#This piece actually changed art in of itself

[justsomeectoplasm]

I am begging you guys to actually read what the dada art movement was about before shitting on the fountain urinal art piece as well as art installations that are "strange" or "doesn't make sense" and isn't some art piece that immediately wow's the crowd.

Like the whole movement is suppose to challenge your perspective of art, but it's also made to make fun of the societal norms of art. You guys need to understand that art wasn't all freedom. Back then if you didn't follow the norms of art you would be thrased in public and wouldn't make a living. Even if you decide to go a little bit out there with an art piece, you would be shunned and your efforts would be mocked.

Dada art movement was basically looking at the art norms that were pressured by society onto artists during World War I and going "Fuck you. I get to decide what is art, not some group of people. " and then proceeding to make something that would outrage, confuse and make the public question what is truly art.

Are you mad that some urinal is considered art and write a whole essay on the internet? Good. That's the fucking point of the art piece you idiot.

[al-luviec]

id like to thank ninjago episode snake jaguar for everything but nothing all at the same time

[reblog-house]

Some things can change.

[lucigraves]

Blocking that artfig//ht confessions blog as a form of self care

[thelemonsnek]

hellll of a year this year!! got a new hyperfixation for the first time since 2020 :0 this really made me realize how many different styles i use >:))

[image id: one of those art summary templates, where it has a spot for art from every month. January's drawing is very sketchy and has thick, bold lineart. February's is very wild, with pixelated lines, harsh shading, and crazy patterns. March's is more grounded in realism, while still keeping some level of stylism. April's is cartoony but fairly detailed, and has thick lineart. May's is very simplistic and stylized. June is a return to the realistic but stylized art style, and is the first drawing to include an actual background. July's is very painterly and also has a background. August's has the realistic stylized art style again, and September's, October's and November's are all a mix between the realistic and painterly art style, though only September's has a background. Decembers is an extremely simplistic uncolored drawing. End id]

[shithowdy]

this is your periodic reminder that for all the artifacts and errors and "tells" one could possibly list, the only reliable way to actually determine if an image is ai generated is to investigate the source. it is becoming increasingly common for "fake classical paintings" to circulate around curative aesthetic blogs, and everyone should be using this as an opportunity to not only exercise their investigative skills but also appreciate art more in general. you're all checking out the artists you reblog, right? 🫣

so what are some signs to look for? let's use this very good example.

what a lovely late-impressionist piece blended with evocative leyendecker-esque themes! why haven't you ever heard of this artist before? surely tumblr would be all over an artist like this. who is justin brown?

your two options from here are to do a search for the name, or a reverse image search. i prefer reverse image searching, particularly when it comes to a common name like "justin brown". so what does that net?

Immediately, without looking at any text, something is wrong: it barely exists. an actual historical piece would turn up numerous results from websites individually discussing the piece, but no such discussions are taking place. Looking at the text, though, does show the source-- and at least in this case, the creator was honest about their medium.

But let's also look at the "exact matches", in case a source doesn't make itself apparent in the initial sidebar results like this.

This section will often tell you post dates of images, and here it can be seen that the very first iteration of the image was posted 15 days ago. It did not exist online prior to that.

Seeing how long an unsourced image has been floating around is a skill applicable to more than just generative images! See a cool image of an artifact or other intriguing item with a vivid caption? Reverse search it! If all the results are paired with that caption and only go back a few months, you might just have viral facebook spam.

Sometimes generative creators are dishonest about their medium and do not tag it like in the example, so that's when establishing "jpeg provenance" becomes important. While it can be a little trickier to determine if someone is using generative images and not admitting to it if they aren't trying to pass it off as a classic, something to consider is the age of their account and the frequency with which they post. Here are some account red flags:

-Did they only start posting art after 2022, or if they did before, did their style/skill level WILDLY change? Not gradual improvement-- I'm talking amateur graphite portraits straight into complex digital renders. Everyone starts somewhere, newness is not a red flag alone; it's newness combined with existing in a vacuum away from any community.

-Do they post fully-finished paintings several times a week? -Do many of these paintings seem iterative of a similar theme or subject matter ("three well-dressed young men face each other under shade and dappled sunlight")?

-Does their style change in inconsistent ways? An artist that can swap between painting like Drew Struzan and Hokusai should be pretty well known, right? Why is no one hyping this guy?!

-Do they have social media besides the source instagram? If so, what are they posting about? Are there any WIPs? Doodles? Interactions with other artists? Gallery dates? 3am self-doubt posts? Or is it all self-promo? Crypto? Seemingly nothing art-related at all for someone pushing out 3 weekly paintings?

Basically, if it's important to you to omit this stuff when you curate, please don't just smash reblog if the source doesn't seem to be the OP themselves. Seeking out sources was important even before this became an issue, now it is more than ever.

peace n love

[asteroidtroglodyte]

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

[drchucktingle]

Chuck, how do you deal with people who are rude about you and your work? I write queer romance and I want to put my writing out there for people to read, but I'm a very sensitive person and I know it will be hard not to take insults personally and let them affect me. I don't want to let that stop me from expressing myself and sharing my art, but I'm scared!

very good question buckaroo. i am a good example of this as pretty much EVERYONE was rude about my work for many years calling it 'so bad its good' (it is just good) and 'terrible photoshop' (i think it has a great and instantly recognizable style) and 'intentionally stupid premises' (i dont think there is anything stupid about sex being fun and whimsical and playful). even these days the reaction of the VAST majority of buckaroos who discover chuck have this reaction AT FIRST, and then learn to appreciate the tingleverse in a more sincere way over time.

all that is to say BEING DOUBTED HAS WORKED OUT VERY WELL FOR ME. art that changes meaning over time can be very powerful, so if someones initial reaction to my trot is one thing and then it evolves into another thing, well that is just good art. while it can feel bad to get a bad review, i would say a bad review just means you have entered a realm of tension and change and discord and WE ARE TALKIN ABOUT ART BUD so that, in itself, is very exciting.

i think of what i do as 'punk writing', and a big part of that means pushing against preconceived sensibilities. not many other authors will proudly say 'there SHOULD be some spelling errors in my erotic shorts because i wrote it in a day and edited it once. that is the FEELING i want to create', but that is my way. by creating what is in my soul i KNOW i am going to bother some buckaroos and that is okay.

now i am NOT assuming you are also doing punk writing (that is okay of course we all have our own styles. what i am doing with tinglers is pretty rare), but it still stands to remember that there are 7.8 billion people on the planet of this dang timeline and some of them are bound to be bothered by your creations. that is not a problem, that is just part of baring your authentic self.

the other thing to remember is theres no REAL right or wrong in art. it can be analyzed in different ways and i tend to look at it in a way of comparing intention to result, but even THAT is not strictly correct. therefore any bad review of something you make is not actually BAD it is just someones information and feedback for you to take or leave. a one star review is just another opinion, it is no more right or wrong than your own opinion, and that is wonderful. it is freeing.

if i see a bad review of my own book, lets just say CAMP DAMASCUS for instance, i do not get upset because i know this: that reviewer is not wrong. camp damascus is five stars for me, but it is one star for someone else AND THAT IS OK. THAT IS THE WAY IT SHOULD BE. THAT IS GREAT ART. also MAYBE THEY KNOW BETTER THAN I DO. just because i wrote the book does not mean i am the authority on it, and the conversation and tension between those that enjoy something and those that despise it is a creative act. the audience engaging with your work is just your art emerging from its cocoon and saying 'here i am. lets see where i flutter off to now'

do not fear the river of this timeline sweeping away your creations and carrying them where it will. this is inevitable, but it is also beautiful and freeing. you cannot swim against it and that is okay bud, because YOU HAVE ALREADY WON. you have already created something and given a piece of yourself back to this timeline and that is a great honor and privilege. it is literally all there is

by creating ANYTHING you are proving love is real, and that is something to be proud of

[boydepartment]

three strikes - nishimura riki x fem! reader

a/n: HIIIIII this was a request from my 🧈 anon :3 i hope you love it my dear

warnings- jealousy! nothing insane tho, mostly fluff 😋 i added a small inside joke that riki would call ricky from zb1 “discount ricky” all jokes tho (pls don’t kill me)

wc- honestly over 750

MASTERLIST

“here.” you looked over to riki setting your drink down on the table, you looked up at him and smiled as he sat down across from you at the cafe table.

