWs: discussions of killing/murder, light allusions to suicide in a joking manner (they're fine, someone's just being dramatic). they are having a conversation that is oh so very normal for two friends to have yesyes. tbh this was supposed to be way more light hearted but then the angst. the angst...)

Key ring dangling from his finger, Cellbit shoulders his way through the apartment door, juggling a box of redstone bulbs, a stack of spam mail, and the library book that doesn’t quite fit in his over-full messenger bag. “Felps?”

There's no verbal answer, but over the back of the couch, Cellbit sees a tired hand rise and wave. There’s a dull whump when it drops back down.

Cellbit, taking this and the fact that the TV isn't even on, raises an eyebrow. "Long day?" There's a muffled groan in response, and that's all Cellbit needs to hear to get the gist of it. He wiggles his keychain off his finger and into the dish before shutting the door behind him with his foot and heading to the table, where he dumps off his things. Hands free, he slips his bag off his shoulder and sits down to take off his work boots. Once he's got them off, he takes a moment to slump back in the chair, relief washing over his aching back and shoulder, before he picks himself up and heads over to see what the situation is.

The situation, it seems, is as follows: Felps is lying on his back on the couch, still wearing his uniform, with a pillow pressed into his face like he's trying very, very hard to smother himself with it.

Cellbit sits himself down on the floor with his side against the foot of the couch, right by Felps. He plants an elbow on the cushions and drops his chin into the heel of his hand. "So. Who do I need to kill?"

Felps groans again and shifts the pillow off his face just enough to free his mouth. "Me. Kill me, please. Kill me. Literally just kill me."

"Ehhh," Cellbit says. "You know, I did that once, and you didn't like me very much after that."

"Cellbit I am begging you. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Mm, no. I don't think so." He pokes one of the fingers Felps has dug into the cushion. "Now come on—a name, an address. Give me something to work with here, Felps."

Felps sighs and finally yanks the pillow off his face, flipping his hands around and throwing it into his lap. His hair is a complete, frazzled mess, though Cellbit supposes that's the least of his worries. "No one's getting killed. This isn't a problem you can fix by killing someone."

"Except for you?"

"Except for me."

"Okay. So what happened?"

Felps makes a pained noise and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. At least he's not suffocating this time. "Davi," he mumbles.

Cellbit blinks. Usually, he has a hard time keeping all of the names of Felps' coworkers, friends, and acquaintances straight in his head since there's so many of them, but this one registers immediately. He takes this in, looks at Felps agonizing on the couch, thinks back onto what Felps told him the other day, does some rapid mental math, and comes to the conclusion that maybe the situation actually could be fixed by killing someone. Potentially.

But before that thought can properly start, Felps flicks him against the temple. "Hey, no plotting. I'm serious."

"Plotting?" Cellbit echoes, oh-so-perplexed. "I wasn't plotting. Who said anything about plotting?"

"Cellbit."

"Who said anything about plotting the murder of the hot guy at the train station who rejected your friend after he spent two weeks working up the courage to ask him out? I sure didn't."

"Cellbit," Felps says, insistent. Cellbit stops, but only because Felps wants him to, and only because he’s joking. Really. "It's fine. It's my fault anyway. I totally fucked it up. I got the timing all wrong, and—" Felps breaks off into another horrified sound, dragging his hands down his face. "God, it was so bad. I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright. Anything I can do? That doesn't involve killing you?"

Felps pauses. He peeks at Cellbit from behind his hands. "...Grab the remote for me?"

Cellbit snorts. "Sure." He gets up (swallows a grunt; fuck, his shoulder's being funny) and grabs the remote off the TV stand. When he comes back, Felps has managed to get his-wallowing-self into an upright position so Cellbit can collapse back into the sofa beside him.

Cellbit clicks on the TV. "What're we feeling?"

"Pain."

"I mean what do you feel like watching, dumbass."

"Literally anything," Felps says with a wave of his hand.

"Right… So if I put on Blood on the Taiga—"

"Parkour tag."

"Okay, parkour tag it is."

They start to chat a little as Cellbit flicks through the minigame channels, looking for one that's broadcasting parkour tag: ("How was work at the station?" "Were the docks busy today?" "Did that warrant finally get processed?" "Is your shoulder still bothering you?" "You should probably change out of your uniform." "You should probably take a shower." "In a bit, my back has to unbreak itself first.")

