#imissed drawing like this

[goldiipond]

[shoots bolt upright in bed] i abandoned my girl

[npdlangley]

im not a c.avetown fan i refuse to be (is listening to c.avetown) (it reminds him of middle school) (it reminds him of his one friend he rarely speaks to anymore) (we used to be best friends) (even if it wasnt the best)

[etherealyoungk]

help me skye I can’t stop thinking about seungkwan

may I request a little drabble of him coming home after a practice session and reader is just like. I miss you. let’s cuddle </3

— @reikaryu

rae!! this idea is so soft, here you go <3

you're waiting for seungkwan to get home, and you decide to finish some of your own work until then. but as you're sitting and waiting, you don't seem to be getting any work done. you keeping glancing at your phone, checking the time, because you're thinking about seungkwan. you missed him.

he'd been so busy lately with practice, that you both barely got to spend time with each other this week. you're too distracted, doodling all over your notebook page instead of working, drawing cute little doodles of seungkwan and hearts around his name like you're lovestruck.

finally you hear the front door unlock and you nearly jump up, seungkwan suprised as to why you're running towards him.

"what's wrong?", he asks, worried something happened to you. but you only pout in response, which makes him furthur worried. "did something happen?", he asks, stepping closer and you take this chance to envelope him in a hug, practially melting in his arms.

"i missed you", you tell and you can hear the smile that spreads across his face as he chuckles at your words. you pull back and look at him. "go freshen up and then can we cuddle!", you ask and he nods.

as soon as he's freshed up, you're climbing into bed and cuddling (or more like affectionately attacking) seungkwan as his arms wrap themselves around you. after a few moments of silence he speaks.

" imissed you, i missed this", he tells as you're playing his with fingers. "me too", you mumble out and he places a soft kiss to your temple.

"this is a good recharge after practice", he tells and you smile. "im glad, then we should do this everyday", you add. "we should", he agrees.

safe to say you both fall asleep in each other's arms, taking a cute nap together <3

taglist: @daisycheols @naaaaafla @weird-bookworm @idubiluv @qaramu @n4mj00nvq @joshuaahong @itsveronicaxxx @fallingforshua29 @frankenstein852 @lvlystars

[mimes1s-pow]

i miss kahlopatra

its not even funny anymore imiss them as if my wife of 50 years whom i loved more than anythint else and was my entire world up and passed in her sleep one day imiss them so much i might. actually have to draw them again god imiss them sosososososo much my babies this is gutwrenching kahlopatra come back like actually give me another season of clonehigh and my Life is YOURS

[blankblyke]

imiss drawing

i like doodling but ilike making full pieces ):

kive ben stuck on one drawing for like three weeks because i dont want to color the details

[haengboxie]

happy birthday heart-man!! you're my favourite superhero

[mothmandibles]

this isnt really anything but see i have a Big Document per month i do doodles on and this is where i begin a lot of drawings for l8r and i want 2 show some of the progress stuff for these drawings coz its funny lol

[jakette]

Four Eyes Peralta

I cannot stress or appreciate enough how much @amazingsantiago has helped me in writing this fanfic. She’s in true essence amazing. I love her fics, I love her and now this fic holds a special place in my heart. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ Thank you so very much! ❤️

It’s a very normal Monday morning in Brooklyn at the 99th precinct. That is until man-child Jacob Peralta walks into the precinct; a pair of frames adorning his face.

Jake Peralta was wearing glasses. Dorkish rounded square glasses.

Charles is the first one to notice the difference as Jake walks to his desk consciously quiet, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention which is unusual for Jake Peralta for he always makes his presence known when ever he enters the precinct.

‘Jake, what’s on your face!?!?’ Charles screams loud enough for the whole precinct to stop and look at Jake. Half of them confused, the other half smirking.

'It’s nothing, Boyle. Get back to work.’ He hushes him but to no avail as Charles only gets more hysterical in confronting him.

'What did you do to your baby browns, Jake!? How am I supposed to see them now!? They’re all glassy and weird!’

'Ahahah Jake’s getting old!’ Rosa chimes in laughing.

'Calm down, Boyle! This is just for today. I couldn’t find my contacts.’

'So this is Amy’s fault?! Amy, how could you? Do you even love him?’ Boyle changes his target of exasperation in a matter of seconds.

'Uh uh.’ Amy smirks, making no effort what so ever to abstain from laughing. 'This all on you, Peralta. I asked you to clean the bathroom ages ago. I gotta say, I feel like you deserve this.’

Jake snarls at her as Boyle fans himself after his scarce dose of domestic peraltiago.