“did you-“

“ask for extra peppermint? yes. even though it’s gross..” riki mumbled, you giggled and sipped your hot coco. it was freezing cold at least to you and so the coco helped a lot.

“when is your project partner arriving?” riki mumbled, sipping his coffee.

you shrugged, “any minute.” setting your coco down riki watched you, he wasn’t necessarily happy over this whole project partner thing. riki knew your project partner, and safe to say he was just irritated by his presence. he didn’t know why, but he was just irked.

so when the OTHER ricky walked in, he just waved and watched as the other boy sat next to you.

“hey y/n!” he smiled, you grinned back at him.

“hey! it’s cold outside are you sure you’re bundled up enough?” you asked, grabbing your books. riki just decided to go on his phone to pass time.

“yeah! it’s crazy how quickly the weather changed huh? are you warm enough?”

you and ricky made small talk which didn’t bother your best friend. that was until one sentence.

“your hands are freezing y/n!”

riki’s eyes shot up to see the discount ricky’s hands on yours. if stares could kill a man, discount ricky would be six feet under.

“oh! yeah that’s why riki, well, my riki got me hot coco.” you let go of his hand and turned to your hot beverage.

nishimura riki would be lying if he said some pride didn’t bubble up inside him, which didn’t go unnoticed by the boy sitting next to you.

riki didn’t take notice and he went back on his phone, he just wanted your project to be over so he could walk back to the car with you and just be away from people. by people he meant discount ricky. this was strike one for his patience.

“i think we should work more on the details of the piece of art itself. like things that normal people look past in monet’s art. there’s a story everywhere.” you suggested, this art project was pretty big for your grade. and you were just relieved that your project partner agreed to do monet.

“that’s such a good idea y/n.” ricky smiled.

oh please riki thought to himself, at that point discount ricky should just get on his hands and knees and beg for your attention. that’d be way less embarrassing than kissing your ass at every little- wait what the hell

to riki’s horror, discount ricky, was readjusting your beanie so your hair didn’t get in your face. this pissed him off, strike two of his patience gone. riki was the one who spent HOURS trying to crochet you that beanie last year and now he’s going to have to make you another one because discount ricky’s grimy hands touched it! riki felt his eye twitch, he ended up making eye contact with the boy next to you. a smirk ghosting his features.

riki wanted to kick his shin under the table or maybe throw his hot coffee-

“i think we should also choose one of monet’s less known works aswe- oh ouch…” you mumbled rubbing your hands, whenever you wrote or sketched too long your hands would hurt. riki always took notice of this so he looked up proper hand massages- safe to say he could be certified- WHAT THE SHIT?

discount ricky grabbed your hands and started massaging them.

strike three

“can you get your hands off her?!” riki finally snapped, “god at this point it’s revolting! i’m right in front of both of you!”

your eyes widened as you watched you best friend actually lose his temper, yeah you’d seen him bicker but this was different.

“what are you two dating?” ricky asked, if you were in a tv show you’d see the angry lightening bolt hit both of them. this was not good, you quickly packed your bags and grabbed your best friend. apologizing to your project partner.

“what’s his fucking problem?!” riki stomped through the fresh snow to your car.

“what’s his problem?! what’s your problem? what the hell was that?! are you okay?!” you had a million questions. and they were flying out.

“i- what- how is this my fault!? he had his grimy discount ricky hands all over you! only i’m allowed to do that as your best friend!”

it was really hard to take him seriously as you finally got to the car laughing. you leaned against the hood trying to catch your breath.

“y/n this isn’t funny!” he stood right next to you.

you finally caught your breath, “i’m sorry where did the nickname discount ricky come from?”

“well obviously i’m the better one way more deserving of, um hello, touching your hair, massaging your hands because im youtube certified, AND THE COLD HANDS THING?! he was flirting with you shamelessly in front of me!” riki swung his arms around like a crazy person trying to explain that the end was near.

your hat fell slightly as you laughed again which riki fixed gently before speaking again, “then he’d smirk at me like he knew he was getting on my nerves! like that discount version of ME KNEW HE WAS MAKING ME ANGRY!”

“should i take my hat off and give you sanitizer? since you touched my discount ricky infected beanie?” you asked, unlocking the car and throwing your backpack in the back. you turned around and bumped into riki.

“actually yeah take off that hat. i will sanitize it and crochet you a new one.” riki grabbed the hat off your head and gave you his own beanie.

“should i sanitize my hands too?” you asked giggling, going to open your door but slipping on black ice.

riki immediately caught you, “um guess who couldn’t catch you- discount ricky. i’m clearly better for you so.”

you started laughing again, hitting his chest playfully, “you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

“is that a bad thing?” riki asked quickly, suddenly unsure of himself.

you shook your head no, “it’s cute.”

riki smiled down at you; it was obvious he was at least a little smug.

“you know what he didn’t contaminate?” you asked, still giggling, your eyes flickered from riki’s eyes to his lips. immediately he got the hint and took his chance.

discount ricky is out and nishimura riki hit a home run

[lurking-loaf]

FazEnt Marketing Team: "Kids like memes right?"

Day 5 of DCA Promptober - artistic license redraw of the "You wouldn't download a car" meme

Since I had to shrink and trim the original art really small to make the gif fit tumblr's maximum upload size, here are the images in non-crunchy form.

The way the two images are laid out above is actually the way they were going to be posted before my 11th hour "Hey! Let's try animating it!" moment. Also, I had zero experience doing any sort of digital animation before this simple one. I'm not sure what the protocol is for using meme templates so I approximated the original text for use in this piece just to be on the safe side. I also redrew the daycare logo itself and changed aspects of it for some reason. Also also, I used the noise brush for the first time to made tv static instead of just finding and using a royalty free image of some sort because it is essential I make things more difficult than they need to be.

[delulustateofmind]

First Love

Gojo Satoru fell in love with his childhood friend...what could go wrong?

TW: ANGST, hurt no comfort, death (no happy ending for anyone), terminal illness, blood, childhood gojo is an arrogant ass, slight bullying behaviors? slight yan!gojo? Inspired by Clannad (a warning in itself imo)

WC: 6.6k (yeesh)

a/n: I rewatched Clannad, you're welcome for this <3

There’s something about childhood friends.

They slip into your thoughts when you least expect it—like shadows from a distant time, memories of faces that fade with age. As you grow older, you wonder where they’ve gone, how they’ve changed. Do they ever think of you the way you think of them? 

There’s something about your first love.

It’s raw, a love so powerful in its simplicity. It feels infinite, a love that burns bright with every stolen glance and unspoken word, yet is fragile—always on the verge of slipping through your fingers. It’s a love that stains your soul, lingers like a ghost, never truly leaving you. 

Satoru remembers the first time he met you. One of the servant's children—standing alone in the garden, dressed in a hand-me-down yukata that swallowed you whole. The fabric hung awkwardly off your shoulders, too big, the colors too vivid, an almost painful clash against your skin. The patterns were loud, mismatched with the still serenity of the garden’s neatly trimmed greenery. Even your obi was a mess, barely tied, loose strands flapping with the breeze. 

Ridiculous. The thought came unbidden, irritation pricking at him. Did the Gojo clan not pay their servants enough to clothe their children properly? You lived on their estate, surrounded by wealth and power, yet you walked around looking like… like this. Where’s your dignity?

And yet, even as he scoffed internally, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. His sharp blue gaze, usually cold and detached, followed you as you stepped closer, offering a small, hesitant wave. Something about you was different. Maybe it was how you carried yourself—like you didn’t belong here like you were almost… apologizing for existing. He expected the usual look—fear, deference, how people looked at him because of who he was. But your eyes didn’t hold any of that. There was no awe, no fear. Just a soft, innocent curiosity.

“Do you like Cinnamoroll?” you asked, your voice gentle like you were afraid of breaking the quiet around you. A pink flush bloomed on your cheeks, deepening the awkward contrast of your outfit. You looked like a fevered mess, your clothes amplifying the nervousness that hung around you. 

Satoru stared at you, unimpressed, his usual sense of superiority bubbling up. Cinnamoroll? What was this supposed to be? Some clumsy attempt at conversation? At befriending him? He was the Honored One, the strongest. He didn’t have time for trivial things like this.