It doesn't take him long to find a channel, so they end up talking through part of the first round, swapping the work updates they usually provide each other. After that, they settle in, feet up on the coffee table, shoulders pressed together. Cellbit watches the teams trade off "runners" and "hunters." Felps usually roots for the team in the blue and green jerseys, but it doesn't seem like they're playing today. Still, these teams aren't half-bad. The tall one on the red-orange team is a good hunter, Cellbit idly notes. She's light on her feet.

It's at the start of the third round that Felps speaks up again.

"So. Hypothetical question for you."

Cellbit watches the good-hunter spring off a piston-platform. "Alright."

"And this is completely hypothetical. One hundred percent, utterly hypothetical."

"Okay."

"I'd never genuinely ask this of you."

"Sure."

The good-hunter drops down a ladder, missing a tag on a runner by a hair's breadth. The squeak of her sneakers echoes through the arena.

"...If I told you I needed you to kill someone for me, would you actually do it?"

Cellbit tilts his head. The good-hunter whirls around a corner and swings herself up onto another platform. "Yeah."

He feels more than sees Felps startle beside him. "...R...Really?"

"Yeah."

"Just like that?"

"Well, like I said earlier, I'd need, like, a name. An address if you can get it. At least a general location—"

"No, no, I mean..."

Felps falters, and Cellbit takes his eyes away from the game to look up at him. Felps is staring right back, a furrow in his brow.

"...You wouldn't even question it? Or hesitate?"

Ohhh. Cellbit understands now. The morals. He was asking about the morals. "Well," starts Cellbit. He pauses. Then, he drags his feet over to the edge of the couch, legs curled up, in front of his chest. The position makes his back ache, but the rest of him feels better this way. He hangs his arms over his knees. He stares at the TV, but he's not really sure who's hunting and who's running anymore.

He sighs. "...The way I see it—you would never ask me to kill someone unless they actually deserved it. I think it would take a lot for you to decide someone needs to die, then a lot more to tell me to kill them because...you know me. I'll get it done. And I won't half-ass it either."

And if they hurt you, Cellbit thinks, with a sudden, rising fury, I'll kill them dead. I'll make it hurt. Carve their throat out with my teeth. They'll be begging for the Void long before I'm through with them.

But he lets that one go on an exhale, lets it pass wordlessly between his lips, before it can get too far. He flexes his hands, loosening them. "But..." he continues, scraping together the courage to say the rest. "You also know I'm trying not to— You know I'm better about that now. Past it. Moving past it. And you're—" He falters. His tongue darts over his lip. He bites it. "You're generally helpful in that regard, so..."

"...You don't think I'd ask you to do something that would ruin your progress unless it was serious," Felps finishes.

"Yeah." Cellbit tilts his head to either side, cracking his neck, and flexes his hands again. God, his therapist would be so fucking proud of him.

"Okay." Felps clears his throat. "Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, I just—the thought wouldn't leave me alone, and..."

"No, no, it's—it's fine. It's a good question to ask. Making sure we're on the same page, and all that. Touching base. Getting caught up. Just like we always do."

"Right," Felps says. "Just like we always do."

A beat.

"But I wouldn't. Ask that of you, I mean. I'd never ask you to kill someone for me."

"I know," Cellbit replies easily. "I heard you the first time."

(And Cellbit trusts Felps to stick to his word. Honestly, he does. But the issue—or perhaps the best part, depending on how much he wants to disappoint his therapist—is that Felps wouldn't even have to ask. In no universe would Felps ever have to ask.)

"...Oh. Okay."

"Okay."

The conversation hangs in the air, gradually dissipating. Slowly, Cellbit manages to recenter his attention on the game of parkour tag. Round four. She's hunting again, though this is her last hunting round. After that, she'll be stuck as a runner for the rest of the tournament. Felps rests his head on Cellbit's shoulder as the alarm blares and the competitors are released from their chambers. Cellbit nestles his cheek in Felps' curls. The final hunt has begun.

[aforeffortenjolras]

really trying to find ways to take care of myself that are doable and enjoyable when possible. and i really feel like with meditation i've had a lot of progress in letting go of things and being able to not get bogged down by circumstances, and i'm having so many more good days and just feel so much lighter overall :)

[simplepotatofarmer]

now i'm even more scared to post my art, ngl ;__;