'Pay up, Grandpa. You bragged at the academy there was NO WAY you’d get older first.’ Rosa quips.

'We’re the same age, Rosa!’

'Tell that to your eyesight, ugly Betty.’ Rosa contorts. 'Where’d you even get these? Did you go out shopping with Lieut?’

'Oh hell no! Even Terry’s got enough sense not to buy that contraption.’ Terry joins in.

'Terry you have a weird necklace with your glasses; Your opinion means nothing to me.’

'He kinda looks like Tony Vreski, right?’ Terry adds.

They all collectively agree with him smiling as realisation draws on them.

'Now you all know Die Hard!’ Jake looks around in disbelief 'He’s not even a main character! This is the worst day ever!’ he mumbles. 'I don’t remember anyone making this much fun of Terry’s glasses!’

'Your’s are way worse, man.’ Terry responds to which everyone nods and agrees, snickering openly despite Jake’s frown. After all its not everyday they get to make fun of Jake Peralta.

The precinct falls silent upon the ring of Jake’s phone. Almost expectant. He sceptically takes his phone out of his pocket only to see a text from Gina.

Heard you got glasses now 👨👓 Send me a pic girl!

'Who told Gina?!’ He asked ludicrously. The squad only roars in laughter in return.

'What is the meaning of this commotion?’ Captain Holt demands, the racket having drawn him into the bull-pen. 'My, my Peralta you look quite distinguished.’ He observed seeing Peralta the centre of attention.

'Thank you! See now here is a man with impeccable taste.’ He smiled elevated by the compliment.

'For a blind person.’ Holt continued characteristically loud.

*Cue Brooklyn Nine Nine Theme Music*

The rest of the day doesn’t get any better. They all promptly remind him that his glasses are so bad they don’t even want to try them on. There are several instances of Rosa making old age jokes to him. Holding the door open for him, getting him ginger ale and whatnot. She even blew up their academy group by sending a picture of his frames.

'Not cool Rosa! I’ve officially lost all my respect for you!’ he’d thrown a tantrum. Charles had annoyed him all day by staring and wist fully looking at his old pictures resulting in Jake cuffing him rather than the perp. 'Imiss the baby browns okay Jake!’. Holt and Amy and Terry had been their own kind of awful.

But despite it all no matter how many times he took off his glasses  in anger to stash them in the drawer he’d always end up wearing them ten minutes later, cursing at the new thread of jokes it’d start, but thankful that he could actually see things rather than blurry shaped.

Maybe he shouldn’t have made so much fun of Santiago so long ago, after all.

[morninginwriting-blog]

so back story (haven't written it yet): the husband = has the power of psychometry ( if he touches something he can instill memories into it or see memories) and his wife is a powerful psychic that basically wiped his memories away of his real wife.

ការរៀបការ

today feels like it will be a good day. i woke up, and guess what? you'll never believe it. my wife

is staring down at me in bed, her prim, petulant lips smothered coral— pursing her warpaint at me. i hate that color on her; on anyone. i know that color like i know what anger belies that gloss of armor: bitter, resentful anger. a woman scorned because i have dreamt of Chantavy again; she will erase this memory too and i will have no power to stop her.

kisses me! right on the furrow of my brow and asks, “what did you dream about again? it was

'the tenth time this week, Dru, for fuck's sake'

a beautiful dream, i bet.” she smiles a sad smile and i find it hard to speak; i mumble, "didn't you just ask me that? i could've sworn you did. sorry. my head hurts."

she laughs; it's abrupt. it crackles like thunder; a small madness to it. loud in my mind. and in between the silent flashes of light, an emotion, clouded by something i can not reach; her tears are rolling down to rub my cheekbones—one, two, three—she is making wishes again, exhausting all her spare pennies on an empty well like me. take a dishtowel and wipe the bottom if you don't believe me; you could squeeze it as tight as you can and there will be nothing left but dust and an echo of my past if you listened hard enough; that's what has become my body, my blood. the days my heart does beat it beats with fear.

“wait, Cecilia, please don't do this. don't take everything away from me—

why

this tiny memory? you have already wrung the love i had for her out of me—

are you crying?” i ask her, perplexed. i blink. i am always trying to blink the white ghosts away from my vision whenever this headache overtakes me; cripples me.