“The stupid bunny?” he replied, head tilting with mild disdain. He could feel his patience thinning, ready to turn his back on you. Why am I even entertaining this? He had training soon—martial arts, a regimen built to hone his innate, unmatched strength. Important things. Things that mattered.

“Um… he’s actually a dog…” you stammered, your voice faltering under the weight of his indifference. “You, um… you look like him…” You fumbled with something in your sleeve, the color on your cheeks deepening as you pulled out a small sticker. “I have a sticker… if you want it?”

His eyes flicked down to the sticker in your hand—a tiny piece of glossy paper with a cartoon dog, cheeks puffed out in a ridiculous expression. What kind of nonsense is this? He thought, ready to reject the offer entirely. But something stopped him. The way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as you held it out, the way your gaze fell to the ground, bracing yourself for his rejection. You already expected him to say no.

For reasons he didn’t understand, Satoru paused. Maybe it was the innocence in your gesture, the sincerity of it—something unfamiliar to him, something oddly… pure. His whole life, people had tried to use him, fear him, kill him or worship him. But this? This was different. You weren’t asking for anything. You just… wanted to give him something. Something small. Something that, to you, seemed precious.

Without a word, Satoru took the sticker from your hand. It felt absurd, standing there, holding such a childish thing, so trivial in comparison to everything else that demanded his attention. But still, he didn’t tear it up. He didn’t throw it away. Instead, he slipped it into his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, almost as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to discard it.

“You shouldn’t be in these gardens,” he said, his voice cold, the edge of authority biting at his words. “They’re reserved for the Gojo family and select servants.” He paused, glancing at you with disdain, the tiniest frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “At least dress the part if you’re going to sneak into private areas. Don’t be such a burden.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, no doubt feeling small under the weight of his dismissal. 

But when he thinks back on that day, those words claw at him. A bitter regret lingers in his chest—he should have said something else. Something softer. He should have said “thank you.”

From that moment on, though, you intrigued him in a way that was unfamiliar, irritating even. You lingered in his thoughts, an odd presence he couldn’t shake. He found himself scanning the grounds, searching for a glimpse of you, that awkward figure in a hand-me-down yukata, wandering around where you didn’t belong. He caught sight of you occasionally, in fleeting moments—too slow, too weak, your footsteps quiet and unremarkable. He was always moving, always busy with his training, always surrounded by people who understood his status, his destiny. You were just... there. 

By the time he reached middle school, he began seeing you more frequently. But nothing about you had changed—you still wore the same ill-fitting clothes, still moved like you were trying to blend into the background. Pathetic, really. Yet, he found himself gravitating toward you, the curiosity from that first encounter now a subtle pull he couldn’t fully explain.

One day, he spotted you sitting alone on a bench, your shoulders slumped, fingers idly picking at the hem of yet another hand-me-down yukata. It looked faded, worn from too many washes, the fabric almost threadbare in places. Was this a joke? He didn’t bother hiding the look of disgust on his face as he made his way over to you.

“Do we not pay you enough?” Satoru drawled, plopping himself beside you on the bench with an air of casual superiority. He stretched his long legs out, arms draping lazily across the back of the bench, completely uninvited. His eyes flicked toward you, sharp and critical. “Your mother works in the kitchens, right? They make decent wages. So why do you still wear… this?” His hand waved dismissively toward your clothing, his expression twisted in distaste.

You didn’t answer right away, and maybe that silence—the lack of fear or immediate compliance—irked him. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned in, fingers reaching out to twirl a strand of your hair between them, his touch casual but invasive. “You’d be a lot prettier, you know?” he murmured, almost to himself. The statement was more of an observation than a compliment, as if you were an unfinished canvas he was appraising, something that had the potential to be molded, but only with the right hand.

For a brief moment, he lingered there, watching your reaction, the way you stiffened under his touch. His fingers lazily twisted your hair, the strand slipping between them like it was something he owned. He didn’t say it aloud, but he liked that—this quiet power he had over you, the unspoken game of push and pull. He was the sun, and you were something orbiting too close to his gravity, too weak to escape.

Yet, something about you continued to unsettle him. You weren’t like the others—those who fawned over him or cowered in fear. You didn’t look at him like he was some untouchable god, and that left him off-balance, intrigued in a way he couldn’t fully understand. He wasn’t used to this pull, this strange need to be near someone who wasn’t vying for his attention. 

Why you?

You weren’t impressive. You weren’t strong or remarkable in any way. And still… there was something about the way you existed in his world, quietly enduring his presence, that made him want to keep you close. He’d never admit it—not even to himself—but being near you felt different. Almost like a puzzle that wasn’t finished, a puzzle that he alone could solve.

He twirled the last strand of your hair before letting it fall from his fingers, his gaze shifting to the autumn trees swaying in the breeze. The silence hung between you, but he broke it with a sharp, almost bored question. “Don’t you talk? Or did I break you already?” His tone was teasing, though laced with that familiar arrogance. Then, as if noticing something off, his eyes flicked back to your clothes. “And shouldn’t you be wearing a school uniform? Most of the servants’ kids go to that middle school down the road.”

Finally, he let go of your hair, but his attention remained fixed on you, like a cat watching its prey—waiting to see how you’d respond, if you’d try to run, or if you’d stay in his orbit.

You shifted, clearly uncomfortable, and your voice came out soft, slightly wavering. “I do my school work at home… I don’t mean to wear hand-me-downs, yes, Master Gojo, you pay us well enough.”

Satoru almost rolled his eyes. What a crybaby. Even your words were apologetic, your body language shrinking under his gaze like you were trying not to make yourself a target. He leaned back, the superiority dripping from his tone, his interest barely masked by the casual cruelty of his words.

“What? Did you not pass the exams to get in? Are you stupid or something?” he lulled, his voice almost sing-song as he mocked you. His eyes didn’t even bother to meet yours, as if he’d already decided your worth. You were beneath him, after all. Just another servant’s child, too weak to even look him in the eye.

You didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with the hem of your worn-out yukata, your fingers tracing the fraying threads. Silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward, but you made no attempt to defend yourself. No sharp retort, no glare. Nothing.

And yet, the next day, a brand-new yukata appeared on the doorstep of your house. Crisp white and blue, adorned with delicate peach blossoms. It was too nice to be a coincidence, too perfect to have been anything but deliberate. Satoru didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even acknowledge it the next time he saw you. But you knew.

After that, he kept coming around. Casual, unannounced visits that felt more like a demand than a choice. Who were you to refuse the next head of the Gojo clan? Each time, he’d linger just a little longer, his presence as undeniable as the shifting gravity between you. He didn’t need to explain himself—he was Gojo Satoru. He got whatever he wanted.

And for some reason, that included being near you.

Autumn was slowly slipping away, its crisp air replaced with the growing chill of winter. The wind outside howled as leaves scattered along the grounds, but inside, the warmth of the living room enveloped you both. Satoru sat sprawled on the floor, his long legs stretched out, watching Digimon on TV with a casualness that felt at odds with his usual demeanor. You were beside him, your hands deftly cutting apples into small rabbit shapes, a delicate task that seemed to hold your entire focus.

“I’m going to Jujutsu Tech next year,” Satoru said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He glanced at you, his gaze sharp as he watched you work, the knife moving smoothly through the fruit. For some reason, the careful way you cut those apples reminded him of the sticker you’d given him years ago—the one that now sat framed on his bedroom shelf. He would never admit that, though.

“You should go too,” he added, the statement less of an invitation and more of an expectation. His eyes flicked back to the TV, but his focus remained on you, on the way your brow furrowed slightly as you sliced the apples, like you were crafting something far more important than a snack.

“I mean, your curse technique is probably weak—” the words came out easily, a habitual dig at your perceived inferiority. But what he really wanted to say—what nearly slipped from his mouth—was but I don’t want to be away from you. The thought startled him, a silent confession buried beneath his arrogance. He couldn’t understand why, but the idea of being apart from you bothered him more than it should. More than anything else had before.

He waited for your response, hoping for some sign that you’d agree, that you’d at least consider it. But instead, you simply looked up at him, tilting your head as if the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. 

“No,” you said softly, your tone calm, unbothered. “I do my schoolwork at home.”

