#hope u like

[hyuckiestarz]

the dreamies sending you a selfie

ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿ ❁ཻུ۪۪⸙͎ ✿✼:*･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿ ❁ཻུ۪۪⸙͎ :.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ

[monstermonger]

Kinda on a whim, I decided I'd turn my "Cats in Windows" illustrations into a mini-zine........ just a tiny lil booklet I printed+folded at home last night......

(I love that feelin when u think "It'd be cool if i made that into a thing..." and then suddenly you've made it into A Thing, and now you're holding it in your hands 🥹)

if you'd like one too btw, i put it up in my ko-fi :")

[nuppu-nuppu]

Misa <3333

[st-froy]

He doesn’t have a lot going on right now

[wanologic]

Danny wakes up. It feels different now that he’s older. Now that he’s both more and less than he was. He starts mornings out floaty, his edges indistinct, bleeding into his surroundings. He’s hyper-aware of the tentative strings connecting him to life, the blood pumping sluggishly through his veins, the breath expanding the lungs within his chest. 

He yawns. A stretch.

His brain feels like an old computer booting up, each process coming online in a slow, methodical order. Neurons firing, electric pulses traveling up and down the webbed network of sinew tangled through his skeleton. He feels the pressure of atmosphere on his skin, the floor under his feet.

It’s weird. Not uncomfortable, just strange. It’s been years, but it’s never been easy to come to terms with the new awareness of his physicality, the control he could exert over its expression and shape. What once was instinctual, settled, now flows through his fingers like water, rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest. He would say that he’s just tired, that he’s never been a morning person, but the simmer of dawn and the infinite thrumming energy beneath his skin beg to differ.

He makes his way to the bathroom. He might have walked, but probably not, he can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. There are only friends here. He’s safe. Home.

The routine of the morning is grounding. Always the same. Jazz says it should help. That it can all become instinctual again, through enough repetition. Danny isn’t so sure.

He takes his time putting together his outfit, picking accessories and being mindful of the way it all fits against him. His body might be a projection, something just to the left of real, but clothes are normal, socks, rings, a watch. He can feel normal like this. 

Another stretch. 

He wants to scream.

He makes his way down to the shared living space. He’s grateful that he’s not crammed into a tiny apartment with strangers, that he’s allowed both the time and space to be what he is. Sam’s parents may not be the most accommodating, but this is worth every glare and snide, underhanded comment he’s had to put up with for the better part of the past decade.

He knows what comes next, but his stomach rolls in his gut. He should have something solid, go through the remaining motions of self-care, even if it’s a bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. 

He grimaces and grabs a less-than-pleasant nutritional shake from the fridge. They’re supposed to be back up, an addition-to rather than in-replacement-of, but it’s early and he can’t bring himself to care. He finds himself on the roof, with the chilled bite of the morning and the chalky pseudo-chocolate flavor of his breakfast on his tongue.

He longs to shed this husk, to leave the weight of his flesh behind and see what the sunrise looks like from ten thousand feet. But it’s a Tuesday and he has an 8am. He wants equally to be the college student he is, to sit with his peers and bring numbers to their algorithmic conclusions—to describe the world around him in a way that makes sense, in a way that’s objectively true. One day he might even be able to describe what happened to him in a neat little equation. 

He breathes in and out, feeling heavy in his body. This is nice too, he supposes. He shuts his eyes and feels the brunt of the morning sun peek over the neighboring apartment complex. When he hears his friends shuffling about in their own morning fugue states, he sinks back inside. 

Tucker just about jumps out of his skin when he turns around, eyes half closed, to see Danny dressed and ready, silent, and much too close behind him.

Laughter peels through the house as Danny is chased through the halls and somehow he feels human.

[copypastus]

A gift for @witch-and-her-witcher loosely based on her lovely tamsand fanfic 'Lay Me on the Cold Dark Earth'.

With a little bonus Eris, not loving what they got up to on his cape.

[emoregressioncore]

you're second hand smoke, i breathe you in but honey i don't know what you're doing to me ...

[j4r-of-flies]

cat breaking bad pfps in case u want

[androcola]

IT AINT FICTION, JUST A NATURAL FACT. WE GO TOGETHER 'CUZ OPPOSITES ATTRACT!!!!

[nine-is-not-a-ten]

soc

[ival-eon]

Strawberry Cuties are here!!!! Sticker set now on KoFi!

i debuted these cuties at a strawberry festival over the weekend and they were quite the hit ! theyre ready to see the world and go home with u :)

available on kofi here :)

[paintpanic]

⚡

[kayleys]

@wvterways ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[superk1ss]

Selfship stuff! Most of it is @kimslovebin tho lol

[akabendyfan]

ANYWAYS @alsojnpie i made a thin g😭

[mfingenius]

“Draco!” There was a hand on his shoulder, and he blinked into startingly light eyes. “We’re over here, come on.” 

Theo was wearing navy blue robes, startlingly dark against his pale skin, moles mottled up his neck and across his cheek, over his nose, his chin, one on his eyebrow; almost like stars, Draco thought dazedly. Maybe he was the one who should’ve been named after a constellation, not Draco. 

“Hey.” Daphne was wearing formal emerald robes; they must’ve been tailored, too – Draco would’ve been willing to bet his arse every single outfit in the party was – because they fit her just right, except for the length; he noticed high heeled shoes had been discarded beside her in the grass. “We were wondering if you’d make it.” 

We? He blinked again and clung to reality with his nails digging into his palms, looking around slowly; it was Daphne, Theo, Blaise – in stunning plum robes that must’ve cost even more than Draco’s – and, surprisingly, Pansy Parkinson. 

“Why aren’t you at school?” he asked, surprised. 

Theo, Daphne, and Blaise looked at each other, and Parkinson sneered. 

“It’s July,” she said. “Why would we still be at school?” 

Blaise glared at her. “Shut up, Parkinson. Draco, it’s been almost eight weeks since you left school.” 

Eight weeks? It hadn’t felt like eight weeks; he thought of the letters from his friends that Apus – the family owl – had been leaving on his drawer chest; they hadn’t stopped coming even though they’d gone unopened and unanswered.