“you—us,” she whispers it, sobbing. we rarely speak these days; the gesture felt rehearsed to me, the way muscle memory works for a draftsman: emotionless. after sleepless nights spent striking straights, looping curls, rounding circles with the soft tip of graphite you realize that while all the arrangements vary, the basics stay the same: there is an order to this, a method. apply the right pressure—too hard and it snaps; too light and you'll hardly affect the empty blank spaces before you—but when it's just right, when you have perfected your swing, your plan of action—it can be like magic. not today, though.

(later, you'll realize you two have gone at this a thousand times and she says she will continue to wipe away at your memories for as long as she has to; until they are spotless with only her shining eyes and gleaning teeth to decorate them with).

still, that morning she kisses me—how long has it been since we've touched?—and i will be none the wiser. i will retrace the lines she's delineated for me; provide for her a rehearsed, stunted husband's edition. i will use my chapped lips to kiss the tears away, swim through the motions, my fingers rushing through wet lanes pooling down her

manipulative, conniving, beautiful face. one stroke, two. muscle memory.

today should be a good day, i think. there is an alien kindness to the gestures we show each other: a familiarity and falsehood of a unionized love; it has become distant, a stranger. the transformation is a concept you can't quite dash on paper, make tangible no matter the grace of it.

now what were you dreaming about, again?

it was—

រដូវក្ដៅ

Siem Reap—

Southern Carolina dawn.

red-orange glow.

July haze.

sickening sweet jasmine tickling deep in your lungs; lapping water around your ankles, daring you in, circling, round and round; bared back sun-grieved, golden tan at its worst; those lazy hair-slicked dazes when you tilt your head back after a dip, ah, like rooster call over the height of it all; all the chattering cicadas sweeping across the fields —

white noise, white light, white blinding

— and yellow weeds bowing their necks to the breeze. palms flat behind you, like the spread of last night, toes ahead of you pointing towards guilty possibilities. chin down like shame and shyness or both?

Chantavy

Cecilia

—her budding lotus eyes, ah, waterlily lips, yes, musky mouth, husky breath sigh secrets and oh, when that smile used to dare a flash there was no telling between skin and sun and skin and silk and fingers sliding velvet and fuck, ah, fuck those July mornings spent lost building each other up to crumble again.

over, and over.

tearing

into each other.

over, and

over.

រឺសុ័រ

where

can i hide the last lotus i carved for you? when i hold it, i can see your smile; i can hear your voice. my name slips from your tongue. fuck this. this

is

fucking crazy. i need help. i don't remember

your

name anymore. i don't remember your face. where is that

note?

i have etched your grace in words; shaded your tone in drawings. imiss you.

i

am trying to keep it together but it's as if i

left it

too quiet

somewhere.

,to die alone

សរតរដុវ

clarity. it happens like this: you are saying you swear that fall morning you had seen a woman that felt familiar. who she asks, who did you see? and she is playing coy; she knows exactly the name, the face, the tanned skin that riles you, makes you weak; (you, however, you've forgotten—) who, she repeats, jealousy blazing fire ahead of you, you licking at its heels because you set it that way when you go off like this; straying into the weeds, past the constructed paths of your mind, the paths she had set for you, the both of you:

"that same woman that was there yesterday, in daydreams"

when Cambodian nights were nothing but the dark blue storms turning over with nocturnal life—orchestrating their existence through the tidal wave of slamming rain and you two used to call out to the world too, remember? we exist— so loud and full of passion; so loud the elements became your voice and your voice became one with the elements; and you used to hold her close, remember?

tenderly.

take her under the fold of your coat and kiss her.

kiss her everywhere.

taste the warm tropical rain fall in between the gaps you two make whenever your lips part. your eager body, hers, your eager hands, her eager everything. fumbling over large cuts of stone that screams of war, flitting past through the lens of your mind like windows of a bullet train when you're on it, your pale skin smothered in the clay-red dirt; stained by it; rolling your bodies against carvings, rough with history of bloodshed and into the dark tunnels that lead to candlelights, incense, fragrant pka champas covering buddha in repose; kings used to walk here, live here, swim in the now empty pools here (and now, others like you will spy the imprint of the two of you intertwined, sinewy and grotesque like the banyan trees holding these ruins together); thinking about it now doesn't make you warm, but it gives you something; some blood for your heart.

"do you remember? i could've sworn that woman reminded me...of..."

”somebody important. it should be you. but it's not."

she looks at you with pity and she says:

“no.”

”you hopeless man”.

“i don't recall.”

”maybe i should try a different method. a ritual?”

“because that wasn't me, i wasn't there."

"or maybe i'll bring her name up just for fun”.

"but i can erase these memories for you, too. or just replace her face with mine.”

”replace?”

your voice is trembling,

“whose...?”