Satoru’s brow furrowed, irritation bubbling beneath his skin. Why the hell is that? Why the hell do you never leave? You were too smart to be hiding away like this. Over the past few weeks, he had learned that much. You were ahead of him in mathematics, in reading, quietly excelling in ways that most people wouldn’t notice. But he did. He always noticed.

So stop being so weak! The words screamed in his mind, a sharp contrast to the frustration that had taken root. You could be so much more. Why were you wasting it here? Why weren’t you reaching for more, for strength, for something? 

He didn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he watched you return to your quiet task, the rabbits forming neatly from the slices of apple. And he stayed, longer than he had planned to, unsure of what it was that kept pulling him back to you.

Sometimes, Satoru wished he was more observant of things beyond curse energy. He could read the flow of power in a person instantly, see their strength—or lack thereof—but when it came to ordinary things, like emotions or people’s struggles, he was blind in that way.

The next day, he stopped by again, but it wasn’t you who answered the door—it was your mother. The resemblance between the two of you was uncanny, though she looked more worn, her face marked with exhaustion and the weight of years in servitude. Her clothes, like yours, were frayed at the hems. He’d make sure to send a new set tomorrow, he thought. Along with a new yukata for you. Something soft and light, a color that would stand out when the snow fell. He liked the idea of being able to find you easily.

“I’m sorry, Master Gojo,” your mother spoke, her voice soft and apologetic, echoing the quiet way you often spoke. “Y/N is sick today, running a high fever.”

For a moment, something flickered in Satoru’s chest. Sick? His mind raced, his arrogance pushed aside by a rare sliver of concern. He hadn’t even noticed you seemed unwell the day before. Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Alright,” he replied, his voice more even than usual as he glanced away, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his leg. “I��ll come back tomorrow. The Arashiyama festival is happening, and I was going to ask if she wanted to come.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, a decision he’d already made. The idea of not seeing you—even for a day—sat strangely with him. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like how your absence left an odd, empty space where something—or someone—was supposed to be.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and left, already planning how he’d make sure you would feel better by the next day. After all, you couldn’t miss the festival. Not when he had already decided you’d go. Not when he needed you there, right where he could see you.

Yet, day after day, your mother turned him away. Satoru, unaccustomed to being refused, kept sending gifts. He sent the finest teas, new yukatas, thick quilts, and even a brand-new kotatsu to ensure your comfort. He thought, with each delivery, he was taking care of the problem, that he could make things better just by giving you what you needed. But each time he came by, the answer remained the same. 

He had seen you once, through a barely opened door—your cheeks flushed with fever, your breaths shallow and labored. The sight of you so pale and fragile gnawed at something inside him, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Weak.You looked so weak. And for someone like Satoru, who thrived on strength, it unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

Then, one day, your mother finally gave him the truth he had been avoiding.

“Y/N is sick,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “An incurable illness—she’s had it since she was a child. The cold tends to spike her symptoms, Master Gojo. She probably won’t be able to go to the festival with you.”

Satoru stood there, her words hanging in the air, as if they didn’t quite make sense. Incurable? That word shouldn’t exist in his world. He was the strongest, the untouchable—there was no such thing as "incurable" when it came to him or anyone in his life. He could handle anything, fix anything.

“No,” he said sharply, a denial slipping from his lips before he could think. “She’s going.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, the kind of declaration he was used to making without resistance. He had decided you were going to the festival, and that was that. The idea of you being too sick, of something being out of his control, didn’t sit well with him.

Your mother’s expression softened with a sadness that made him even more irritated. He wasn’t used to being pitied, wasn’t used to people looking at him like he didn’t understand something. But he refused to accept it. How could you be sick—truly sick—when he was standing right here, the strongest sorcerer in the world?

“She’s going to the festival,” he repeated, quieter this time, as if by saying it again, he could will it into reality. There was no room in his mind for any other outcome. You will get better. You had to.

Because the thought of you slipping away, of you no longer being there, orbiting around him like you always had, was something he couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.

The two of you walked together on the warmest night of winter, a rare reprieve from the biting cold. You were wearing a kimono he had personally commissioned, something crafted specifically for you, designed to match his own. Yours was a soft white with a delicate crane embroidered on the back, while his was a deep blue with white bunnies dancing along the bottom. Despite the warmth of the night, your cheeks were still flushed, and that lingering reminder of your illness gnawed at him. He didn’t like that.

Satoru kept his steps deliberately slow as you both walked through the Arashiyama Lantern Festival, the bamboo forest surrounding you bathed in the soft, warm glow of countless lanterns. It was quieter here, almost peaceful, but his mind wasn’t fully at ease. His hand twitched by his side, fingers brushing against the fabric of his kimono before he reached for yours. His touch was casual, but his grip firm, as if the gesture was purely practical.

“So I don’t lose you,” he muttered, glancing ahead. It wasn’t like he cared, not in the way people might assume. It wasn’t like that. He just… wanted you near him, where he could see you, where he could make sure you were okay. His eyes briefly flicked to your scarf, and with a quick movement, he double-checked that it was still wrapped snugly around your neck, shielding you from the cold. His thumb idly rubbed over your white mittens, a gesture that felt more natural than he wanted to admit.

You looked up at him, offering a soft smile. “Thank you for taking me,” you said quietly, your voice carrying the same gentle gratitude it always did. There was something about the way the lantern lights flickered in your eyes, casting a soft glow over your features. For a brief moment, you looked almost... angelic.

Satoru’s chest tightened at the sight. Angel? No, you weren’t that. You were fragile, too weak, and he had to keep pulling you back to him so you wouldn’t slip away. But still, standing beside you in the lantern-lit forest, with your hand in his, you seemed like something beyond reach. 

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbled, eyes flicking away from your gaze, the barest hint of warmth in his voice betraying him.

There was a moment of silence between you, just the soft rustle of your steps on the lantern-lit path. But something tugged at him, an uncomfortable weight that wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop himself, the questions spilling out before he could even consider the consequences.

“Is that why you wear hand-me-downs?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible amidst the hushed murmur of the festival. He kept his gaze ahead, but his eyes flicked toward you, trying to read your expression without meeting your eyes directly. “You’re sick? Is the medication… a lot?”

He didn’t know if he truly wanted the answer. The thought of you struggling with something he couldn’t fix—it frustrated him. He was supposed to be able to solve anything, to protect you from anything, but this was something he couldn’t simply fight away. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if afraid of what your response might mean.

“That’s why you don’t go to school either?” he added, his voice harsher than he intended, more out of frustration with the situation than with you. He took a breath, pushing down that feeling, his tone softening again, almost like a plea. “You’re coming to Jujutsu Tech. You don’t have to fight or anything—you could train to be an assistant, come with me on missions.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, searching for some reaction, a sign that you’d agree. He wasn’t ready to let you slip away. The idea of you just being left behind, in this quiet, ordinary life—it felt wrong. You belonged near him, in his orbit, where he could keep an eye on you. Where he could protect you, even if he couldn’t admit how much that truly mattered to him.

“Take care of me on missions or something,” he added, the words almost muttered, an awkward attempt to make his insistence seem less desperate. But the truth was there, raw and unspoken. He didn’t want to be away from you, not now, not ever. And he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

You simply shook your head, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t, Satoru. I wouldn’t pass the physical exam. I get sick way too easily to be an assistant. I’d just be… a burden.”

A burden. The word hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and unforgiving. He had said those exact words to you once, long ago—“Don’t be such a burden”—and now they came back, biting him in a way he hadn’t expected. He could still hear his younger, more arrogant self, dismissive and cold. But now, standing here with you, those words felt like a cruel joke. You weren’t a burden, not to him. Not anymore.

He hesitated, caught in the pull of the moment. The smell of grilled food wafted through the air from the stalls up ahead, mingling with the sounds of the festival—the distant chatter, the hum of excitement, the crackling anticipation of fireworks. His mind spun, caught between the reality of your words and something deeper he couldn’t quite name.

And then, without thinking, without planning, the words burst from him.

“Then marry me.”

The first firework lit off as soon as he spoke, a loud boom exploding across the sky in brilliant colors, drowning out the weight of his confession. He didn’t care. The moment the words left his lips, there was no taking them back. 

“Marry me when we both turn eighteen,” he continued, his voice steadier now, as if the initial shock of his own statement had faded into something more certain. He turned to face you, blue eyes serious and unwavering. For once, there was no teasing, no arrogance. Just him, standing there, asking for something he couldn’t explain but knew he wanted.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he had said it—maybe it was the fear of losing you, of not being able to keep you close. Maybe it was the realization that, in his own way, he was falling for you, more deeply than he wanted to admit. All he knew was that the idea of a future without you in it felt unbearably wrong.

“Just say yes,” he added softly, the fireworks crackling overhead, illuminating the sky—and his heart—whether he liked it or not.

“I’m sick, Satoru,” you said softly, your voice almost drowned out by the distant crackle of fireworks. “A mere servant child, and you’re the soon-to-be head of the Gojo clan.” You smiled gently, the colors of the fireworks casting a soft glow across your face. “I wouldn’t make a good wife. I wouldn’t be able to give you an heir.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, frustration flickering in his eyes. His chest tightened at your words, at the way you reduced yourself to something so insignificant. He wasn’t used to feeling powerless, but that’s what this was—powerless against your illness, powerless against your self-doubt. He hated it.

“Bullshit,” he spat, his voice sharp and biting, cutting through the air between you. “I didn’t ask whether you’d make a good wife or give me an heir. That’s not what I’m talking about.” His eyes were fierce, locked on yours, refusing to let you look away. “I said to marry me because I want to take care of you. I have the means to take care of you.”

His grip on your hand tightened, his frustration palpable. “If you won’t come to Jujutsu Tech with me, then this is the least you could do,” he continued, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. There was no teasing now, no games—just him, laying bare what he couldn’t fully express. He didn’t want you to fade away into the background of his life, a memory he couldn’t grasp. He wanted you by his side, where he could make sure you were okay, where you belonged. 

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, the fireworks bursting above, reflecting in his eyes like something fierce and unyielding. He didn’t care about the rules, about the clan, about whatever expectations loomed over him. All that mattered in this moment was you—fragile, flawed, and somehow, the one thing that grounded him in ways nothing else ever had.

“Just… let me.”

You simply nodded, a few tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Satoru felt something stir in his chest at the sight, something that made him tighten his grip on your hand just a little more, as if to hold you in place, to keep you grounded in his world. And from that moment on, every day since then, Satoru found himself wishing he had been kinder to you—softer, more patient. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have left him so soon.

When he left for Jujutsu Tech, it was like a piece of him stayed behind with you. He made sure to call, to fill you in on the people in his life, on the friendships that began to shape him. He told you about Suguru, his calm, steady presence, and Shoko, her dry wit and easygoing nature. But over time, something in him shifted. The more he talked to you, the more he found himself softening, becoming kinder in ways he hadn’t been before. He grew more clingy, though he would never admit it aloud.

During breaks, he would take you out—whether it was to a café or somewhere quiet, his arm always wrapped protectively around your shoulders. His thumb would trace absent patterns over the engagement ring already sitting on your finger. It was a quiet reminder, to you and to himself, that you were his. Always his.

When you felt well enough, he took you to all the places he visited with friends, places that made him feel alive. He wanted that for you, too. He wanted you to experience life—not just exist in the shadow of your illness. But as time passed, something began to change. You stopped sharing certain things with him, small details about your health, things he noticed but never had the courage to ask about. Maybe he lacked the emotional intelligence to handle it, or maybe he was too afraid of the answers.

But deep down, a gnawing fear began to settle in. You were slipping away from him, slowly, quietly, and it terrified him in ways he wasn’t ready to confront. And no matter how tightly he held onto you, it felt like you were already drifting beyond his reach. Like he was behind a few steps. 

By his third year, you both made it a point to attend the same winter festival together. It had become a tradition, something to hold onto amid all the changes that life threw at you both. But this time, something felt different. Your steps were slower, your smile not quite reaching your eyes the way it used to.

Satoru tried to fill the space between the silence, his usual chatter turning toward his concerns. “Suguru’s been acting strange lately,” he said, his tone almost casual as if trying to convince himself more than you. “He’s on a mission tonight, but he’s strong, so I know he’ll be alright.” There was a flicker of something in his eyes—worry, perhaps. Ever since his last mission, Suguru seemed different, exhaustion more evident in the lines of his face. Satoru had been talking about him more, and you could see the worry he tried to hide behind his confident words. You were happy for him, though. He had a friend—a friend who would take care of him.

“Ah, the fireworks are starting!” Satoru’s eyes brightened as he grabbed your hand, tugging you forward through the crowd. His grip was firm, almost excited as he pulled you along to get a better view. But just as the first boom echoed across the night sky, you stumbled, a cough wracking your body.

Blood splattered onto your white mittens, staining them a deep red. It smeared against the delicate fabric of your kimono, the crimson spreading across the soft white. Your eyes widened, the shock evident as another cough tore through you at the second boom.

Satoru glanced back at you, his laughter from a moment ago dying on his lips as he took in the sight before him. The dark red staining your kimono, your shoulders trembling as you tried to steady yourself. His heart stopped, his bright blue eyes widening in alarm.

“Y/N?” The word slipped from his lips, almost a whisper, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable. He was used to blood—he’d seen more of it than he cared to remember. He was used to seeing horrific things, but this... This was different. This was you, your body collapsing under the weight of something he couldn’t fight, something he couldn’t protect you from.

His stomach twisted into painful knots as he rushed forward, his arms wrapping around you before you hit the ground. Panic clawed at his chest, raw and unyielding, as he pulled you close, your weight heavy in his arms. He looked down at you, the blood on your lips, the way your eyes struggled to focus on him.

“Y/N, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking, the booming of the fireworks above seeming like cruel echoes to his panic. Satoru Gojo—the strongest—was powerless for the first time in his life. He had always been able to protect the people he cared about, always stood between them and the dangers that threatened them. But now, as he cradled you in his arms, he felt more helpless than he ever thought possible. 

Within moments, Satoru had you wrapped tightly against his chest, his long strides pushing through the crowd. The world around him blurred—the once vibrant colors of the festival, the joyous sounds, the fireworks lighting up the sky—everything faded, drowned by the sound of his pounding heartbeat. The one thing that mattered was slipping away in his arms. He couldn’t lose you. Not you.

“A taxi would be too slow…” he muttered under his breath, his voice a frantic tremor, uneven and shaky as he sprinted through the dark streets of Kyoto. His arms gripped you tighter, as if holding you this close could stop the life from draining out of you.

You tilted your head back slightly, your vision blurry and fading, but even now, you could see the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. They caught in your hair, delicate and soft, and for a moment you felt at peace. Snow always made the world seem quieter, calmer. But your body was growing weaker. You could feel it. The edges of your vision darkened, and even as you lay against Satoru’s chest, your heart ached—not just from the pain, but because you knew he wouldn’t be able to fix this. You could feel the fear radiating from him, fear you’d never seen in him before. 

And yet, all you could do was smile, nuzzling your cheek against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into you as the cold of winter wrapped around you both.

Satoru kept talking, his voice frantic, as if somehow his words could pull you back. “We’ll get you to the family physician,” he rambled, his breath coming in short bursts. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate panic. “If he can’t do anything, I’ll call Shoko. She’s studying to be a doctor—she’ll fix this, she’ll know what to do.” His voice trembled, each word more uncertain than the last. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to not having control, not having a solution.

When he glanced down at you, his breath caught. You were smiling up at him, your lips stained with blood but still curved in that soft, familiar way. His heart clenched painfully, a wave of helplessness crashing over him. He could see the blood soaking through your white kimono, staining it crimson, and still you smiled. His lips wobbled into a broken smile in return, as if trying to mirror your calm, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Tears blurred his vision, and he couldn’t tell if they were his or if it was just the snow falling into his eyes.

Then you spoke, your voice gentle, steady, though each word was a dagger to his chest. “I hope in another life, I’ll get to meet you in a world without curses. Without this stupid illness,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but somehow clear in the silence that enveloped you both. “Maybe we’ll be bumblebees… or those whale sharks you told me about.” You paused, and then your eyes softened even more. “But I think I’d marry you in every lifetime, if you’d let me. You’re kind, Satoru.”

Kind. The word echoed painfully in his mind. You thought he was kind, but right now, he couldn’t feel anything but helplessness, guilt, and fear. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t let this be the last thing you said to him. He couldn’t let go. Not like this.