”oh, Dru.”

it is late November here in Magnolia; the manufactured heat looms inside and so much of the house is electric. the ambient song is hovering like a ghost, humming its life like a dying animal; and you are halved in two. she readies, aims, cocks that name at a dead man's heart. somehow, you feel it; shot at. you stare that million mile stare; like she has just swallowed the light of your existence whole with the void of her black mouth gaping, rearing wide and laughing. shot at again; what a blast. your heart chooses flight, escapes your throat and you are racing up the stairs in search of it; no air, no air. it is already there hiding underneath the four poster bed frame you no longer warm. where are you? you ‘ roar out. you are lost without it, weeping, your hands shaking, upending all the accumulated junk cluttering your shared years, the clothes in your shared closet, the boxes and postcards and the mementos and fuck Cecilia, is this even us with these pictures and why? what have you done—I had a wife and it wasn’t you; that's it. did you take her from me? is this what it’s been all about? you are punishing me; you are trying to make me turn against myself so i have nothing, nowhere, no one to—

quiet down.”

"there"

រដូវរងា

in my study, away from the world, i am writing to you, carving it out with the blunt edges of my chisel. between the rising slopes and swooping round bellies i make within the small piece of wood there comes a steady beat of language forming. the punctuation of an impregnated word; the importance of it and here, in this singular moment, holding the wooden lotus in my calloused fingers. i close my eyes and instill a memory:

in my imagination i like to think that when you think of me, you will picture me at home with you, how i may have described it to you last—dipping my feet at the corner of the murky pool, humidity suffocating and toes tickling from the inquisitive mouths of catfish, roaming their insights through the passage of their gills; listening to the soft chatter of the coconut trees swaying and lying with my back on the sun-baked stone, holding up this gift for you. you'd be surprised at this one—it's not only made of purple heart, the hues are gorgeous. the subtle variance of its accumulated years shining—it won't burn as easily if she ever found it either.

it's late afternoon. the dying orange glow outside will be the best version; the colors are that much finer with you in it. sunset now in a room, a bare room with four walls and no sound in it except my faint heartbeat thinking of yours.

[goldiipond]

every day i miss promise neverland my dear friend the promised never. land

[pr0gf0x-archiveseeya]

heyy feel free to ignore this its one of those Bad Thoughts at 5 am while i cant sleep nights and i just need to write down my thoughts

am i a bad friend???  do i ever make people uncomfortable by being as grossly friendly as i am??? do i ever... make people uncomfortable whenever i like... i dont know... talk about how much i love certain people??? do they ever... get... i dont know. jealous isnt the right word... 

but at the same time do people ever just get SICK of me telling me ilove them all of the time??? and then... do other people hate me fornot talking to them enough cuz im 1) not around on certain websites/chat programs or 2) just generally bad at starting conversations?

i havent been on twitter in kind of a while... and thats where i talk to a lot of my friends.... i hope.... i hope no one is mad at me.... i miss alca + co... and miho.... and malik+ co... but i.... just havent felt stable enough for twitter lately and... its... its been so long.... i do this thing... where its. at first its the flight response. but after flighting for a while instead of . normalizing... i just freeze and im stuck in limboand its like “oh i havent talked to so and so in a while” but i just keep putting it off which then makes it harder to say hi because its been even LONGER since ive talked to them...

its affecting me everywhere lately.not just twitter. i have IMs from friends on here that i cant get myself to look at, too... i have skype and discord messages i havent looked at.....

all i ever do anymore is talkto gwen and rick and sometimes xamand andy.... and imiss other people but i dont know ohow to say hi to them....i. i only ever talk to people that initiate conversations with me first, really... the people that its. convenitent to talk to. because i... i dont know why?? really??? i dont know why im like this... i dont likeit. i wish i wasnt so bad at. TALKING. i wish it didnt take so much energy out o f me. iwish i could be like. normal. and healthy

but eben then i randomly ignore some people who try to talk to me frequently or even semi frequenytly and i dont know whyi do it and its bad 

?????????????????????????????

man i sure wish my therapist hadnt u p and quit on me so i coyld have talked to a professional about this Weeks ago instead of bottling it all up and throwing it all on my blog at 5:30 am while crying while trying to eat a hot pocket

im gonna.... try n draw my robosona i guess.thats a good Me to draw while feeling like this. my name is FATAL ERROR: CALL TO UNDEFINED FUNCTION and i can feel myself shutting down into a gross robotic state because my brain cant properly process the emotions that im feeling because there are toomany too strongly Hello overload my old friend