“No, don’t say that,” he choked out, his throat tight with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “We’re going to see those sunflowers, remember? The field by the ocean—it’s going to be warm, and I’ll buy you that sundress. We’ll match. You’ll love it.” His voice cracked, but he forced himself to keep going, desperation filling every word. “Then we’ll go to that aquarium in Okinawa, the one with the whale sharks. You’ll like the nurse sharks—they just cuddle at the bottom of the tank. That’s us, remember? Just stay with me, okay?”

He was trying to keep you grounded, trying to keep you here, with him, but even he could hear the hopelessness in his voice. His grip on you tightened, as if he could physically hold you to this world, but he knew. Deep down, he knew.

“We’ll get married in a year. We’ll have kids. We’ll grow old together, alright? You’re not leaving me. We have a future. So please…”

But the words he truly wanted to say—the ones lodged in his throat, choking him—stayed trapped. I love you. He wanted to scream it, but the grief swallowed it whole. Saying it out loud would make it real, would make the possibility of losing you more tangible. And he wasn’t ready for that.

As he ran toward the clan’s estate, your body growing heavier in his arms, the weight of your fading life pressed down on him. His vision blurred with tears. I love you. The words echoed over and over in his mind, like a desperate prayer.

Then, your voice, so soft, pulled him from the spiral of his thoughts. “I love you, Satoru,” you whispered, your hand gently cupping his tear-streaked face. Your touch was so light, so fleeting, and yet it shattered him completely. “I hope we see each other in the next life.”

Satoru felt his entire world crumble as he looked down at you. His heart shattered into pieces too small to ever be whole again, and all he could do was hold you tighter as your life slipped away. He had saved so many people, but he couldn’t save you. His strength, his power, meant nothing now.

That night, he lost you within the hour. If only he had been faster, if only he had acted sooner, would you still be here? The question haunted him, eating away at him with every passing moment. 

The next day, when he learned that Suguru had slaughtered a village and turned rogue, he felt his soul fracture even further. The strongest sorcerer. How could he be the strongest when he couldn’t even protect the people he loved?

Regret was a constant shadow, haunting him as the years passed. The weight of his failures pressed down on him, the ache of loss never dulling, never fading.

Nearly a decade later, Satoru stood in the midst of another battle, blood staining the snow around him. He found himself alone once again, lying in the cold, staring up at the sky. The same snowflakes drifted down, just like they had that night when he lost you.

Had he won? It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the memory of you—and Suguru. Maybe this time he would see you both again.

A sad smile traced his lips as the taste of blood filled his mouth, his body heavy with exhaustion and the crushing weight of everything he had lost.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” he whispered to the falling snow, to the sky, to the world where you might be waiting for him.

[forthevillains]

WELL, SINCE YOU MENTIONED IT... Wesker breeding kink HCs?

I gotchu!

!NSFW!

~ Wesker surely never intended to have a child, he never thought of it, nor has he been aware of the kinks at all so the whole idea of breeding kink didn’t get to him at first. Yes, he always preferred to cum inside, but it wasn’t much of a big deal, it was purely for his comfort

~ with you however, it changed. Well sort of. He may not know why, but he grew to like it. The sight of his seed leaking from your sensitive pussy after he’s taken you was something that amused him too much. The thought of it resulting in making you swollen with his child, tying you to him forever... It awakened his possessiveness, something in his mind clicked at that moment and he knew it would be something he’d wish to do repeatedly

~ he’s a big creampie lover indeed

~ he becomes obsessed with it. So obsessed that if the imagine of you full of his cum crosses his mind, he gets immediately hard. No matter where he is, no matter what he’s doing. That thought alone is enough to make him go absolutely crazy with the need for you. The urge to have you below him, moaning his name while he pounds into you, pushing deeper and deeper with every thrust while you milk him dry. It would take all his self control not to jerk himself off right there. He’d try so hard to suppress all the dirty thoughts invading his mind only to fail over and over again, having to lock himself in his office, closing his eyes while gripping his cock, imagining it was your hand instead of his:(

~ his favorite position to breed you in is - as you could’ve guessed - missionary. Not only can he watch his piece of art afterwards, but can also make sure you don’t waste a single drop

~ even if you do, he’s gonna push it back in. After pulling out, he’d lower himself enough so that he could push as much as he can back in with his fingers while keeping his eyes on your face, to see your reactions, to know that it makes you as turned on as it makes him. While his skilled fingers would tease you, each of his touches so gentle yet eager. It’s enough to get both you and him ready for a second round.

~ however opportunities like this are limited. He’s a hardworking man and there should be always the time for you to shower afterwards unless you want to walk around with his cum leaking from your hole for the rest of the day. And believe that he made you do that at least once (probably after you’ve angered him), only to tease you about it and make you feel embarrassed

~ Wesker doesn’t really care if you’re on birth control or not. If you happen to be, he takes it as a challenge. He wants to try how long can it protect your womb from being occupied by his offspring. He wants to test it and he’s not gonna give up until one day - you actually become pregnant. Whether you want to keep it or not would be purely on you though, as it was mostly just a fun for him anyway

~ to redeem this poor man though… The act itself means a lot to him. Being comfortable enough with you to want you to carry his child is something he never did in his life. It’s not only an act of attraction, he takes it as all, marking his territory, proving to you that you’re his and his only, but also as his way of saying he’s yours as well.

[sanrielle]

Amazing fanart by Joanacchi! Posted here on tumblr with their blessing. Each one is based on a style that reflects a particular ancient culture's art history. (See below for descriptions provided by the artist!)

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Aang: Tibetan Thangka

"Thangkas are traditional Tibetan tapestries that have been used for religious and educational purposes since ancient times! The techniques applied can vary greatly, but they usually use silk or cotton fabrics to paint or embroider on. What you can depict in a Thangka is really versatile, and I wanted to represent things that make up Aang as a character."

Zuko and Azula: Japanese Ukiyo-e

"Ukiyo-e is a style that has been around Japan between the 17th and 19th century, and focused mainly in representing daily life, theater(kabuki), natural landscapes, and sometimes historical characters or legends!

Ukiyo-e was developed to be more of a fast and commercial type of art, so many drawings we see are actually woodblock prints, so the artist could do many copies of the same art!

I based my Zuko and Azula pieces on the work of Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1798-1861) one of the last ukiyo-e masters in Japan! He has a specific piece which featured a fire demon fighting a lord that fought back with lighting, and that really matched Zuko and Azula's main techniques!”

Toph: Chinese Portraiture from Ming and Qing Dynasties

"Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) was one of the longest in China! It was also a period where lots of artistic evolutions were happening, especially when it comes to use of colour! There was not a predilection for portraits during this time, but there are a lot of pieces depicting idealized women and goddesses from the standards of the time. For this portrait of Toph, I imagined something that maybe their parents commissioned, depicting a soft and delicate Toph which we know is not what she is about ♥️

Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) was the last Chinese Dynasty to reign before the Revolution. One of the most famous emperors of this period was Qianlong, and he really liked Western art! He commissioned a lot of portraits of his subordinates, and I chose a portrait of one of his bodyguards as a reference for the second Toph portrait, which I believe is much more like how she would want to be represented! The poem on top talks about the bodyguards' achievements during a specific war. I had no time to come up with a poem for Toph, so I just used the same one for the composition!”

Sokka and Katara: Inuit Lithograph

"For a long time, Inuit art expressed itself in utilitarian ways. The Nomadic lifestyle of early Inuit tribes played a huge part in that: most art pieces are carved in useful tools, clothing, or children's toys, small and easy to be transported, and depicted scenes and patterns representing their daily lives!

That changed a lot during the colonization. Since the settling of the Inuit tribes, many art pieces began to be created in order to be exported to foreigns, so they started to sculpt bigger and more decorative pieces.

Lithography, which is a type of printmaking, was introduced to Inuit people by James Houston, that learned the technique from the japanese. The art form was quickly embraced by the inuit, as part of the process is very similar to carving. Prints that are produced by inuit artists are still being sold today!

As lithography is not an old art style and it's still commercially relevant to the Inuit communities, since creating these in 2021 I have been donating regularly to the Inuit Art Foundation, not only all the money I get from selling some prints of these but a bit more, at least once a year. Hopefully, I can increase donations this year!”

[clarionglass]

so i have been bitten by the sam reich!master bug courtesy of some phenomenal art by @northernfireart and uh. as is too often the case i had to write something otherwise if i didn't get it out of my brain i would go absolutely insane

(there may be more vignettes coming if i have ideas..... there are definitely other episodes i'd like to give the Treatment to, plus with the new dw series coming out on the weekend i may have ideas for how to incorporate the dw gang! however, i promise neither more writing or no more writing. that said, this was a lot of fun so there'll probably be more at some stage :D )

this has full spoilers for the game changer ep "escape the greenroom", but hey that's been out for a while now so,,,, if you haven't seen it i'd highly recommend it as an episode!

so, without further ado:

--

Samuel Dalton was a complete fiction, of course, but that didn't mean that when Sam Reich snuck back upstairs to get tied up in the “out of order” bathroom, the Sam that remained on the monitor, laughing at the contestants, was a pre-recording. And if Brennan, Siobhan and Lou had snorted at the idea of a time-travelling evil magician great-grandfather (for good reason), going in with the actual truth of the matter would have sounded like jumping the shark.

It sounded bizarre, but the time travel bit was the only part about his new partner in crime that was confirmably real. Admittedly, the jury was still out on “evil”—he gave off a weird vibe at times, but so far, no lines had been crossed, and it had all been funny as hell—so for now, Sam was willing to roll with it. But perhaps most surprisingly, there wasn’t even the possibility of blood relation between Samuel Dalton Reich and the guy who had shown up out of the blue one day with his exact face and a plan to really fuck around with things on Game Changer.

Yeah, the whole alien thing had really ruled out that particular prospect.

There had been various bits and pieces of confirmation that this guy wasn’t human through the time Sam had known him, but the final nail in the coffin for that one was when his doppelganger had looked him dead in the eye and tried on one of the heart rate monitors—sorry, “range extenders”—for As a Cucumber. The damn thing had literally sparked up, then died completely. Trying to process input from two separate heartbeats at once would do that, apparently. 

His doppelganger was a Time Lord, or so he had nonchalantly said one afternoon in casual conversation, though Sam still wasn’t sure if that one was a joke or not. It was hard to tell, sometimes, because he said the wildest things with the straightest face, and so far, most of them had turned out to be one hundred percent certifiably true. The time travel, the space travel, even the changing faces thing—it sounded objectively insane, but the proof was undeniable. 

There were some notable exceptions, though. Saying he’d been trapped for aeons inside Neil Patrick Harris’s gold tooth went just that bit too far to be believable, though Sam did appreciate his double’s slightly warped sense of humour.

It was that offbeat line of thinking that lent itself well to game design, as it turned out. He had a knack for coming up with ideas for Game Changer episodes, albeit with the occasional suggestion that went way beyond the bounds of good taste, and, as in the case of Escape the Greenroom, had devised some blinding twists on concepts Sam had already half-formed. The letter puzzle unlocking the secret door? It was perfect.

Understandably, Sam’s doppelganger had wanted to observe the fruits of their labours in real time, rather than watching the recording later. It happened, sometimes, particularly when it was one of his ideas that had made it through to the episode list—they’d swap places for a session, with nobody being any the wiser. Watching those edits back always felt a bit weird—it was uncanny how flawless the mimicry was—but hey, the guy was right. It was always fun.

Escape the Greenroom, specifically, with its “Samuel Dalton” conceit, provided them with a unique opportunity. Instead of swapping out the camera feed for a recording when the cast piled into the tiny secret room behind the wall, as per the original plan to get Sam in position to be discovered in the bathroom, they could just swap out the people. Sam would go upstairs, and his double would take his place at the podium, ducking out of sight when everyone came back to the main stage to “defuse the bomb”.

Sam was keen—hell, if their situations had been reversed, he’d want to be there to watch, too—but caution raised a flag. “You don’t think it’s too risky?” he’d asked when the subject was first raised. “Both of us being in the same place?”

His doppelganger had shrugged one shoulder with supreme unconcern. “The crew won't notice.”

At the time, Sam had shot him a sceptical look, but right now, Sam-Reich-in-a-purple-tie and Sam-Reich-in-an-orange-tie were standing backstage post-record, clearly visible and and calmly chatting, and not a single member of the crew had given them so much as a second glance. 

…Hardly even a first glance, come to think about it. If anyone looked over their way, their eyes seemed to… not exactly go through them, but slide over the two of them like water. He was tempted to wave to Nico or Ash or someone, just out of pure curiosity, but something in the back of his mind told him that wouldn’t be the world’s greatest idea. He had a funny feeling he wouldn’t like to see what would happen next.

(He’d given the prop bomb back to the crew once the cameras stopped rolling, and though it looked the same as the one he remembered from before he’d headed upstairs, it felt different in his hands. Heavier, more… serious, somehow. He was sure nothing would have happened—but at the same time, he was suddenly very glad that the cast had cut the correct wire with no less than a minute fifteen to go.)

(The jury was still out on evil, after all.)

“Worth coming in for?” he asked instead.

“Absolutely,” his double replied with relish. “Locking those three in a small room for an hour? Brilliant, fantastic. Inspired. It was absolute chaos.”

“Have you seen up there?” Sam asked, a smile starting to spread across his face. “They messed up the set real bad.”

His doppelganger smirked at him. “You know it took literally two seconds from you telling them to escape the greenroom for Lou to smash that guitar?”

Sam shook his head. “Oh my god. Yeah, they were stressed.” 

“Mmm. Some real panic in that room,” his doppelganger agreed, and Sam chose to ignore the faint note of satisfaction in his voice.

He shifted his weight, settling back to lean against the table behind the set, in the exact instant his double decided to do the same thing. It really was freaky how similar they were, down to the smallest mannerism—like looking in a mirror, only weirder, because the face that looked back at him was truly his own face, not mirror-reversed. Even now, it still caught Sam off guard from time to time, but at least it had faded into a more comfortable kind of strange. He had an exact lookalike who was an actual time-travelling alien. Cool. Doesn’t everyone?

The pair shared a companionable silence for a few moments, before a thought Sam had been turning over for a while rose to the top of his mind. He shifted again, this time on his own, and he felt his double’s regard swing up to fix on him like a magnet. 

“Okay, real talk,” he started, and his doppelganger frowned back in an approximation of confused innocence. “What’s all this for?”

“Who says it has to be for anything? Aren't we just having fun?”

Sam hummed, considering. “Yeah. No, I'd believe that, if I didn't sometimes walk into production meetings and find out I'd apparently been very specific about the people I wanted for certain episodes.”

“Point for Sam,” his doppelganger acknowledged with a grin. “You got me. Wasn’t hard to make a few phone calls on our joint behalf.”

“Yeah, but why?” Sam pressed. “I mean, Siobhan, Brennan and Lou are always great comedy value when you put them together, and it was awesome to have them for this, but I get the feeling you’re thinking of something other than making good content.”

“Who, me?”

With that, his double gave him a look of such overdone pantomime innocence that Sam suddenly and thoroughly understood why, not half an hour earlier, Brennan had very seriously threatened to push him down the stairs. 

He rolled his eyes, which earned him a smirk for his troubles.

Dropping the act, his doppelganger continued. “I’m expecting an… old friend, I guess, to show up at some point, and—well, I’d like to put on a really special show for them. I thought it would be a good opportunity to try a few things out, you know?”

Ominous pause aside, that was actually kind of sweet. Sweeter than he’d been expecting, that’s for sure—he was half anticipating the revelation that he and his cast were subjects in some weird experiment. Hey, that still couldn’t fully be ruled out, but still.

“Okay,” he acquiesced. “Well… just let me know, next time? Before you start ordering in my cast like takeout?”

“Who says they’re your cast?” his double shot back with a twinkle in his eye, and Sam snorted.

“Fine. Our cast, then. But seriously, let me know?”

His doppelganger nodded, which, if not quite fully convincing, was good enough. 

“Oh, and do you know when your friend might be arriving?” Sam asked. “Because if you wanted to plan something, we can—”

“I don’t know,” his doppelganger interrupted. “So yeah, we’ll have to move fast when they do get here. But I’ve got it under control.”

He broke off, then shot Sam a mischievous grin. “In the meantime, though, I’ve had this fun thought about time loops…”

[abnomi]

random assorted headcanons for Turbo because I like thinking and having fun !!!! 🎉

Read More to Find Out...or are you too scared?... i bet ur too scared ahaha youre too scared Lol! Hahaahaaa!!!

The steering wheel of his kart is covered in bite marks, similar to how one would bite their favorite pencil. he bites things to mark his territory because Nobody is gonna touch that unless they want all of his diseases (150+).

i just know he was fighting to restrain himself not to chew on any of the candy civilians

when it comes to music, he doesn't see the point of listening to it. he doesn't have enough patience to really take it in; to him, it's just a thing that exists and not much more than that ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ∵⁠ )⁠_⁠/⁠¯

adding onto that point, this guy listens to metal clanking sounds and loud engine roaring for entertainment because he likes things that would overstimulate any normal person. turbo is incredibly sensory-seeking and will do anything for The Sensations

someone should take him to a heavy rock concert i think it would change him a little. keep that thang on a leash

related to being sensory-seeking, i think he would absolutely love running his hands over random textures. if anyone has run their hands along a wall while walking alongside it...He does that...If u know u know... he is SO stimmy its unbelievable. Unreal.

very pain-tolerant. he'll whine and complain about it for attention, but physical hurt really doesnt bother him much until it gets in the way of what he wants to do.

funnily enough, he is very picky when it comes to temperature. he can handle getting ran over but if its 1° too hot or cold he'll start nagging and nagging for it to go back to normal. turbo really needs his own enclosure i think it'd do him a lot of good

this is a more popular headcanon and its canon-leaning, but he's an artist :-] he usually sticks to graffiti art because its generally considered more "rebellious and cool" but he also sketches cars, design decals, and other stuff when hes alone!

i would love to see his process of character designing king candy because i dont think he really knew what he was doing

he was just like "ok what does a generic king look like. uhhhhh.... 1, old and jolly like santa claus.... 2.... uhh crown..... 3......... purple.... FUCK YEAH im so good at this!!!!🔥🔥🔥"

i just noticed how his design has like 0 actual candy motifs aside from his bow being a candy wrapper and his shoes having those little gumdrop end pieces. what was he THINKING

while King Candy has a lisp, i think it's a coverup for his actual voice because of how goofy and recognizable it is. Overall its the same as his regular voice, he just gets silly with it. i noticed that he still does retain some of his lisp when hes screaming his lungs out at Vanellope, however, so maybe he genuinely does have a lisp that makes itself known when furious :3

another thing i noticed is how he hisses his S's. very cool very cool the reptilian

@/tasticturbo made a post abt how he has tinnitus from the constant noise in his game and i couldnt agree more

AND THE PRESCRIPTION GLASSES. where did he get those...he needs to See

side note, the aforementioned account has made so many interesting analyses on turbo and theyre all so insightful. i recommend u check them out

i think he gets migraines from stress. constant buzzing or pain flood his head but hes like "IDGAF i need to DO something at ALL TIMES no matter what"

hes like a shark in that way. if hes not moving he'll die instantly. idk a lot about sharks or if thats how it works srry but im going off of what the Worms are saying to me and i dont have much to work with

i think a really big contributer as to why he lacks in the self care department is because he fails to notice that something in his body is wrong. hes far too distracted on something he thinks is more important than remembering to Eat Food or Drink Water or Wash Himself or

he's like "WHY DO I FEEL LIKE SHIT ALL OF THE TIME!!! I HATE MY LIFE" and he hasn't slept in 4 days

hes so me. Sorry.

i dont think turbo is necessarily suicidal, but the way he behaves shows a clear disregard for his own safety and wellbeing. he thinks that he knows what he needs but he really doesnt :-[ i think he has some kind of immortality complex, feeling untouchable and like nothing could get to him. as scared as he was when ralph was about to turn him into sloppy mush, he didnt take the threat very seriously. like it was some kind of joke

his kart regenerates every time his game starts up, so what if he smashed it into buildings for fun. He's the number one fan of car accidents. he is all about that shit

i think his living space would literally be a garage btw. its a place to sleep and a space for his car all in one!! he thinks its very convenient and awesome but i think he is coping. he has some old dingy stained sheetless mattress that he has never washed in his life and its covered in dirt and smoke particles. no wonder he has such heavy eye bags Dude Please

the turbo twins have a garage used in a similar way, and while its still pretty shitty, they still at least TRY to maintain it. they just fight a lot over who has to care of it. nobody taught them how to take turns ever

but this aint about them. maybe another day

i think that turbo would find comfort in garbage and keeping it around because its familiar to him. a big clean empty space would make him so mad and if anyone moves even an inch of scrap off to the side he will throw a fit. he generally doesnt pay attention to his surroundings but when its his personal space he is 1093 times more neurotic

i think the big empty castle he stole wouldve been a big transition for him. maybe it helped him clear his mind a little more to practice his tricky schemes...it helped him get more subtle

thats all i have for nowww ty for reading ^_^ if anyone else has any wacky ideas pleeeease tell me i would love to hear them!!

[rini-rushed-ohno]

no more winter.

Genre: comfort for Rin but idk how to write comfort:3

Notes: I hc that Rin doesnt like winter/snow that much

Boiling tears roll down his face, leaving invisible, yet scathing lines down his cheek, with his cheeks flushed, he wants to disappear.

It was one of those days, where the night sky resembled that of an art piece from the impressionist era, little scats and blobs of pale, dark blue spotted across the navy sky.

Small paint splatters from the clouds were making their way down onto the ground, painting and coloring whatever it touched down below. It was all too much for Rin Itoshi.

It was that feeling again. The thin layer of ice that purged itself into his pale skin, the sensation wavered on his body like a curse, his body trembled as he sobbed continuously.

Cloudy breaths sputtered from him, his fidgeting and jolting shoulders, his hands were shaking around him, acting like a weak fire, trying to melt the hard ice forming around Rin.

Rin could feel himself shiver as another hiccup was torn from his throat, he can see his mirror isn’t the corner of his eye, and what he sees makes him want to tear off his face, but he’s too cold to move.

Staring back at him, was a pathetic little boy with bright eyes that were now covered in a coat of hot wax, excess waters were trapped in his eyelashes and rolling down his now puffy cheeks, the heavy droplets can’t be held by his grief.

the sigh was revolting, Rin wanted to move, to smash the mirror, but he’s so cold. So tired.

He buries his face back down into his own hands, now glossed in ice cold water, his body shivers as more feelings translate into tears, staining his usually stoic face.

he feels his ears throb as he cries, it drips down onto the floor and despite being so small, he feels like they shake the ground like footsteps.

not knowing it actual foot steps, before you.

comforting hands reach out and pat his head, his hair being flat doesn’t leave much for cushion, so he feels your hands well.

you don’t speak a word as you listen to his muffled cries, his shaking shoulders shake your heart as you feel it break at each little sound.

you mean closer when he doesn’t retaliate to you, your hands trace from the top of his head to the edge of his shoulders, rin barely shivers under the touch.

it feels like your hands are adding a layer of hot lava to his cold body. the sensation leaves his body confused, but he unconsciously leans forward and buries his face into your shoulder.

your soft clothes softly press against him, as he continues his rainfall of tears, he soaks up your presence.

your hands cup the back of his head, holding his head close to you.

your palm is the seed of spring as your fingers spread your sun like warmth, the feeling of your hands in his hair, its ethereal.

it makes him ease into the interaction more, it makes him melt and mold against you. if he was ice before, now he’s becoming water, his tears are slower and so are his harsh breaths. no more sputter like a broken sink.

your hands rub up and down, your arms squeeze his stronger body, but if anyone were to see this, they’d probably assume the opposite. rin looked so weak to how he usually is.

it only makes the ice harsher.

but you resist, for him.

rin’s hands drop to his sides as he completely leans into you, your bubbly and warm body a stark contrast to his, he’s cold and rigid.

he feels spring envelop him as you squeeze him for comfort, he feels flowers bloom in place the holes in his cracked ice heart.

he can feel the sun on his red cheeks as your head is right next to his, his cold hands were now intertwined with your warmer ones.

at each body part met with you two, he feels the ice thaw, his ice cage slowly melts away, into water, into the warm grass. into you.

with you with him, he feels the clouds part for the sun, he feels the seasons change and a new day. released from his winter cage.

he dashes into your spring arms.

end.

-> ok why did i not know how to end sorry if the ending is ASS

-> write this mainly for @reapkusho @someprettyname @bachi-the-bee